37770	----	ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS A Novel By LOUIS COUPERUS Author of "Small Souls," "Old People and the Things that Pass," etc. Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos New York Dodd, Mead and Company 1919 TRANSLATOR'S NOTE This delicate story is Louis Couperus' third novel. It appeared in the original Dutch some twenty-seven years ago and has not hitherto been published in America. At the time when it was written, the author was a leading member of what was then known as the "sensitivist" school of Dutch novelists; and the reader will not be slow in discovering that the story possesses an elusive charm of its own, a charm marking a different tendency from that of the later books. Alexander Teixeira de Mattos Chelsea, 2 June, 1919 ECSTASY: A STUDY OF HAPPINESS CHAPTER I 1 Dolf Van Attema, in the course of an after-dinner stroll, had called on his wife's sister, Cecile van Even, on the Scheveningen Road. He was waiting in her little boudoir, pacing up and down, among the rosewood chairs and the vieux rose moiré ottomans, over and over again, with three or four long steps, measuring the width of the tiny room. On an onyx pedestal, at the head of a sofa, burned an onyx lamp, glowing sweetly within its lace shade, a great six-petalled flower of light. Mevrouw was still with the children, putting them to bed, the maid had told him; so he would not be able to see his godson, little Dolf, that evening. He was sorry. He would have liked to go upstairs and romp with Dolf where he lay in his little bed; but he remembered Cecile's request and his promise on an earlier occasion, when a romp of this sort with his uncle had kept the boy awake for hours. So Dolf van Attema waited, smiling at his own obedience, measuring the little boudoir with his steps, the steps of a firmly-built man, short, broad and thick-set, no longer in his first youth, showing symptoms of baldness under his short brown hair, with small blue-grey eyes, kindly and pleasant of glance, and a mouth which was firm and determined, in spite of the smile, in the midst of the ruddy growth of his crisp Teutonic beard. A log smouldered on the little hearth of nickel and gilt; and two little flames flickered discreetly: a fire of peaceful intimacy in that twilight atmosphere of lace-shielded lamplight. Intimacy and discreetness shed over the whole little room an aroma as of violets; a suggestion of the scent of violets nestled, too, in the soft tints of the draperies and furniture--rosewood and rose moiré--and hung about the corners of the little rosewood writing-table, with its silver appointments and its photographs under smooth glass frames. Above the writing-table hung a small white Venetian mirror. The gentle air of modest refinement, the subdued and almost prudish tenderness which floated about the little hearth, the writing-table and the sofa, gliding between the quiet folds of the faded hangings, had something soothing, something to quiet the nerves, so that Dolf presently ceased his work of measurement, sat down, looked around him and finally remained staring at the portrait of Cecile's husband, the minister of State, dead eighteen months back. After that he had not long to wait before Cecile came in. She advanced towards him smiling, as he rose from his seat, pressed his hand, excused herself that the children had detained her. She always put them to sleep herself, her two boys, Dolf and Christie, and then they said their prayers, one beside the other in their little beds. The scene came back to Dolf as she spoke of the children; he had often seen it. Christie was not well, she said; he was so listless; she hoped it might not turn out to be measles. 2 There was motherliness in her voice, but she did not seem a mother as she reclined, girlishly slight, on the sofa, with behind her the soft glow of the lace flower of light on its stem of onyx. She was still in the black of her mourning. Here and there the light at her back touched her flaxen hair with a frail golden halo; the loose crape tea-gown accentuated the maidenly slimness of her figure, with the gently curving lines of her long neck and somewhat narrow shoulders; her arms hung with a certain weariness as her hands lay in her lap; gently curving, too, were the lines of her girlish youth of bust and slender waist, slender as a vase is slender, so that she seemed a still expectant flower of maidenhood, scarcely more than adolescent, not nearly old enough to be the mother of her children, her two boys of six and seven. Her features were lost in the shadow--the lamplight touching her hair with gold--and Dolf could not at first see into her eyes; but presently, as he grew accustomed to the shade, these shone softly out from the dusk of her features. She spoke in her low-toned voice, a little faint and soft, like a subdued whisper; she spoke again of Christie, of his god-child Dolf and then asked for news of Amélie, her sister. "We are all well, thank you," he replied. "You may well ask how we are: we hardly ever see you." "I go out so little," she said, as an excuse. "That is just where you make a mistake: you do not get half enough air, not half enough society. Amélie was saying so only at dinner to-day; and that's why I've looked in to ask you to come round to us to-morrow evening." "Is it a party?" "No; nobody." "Very well, I will come. I shall be very pleased." "Yes, but why do you never come of your own accord?" "I can't summon up the energy." "Then how do you spend your evenings?" "I read, I write, or I do nothing at all. The last is really the most delightful: I only feel myself alive when I am doing nothing." He shook his head: "You're a funny girl. You really don't deserve that we should like you as much as we do." "How?" she asked, archly. "Of course, it makes no difference to you. You can get on just as well without us." "You mustn't say that; it's not true. Your affection means a great deal to me, but it takes so much to induce me to go out. When I am once in my chair, I sit thinking, or not thinking; and then I find it difficult to stir." "What a horribly lazy mode of life!" "Well, there it is!... You like me so much: can't you forgive me my laziness? Especially when I have promised you to come round to-morrow." He was captivated: "Very well," he said, laughing. "Of course you are free to live as you choose. We like you just the same, in spite of your neglect of us." She laughed, reproached him with using ugly words and rose slowly to pour him out a cup of tea. He felt a caressing softness creep over him, as if he would have liked to stay there a long time, talking and sipping tea in that violet-scented atmosphere of subdued refinement: he, the man of action, the politician, member of the Second Chamber, every hour of whose day was filled up with committees here and committees there. "You were saying that you read and wrote a good deal: what do you write?" he asked. "Letters." "Nothing but letters?" "I love writing letters. I write to my brother and sister in India." "But that is not the only thing?" "Oh, no!" "What else do you write then?" "You're growing a bit indiscreet, you know." "Nonsense!" he laughed back, as if he were quite within his right. "What is it? Literature?" "Of course not! My diary." He laughed loudly and gaily: "You keep a diary! What do you want with a diary? Your days are all exactly alike!" "Indeed they are not." He shrugged his shoulders, quite non-plussed. She had always been a riddle to him. She knew this and loved to mystify him: "Sometimes my days are very nice and sometimes very horrid." "Really?" he said, smiling, looking at her out of his kind little eyes. But still he did not understand. "And so sometimes I have a great deal to write in my diary," she continued. "Let me see some of it." "By all means ... after I'm dead." A mock shiver ran through his broad shoulders: "Brr! How gloomy!" "Dead! What is there gloomy about that?" she asked, almost merrily. But he rose to go: "You frighten me," he said, jestingly. "I must be going home; I have a lot to do still. So we see you to-morrow?" "Thanks, yes: to-morrow." He took her hand; and she struck a little silver gong, for him to be let out. He stood looking at her a moment longer, with a smile in his beard: "Yes, you're a funny girl, and yet ... and yet we all like you!" he repeated, as if he wished to excuse himself in his own eyes for this affection. And he stooped and kissed her on the forehead: he was so much older than she. "I am very glad that you all like me," she said. "Till to-morrow, then. Good-bye." 3 He went; and she was alone. The words of their conversation seemed still to be floating in the silence, like vanishing atoms. Then the silence became complete; and Cecile sat motionless, leaning back in the three little cushions of the sofa, black in her crape against the light of the lamp, her eyes gazing out before her. All around her a vague dream descended as of little clouds, in which faces shone for an instant, from which low voices issued without logical sequence of words, an aimless confusion of recollection. It was the dreaming of one on whose brain lay no obsession either of happiness or of grief, the dreaming of a mind filled with peaceful light: a wide, still, grey Nirvana, in which all the trouble of thinking flows away and the thoughts merely wander back over former impressions, taking them here and there, without selecting. For Cecile's future appeared to her as a monotonous sweetness of unruffled peace, in which Dolf and Christie grew up into jolly boys, young undergraduates, men, while she herself remained nothing but the mother, for in the unconsciousness of her spiritual life she did not know herself entirely. She did not know that she was more wife than mother, however fond she might be of her children. Swathed in the clouds of her dreaming, she did not feel that there was something missing, by reason of her widowhood; she did not feel loneliness, nor a need of some one beside her, nor regret that yielding air alone flowed about her, in which her arms might shape themselves and grope in vain for something to embrace. The capacity for these needs was there, but so deep hidden in her soul's unconsciousness that she did not know of its existence nor suspect that one day it might assert itself and rise up slowly, up and up, an apparition of more evident melancholy. For such melancholy as was in her dreaming seemed to her to belong to the past, to the memory of the dear husband whom she had lost, and never, never, to the present, to an unrealized sense of her loneliness. Whoever had told her now that something was wanting in her life would have roused her indignation; she herself imagined that she had everything that she wanted; and she valued highly the calm happiness of the innocent egoism in which she and her children breathed, a happiness which she thought complete. When she dreamed, as now, about nothing in particular--little dream-clouds fleeing across the field of her imagination, with other cloudlets in their wake--sometimes great tears would well into her eyes and trickle slowly down her cheek; but to her these were only tears of an unspeakably vague melancholy, a light load upon her heart, barely oppressive and there for some reason which she did not know, for she had ceased to mourn the loss of her husband. In this manner she could pass whole evenings, simply sitting dreaming, never wearying of herself, nor reflecting how the people outside hurried and tired themselves, aimlessly, without being happy, whereas she was happy, happy in the cloudland of her dreams. The hours sped and her hand was too slack to reach for the book upon the table beside her; slackness at last permeated her so thoroughly that one o'clock arrived and she could not yet decide to get up and go to her bed. CHAPTER II 1 Next evening, when Cecile entered the Van Attemas' drawing-room, slowly with languorous steps, in the sinuous black of her crape, Dolf at once came to her and took her hand: "I hope you won't be annoyed. Quaerts called; and Dina had told the servants that we were at home. I'm sorry...." "It doesn't matter!" she whispered. Nevertheless, she was a little irritated, in her sensitiveness, at unexpectedly meeting this stranger, whom she did not remember ever to have seen at Dolf's and who now rose from where he had been sitting with Dolf's great-aunt, old Mrs. Hoze, Amélie and the two daughters, Anna and Suzette. Cecile kissed the old lady and greeted the rest of the circle in turn, welcomed with a smile by all of them. Dolf introduced: "My friend Taco Quaerts.... Mrs. van Even, my sister-in-law." They sat a little scattered round the great fire on the open hearth, the piano close to them in the corner, its draped back turned to them, and Jules, the youngest boy, sitting behind it, playing a romance by Rubinstein and so absorbed that he had not heard his aunt come in. "Jules!..." Dolf called out. "Leave him alone," said Cecile. The boy did not reply and went on playing. Cecile, across the piano, saw his tangled hair and his eyes abstracted in the music. A feebleness of melancholy slowly rose within her, like a burden, like a burden that climbed up her breast and stifled her breathing. From time to time, forte notes falling suddenly from Jules' fingers gave her little shocks in her throat; and a strange feeling of uncertainty seemed winding her about as with vague meshes: a feeling not new to her, one in which she seemed no longer to possess herself, to be lost and wandering in search of herself, in which she did not know what she was thinking, nor what at this very moment she might say. Something melted in her brain, like a momentary weakness. Her head sank a little; and, without hearing distinctly, it seemed to her that once before she had heard this romance played so, exactly so, as Jules was now playing it, very, very long ago, in some former existence ages agone, in just the same circumstances, in this very circle of people, before this very fire.... The tongues of flame shot up with the same flickerings as from the logs of ages back; and Suzette blinked with the same expression which she had worn then on that former occasion.... Why was it that Cecile should be sitting here again now, in the midst of them all? Why was it necessary, to sit like this round a fire, listening to music? How strange it was and what strange things there were in this world!... Still, it was pleasant to be in this cosy company, so agreeably quiet, without many words, the music behind the piano dying away plaintively, until it suddenly stopped. Mrs. Hoze's voice had a ring of sympathy as she murmured in Cecile's ear: "So we are getting you back, dear? You are coming out of your shell again?" Cecile pressed her hand, with a little laugh: "But I never hid myself from you! I have always been in to you!" "Yes, but we had to come to you. You always stayed at home, didn't you?" "You're not angry with me, are you?" "No, darling, of course not; you have had such a great sorrow." "Oh, I have still: I seem to have lost everything!" How was it that she suddenly realized this? She never had that sense of loss in her own home, among the clouds of her day-dreams, but outside, among other people, she immediately felt that she had lost everything, everything.... "But you have your children." "Yes." She answered faintly, wearily, with a sense of loneliness, of terrible loneliness, like one floating aimlessly in space, borne upon thinnest air, in which her yearning arms groped in vain. Mrs. Hoze stood up. Dolf came to take her into the other room, for whist. "You too, Cecile?" he asked. "No, you know I never touch a card!" He did not press her; there were Quaerts and the girls to make up. "What are you doing there, Jules?" he asked, glancing across the piano. The boy had remained sitting there, forgotten. He now rose and appeared, tall, grown out of his strength, with strange eyes. "What were you doing?" "I ... I was looking for something ... a piece of music." "Don't sit moping like that, my boy!" growled Dolf, kindly, with his deep voice. "What's become of those cards again, Amélie?" "I don't know," said his wife, looking about vaguely. "Where are the cards, Anna?" "Aren't they in the box with the counters?" "No," Dolf grumbled. "Nothing is ever where it ought to be." Anna got up, looked, found the cards in the drawer of a buhl cabinet. Amélie also had risen, stood arranging the music on the piano. She was for ever ordering things in her rooms and immediately forgetting where she had put them, tidying with her fingers and perfectly absent in her mind. "Anna, come and draw a card too. You can play in the next rubber," cried Dolf, from the other room. The two sisters remained alone, with Jules. The boy had sat down on a stool at Cecile's feet: "Mamma, do leave my music alone." Amélie sat down beside Cecile: "Is Christie better?" "He is a little livelier to-day." "I'm glad. Have you never met Quaerts before?" "No." "Really? He comes here so often." Cecile looked through the open folding-doors at the card-table. Two candles stood upon it. Mrs. Hoze's pink face was lit up clearly, with its smooth and stately features; her hair gleamed silver-grey. Quaerts sat opposite her: Cecile noticed the round, vanishing silhouette of his head, the hair cut very close, thick and black above the glittering white streak of his collar. His arms made little movements as he threw down a card or gathered up a trick. His person had something about it of great power, something energetic and robust, something of every-day life, which Cecile disliked. "Are the girls fond of cards?" "Suzette is, Anna not so very: she's not so brisk." Cecile saw that Anna sat behind her father, looking on with eyes which did not understand. "Do you take them out much nowadays?" Cecile asked next. "Yes, I have to. Suzette likes going out, but not Anna. Suzette will be a pretty girl, don't you think?" "Suzette's an awful flirt!" said Jules. "At our last dinner-party...." He stopped suddenly: "No, I won't tell you. It's not right to tell tales, is it, Auntie?" Cecile smiled: "No, of course it's not." "I want always to do what's right." "That is very good." "No, no!" he said deprecatingly. "Everything seems to me so bad, do you know. Why is everything so bad, Auntie?" "But there is much that is good too, Jules." He shook his head: "No, no!" he repeated. "Everything is bad. Everything is very bad. Everything is selfishness. Just mention something that's not selfish!" "Parents' love for their children." But Jules shook his head again: "Parents' love is ordinary selfishness. Children are a part of their parents, who only love themselves when they love their children." "Jules!" cried Amélie. "Your remarks are always much too decided. You know I don't like it: you are much too young to talk like that. One would think you knew everything!" The boy was silent. "And I always say that we never know anything. We never know anything, don't you agree, Cecile? I, at least, never know anything, never...." She looked round the room absently. Her fingers smoothed the fringe of her chair, tidying. Cecile put her arm softly round Jules' neck. 2 It was Quaerts' turn to sit out from the card-table; and, though Dolf pressed him to go on playing, he rose: "I want to go and talk to Mrs. van Even," Cecile heard him say. She saw him come towards the big drawing-room, where she was still sitting with Amélie--Jules still at her feet--engaged in desultory talk, for Amélie could never maintain a conversation, always wandering and losing the threads. She did not know why, but Cecile suddenly assumed a most serious expression, as though she were discussing very important matters with her sister; and yet all that she said was: "Jules ought really to take lessons in harmony, when he composes so nicely...." Quaerts had approached; he sat down beside them, with a scarcely perceptible shyness in his manner, a gentle hesitation in the brusque force of his movements. But Jules fired up: "No, Auntie, I want to be taught as little as possible! I don't want to be learning names and principles and classifications. I couldn't do it. I only compose like this, like this...." And he suited his phrase with a vague movement of his fingers. "Jules can hardly read, it's a shame!" said Amélie. "And he plays so nicely," said Cecile. "Yes, Auntie, I remember things, I pick them out on the piano. Oh, it's not really clever: it just comes out of myself, you know!" "But that's so splendid!" "No, no! You have to know the names and principles and classifications. You want that in everything. I shall never learn technique; I'm no good." He closed his eyes for a moment; a look of sadness flitted across his restless face. "You know a piano is so ... so big, a great piece of furniture, isn't it? But a violin, oh, how delightful! You hold it to you like this, against your neck, almost against your heart; it is almost part of you; and you stroke it, like this, you could almost kiss it! You feel the soul of the violin quivering inside its body. And then you only have just a string or two, two or three strings which sing everything. Oh, a violin, a violin!" "Jules...." Amélie began. "And, oh, Auntie, a harp! A harp, like this, between your legs, a harp which you embrace with both your arms: a harp is exactly like an angel, with long golden hair.... Ah, I've never yet played on a harp!" "Jules, leave off!" cried Amélie, sharply. "You drive me silly with that nonsense! I wonder you're not ashamed, before Mr. Quaerts." Jules looked up in surprise: "Before Taco? Do you think I've anything to be ashamed of, Taco?" "Of course not, my boy." The sound of his voice was like a caress. Cecile looked at him, astonished; she would have expected him to make fun of Jules. She did not understand him, but she disliked him exceedingly, so healthy and strong, with his energetic face and his fine, expressive mouth, so different from Amélie and Jules and herself. "Of course not, my boy." Jules glanced at his mother with a slight look of disdain, as if to say that he knew better: "You see! Taco's a good fellow." He turned his footstool round towards Quaerts and laid his head against his knee. "Jules!" "Pray let him be, mevrouw." "Every one spoils that boy...." "Except yourself," said Jules. "I! I!" cried Amélie, indignantly. "I spoil you out and out! I wish I knew how not to give way to you! I wish I could send you to Kampen or Deli! [1] That would make a man of you! But I can't do it by myself; and your father spoils you too.... I can't think what's going to become of you!" "What is going to become of you, Jules?" asked Quaerts. "I don't know. I mustn't go to college, I am too weak a doll to do much work." "Would you like to go to Deli some day?" "Yes, with you.... Not alone; oh, to be alone, always alone! You will see: I shall always be alone; and it is so terrible to be alone!" "But, Jules, you are not alone now!" said Cecile, reproachfully. "Oh, yes, yes, in myself I am alone, always alone...." He pressed himself against Quaerts' knee. "Jules, don't talk so stupidly," cried Amélie, nervously. "Yes, yes!" cried Jules, with a sudden half sob. "I will hold my tongue! But don't talk about me any more; oh, I beg you, don't talk about me!" He locked his hands and implored them, with dread in his face. They all stared at him, but he buried his face in Quaerts' knees, as though deadly frightened of something.... 3 Anna had played execrably, to Suzette's despair: she could not even remember the winning trumps! Dolf called out to his wife: "Amélie, do come in for a rubber; that is, if Quaerts doesn't want to. You can't give your daughter many points, but still you're not quite so bad!" "I would rather stay and talk to Mrs. van Even," said Quaerts. "Go and play without minding me, if you prefer, Mr. Quaerts," said Cecile, in the cold voice which she adopted towards people whom she disliked. Amélie dragged herself away with an unhappy face. She did not play a brilliant game either; and Suzette always lost her temper when she made mistakes. "I have so long been hoping to make your acquaintance, mevrouw, that I should not like to miss this opportunity," Quaerts replied. She looked at him: it troubled her that she could not understand him. She knew him to be something of a Lothario. There were stories in which the name of a married woman was coupled with his. Did he wish to try his blandishments on her? She had no particular hankering for this sort of pastime; she had never cared for flirtations. "Why?" she asked, calmly, immediately regretting the word; for her question sounded like coquetry and she intended anything but that. "Why?" he echoed. He looked at her in slight surprise as he sat near her, with Jules on the ground between them, against his knee, his eyes closed. "Because ... because," he stammered, "because you are my friend's sister, I suppose, and I had never met you here...." She made no answer: in her seclusion she had forgotten how to talk and she did not take the least trouble about it. "I used often to see you at the theatre," said Quaerts, "when Mr. van Even was still alive." "At the opera," she said. "Yes." "Really? I didn't know you then." "No." "I have not been out in the evening for a long time, because of my mourning." "And I always choose the evening to come to Dolf's." "So that explains why we have never met." They were silent for a moment. It seemed to him that she spoke very coldly. "I should love to go to the opera!" murmured Jules, without opening his eyes. "Or no, after all, I think I would rather not." "Dolf told me that you read a great deal," Quaerts continued. "Do you keep in touch with modern literature?" "A little. I don't read so very much." "No?" "Oh, no! I have two children; that leaves me very little time for reading. Besides, it has no particular fascination for me: life is much more romantic than any novel." "So you are a philosopher?" "I? Oh, no, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts! I am the most commonplace woman in the world." She spoke with her wicked little laugh and her cold voice: the voice and the laugh which she employed when she feared lest she should be wounded in her secret sensitiveness and when therefore she hid deep within herself, offering to the outside world something very different from what she really was. Jules had opened his eyes and sat looking at her; and his steady glance troubled her. "You live in a charming house, on the Scheveningen Road." "Yes." She realized suddenly that her coldness amounted to rudeness; and she did not wish this, even though she did dislike him. She threw herself back negligently; she asked at random, quite without concern, merely for the sake of conversation: "Have you many relations in The Hague?" "No; my father and mother live at Velp and the rest of my family at Arnhem chiefly. I never fix myself anywhere; I can't stay long in one place. I have spent a good many years in Brussels." "You have no occupation, I believe?" "No. As a boy, my one desire was to enter the navy, but I was rejected on account of my eyes." Involuntarily she looked into his eyes: small, deep-set eyes, the colour of which she could not determine. She thought they looked sly and cunning. "I have always regretted it," he continued. "I am a man of action. I am always longing for action. I console myself as best I can with sport." "Sport?" she repeated, coldly. "Yes." "Oh!" "Quaerts is a Nimrod and a Centaur and a Hercules rolled into one, aren't you, Quaerts?" said Jules. "Ah, so you're 'naming' me!" said Quaerts, with a laugh. "Where do you really 'class' me?" "Among the very few people that I really like!" the boy answered, ardently and without hesitation. "Taco, when are you going to teach me to ride?" "Whenever you like, my son." "Yes, but you must fix the day for us to go to the riding-school. I won't fix a day; I hate fixing days." "Well, shall we say to-morrow? To-morrow will be Wednesday." "Very well." Cecile noticed that Jules was still staring at her. She looked at him back. How was it possible that the boy could like this man! How was it possible that it irritated her and not him, all that health, that strength, that power of muscle and rage of sport! She could make nothing of it; she understood neither Quaerts nor Jules; and she herself drifted away again into that mood of half-consciousness, in which she did not know what she thought nor what at that very moment she might say, in which she seemed to be lost and wandering in search of herself. She rose, tall, slender and frail in her crape, like a queen who mourns, with little touches of gold in her flaxen hair, where a small jet aigrette glittered like a black mirror. "I'm going to see who's winning," she said and moved to the card-table in the other room. She stood behind Mrs. Hoze, appeared to be interested in the game; but across the light of the candles she peered at Quaerts and Jules. She saw them talking together, softly, confidentially, Jules with his arm on Quaerts' knee. She saw Jules looking up, as if in adoration, into the face of this man; and then the boy suddenly threw his arms around his friend in a wild embrace, while the other pushed him away with a patient gesture. CHAPTER III 1 Next evening, Cecile revelled even more than usual in the luxury of being able to stay at home. It was after dinner; she was sitting on the sofa in her little boudoir with Dolf and Christie, an arm thrown round each of them, sitting between them, so young, like an elder sister. In her low voice she was telling them: "Judah came near to him, and said, O my Lord, let me abide a bondman instead of the lad. For our father, who is such an old man, said to us, when we left with Benjamin, My son Joseph I have already lost; surely he is torn in pieces by the wild beasts. And if ye take this also from me and mischief befall him, ye shall bring down my grey hairs with sorrow to the grave. Then (Judah said) I said to our father that I would be surety for the lad and that I should bear the blame if I did not bring Benjamin home again. And therefore I pray thee, O my lord, let me abide a bondman, and let the lad go up with his brethren. For how shall I go up to my father if the lad be not with me?..." "And Joseph, mamma, what did Joseph say?" asked Christie. He had nestled closely against his mother, this poor little slender fellow of six, with his fine golden hair and his eyes of pale forget-me-not blue; and his little fingers hooked themselves nervously into Cecile's gown, rumpling the crape. "Then Joseph could not refrain himself before all them that stood by him and he caused every man to leave him. And Joseph made himself known unto his brethren. And he wept aloud and said, I am Joseph." But Cecile could not continue the story, for Christie had thrown himself on her neck in a frenzy of despair and she heard him sobbing against her. "Christie! Darling!" She was greatly distressed; she had grown interested in her own recital and had not noticed Christie's excitement; and now he was sobbing against her in such violent grief that she could find no word to quiet him, to comfort him, to tell him that it ended happily. "But, Christie, don't cry, don't cry! It ends happily." "And Benjamin, what about Benjamin?" "Benjamin returned to his father; and Jacob went down into Egypt to live with Joseph." The child raised his wet face from her shoulder and looked at her deliberately: "Was it really like that? Or are you only making it up?" "No, really, darling. Don't, don't cry any more...." Christie grew calmer, but he was evidently disappointed. He was not satisfied with the end of the story; and yet it was very pretty like that, much prettier than if Joseph had been angry and put Benjamin in prison. "What a baby, Christie, to go crying like that!" said Dolf. "Why, it's only a story." Cecile did not reply that the story had really happened, because it was in the Bible. She had suddenly become very sad, in doubt of herself. She fondly dried the child's sad eyes with her pocket-handkerchief: "And now, children, bed! It's late!" she said, faintly. She put them to bed, a ceremony which lasted a long time; a ceremony with an elaborate ritual of undressing, washing, saying of prayers, tucking in and kissing. 2 When, an hour later, she was sitting downstairs again alone, she realized for the first time how sad she felt. Ah, no, she did not know! Amélie was quite right: one never knew anything, never! She had been so happy that day; she had found herself again, deep in the recesses of her secret self, in the essence of her soul; all day she had seen her dreams hovering about her as an apotheosis; all day she had felt within her that consuming love of her children. She had told them stories out of the Bible after dinner; and suddenly, when Christie began to cry, a doubt had arisen within her. Was she really good to her little boys? Did she not, in her love, in the tenderness of her affection for them, spoil and weaken them? Would she not end by utterly unfitting them for practical life, with which she did not come into contact, but in which the children, when they grew up, would have to move? It flashed through her mind: parting, boarding-schools, her children estranged from her, coming home big, rough boys, smoking and swearing, with cynicism on their lips and in their hearts: lips which would no longer kiss her, hearts in which she would no longer have a place. She pictured them already with the swagger of their seventeen or eighteen years, tramping across her rooms in their cadet's and midshipman's uniforms, with broad shoulders and a hard laugh, flicking the ash from their cigars upon the carpet.... Why did Quaerts' image suddenly rise up in the midst of this cruelty? Was it chance or a logical consequence? She could not analyse it; she could not explain the presence of this man, rising up through her grief in his atmosphere of antipathy. But she felt sad, sad, sad, as she had not felt sad since Van Even's death; not vaguely melancholy, as she so often felt, but sad, undoubtedly sorrowful at the thought of what must come.... Oh! to have to part with her children! And then, to be alone.... Loneliness, everlasting loneliness! Loneliness within herself: that feeling of which Jules had such a dread! Withdrawn from the world which had no charm for her, sinking away alone into emptiness! She was thirty, she was old, an old woman. Her house would be empty, her heart empty! Dreams, clouds of dreaming, which fly away, which lift like smoke, revealing only emptiness. Emptiness, emptiness, emptiness! The word each time fell hollowly, with hammer strokes, upon her breast. Emptiness, emptiness!... "Why am I like this?" she asked herself. "What ails me? What has altered?" Never had she felt that word emptiness throb within her in this way: that very afternoon she had been gently happy, as usual. And now! She saw nothing before her: no future, no life, nothing but one great darkness. Estranged from her children, alone within herself.... She rose with a little moan of pain and walked across the boudoir. The discreet twilight troubled her, oppressed her. She turned the key of the lace-covered lamp: a golden gleam crept over the rose folds of the silk curtains like glistening water. A strange coolness wafted away something of that scent of violets which hung about everything. A fire burned on the hearth, but she felt cold. She stopped beside the low table; she took up a visiting-card, with one corner turned down, and read: "T. H. Quaerts." There was a five-balled coronet above the name. "Quaerts!" How short it sounded! A name like the smack of a hard hand. There was something bad, something cruel in the name: "Quaerts, Quaerts!..." She threw down the bit of pasteboard, was angry with herself. She felt cold and not herself, just as she had felt at the Van Attemas' last evening: "I will not go out again. Never again, never!" she said, almost aloud. "I am so contented in my own house, so contented with my life, so beautifully happy.... That card! Why should he leave a card? What do I want with his card?..." She sat down at her writing-table and opened her blotting-book. She thought of finishing a half-written letter to India; but she was in quite a different mood from when she had begun it. So she took from a drawer a thick manuscript-book, her diary. She wrote the date, then reflected a moment, tapping her teeth nervously with the silver penholder.... But then, with a little ill-tempered gesture, she threw down the pen, pushed the book aside and, letting her head fall into her hands on the blotting-book, sobbed aloud. CHAPTER IV 1 Cecile was astonished at her unusually long fit of abstraction, that it should continue for days before she returned to her usual condition of serenity, the delightful abode from which she had involuntarily wandered. But she compelled herself, with gentle compulsion, to recover the treasures of her loneliness; and she ended by recovering them. She argued with herself that it would be some years before she would have to part from Dolf and Christie: there was time enough to grow accustomed to the idea of separation. Besides, nothing had altered either about her or within her; and so she let the days glide slowly over her, like gently flowing water. In this way, gently flowing by, a fortnight had elapsed since the evening which she spent at Dolf's. It was a Saturday afternoon; she had been working with the children--she still taught them herself--and she had walked out with them; and now she was sitting in her favourite room waiting for the Van Attemas, who came to tea every Saturday at half-past four. She rang for the servant, who lighted the blue flame of methylated spirit. Dolf and Christie were with her; they sat upon the floor on footstools, cutting the pages of a children's magazine to which Cecile subscribed for them. They were sitting quietly, looking very good and well-bred, like children who grow up in soft surroundings, in the midst of too much refinement, too pale, with hair too long and too fair, Christie especially, whose little temples were veined as if with azure blood. Cecile stepped by them as she went to glance over the tea-table; and the look which she cast upon them wrapped the children in a warm embrace of devotion. She was in her calmly happy mood: it was so pleasant to think that she would soon see the Van Attemas come in. She liked these hours of the afternoon, when her silver tea-kettle hissed over the blue flame. An exquisite intimacy filled the room; she had in her long, shapely feminine fingers that special power of witchery, that gentle art of handling by which everything over which they merely glided acquired a look of herself, an indefinable something, of tint, of position, of light, which the things had not until the touch of those fingers came across them. There was a ring. She thought it rather early for the Van Attemas, but she rarely saw any one else in her seclusion from the outer world; therefore it must be they. In a second or two, however, Greta entered, with a card: was mevrouw at home and could the gentleman see her? Cecile recognized the card from a distance: she had seen one like it lately. Nevertheless she took it up, glanced at it discontentedly, with drawn eyebrows. What an idea, she reflected. Why did he do it? What did it mean? But she thought it unnecessary to be impolite and refuse to see him. After all, he was a friend of Dolf's. But such persistence.... "Show meneer in," she said, calmly. Greta went; and it seemed to Cecile as though something trembled in the intimacy which filled the room, as if the objects over which her fingers had just passed took on another aspect, a look of shuddering. But Dolf and Christie had not changed; they were still sitting looking at the pictures, with occasional remarks falling softly from their lips. 2 The door opened and Quaerts entered the room. As he bowed to Cecile, he had his air of shyness in still greater measure than before. To her this air was incomprehensible in him, who seemed so strong, so determined. "I hope you will not think me indiscreet, mevrouw, in taking the liberty to come and call on you." "On the contrary, Mr. Quaerts," she said, coldly. "Pray sit down." He took a chair and placed his tall hat on the floor beside him: "I am not disturbing you, mevrouw?" "Not in the least; I am expecting Mrs. van Attema and her daughters. You were so kind as to leave a card on me; but, as I dare say you know, I see nobody." "I knew that, mevrouw. Perhaps it is to that very reason that you owe the indiscretion of my visit." She looked at him coldly, politely, smilingly. There was a feeling of irritation in her. She felt inclined to ask him bluntly what he wanted with her. "How so?" she asked, with her mannerly smile, which converted her face into a mask. "I was afraid that I might not see you for a very long time; and I should consider it a great privilege to be allowed to know you better." His tone was in the highest degree respectful. She raised her eyebrows, as if she did not understand; but the accent of his voice was so very courteous that she could not even find a cold word with which to answer him. "Are these your two children?" he asked, with a glance towards Dolf and Christie. "Yes," she replied. "Get up, boys, and shake hands with meneer." The children approached timidly and put out their little hands. He smiled, looked at them penetratingly with his small, deep-set eyes and drew them to him: "Am I mistaken, or is the little one very like you?" "They both resemble their father," she replied. It seemed to her she had set a protecting shield around herself, from which the children were excluded, within which she found it impossible to draw them. It troubled her that he was holding them so tight, that he looked at them as he did. But he released them; and they went back to their little stools, gentle, quiet, well-behaved. "Yet they both have something of you," he insisted. "Possibly," she said. "Mevrouw," he resumed, as if he had something important to say to her, "I wish to ask you a direct question: tell me honestly, quite honestly, do you think me indiscreet?" "For calling to see me? No, I assure you, Mr. Quaerts. It is very kind of you. Only ... if I may be candid ..." She gave a little laugh. "Of course," he said. "Then I will confess that I fear you will find little in my house to amuse you. I never see people...." "I have not called on you for the sake of the people I might meet at your house." She bowed, smiling, as if he had paid her a compliment: "Of course I am very pleased to see you. You are a great friend of Dolf's, are you not?" She tried each time to say something different from what she actually did say, to speak more coldly, more aggressively; but she had too much breeding and could not bring herself to do it. "Yes," he replied, "Dolf and I have known each other ever so long. We have always been great friends, though we are quite unlike." "I'm very fond of him; he's always very kind to us." She saw him look at the low table and smile. A few reviews were scattered on it, a book or two. On the top of these lay a little volume of Emerson's essays, with a paper-cutter marking the page. "You told me you were not a great reader!" he said, mischievously. "I should think ..." And he pointed to the books. "Oh," said she, carelessly, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, "a little...." She thought him very tiresome: why should he remark that she had hidden herself from him? Why, indeed, had she hidden herself from him? "Emerson!" he read, bending forward a little. "Forgive me," he added quickly. "I have no right to spy upon your pursuits. But the print is so large; I read it from here." "You are far-sighted?" she asked, laughing. "Yes." His courtesy, a certain respectfulness, as if he would not venture to touch the tips of her fingers, placed her more at her ease. She still disliked him, but there was no harm in his knowing what she read. "Are you fond of reading?" asked Cecile. "I do not read much: it is too great a delight for that; nor do I read everything that appears. I am too hard to please." "Do you know Emerson?" "No...." "I like his essays very much. They are written with such a wide outlook. They place one on such a deliciously exalted level...." She suited her phrase with an expansive gesture; and her eyes lighted up. Then she observed that he was following her attentively, with his respectfulness. And she recovered herself; she no longer wanted to talk to him about Emerson. "It is very fine indeed," was all she said, to close the conversation, in the most commonplace voice that she was able to assume. "May I give you some tea?" "No, thank you, mevrouw; I never take tea at this time." "Do you look upon it with so much scorn?" she asked, jestingly. He was about to answer, when there was a ring at the bell; and she cried: "Ah, here they are!" Amélie entered, with Suzette and Anna. They were a little surprised to see Quaerts. He said he had wanted to call on Mrs. van Even. The conversation became general. Suzette was very merry, full of a fancy-fair, at which she was going to assist, in a Spanish costume. "And you, Anna?" "Oh, no, Auntie!" said Anna, shrinking together with fright. "Imagine me at a fancy-fair! I should never sell anybody anything." "Ah, it's a gift!" said Amélie, with a far-away look. Quaerts rose: he was bowing with a single word to Cecile, when the door opened. Jules came in, with some books under his arm, on his way home from school. "How do you do, Auntie? Hallo, Taco, are you going just as I arrive?" "You drive me away," said Quaerts, laughing. "Oh, Taco, do stay a little longer!" begged Jules, enraptured to see him and lamenting that he had chosen just this moment to leave. "Jules, Jules!" cried Amélie, thinking it was the proper thing to do. Jules pressed Quaerts, took his two hands, forced him, like a spoilt child. Quaerts only laughed. Jules in his excitement knocked a book or two off the table. "Jules, be quiet, do!" cried Amélie. Quaerts picked up the books, while Jules persisted in his bad behaviour. As Quaerts replaced the last book, he hesitated a moment; he held it in his hand, looked at the gold lettering: "Emerson." Cecile watched him: "If he thinks I'm going to lend it him, he's mistaken," she thought. But Quaerts asked nothing: he had released himself from Jules and said good-bye. With a quip at Jules he left. 3 "Is this the first time he has been to see you?" asked Amélie. "Yes," replied Cecile. "An uncalled-for civility, don't you think?" "Taco Quaerts is always very correct in matters of etiquette," said Anna, defending him. "Still, this visit was hardly a matter of etiquette," said Cecile, laughing merrily. "But Taco Quaerts seems to be quite infallible in the eyes of all of you." "He waltzes divinely!" cried Suzette. "The other day, at the Eekhofs' dance...." Suzette chattered on; there was no restraining Suzette that afternoon; she seemed already to hear the castanets rattling in her little brain. Jules had a peevish fit on him, but he remained quietly at a window, with the boys. "You don't much care about Quaerts, do you, Auntie?" asked Anna. "I don't find him attractive," said Cecile. "You know, I am easily influenced by my first impressions. I can't help it, but I don't like those very healthy, robust people, who look so strong and manly, as if they walked straight through life, clearing away everything that stands in their way. It may be morbid of me, but I can't help it; I always dislike any excessive display of health and physical force. Those strong people look upon others who are not so strong as themselves much as the Spartans used to look upon their deformed children." Jules could control himself no longer: "If you think that Taco is no better than a Spartan, you know nothing at all about him," he said, fiercely. Cecile looked at him, but, before Amélie could interpose, he continued: "Taco is the only person with whom I can talk about music and who understands every word I say. And I don't believe I could talk with a Spartan." "Jules, how rude you are!" cried Suzette. "I don't care!" he exclaimed, furiously, rising suddenly and stamping his foot. "I don't care! I won't hear Taco abused; and Aunt Cecile knows it and only does it to tease me. And I think it very mean to tease a boy, very mean...." His mother and sisters tried to bring him to reason with their authority. But he caught up his books: "I don't care! I won't have it!" He was gone in a moment, furious, slamming the door, which groaned with the shock. Amélie was trembling in every nerve: Oh, that boy!" she hissed out, shivering. "That Jules, that Jules!..." "It's nothing," said Cecile, gently, excusing him. "He is just a little excitable...." She had turned rather paler and glanced at her boys, Dolf and Christie, who had looked up in dismay, their mouths wide open with astonishment. "Is Jules naughty, mamma?" asked Christie. She shook her head, smiling. She felt a strange, an unspeakably strange weariness. She did not know what it meant; but it seemed to her as if very distant vistas were opening before her eyes and fading into the horizon, pale, in a great light. Nor did she know what this meant; but she was not angry with Jules and it seemed to her as if he had lost his temper, not with her, but with somebody else. A sense of the enigmatical depth of life, the soul's unconscious mystery, like to a fair, bright endlessness, a far-away silvery light, shot through her in silent rapture. Then she laughed: "Jules is so nice," she said, "when he gets excited." Anna and Suzette, upset at the incident, played with the boys, looking over their picture-books. Cecile spoke only to her sister. But Amélie's nerves were still quivering. "How can you defend those ways of Jules'?" she asked, in a choking voice. "I think it nice of him to stand up for people he likes. Don't you think so too?" Amélie grew calmer. Why should she be put out if Cecile was not? "I dare say," she replied. "I don't know. He has a good heart I believe, but he is so unmanageable. But, who knows, perhaps it's my fault: if I understood things better, if I had more tact...." She grew confused; she sought for something more to say and found nothing, wandering like a stranger through her own thoughts. Then, suddenly, as if struck by a ray of certain knowledge, she said: "But Jules is not stupid. He has a good eye for all sorts of things and for persons too. Personally, I think you judge Taco Quaerts wrongly. He is a very interesting man and a great deal more than a mere sportsman. I don't know what it is, but there's something about him different from other people, I can't say exactly what...." She was silent, seeking, groping. "I wish Jules got on better at school. As I say, he is not stupid, but he learns nothing. He has been two years now in the third class. The boy has no application. He makes me despair of him." She was silent again; and Cecile also did not speak. "Ah," said Amélie, "I dare say it is not his fault! Very likely it is my fault. Perhaps he takes after me...." She looked straight before her: sudden, irrepressible tears filled her eyes and fell into her lap. "Amy, what's the matter?" asked Cecile, kindly. But Amélie had risen, so that the girls, who were still playing with the children, might not see her tears. She could not restrain them, they streamed down and she hurried away into the adjoining drawing-room, a big room in which Cecile never sat. "What's the matter, Amy?" Cecile repeated. She had followed Amélie out and now threw her arms about her, made her sit down, pressed Amélie's head against her shoulder. "How do I know what it is?" Amélie sobbed. "I don't know, I don't know.... I am wretched because of that feeling in my head. It is more than I can bear sometimes. After all, I am not mad, am I? Really, I don't feel mad, or as if I were going mad! But I feel sometimes as if everything had gone wrong in my head, as if I couldn't think. Everything runs through my brain. It's a terrible feeling!" "Why don't you see a doctor?" asked Cecile. "No, no, he might tell me I was mad; and I'm not. He might try to send me to an asylum. No, I won't see a doctor. I have every reason to be happy otherwise, have I not? I have a kind husband and dear children; I have never had any great sorrow. And yet I sometimes feel profoundly miserable, desperately miserable! It is always as if I wanted to reach some place and could not succeed. It is always as if I were hemmed in...." She sobbed violently; a storm of tears rained down her face. Cecile's eyes, too, were moist; she liked her sister, she felt sorry for her. Amélie was only ten years older than she; and already she had something of an old woman about her, something withered and shrunken, with her hair growing grey at the temples, under her veil. "Cecile, tell me, Cecile," she said, suddenly, through her sobs, "do you believe in God?" "Why, of course I do, Amy!" "I used to go to church sometimes, but it was no use.... And I've stopped going.... Oh, I am so unhappy! It is very ungrateful of me. I have so much to be grateful for.... Do you know, sometimes I feel as if I should like to go to God at once, all at once, just like that!" "Come, Amy, don't excite yourself so." "Ah, I wish I were like you, so calm! Do you feel happy?" Cecile smiled and nodded. Amélie sighed; she remained lying for a moment with her head against her sister's shoulder. Cecile kissed her, but suddenly Amélie started: "Be careful," she whispered, "the girls might come in. There ... there's no need for them to see that I've been crying." Rising, she arranged her hat before the looking-glass, carefully dried her veil with her handkerchief: "There, now they won't know," she said. "Let's go in again. I am quite calm. You're a dear thing...." They went back to the boudoir: "Come, girls, it's time to go home," said Amélie, in a voice which was still a little unsettled. "Have you been crying, Mamma?" Suzette at once asked. "Mamma was a bit upset about Jules," said Cecile, quickly. CHAPTER V Cecile was alone; the children had gone upstairs to tidy themselves for dinner. She tried to get back her distant vistas, fading into the pale horizon; she tried to recover the silvery endlessness which had shot through her as a vision of light. But instead her brain was all awhirl with a kaleidoscope of very recent petty memories: the children, Quaerts, Emerson, Jules, Suzette, Amélie. How strange, how strange life was!... The outer life; the coming and going of people about us; the sounds of words which they utter in strange accents; the endless interchange of phenomena; the concatenation of those phenomena, one with the other; strange, too, the presence of a soul somewhere inside us, like a god within us, never to be known in our own essence. Often, as indeed now, it seemed to Cecile that all things, even the most commonplace things, were strange, very strange, as if nothing in the world were absolutely commonplace, as if everything were strange: the strange form and outward expression of a deeper life that lies hidden behind everything, even the meanest objects; as if everything displayed itself under an appearance, a mask of pretence, while the reality, the very truth, lay underneath. How strange, how strange life was!... For it seemed to her as if she, under that very usual afternoon tea, had seen something very unusual; she did not know what, she could not express it nor even think it thoroughly; it seemed to her as if beneath the coming and going of those people something had glittered: a reality, an ultimate truth under the appearance of that casual afternoon tea. "What is it? What is it?" she wondered. "Am I deluding myself, or is it so? I feel that it is so...." It was all very vague and yet so very clear.... It seemed to her as though there were a vision, a haze of light behind all that had happened there, behind Amélie and Jules and Quaerts and the book which he had picked up from the floor and held in his hand for a moment.... Did that vision, that haze of light mean anything, or.... But she shook her head: "I am dreaming, I am giving way to fancy," she laughed, within herself. "It was all very simple; I only make it complex because it amuses me to do so." But she had no sooner thought this than she felt something which denied the thought absolutely, an intuition which should have made her guess the essence of the truth, but did not quite succeed. Surely there was something, something behind it all, hiding away, lurking as the shadow lurked behind the thing; and the shadow appeared to her as a vision and haze of light.... Her thoughts still wandered over all those people and finally halted at Taco Quaerts. She saw him sitting there again, bending slightly forward in her direction, his hands folded and hanging between his knees, as he looked up to her. A barrier of aversion had stood between them like an iron bar. She saw him sitting there again, though he was gone. That again was past: how quickly everything moved; how small was the speck of the present! She rose, sat down at her writing-table and wrote: "Beneath me flows the sea of the past; above me drifts the ether of the future; and I stand midway upon the one speck of reality, so small that I must press my feet firmly together lest I lose my hold. And from the speck of the present my sorrow looks down upon the sea and my longing up to the sky. "It is scarcely life to stand upon this speck, so small that I hardly appreciate it, hardly feel it beneath my feet; and yet to me it is the one reality. I am not greatly occupied about it: my eyes only follow the rippling of those waves towards distant horizons, the gliding of those clouds towards distant spheres, vague manifestations of endless change, translucent ephemeras, visible incorporeities. The present is the only thing that is, or rather that seems to be. The speck is, or at least appears to be, but not the sea below nor the sky above, for the sea is but a memory and the air but an illusion. Yet memory and illusion are everything: they are the wide inheritance of the soul, which alone can escape from the speck of the moment to float upon the sea towards the horizons which retreat, to drift upon the clouds towards the spheres which retreat and retreat...." Then she reflected. How was it that she had written all this and why? How had she come to write it? She went back upon her thoughts: the present, the speck of the present, which was so small.... Quaerts, Quaerts' very attitude, rising up before her just now. Was he in any way concerned with her writing down those sentences? The past a sorrow; the future an illusion.... Why, why illusion? "And Jules, who likes him," she thought. "And Amélie, who spoke of him ... but she knows nothing.... What is there in him, what lurks behind him: his visionary image? Why did he come here? Why do I dislike him so? Do I dislike him? I cannot see into his eyes...." She would have liked to do this once; she would have liked to make sure that she disliked him or that she did not: one or the other. She was curious to see him once more, to know what she would think and feel about him then.... She had risen from her writing-table and now lay at full length on the sofa, with her arms folded behind her head. She no longer knew what she dreamt, but she felt peacefully happy. She heard Dolf and Christie come down the stairs. They came in, it was dinner-time. "Jules was really naughty just now, wasn't he, Mummy?" Christie asked again, with a grave face. She drew the frail little fellow gently to her, took him tightly in her arms and fondly kissed his moist, pale-raspberry lips: "No, really not, darling!" she said. "He wasn't naughty, really...." CHAPTER VI 1 Cecile passed through the long hall, which was almost a gallery: footmen stood on either side of the hangings; a hum of voices came from behind. The train of her dress rustled against the leaves of a palm; and the sound gave a sudden jar to the strung cords of her sensitiveness. She was a little nervous; her eyelids quivered slightly and her mouth had a very earnest fold. She walked in; there was much light, but soft light, the light of candles only. Two officers stepped aside for her as she stood hesitating. Her eyes glanced round in search of Mrs. Hoze; she saw her standing among two or three of her guests, with her grey hair, her kindly and yet haughty face, rosy and smooth, almost without a wrinkle. Mrs. Hoze came towards her: "I can't tell you how charming I think it of you not to have played me false!" she said, pressing Cecile's hand with effusive and hospitable urbanity. She introduced people to Cecile here and there; Cecile heard names the sound of which at once escaped her. "General, allow me ... Mrs. van Even," Mrs. Hoze whispered and left her, to speak to some one else. Cecile drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to the edge of her bodice, as though to arrange something that had slipped from its place, answered the general cursorily. She was very pale; and her eyelids quivered more and more. She ventured to throw a glance round the room. She stood next to the general, forcing herself to listen, so as not to give answers that would sound strikingly foolish. She was very tall, slender, and straight, with her shoulders, white as sunlit marble, blossoming out of a sombre vase of black: fine, black, trailing tulle, sprinkled all over with small jet spangles; glittering black on dull transparent black. A girdle with tassels of jet, hanging low, was wound about her waist. So she stood, blonde: blonde and black; a little sombre amid the warmth and light of other toilettes; and, for unique relief, two diamonds in her ears, like dewdrops. Her thin suêde-covered fingers trembled as she manipulated her fan, a black tulle transparency, on which the same jet spangles glittered with black lustre. Her breath came short behind the strokes of the diaphanous fan as she talked with the general, a spare, bald, distinguished-looking man, not in uniform, but wearing his decorations. Mrs. Hoze's guests walked about, greeting one another here and there, with a continuous hum of voices. Cecile saw Taco Quaerts come up to her; he bowed before her; she bowed coldly in return, not offering him her hand. He lingered by her for a moment, spoke a word or two and then passed on, greeting other acquaintances. Mrs. Hoze had taken the arm of an old gentleman; a procession formed slowly. The servants threw back the doors; a table glittered beyond, half-visible. The general offered Cecile his arm, as she stood looking behind her with a listless turn of her neck. She closed her eyelids for a second, to prevent their quivering. Her brows contracted with a sense of disappointment; but smilingly she laid the tips of her fingers on the general's arm and with her closed fan smoothed away a crease from the tulle of her train. 2 When Cecile was seated she found Quaerts sitting on her right. Then her disappointment vanished, the disappointment which she had felt at not being taken in to dinner by him; but her look remained cold, as usual. And yet she had what she wished; the expectation with which she had come to this dinner was fulfilled. Mrs. Hoze had seen Cecile at the Van Attemas' and had gladly undertaken to restore the young widow to society. Cecile knew that Quaerts was a frequent visitor at Mrs. Hoze's; she had heard from Amélie that he was invited to the dinner; and she had accepted. That Mrs. Hoze, remembering that Cecile had met Quaerts before, had placed him next to her was easy to understand. Cecile was very inquisitive about herself. How would she feel? At least interested: she could not disguise that from herself. She was certainly interested in him, remembering what Jules had said, what Amélie had said. She already felt that behind the mere sportsman there lurked another, whom she longed to know. Why should she? What concern was it of hers? She could not tell; but, in any case, as a matter of curiosity, as a puzzle, it awoke her interest. And, at the same time, she remained on her guard, for she did not think that his visit to her was strictly in order; and there were stories in which the name of that married woman was coupled with his. She succeeded in freeing herself from her conversation with the general, who seemed to feel called upon to entertain her, and it was she who spoke first to Quaerts: "Have you begun to give Jules his riding-lessons?" she asked, with a smile. He looked at her, evidently a little surprised at her voice and her smile, which were both new to him. He returned a bare answer: "Yes, mevrouw, we were at the riding-school yesterday...." She at once thought him clumsy, to let the conversation drop like that; but he enquired with that slight shyness which became a charm in him who was so manly: "So you are going out again, mevrouw?" She thought--she had indeed thought so before--that his questions were sometimes questions which people do not ask. This was one of the strange things about him. "Yes," she replied, simply, not knowing what else to say. "Forgive me," he said, seeing that his words had embarrassed her a little. "I asked, because ..." "Because?" she echoed, with wide-open eyes. He took courage and explained: "When Dolf spoke of you, he used always to say that you lived so quietly.... And I could never picture you to myself returning to society, mixing with many people; I had formed an idea of you; and it now seems that this idea was a mistaken one." "An idea?" she asked. "What idea?" "Perhaps you will be angry when I tell you. Perhaps, even as it is, you are none too well pleased with me!" he replied, jestingly. "I have not the slightest reason to be either pleased or displeased with you," she jested in return. "But tell me, what was your idea?" "Then you are interested in it?" "If you will answer candidly, yes. But you must be candid!" and she threatened him with her finger. "Well," he began, "I thought of you as a very cultured woman, as a very interesting woman--I still think all that--and ... as a woman who cared nothing for the world beyond her own sphere; and this ... this I can no longer think. And I feel almost inclined to say, at the risk of your looking on me as very strange, that I am sorry no longer to be able to think of you in that way. I would almost rather not have met you here...." He laughed, to soften what might sound strange in his words. She looked at him, her eyelashes flickering with amazement, her lips half-opened; and suddenly it struck her that she was looking into his eyes for the first time. She looked into his eyes and saw that they were a dark, very dark grey around the black depth of the pupil. There was something in his eyes, she could not say what, but something magnetic, as though she could never again take away her own from them. "How strange you can be sometimes!" she said mechanically: the words came intuitively. "Oh, please don't be angry!" he almost implored her. "I was so glad when you spoke kindly to me. You were a little distant to me when I saw you last; and I should be so sorry if I put you out. Perhaps I am strange, but how could I possibly be commonplace with you? How could I possibly, even if you were to take offence?... Have you taken offence?" "I ought to, but I suppose I must forgive you, if only for your candour!" she said, laughing. "Otherwise your remarks were anything but gallant." "And yet I did not mean it ungallantly." "Oh, no doubt!" she jested. She remembered that she was at a big dinner-party. The guests ranged before and around her; the footmen waiting behind; the light of the candles gleaming on the silver and touching the glass with all the hues of the rainbow; on the table prone mirrors, like sheets of water surrounded by flowers, little lakes amidst moss-roses and lilies of the valley. She sat silent a moment, still smiling, looking at her hand, a pretty hand, like a white precious thing upon the tulle of her gown: one of the fingers bore several rings, scintillating sparks of blue and white. The general turned to her again; they exchanged a few words; the general was delighted that Mrs. van Even's right-hand neighbour was keeping her entertained and enabling him to get on quietly with his dinner. Quaerts turned to the lady on his right. Both of them were glad when they were able to resume their conversation: "What were we talking about just now?" she asked. "I know!" he replied, mischievously. "The general interrupted us." "You were not angry with me!" he jested. "Oh, of course," she replied, laughing softly, "it was about your idea of me, was it not? Why could you no longer picture me returning to society?" "I thought that you had become a person apart." "But why?" "From what Dolf said, from what I myself thought, when I saw you." "And why are you now sorry that I am not 'a person apart,' as you call it?" she asked, still laughing. "From vanity; because I made a mistake. And yet perhaps I have not made a mistake...." They looked at each other; and both of them, although each thought it in a different way, now thought the same thing, namely, that they must be careful with their words, because they were speaking of something very delicate and tender, something as frail as a soap-bubble, which could easily break if they spoke of it too loudly; the mere breath of their words might be sufficient. Yet she ventured to ask: "And why ... do you believe ... that perhaps ... you are not mistaken?" "I don't quite know. Perhaps because I wish it so. Perhaps, too, because it is so true as to leave no room for doubt. Oh, yes, I am almost sure that I judged rightly! Do you know why? Because otherwise I should have hidden myself and been commonplace; and I find this impossible with you. I have given you more of myself in this short moment than I have given people whom I have known for years in the course of all those years. Therefore surely you must be a person apart." "What do you mean by 'a person apart'?" He smiled, he opened his eyes; she looked into them again, deeply. "You understand, surely!" he said. Fear for the delicate thing that might break came between them again. They understood each other as with a freemasonry of feeling. Her eyes were magnetically held upon his. "You are very strange!" she again said, automatically. "No," he said, calmly, shaking his head, with his eyes in hers. "I am certain that I am not strange to you, even though you may think so for the moment." She was silent. "I am so glad to be able to talk to you like this!" he whispered. "It makes me very happy. And see, no one knows anything of it. We are at a big dinner; the people next to us can even catch our words; and yet there is not one among them who understands us or grasps the subject of our conversation. Do you know the reason?" "No," she murmured. "I will tell you; at least, I think it is like this. Perhaps you know better, for you must know things better than I, you are so much subtler. I personally believe that each person has a circle about him, an atmosphere, and that he meets other people who have circles or atmospheres about them, sympathetic or antipathetic to his own." "This is pure mysticism!" she said. "No," he replied, "it is quite simple. When the two circles are antipathetic, each repels the other; but, when they are sympathetic, they glide and overlap in smaller or larger curves of sympathy. In some cases the circles almost coincide, but they always remain separate.... Do you really think this so very mystical?" "One might call it the mysticism of sentiment. But ... I have thought something of the sort myself...." "Yes, yes, I can understand that," he continued, calmly, as if he expected it. "I believe that those around us would not be able to understand us, because we two alone have sympathetic circles. But my atmosphere is of a much grosser texture than yours, which is very delicate." She was silent again, remembering her former aversion to him: did she still feel it? "What do you think of my theory?" he asked. She looked up; her white fingers trembled in the tulle of her gown. She made a poor effort to smile: "I think you go too far!" she stammered. "You think I rush into hyperbole?" She would have liked to say yes, but could not: "No," she said; "not that." "Do I bore you?..." She looked at him, looked deep into his eyes. She shook her head, by way of saying no. She would have liked to say that he was too unconventional just now; but she could not find the words. A faintness oppressed her whole being. The table, the people, the whole dinner-party appeared to her as through a haze of light. When she recovered herself again, she perceived that a pretty woman opposite had been staring at her and was now looking away, out of politeness. She did not know how or why this interested her, but she asked Quaerts: "Who is the lady over there, in pale blue, with the dark hair?" She saw that he started. "That is young Mrs. Hijdrecht!" he said, calmly, a little distantly. She too was perturbed; she turned pale; her fan flapped nervously to and fro in her fingers. He had named the woman whom rumour said to be his mistress. 3 It seemed to Cecile as though that delicate, frail thing, that soap-bubble, had burst. She wondered if he had spoken to that dark-haired woman also of circles of sympathy. So soon as she was able, Cecile observed Mrs. Hijdrecht. She had a warm, dull-gold complexion, dark, glowing eyes, a mouth as of fresh blood. Her dress was cut very low; her throat and the slope of her breast showed insolently handsome, brutally luscious. A row of diamonds encompassed her neck with a narrow line of white flame. Cecile felt ill at ease. She felt as if she were playing with fire. She looked away from the young woman and turned to Quaerts, in obedience to some magnetic force. She saw a cloud of melancholy stealing over the upper half of his face, over his forehead and his eyes, which betrayed a slight look of age. And she heard him say: "Now what do you care about that lady's name? We were just in the middle of such a charming conversation...." She too felt sad now, sad because of the soap-bubble that had burst. She did not know why, but she felt pity for him, a sudden, deep, intense pity. "We can resume our conversation," she said, softly. "Ah no, don't let us take it up where we left it!" he rejoined, with feigned airiness. "I was becoming tedious." He spoke of other things. She answered little; and their conversation languished. They each occupied themselves with their neighbours. The dinner came to an end. Mrs. Hoze rose, took the arm of the gentleman beside her. The general escorted Cecile to the drawing-room, in the slow procession of the others. 4 The ladies remained alone; the men went to the smoking-room with young Hoze. Cecile saw Mrs. Hoze come towards her. She asked her if she had not been bored at dinner; they sat down together, in a confidential tête-à-tête. Cecile made the necessary effort to reply to Mrs. Hoze; but she would have liked to go somewhere and weep quietly, because everything passed so quickly, because the speck of the present was so small. Gone was the sweet charm of their conversation during dinner about sympathy, a fragile intimacy amid the worldly show about them. Gone was that moment, never, never to return: life sped over it with its constant flow, as with a torrent of all-obliterating water. Oh, the sorrow of it, to think how quickly, like an intangible perfume, everything speeds away, everything that is dear to us!... Mrs. Hoze left her; Suzette van Attema came to talk to Cecile. She was dressed in pink; and she glittered in all her aspect as if gold-dust had poured all over her, upon her movements, her eyes, her words. She spoke volubly to Cecile, telling interminable tales, to which Cecile did not always listen. Suddenly, through Suzette's prattle, Cecile heard the voices of two women whispering behind her; she only caught a word here and there: "Emilie Hijdrecht, you know...." "Only gossip, I think; Mrs. Hoze does not seem to heed it...." "Ah, but I know it as a fact!" The voices were lost in the hum of the others. Cecile just caught a sound like Quaerts' name. Then Suzette asked, suddenly: "Do you know young Mrs. Hijdrecht, Auntie?" "No." "Over there, with the diamonds. You know, they talk about her and Quaerts. Mamma doesn't believe it. At any rate, he's a great flirt. You sat next to him, didn't you?" Cecile suffered severely in her innermost sensitiveness. She shrank into herself entirely, doing all that she could to appear different from what she was. Suzette saw nothing of her discomfiture. The men returned. Cecile looked to see whether Quaerts would speak to Mrs. Hijdrecht. But he wholly ignored her presence and even, when he saw Suzette sitting with Cecile, came over to them to pay a compliment to Suzette, to whom he had not yet spoken. It was a relief to Cecile when she was able to go. She was yearning to be alone, to recover herself, to return from her abstraction. In her brougham she scarcely dared breathe, fearful of something, she could not say what. When she reached home she felt a stifling heaviness which seemed to paralyse her; and she dragged herself languidly up the stairs to her dressing-room. And yet, on the stairs, there fell over her, as from the roof of her house, a haze of protecting safety. Slowly she went up, her hand, holding a long glove, pressing the velvet banister of the stairway. She felt as if she were about to swoon: "But, Heaven help me ... I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!" she whispered between her trembling lips, in sudden amazement. It was as in a rhythm of astonishment that she wearily mounted the stairs, higher and higher, in a silent surprise of sudden light. "But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him!" It sounded like a melody through her weariness. She reached her dressing-room, where Greta had lighted the gas; she dragged herself inside. The door of the nursery stood half open; she went in, threw back the curtain of Christie's little bed, dropped on her knees and looked at the child. The boy partly awoke, still in the warmth of a deep sleep; he crept a little from between the sheets, laughed, threw his arms about Cecile's bare neck: "Mummy dear!" She pressed him tightly in the embrace of her slender, white arms; she kissed his raspberry mouth, his drowsed eyes. And meantime the refrain sang on in her heart, right across the weariness which seemed to break her by the bedside of her child: "But I am fond of him, I love him, I love him, I love him...!" 5 The mystery! Suddenly, on the staircase, it had beamed open before her in her soul, like a great flower of light, a mystic rose with glistening petals, into whose golden heart she now looked for the first time. The analysis to which she was so much inclined was no longer possible: this was the riddle of love, the eternal riddle, which had beamed open within her, transfixing with its rays the very width of her soul, in the midst of which it had burst forth like a sun in a universe; it was too late to ask the reason why; it was too late to ponder and dream upon it; it could only be accepted as the inexplicable phenomenon of the soul; it was a creation of sentiment, of which the god who created it would be as impossible to find in the inner essence of his reality as the God who had created the world out of chaos. It was light breaking forth from darkness; it was heaven disclosed above the earth. And it existed: it was reality and not a fairy-tale! For it was wholly and entirely within her, a sudden, incontestable, everlasting truth, a felt fact, so real in its ethereal incorporeity that it seemed to her as if, until that moment, she had never known, never thought, never felt. It was the beginning, the opening out of herself, the dawn of her soul's life, the joyful miracle, the miraculous inception of love, love focussed in the midst of her soul. She passed the following days in self-contemplation, wandering through her dreams as through a new country, rich with great light, where distant landscapes paled into a wan radiance, like fantastic meteors in the night, quivering in incandescence on the horizon. It seemed to her as though she, a pious and glad pilgrim, were making her way along paradisaical oases towards those distant scenes, there to find even more, the goal.... Only a little while ago, the prospect before her had been narrow and forlorn--her children gone from her, her loneliness wrapping her about like a night--and now, now she saw stretching in front of her a long road, a wide horizon, glittering with light, nothing but light.... That was, all that was! It was no fine poets' fancy; it existed, it gleamed in her heart like a sacred jewel, like a mystic rose with stamina of light! A freshness as of dew fell over her, over her whole life: over the life of her senses; over the life of outward appearances; over the life of her soul; over the life of the indwelling truth. The world was new, fresh with young dew, the very Eden of Genesis; and her soul was a soul of newness, born anew in a metempsychosis of greater perfection, of closer approach to the goal, that distant goal, far away yonder, hidden like a god in the sanctuary of its ecstasy of light, as in the radiance of its own being. CHAPTER VII 1 Cecile did not go out for a few days; she saw nobody. One morning she received a note; it ran: "Mevrouw, "I do not know if you were offended by my mystical utterances. I cannot recall distinctly what I said, but I remember that you told me that I was going too far. I trust that you did not take my indiscretion amiss. "It would be a great pleasure to me to come to see you. May I hope that you will permit me to call on you this afternoon? "With most respectful regards, "Quaerts." As the bearer was waiting for a reply, she wrote back in answer: "Dear Sir, "I shall be very pleased to see you this afternoon. "Cecile van Even." When she was alone, she read his note over and over again; she looked at the paper with a smile, looked at the handwriting: "How strange," she thought. "This note ... and everything that happens. How strange everything is, everything, everything!" She remained dreaming a long time, with the note in her hand. Then she carefully folded it up, rose, walked up and down the room, sought with her dainty fingers in a bowl full of visiting-cards, taking out two which she looked at for some time. "Quaerts." The name sounded differently from before.... How strange it all was! Finally she locked away the note and the two cards in a little empty drawer of her writing-table. She stayed at home and sent the children out with the nurse. She hoped that no one else would call, neither Mrs. Hoze nor the Van Attemas. And, staring before her, she reflected for a long, long while. There was so much that she did not understand: properly speaking, she understood nothing. So far as she was concerned, she had fallen in love with him: there was no analysing that; it must simply be accepted. But he, what did he feel, what were his emotions? Her earlier aversion? Sport: he was fond of sport she remembered.... His visit, which was an impertinence: he seemed now to be wishing to atone for it, not to repeat his call without her permission.... His mystical conversation at the dinner-party.... And Mrs. Hijdrecht.... "How strange he is!" she reflected. "I do not understand him; but I love him, I cannot help it. Love, love: how strange that it should exist! I never realized that it existed! I am no longer myself; I am becoming some one else!... What does he want to see me for?... And how singular: I have been married, I have two children! How singular that I should have two children! I feel as if I had none. And yet I am so fond of my little boys! But the other thing is so beautiful, so bright, so transparent, as if that alone were truth. Perhaps love is the only truth.... It is as if everything in and about me were turning to crystal!" She looked around her, surprised and troubled that her surroundings should have remained the same: the rosewood furniture, the folds of the curtains, the withered landscape of the Scheveningen Road outside. But it was snowing, silently and softly, with great snow-flakes falling heavily, as though they meant to purify the world. The snow was fresh and new, but yet the snow was not real nature to her, who always saw her distant landscape, like a fata morgana, quivering in pure incandescence of light. 2 He came at four o'clock. She saw him for the first time since the self-revelation which had flashed upon her astounded senses. And when he came she felt the singularly rapturous feeling that in her eyes he was a demigod, that he perfected himself in her imagination, that everything in him was good. Now that he sat there before her, she saw him for the first time and she saw that he was physically beautiful. The strength of his body was exalted into the strength of a young god, broad and yet slender, sinewed as with the marble sinews of a statue; and all this seemed so strange beneath the modernity of his morning coat. She saw his face completely for the first time. The cut of it was Roman, the head that of a Roman emperor, with its sensual profile, its small, full mouth, living red under the brown gold of his curly moustache. The forehead was low, the hair cut very close, like an enveloping black casque; and over that forehead, with its single furrow, hovered sadness, like a mist of age, strangely contradicting the wanton youthfulness of his mouth and chin. And then his eyes, which she already knew, his eyes of mystery, small and deep-set, with the depth of their pupils, which seemed now to veil themselves and then again to look out. But the strangest thing was that from all his beauty, from all his being, from all his attitude, as he sat there with his hands folded between his knees, a magnetism emanated, dominating her, drawing her irresistibly towards him, as though she had suddenly, from the first moment of her self-revelation, become his, to serve him in all things. She felt this magnetism attracting her so violently that every power in her melted into listlessness and weakness. A weakness as if he might take her and carry her away, anywhere, wherever he pleased; a weakness as if she no longer possessed her own thoughts, as if she had become nothing, apart from him. She felt this intensely; and then, then came the very strangest thing of all, as he continued to sit there, at a respectful distance, his eyes looking up to her in reverence, his voice falling in reverential accents. This was the very strangest thing of all that she saw him beneath her, while she felt him above her; that she wished to be his inferior and that he seemed to consider her higher than himself. She did not know how she suddenly came to realize this so intensely, but she did realize it; and it was the first pain that her love gave her. "It is very kind of you not to be angry with me," he began. There was often something caressing in his voice; it was not clear and was even now and then a little broken, but this just gave it a certain charm of quality. "Why?" she asked. "In the first place, I did wrong to pay you that visit. In the second place, I was ill-mannered at Mrs. Hoze's dinner." "A whole catalogue of sins!" she laughed. "Surely!" he continued. "And you are very good to bear me no malice." "Perhaps that is because I always hear so much good about you at Dolf's." "Have you never noticed anything odd in Dolf?" he asked. "No. What do you mean?" "Has it never struck you that he has more of an eye for the great aggregate of political problems as a whole than for the details of his own surroundings?" She looked at him, with a smile of surprise: "Yes," she said. "You are quite right. You know him well." "Oh, we have known one another from boyhood! It is curious: he never sees the things that lie close to his hand; he does not penetrate them. He is intellectually far-sighted." "Yes," she assented. "He does not know his wife, nor his daughters, nor Jules. He does not see what they have in them. He identifies each of them by means of an image which he fixes in his mind; and he forms these images out of two prominent characteristics, which are generally a little opposed. Mrs. van Attema appears to him a woman with a heart of gold, but not very practical: so much for her; Jules, a musical genius, but an untractable boy: that settles him!" "Yes, he does not go very deeply into character," she said. "For there is a great deal more in Amélie...." "And he is quite wrong about Jules," said Quaerts. "Jules is thoroughly tractable and anything but a genius. Jules is nothing more than an exceedingly receptive boy, with a little rudimentary talent. And you ... he misconceives you too!" "Me?" "Entirely! Do you know what he thinks of you?" "No." "He thinks you--let me begin by telling you this--very, very lovable and a dear little mother to your boys. But he thinks also that you are incapable of growing very fond of any one; he looks upon you as a woman without passion and melancholy for no reason, except that you are bored. He thinks you bore yourself!" She looked at him in utter dismay and saw him laughing mischievously. "I am never bored!" she said, joining in his laughter, with full conviction. "No, of course you're not!" he replied. "How can you know?" she asked. "I feel it!" he answered. "And, what is more, I know that the basis of your character is not melancholy, not dark, but, on the contrary, very light." "I am not so sure of that myself," she scarcely murmured, slackly, with that weakness within her, but happy that he should estimate her so exactly. "And do you too," she continued, airily, "think me incapable of loving any one very much?" "Now that is a matter of which I am not competent to judge," he said, with such frankness that his whole countenance suddenly grew younger and the crease disappeared from his forehead. "How can I tell?" "You seem to know a great deal about me otherwise," she laughed. "I have seen you so often." "Barely four times!" "That is very often." She laughed brightly: "Is this a compliment?" "It is meant for one," he replied. "You do not know how much it means to me to see you." It meant much to him to see her! And she felt herself so small, so weak; and him so great, so perfect. With what decision he spoke, how certain he seemed of it all! It almost saddened her that it meant so much to him to see her once in a while. He placed her too high; she did not wish to be placed so high. And that delicate, fragile something hung between them again, as it had hung between them at the dinner. Then it had been broken by one ill-chosen word. Oh, that it might not be broken now! "And now let us talk about yourself!" she said, affecting an airy vivacity. "Do you know that you are taking all sorts of pains to fathom me and that I know nothing whatever about you? That's not fair." "If you knew how much I have given you already! I give myself to you entirely; from others I always conceal myself." "Why?" "Because I am afraid of the others!" "You ... afraid?" "Yes. You think that I do not look as if I could feel afraid? I have something...." He hesitated. "Well?" she asked. "I have something that is very dear to me and about which I am very much afraid lest any should touch it." "And that is...?" "My soul. I am not afraid of your touching it, for you would not hurt it. On the contrary, I know that it is very safe with you." She would have liked once more, mechanically, to reproach him with his strangeness: she could not. But he guessed her thoughts: "You think me a very odd person, do you not? But how can I be otherwise with you?" She felt her love expanding within her heart, widening it to its full capacity within her. Her love was as a domain in which he wandered. "I do not understand you yet; I do not know you yet!" she said, softly. "I do not see you yet...." "Would you be in any way interested to know me, to see me?" "Surely." "Let me tell you then; I should like to do so; it would be a great joy to me." "I am listening to you most attentively." "One question first: you cannot endure people who go in for sport?" "On the contrary, I like to see the display and development of strength, so long as it is not too near me. Just as I like to hear a storm, when I am safely within doors. And I can even find pleasure in watching acrobats." He laughed quietly: "Nevertheless you held my particular predilection in great aversion?" "Why should you think that?" "I felt it." "You feel everything," she said, almost in alarm. "You are a dangerous person." "So many think that. Shall I tell you why I believe that you took a special aversion in my case?" "Yes." "Because you did not understand it in me, even though you may have observed that physical exercise is one of my hobbies." "I do not understand you at all." "I think you are right.... But don't let me talk about myself like this: I would rather talk of you." "And I of you. So be nice to me for the first time in our acquaintance and speak ... of yourself." He bowed, with a smile: "You will not think me tiresome?" "Not at all. You were telling me of yourself. You were speaking of your love of exercise...." "Ah, yes!... Can you understand that there are in me two distinct individuals?" "Two distinct...." "Yes. My soul, which I regard as my real self; and then ... there remains the other." "And what is that other?" "Something ugly, something common, something grossly primitive. In one word, the brute." She shrugged her shoulders lightly: "How dark you paint yourself. The same thing is more or less true of everybody." "Yes, but it troubles me more than I can tell you. I suffer; that brute within me hurts my soul, hurts it even more than the whole world hurts it. Now do you know why I feel such a sense of security when I am with you? It is because I do not feel the brute that is in me.... Let me go on a little longer, let me confess; it does me good to tell you all this. You thought I had only seen you four times? But I used to see you so often formerly, in the theatre, in the street, everywhere. It was always rather strange to me when I saw you in the midst of accidental surroundings. And always, when I looked at you, I felt as if I were being lifted to something more beautiful. I cannot express myself more clearly. There is something in your face, in your eyes, in your movements, I don't know what, but something better than in other people, something that addressed itself, most eloquently, to my soul only. All this is so subtle and so strange; I can hardly put it more plainly. But you are no doubt once more thinking that I am going too far, are you not? Or that I am raving?" "Certainly, I should never have thought you such an idealist, such a sensitivist," said Cecile, softly. "Have I leave to speak to you like this?" "Why not?" she asked, to escape the necessity of replying. "You might perhaps fear that I should compromise you...." "I do not fear that for an instant!" she replied, haughtily, as in utter contempt of the world. They were silent for a moment. That delicate, fragile thing, which might so easily break, still hung between them, thin, like a gossamer, lightly joining them together. An atmosphere of embarrassment hovered about them. They felt that the words which had passed between them were full of significance. Cecile waited for him to continue; but, as he was silent, she boldly took up the conversation: "On the contrary, I value it highly that you have spoken to me like this. You are right: you have indeed given me much of yourself. I want to assure you that whatever you have given me will be quite safe with me. I believe that I understand you better now that I see you better." "I want very much to ask you something," he said, "but I dare not." She smiled, to encourage him. "No, really I dare not," he repeated. "Shall I guess?" Cecile asked, jestingly. "Yes; what do you think it is?" She glanced round the room until her eye rested on the little table covered with books. "The loan of Emerson's essays?" she hazarded. But Quaerts shook his head and laughed: "No, thank you," he said. "I bought the volume long ago. No, no, it is a much greater favour than the loan of a book." "Be brave then and ask it," Cecile went on, still jestingly. "I dare not," he said again. "I should not know how to put my request into words." She looked at him earnestly, into his eyes, which gazed steadily upon her; and then she said: "I know what you want to ask me, but I will not say it. You must do that: so seek your words." "If you know, will you then permit me to say it?" "Yes, for, if it is what I think, it is nothing that you are not entitled to ask." "And yet it would be a great favour.... But let me warn you beforehand that I look upon myself as some one of a much lower order than you." A shadow passed across her face, her mouth had a little contraction of pain and she pressed him, a little unnerved: "I beg you, ask. Just ask me simply." "It is a wish, then, that sympathy might be sealed between you and me. Would you allow me to come to you when I am unhappy? I always feel so happy in your presence, so soothed, so different from the state of ordinary life, for with you I live only my better, my real self: you know what I mean." Everything within her again melted into weakness and slackness; he was placing her upon too high a pedestal; she was happy, because of what he asked her, but sad, that he felt himself so much lower than she. "Very well," she said, nevertheless, with a clear voice. "It shall be as you wish. Let us seal a bond of sympathy." And she gave him her hand, her beautiful, long, white hand, where on one white finger gleamed the sparks of jewels, white and blue. For a second, very reverently, he pressed her finger-tips between his own: "Thank you," he said, in a hushed voice, a voice that was a little broken. "Are you often unhappy?" asked Cecile. "Always," he replied, almost humbly and as though embarrassed at having to confess it. "I don't know why, but it has always been so. And yet from my childhood I have enjoyed much that people call happiness. But yet, yet ... I suffer through myself. It is I who do myself the most hurt. And after that the world ... and I have always to hide myself. To the world, to people generally I only show the individual who rides and fences and hunts, who goes into society and is very dangerous to young married women...." He laughed with his bad, low laugh, looking aslant into her eyes; she remained calmly gazing at him. "Beyond that I give them nothing. I hate them; I have nothing in common with them, thank God!" "You are too proud," said Cecile. "Each of those people has his own sorrow, just as you have: the one suffers a little more subtly, the other a little more coarsely; but they all suffer. And in that they all resemble yourself." "Each taken by himself, perhaps. But that is not how I take them: I take them in the lump and therefore I hate them. Don't you?" "No," she said calmly. "I don't believe that I am capable of hating." "You are very strong within yourself. You suffice unto yourself." "No, no, not that, really not; but you ... you are unjust towards the world." "Possibly; but why does it always give me pain? Alone with you, I forget that it exists, the outside world. Do you understand now why I was so sorry to see you at Mrs. Hoze's? You seemed to me to have lowered yourself. And it was because ... because of that special quality which I saw in you that I did not seek your acquaintance earlier. The acquaintance was fatally bound to come; and so I waited...." Fate? What would it bring her? thought Cecile. But she could not pursue the thought: she seemed to herself to be dreaming of beautiful and subtle things which did not exist for other people, which only floated between them two. And those beautiful things were already there: it was no longer necessary to look upon them as illusions; it was as if she had overtaken the future! For one brief moment only did this happiness endure; then again she felt pain, because of his reverence. 3 He was gone and she was alone, waiting for the children. She neglected to ring for the lamp to be lighted; and the twilight of the late afternoon darkened into the room. She sat motionless, looking out before her at the leafless trees. "Why should I not be happy?" she thought. "He is happy with me; he is himself with me only; he cannot be so among other people. Why then can I not be happy?" She felt pain; her soul suffered and it seemed to her as if her soul were suffering for the first time, perhaps because now, for the first time, her soul had not been itself but another. It seemed to her as if another woman and not she had spoken to him, to Quaerts, just now. An exalted woman, a woman of illusions; the woman, in fact, whom he saw in her and not the woman that she was, a humble woman, a woman of love. Ah, she had had to restrain herself not to ask him: "Why do you speak to me like that? Why do you raise up your beautiful thoughts to me? Why do you not rather let them drip down upon me? For see, I do not stand so high as you think; and see, I am at your feet and my eyes seek you above me." Ought she to have told him that he was deceiving himself? Ought she to have asked him: "Why do I lower myself when I mix with other people? What do you see in me after all? Behold, I am only a woman, a woman of weakness and dreams; and I have come to love you, I don't know why." Ought she to have opened his eyes and said to him: "Look upon your own soul in a mirror; look upon yourself and see how you are a god walking the earth, a god who knows everything because he feels it, who feels everything because he knows it...." Everything?... No, not everything; for he deceived himself, this god, and thought to find an equal in her, who was but his creature. Ought she to have declared all this, at the cost of her modesty and his happiness? For his happiness--she felt perfectly assured--lay in seeing her in the way in which he saw her. "With me he is happy!" she thought. "And sympathy is sealed between us.... It was not friendship, nor did he speak of love; he called it simply sympathy.... With me he feels only his real self and not that other ... the brute that is within him!... The brute!..." Then there came drifting over her a gloom as of gathering clouds; and she shuddered at something that suddenly rolled through her: a broad stream of blackness, as though its waters were filled with mud, which bubbled up in troubled rings, growing larger and larger. And she took fear before this stream and tried not to see it; but it swallowed up all her landscapes--so bright before, with their luminous horizons--now with a sky of ink smeared above, like a foul night. "How loftily he thinks, how noble his thoughts are!" Cecile still forced herself to imagine, in spite of it all.... But the magic was gone: her admiration of his lofty thoughts tumbled away into an abyss; then suddenly, by a lightning flash through the night of that inky sky, she saw clearly that this loftiness of thought was a supreme sorrow to her in him. It was quite dark in the room. Cecile, afraid of the lightning which revealed her to herself, had thrown herself back upon the cushions of the couch. She hid her face in her hands, pressing her eyes, as though she wished, after this moment of self-revelation, to be blind for ever. But demoniacally it raged through her, a hurricane of hell, a storm of passion, which blew out of the darkness of the landscape, lashing the tossed waves of the stream towards the inky sky. "Oh!" she moaned. "I am unworthy of him ... unworthy!..." CHAPTER VIII 1 Quaerts lived on the Plein, above a tailor, where he occupied two small rooms furnished in the most ordinary style. He could have had much better lodgings if he chose, but he was indifferent to comfort: he never gave it a thought in his own place; when he came across it elsewhere, it did not attract him. But it distressed Jules that Quaerts should live in this fashion; and the boy had long wanted to improve the sitting-room. He was now busy hanging some trophies on an armour-rack, standing on a pair of steps, humming a tune which he remembered from some opera. But Quaerts paid no heed to what Jules was doing: he lay without moving on the sofa, at full length, in his pyjamas, unshorn, with his eyes fixed upon the Renascence decorations of the Law Courts, tracing a background of architecture behind the leafless trees of the Plein. "Look, Taco, will this do?" asked Jules, after hanging an Algerian sabre between two Malay creeses and draping the folds of a Javanese sarong between. "Yes, beautifully," replied Quaerts. But he did not look at the rack of arms and continued gazing at the Law Courts. He lay back motionless. There was no thought in him, nothing but listless dissatisfaction with himself and consequent sadness. For three weeks he had led a life of debauch, to deaden consciousness, or perhaps he did not know precisely what: something that was in him, something that was beautiful but tedious, in ordinary life. He had begun by shooting over a friend's land in North Brabant. It lasted a week; there were eight of them; sport in the open air, followed by sporting dinners, with not only a great deal of wine, certainly the best, but still more geneva, also of the finest, like a liqueur. Ragging-excursions on horseback in the neighbourhood; follies at a farm--the peasant-woman carried round in a barrel and locked up in the cow-house--mischievous exploits, worthy only of unruly boys and savages and ending in a summons before a magistrate, with a fine and damages. Wound up to a pitch of excitement with too much sport, too much oxygen and too much drink, five of the pack, including Quaerts, had gone on to Brussels, where one of them had a mistress. There they stayed nearly a fortnight, leading a life of continual excess, with endless champagne and larking: a wild joy of living, which, natural enough at first, had in the end to be screwed up and screwed up higher still, to make it last a couple of days longer; the last nights spent weariedly over écarté, with none but the fixed idea of winning, the exhaustion of all their violence already pulsing through their bodies, like a nervous relaxation, and their eyes gazing without expression at the cards. During that time Quaerts had only once thought of Cecile; and he had not followed up the thought. She had no doubt arisen three or four times in his brain, as a vague image, white and transparent, an apparition which had vanished again immediately, leaving no trace of its passage. All this time too he had not written to her; and it had only once struck him that a silence of three weeks, after their last conversation, must seem strange to her. There it had remained. He was back now; he had lain three days long at home on his bed, on his sofa, tired, feverish, dissatisfied, disgusted with everything, everything; then, one morning, remembering that it was Wednesday, he had thought of Jules and his riding-lesson. He sent for Jules, but, too lazy to shave or dress, he remained lying where he was. And he still lay there, realizing nothing. There before him were the Law Courts, with the Privy Council adjoining. At the side he could see the Witte [2] and William the Silent standing on his pedestal in the middle of the Plein: that was all exceedingly interesting. And Jules was hanging up trophies: also interesting. And the most interesting of all was the stupid life he had been leading. What a tense effort to lull his boredom! Had he really amused himself during that time? No; he had made a pretence of being amused: the episode of the peasant-woman and the écarté had excited him; the sport was bad, the wine good, but he had drunk too much of it. And then the filthy champagne of that wench, at Brussels!... Well, what then? He had absolute need of it, of a life like that, of sport and wild enjoyment; it served to balance the other thing in him, which became impossible in everyday life. But why could he not preserve some sort of mean in both? He was perfectly well-equipped for ordinary life; and with that he possessed something in addition, something that was very beautiful in his soul: why could he not remain balanced between those two inner spheres? Why was he always tossed from one to the other, as a thing that belonged to neither? How fine he could have made his life with just the least tact, the least self-restraint! How he might have lived in a healthy delight of purified animal existence, tempered by a higher joyousness of soul! But tact, self-restraint: he had none of all this; he lived according to his impulses, always in extremes; he was incapable of half-measures. And in this lay his pride as well as his regret: his pride that he felt this or that thing "wholly," that he was unable to compromise with his emotions; and his regret that he could not compromise and bring into harmony the elements which for ever waged war within him. When he had met Cecile and had seen her again and yet once again, he had felt himself carried wholly to the one extreme, the summit of exaltation, of pure crystal sympathy, in which the circle of his atmosphere--as he had said--glided in sympathy over hers, in a caress of pure chastity and spirituality, as two stars, spinning closer together, might mingle their atmospheres for a moment, like breaths. What smiling happiness had not been within his reach, as it were a grace from Heaven! Then, then he had felt himself toppling down, as if he had rocked over the balancing-point; and he had longed for earthly pleasures, for great simplicity of emotion, for primitive enjoyment of life, for flesh and blood. He now remembered how, two days after his last conversation with Cecile, he had seen Emilie Hijdrecht, here, in these very rooms, where at length, stung by his neglect, she had ventured to come to him one evening, heedless of all caution. With a line of cruelty round his mouth he recalled how she had wept at his knees, how in her jealousy she had complained against Cecile, how he had ordered her to be silent and forbidden her to pronounce Cecile's name. Then, their mad embrace, an embrace of cruelty: cruelty on her part against the man whom time after time she lost when she thought him secured for good, whom she could not understand and to whom she clung with all the violence of her brutal passion, a purely animal passion of primitive times; cruelty on his part against the woman he despised, while in his passion he almost stifled her in his embrace. 2 Yes, what then? How was he to find the mean between the two poles of his nature? He shrugged his shoulders. He knew that he could never find it. He lacked some quality, or a certain power, necessary to find it. He could do nothing but allow himself to swing to and fro. Very well then: he would let himself swing; there was no help for it. For now, in the lassitude following his outburst of savagery, he began to experience again a violent longing, like one who, after a long evening passed in a ball-room heavy with the foul air of gaslight and the stifling closeness and mustiness of human breath, craves a high heaven and width of atmosphere: a violent longing for Cecile. And he smiled, glad that he knew her, that he was able to go to her, that it was now his privilege to enter into the chaste sanctuary of her environment, as into a temple; he smiled, glad that he felt his longing and proud of it, exalting himself above other men. Already he tasted the pleasure of confessing to her honestly how he had lived during the last three weeks; and already he heard her voice, though he could not distinguish the words.... Jules climbed down the steps. He was disappointed that Quaerts had not followed his arranging of the weapons upon the rack and his draping of the stuffs around them. But he had quietly continued his work and, now that it was finished, he climbed down and came and sat on the floor quietly, with his head against the foot of the couch on which his friend lay thinking. Jules said never a word; he looked straight before him, a little sulkily, knowing that Quaerts was looking at him. "Jules," said Quaerts. But Jules did not answer, still staring. "Tell me, Jules, what makes you like me so much?" "How should I know?" answered Jules, with thin lips. "Don't you know?" "No. How can you know why you are fond of any one?" "You oughtn't to be so fond of me, Jules. It's not good." "Very well, I will be less so in the future." Jules rose suddenly and took his hat. He put out his hand; but Quaerts held him back with a laugh: "You see, scarcely any one is fond of me, except ... you and your father. Now I know why your father likes me, but not why you do." "You want to know everything." "Is that so very wrong?" "Certainly. You'll never be satisfied. Mamma always says that no one knows anything." "And you?" "I?... Nothing...." "How do you mean, nothing?" "I know nothing at all.... Let me go." "Are you cross, Jules?" "No, but I have an engagement." "Can't you wait till I'm dressed? Then we can go together. I am going to Aunt Cecile's." Jules objected: "All right, provided you hurry." Quaerts got up. He now saw the arrangement of the weapons, which he had entirely forgotten: "You've done it very nicely, Jules," he said, in an admiring tone. "Thank you very much." Jules did not answer; and Quaerts went through into his dressing-room. The lad sat down on the sofa, bolt upright, looking out at the Law Courts, across the bare trees. His eyes filled with great round tears, which ran down his cheeks. Sitting stiff and motionless, he wept. CHAPTER IX 1 Cecile had passed those three weeks in a state of ignorance which had filled her with pain. She had, it is true, heard through Dolf that Quaerts was away shooting, but beyond that nothing. A thrill of joy electrified her when the door behind the screen opened and she saw him enter the room. He was standing in front of her before she could recover herself; and, as she was trembling, she did not rise, but, still sitting, reached out her hand to him, her fingers quivering imperceptibly. "I have been out of town," he began. "So I heard." "Have you been well all this time?" "Quite well, thank you." He noticed that she was somewhat pale, that she had a light blue shadow under her eyes and that there was lassitude in all her movements. But he came to the conclusion that there was nothing extraordinary in this, or that perhaps she merely looked pale in the creamy whiteness of her soft, white dress, like silky wool, even as her figure became yet slighter in the constraint of the scarf about her waist, with its long white fringe falling to her feet. She was sitting alone with Christie, the child upon his footstool with his head in her lap and a picture-book on his knees. "You two are a perfect Madonna and Child," said Quaerts. "Little Dolf has gone out to walk with his god-father," she said, looking fondly upon her child and motioning to him gently. At this bidding the boy stood up and shyly approached Quaerts, offering him a hand. Quaerts lifted him up and set him on his knee: "How light he is!" "He is not strong," said Cecile. "You coddle him too much." She laughed: "Pedagogue!" she laughed. "How do I coddle him?" "I always find him nestling against your skirts. He must come with me one of these days: I should make him do some gymnastics." "Jules horse-riding and Christie gymnastics!" she exclaimed. "Yes ... sport, in fact!" he answered, with a meaning look of fun. She glanced back at him; and sympathy smiled from the depths of her gold-grey eyes. He felt thoroughly happy and, with the child still upon his knees, said: "I have come to confess to you ... Madonna!" Then, as though startled, he put the child away from him. "To confess?" "Yes.... There, Christie, go back to Mamma; I mustn't keep you by me any longer." "Very well," said Christie, with great, wondering eyes, and caught hold of the cord of Quaerts' eyeglass. "The Child would forgive too easily," said Quaerts. "And I, have I anything to forgive you?" she asked. "I shall be only too happy if you will see it in that light." "Then begin your confession." "But the Child ..." he hesitated. Cecile stood up; she took the child, kissed him and sat him on a stool by the window with his picture-book. Then she came back to the sofa: "He will not hear...." And Quaerts began the story, choosing his words: he spoke of the shooting, of the ragging-parties and the peasant-woman and of Brussels. She listened attentively, with dread in her eyes at the violence of such a life, the echo of which reverberated in his words, even though the echo was softened by his reverence. "And is all this a sin calling for absolution?" she asked, when he had finished. "Is it not?" "I am no Madonna, but ... a woman with fairly emancipated views. If you were happy in what you did, it was no sin, for happiness is good.... Were you happy, I ask you? For in that case what you did was ... good." "Happy?" he asked. "Yes." "No.... Therefore I have sinned, sinned against myself, have I not? Forgive me ... Madonna." She was troubled at the sound of his voice, which, gently broken, wrapped her about as with a spell; she was troubled to see him sitting there, filling with his body, his personality, his existence a place in her room, beside her. In a single second she lived through hours, feeling her calm love lying heavy within her, like a sweet weight; feeling a longing to throw her arms about him and tell him that she worshipped him; feeling also an intense sorrow at what he had admitted, that once again he had been unhappy. Hardly able to control herself in her compassion, she rose, moved towards him and laid her hand upon his shoulder: "Tell me, do you mean all this? Is it all true? Is it true that you have been living as you say and yet have not been happy?" "Perfectly true, on my soul." "Then why did you do it?" "I couldn't help it." "You were unable to force yourself to be more moderate?" "Absolutely." "Then I should like to teach you." "And I should not like to learn, from you. For it is and always will be my best happiness to be immoderate also where you are concerned, immoderate in the life of my real self, my soul, just as I have now been immoderate in the life of my apparent self." Her eyes grew dim; she shook her head, her hand still upon his shoulder: "That is not right," she said, in deep distress. "It is a joy ... for both those beings. I have to be like that, I have to be immoderate: they both demand it." "But that is not right," she insisted. "Pure enjoyment ..." "The lowest, but also the highest...." A shiver passed through her, a deadly fear for him. "No, no," she persisted. "Don't think that. Don't do it. Neither the one nor the other. Really, it is all wrong. Pure joy, unbridled joy, even the highest, is not good. In that way you force your life. When you speak so, I am afraid for your sake. Try to recover moderation. You have so many possibilities of being happy." "Oh, yes!..." "Yes, but what I mean is that you must not be fanatical. And ... and also, for the love of God, don't run quite so madly after pleasure." He looked up at her; he saw her beseeching him with her eyes, with the expression of her face, with her whole attitude, as she stood bending slightly forward. He saw her beseeching him, even as he heard her; and then he knew that she loved him. A feeling of bright rapture came upon him, as though something high were descending upon him to guide him. He did not stir--he felt her hand thrilling at his shoulder--afraid lest with the smallest movement he should drive that rapture away. It did not occur to him for a moment to speak a word of tenderness to her or to take her in his arms and press her to him: she was so profoundly transfigured in his eyes that any such profane desire remained far removed from him. And yet he felt at that moment that he loved her, but as he had never yet loved any one before, so completely and exclusively, with the noblest elements that lie hidden away in the soul, often unknown even to itself. He felt that he loved her with new-born feelings of frank youth and fresh vigour and pure unselfishness. And it seemed to him that it was all a dream of something which did not exist, a dream lightly woven about him, a web of sunbeams. "Madonna!" he whispered. "Forgive me...." "Promise then...." "Willingly, but I shall not be able to keep my promise. I am weak...." "No." "Ah, I am! But I give you my promise; and I promise also to try my utmost to keep it. Will you forgive me now?" She nodded to him; her smile fell on him like a ray of sunlight. Then she went to the child, took it in her arms and brought it to Quaerts: "Put your arms round his neck, Christie, and give him a kiss." He took the child from her; it threw its little arms about his neck and kissed him on the forehead. "The Madonna forgives me ... and the Child!" he whispered. 2 They stayed long talking to each other; and no one came to disturb them. The child had gone back to sit by the window. Twilight began to strew pale ashes in the room. He saw Cecile sitting there, sweetly white; the kindly melody of her half-breathed words came rippling towards him. They talked of many things: of Emerson; of Van Eeden's new poem in the Nieuwe Gids; of their respective views of life. He accepted a cup of tea, only for the pleasure of seeing her move with the yielding lines of her graciousness, standing before the tea-table in the corner. In her white dress, she had something about her of marble grown lissom with inspiration and warm life. He sat motionless, listening reverently, swathed in a still rapture of delight. It was a mood which defied analysis, without a visible origin, springing from their sympathetic fellowship as a flower springs from an invisible seed after a drop of rain and a kiss of the sunshine. She too was happy; she no longer felt the pain which his reverence had caused her. True, she was a little sad by reason of what he had told her, but she was happy for the sake of this speck of the present. Nor did she any longer see that dark stream, that inky sky, that night landscape: everything that she now saw was bright and calm. And happiness breathed about her, a tangible happiness, like a living caress. Sometimes they ceased speaking and both of them looked towards the child, as it sat reading; or Christie would ask them something and they would answer. Then they smiled one to the other, because the child was so good and did not disturb them. "If only this could continue for ever," he ventured to say, though still fearing lest a word might break the crystalline transparency of their happiness. "If you could only see into me now, how all in me is peace. I don't know why, but that is how I feel. Perhaps because of your forgiveness. Really the Catholic religion is delightful, with its absolution. What a comfort that must be for people of weak character!" "But I cannot think your character weak. And it is not. You tell me that you sometimes know how to place yourself above ordinary life, whence you can look down upon its grief as on a comedy which makes one laugh sadly for a minute, but which is not true. I too believe that life, as we see it, is no more than a symbol of a truer life, concealed beneath it, which we do not see. But I cannot rise beyond the symbol, while you can. Therefore you are very strong and feel yourself very great." "How strange, when I just think myself weak and you great and powerful. You dare to be what you are, in all your harmony; and I am always hiding and am afraid of people individually, though sometimes I am able to rise above life in the mass. But these are riddles which it is vain for me to attempt to solve; and, though I have not the power to solve them, at this moment I feel nothing but happiness. Surely I may say that once aloud, may I not, quite aloud?" She smiled to him in the bliss which she felt of making him happy. It is the first time I have felt happiness in this way," he continued. "Indeed it is the first time I have felt it at all...." "Then don't analyse it." "There is no need. It is standing before me in all its simplicity. Do you know why I am happy?" "Don't analyse, don't analyse," she repeated in alarm. "No," he said, "but may I tell you, without analysing?" "No, don't," she stammered, "because ... because I know...." She besought him, very pale, with folded, trembling hands. The child looked at them; it had closed its book, and come to sit down on its stool by its mother, with a look of gay sagacity in its pale-blue eyes. "Then I obey you," said Quaerts, with some difficulty. And they were both silent, their eyes expanded as with the lustre of a vision. It seemed to be gently beaming about them through the pale ashen twilight. CHAPTER X This evening Cecile had written a great deal into her diary; and she now paced up and down in her room, with locked hands hanging before her and her head slightly bowed and a fixed look in her eyes. There was anxiety about her mouth. Before her was the vision, as she had conceived it. He loved her with his soul alone, not as a woman who is pretty and good, but with a higher love than that, with the finest nervous fibres of his being--his real being--with the supreme emotion of the very essence of his soul. Thus she felt that he loved her and in no other way, with contemplation, with adoration. Thus she felt it actually, through a sympathetic power of divination by which each of them was able to guess what actually passed within the other. And this was his happiness--his first, as he said--thus to love her and in no other way. Oh, she well understood him! She understood his illusion, which he saw in her; and she now knew that, if she really wished to love him for his sake and not for her own, she must needs appear to be nothing else to him, she must preserve his illusion of a woman not of flesh, one who desired none of the earthly things that other women did, one who should be soul alone, a sister soul to his. But, while she saw before her this vision of her love, calm and radiant, she saw also the struggle which awaited her, the struggle with herself, with her own distress: distress because he thought of her so highly and named her Madonna, the while she longed only to be lowly and his slave. She would have to seem the woman he saw in her, for the sake of his happiness, and the part would be a heavy one for her to support, for she loved him, ah, with such simplicity, with all her woman's heart, wishing to give herself to him entirely, as only once in her life a woman gives herself, whatever the sacrifice might cost her, the sacrifice made in ignorance of herself and perhaps afterwards to be made in bitterness and sorrow! The outward appearance of her conduct and her inward consciousness of herself: the conflict of these would fall heavily upon her, but she thought upon the struggle with a smile, with joy beaming through her heart, for this bitterness would be endured for him, deliberately for him and for him alone. Oh, the luxury to suffer for one whom she loved as she loved him; to be tortured with inner longing, that he might not come to her with the embrace of his arms and the kiss of his mouth; and to feel that the torture was for the sake of his happiness, his! To feel that she loved him enough to go to him with open arms and beg for the alms of his caresses; but also to feel that she loved him more than that and more highly and that--not from pride or bashfulness, which are really egoism, but solely from sacrifice of herself to his happiness--she never would, never could, be a suppliant before him! To suffer, to suffer for him! To wear a sword through her soul for him! To be a martyr for her god, for whom there was no happiness on earth save through her martyrdom! And she had passed her life, had spent long, long years, without feeling until this day that such luxury could exist, not as a fantasy in rhymes, but as a reality in her heart. She had been a young girl and had read the poets and what they rhyme of love; and she had thought she understood it all, with a subtle comprehension and yet without ever having had the least acquaintance with emotion itself. She had been a young woman, had been married, had borne children. Her married life flashed through her mind in a lightning-flicker of memory; and she stopped still before the portrait of her dead husband, standing there on its easel, draped in sombre plush. The mask it wore was of ambition: an austere, refined face, with features sharp, as if engraved in fine steel; coldly-intelligent eyes with a fixed portrait look; thin, clean-shaven lips, closed firmly like a lock. Her husband! And she still lived in the same house where she had lived with him, where she had had to receive her many guests when he was Foreign Minister. Her receptions and dinners flickered up in her mind, so many scenes of worldliness; and she clearly recalled her husband's eye taking in everything with a quick glance of approval or disapproval: the arrangement of her rooms, her dress, the ordering of her parties. Her marriage had not been unhappy; her husband was a little cold and unexpansive, wrapped wholly in his ambition; but he was attached to her after his fashion and even tenderly; she too had been fond of him; she thought at the time that she was marrying him for love: her dependent womanliness loved the male, the master. Of a delicate constitution, probably undermined by excessive brain-work, he had died after a short illness. Cecile remembered her sorrow, her loneliness with the two children, as to whom he had already feared that she would spoil them. And her loneliness had been sweet to her, among the clouds of her dreaming.... This portrait--a handsome life-size photograph; a carbon impression dark with a Rembrandt shadow--why had she never had it copied in oils, as she had at first intended? The intention had faded away within her; for months she had not given it a thought; now suddenly it recurred to her.... And she felt no self-reproach or remorse. She would not have the painting made now. The portrait was well enough as it was. She thought of the dead man without sorrow. She had never had cause to complain of him; he had never had anything with which to reproach her. And now she was free; she became conscious of the fact with a great exultation. Free, to feel what she would! Her freedom arched above her as a blue firmament in which new love ascended with a dove's immaculate flight. Freedom, air, light! She turned from the portrait with a smile of rapture; she thrust her arms above her head as if she would measure her freedom, the width of the air, as if she would go to meet the light. Love, she was in love! There was nothing but love; nothing but the harmony of their souls, the harmony of her handmaiden's soul with the soul of her god, an exile upon earth. Oh, what a mercy that this harmony could exist between him so exalted and her so lowly! But he must not see her lowliness; she must remain the Madonna, remain the Madonna for his sake, in the martyrdom due to his reverence, in the dizziness of the high place, the heavenly throne to which he raised her, beside himself. She felt this dizziness shuddering about her like rings of light. And she flung herself on her sofa and locked her fingers; her eyelids quivered; then she remained staring before her, towards some very distant point. CHAPTER XI Jules had been away from school for a day or two with a bad headache, which had made him look very pale and given him an air of sadness; but he was a little better now and, feeling bored in his own room, he went downstairs to the empty drawing-room and sat at the piano. Papa was at work in his study, but it would not interfere with Papa if he played. Dolf spoilt him, seeing in his son something that was wanting in himself and therefore attracted him, even as possibly it had formerly attracted him in his wife also: Jules could do no wrong in his eyes; and, if the boy had only been willing, Dolf would have spared no expense to give him a careful musical education. But Jules violently opposed himself to anything resembling lessons and besides maintained that it was not worth while. He had no ambition; his vanity was not tickled by his father's hopes of him or his appreciation of his playing: he played only for himself, to express himself in the vague language of musical sounds. At this moment he felt alone and abandoned in the great house, though he knew that Papa was at work two rooms off and that when he pleased he could take refuge on Papa's great couch; at this moment he had within himself an almost physical feeling of dread at his loneliness, which caused something to reel about him, an immense sense of utter desolation. He was fourteen years old, but he felt himself neither child nor boy: a certain feebleness, an almost feminine need of dependency, of devotion to some one who would be everything to him had already, in his earliest childhood, struck at his virility; and he shivered in his dread of this inner loneliness, as if he were afraid of himself. He suffered greatly from vague moods in which that strange something oppressed and stifled him; then, not knowing where to hide his inner being, he would go to play, so that he might lose himself in the great sound-soul of music. His thin, nervous fingers would grope hesitatingly over the keys; he himself would suffer from the false chords which he struck in his search; then he would let himself go, find a single, very short motive, of plaintive, minor melancholy, and caress that motive in his joy at possessing it, at having found it, caress it until it returned each moment as a monotony of sorrow. He would think the motive so beautiful that he could not part with it; those four or five notes expressed so well everything that he felt that he would play them over and over again, until Suzette burst into the room and made him stop, saying that otherwise she would be driven mad. Thus he sat playing now. And it was pitiful at first: he hardly recognized the notes; cacophonous discords wailed and cut into his poor brain, still smarting from the headache. He moaned as if he were in pain afresh; but his fingers were hypnotized, they could not desist, they still sought on; and the notes became purer: a short phrase released itself with a cry, a cry which returned continually on the same note, suddenly high after the dull bass of the prelude. And this note came as a surprise to Jules; that fair cry of sorrow frightened him; and he was glad to have found it, glad to have so sweet a sorrow. Then he was no longer himself; he played on until he felt that it was not he who was playing but another, within him, who compelled him; he found the full, pure chords as by intuition; through the sobbing of the sounds ran the same musical figure, higher and higher, with silver feet of purity, following the curve of crystal rainbows lightly spanned on high; reaching the topmost point of the arch it struck a cry, this time in very drunkenness, out into the major, throwing up wide arms in gladness to heavens of intangible blue. Then it was like souls of men, which first live and suffer and utter their complaint and then die, to glitter in forms of light whose long wings spring from their pure shoulders in sheets of silver radiance; they trip one behind the other over the rainbows, over the bridges of glass, blue and rose and yellow; and there come more and more, kindreds and nations of souls; they hurry their silver feet, they press across the rainbow, they laugh and sing and push one another; in their jostling their wings clash together, scattering silver down. Now they stand all on the top of the arc and look up, with the great wondering of their laughing child-eyes; and they dare not, they dare not; but others press on behind them, innumerous, more and more and yet more; they crowd upwards to the topmost height, their wings straight in the air, close together. And now, now they must; they may hesitate no longer. One of them, taking deep breaths, spreads his flight and with one shock springs out of the thick throng into the ether. Soon many follow, one after another, till their shapes swoon in the blue; all is gleam about them. Now, far below, thin as a thin thread, the rainbow arches itself, but they do not look at it; rays fall towards them: these are souls, which they embrace; they go with them in locked embraces. And then the light: light beaming over all; all things liquid in everlasting light; nothing but light: the sounds sing the light, the sounds are the light, there is nothing now but the light everlasting.... "Jules!" He looked up vacantly. "Jules! Jules!" He smiled now, as if awakened from a dream-sleep; he rose, went to her, to Cecile. She stood in the doorway; she had remained standing there while he played; it had seemed to her that he was playing a part of herself. "What were you playing, Jules?" she asked. He was quite awake now and distressed, fearing that he must have made a terrible noise in the house.... "I don't know, Auntie," he said. She hugged him, suddenly, violently, in gratitude.... To him she owed it, the great mystery, since the day when he had broken out in anger against her.... CHAPTER XII 1 "Oh, for that which cannot be told, because words are so few, always the same combinations of a few letters and sounds; oh, for that which cannot be thought of in the narrow limits of comprehension; that which at best can only be groped for with the antennæ of the soul; essence of the essences of the ultimate elements of our being!..." She wrote no more, she knew no more: why write that she had no words and yet seek them? She was waiting for him and she now looked out of the open window to see if he was coming. She remained there for a long time; then she felt that he would come immediately and so he did: she saw him approaching along the Scheveningen Road; he pushed open the iron gate of the villa and smiled to her as he raised his hat. "Wait!" she cried. "Stay where you are!" She ran down the steps, into the garden, where he stood. She came towards him, beaming with happiness and so lovely, so delicately frail; her blonde head so seemly in the fresh green of May; her figure like a young girl's in the palest grey gown, with black velvet ribbon and here and there a touch of silver lace. "I am so glad that you have come! You have not been to see me for so long!" she said, giving him her hand. He did not answer at once; he merely smiled. "Let us sit in the garden, behind: the weather is so lovely." "Let us," he said. They walked into the garden, by the mesh of the garden-paths, the jasmine-vines starring white as they passed. In an adjoining villa a piano was playing; the sounds came to them of Rubinstein's Romance. "Listen!" said Cecile, starting. "What is that?" "What?" he asked. "What they are playing." "Something of Rubinstein's, I believe," he said. "Rubinstein?..." she repeated, vaguely. "Yes...." And she relapsed into the wealth of memories of ... what? Once before, in this way, she had walked along these same paths, past jasmine-vines like these, long, ever so long ago; she had walked with him, with him.... Why? Could the past repeat itself, after centuries?... "It is three weeks since you have been to see me," she said, simply, recovering herself. "Forgive me," he replied. "What was the reason?" He hesitated throughout his being, seeking an excuse: "I don't know," he answered, softly. "You will forgive me, will you not? One day it was this, another day that. And then ... I don't know. Many reasons together. It is not good that I should see you often. Not good for you, nor for me." "Let us begin with the second. Why is it not good for you?" "No, let us begin with the first, with what concerns you. People ..." "People?" "People are talking about us. I am looked upon as an irretrievable rake. I will not have your name linked profanely with mine." "And is it?" "Yes...." She smiled: "I don't mind." "But you must mind; if not for your own sake ..." He stopped. She knew he was thinking of her boys; she shrugged her shoulders. "And now, why is it not good for you?" "A man must not be happy too often." "What a sophism! Why not?" "I don't know; but I feel I am right. It spoils him; it is too much for him." "Are you happy here, then?" He smiled and gently nodded yes. They were silent for very long. They were now sitting at the end of the garden, on a seat which stood in a semicircle of flowering rhododendrons: the great purple-satin blossoms shut them in with a tall hedge of closely-clustered bouquets, rising from the paths and overtopping their heads; standard roses flung their incense before them. They sat still, happy in each other, happy in the sympathy of their atmospheres mingling together; yet in their happiness there was the invincible melancholy which is an integral part of all life, even in happiness. "I don't know how I am to tell you," he said. "But suppose that I were to see you every day, every moment that I thought of you.... That would not do. For then I should become so refined, so subtle, that for pure happiness I should not be able to live; my other being would receive nothing and would suffer like a beast that is left to starve. I am bad, I am selfish, to be able to speak like this, but I must tell you the truth, that you may not think too well of me. And so I only seek your company as something very beautiful which I allow myself to enjoy just once in a way." She was silent. "Sometimes ... sometimes, too, I imagine that in doing this I am not behaving well to you, that in some way or other I offend or hurt you. Then I sit brooding about it, until I begin to think that it would be best to take leave of you for ever." She was still silent; motionless she sat, with her hands lying slackly in her lap, her head slightly bowed, a smile about her mouth. "Speak to me," he begged. "You do not offend me, nor hurt me," she said. "Come to me whenever you feel the need. Do always as you think best; and I shall think that best too: you must not doubt that." "I should so much like to know in what way you like me?" "In what way? Surely, as a Madonna does a sinner who repents and gives her his soul," she said, archly. "Am I not a Madonna?" "Are you content to be so?" "Can you be so ignorant about women as not to know how every one of us has a longing to solace and relieve, in fact, to play at being a Madonna?" "Do not speak like that," he said, with pain in his voice. "I am speaking seriously...." He looked at her; a doubt rose within him, but she smiled to him; a calm glory was about her; she sat amidst the bouquets of the rhododendrons as in the blossoming tenderness of one great mystic flower. The wound of his doubt was soothed with balsam. He surrendered himself wholly to his happiness; an atmosphere wafted about him of the sweet calm of life, an atmosphere in which life becomes dispassionate and restful and smiling, like the air which is rare about the gods. It began to grow dark; a violet dusk fell from the sky like crape falling upon crape; quietly the stars lighted up. The shadows in the garden, between the shrubs among which they sat, flowed into one another; the piano in the next villa had stopped. And happiness drew a veil between his soul and the outside world: the garden with its design of plots and paths; the villa with curtains at its windows and its iron gate; the road behind, with the rattle of carriages and trams. All this withdrew itself far back; all ordinary life retreated far from him; vanishing behind the veil, it died away. It was no dream nor conceit: reality to him was the happiness that had come while the world died away; the happiness that was rare, invisible, intangible, coming from the love which alone is sympathy, calm and without passion, the love which exists purely of itself, without further thought either of taking anything or even of giving anything, the love of the gods, which is the soul of love itself. High he felt himself: the equal of the illusion which he had of her, which she wished to be for his sake, of which he also was now absolutely certain. For he could not know that what had given him happiness--his illusion--so perfect, so crystal-clear, might cause her some sort of grief; he could not at this moment penetrate without sin into the truth of the law which insists on equilibrium, which takes away from one what it offers to another, which gives happiness and grief together; he could not know that, if happiness was with him, with her there was anguish, anguish in that she had to make a pretence and deceive him for his own sake, anguish in that she wanted what was earthly, that she craved for what was earthly, that she yearned for earthly pleasures!... And still less could he know that, notwithstanding all this, there was nevertheless voluptuousness in her anguish: that to suffer through him, to suffer for him made of her anguish all voluptuousness. 2 It was dark and late; and they were still sitting there. "Shall we go for a walk?" she asked. He hesitated, with a smile; but she repeated her suggestion: "Why not, if you care to?" And he could no longer refuse. They rose and went along by the back of the house; and Cecile said to the maid, whom she saw sitting with her needle-work by the kitchen-door: "Greta, fetch me my little black hat, my black-lace shawl and a pair of gloves." The servant rose and went into the house. Cecile noticed how a trifle of shyness was emphasized in Quaerts' hesitation, now that they stood loitering, waiting among the flower-beds. She smiled, plucked a rose and placed it in her waist-band. "Have the boys gone to bed?" he asked. "Yes," she replied, still smiling, "long ago." The servant returned; Cecile put on the little black hat, threw the lace about her neck, but refused the gloves which Greta offered her: "No, not these; get me a pair of grey ones...." The servant went into the house again; and as Cecile looked at Quaerts her gaiety increased. She gave a little laugh: "What is the matter?" she asked, mischievously, knowing perfectly well what it was. "Nothing, nothing!" he said, vaguely, and waited patiently until Greta returned. Then they went through the garden-gate into the Woods. They walked slowly, without speaking; Cecile played with her long gloves, not putting them on. "Really ..." he began, hesitating. "Come, what is it?" "You know; I told you the other day: it's not right...." "What isn't?" "What we are doing now. You risk too much." "Too much, with you?" "If any one were to see us...." "And what then?" He shook his head: "You are wilful; you know quite well." She clinched her eyes; her mouth grew serious; she pretended to be a little angry: "Listen, you mustn't be anxious if I'm not. I am doing no harm. Our walks are not secret: Greta at least knows about them. And, besides, I am free to do as I please." "It's my fault: the first time we went for a walk in the evening, it was at my request...." "Then do penance and be good; come now, without scruple, at my request," she said, with mock emphasis. He yielded, feeling far too happy to wish to make any sacrifice to a convention which at that moment did not exist. They walked on silently. Cecile's sensations always came to her in shocks of surprise. So it had been when Jules had grown suddenly angry with her; so also, midway on the stair, after that conversation at dinner of circles of sympathy. And now, precisely in the same way, with the shock of sudden revelation, came this new sensation, that after all she was not suffering so seriously as she had at first thought; that her agony, being a voluptuousness, could not be a martyrdom; that she was happy, that happiness had come about her in the fine air of his atmosphere, because they were together, together.... Oh, why wish for anything more, above all for things less pure? Did he not love her and was not his love already a fact and was not his love earthly enough for her, now that it was a fact? Did he not love her with a tenderness which feared for anything that might trouble her in the world, through her ignoring that world and wandering about with him alone in the dark? Did he not love her with tenderness, but also with the lustre of his soul's divinity, calling her Madonna and by this title--unconsciously, perhaps, in his simplicity--making her the equal of all that was divine in him? Did he not love her? Heavens above, did he not love her? Well, what did she want more? No, no, she wanted nothing more: she was happy, she shared happiness with him; he gave it to her just as she gave it to him; it was a sphere that moved with them wherever they went, seeking their way along the darkling paths of the Woods, she leaning on his arm, he leading her, for she could see nothing in the dark, which yet was not dark, but pure light of their happiness. And so it was as if it were not evening, but day, noonday, noonday in the night, hour of light in the dusk! 3 And the darkness was light; the night dawned with light which beamed on every side. Calmly it beamed, the light, like one solitary planet, beaming with the soft radiance of purity, bright in a heaven of still, white, silver light, a heaven where they walked along milky ways of light and music; it beamed and sounded beneath their feet; it welled in seas of ether high above their heads and beamed and sounded there, high and clear. And they were alone in their heaven, in their infinite heaven, which was as space, endless beneath them and above and around them, with endless spaces of light and music, of light that was music. Their heaven lay eternal on every side with blissful vistas of white radiance, fading away in lustre and vanishing landscapes, like oases of flowers and plants beside waters of light, still and clear and hushed with peace. For its peace was the ether in which all desire is dissolved and becomes transparent and crystal; and their life was a limpid existence in unruffled peace; they walked on, in heavenly sympathy of fellowship, close together, hemmed in one narrow circle, a circle of radiance which embraced them both. Barely was there a recollection in them of the world which had died out in the glitter of their heaven; there was naught in them but the ecstasy of their love, which had become their soul, as if they no longer had any soul, as if they were only love; and, when they looked about them and into the light, they saw that their heaven, in which their happiness was the light, was nothing but their love, and they saw that the landscapes--the flowers and plants by waters of light--were nothing but their love and that the endless space, the eternities of light and space, of spaces full of light and music, stretching on every hand, beneath them and above and around them, that all this was nothing but their love, which had grown into heaven and happiness. And now they came into the very midst, to the very sun-centre, the very goal which Cecile had once foreseen, concealed in the distance, in the irradiance of innate divinity. Up to the very goal they stepped; and on every side it shot its endless rays into each and every eternity, as if their love were becoming the centre of the universe... 4 But they sat on a bench, in the dark, not knowing that it was dark, for their eyes were full of the light. They sat against each other, silently at first, till, remembering that he had a voice and could still speak words, he said: "I have never lived through such a moment as this. I forget where we are and who we are and that we are human. We were, were we not? I seem to remember that we once were?" "Yes, but we are that no longer," she said, smiling; and her eyes, grown big, looked into the darkness that was light. "Once we were human, suffering and desiring, in a world where certainly much was beautiful, but where much also was ugly." "Why speak of that now?" she asked; and her voice sounded to herself as coming from very far and low beneath her. "I seemed to remember it." "I wanted to forget it." "Then I will do so too. But may I not thank you in human speech for lifting me above humanity?" "Have I done so?" "Yes. May I thank you for it ... on my knees?" He knelt down and reverently took her hands. He could just distinguish the outline of her figure, seated motionless and still upon the bench; above them was a pearl-grey twilight of stars, between the black boughs. She felt her hands in his and then his mouth, his kiss, upon her hand. Very gently, she released herself; and then, with a great soul of modesty, full of desireless happiness, very gently she bent her arms about his neck, took his head against her and kissed him on the forehead: "And I, I thank you too!" she whispered, rapturously. He was still; and she held him fast in her embrace. "I thank you," she said, "for teaching me this and how to be happy as we are and no otherwise. You see, when I still lived and was human, when I was a woman, I thought that I had lived before I met you, for I had had a husband and I had children of whom I was very fond. But from you I first learnt to live, to live without egoism and without desire; I learnt that from you this evening or ... this day, which is it? You have given me life and happiness and everything. And I thank you, I thank you! You see, you are so great and so strong and so clear and you have borne me towards your own happiness, which should also be mine, but it was so far above me that, without you, I should never have attained it! For there was a barrier for me which did not exist for you. You see, when I was still human"--and she laughed, clasping him more tightly--"I had a sister; and she too felt that there was a barrier between her happiness and herself; and she felt that she could not surmount this barrier and was so unhappy because of it that she feared lest she should go mad. But I, I do not know: I dreamed, I thought, I hoped, I waited, oh, I waited; and then you came; and you made me understand at once that you could be no man, no husband for me, but that you could be more for me: my angel, O my deliverer, who would take me in his arms and bear me over the barrier into his own heaven, where he himself was god, and make me his Madonna! Oh, I thank you, I thank you! I do not know how to thank you; I can only say that I love you, that I adore you, that I lay myself at your feet. Remain as you are and let me adore you, while you kneel where you are. I may adore you, may I not, while you yourself are kneeling? You see, I too must confess, as you used to do," she continued, for now she could not but confess. "I have not always been straightforward with you; I have sometimes pretended to be the Madonna, knowing all the time that I was but an ordinary woman, a woman who frankly loved you. But I deceived you for your own happiness, did I not? You wished me so, you were happy when I was so and no otherwise. And now, now too you must forgive me, because now I need no longer pretend, because that is past and has died away, because I myself have died away from myself, because now I am no longer a woman, no longer human for myself, but only what you wish me to be: a Madonna and your creature, an atom of your own essence and divinity. So will you forgive me the past? May I thank you for my happiness, for my heaven, my light, O my master, for my joy, my great, my immeasurable joy?" He rose and sat beside her, taking her gently in his arms: "Are you happy?" he asked. "Yes," she said, laying her head on his shoulder in a giddiness of light. "And you?" "Yes," he answered; and he asked again, "And do you desire ... nothing more?" "No, nothing!" she stammered. "I want nothing but this, nothing but what is mine, oh, nothing, nothing more!" "Swear it to me ... by something sacred!" "I swear it to you ... by yourself!" she declared. He pressed her head to his shoulder again. He smiled; and she did not see that there was sadness in his laugh, for she was blinded with light. 5 They were long silent, sitting there. She remembered having said many things, she no longer knew what. About her she saw that it was dark, with only that pearl-grey twilight of stars above their heads, between the black boughs. She felt that she was lying with her head on his shoulder; she heard his breath. A sort of chill crept down her shoulders, notwithstanding the warmth of his embrace; she drew the lace closer about her throat and felt that the bench on which they sat was moist with dew. "I thank you, I love you so, you make me so happy," she repeated. He was silent; he pressed her to him very gently, with sheer tenderness. Her last words still sounded in her ears after she had spoken them. Then she was bound to acknowledge to herself that they had not been spontaneous, like all that she had told him before, as he knelt before her with his head at her breast. She had spoken them to break the silence: formerly that silence had never troubled her; why should it now? "Come!" he said gently; and even yet she did not hear the sadness of his voice, in this single word. They rose and walked on. It came to him that it was late, that they must return by the same path; beyond that, his thoughts were sorrowful with many things which he could not have expressed; a poor twilight had come about him, after the blinding light of their heaven of but now. And he had to be cautious: it was very dark here; and he could only just see the path, lying very pale and undecided at their feet; they brushed against the trunks of the trees as they passed. "I can see nothing," said Cecile, laughing. "Can you see the way?" "Rely upon me: I can see quite well in the dark," he replied. "I have eyes like a lynx...." Step by step they went on and she felt a sweet joy in being guided by him; she clung close to his arm, saying laughingly that she was afraid and that she would be terrified if he were suddenly to leave hold of her. "And suppose I were suddenly to run away and leave you alone?" said Quaerts, jestingly. She laughed; she besought him with a laugh not to do so. Then she was silent, angry with herself for laughing; a burden of sadness bore her down because of her jesting and laughter. She felt as if she were unworthy of that into which, in radiant light, she had just been received. And he too was filled with sadness: the sadness of having to lead her through the dark, by invisible paths, past rows of invisible tree-trunks which might graze and wound her; of having to lead her through a dark wood, through a black sea, through an ink-dark sphere, when they were returning from a heaven where all had been light and all happiness, without sadness or darkness. And so they were silent in that sadness, until they reached the highroad, the old Scheveningen Road. They approached the villa. A tram went by; two or three people passed on foot; it was a fine evening. He brought her home and waited until the door opened to his ring. The door remained unopened; meantime he pressed her hand tightly and hurt her a little, involuntarily. Greta must have fallen asleep, she thought: "Ring again, would you?" He rang again, louder this time; after a moment, the door opened. She gave him her hand once more, with a smile. "Good-night, mevrouw," he said, taking her fingers respectfully and raising his hat. Now, now she could hear the sound of his voice, with its note of sadness.... CHAPTER XIII 1 Then she knew, next day, when she sat alone, wrapped in reflection, that the sphere of happiness, the highest and brightest, may not be trod; that it may only beam upon us as a sun; and that we may not enter into it, into the sacred sun-centre. They had done that.... Listless she sat, with her children by her side, Christie looking pale and languid. Yes, she spoiled them; but how could she change herself? Weeks passed; and Cecile heard nothing from Quaerts. It was always so: after he had been with her, weeks would drag by without her ever seeing him. For he was much too happy with her, it was more than he could bear. He looked upon her society as a rare pleasure to be very jealously indulged. And she, she loved him simply, with the innermost essence of her soul, loved him frankly, as a woman loves a man.... She always wanted him, every day, every hour, at every pulse of her life. Then she met him by chance, at Scheveningen, where she had gone one evening with Amélie and Suzette. Then once again at a reception at Mrs. Hoze's. He seemed shy with her; and a certain pride in her kept her from asking him to call. Yes, something was changed in what had been woven between them. But she suffered sorely, suffered also because of that foolish pride, because she had not humbly begged him to come to her. Was he not her god? Whatever he did was good. So she did not see him for weeks and weeks. Life went on: each day she had her little occupations, in her household, with her children; Mrs. Hoze reproached her for her withdrawal from society and she began to think more about her friends, to please Mrs. Hoze, who had asked this of her. There were flashes in her memory; in those flashes she saw the dinner-party, their conversations and walks, all her love for him, all his reverence for her whom he called Madonna; their last evening of light and ecstasy. Then she smiled; and the smile itself beamed over her anguish, her anguish in that she no longer saw him, in that she felt proud and cherished a little inward bitterness. Yet all things must be well, as he wished them to be. Oh, the evenings, the summer evenings, cooling after the warm days, the evenings when she sat alone, staring out from her room, where the onyx lamp burnt with a subdued flame, staring out of the open windows at the trams which, with their tinkling bells, came and went to Scheveningen, full, full of people! Waiting, the endless long waiting, evening after evening in solitude, after the children had gone to bed! Waiting, when she simply sat still, staring fixedly before her, looking at the trams, the tedious, everlasting trams! Where was her modulated joy of dreaming happiness? And where, where was her radiant happiness? Where was her struggle within herself between what she was and what he saw in her? This struggle no longer existed, this struggle also had been overcome; she no longer felt the force of passion; she only longed to see him come as he had always come, as he no longer came. Why did he not come? Happiness palled; people were talking about them.... It was not right that they should see much of each other--he had said so the evening before that highest happiness--not good for him and not good for her. So she sat and thought; and great silent tears fell from her eyes, for she knew that, though he remained away partly for his own sake, it was above all for hers that he did not come. What had she not said to him that evening on the bench in the Woods, when her arms were about his neck! Oh, she should have been silent, she felt it now! She should not have uttered her rapture, but have enjoyed it secretly within herself; she should have let him utter himself: she herself should have remained his Madonna. But she had been too full, too happy; and in that over-brimming happiness she had been unable to be other than true and clear as a bright mirror. He had glanced into her and read her entirely: she knew that, she was certain of it. He knew now in what manner she loved him; she herself had revealed it to him. But, at the same time, she had made known to him that this was all past, that she was now what he wished her to be. And this had been true then, clear at that time and true.... But now? Does ecstasy endure only for one moment and did he know it? Did he know that her soul's flight had reached its limit and must now descend again to a commoner sphere? Did he know that she loved him again now, quite ordinarily, with all her being, wholly and entirely, no longer as widely as the heavens, only as widely as her arms could reach out and embrace? And could he not return this love, this so petty love of hers, and was that why he did not come to her? 2 Then she received his letter: "Forgive me if I put off from day to day coming to see you; forgive me if even to-day I cannot decide to come and if I write to you instead. Forgive me if I even venture to ask you whether it may not be necessary that we see each other no more. If I hurt you and offend you, if I--which may God forbid--cause you pain, forgive me, forgive me! Perhaps I procrastinated a little from indecision, but much more because I considered that I had no other choice. "There has been between our two lives, between our two souls, a rare moment of happiness which was a special boon, a special grace of heaven. Do you not think so too? Oh, if only I had the words to tell you how grateful I am in my innermost soul for that happiness! If later I ever look back upon my life, I shall always see that happiness gleaming in between the ugliness and the blackness, like a star of light. We received it as such, as a gift of light. And I venture to ask you if that gift is not a thing for you and me to keep sacred? "Can we do that if I continue to see you? You, yes, I have no doubt of you: you will be strong to keep it sacred, our sacred happiness, especially because you have already had your struggle, as you confided to me on that sacred evening. But I, can I too be strong, especially now that I know that you have been through the struggle? I doubt myself, I doubt my own force; I am afraid of myself. There is cruelty in me, a love of destruction, something of a savage. As a boy I took pleasure in destroying beautiful things, in breaking and soiling them. The other day, Jules brought me some roses to my room; in the evening, as I sat alone, thinking of you and of our happiness--yes, at that very moment--my fingers began to fumble with a rose whose petals were loose; and, when I saw that one rose dispetalled, there came a cruel frenzy within me to tear and destroy them all; and I rumpled every one of them. I only give you a small instance, because I do not wish to give you larger instances, from vanity, lest you should know how bad I am. I am afraid of myself. If I saw you again and again and yet again, what should I begin to feel and think and wish, unconsciously? Which would be the stronger, my soul or the beast that is in me? Forgive me for laying bare my dread before you and do not despise me for it. Up to the present I have not attempted a struggle, in the sacred world of our happiness. I saw you, I saw you often before I knew you; I guessed you as you were; I was permitted to speak to you; it was given me to love you with my soul alone: I beseech you, let it remain so. Let me continue to keep my happiness like this, to keep it sacred, a thousand times sacred. I think it worth while to have lived, now that I have known that: happiness, the highest. And I am afraid of the struggle which would probably come and pollute that sacred thing. "Will you believe me when I swear to you that I have reflected deeply on all this? Will you believe me when I swear to you that I suffer at the thought of never being permitted to see you again? And, above all, will you forgive me when I swear to you that I am acting in this way because I think that I am doing right? Oh, I am grateful to you and I love you as a soul of light alone, of nothing but light! "Perhaps I am wrong to send you this letter. I do not know. Perhaps presently I will tear up what I have written...." Yet he had sent her the letter. There was great bitterness within her. She had struggled once, had conquered herself and, in a sacred moment, had confessed both struggle and conquest; she knew that fate had compelled her to do so; she now knew what she would lose through her confession. For a short moment, a single evening perhaps, she had been worthy of her god and his equal. Now she was so no longer; for this reason also she felt bitter. And she felt bitterest of all because the thought dared to rise within her: "A god! Is he a god? Is a god afraid of the struggle?" Then her threefold bitterness changed to despair, black despair, a night which her eyes sought to penetrate in order to see something where they saw nothing, nothing; and she moaned low and wrung her hands, sinking into a heap before the window and staring at the trams which, with the tinkling of their bells, ran pitilessly to and fro. CHAPTER XIV She shut herself up; she saw little of her children; she told her friends that she was ill. She was at home to no visitors. She guessed intuitively that people in their circles were speaking of Quaerts and herself. Life hung dull about her in a closely-woven web of tiresome, tedious meshes; and she remained motionless in her corner, to avoid entangling herself in those meshes. Once Jules forced his way to her; he went upstairs, in spite of Greta's protests; he sought her in the little boudoir and, not finding her, went resolutely to her bedroom. He knocked without receiving a reply, but entered nevertheless. The room was half in darkness, for she kept the blinds lowered; in the shadow of the canopy which rose above the bedstead, with its hangings of old-blue brocade, Cecile lay sleeping. Her tea-gown was open over her breast; the train trailed from the bed and lay creased over the carpet; her hair spread loosely over the pillows; one of her hands was clutching nervously at the tulle bed-curtains. "Auntie!" cried Jules. "Auntie!" He shook her by the arm; and she woke heavily, with heavy, blue-girt eyes. She did not recognize him at first and thought that he was little Dolf. "It's me, Auntie; Jules...." She knew him now, asked how he came there, what was the matter and if he did not know that she was ill? "I knew, but I wanted to speak to you. I came to speak to you about ... him...." "Him?" "About Taco. He asked me to tell you. He couldn't write to you, he said. He is going on a long journey with his friend from Brussels; he will be away a long time and he would like ... he would like to take leave of you." "To take leave?" "Yes; and he told me to ask you if he might see you once more?" She had half-raised herself and was looking at Jules with a vacant air. In an instant the memory ran through her brain of the long look which Jules had directed on her so strangely when she saw Quaerts for the first time and spoke to him coolly and distantly: "Have you many relations in The Hague?... You have no occupation, I believe?... Sport?... Oh!..." Then came the memory of Jules playing the piano, of Rubinstein's Romance, of the ecstasy of his fantasia: the glittering rainbows and the souls turning to angels. "To take leave?" she repeated. Jules nodded: "Yes, Auntie, he is going away for ever so long." He could have shed tears himself and there were tears in his voice, but he would not give way and his eyes merely grew moist. "He told me to ask you," he repeated, with difficulty. "If he can come and take leave?" "Yes, Auntie." She made no reply, but lay staring before her. An emptiness began to stretch before her, in endless vistas. It was a shadowy image of their evening of rapture, but no light beamed out of the shadow. "Emptiness!" she muttered through her closed lips. "What, Auntie?" She would have liked to ask Jules whether he was still, as formerly, afraid of the emptiness within himself; but a gentleness of pity, a soft feeling, a sweetening of the bitterness which filled her being, stayed her. "To take leave?" she repeated, with a smile of melancholy; and the big tears fell heavily, drop by drop, upon her fingers wrung together. "Yes, Auntie...." He could no longer restrain himself: a single sob convulsed his throat, but he gave a cough to conceal it. Cecile threw her arm round his neck: "You are very fond of ... Taco, are you not?" she asked; and it struck her that this was the first time that she had pronounced the name, for she had never called Quaerts by it: she had never called him by any name. He did not answer at first, but nestled in her arm, in her embrace, and began to cry: "Yes, I can't tell you how fond I am of him," he said. "I know," she said; and she thought of the rainbows and the angels: he had played as out of her own soul. "May he come?" asked Jules, loyally remembering his instructions. "Yes." "He asks if he might come this evening?" "Very well." "Auntie, he is going away, because of ... because of ..." "Because of what, Jules?" "Because of you: because you don't like him and will not marry him! Mamma says so...." She made no reply; she lay sobbing, with her head against Jules' head. "Is it true, Auntie? No, it is not true, is it?..." "No." "Why then?" She raised herself suddenly, conquering herself, and looked at him fixedly: "He is going away because he must, Jules. I cannot tell you why. But what he does is right. All that he does is right." The boy looked at her, motionless, with large wet eyes, full of astonishment: "Is right?" he repeated. "Yes. He is better than any one of us. If you go on loving him, Jules, it will bring you happiness, even if ... if you never see him again." "Do you think so?" he asked. "Does he bring happiness? Even in that case?..." "Even in that case." She listened to her own words as she spoke: it was to her as if another were speaking, another who consoled not only Jules but herself as well and who would perhaps give her the strength to take leave of Taco in the manner which would be best, without despair. CHAPTER XV 1 "So you are going on a long journey?" she asked. He sat facing her, motionless, with anguish on his face. Outwardly she was very calm, only there was a sadness in her look and in her voice. In her white dress, with the girdle falling before her feet, she lay back among the three pillows of the rose-moiré sofa; the tips of her little slippers were buried in the white sheepskin rug. On the table before her lay a great bouquet of loose roses, pink, white and yellow, bound together with a broad riband. He had brought them for her and she had not yet placed them. There was a great calm about her; the exquisite atmosphere of the boudoir seemed unchanged. "Tell me, am I not paining you severely?" he asked, with the anguish in his eyes, the eyes which she now knew so well. She smiled: "No," she said. "I will be honest with you. I have suffered, but I suffer no longer. I have struggled with myself for the second time and I have conquered myself. Will you believe me?" "If you knew the remorse that I feel...." She rose and went to him: "What for?" she asked, in a clear voice. "Because you read me and gave me happiness?" "Did I?" "Have you forgotten?" "No," he said, "but I thought...." "What?" "I don't know; I thought that you would ... would suffer so ... and I ... I cursed myself!..." She shook her head gently, with smiling disapproval: "For shame!" she said. "Do not blaspheme!..." "Can you forgive me?" "I have nothing to forgive. Listen to me. Swear to me that you believe me, that you believe that you have given me happiness and that I am not suffering." "I ... I swear." "I trust that you are not swearing this merely to satisfy my wish." "You have been the highest thing in my life," he said, gently. A rapture shot through her soul. "Tell me only...." she began. "What?" "Tell me if you believe that I, I, I ... shall always remain the highest thing in your life." She stood before him, tall, in her clinging white. She seemed to shed radiance; never had he seen her so beautiful. "I am certain of that," he said. "Certain, oh, certain!... My God, how can I convey the certainty of it to you?" "But I believe you, I believe you!" she exclaimed. She laughed a laugh of rapture. In her soul a sun seemed to be shooting forth rays on every side. She placed her arm tenderly about his neck and kissed his forehead with a chaste caress. For one moment he seemed to forget everything. He too rose, took her in his arms, almost savagely, and clasped her suddenly to him, as if he were about to crush her against his breast. She just caught sight of his sad eyes; then she saw nothing more, blinded by the kisses of his mouth, which scorched her whole face as though with sparks of fire. With the sun-rapture of her soul was mingled a bliss of earth, a yielding to the violence of his embrace. But the thought flashed across her of what she would lose if she yielded. She released herself, put him away and said: "And now ... go." He felt stunned; he understood that he had no choice: "Yes, yes, I am going," he said. "I may write to you, may I not?" She nodded yes, with her smile: "Write to me, I shall write to you too," she said. "Let me always hear from you...." "Then these are not to be the last words between us? This ... this ... is not the end?" "No." "Thank you. Good-bye, mevrouw, good-bye ... Cecile. Ah, if you knew what this moment costs me!" "It must be. It cannot be otherwise. Go, go. You must go. Do go...." She gave him her hand again, for the last time. A moment later he was gone. 2 She looked about her strangely, with bewildered eyes, with hands locked together: "Go, go...." she repeated, like one raving. Then she noticed the roses. With something like a faint scream she sank down before the little table and buried her face in his gift, until the thorns wounded her face. The pain--two drops of blood which fell from her forehead--brought her back to her senses. Standing before the Venetian mirror hanging over her writing-table, she wiped away the red spots with her handkerchief. "Happiness!" she stammered to herself. "His happiness! The highest thing in his life! So he knew happiness, though short it was. But now ... now he suffers, now he will suffer again, as he did before. The remembrance of happiness cannot do everything. Ah, if it could only do that, then everything would be well, everything!... I wish for nothing more, I have had my life, my own life, my own happiness; I now have my children; I now belong to them. To him I must no longer be anything...." She turned away from the mirror and sat down on the settee, as though tired with a great space traversed, and she closed her eyes, as though blinded with too great a light. She folded her hands together, like one in prayer; her face beamed in its fatigue, from smile to smile. "Happiness!" she repeated, faltering between her smiles. "The highest thing in his life! O my God, happiness! I thank Thee, O God, I thank Thee!..." THE END NOTES [1] Two military staff-colleges in Holland and Java respectively. [2] The leading club at The Hague. 
38005	----	PSYCHE By LOUIS COUPERUS Translated from the Dutch, with the author's permission, By B. S. Berrington, B.A. With Twelve Illustrations by Dion Clayton Calthrop London: Alston Rivers, Ltd. Brooke Street, Holborn Bars, E.C. 1908 "Cry no more now and go to sleep, and if you cannot sleep, I will tell you a story, a pretty story of flowers and gems and birds, of a young prince and a little princess. ... For in the world there is nothing more than a story." PSYCHE CHAPTER I Gigantically massive, with three hundred towers, on the summit of a rocky mountain, rose the king's castle high into the clouds. But the summit was broad, and flat as a plateau, and the castle spread far out, for miles and miles, with ramparts and walls and pinnacles. And everywhere rose up the towers, lost in the clouds, and the castle was like a city, built upon a lofty rock of basalt. Round the castle and far away lay the valleys of the kingdom, receding into the horizon, one after the other, and ever and ever. Ever changing was the horizon: now pink, then silver; now blue, then golden; now grey, then white and misty, and gradually fading away, and never could the last be seen. In clear weather there loomed behind the horizon always another horizon. They circled one another endlessly, they were lost in the dissolving mists, and suddenly their silhouette became more sharply defined. Over the lofty towers stretched away at times an expanse of variegated clouds, but below rushed a torrent, which fell like a cataract into a fathomless abyss, that made one dizzy to look at. So it seemed as if the castle rose up to the highest stars and went down to the central nave of the earth. Along the battlements, higher than a man, Psyche often wandered, wandered round the castle from tower to tower, from wall to wall, with a dreamy smile on her face, then she looked up and stretched out her hands to the stars, or gazed below at the dashing water, with all the colours of the rainbow, till her head grew dizzy, and she drew back and placed her little hands before her eyes. And long she would sit in the corner of an embrasure, her eyes looking far away, a smile on her face, her knees drawn up and her arms entwining them, and her tiny wings spread out against the mossy stone-work, like a butterfly that sat motionless. And she gazed at the horizon, and however much she gazed, she always saw more. Close by were the green valleys, dotted with grazing sheep, soft meadows with fat cattle, waving corn-fields, canals covered with ships, and the cottage roofs of a village. Farther away were lines of woods, hill-tops, mountain-ridges, or a mass of angular, rough-hewn basalt. Still farther off, misty towers with minarets and domes, cupolas and spires, smoking chimneys, and the outline of a broad river. Beyond, the horizon became milk-white, or like an opal, but not a line more was there, only tint, the reflection of the last glow of the sun, as if lakes were mirrored there; islands rose, low, in the air, aerial paradises, watery streaks of blue sea, oceans of ether and light quivering nothingness!... And Psyche gazed and mused.... She was the third princess, the youngest daughter of the old king, monarch of the Kingdom of the Past.... She was always very lonely. Her sisters she seldom saw, her father only for a moment in the evening, before she went to bed; and when she had the chance she fled from the mumbling old nurse, and wandered along the battlements and dreamed, with her eyes far away, gazing at the vast kingdom, beyond which was nothingness.... Oh, how she longed to go farther than the castle, to the meadows, the woods, the towns--to go to the shining lakes, the opal islands, the oceans of ether, and then to that far, far-off nothingness, that quivered so, like a pale, pale light!... Would she ever be able to pass out of the gates?--Oh, how she longed to wander, to seek, to fly!... To fly, oh! to fly, to fly as the sparrows, the doves, the eagles! And she flapped her weak, little wings. On her tender shoulders there were two wings, like those of a very large butterfly, transparent membranes, covered with crimson and soft, yellow dust, streaked with azure and pink, where they were joined to her back. And on each wing glowed two eyes, like those on a peacock's tail, but more beautiful in colour and glistening like jewels, fine sapphires and emeralds on velvet, and the velvet eye set four times in the glittering texture of the wings. Her wings she flapped, but with them she could not fly. That, that was her great grief--that, that made her think, what were they for, those wings on her shoulders? And she shook them and flapped them, but could not rise above the ground; her delicate form did not ascend into the air, her naked foot remained firm on the ground, and only her thin, fine veil, that trailed a little round her snow-white limbs, was slightly raised by the gentle fluttering of her wings. CHAPTER II To fly! oh, to fly! She was so fond of birds. How she envied them! She enticed them with crumbs of bread, with grains of corn, and once she had rescued a dove from an eagle. The dove she had hidden under her veil, pressed close to her bosom, and the eagle she had courageously driven off with her hand, when in his flight he overshadowed her with his broad wings, calling out to him to go away and leave her dove unhurt. Oh, to seek! to seek! For she was so fond of flowers, and gladly in the woods and meadows, or farther away still, would she have sought for those that were unknown. But she cultivated them within the walls, on the rocky ground, and she had made herself a garden; the buds opened when she looked at them, the stems grew when she stroked them, and when she kissed a faded flower it became as fresh again as ever. To wander, oh, to wander! Then she wandered along the battlements, down the steps, over the court-yards and the ramparts, but at the gates stood the guards, rough and bearded and clad in mail, with loud-sounding horns round their shoulders. Then she could go no farther and wandered back into the vaults and crypts, where sacred spiders wove their webs; and then, if she became frightened, she hurried away, farther, farther, farther, along endless galleries, between rows of motionless knights in armour, till she came again to her nurse, who sat ever at her spinning-wheel. Oh! to glide through the air! To glide in a steady wind, to the farthest horizon, to the milk-white and opal region, which she saw in her dreams, to the uttermost parts of the earth! To glide to the seas, and the islands, which yonder, so far, far away and so unsubstantial, changed every moment, as if a breeze could alter their form, their tint; so unfirm, that no foot could tread them, but only a winged being like herself, a bird, a fairy, could gently hover over them, to see all that beautiful landscape, to enjoy that atmosphere, that dream of Paradise.... Oh! to fly, to seek, to wander, to soar!... And for hours together she sat dreaming in an embrasure, her eyes far off, her arms round her knees, and her wings spread out, like a little butterfly that sat motionless. CHAPTER III Emeralda, that was the name of her eldest sister. Surpassingly beautiful was Emeralda, dazzling fair as no woman in the kingdom, no princess in other kingdoms. Exceedingly tall she was, and majestic in stature; erect she walked, stately and proudly; she was very proud, for after the death of the king she was to reign on the throne of the Kingdom of the Past. Jealous of all the power which would be hers, she rejected all the princes who sued for her hand. She never spoke but to command, and only to her father did she bow. She always wore heavy brocade, silver or gold, studded with jewels, and long mantles of rustling silk, fringed with broad ermine; a diadem of the finest jewels always glittered on her red golden hair and her eyes also were jewels; two magnificent green emeralds, in which a black carbuncle was the pupil; and people whispered secretly that her heart was cut out of one single, gigantic ruby. Oh, Psyche was so afraid of her! When Psyche wandered through the castle and suddenly saw Emeralda coming, preceded by pages, torches, shield-bearers, and maids-in-waiting, who bore her train, and a score of halberdiers, then she was struck with fear, and hastily concealed herself behind a door, a curtain, no matter where, and then Emeralda rustled by with a great noise of satin and gold and all the trampling of her retinue, and Psyche's heart beat loudly like a clock, tick! tick! tick! tick! till she thought she would faint.... Then she shut her eyes so as not to see the cold, proud look of Emeralda's green emeralds, which pierced through the curtains, and saw Psyche well enough, though she pretended not to see her. And when Emeralda was gone, then Psyche fled upstairs, high up on to the battlements, fetched a deep breath, pressed her hands to her bosom, and long afterwards her little wings trembled from fear. Astra, that was the name of the second princess. She wore a living star upon her head; she was very wise and learned; she knew much more than all the philosophers and learned men in the kingdom, who came to her for counsel. She lived in the highest tower of the castle, and sometimes, along the bars of her window, she saw clouds pass by, like spirits of the mist. She never left the tower. She sat, surrounded by rolls of parchment, gigantic globes, which she turned with a pressure of her finger; and after hours of contemplation she described, with great compasses, on a slab of black marble, circle after circle, or reckoned out long sums, with numbers so great that no one could pronounce them. Sometimes she sat surrounded by the sages of the land, and the king himself came and listened to his daughter, as in a low, firm voice she explained things. But because she possessed all the wisdom of the earth, she despised all the world, and she had had constructed on the terrace of her tower a telescope, miles long, through which she could look to every part of the illimitable firmament. And when the sages were gone, and she was alone, then she went on to the terrace and peered through the giant, which she turned to all the points of the compass. Through the diamond lenses, cut without facets, she saw new stars, unknown to men, and gave them names. Through the diamond lenses she saw sun systems, spirals of fire, shrivel up through the illimitableness of the universe.... But she kept gazing, for behind those sun systems, she knew, were other spheres, other heavens, and there farther still, illimitably far, was the Mystic Rose, which she could never see.... Sometimes, when Psyche wandered round the castle, she knocked nervously, inquisitively at Astra's door, who graciously allowed her to enter. When Astra stood before the board and reckoned out long sums, Psyche looked very earnestly at her sister's star, which glistened on her head, in her coal-black hair. Or she went on to the terrace and peeped through the telescope, but she saw nothing but very bright light, which made her eyes ache.... CHAPTER IV In the evening, before she went to sleep, Psyche sought the king. A good hundred years old he was, his beard hung down to his girdle, and generally he sat reading the historical scrolls of the kingdom, which his ministers brought him every day. But in the evening Psyche climbed on to his knees and nestled in his beard, or sat at his feet in the folds of his tabard, and the scroll fell to the ground, and crumpled up, and the withered hand of the mighty monarch stroked the head of his third child, the princess with the little wings. "Father, dear," asked Psyche once; "why have I wings, and cannot fly?" "You need not fly, child; you are much safer with me than if you were a little bird in the air." "But why then have I wings?" "I don't quite know, my child...." "Why have I wings, and Astra a living star upon her head, and Emeralda eyes of jewels?" "Because you are princesses; they are different from other girls." "And why, dear father," whispered Psyche, secretly, "has Emeralda a heart of ruby?..." "No child, that she has not. She has, it is true, eyes of emerald, because she is a princess--as Astra has a star and you two pretty wings--but she has a human heart." "No, father, dear, she has a heart of stone." "But who says so, my child?" "The nurse does, father, her own pages, the guards at the gates, and the wise men who come to Astra." The king was very sad. He and his daughter looked deep into each other's eyes, and embraced each other, for the king was sad, on account of what he saw in the future, and Psyche was frightened: she always trembled when she thought of Emeralda. "Little Psyche," said her old father, "will you now promise me something?" "Yes, father, dear." "Will you always stay with me, little Psyche? You are safe here, are you not? and the world is so great, the world is so wicked. The world is full of temptation and mystery. Winged horses soar through the air; gigantic sphinxes lurk in the deserts; devilish fauns roam through the forests.... In the world, tears are shed, which form brooks, and in the world people give away their noblest right for the lowest pleasure.... Stay with me, Psyche, never wander too far away, for under our castle glows the Nether-world!... And life is like a princess, a cruel princess with a heart of stone...." Of precious stone, like Emeralda, thought Psyche to herself. Who rides in triumph with her victorious chariot over the tenderest and dearest, and presses them stone-dead into the deepest furrows of the earth.... "Oh, Psyche, little Psyche, promise me always to stay here in this high and safe castle: always to stay with your father!" She did not understand him. His eyes, very large and animated, looked over her into space, with inexpressible sadness. Then she longed to console him, and threw her white arms round his neck; she hid herself, as it were, in his beard, and she whispered playfully: "I will always stay with you, father dear...." Then he pressed her to his heart, and thought that he would soon die.... CHAPTER V Psyche was often very lonely, but yet she had much: she had the flowers, the birds; she had the butterflies, which thought that she was a bigger sister; she had the lizards, with which she played, and which, like little things of emerald, she held against her veil; she had the swans in the deep castle moats, which followed her when she walked on the ramparts; she had the clouds, which came floating from distant islands and paradises beyond; she had the wind, which sang her ballads; the rain, which fell down wet upon her and covered her wings with pearls. She would gladly have played with the pages in the halls, have laughed with the shield-bearers in the armoury, have listened to the martial tales of the bearded halberdiers at the gates, but she was a princess and knew she could not do that, and she always walked past them with great dignity, maidenly modest in her fine, thin veil, which left her tender limbs half exposed. That was the noble Nakedness, which was her privilege as a princess, a privilege given her at her cradle, together with her wings by the Fairy of Births, as to Emeralda was given the Jewel and to Astra the Star. For never might Psyche wear Jewel or Star, and never might Emeralda or Astra go naked. Each princess had her own privilege, her birthright. Adorable was Psyche as, unconscious of her maidenly, tender purity, she was seen with her crimson glittering wings, naked in the folds of her veil, walking past the armour-bearers and soldiers, who presented their swords or halberds as the princess, nymph-white, stepped past them. Psyche was often very lonely, for her nurse was old and mumbled over her spinning-wheel; playmates Psyche had not, because she was a princess, and she would not get court-ladies till she was older and more dignified. But with the birds and the clouds and the wind Psyche could speak and laugh, and she was seldom dull, although she sometimes wished she were no longer Princess of Nakedness with the wings, but one of those very ordinary peasant-girls whom she had seen milking the cows, or plucking the thick bunches of grapes in the vineyard at harvest-time, whilst the pressers, handsome brown lads with sturdy arms, encircled the girls and danced. But Psyche wandered along the ramparts; she looked at the clouds and spoke with the wind, and she asked the wind to give flight to her wings, so that she could fly far off to the opal landscapes that kept shifting and changing. But the wind rushed away with a flapping noise of wings that Psyche envied, and her own wings flapped a little, but in vain. Psyche looked at the clouds. They floated along so stately in all kinds of forms--in the forms of sheep, swans, horses--and the form never remained: the seeming forms, thick-white in the blue ether, were constantly changing. Now she saw three swans which were drawing a boat, in which stood three women, who guided the swans; then she saw the women become a tower, the swans a dragon; and from far, far away came a knight, sitting on a winged horse. But now slowly the scene changed into a flock of little silver-fleeced, downy sheep, which were browsing far off in the sunshine as in a golden meadow. The knight disappeared, but the horse glided nearer and flew on his wings, high over the castle, towards the sheep. Then Psyche dreamed at night of the swans, the tower, the dragon, the knight, the horse; but the horse she liked best, because it had strong wings. And next morning she gazed from the battlements to see if the horse would come again. But then the sky was either gloomy from the rain or blue from the absence of clouds, or covered with white peacock's feathers, splendid plumes, but motionless, far, far away in the air. The wind changed, when she said: "Away! blow now from the East again! Begone, North wind, with your dark perils, begone! Begone, West wind, with your rain-urns! Begone, South wind, with your peacock's feathers! Come now, wind from the East, with your treasures of luxurious visions, ye dragons, ye horses, ye girls with swans!..." Then the clouds began to shift, the winds to blow, and play an opera high up in the air, and Psyche, enchanted, sat and gazed. Then after weeks, after she had missed it for weeks, came again the winged horse. And she beckoned to it to approach, to descend to her; but it flew past over the castle. Then she missed it again for many days, and, angry, she looked at the sky and scolded the wind. But then the horse came again, and, laughing, she beckoned to it. The horse ascended high, its wings expanded in the air, and oh, wonder! it beckoned to her to come up, up to it. She gave a sign that she could not, shook her little shoulders helplessly, and, trembling, flapped her wings and spread her arms wide out to say that she could not. And the horse sped away on the breath of the wind from the East. Then Psyche wept, and, sad at heart, sat looking at the far, far-off landscapes which she would never reach. But weeks afterwards the treasure-bringing wind blew again, and again appeared the horse in the horizon, and it flew near and beckoned to Psyche, her heart heavy with hope and fear.... The horse mounted up; it beckoned to her.... She gave a sign that she could not; and oh! she feared that it would speed away again, the horse with the strong wings. No ... no ... the horse descended! Then Psyche uttered a joyful cry, sprang up, danced with delight and clapped her little hands. From the lofty, lofty sky the horse came down, gliding on its broad wings. It came down. And Psyche, the little, joyful, excited Psyche, saw it coming, coming down to her. It descended--it approached. Oh, what a beautiful horse it was! Greater than the greatest horses, and then with wings! Fair it was, fair as the sun, with a long curly mane and long flowing tail, like a streamer of sunny gold. The noble head on its arched neck proudly raised and its eyes shone like fire, and a stream of breath came from its expanded nostrils, cloud after cloud. Big, powerful, muscular, its wings were stretched out like silvery quills, as Psyche had never seen in a bird before. And its golden hoofs struck the clouds and made them thunder; and sparks of fire shot forth in the pure, clear daylight. Enraptured Psyche had never seen such a beautiful horse before, never a bird so beautiful; and breathless, with her head raised, she waited till it should descend, descend on the terrace.... At last there it stood before her. Its nostrils steamed, and its hoofs struck sparks from the basalt rock, and it waved its mane and switched its tail. "Splendid, beautiful horse," said Psyche, "who are you?" "I am the Chimera," answered the horse, and his voice sounded deep as the clang of a brazen clock. "Can you really speak?" asked Psyche, astonished. "And fly? Oh, how happy you must be!!" "Why have you called me, little princess?" said the Chimera. "I wanted to see you quite near," replied Psyche. "I only saw you dart like winged lightning through the air, so soon were you away again; and I was always sorry when I could not see you any more. Then I became, oh, so sad!" "And why did you want to see me quite near, little princess with the wings?" "I find you so beautiful. I have never seen anything so beautiful; I did not know that anything so beautiful existed. What are you? A horse you are not. Nor a dragon either, nor a man. What are you?" "I am the Chimera." "Where do you come from?" "From far away. From the lands which are beyond the lands, from the worlds beyond the worlds, from the heavens beyond the heavens." "Where are you going?" "Very far. Do you see those distant regions yonder, of silver and opal? Well, thousands of times so far I am going.... I go from illimitableness to illimitableness; I come from nothingness and I am going to nothingness." "What is nothingness?" "Everything. Nothingness is as far as your brains can think, my little princess; and then still farther, and nothingness is more than all that you see from this high tower...." "Are you never tired?" "No, my wings are strong; I can bear all mankind on my back, and I could carry them away to the stars behind the stars." "If Astra knew that!" "Astra knows it. But she does not want me. She reckons out the stars with figures." "Why do you fly from one end to the other, O splendid Chimera? What is your object? What are you for?" "What is your own object, little Psyche? What are you yourself for? For what are flowers, men, the stars? Who knows?" "Astra...." "No, Astra knows nothing. Her knowledge is founded on a fundamental error. All her knowledge is like a tower, which will fall down." "I should like to know much. I should like to know more. I should like to seek far through the universe. I long for what is most beautiful.... But I do not know what it is. Perhaps you yourself are what is most beautiful, Chimera.... But why are you now spreading out your wings?" "I must go." "So soon? Whence? Oh, why are you going so soon, splendid Chimera?" "I must. I must traverse illimitableness. I have already stayed here too long." "Stay a little longer...." "I cannot. I may not." "Who compels you, O powerful horse, quick as lightning?..." "Power." "What is power?" "God...." "Who is God? Oh, tell me more! Tell me more! Don't go away yet! I want to ask you so much, to hear so much. I am so stupid. I have longed so for you. Now you have come, and now you want to go away again." "Do not ask me for wisdom; I have none. Ask the Sphinx for wisdom; ask me for flight." "Oh, stay a little longer! Don't flap so with your flaming wings! Who is the Sphinx? O Chimera, do not give me wisdom, but flight!" "Not now...." "When, then?" "Later...." "When is that?" "Farewell." "O Chimera, Chimera...!" The horse had already spread out his wings broad. He was ascending. But Psyche suddenly threw both her arms round his neck and hung on to his mane. "Let me go, little princess!" cried the horse. "I ascend quickly, and you will fall, to be dashed to pieces on the rock! Loose me!" And slowly he ascended.... Psyche was afraid; she let go her arms; she became dizzy, fell against the pinnacle, and bruised one of her wings. That pained her ... but she heeded it not; the horse was already high in the air, and she followed his track with her eyes.... "He is gone," thought she. "Will he come again? Or have I seen him for the first and last time?" "As a dream he came from far-off regions, and to still farther regions he has gone.... Oh, how dull the world seems! How dead is the horizon! And how dizzy I feel.... My wing pains me...." With her hand she smoothed the wrinkle out of her wing; she stroked it till it was smooth again, and tears ran down her cheeks. "Horrid wings! They cannot fly, they cannot follow the strong Chimera! I'm in such trouble, such trouble!! But ... no.... Is that trouble? Is that happiness? I know not.... I am very happy...! I am so sorrowful.... How beautiful he was! how strong, how sleek, how splendid, how quick, how wise, how noble, how broad his wings! how broad his wings!! How weak I am compared to him.... A child, a weak child; a weak, naked child with little wings.... O Chimera, my Chimera, O Chimera of my desire, come back! Come back!! Come back!! I cannot live without you; and if you do not come again, Chimera, then I will not live any longer lonely in this high castle. I will throw myself into the cataract...." She stood up, her eyes looking eagerly into the empty air. She pressed her hands to her bosom, she wept, and her wings trembled as if from fever. Then suddenly she saw the king, her father, sitting at the bow-window of his room. He did not see her, he was reading a scroll. But anxious lest he should see her trouble, her despair, and longing desire, she fled, along the battlements, the ramparts, through the passages and halls of the castle, till she came to the tower, where her nurse sat at her spinning-wheel, and then she fell down at the feet of the old woman and sobbed aloud. "What is it, darling?" asked the old crone, frightened. "Princess, what is it?" "I have hurt my wing!" sobbed Psyche. And she showed the nurse the wrinkle in her wing, which was not yet quite gone. Then, with soothing voice and wrinkled hand, the old nurse slowly stroked the painful wing till it became smooth. CHAPTER VI The old king, assisted by pages, sat down slowly on his throne; his ministers and courtiers gathered round him. Then there was a great rustling of satin and gold, and in came Emeralda, the Princess Royal, the Princess of the Jewel, as her title ran: first pages, life-guards, and then she herself, glittering with splendour, in her dress of silver-coloured silk; her bosom blazed with emeralds, a tiara of emeralds adorned her temples; her red-golden tresses, intertwined with emeralds, fell in three-fold plaits down each side of her face, from which the eyes of emerald looked proud, soulless, ice-cold, and arrogant. Court-ladies bore her train. A great retinue of halberdiers surrounded her jewelled majesty, and as she passed along, the trembling courtiers bowed lower to her than they did to the king, because they were in deadly fear of her. Astra, with dragging step, followed her. She wore a dress of azure covered with stars, a white mantle full of stars, and her living star sparkled in her coal-black hair. The sages of the country surrounded her: grey-haired men in velvet tabards, with very long silver beards, dim eyes, and wise, close-pressed lips. The two princesses sat down on either side of the throne. And for a moment the middle space of the hall between the waiting crowd remained empty. But then appeared Psyche, the third daughter, the Princess of Nakedness with the wings! Shyly she approached, looking right and left, with the laugh of a child. She was naked: only a golden veil was tied in a fold round her hips. Her wings were spread out like a butterfly's. She had no retinue: only her old nurse followed her; and she was so pretty and charming that people forgot to bow as she passed along, that the courtiers smiled and whispered, full of admiration, because she was so beautiful in her pure chastity. Slowly she walked along, shy and laughing a little; then close to the throne, where her father saw her approaching hesitatingly, her bare foot got entangled in her trailing golden veil, and to ascend the steps she lifted it up, knelt down, and kissed the king's hand. Then calmly she sat down on a cushion at his feet, and was no longer shy. She looked round inquisitively and nodded a greeting here and there, child as she was, till all at once, to the right of the throne, she met the emerald look of Emeralda, and started and shivered; a cold thrill shot through her limbs, and she hid herself in the ermine of her father's mantle to be safe and warm. Then there was a flourish of trumpets, and at the door of the Hall heralds announced Prince Eros, the youthful monarch of the Present. He came in all alone. He was as beautiful as a god, with light-brown hair and light-brown eyes. He wore a white suit of armour over a silver shirt of mail, and his whole presence portrayed simplicity and intelligence. The courtiers were astonished at his coming without a suite; Emeralda laughed scornfully aside with one of her court-ladies. She did not find him a king, that plain youth in his plain dress. But Eros had now approached and bowed low before the mighty monarch, and the latter bade him welcome with fatherly condescension. Then spoke the prince: "Mighty Majesty of the Past, accept my respectful thanks for your welcome. Diffident I come to your throne, for I am young in years, have little wisdom, little power. You reign over an extensive kingdom, the horizon of which is lost in illimitableness. I reign over a country that is not larger than a garden. From my humble palace, that is like a country-house, I can survey all my territory. Your Majesty possesses lands and deserts, which you do not know. I know every flower in my beds. And that your Majesty, in spite of my poverty and insignificance, receives me with much honour and acknowledges me as sovereign in my kingdom, fills my heart with joy. Will your Majesty permit me to kneel and pay my homage to you as an obedient vassal?" Then the old king nodded to Psyche, and the princess rose, because Eros was about to kneel. Then said the king: "Amiable Eros, I love you as a son. Tell me, have you any wish that I can satisfy? If so, then it is granted you." Then said Eros: "Your Majesty makes my heart rejoice by saying that you love me as a son. Well, then, my greatest joy would be to marry one of the noble princesses, who are your Majesty's daughters. But I am a poor prince, and whilst confessing to your Majesty my bold desire, I fear that you may think me too arrogant in presuming to cherish a wish that aims so high...." "Noble prince," said the king, "you are poor, but of high birth and divine origin, higher and more divine than we. You are descended from the god Eros; we from his beloved Psyche. The history of the gods is to be read in the historical rolls of our kingdom. It would make my heart rejoice if you found a spouse in one of my princesses. But they are free in their choice, and you will have to win their love. Permit me, therefore, first of all to present to you my eldest daughter, the Princess Royal, Princess of the Jewel: Emeralda...." Emeralda rose, and bowed with a scornful sneer. "And," continued the monarch, "in the second place, to my wise Astra, Princess of the Star...." Astra rose and bowed, her look far away, as if lost in contemplation. "And would Emeralda permit me to sue for her love and her hand?" asked the prince. "Majesty of the Present," replied Emeralda, "my father says that you are of more divine origin than we. I, your humble slave, consider it therefore too great an honour that you should be willing to raise me to your side upon your throne. And I accept your homage, but on one condition. That condition is: That you seek for me the All-Sacred Jewel, Jewel of Mystery, the name of which may not be uttered, the noble stone of Supremacy. The legends respecting this jewel are innumerable, inexplicable and contradictory. But the Jewel exists. Tell me, ye wise men of the land--tell me, Astra, my sister, does the Jewel exist?" "It exists!" said Astra. "It exists!" said all the wise men after her. "It exists!" repeated Emeralda. "Prince, I dare ask much of you, but I ask you the greatest thing that our soul and ambition can think of. If you find me beautiful and love me, then seek, and bring me the Jewel, and I will be your wife, and together we shall be the most powerful monarchs in the world." The prince bowed, and with imperceptible irony said: "Royal Highness of the Jewel, your words breathe the splendour of yourself, and I will weigh them in my mind. Your beauty is dazzling, and to reign with you over the united kingdoms of the Past and the Present, appears to me indeed a divine happiness...." "For other kingdoms exist not," added Astra, and the wise men repeated her words. "Yes," murmured the king. "There is another kingdom...." "What kingdom?" asked all. "The kingdom of the Future," said the king, in a low tone. Emeralda laughed scornfully. Astra looked compassionately. The wise men glanced at each other; the courtiers shook their heads. "The king is getting old," they whispered. "The mind of His Majesty often wanders," muttered the ministers. "Our monarch has always had much imagination," said the wise men. "He is a poet...." But then spoke the prince. "And you, wise Astra, Royal Highness of the Star, will you, like Emeralda, allow me to sue for your hand and heart?" "Most willingly, Prince Eros!" said Astra, with a far-off look and in a vague tone. "But I have conditions to make as well as Emeralda, the Princess Royal. Will you hear them? Then listen. If you see any chance of lengthening my telescope, of strengthening the lenses, that I can see through them to the confines of the universe, to the last sun-system, to the Mystic Rose, to the Godhead Himself, then I will be your wife, and together we shall be the most powerful beings of the world, because then we are omniscient. For the universe is limited...." "The universe is limited!" said the wise men, after her. "Endless is the universe!" said the king, in a subdued voice. The people laughed and shook their heads. "The king is getting very old," was repeated everywhere. "The king will soon die," prophesied the wise men, in a low tone. "He speaks like an old man, without reason; he will soon die...." "Royal Highness of the Star," said the prince, "your words, pregnant with wisdom, I will also consider. For to be omniscient must indeed be the greatest power. But your Majesty has a third princess," he continued, addressing the king. "Where is she?" "She is here," said the king. "She is the Princess of Nakedness with the wings. But she is still a child, Prince...." Psyche blushed and bowed. The prince looked long at her. Then he said to her, gently: "Your Highness is called Psyche? You have the name of the ancestress of your race, as I have the name of the god who begot mine. Is it not true?" "I believe so," murmured Psyche, embarrassed. "She is still a child, prince--forgive her!" repeated the king. "Will your Majesty not permit me to ask for the hand and heart of your third daughter, the princess?" "Certainly, prince; but she is still so young.... If she leaves me I shall be very sad. But if she loves you, then I will give her up to you, for then she will be happy...." "Tell me, Psyche, will you be my wife?" Psyche blushed exceedingly. Her naked limbs blushed, her wings blushed. "Prince," said she hesitatingly and looked bashfully at her father, "you do me much honour. But my sisters are more beautiful and wiser than I. And my father would miss me if I went with you to the kingdom of the Present." "But tell me, Psyche, what conditions do you impose upon me?" Psyche hesitated. She was about to exclaim joyfully: "Catch me the Chimera, bind him in a meadow to graze, and give me power over him, that I may mount his back and fly through the air as I like." But she durst not before the whole court and her father. And so she only stammered: "None, prince...." "Could you love me?" "I don't know, prince...." Psyche was shy. She kept blushing, and all at once began to tremble and weep. And she looked round to the king, fled to his arms, hid her face in his beard and sobbed. "Prince Eros," said the king, "forgive her. You see she is a child. Seek for Emeralda's Jewel, or seek for Astra the Glass which will bring to view the confines of the universe; but leave me my youngest child." Then the prince bowed. An indescribable sadness rose in his soul, like a sea. And pale he stammered, "I obey your Majesty." Then the king descended from his throne and embraced the prince. And whilst the fanfares sounded, he put his arm through the arm of Eros, took Psyche by the hand, and conducted his guest to the banquet, the princesses following, surrounded by the whole court. CHAPTER VII For days had Psyche watched in vain, and all hope died out of her heart. But one windy morning--the thick white clouds were speeding through the air--she saw the desire of her heart again. Far away appeared a cloud, but as it drew nearer it became a horse: it was the Chimera. She beckoned to it, and the Chimera came down. "What do you want, little Psyche?" She clasped her hands imploringly. "Take me with you...." "You will become dizzy...." "No, no...." He descended, stamping on the basalt rock; the terrace shook, sparks flew up, and the steam of his breath shot out in clouds. "Take me with you," she implored. "Where do you wish to go?" "To the islands of opal and silver." "They are too far away." "Take me, then, nearer to them; take me with you where you will." "Are you not afraid?" "No." "Will you hold fast to my neck?" "Yes, oh yes!" "Come, then...." She uttered a cry of joy. He bent his knees, and she got up with a beating, thumping heart. Between his flaming wings, on his broad, broad back, she sat almost as safe as in a nest of silver feathers. "Trust not to my wings," he warned her; "I move them at every stroke. They open and shut, open and shut. Hold fast on to my neck. Clasp my mane. If you are not frightened and do not become giddy and sick, you will not fall, however high I go. Do you dare, Psyche?" "Yes." She fastened his mane round her waist, as if it were strong rope of golden flax. She put her arms round his neck. "I am ready," she said courageously. He ascended, very slowly, with his broad wings. Under him, under her, the terrace sank away. She shut her eyes, she held her breath, and the blood left her heart. Under her the castle sank away. "Stop!" she implored. "I am dying...." "I thought so, Psyche. You are much too weak. You cannot go up with me...." She opened her eyes slightly. She sat on his back in the silver down, where his quills clave to his light-gold loins. And round her, circles of light revolved, one after the other, and made her dizzy. "Descend!" she implored. "Oh, descend! I cannot endure it. I have no breath; I am dying." He descended.... He stood on the terrace. She slid along his wing to the ground. She put her hands before her face, and when she opened her eyes she was alone. Then she was very, very sad. But next day, he appeared again. And, more courageous, she wished to mount him again. He let her do as she desired, and she got on his back. She shut her eyes, but smiled. He went higher and higher with her, without her saying "Descend." She travelled for a time high up in the air, she opened her eyes and kept smiling; she got accustomed to the rarefied air. The third time he soared away with her; she saw, far below, the royal castle, small as a toy, towers, ramparts; and then she realised for the first time that she had left the castle. She thought of the king. "Take me back!" she said to the horse commandingly. He obeyed her. He took her back. But as soon as he was gone, she longed again for him and the lofty air. And she had but one thought, the Chimera. She no longer cared for the flowers which she had planted between the walls, and the flowers withered. She no longer cared for the swans, and the swans, neglected, followed her in vain, in the green moats; she forgot to crumble bread for them. And she looked at the clouds and she gazed at the wind, thinking only of him, the light-gold horse with the silver wings, because he came on the wind, on the clouds, which thundered when he struck with his hoofs. On the day that he did not come, her fair Chimera, she sat pale and lonely, gazing from the battlements, her eyes far away, her arms round her knees. In the evening she nestled in the king's beard, in the folds of his tabard, but she durst not tell him that she had ridden a wondrous winged horse and flown with him through the air. But on the days that her beloved horse had come and taken her away with him, carefully flapping his wings, her face shone with golden happiness in the apotheosis of her soul, and through the gloomy halls, where sacred spiders, which were never disturbed, wove their webs, rang Psyche's high voice, and from the faded gobelin the low vault and the motionless iron knights strangely re-echoed the words of her joyous song. CHAPTER VIII "Psyche, where do you wish to go?" "To the opal islands, to the seas of light, to the far-off luminous streaks...." "Take a deep breath; hold fast on to my neck; twist my mane more tightly round your hand, then we will begin our journey." The clouds sent forth a rumbling sound of thunder; the Chimera's hoofs shot fire; his wings expanded and shut, and his strong feathers rustled in the air. Psyche uttered a cry. She had ascended higher than ever before, and under them sank away the castle, the meadows, the woods, the cities, and the river; under them, like a map, lay stretched out province after province, desert after desert, the whole Kingdom of the Past. How great it was! how great it was! The frontiers receded from view again and again; far down below rose up town after town; river after river meandered along, mountain-ranges rose up one after the other, now only slightly elevated, then rising arabesquely through the plains. Then there were great waters like oceans, and Psyche saw nothing but white foaming sea. But on the other side of it began again the strand, the land, the wood, the meadows, the mountains, and so on endlessly.... "How much farther away are the opal islands, the streaks of light I see in the distance, my beloved Chimera?" "We have already passed them...." She raised her head, bent over his streaming neck, and gazed about her. "But I do not see them any longer!" she said, astonished. "I see wood and meadow, towns and mountains.... Is the world, then, the same everywhere? Where are the opal islands?" "Behind us...." "But I do not see them.... Have we passed them without my seeing them? O naughty Chimera, you did not tell me!" "And where are the luminous streaks of the far-off land?" "We are going through them...." "I see nothing.... Below, land; around, clouds, as everywhere. But no lands of light.... And yet there, in the distance, very far away--what is that, Chimera? I see, as it were, a purple desert on a sea of golden water, with winding borders of soft mother-of-pearl; in the desert are oases like pale emerald, palms with silvery waving tops, azure bananas; and over the purple desert trills ether of light crimson, with streaks of topaz.... Chimera, Chimera, what is that country? What is that beautiful country? The golden sea with its foam forms a pearly fringe along the shore; the palms wave their tops to a rhythm of aerial music, and the bananas, blue, pink, glow in the ether till all is light there...! Chimera, is that the rainbow?" "No...." "Chimera, is that the land of happiness? Is that the kingdom of happiness? Chimera, are you king there?" "Yes, that is my country. And I am king there." "Are we going thither?" "Yes." "Do you remain there, Chimera? Do we remain there together?" "No...." "Why not?" "As soon as I have reached my purple land, I must go farther ... and then back again." "O Chimera, I will not go back! I will forget everything--my father, my country. I will remain there with you!" "I cannot.... But now pay great attention; we are approaching my kingdom, little Psyche. Look! now we are going over the sea, now we are approaching the shore, lined with soft mother-of-pearl." "The sea is a dirty green, like an ordinary sea; the borders are sand.... You are deceiving me, Chimera! As soon as we approach, then you charm away everything that I saw beautiful." "Now, under us is the purple desert; under us are the oases of pale emerald." "You are deceiving me, Chimera! The desert glows in the strong sun, the oases fade away to nothing, like a meteor.... Chimera!" "What, Psyche?" "Where are you going?" "To the land, as far off as you can see...." "I care not about it! You always deceive me! You carry me away through endless space, and everything beautiful that I see disappears from my view. But yet ... there, behind the horizon, behind the sand of the desert, is a dazzling scene.... Are those silver grottos on a sea of light? Does the light there wave like water? Are those groves of light, cities of light, in a land of light? Tell me, Chimera, do people of light live there? Is that Paradise?" "Yes, will you go thither?" "Yes, oh yes, Chimera. There is happiness, the highest happiness, and there I will remain with you...!" "We are now approaching it...." "Let that land of light now stay, the paradise of glowing sunshine; do not charm away the land of happiness, O naughty Chimera: go to it now with me, and descend with me...." "We are there...." "Descend...." He descended. "Have we not yet reached the ground of light?" "Look below: can you see nothing...?" She looked along his wing. "I see nothing...! It is night.... It is dark.... Chimera!!!" "What, little Psyche?" "Where is the land of silver light, the land of the people of light? Where is it gone?" "Do you not see it?" "No...." "Then it is gone...." "Whither?" "Behind us, under us...." "Why did you not descend sooner?" "My flight was too quick, and I could not, Psyche...." "You are deceiving me! You could have done so. You would not.... Now ... now it is night, pitch dark, starless night.... There is an icy coldness in the air.... O Chimera, take me back...!!" He turned with a swing of his powerful wings. And as he turned, the lightning broke forth and darted zigzag through the air, like smooth-bright electric swords; the black clouds parted asunder with a violent peal of thunder like the clapping of cymbals, a storm of wind arose, the rain fell down in torrents...! "O Chimera, take me back!" She threw herself on to his neck; she hid her face in his mane, and through the bursting storm, whilst at every blow of his hoofs it lightened round them, he winged his way, back with her to her country: the Kingdom of the Past, inky there, in the inky night.... CHAPTER IX The old king was dead. Black flags hung from the three hundred towers, and cast their dark shadows below. A dim light fell through the bow-windows into the castle, for the three hundred flags obscured the sun. With funeral music, that made the heart feel sad, the procession, with long flickering torches, followed the king's coffin down the steps to the deep vaults below. The priests, in black, prayed in Latin; the court, in black, sang the litany; and the princesses, in black, sang alternately a long Latin sentence.... Behind the coffin walked, first, Emeralda; behind her, Astra her sister; and then little Psyche, wrapped in her black veil. Emeralda sang with a voice of crystal; Astra, distracted, was too late in answering; and Psyche's voice trembled when she had to sing alone the long monotonous sentence.... There, in the deepest vault, they placed the coffin, next to the coffin of the king's father, and kneeling round it, they prayed. The low Roman vaults receded in impenetrable darkness. They sang and prayed the whole live-long day, and Psyche was very tired; and whilst she was kneeling, her little knees quite stiff, she fell asleep against the coffin of her father. Her last thought had been to kiss the dear old face for the last time, but she felt nothing but the goldsmith's work, and the great round jewels that were in it hurt her head.... Then she fell asleep.... And when the court had prayed, and all went up the steps again, there above, to do homage to Emeralda, as queen of the Kingdom of the Past, they all forgot Psyche. Long, long she slept.... And when she awoke, she did not know at first where she was. Then by the light of the long torches she espied the coffin. And through the crystal of the sarcophagus she saw the dead face of the king, and pressed a kiss upon the glass. "Dear father!" she whispered, trembling, "why have you gone? I am now quite alone! Of Emeralda I am afraid, and Astra does not think of me; she only thinks of the stars. Father, dear, forgive me! I have deceived you. I have travelled through the air on the back of the flying horse. But father, dear, the horse is beautiful, and I love the Chimera! O father dear, I have deceived you, and now I am alone, and I have nobody who cares for me! You are dead, father, and embalmed, and shut up in gold and crystal and jewels, and do not hear your little Psyche. You do not think of your little daughter. Alone! alone! Awe-inspiring is the castle; three hundred towers rise high up in the air. I have never been in all the three hundred, however much I have wandered. O father, father, why have you left me? Who is there to love me now? who to protect me now in the world? Father, farewell! I will not stay here; I will go away! I will leave the castle. Great is the world and wicked, but Emeralda is powerful and I am afraid of her. If I remain, she will drive me away with her look and shut me up all my life, and my wings I shall break against the unbreakable lattice. "Father, farewell! I will not remain here. I will flee! Whither? Whither shall I flee? I do not know. O father, dear, alone your child remains in the great, unsafe world! Alone! alone! O father, farewell, farewell! and forever!" She rose, she shivered. The dark vaults receded more and more. By the light of the long torches she saw the sacred spiders, which wove web after web; they were never disturbed. "Sacred spider!" said Psyche to a big fat one, with a cross on its back, "tell me where I must go." "You cannot flee," replied the spider, high up in the dark vault, in the middle of its web. "Everything is as it is; everything becomes as it was; happens as it happens; all goes to dust. Every day sinks into the deep vaults of the dark pits under us; under us everything becomes the Past, and everything comes into the power of Emeralda. As soon as anything is, it has been, and is in the power of Emeralda. Seek not to flee--that is vanity; submit to your lot. The best thing is that you become one of us, a sacred spider, and weave your web. For our web is sacred; our web is indisturbable; and with all our webs, one for the other, we serve the princess and protect her treasures--the treasures of the Past, which behind our weaving go to dust." "But if they go to dust, of what value are they?" "Foolish child, dust is everything. The Past is dust; remembrance is dust. Everything becomes dust; love, jewels--all becomes dust, and the sacred dust we watch over behind our webs. Become a spider like us, weave your web, and be wise." "But I live. I am young, I desire, I love, and I cannot bury myself in dust.... Oh, tell me whither I must flee!" The spider laughed scornfully, and moved its eight legs with great impatience. "Ask me not about the places of the world--the regions of the wind. I sit here and spin. I am holy. I watch over the treasure of the throne. Disturb me no more with your frivolity, and let not your wings get entangled in the rays of my web, although you are not a moth, but princess of the Kingdom of the Past...." Psyche was frightened. The spider reverenced her because she was a princess, but coveted with his wicked instinct.... And she drew back. She cast a last look at the dead face of her father, and fled up the hundred steps. In every corner sat the sacred spiders and moved their legs. Shuddering, she fled on. Whither? She thought of her love, the light-gold Chimera, but nowhere could he be with her for ever. She glided with him through the air, and he brought her back to the castle. His lot was to fly restlessly through the air. Oh, were she but a Chimera like him, had she but two strong wings instead of princesses' wings, she would have gone with him everywhere...! Whither? Above, from the enthronement-hall, came the sounds of joyful music. There Emeralda was being crowned. Whither?? She fled to the terrace.... Oh, if Emeralda missed her, how angry she would be! She would think that Psyche refused to do her homage. She could never return. Farewell, flowers, swans, doves! The three hundred flags obscured the light. She would never be able to see the Chimera coming. Oh, if he came and she did not see him, and did not beckon to him, and he flew past! He was her only safety! If needs be, she would wait for days together on the battlements. But if Emeralda sent to search for her! Oh, if she did, then there was the cataract; then she would throw herself headlong down, for ever, for ever, into the rushing water with its rainbow colours! A wind arose. That was the wind that brought her beloved. The flags flapped and impeded her view. And although she saw nothing, she beckoned as in despair, and called out: "Chimera, Chimera!" CHAPTER X It lightened. It thundered. Suddenly between the black flags the horse descended. "What is it, little Psyche?" "Take me with you." "Where?" "Where you like. Take me somewhere. My father is dead. Emeralda reigns. I dare not stay here any longer." "Get up...." She got up. He flew away with her. He flew with her the whole day. The sun set; the stars glistened in the dark firmament; and he flew back. Again they approached the castle. The day began to dawn. "Fly past!" she entreated. He flew on. Under her she could just see the castle, small as a toy; the three hundred towers, where green flags now fluttered because Emeralda reigned. He flew on. "Chimera!" she cried. "I love you; you are the most beautiful, most glorious creature that I have ever beheld. Safe I lie upon your back, tied to your mane, my arms round your neck. But I am tired. I am dizzy. I am cold. Put me down somewhere.... Can you not rest with me in a beautiful valley, amongst flowers, near a brook? Are you not thirsty? Are you not tired, and never dizzy and cold? Will you not graze and lie in a meadow? Do you never, never rest? Chimera, I love you so! But why this restless flying from East to West, from West to East?" "I must do it, little Psyche." "Chimera, descend somewhere. Stay somewhere with me. I am tired, I am cold. I want to go to sleep on a bed of moss, under the shade of trees; sleep there with me." "I cannot. My lot is to fly through the air, apparently without an object, but yet with an object; and what that is, I do not know." "But what then does the Power want? You fly through the air; the spider spins its web; Emeralda reigns over dust; everything is as it is. Oh, life is comfortless! Chimera, I can hold out no longer! I love you with all my soul, but if you do not descend, then I will loose the knots of your mane, I will let go my arms that are so tired, and then I shall fall down into nothingness...." "Hold out a little longer. Yonder is the purple desert...." "Oh, that is beautiful!" she exclaimed. "But you fly past it, always past it...!" "Do you want to rest, Psyche?" "Oh, yes...." "Then I will descend.... Hold out a little longer." She held him tight, and looked about. He plied his wings with a rapidity that made her dizzy; they blew a wind round Psyche.... In the air there loomed the purple sands on the golden sea, with a pearly border of foam; the azure bananas, which waved their tops in the light-pink ether.... Psyche held her breath.... "Would he descend there...?" Yes, indeed, he was descending ... he was descending. The purple, she thought, grew pale as soon as he descended; the sea was no longer golden, the foliage no longer blue.... But yet, yet it was beautiful, a dream-conceit, an enchanted land, and he was descending. With his broad wings he glided down. Now he stood still, snorting his breath in a cloud of steam. She glided gently down his back on to the sand, and laughed, and gave a sigh of relief! "Rest now, here, Psyche!" said he dejectedly, and the quiver in his bronze-sounding voice startled her; she laughed no more. "Rest now. Look! here are dates, and there is a spring. The soft violet night is rapidly spreading over the sky and cooling the too warm air. A few pale stars are already glistening. Now quench your thirst; now refresh yourself and rest.... This is a pleasant oasis. Now sleep, little Psyche. To-morrow will soon be here.... Farewell!" She looked at him with wondering eyes. She threw herself on his broad, powerful, heaving breast, and round his arched neck she threw her trembling arms. "What...? What do you say, Chimera?" she asked, pale with fear. "What are you going to do? What do you mean? Surely you will rest here with me in the soft violet night and amongst the blue flowers? With me you will refresh yourself with dates and water? You will let me sleep in the shadow of your wings, and watch over me during the dreadful night?" "No, little Psyche. I am going farther and farther, and then I will return. Then after weeks ... after months, perhaps, you will see me again in the air...." "You will forsake me? Here in the desert?" "Take courage, little Psyche: you are now too tired to fly farther with me through the air. You would slip from my back and fall into nothingness. Here is a pleasant oasis; here are dates and a murmuring stream...." She uttered a cry; her sobs choked her. She uttered a second, which frightened the hyenas far away in the desert and made them prick up their ears. She uttered a third, which rent the night-air, and the stars quivered from sympathy. "Alone!" she cried, and wrung her hands. "Alone! O Chimera, you will leave me alone with dates and brook! and I thought ... and still hoped, that you would stay with me, king in your country of the rainbow! "Alone! you will leave me alone in a sandy desert, in nothing but sand, sand in the night, with a single tree and a handful of water! Alone! O Chimera, you cannot do that...! For I love you; I adore you with all my soul, and shall die of grief and tears, Chimera, if you fly away from me! I love you; I worship your golden eyes, your voice of bronze, your steaming breath, your panting flanks, your mane, to which I bound myself, your flaming wings, which carried me far, farther and farther ... to this place...! O Chimera, lay down your smoking limbs in the shadow of the night; lay your noble head in my arms and my bosom, and together we will rest, and to-morrow fly away farther, united forever!" "I cannot, O little Psyche. I too love you, sweet burden which lay between my wings--little butterfly with weak wings, that lent strength to my flight; but now...." "But now--O Chimera, but now...?" "But now I must go, continue my lonely journey to and fro, without knowing why.... Farewell, little Psyche, hope in life, hope in the morrow...." He spread his wings, his limbs quivered, he ascended into the air. She wrung her arms, her hands. She sobbed, she sobbed.... "Have pity!!" she implored. "Pity, pity! What have I done? Why do you punish me so? My God, what have I done? I have trusted, hoped, given my soul in happiness.... Is happiness then punished? Is it not good to hope, to trust, and to love? Ought I then to have mistrusted and hated? What do I ask? He no longer hears me! What do I care for the problems of life! Him I love, and in me is nothing but my love and despair, and round me is the desert and the night, and now ... now I must die!" She sobbed, and her tears flowed. She was alone. Around her loomed the night, around her stretched the sands as far as the perceptible horizon. And above her glistened the stars. And she wept. Her grief was too great for her little soul. She wept. "Alone!" she sobbed. "Alone...! I will not quench my thirst, I will not refresh myself, nor will I sleep. I am tired, but I will go on...." On she went, and wept. In the night she walked on through the sand, and she wept. She wept from fear and despair. And she wept so, her tears flowed so many down her cheeks that they fell, her tears, like drops, great and warm, deep into the sand. Her tears flowed down into the sand. And she wept, she kept weeping, and as she went along ... her tears did not stop. Then in the sand, her tears so warm and so great, formed little lakes. And as she went and kept going on and weeping, the little lakes flowed into one another, and behind her flowed a stream of tears. Meandering after her flowed her tears. And on she went in the night and wept.... After her, meandered faithfully the stream of her tears.... And she thought of her lost happiness.... He had forsaken her.... Why...? She had loved him so, still loved him so.... Oh, she would always love him so--always, always! And in her love she did not scold him. For she loved him and scolded not. She longed for no revenge, for she loved him.... "That was fate," she thought, weeping. "He could not do anything else. He was obliged...." She wept. And oh! she was so tired, so tired of the wide sky, so tired of the wide sand! Then she thought she could go no farther, and should fall into the stream of her tears.... But before her a lofty shadow fell with gloomy darkness on the violet night. She looked up, and had to strain her neck to see to the top of the shadow. The shadow was round above, and then tapered off behind.... But she wept so, that she did not see.... Then with her hand she wiped away the tears from her eyes, and gazed.... The shadow was awful, like that of an awfully great beast. And she kept wiping away her tears, which formed a pool around her, and gazed.... Then she saw. She saw, squatting in the sand, a terribly great beast like a lion, immovable. The beast was as great as a castle, high as a tower; its head reached to the stars. But its head was the head of a woman, slender, enveloped in a basalt veil, which fell down, right and left, along her shoulders. And the woman's head stood on the breast of a woman, two breasts of a gigantic woman, of basalt. But the body, that squatted down in the sand, was a lion, and the forepaws protruded like walls. The night shone. The sultry night shone with diamonds over the horizonless desert. And in the starlight night the beast, terrible, rested there, half-woman, half-lion, squatting in the sand, its paws extended and its breasts and woman's head protruding, gigantic, reaching to the stars. Her basalt eyes stared straight before her. Her mouth was shut and so were the basalt lips, which would never speak. Psyche stood before the beast. Around her was the night; around her was the sand; above her the diamond, shining stars. Silently shuddering and full of awe, stood Psyche. Then she thought: "It must be she, the Sphinx...." She wept. Her tears flowed; she stood in the stream of her tears, which, winding along, followed her. And weeping, she lifted up her voice, small in the night--the voice of a child that speaks in the illimitable. "Awful Sphinx," she said, "make me wise. You know the problem of life. I pray you solve it to me, and let me no longer weep...." The Sphinx was silent. "Sphinx," continued Psyche, "open your stony lips. Speak! Tell me the riddle of life. I was born a princess, naked, with wings; I cannot fly. The light-gold Chimera, the splendid horse with the silver wings, came down to me, took me away with him in wanderings through the air, and I loved him. He has left me--me, a child--alone in the desert, alone in the night. Tell me why? If I know, I shall--perhaps--weep no more. Sphinx, I am tired. I am tired of the air, tired of the sand, tired from crying. And I cannot stop; I keep on crying. If you do not speak to me, Sphinx, then I will drown you, gigantic as you are, in my tears. Look at them flowing around me; look at them rippling at your feet like a sea. Sphinx, they will rise above your head. Sphinx, speak!" The Sphinx was silent. The Sphinx, with stony eyes, looked away into the night of diamond stars. Her basalt lips remained closed. And Psyche wept. Then she cast a look at the stars. "Sacred Stars," she murmured, "I am alone. My father is dead. The Chimera has gone. The Sphinx is silent. I am alone, and afraid and tired. Sacred Stars, watch over me. See my tears no longer flow; for this night they are exhausted.... I can cry no more. I will go to sleep, here, between the feet of the Sphinx. She speaks not, it is true; but--perhaps she is not angry, and if she wants to crush me with her foot, I care not. But yet I will go to sleep between her powerful feet. In your looks of living diamond, I feel compassion thrill.... Sacred Stars, I will go to sleep; watch over me...." She lay down between the feet of the Sphinx, against the breast of the Sphinx. And she was so little and the Sphinx so great, that she was like a butterfly sitting near a tower. Then she fell asleep. The night was very still. Far, far away in the boundless desert, a mist drifted horizonlessly along, and lit up the darkness. The stream of Psyche's tears meandered, like a silver thread, far away from whence she had come. She herself slept. The Sphinx, with staring eyes and closed mouth, looked out high into the night. The stars twinkled and watched. CHAPTER XI Without a cloud arose on the horizon the first dawn of day, the round, rosy-coloured morning glimmer. And in the dawn appeared the horizon, and bordered the sandy plain. In the rosy light, gigantic, towered the gloomy Sphinx. Psyche slept. But through her weary eyelids, the light softly sent its rays, coral-red, and suddenly she awoke. She opened her eyes, but did not move. She remained in her slumbering attitude, but her eyes looked about. She saw the desert, without an oasis, only the brooklet of tears that meandered far away from whence she had come. It was like a silver thread in the rosy light of the dawn, and she followed its windings with her eye as long as she could. And when she thus looked, she began to weep again. The tears fell on the feet of the Sphinx, and Psyche wept, in her slumbering position. There was a mist before her eyes, and through the mist glimmered the rosy desert and the little glistening stream. But now she wiped away her tears, which trickled through her fingers, for she thought she saw ... and that was so improbable. She wiped her eyes again, and saw. She thought she saw ... and it was so improbable.... But yet it was so: she saw. She saw someone coming; along every winding of the brook, she saw someone approaching.... Who was it coming there? She knew not.... He came nearer and nearer. Was she dreaming? No, she was awake. He came, whoever he was. He was approaching.... She remained sitting in the same attitude. And he came nearer and nearer, following the briny track, till he stood before the Sphinx. The Sphinx was so great and Psyche so little, that at first he did not see her. But because she was so white, with crimson wings, he saw her, a little thing red and white! He approached between the feet of the Sphinx till he stood right before her. He approached reverentially, because she had wept so much. When he was quite close, he knelt down and folded his hands. Through her tears she did not recognise him. "Who are you?" she asked in a faint voice. He stood up and approached still closer, and then she recognised him. He was Prince Eros, the King of the Present. "I know who you are," said Psyche. "You are Prince Eros, who was to have married Emeralda, or Astra." He smiled, and she said: "Why do you come here in the desert? Are you seeking here for the Jewel, or the Glass that magnifies?" He smiled and shook his head. "No, Psyche," he said gently. "I have never sought for the Jewel nor for the Glass. "But first tell me: why are you here and sleeping by the Sphinx?" She told him. She spoke of her father who was dead, of the light-gold Chimera, of the purple desert and the sorrowful night. She told him of her tears. "I have followed them, O Psyche!" he replied. "I have come ever since I saw you before your father's throne--a day never to be forgotten! "I have come here every day. Every day I leave my garden of the Present, to ask the awful Sphinx for the solution of my problem." "What problem, Prince Eros?" "The problem of my grief. For I am grieved about you, Psyche, because you would not follow me and stayed with your father.... Now I know why. You loved the Chimera...." She blushed, and hid her face in her hands. "Who could see the Chimera and not love him more than me?" said Eros gently. "Who could love him, and not weep over him?" he whispered still more gently; but she did not hear him. Then he spoke louder. "Every morning, Psyche, I come to ask the Sphinx how long I must still suffer, and why I must suffer. And still much more, O Psyche, I ask the Sphinx, that I will not tell you now, because...." "Because...?" "Because it would perhaps pain you to hear the question of my heart. So I came now, O Psyche, and then I espied a brooklet meandering through the sand. I did not know it; I was thirsty, for I am always thirsty. I stooped down and scooped up the clear water in my hand. It tasted salt, Psyche: they were tears." "My tears ..." she said, and wept. "Psyche, I drank them. Tell me, do you forgive me for that?" "Yes...." "I followed the brook, and now I have found you here." She was silent; she looked at him. He knelt down by her. "Psyche," said he gently, "I love you. Because I saw you little and naked and winged, standing amongst your proud sisters--Psyche, I love you. I love you so much, that I would weep all your tears for you, and would give you ... the Chimera." "You can't do that," she said sadly. "No, Psyche," answered he, "that cannot, alas! be done. I can only weep for myself; and the Chimera ... nobody can catch him." "He flies too fast," she said, "and he is much too strong; but it is very kind of you, Prince Eros...." She stretched out her hand, and he kissed it reverentially. Then he looked at her for a long time. "Psyche," said he, gently, "will the Sphinx give me an answer to my question this morning?" She cast down her eyes. "Psyche," he went on, "I have drunk your tears; I respect your grief, too great for your little heart. But may I suffer it with you? O Psyche, little Psyche, little, in the great desert, now your father is dead, now the Chimera is away, now you are all alone.... O Psyche, now come with me! Oh, let me now love you! O Psyche, come now with me! Psyche, alone in the desert, a little butterfly in a sandy plain--Psyche, oh, come with me! I will give you a summer-house to live in, a garden to play in, and all my love to comfort you. Don't despise them. All that I have will I give! Small is my palace and small my garden round it, but greater than the desert and the sky is my great love. O Psyche, come with me now! Then you will suffer cold and hunger and thirst no more, and the grief that your heart now suffers, Psyche, ... we will bear together." He stretched out his arms. She smiled, tired and pale from weeping, slid from the foot of the Sphinx, and nestled to his heart. "Eros," she murmured, "I suffer. I pine. I weep. I gave away all that I had. I have nothing more than my grief. Can grief ... be happiness in the Present?" He smiled. "From grief ... comes happiness," he answered. "From grief will come happiness, not in the Present, but ... in the Future!" She looked at him inquiringly. "What is that?" she asked. "Future...! It is a very sweet word.... I do not know what it is, but I have heard it before.... Father sometimes spoke of it with an affected voice.... It seems to be something far away, far, far away.... From grief will come ... in the Future ... happiness! "Far behind me lies the Past.... Then I was a child. Now I am a woman.... A woman.... Now I am, Eros, a woman, a woman, who has wept and suffered, and asked of the silent Sphinx.... Now I am no longer a princess, but a woman, a queen ... of the Present....!" She fell against his shoulder and fainted. He gave a sign, and out of the air flew a glittering golden chariot, drawn by two panting griffons. He lifted her into the chariot. He held her tight in his arm, and pressed her to his heart. With his other hand he guided his two dragon-winged lions through the glowing air of the desert. CHAPTER XII When Psyche opened her eyes, she heard the soft music of two pipes. And she awoke from her swoon with a smile. She lay still and did not move, but looked about her. She was reclining upon a soft bed of purple, on a couch of ivory. She lay in a crystal palace; round the palace were pillars of crystal and a round crystal gallery. The pillars were entwined with roses, yellow, white, and pink, and they perfumed the sunny spring morning. Through the gallery of pillars, through the walls of crystal, she saw round her a pleasant meadow, like a round valley, a valley like a garden, through which ran a murmuring brook between beds of flowers. Quite near appeared the horizon of a low hill-slope, and the cloudless sky was like a chalice of turquoise. The pipes changed their music. Psyche raised herself a little higher, leaning on her arm; she laughed and looked about. In the middle of the crystal palace was a basin of white marble, full of water, and doves were hopping about it or drinking. Sitting at the gate of crystal pillars, Psyche saw two girls; with their fingers they raised the flutes to their mouth and played. Psyche laughed and listened. Then she fell back on the bed again, happy, but tired, full of rest and contentment, and she raised her head and looked up!... Through a crocus-coloured curtain fell the tempered spring sunshine, quiet and soft, joyous and still. Psyche breathed more freely, and a sigh escaped from her heart. She put her arms under her head; her wings lay stretched out right and left on either side of her, and when she heard the music of the flutes, her thoughts drifted away like an aimless dream, like rose-leaves upon water. She dreamed and she listened.... She no longer felt tired, and her eyes, which had shed a brook of tears, felt moist and fresh, cooled by an invisible hand, with invisible care. Her breathing was regular, and her soul felt safe.... And she smiled continually.... The pipes ceased playing.... The two girls, seeing that the queen had awaked, rose up and approached her bed with a basket of red-blushing fruit, which they set down near her. Then they made a deep reverence, but spoke not, and sat down again by the pillars and blew their pipes anew; but to another tune, somewhat louder, like a voice calling, and both in unison. The pipes sounded jubilant in the morning, and outside, high in the air, the lark answered joyously.... Psyche smiled, stretched out her hand and took a peach, a pear, a bunch of blue grapes.... The pipes played merrily together, and higher and higher and higher soared the lark and sang. Then Psyche heard the brook babbling gently; the doves answered one another, and round her the morning sang her welcome. Then footsteps light approached her softly; the pipes ceased playing; the girls rose and made a deep reverence. And between the pillars of crystal appeared Prince Eros, the King of the Present. The girls withdrew, and Eros approached and knelt before Psyche. He said nothing, but looked at her. "Eros," said Psyche, "I thank you.... I have rested; my eyes cease to burn; my hunger is appeased.... I have heard sweet music, and everything appeared kind and to love me." "Everything in my kingdom is glad that the queen has come. Everything is glad that the queen has awaked." "The Queen of the Present," murmured Psyche. Then she put her arm round his neck, and leant her head against his shoulder. "Eros," said she gently, "I love you.... How shall I express my love to you! You have walked in the track of my tears, my salt tears you have drunk; out of the desert, from the breast of the awful Sphinx, you lifted me in your chariot, drawn by swift griffons.... In my swoon I felt myself going through the air, not with the speed of the fair Chimera, whose hoofs struck lightning and made the thunder roll high in the ether ... but smoothly and evenly on wheels, over the clouds delicately tinted with the glowing dawn. How long did we travel...? How long have I slept? Eros, how shall I express my love to you! My love is deep gratitude, inexpressible, because you rescued me. My love is heart-felt thankfulness, because you have cared for and refreshed me. My love is...." She paused for a moment, and rose from the bed. "What, Psyche?" said he gently, and stood up. "My love is deep, submissive respect, O Eros, because you wanted to weep my tears and give me the wish of my heart, which, had it been fulfilled, would have caused you the most poignant grief." She sank upon her knees and took his hand in hers and kissed it long. He lifted her up and pressed her to his breast. "My gentle Psyche!" said he. "My child and my wife and my tender princess! Kneel not to me. In love it is sweet to give and to suffer. Love gives, and love suffers...." "I have only suffered, but not given," said Psyche, in a low tone. "To suffer is to give most. To give to one we love the suffering of his suffering soul, is the greatest gift that can be given, my child and my princess! Try, with the remembrance sacred to Suffering and Love, endured and loved, to be happy in the Present. Oh, let the Past be a remembrance, a sacred remembrance, a golden remembrance; but now look to the Present. Oh, let the Present comfort you--the Present, little, humble, and poor. Look! this is all. This cupola is my palace, this garden is my kingdom; these flowers and these birds, they are all my treasures--roses and doves and the singing lark. More I have not; but I have still my love--my love, great as the heaven and wide as the universe. But he who lives in love so great, needs no greater palace and no greater kingdom to rule over. For the treasures of Emeralda I would not exchange my kingdom and my love.... Psyche, my queen, yet I have ornaments for you. The Princess of Nakedness with the wings may never wear jewels of precious stones, and jewels I have not. But pearls, Psyche, I have pearls which Emeralda despises. Pearls, Psyche, I found in your tears of yesterday. See! I strung them together, they were a crown for you. Pearls may adorn you, tears may adorn you, my child of suffering, my wife of love, queen of my soul and of my kingdom...." Then he took a little crown of twelve great pearls and put it on her head. Then he hung a necklace of pearls round her neck. And as she stood before him naked, so immaculately delicate in her princessly nakedness, he threw around her loins a light, thin veil, richly adorned with pearls, and which she fastened in a knot. Then he gave her a mirror, and she beheld herself very beautiful, crowned like a queen, and smiled with contentment. "Am I a queen?" she said softly. "Am I happy? Eros, do you love me? Is this the happiness of the Present? Eros, do I love you out of gratitude and respect, my husband and my king...?" He led her gently away, through the porticos, down the crystal steps. Cupids hovered about them, the lark sang high in the heavens, the roses perfumed the air, the brook murmured gently. The spring rejoiced to welcome them, and behind the shrubs the pipes played a duet. The hill-slope of the horizon was peaceful, and above, the heaven, arched like a turquoise chalice. Everything sang, everything was fragrant; in the grass buzzed thousands of insects; about the flowers fluttered butterflies; and where Psyche, on her husband's arm, walked along the flower-beds, all the flowers bowed to her in homage--the white slender lilies, the violets with laughing eyes, tall flowers and short flowers, on long and short stems--and all gave forth their fragrance. Eros pointed around. "This is the Present, Psyche," said he, and pressed her to his heart. "And this is happiness, that is as a lily and a violet ..." she whispered, with her lips to his. CHAPTER XIII The pleasant days followed each other like a row of laughing houris.... Eros and Psyche tended the flowers, which did not fade when Psyche stroked the stems or gently kissed the calyces. They wandered along the brook, and, if the days were warm, sought coolness under the crocus-coloured awning, in the crystal palace, where the doves cooed round the basin. The flutes played, or Eros himself took a lyre and sang, at Psyche's feet, the stories of days gone by. It was one of the pleasures of the flower-laughing Present. Between the shrubs, where May strewed fragrant snow-blossom, naked, chubby cupids with tender wings played or romped, hovering like little clouds in the air. The sweet nights followed the pleasant days; the diamond stars, the same which Psyche had entreated to watch over her in the desert, glittered in the heavens. Under the roses, close to one another, slumbered the fair-winged children, tired out with play, their little mouths open and their chubby legs all folds. The air was heavy with the breath of lilac and jasmine; it was spring, it was the Present, it was night...! And while Psyche lay with her head against Eros' shoulder and he wound his arm round her waist, while Psyche looked up at the stars, sacred in the violet night, the nightingale broke out into melody. The bird sang, and sang alone; everything was still. The bird sang, and let her notes fall in the air like drops of sprinkled sound, like the harmonious falling of water from a playing fountain. The bird sang, and Psyche closed her eyes, and felt on her lips Eros' kiss. The days followed the nights. It was always the sweet pleasure of flowers and birds, of spring and love, cupids and roses, music and dance. The flowers were more beautiful, and did not fade; the fruits were sweeter and of richer colour; the spring air was lighter, and life was happier than a golden day. It was day which lasted days and nights; it was the Present. If Psyche were alone she longed for Eros, and when she saw him again she spread out her arms, and they loved each other. If Psyche were alone, she wandered about in the rosy spring morning; the flowers bowed down to her; the brook flowed cool over her feet; she played with the winged cherubs, who flew about her head like butterflies; she sat down in the moss full of violets; she bade the children take off her crown, loosen the plaits of her long hair, untie the knots of the drapery round her loins, and she lay down on the bank of the brook; her hand played with the clear cold water, and, naked in the shade of flowery shrubs, she fell asleep and the cupids round her. Then the step of the king awoke her; the children awoke; they dressed her, and she went to meet her husband, and received him with open arms. It was the sweet delight of the Present. One day she was sleeping naked under the shrubs, the boys round about her; on the moss lay her crown and her veil, and the brooklet flowed on, gently murmuring. The day was very still, heavy with warmth. A storm was brewing, but the sky was still blue. In the far-off distance, where the horizon was like waves of the sea, clouds pregnant with storm curled up gloomily like ostrich feathers. And once there was lightning, but no thunder. Then above the ridge of the hill something dark appeared to rise against the stormy clouds. It was round like a head, like a black head. From the black head leered two eyes, black as jet, and nothing more appeared. Long leered the eyes; then from the palace a voice cried. "Psyche, Psyche!" Psyche awoke, and the cupids with her. Eros approached and led her away. The air grew dark, and the next moment the summer storm burst forth, dark sky, lightning, rain, and thunder rapidly rolling on. It lasted only for a time; then the sky became blue again, the flowers recovered their breath and raised their drooping heads, shaking with fresh rain. CHAPTER XIV Next day, when Psyche was sleeping again by the brook, the dark head with the leering eyes of jet appeared again on the horizon. For a long time the eyes leered, full of lust. Then the head rose up higher like a dark sun, behind the hill-slope in the sky. It was a face tanned by the sun, with coal-black hair; round the temples a wreath of vine leaves, and from the wreath protruded two horns like those of a young goat. The eyes looked lustful and young, as though they were jet and gold. The lips laughed in the curly beard, and the sharp teeth were dazzling white; the pointed ears stood up. Then the dark face became perfectly visible in the light; the shoulders rose brown and naked, and two brown hands with long fingers lifted to the lips a pipe of short and long reeds. The pipe played a fanfare, a march of very quick notes. Then it stopped, and the gold-jet eyes leered. Psyche moved in her sleep. Then the pipe sounded again, and Psyche opened her eyes. Astonished, she listened to the notes of the pipe, as they rose and fell so as she had never heard before, lively and wanton, quick and playful. She sat up, leant on her arm, and looked.... She started. There, on the horizon, like a dark sun, she saw the brown face and the lips in the curly beard blowing the reeds, short and long. Psyche started and looked on trembling. Then the pipe stopped again, and roguishly the head nodded to her. Psyche was frightened; she woke the boys. She fled away. From the palace Eros came to meet her. At first she meant to speak, but he kissed her; and why, she did not know, but she spoke not. Then she made up her mind to tell Eros that night, but in her husband's arms she lacked the courage to speak. She did not tell him. The next morning she resolved not to repose again in the moss by the brook. But that afternoon she played with the cupids, and tired, fell asleep in the same place. The pipe awoke her; on the horizon, the brown face stood out against the sun, and roguishly nodded to her. Psyche, indignant, looked up. The head rose, the shoulders rose, and the whole form then rose up: a sunburnt youth, with the legs of a goat, rough-haired and cloven hoofs. There he stood, his dark shadow reflected in the golden rays of the setting sun. He blew his reeds; he piped lustily and merrily, roguishly and joyously and as well as he could, to please Psyche. She listened--about her the boys were sleeping--and she smiled. He saw her smile and smiled too. Then proudly she pointed with her finger for him to go. He went, but the next day he was there again. Then she saw him every day. He stood in the sun, which was going down, and blew his reeds, laughed and nodded to her roguishly. Sometimes Psyche bade him be gone; sometimes she pretended not to see who was playing there; sometimes she listened graciously. When she heard the king call: "Psyche! Psyche!" she woke the cupids, who dressed her in a moment, and went to meet her husband. She kissed him, and wished to tell him that every day a young man with goats' legs stood on the hill and played upon his pipe. But because she had kept silence so long, she was silent again, and could not open her lips. It made her sad, and Eros saw her sadness, and often asked her what it was that disturbed the equanimity of her soul. She said "Nothing," and embraced him and declared that she was happy. But when the lark warbled and the nightingale's sweet notes were heard, when Eros sang to the lyre and the brook murmured gently, Psyche always heard, between the pleasant sounds, the impudent tunes of the reeds, short and long. She tried not to hear, but she always heard them. They sounded saucily and merrily, like the sounds of a little bird in a wood calling something to her from afar; she heard, but did not yet understand what. One day, when he stood in the same place blowing lustily with puffed-out cheeks, Psyche, indignant, rose with her lips closely pressed together. She put her veil on and wound it tightly round her loins, without waking the boys. Then, with a firm step and innocently, she crossed a little slope, and came into a valley, a valley of grass; there the brook flowed away between multitudes of irises and narcissi. The goat, leering and laughing, tripped nimbly down the hill on his hoofs to meet her. "Who are you?" said Psyche haughtily. "I am the Satyr," said he deferentially. "And now will you just see me dance?" He piped a waltz, and danced for her to the measure of his tripping music. He turned out his feet, spun round and round, and underneath, on his back, she saw his tiny tail wagging. She laughed, and found him amusing, with his tail, and feet, and horns. Then he turned a somersault, and finished his dance with a bow. "You may not come here," said Psyche severely. "This is the Kingdom of the Present, and I am the queen, and my husband is Eros, the king of this kingdom. You dance indeed nicely, and you play rather pretty tunes, but you may not come here. We have here the lark and the nightingale, and my husband sings to the lyre." "That is classical music," said the Satyr. "I don't know what you mean by classical music. But you may not come here and pipe, and disturb me in my afternoon slumber. If my husband knew it, he would be very angry, and have you torn to pieces by two raging griffons." "I am not afraid of that," said the Satyr. "Why, I tame panthers, and they are much more dangerous." "I had pity on you," continued Psyche severely, raising her head in queenly dignity, "and have not yet said anything to the king. But if you come again to-morrow, I will tell him." "No, you won't!" said the Satyr saucily. "You are an ill-mannered boy!" said Psyche, angry and offended. "You must not speak so to a princess. I ought not to condescend to speak to you. I can see very well that you don't know how people behave at court, and that you come from the wood. And you are ugly, too, with your hairy feet and your tail." The Satyr looked at her astonished. "I think you very pretty!" he whispered admiringly. "Oh, I think you so pretty! You have such pretty eyes, and such golden hair, and such a white skin! Only, I don't like your wings. The nymphs haven't any." "You may not speak to me like that!" said Psyche vexed. "I am the queen. How dare you? Go away now, else I will call the wild beasts here." "Well, don't be angry!" said the Satyr in a low, imploring tone. "That is my way of speaking. We all speak like that in the wood. The Bacchantes, too, are not particular what they say. We are unacquainted with your court language. And we don't know anything of classical music. But we are always very merry and sociable together; but you must come once...." "Are you going?" said Psyche imperiously, and red with passion, and with her finger she pointed to him to be gone. He crouched down suddenly in the reeds of the brook among the irises and narcissi, and she saw him stealing away through the high grass. When she turned round she beheld the cupids; they were bringing her her crown. "The king is looking for you, Psyche!" they cried out in the distance, and like a cloud they hovered round her. She went back with them and threw herself into the arms of her husband. "Don't roam so far away, my little Psyche!" said Eros. "In the wood behind the hills are wild beasts...." Night came on; Eros sang, the nightingale filled the air with her sweet notes. "Classical music!" thought Psyche. CHAPTER XV Psyche had a secret. Why did she not tell it? She did not know. She could not, after having once kept silent. She knew that she was not doing right by being silent, and yet she did not speak. But she was very sad about it, and felt dissatisfied. Then she wanted to speak with Eros; but because she had said nothing at first, she was afraid. And then she said to herself: "The Satyr does nothing wrong by standing there and piping a little, and it is not worth while thinking much about it...." And yet she did think about it, and in her ears she always heard his saucy voice, his coarse words, countrified and funny. Then she laughed about it all. "But what does he do--what is he? a Satyr? What is a Satyr? What are Bacchantes? And what are nymphs? Panthers, too, I have never seen. I should like to see them. What is their life there in the wood? There are many lives in the world, and most of them are a secret. I only know the courtiers of the Kingdom of the Past.... Here there are the two girls that play on the pipe and the winged children. I should like to see all that there is in the world, and experience all that is in life. There must be strange things, which I never see.... The Chimera was glorious, and deep in my soul I always long for him; but in other respects everything is the same.... No wonders take place in this garden.... Eros is a young prince; then there are the doves, the griffons, the cupids.... That is all so commonplace.... Oh, to seek, to wander! The world is so great! the universe is awful, although it has limits. My father said it had no limits.... Oh, if it had no limits...! Oh, to seek, to wander, to soar in the air!... I shall never see the Chimera again. Never shall I soar in the air again.... He conjured up visions for me, and then let them pass away.... Oh, to soar through the air! When shall I see him again, and when shall I soar again...? Eros I love--he is my husband; but he has no wings. The Chimera had powerful wings of silver feathers. He has left me for ever...." So, alone with her thought, she wandered in the garden. The cupids she drove away, and, crying, they hid themselves among the roses. When the Satyr appeared, she went to meet him in the valley, where the irises were blooming. "So, you are there again!" "Yes! won't you just see me dance again?" He danced and frisked his tail. "I have already told you more than once that you may not come here," said Psyche severely. He winked roguishly; he knew very well that his presence was not disagreeable to her. "You are so beautiful!" he said, in his most flattering tone; "much more beautiful than any of the nymphs." "And the Bacchantes, then?" said Psyche. "Much more beautiful than the Bacchantes!" he answered. "But they are also very nice. Tell me, wouldn't you like to see them?" Psyche was very inquisitive, and he noticed it. "Won't you just see them?" he repeated temptingly. "Where?" said Psyche. "Look ... there!" He pointed in the distance with his finger. On the hill Psyche saw forms madly whirling round in a dance. "Those are the Bacchantes!" said the Satyr. Psyche laughed. "How madly they whirl round!" she exclaimed. "Are they always so merry?" "Oh, we are always dancing," said the Satyr. "In the wood it is always pleasure. We play at tag with one another, we drink the juice of the grapes, and we dance till nightfall." "Psyche! Psyche!" called a voice. It was her husband. The Satyr fled through the flags, and Psyche hastened back. She threw herself into Eros' arms, who asked her where she had been. And without answering him, she began to cry and hid her face in his breast. "What is it, little Psyche?" asked Eros. "Are you in trouble? Amongst the roses the boys cry, and by the brook the queen cries. Is there then sadness in my kingdom? Does not Psyche feel happy?" She wept and shrugged her shoulders, as if to say that she did not know. And she hid her face in his breast. "Tell me, Psyche, what is the matter?" She would have liked to tell him, but she could not; a stronger power kept her back. "Does not Psyche feel happy? Does she long for the Chimera?" She laid her little hand upon his lips. "Don't speak about him. I am not worthy of him. I am not worthy of you, Eros." He kissed her very gently. "What does my Psyche think about? May I not leave her any more, alone by the brook?" "No, no!" said she hastily, and drew his arms round her.... "No," she continued quickly. "Don't leave me alone any more. Always stay by me. Protect me from myself, O Eros...!" "Is little Psyche ill?" She nodded in the affirmative, and laid her burning head upon his breast; she nestled against him and shut her feverish eyes. He stayed by her, and all around was still, and the cupids appeared fluttering in the air. That night she slept in Eros' arms. She awoke for a moment out of her sleep; far away in the distance through the crystal of the palace she heard the sound of pipes. She raised her head and listened. But she would not hear any more, and hid herself in Eros' arms and fell asleep on his heart. The next day he stayed by her, and they wandered to the brook. Sadness hung over the garden, the flowers drooped. In the afternoon Psyche became uneasy; she heard the pipe, and in the distance caught a glimpse of vague forms dancing. "Do you see nothing?" she asked Eros. "No...." "Do you hear nothing?" she said again. "No," he answered. "Poor Psyche is ill. And the flowers are ill too, because she is. Oh, let Eros cure you...!" The following night, in the arms of her husband, she heard the pipe. It played saucy, short, lively tunes. "Come, come, now dance with us; we are drinking the grapes. Come ... come...!" She could resist no longer. Trembling, she loosed herself from her husband's arms, who was asleep. She got up, stole out of the palace, fled through the garden to the alluring voice. The flowers in the brook seemed to entreat her: "Oh, go not away! Oh, go not away!" The nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. She hurried on to the valley, where the irises were in blossom. There, near the brook, in the light of the moon, stood the Satyr, tripping to the sound of his pipe, and round him, hand in hand, madly danced the Bacchantes, naked, a panther's skin cast about them, their wild streaming hair encircled with vine-leaves. They danced like drunken spectres in the pale moonlight night; they waved their thyrsus, and pelted each other with grapes, which smashed to juice upon their faces. "Come, come!" they cried triumphantly. Psyche was startled by their voices, rough and hoarse. But they opened their circle, two stretched their hand out to Psyche, and they danced round with her. The wild dance excited her; she had never known till then what dancing was, and she danced with sparkling eyes. She waved a thyrsus, and pressed the grapes to her mouth.... Then suddenly the Satyr caught hold of her and kissed her passionately, pressing the grapes to her lips.... "Psyche! Psyche!" She started and stood still. The Bacchantes, the Satyr, fled. Psyche hastened back; with her hand she wiped her contaminated, burning lips. "... Psyche!" She ran to meet Eros, but when she saw him, godlike and beautiful as an image, spotlessly pure in the moonlight, with his noble countenance, his deep brown eyes full of love, she was so disgusted with herself that she fell at his feet in a swoon. He lifted her up and laid her on the bed. He watched while she slumbered. The whole night he watched by her.... And it seemed as if she were wandering in her mind.... Her face glowed with fever, and ever and anon she wiped her lips. Outside in the garden the flowers drooped in sorrow. The lark was silent, and the little angels sat together with their wings drawn in. The sky was ash-coloured and gloomy. That night Psyche slept in Eros' arms, and afar off the pipe allured her.... She extracted herself from Eros' embrace and got up.... She wanted to kiss him for the last time, but durst not, for fear of waking him. "Farewell!" she whispered very gently. "Noble Eros, beloved husband, farewell! I am unworthy of you. The Satyr's kiss is still burning on my lips; my mouth is on fire from the juice of the grapes. Farewell...! And if you can, forgive me!" She went. The night was sultry and heavy with thunder; the flowers, exhausted, hung their heads; the nightingale uttered a cry, and she thought it was an owl. Bats flitted about with flapping wings. She walked with a firm step. She followed the brook to where it flowed into the valley. Yonder ... with the Satyr in their midst, danced the Bacchantes. "Hurrah! Hurrah!" they cried out, rough and hoarse, and threw at her a bunch of grapes. She hesitated a moment.... She raised her eyes. Through the gloomy night a single star glistened like a cold, proud eye. "Sacred star!" said Psyche, "you who watched over me before, and now leave me for ever ... tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!" The star hid itself in the darkness. "Come!" cried the Bacchantes. Psyche took a step forward.... "Brook!" she then cried, "little stream of the land of the Present, babbling pure and peacefully, in which I never more may cool myself ... oh, tell him that I am unworthy of him and beg him to forgive me!" The brook went murmuring over the stones, and muttered: "No, no...." "Come, come!" cried the Bacchantes. Then Psyche plucked a single violet, white as a maiden's face. "Sweet violet!" said she, "humble flower, don't be proud. Your queen, who is forsaking her kingdom, entreats the star and brook in vain. She is no longer a queen. She is no longer obeyed. Sweet violet, hear the prayer of Psyche, who, unworthy, is forsaking the Present...." "Stay, Psyche!" implored the flower in her hand. "Dear little flower!" said Psyche, "born in the moss, withering when you are plucked, what do you know of gods and mortals? What do you know of soul and life and power? Psyche can no longer stay. But beg Love to forgive her...! Oh, give him my last message!" She kissed the flower and laid it in the moss. "Psyche! Psyche! Come!" cried the Bacchantes. She sprang forward into the midst of the dance. "Here I am!" she cried wildly. And they dragged her away with them to the wood. CHAPTER XVI When Eros awoke that morning, he found not Psyche by his side. He got up, thinking that she was in the garden, and went out. The sky was dull and lowering, a mist hung over the hills. The lark had not sung, the cupids were not fluttering about. "Psyche!" cried he, "Psyche!" No answer was returned. No sigh rustled in the leaves of the trees; no insect hummed in the grass; the flowers hung down withered on their limp stems. A deathly chilliness reigned around. A fearful presentiment took possession of Eros. He walked along the flower-beds, along the brook. "Oh! where is Psyche?" he cried. "Oh, tell me, water, flowers, birds, where is Psyche!!" No answer was returned. The brook flowed on murkily and noiselessly, the flowers lay across the path; no bird sang among the leaves. He wrung his hands and hastened on. Then he came to the spot where Psyche was wont to rest in the moss by the brook, in the shade of the shrubs. "Who will tell me where Psyche is?" he exclaimed in despair, and threw himself on the moss and sobbed. "Eros!" cried a weak voice. "Who speaks there?" "I, a white violet, which Psyche plucked.... Hear me quickly, for I feel I am dying, and my elfin voice is scarcely audible to your ear. Listen to me ... I am lying close to you. Take me in your hand...." Eros took the flower. "Psyche has been enticed by the Satyr into the wood. The Bacchantes have taken her away. This was her last word: that she was unworthy of you, and went away praying for forgiveness.... She could not remain, she said; she went...! Eros, forgive her!" The flower shrivelled up in his hand. Eros rose and tottered; he too felt that he was dying. Sad at heart walked Eros, and all along his path the flowers now lay shrivelled. The brook was dry. The lark lay dead before his feet. The cupids lay dead in the withered roses. Eros went into the castle and fell upon the purple bed. A single dove was expiring at the marble basin. The strings of the lyre were all broken.... Eros too felt that his life was leaving his body. He raised his eyes, over which the film of death was stealing, and looked about the castle; the crystal crumbled off and split from the top to the bottom. "Sacred powers!" prayed he, "forgive her as I forgive her, and love her till the End, as I shall and for ever. Let her find what she seeks; let her wanderings once come to an end; let her soar through the air, if she must, till she comes to the purest sphere...." This sphere was the earth, the sweet Present, the little resting-point on which she could not wander, and thus felt within her the irresistible desire.... "Sacred powers, let her one day find what her happiness is. Then, if it is not I.... Let her find...." His voice failed, his eyes opened as in a vision, and he whispered and finished his prayer: "... find ... in the Future...!" That sacred word was his last. He died. In the Kingdom of the Present, that once had been as a smiling garden, everything was now dead.... Then ... in the mist, which hung over the ridge of the mountains, something seemed to be creeping near, something with feet that could only move slowly. From many sides, over the hill-top, the strange creeping came nearer.... Gigantic, hairy feet of monstrous spiders were walking over it; they came nearer and nearer; they were spiders with big, swollen bodies and feet always in motion.... They were the sacred spiders of Emeralda, Princess of the Past. Eagerly they ran to the dead garden of the Present.... They surrounded the garden and threw out their filaments to the crystal roof of the palace. Then they wove over the Present, that lay dead, one single gigantic web.... And whilst they wove, the dead Present went to dust. CHAPTER XVII In the wood, in the autumn sun, Autumn was keeping festival. The foliage shone resplendent in yellow, bronze, purple, golden-red, and pink; the sulphur-coloured moss looked like antique velvet. With gusts of wind, the branches, madly arrogant, shook off their exuberance of sere and yellow leaves, as if they were strewing the paths with silver and gold and rustling notes. Loudly laughing danced the dryads through the whirling leaves. Out of the foaming stream between moss-covered rocks, rose the white, naked nymphs. "Where is she? Where is she?" cried they inquisitively. "There she comes! there she comes!" shouted the mad dryads, and in handfuls they cast the leaves into the air, which whirled over the nymphs and fell down on the water. The dryads danced past, and the nymphs looked out inquisitively. They stood, a naked group, in their rocky bath; their arms were clasped round one another; green was their hair and white as pearls were their bosoms. The sere and yellow leaves kept whirling about. Trampling feet were approaching and were heard amongst the rustling leaves. Merry-makers were drawing near; the golden foliage quivered like a curtain of thin, fine, gold lace.... "There she comes! there she comes!" exclaimed the nymphs with joy. The branches cracked, the leaves whirled about, the tender sprays recoiled from the noisy merry-makers, who were advancing. Nearer they came with the sound of pipe and cymbal. Drunken Bacchantes danced before them, waving the thyrsus, hand in hand with fauns and satyrs; they encircled a triumphal car, drawn by spotted lynxes. High on the car sat a youth, beardless, with a wreath of vine-leaves round his forehead, full of laughter and animal spirits, with blue eyes that showed his love of pleasure. Naked were his godlike limbs, chubbily formed like the tender flesh of a boy, and his legs were long and slender, his arms rounded like those of a woman. He was the prince of the wood, of divine origin: Prince Bacchus was his name. And next to him on the triumphal car, sat little Psyche enthroned. She too was naked, with nothing on but her veil, and her wings were so strikingly beautiful, crimson and soft yellow and with four peacock's-feather eyes. Round the car, close together as a bunch of grapes, sported madly a number of wine-gods, tumbling over one another, grape-drunken children. In triumph the procession rushed on through the golden wood. The Bacchantes and satyrs sang and danced; two satyrs drove the lynxes, which, spiteful as cats, spat at them; the wine-gods entwined the vine and bore great heavy bunches of grapes. High up, like a butterfly, which was a goddess, sat Psyche, and laughed with glistening eyes and glowing cheeks, waving to the nymphs. "Live! long live Psyche--Psyche with the splendid wings!" shouted the nymphs. The wind blew, the leaves whirled about; the procession swept past as though hurried along by the gale. A little wine-god had fallen and lay in the yellow leaves, playing with his chubby legs, purple-red from the juice of grapes; he was crying because he had been left behind; then he succeeded in getting on to his feet, and tottered after the procession.... The nymphs laughed loudly at the little wine-god; they dived under and beneath the rocks. The wind blew, the yellow leaves whirled about. And the wood became still and lonely. CHAPTER XVIII "Psyche, stay!" said Bacchus entreatingly. "No, no, let me alone!" "With you goes all joy from the feast; Psyche, stay!" "I will not always sing, dance, drink. No, no, let me alone!" She pushed him away from her; she pushed the satyrs away from her; she broke the round dance of the Bacchantes, who, drunken, shouted with drunken eyes and wide-open, screaming mouths. "Psyche! Psyche!" screamed all. She laughed loudly and coquettishly, like a spoilt child. "I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!" she said with a mocking laugh. "Your voices are hoarse, your song is out of tune, your last grapes were sour! I will only have the sweet of your feast, and the bitter I will leave to you. Spread out your panther skins; go and sleep off your drunkenness. If your feast has to last till winter, you need rest--rest for your hoarse throats, rest for your drunken legs, rest for your heads, muddled with wine.... I will come back to-morrow, when you are sober!" She gave a loud, mocking laugh, and rushed into the wood. It was a moonlight night; in the pale moonbeams she left the wild feast behind. The jealous Bacchantes danced round Bacchus, and embraced him. Psyche hastened on. Her temples throbbed, her heart beat, and her bosom heaved. When she was far enough away, she stopped, pressed both her hands to her bosom, and gave a deep sigh. More slowly she went on to the stream. Fresh was the autumn night, but burning were her naked limbs! The wood was still, save that in the top-most branches the wind moaned. Like a silvery ship the moon sailed forth from the luminous, ethereal sea, and the rushing mountain-stream foamed like snow on the rocks. With a longing desire for coolness and water, Psyche stepped down to the flags on the bank; with her hands she put aside the irises, and made her way through the ferns and plunged her foot into the water. Then the nymphs dived up. "Psyche! Psyche!" cried they joyously, "Psyche with the splendid wings!" Psyche smiled. She threw herself into the water, and the snow-white foam dashed up. "Let me be with you a moment," entreated Psyche. "Let me cool myself in your stream." The nymphs pressed round her and carried her on their arms. She lay down at full length. "Cool my forehead, cool my cheeks, cool my heart!" she cried imploringly. "Dear nymphs, oh, cool my soul! Everything burns on me and in me; fire scorches my lips, fire scorches my brain.... O dear nymphs, cool me!" The nymphs sprinkled water on her; Psyche put her arm round the neck of one of them. "Your water-drops hiss on my forehead as on burning metal. Your flakes of foam evaporate on the fire in my breast. And on my soul, O dear nymphs, you cannot sprinkle your coolness!" The nymphs filled their stream-urns and poured them over Psyche. "Pour them all out! Pour them all out!" cried Psyche entreatingly. "But although my hair is dripping, and my wings and my limbs too, my lips are scorched, my poor forehead burns, and within me, O nymphs...! within me, my soul is consumed as in hell-fire...!" The nymphs took her gently in their arms; they dived with her below, they came up again; they kept diving up and down. "Oh, bathe me, bathe me!" cried Psyche imploringly. "Benevolent nymphs, bathe me! Some coolness still hangs about my body ... but my soul, oh, my soul you can never cool!" She wept, and the nymphs caught up her tears in mother-of-pearl shells. "Are you collecting my tears? Oh, no, they are not worth it. Once I wept a brook full; once they were drunk, drunk by Love; once they were pearls, and Love crowned me with them! Now, now they are like drops of wine, drops of fire, and though they should congeal and become rubies or topazes, they may never crown me more. Henceforth my tears I shall always shed ... for Emeralda!" In the shells the nymphs saw glistening pearls, and they understood not.... But all their urns they poured out upon Psyche's eyes. "My eyes are getting cool, O beloved nymphs; many tears I shall never shed again; never again shall I weep a brook full.... But cool my soul, extinguish deep within me the burning flames!" "We cannot, Psyche...." "No, no, you cannot, O nymphs! Let me lie still, then, still in your arms. Let me rock quietly to and fro on your white-foaming water, then let me sleep quietly.... But in my sleep my soul keeps burning; in my dreams I see it flame up, high up as out of a hole in hell.... Oh!" She uttered a cry, as of pain.... The nymphs rocked her in their entwined arms, as in a cradle of lilies, and softly sang a song.... "Nymphs, nymphs....! This is the fire that nothing can extinguish--no, never.... This is remorse...." The nymphs understood her not; they rocked her and sang in a low, soft voice. CHAPTER XIX That morning she wandered about in the rosy autumn dawn--a mist between the trees stripped of leaves. Along the path she trod; on a skin she found a satyr and a Bacchante lying in a drunken sleep, tight in each other's arms; a cup lay on the ground, a broken thyrsus, pressed-out grapes. She hastened on and sought the most lonely spots. The foliage became scantier, the trees grew farther apart, the wood ended in a plain and, violet misty, a perspective of very low hills. Psyche walked on over the plain and climbed the hills. The autumn wind blew and howled between shrubs and bushes, and sang the approach of winter. But Psyche felt not the cold, for her naked limbs glowed: her soul was all on fire. On the highest hill-top she looked out, her hand above her eyes, gazing into the violet mist.... Unconscious to herself, she hoped for something vague and impossible: that she might see Eros, that he would come to her, that she would fall at his feet, that he would forgive her tenderly, and take her away with him. Impossible. "What was impossible? Could not everything be possible? Had he not followed the track of her tears? had he not found her in the arms of the Sphinx?" Oh, she hoped, she hoped, she hoped more definitely! Her remorse-burned soul longed for the balsam of his love in the palace of crystal, for the sounds of his lyre, for the tender words in the garden of the Present. She hoped, she gazed.... In the pale glow of the morning sun, the violet mist cleared up, and parted like violet curtains.... She gazed: there was the Present.... There Eros would be, mourning for his naughty Psyche! There he would presently forgive her.... Oh, how she hoped, how she longed!.... She longed; she stretched out her arms and dared cry in a plaintive voice: "Eros!" The wind blew through bush and shrub and sang the approach of winter. The violet curtains of mist were drawn aside. The sad autumn morning appeared. There, now visible, lay the Present.... And Psyche gazed, screening her eyes with her hand.... There she saw her happiness of days gone by, destroyed. In a dead, withered garden, a ruin: crystal pillars crumbling to pieces. And between the pillars, spiders' webs; all over the garden spiders' webs, web upon web, and in them spiders with bloated bodies and lazy-moving feet.... Then she saw that Emeralda was reigning! Then she felt that Eros was dead! She had murdered him! Oh, how her limbs glowed, how her soul burned! Oh, the burning pain within her, deep within--a pain which no grape-juice could allay, which no mad dance could deaden and the nymphs could not cool, though they poured over her all their urns! Oh, that hell in her soul, for the irretrievable desolation, for the murdered one, past recall! Oh, that suffering, not for herself, but for him--for another! that repentance, that burning remorse!.... She fell to the ground and sobbed. The pale sunbeams faded away, thick grey clouds came sweeping along, a shower of hail rattled down, flinging handfuls of icy-cold stones.... She felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked up. It was the Satyr who had allured her with his pipe, there, on that very spot. "Psyche!" said he, "what are you doing here, so far away from all of us? Winter is coming, Psyche; listen to the whistling winds, feel the rattling hail; the last leaves are being blown away. We are going to the South, and Prince Bacchus is seeking for you.... What are you doing here, and why are you crouching down and weeping? "We are having a feast and are fleeing the winter; come!" "I feel no cold; I am burning.... Let me stay here, and weep, and die...." "Why should you die, O Psyche, Psyche, so pretty and so gay--Psyche, the prettiest and gayest, who can dance the maddest, who can dance out all the Bacchantes? Come!...." She laughed through her tears, a laugh like a piercing shriek. "But Psyche, do you know what it is?" said the Satyr, whispering confidentially. "Do you know what it is that prevents you from being happy, and why you are not like all of us? I told you before, Psyche: it is on account of your wings. Your wings prevent you from putting a beast's skin round you, and entwining your hair with vine. The nymphs find your wings pretty, but what do you want with things that are pretty, yet of no use whatever? If you could only fly with those wings!" ... "If I could only fly with those wings!" said Psyche, sighing. "No, I have never been able to fly with them, my poor, weak wings!" "The nymphs think your wings pretty, but the nymphs are sentimental. The Bacchantes think them ugly, and laugh at you in secret. Prince Bacchus does not like wings either; he cannot embrace you well with those things on your back. Psyche, dear Psyche, listen: shall I tell you something....? You must let me cut those wings off with a pair of grape-scissors. For when you have got rid of your wings, then you can throw a panther's skin round you, and put a vine-wreath round your hair, and you will be altogether one of us...." The wind blew, the hail rattled down: winter was coming on. ... "Eros is dead!" murmured Psyche, "Spring is past, the Present is withered, Emeralda reigns.... 'What are you doing with things that are pretty, and have no use at all...?' "If I cannot possibly get cool, if I keep burning deep within me ... it is better, perhaps, to renounce my princess's rights, to go naked no longer, to have no wings...." "Tell me, Psyche, may I cut them off?" "Yes, clip them! Cut them right off, my wings, which are only pretty!" she cried fiercely. "Cut them off!!" His eyes glowed jet and gold, his breath came quickly from joy. He produced his sharp scissors.... And whilst she knelt, he cut off both her wings. They fell on the ground and shrivelled up. "Oh, that pains, that pains!... Oh, that pains!" cried Psyche. "It is a little wound, it will soon heal," said the Satyr soothingly, but grinning with pleasure. Then he threw a panther's skin round her, put a wreath of vine-leaves on her head, and she was like a fair Bacchante still very young and tender, with her white skin, with her tender eyes of soul-innocence, in which, deep down, dejection reigned. "Psyche!" cried he delighted, "Psyche! How pretty you are!" She uttered her shrill laugh, her laugh of bitter irony. He led her away down the hills. She looked about: yonder lay the Present, reduced to dust and spider-webs. She looked about: in the wind, which was blowing, her wings whirled away, shrivelled up, whirled away like dry leaves. She laughed and put her arm round his neck, and they hastened back to the wood. The wind blew; the first snowflakes fell. CHAPTER XX Slowly followed the seasons--winter, spring, summer, autumn.... Winter, spring, summer, autumn, fell in turn, like dust, into the caves of Emeralda. Winter, spring, summer, autumn, were the Present for a moment, and sank into the Past. And again it was spring.... In the grassy plains, the shepherds drove out their flocks, and they sang because the sky was blue, because the world trilled with hope, in the new and tempered sunshine. What did the shepherds know of Emeralda? They had never seen her. They sang, they sang; they filled the air with their song. As a reed, their song remained quivering and hanging in the air. In the wood and in the mountains, over the meadows and in the air, Echo sang with them their song. They sang because the sky was blue.... Emeralda they did not know.... Blue, blue ... blue was the air! Hope quivered in the sunshine, and love in their hearts.... Into the grassy plains the shepherds drove their flocks, and they sang because the sky was blue. On the border of the wood, where endless plains extended, there lived in a grotto between rocks, a holy hermit who was a hundred years old. How many seasons had he seen sink into the pits of the Past...! How many times had he heard the Lenten song of the shepherds! Wrapped in contemplation, he heard them singing. They sang because the sky was blue. The lark was soaring because the world trilled with hope.... They sang because fleecy lambs were sporting again in the meadows. They sang because they were young and loved the shepherdesses. They sang of blue sky, of hope, of lambs, and love.... The hermit continued deep in thought.... Every spring it was the same song, and he had never sung with them. Never had he known the Present, the spring Present of the shepherds. The hermit continued deep in thought; he dreamed that Satan was tempting him, but his pious mind resisted. He dreamed that he had died in prayer, and his soul, purified, ascended into heaven. Far off in the grassy plains was heard the bleating of the lambs, the voices of the shepherds. The hermit heard a step. He looked up. He saw a little form, as of a naked girl with no covering but her hair. And he thought it was really Satan, and he muttered an exorcism; he knit his brow, he crossed his arms. The little form approached and knelt down. "Holy father!" said she, in a low, trembling voice, "don't drive me away. I am poor and unhappy. I am a sinner, and come to you for help. I am not shameless, holy father, and I am ashamed that I appear before you naked. I asked the shepherdesses for something to cover me, but they laughed at me, drove me away and threw stones at me. Father, O father, men are merciless, they all drive me away.... I come from the wood, and the wild beasts are not so cruel as men. In the wood the beasts spared me. A lion licked the wounds on my feet, and a tigress let me rest in the lair of her whelps. Holy father, the wild beasts had pity!" "Then why don't you remain in the wood, devil, she-devil?" "Because I must fulfill a duty among men." "Who lays the task upon you, witch, devil?" "In my dream, soft voices have spoken to me, the voice of my father, and of him whom I loved, and they said: 'Go among men, do penance.'... But naked I cannot go among men, for they throw stones at me. And therefore, O father, I come to you, and entreat you: give me something to cover me! I have only my hair to hide me, and under my hair I am naked. O father, give me something to cover me! O father, give me your oldest mantle for my penance garb!" The hermit looked up at her, as she knelt in her fair hair, and he saw that she was weeping. Her tears were blood-red rubies. "He who weeps rubies has committed great sin; he who weeps rubies has a soul crimson with sin!" The penitent sobbed and bowed her head to the ground. "Here," said the hermit sternly, but compassionately. "Here is a mantle. Here is a cord for your loins. And here is a mat to sleep on. And here is bread, here is the water-pitcher. Eat, drink, cover yourself, and rest." "Thanks, holy father. But I am not tired, I am not hungry and thirsty. I am only naked, and I thank you for your mantle and your cord." She put on the mantle as a penance-garb, and whilst, red with shame, she covered herself, the hermit saw on her shoulder-blades two blood-red scar-stripes. "Are you wounded?" "I was, long ago...." "Your eyes glow: have you a fever?" "I do not know men's fever, but my soul is always burning like a cave in hell." "Who are you?" "One heavy burdened with sin." "What is your name?" "I have no name now, holy father.... Oh! ask no more.... And let me go." "Whither are you going?" "Far, along the way of thistles, to the royal castle. To the Princess Emeralda." "She is proud." "She is the Princess of the Jewel, and I weep jewels. I shed them for her. Once there was a time ... that I wept pearls.... O father, let me go!" "Go, then.... And do penance." "Thanks, father.... Oh, give me your blessing!" The hermit blessed her. She went then as a pilgrim in her penance-garb. The path was steep and covered with thistles. In the distance was heard the song of the shepherds. CHAPTER XXI The path was steep, and covered with cactus and thistles. It was a narrow path, hewn out of the rocks, winding up the basalt mountain, where, high on the top, stood the castle. The castle had three hundred towers, which rose to the sky; along them swept the clouds. In the path were many steps hewn out of stone. Heavy masses of cactus grew on the side of the precipice, and over the leaves, prickly and round, Psyche saw the grassy valleys of the Kingdom of the Past, the villages, the towns, the river: a broad silver streak, and there, behind it, opal-like views, lakes in the sky, and quivering lines of ether. Higher and higher she went up the steps, up the path, in the gloomy, chilly shadow, whilst the sun shone over the meadows. She climbed up, and below she saw the shepherds with their sheep, and their song, quite faint, came up to her. In the coppice she broke a strong stick for a staff. A lappet of her mantle she had drawn over her head as a hood. And with her staff and her hood, she looked like a pious pilgrim. The solitary countryman who was coming down the rocky path, did not throw stones at her, but greeted her reverently. She kept climbing up. High in the air lay the castle, gloomy and inaccessible, a town of towers, a Babel of pinnacles; along it swept the clouds. As an innocent child, as a naked princess with wings, Psyche had lived there like a butterfly on a rock, had wandered along the dreadful parapets, had longed and hoped and dreamed. Oh! her longings of innocence, her hope to fly through the air to the opal islands, her dreams, pure as the doves that flew round about her...! She had wandered through clouds, through desert and wood, from the North to the South. She had loved the Chimera, had put questions to the Sphinx; she had been Queen of the Present and the beloved of Bacchus, and now ... now she came back, wingless, with a soul that burned her continually, like a scarlet child of hell; now she came back up the steep path.... Her penance-garb she had borrowed. But the thistles tore her foot, and pale from pain and suffering, from wounded feet, and ever-smarting shoulders, and a soul that burned continually, was her face, that peeped out from under her wide hood. Up, up, she went, supporting herself with her staff.... Oh, the voice of her father, of Eros, in her dream, when the grape-dance was over! Then repentance had begun. Then she had fled through the wood, through the wild beasts. And the lion had licked her foot, and the tigress had allowed her to rest in the warm lair of her whelps.... Then she went on, climbing higher and higher.... Would she never get to the top? Would the castle, the Babel of pinnacles, the town of towers remain ever inaccessibly high in the clouds? Her step left blood behind on the rocky stone. But she did not rest. Rest did not help her. She preferred to go on, to climb. If she walked, if she climbed, the sooner would she reach the castle. Step by step she advanced. Oh, she was no longer afraid of Emeralda! What could Emeralda do to her to make her afraid? What greater suffering could her sister inflict upon her than the pain of remorse, that was ever with her wherever she went! And on she climbed, and the thistles tore her feet, and the solitary man who was coming down the rocky path greeted her reverently, when he saw the blood of her footstep. CHAPTER XXII The night was pitch dark, when she stood before the awful gate and asked admittance. And the guards let her in because she wore a holy dress. The halberdiers took her to the hall, where they slept or kept watch, and invited her to rest. She sat down on a rude bench, she ate their brown soldier's bread, she drank a drop of their wine. Then she offered them a ruby for their hospitality and evening meal. And while they wondered that a pilgrim possessed such a beautiful jewel, she said in her strange voice, weak, tired, and yet commanding: "I have still more topazes and rubies and dark purple carbuncles. Tell the princess that I have come to do her homage and give her my jewels." The message was sent to Emeralda, and the queen asked the pilgrim to come. She sent pages to conduct her to the throne where she sat. And Psyche understood that Emeralda was afraid of treachery, afraid of the approach of soul, and therefore was so surrounded by armed men. She passed between the pages, up the steps, over passages; then iron gates were opened, and a curtain was drawn aside. And Psyche stepped into the golden hall of the tower. There sat Emeralda in the light of a thousand candles, on a throne, under a canopy, surrounded by a great retinue. "Holy pilgrim!" said Emeralda, "be welcome! You have come to bring me jewels?" A cold shiver ran like a serpent over Psyche's limbs, when she heard Emeralda's voice. She had not thought that she would be afraid any more of her proud sister, but now when she saw her and heard her voice, she almost fainted from fear. For her look was most terrible. Emeralda had grown older, but she was still beautiful. Yet her beauty was horrible. In the hall, lit up with thousands of candles, a hall of gold and enamel, sat Emeralda like an idol on her throne of agate, in a niche of jasper. There was nothing more human about her; she was like a great jewel. She had become petrified, as it were, into a jewel. Her eyes of sharp emerald looked out from her face, that was ivory white, like chalcedony; from her crown of beryl there hung down her face six red plaits of hair, as inflexible as gold-wire, and stiffly interwoven with emeralds. Her mouth was a split ruby, her teeth glittered like brilliants. Her voice sounded harsh and creaking, like the noise of a machine. Her hands and inflexible fingers, stiff with rings, were opal-white, with blue veins such as run through the opal. Her bosom, opal, chalcedonic, was enclosed in a bodice of violet amethyst--and over the bodice she wore a tunic of precious stones. Her dress was no longer brocade, but composed of jewels. All the arabesque was jewels; her mantle was jewelled so stiffly that the stuff could not bend, but hung straight down from her shoulders like a long jewelled clock. And she was beautiful, but beautiful as a monster, preciously beautiful as a work of art--made by one, both jeweller and artist, barbarously beautiful, in the incrustations of her crown, the facets of her eyes, the lapis lazuli of her stiffly folded under-garments, and all the gems and cameos which bordered her mantle and dress. In the light of thousands of candles she glistened, a barbarous idol, and shot forth rays like a rainbow, representing every colour; dazzling, fear-inspiring was her look, pitiless and soulless. Proud she sat and motionless, glistening with lustre, oppressed by the weight of her splendour; and covetous, her grating voice said again eagerly: "Holy pilgrim, welcome! You have come to bring me jewels?" Psyche gained courage. "Yes," she said in a firm voice. "Powerful Majesty of the Past, I come to do you homage and bring you jewels. But I beg that we may be left alone." Emeralda hesitated; but when Psyche remained silent, her cupidity got the better of her fear and she gave a sign. She raised her stiff hand. And by that single movement she cracked and creaked with grating jewels, and shot forth rays like the sun, which, like a nimbus, streamed around her. Her suite disappeared through side-doors. The shield-bearers withdrew. Psyche stood alone before her sister. And then Psyche unfastened the cord round her waist and took off her mantle; her long hair fell about her, and she was naked. Naked she stood before Emeralda, and said: "Emeralda, don't you recognise me? I am Psyche, your sister!" A cry escaped the princess. She rose up; she creaked; her splendour and pomp grated, and she glittered so, that Psyche was dazzled. "Wretched Psyche!" she exclaimed. "Yes, I know you! I have always hated you, hated as I hate everything that is gentle, as I hate doves, children, flowers! So you have deceived me, intruder! you bring me no jewels!" Psyche knelt down and showed her open hand. "Emeralda, I offer you the homage which I once refused you. I present you with topazes, rubies, and dark purple carbuncles. I kneel in humility before you. I offer you my tears, which have turned into stone, and I ask you humbly: punish me and give me a penance to do. Look! I have lost my wings. I may not go naked any longer. I have committed sin. Emeralda, make me do penance! Inflict on me the heaviest that you can think of. If I can do it, I will do it. Lay a heavy task upon my wingless shoulders." Emeralda looked down at kneeling Psyche. The princess approached her sister, took the jewels, examined them attentively, held them up to the light of the candles, and then dropped them into an open casket. Thoughtfully she continued gazing at Psyche. And she seemed to Psyche like a gigantic jewel-spider, watching from the midst of her glittering web the rays of her own splendour. But whatever she were, princess, sun, spider, or jewel, a woman she was not, a human being she was not, and through the opal of her bosom gleamed her heart of ruby. Psyche, kneeling penitent, spoke not, awaiting her fate, and Emeralda watched her. Thoughts, mechanical as wheels, rolled through her brain. She thought as a machine. She was inexorable, because she had no feeling; she thought inhumanly because she had no soul. Soulless she was and hard as stone, but she was powerful, the mightiest ruler of the world. She ruled with a movement, she condemned with a look, she could kill with a smile; if she spoke a word, it was terrible; if she appeared in public there was disaster; and if she rode through her kingdom in a triumphal chariot, then everything was scorched by her lustre and crushed under her triumph. At last she spoke, motionless like a spider in her web of glittering rays, and her voice sounded like an oracle in a screeching incantation. "Psyche, fled from her father's house, fallen from all princely dignity, dethroned Princess of the Present, immoral Bacchante, corrupt and wingless, weeping tears of scarlet sin--listen! "Psyche, who wandered frivolously to purple streaks of sky, who longed for the nothingness of azure and of light, who loved a horse, who forsook her husband, who wandered and sought and asked, in desert and in wood--wander, seek, and ask! "Wander, seek, and ask, till you find! "Wander along the flaming caves, seek in the fire-vomiting mouths of monsters, ask of the martyred spirits, who roll upon the inky sea. "Descend to the Nether-world! Seek the Mystic Jewel, the Philosopher's Stone that gives the highest omnipotence; seek the Mystic Jewel, the rays of which reach to eternity and penetrate to the Godhead. "Descend, wander, ask, seek, and find!" Her voice grew terrible, and, screeching, she stepped nearer, and with a look at the casket, said pitilessly: "Or ... weep for it ... suffer for it. I care not how much." She paused, and then in a voice of horrible hypocrisy, continued: "And then, if you bring me the Sacred Jewel, the name of which may not be uttered...." She drew still nearer. ... "Then be blessed, Psyche, and share with me, Emeralda, your sister, the divine omnipotence!" Like an oracle sounded her hypocritical voice. She felt in Psyche an unknown power; she feared for her soul, and wished to gain that power for herself, to make sure of the two-fold omnipotence of the world, both soul and body. And in the horrible penance which she laid upon Psyche, she feigned tender love. Creaking and cracking, she drew nearer, and in her web of rays shed a sunbeam over her kneeling sister, and with her stiff opal fingers stroked the bent head with its fair, long tresses. An ice-cold shiver ran through Psyche, as if her burning soul were being frozen. "I obey," she murmured. And she rose up, intoxicated from splendour, stiff from icy coldness. She tottered and shut her eyes. When she opened them, she was in a gloomy ante-chamber, clad in her coarse mantle; and the shield-bearers approached with torches. "Conduct me to Astra!" she commanded. There was something strange in her voice which made them obey, the voice of a princess, the soft voice of command, which appealed strangely to the men, as if they had heard it when they were pages. They conducted Psyche through halls, over passages, up steps, to another tower. They opened low doors, and, through silent vaults, guided the strange pilgrim, rich in rubies. "Who comes there?" asked a voice, tired, weak, and faint. Then the men left Psyche alone, and she was with Astra, and she saw her sister in the twilight on the terrace, sitting before her telescope, surrounded by globes and rolls of heavy parchment spread out. And Psyche saw Astra, looking very old, with thin grey hair, which hung down her wax-white face, from which two dull eyes stared out; her white dress hung down limp on her sunken shoulders, her withered breast, and attenuated limbs. Bitter dejection was in her dull eyes; her thin hand hung down powerless, tired, and incapable of work, and her voice, faint and weak, said: "Who comes there?" "I, Psyche, your little sister, come back, O Astra, as a penitent...!" "As a penitent?" "Yes, I fled, committed sin, and now I will do penance...." Astra mused. "It is true," she murmured. "I remember, little Psyche. Come nearer. Take my hand, I cannot see you." "The night is dark, Astra: there are few stars in the sky, and the torches are not yet lit...." "No? Is it dark about me? That does not matter, Psyche, for I cannot see, I am blind...." Psyche gave a cry. "Astra! Poor sister, are you blind? Oh! you who could see so well! are you blind?" "Yes, I have gazed myself blind!! I have turned my telescope from left to right, to all the points of the universe. I thought to become the centre, the kernel of science, the focus of brilliant knowledge; now I am blind, now I see nothing more, now I know nothing more. The colossal numbers have become confused in my brain since the living Star on my head faded. Do you still see its faint splendour between my grey hair? Ah! now I have your hand. "What is that, child? What round things are falling over my fingers?" "My tears, Astra, poor Astra!" "How hard they are and cold! What hard, cold tears, Psyche!... Sit down here at my feet. Is the night dark? Are the torches not yet lit? Well, let it be dark, for I see nothing; but I feel you, I feel your hair; now I stroke your head, round and small. I feel along your shoulders, Psyche, little child with wings.... But your wings I do not feel.... Have you none now? Have they been cut off? My star has faded, and your wings are cut; Emeralda triumphs alone! Her gift from the fairy has brought her prosperity. Her heart of ruby feels no pain; she is clad in the majesty of precious jewels. She is hard and beautiful, hard as a stone, beautiful as a jewel.... Psyche, creep close to me.... We can do nothing against her, child. My star is faded, your wings clipt; we have lost our noble rights.... I am old, but you--are you still young? You feel so young, indestructibly young.... You have suffered so, asked and wandered.... not appreciated your happiness, and murdered Eros! Poor child, you a murderess...! You weep rubies ... you will do penance. You are strong, Psyche, and always young.... You will do penance after all your sins! Emeralda has laid penance on you.... To seek the Philosopher's Stone in the caverns of flaming hell!! O Psyche, the Stone does not exist. The unutterable name is a legend. The Jewel exists only in the pride of man. The universe is limited, the Godhead is not limited; no rays from precious stones can reach the Godhead and rule over God. No looking through lenses of diamond can penetrate the Godhead. It is all pride and vanity. Psyche, there is nothing but resignation. Emeralda is powerful, but more powerful she cannot become.... "In vain will you seek." "Yet I will seek, Astra, although it be in vain.... And do you also, sister, lay penance on me.... Let me do penance for Astra, as I do for Emeralda." "No, child, I know no penance. There is nothing but resignation. There is nothing but to wait. Everything else is vanity and pride. But do penance, little Psyche. Penance is illusion, yet illusion is pleasant: illusion ennobles. Believe, poor child, in your penance, believe in your illusion. I have never known it. I have always calculated. The colossal numbers roll through my dull and hazy brain in endless series of figures. However you count, you never come to the sum of the endless.... The stars cannot be counted. The farthest sun is incomputable, the divine is limitless. Even the nearest frontier of the Future is beyond computation. There is a sea of unfathomable light.... O Psyche, I am tired, I am blind, and I shall soon die. In this place, here I will stay. Psyche, look through the telescope. Is the night too dark? Do you see anything?" "The stars give a dim light." "Look through the telescope. What do you see? Tell me, what do you see?" "In the glass, right at the top, I see a dark spot, which emits a few rays. Is that a black star?" "No, Psyche, that is a spider. Emeralda has sent a spider. The spider has crawled to the top, along the smooth diamond; there the spider weaves his web. And the diamond ... is crumbling to pieces....["] "Astra...!!" "Psyche, creep closer to me.... Let me feel your little round head, your wingless shoulders...." "Astra, everything is black; clouds are drifting past the stars!" "Sleep thus in my mantle, sleep thus at my feet. Sleep, my little child, and cover yourself for the night.... Psyche, your old nurse is dead. Psyche, now I am your nurse.... Sleep now by blind Astra...." Feeling for Psyche, she threw her mantle round her. The night was dark. Astra's powerless hand dropped over Psyche. Psyche fell asleep. CHAPTER XXIII It was still dark when Psyche awoke. She looked up at Astra, who sat sleeping, her grey head on her breast; faintly shone her star. Very gently, so as not to wake her, Psyche rose, and left the terrace. She knew the way. She went through the halls and passages, down the steps, the endless steps. In the corners sat the sacred spiders, and wove.... Psyche went lower down, to the vaults. There burnt the everlasting lamps. She went among the royal tombs, crystal sarcophagi, and found her father's coffin. By the lamp, which was always kept burning, she recognised his embalmed, rigid face. The eyes were closed. He knew nothing about her: that she had gone away and come back. Death was between them, and severed them forever. She kissed the glass, and her tears, round, hard, and red, clattered on the crystal. She knelt down and tried to pray. In a corner of the vault a black spot moved. It was a big spider with a white cross on its body. "So, you have come back again.... I knew that you would come. We can escape from nothing. Everything happens as it happens. Everything is as it is. Everything goes to dust; into the pits of the Past, into the power of Emeralda.... Now become a spider like us, weave your web, and be wise...." Psyche got up. "No...!" she exclaimed, "I will not become a spider, I will weave no web. I have sinned, but I will weave no web; I have sinned and will do penance. The world is awful--desert and wood and space; life is awful--love and pain, joy and despair, sin and punishment. And if fate is as it is, it is in vain to weave a web and to heap up treasures of dust. Spider, were it not more human to love, to live, and even to sin, than to weave web upon web? Spider, I envy you not your sacredness...!" The spider puffed itself out maliciously. "You seem to be still proud of your murder and your immorality and shamelessness! Your princely name you have dragged through the mire, your wings you have given up for a panther's skin and a grape-wreath, and know not yet what repentance is. If you had been wise and become a spider, you would have served Emeralda, and there would have been no need to go down to the Under-world!" But Psyche was no longer afraid. She had come to kiss her father's coffin; she left her jewelled tears in the treasure, which the spiders watched over, and ascended the hundreds of steps and came on to the terrace of the battlements. There as a child she had wandered and gazed, a child with wings, and innocent, her soul full of dreams. Now she wandered again along the ramparts and battlements high as a man; the doves fluttered about her, the swans looked up at her ... and full of dejection for former innocence and youth, she wept and wept: no longer a brook, but topazes, rubies, tears of sin, that, rattling down, frightened the doves and the swans, which, indignant, thought that she was pelting them with stones. The doves flew away, and the swans, offended, turned their backs on her. Then she sat down in an embrasure--no wings now lay against the stone-work--and she folded her arms round her knees. She looked towards the horizon; behind it loomed other horizons, first pink, then silver; blue, then gold; behind the grey, pale and misty, and then fading away. Then beyond, the horizon became milk-white, like an opal, and in the reflection of the last rays of the setting sun, it seemed as if lakes were mirrored there; islands rose in the air, aerial paradises, watery streaks of blue sea, oceans of ether and light-quivering nothingness. And Psyche bowed her head, full of sadness, and sobbed. The world was not changed, but more beautiful than ever; gloriously beautiful loomed the ever-changing horizon. Yet Psyche sobbed, full of sadness. She knew that the horizons were pure delusions, and that behind them was the desert with the Sphinx. Oh! if she could once more believe in the aerial paradises, the purple seas, the golden regions with people of light, who lived under rosy bananas! Alas! had she not trod a paradise, the sweet Present, the adorable garden of a moment, so little and so short in duration? It was past, it was past! Oh, how her soul scorched, how her shoulders pained, how her eyes burned! She wept and she sobbed, and hid her face in her hands. She did not notice that the wind was rising, that the horizon quivered, that clouds were speeding through the air, white colossi like towers and dragons, riders and horses. She did not see the changes in the sky; she did not see the going up and down of wings, of flaming wings in the silver lightning, that flashed from the sky; she did not hear the warning thunder, nor did she see the clouds emitting sparks. But suddenly she distinctly heard a voice: "Psyche! Psyche!" She looked up. Before her, she saw descending on broad wings a steed of pure light and flame. And she uttered a cry, that sounded in the air like an endless shout of gladness: "Chimera!" It was he. He descended. The basalt terrace trembled, as though shaken by an earthquake; under his hoofs the stone shot sparks, and he stood before her resplendent and beautiful. "Chimera!" she cried, and folded her hands and sank down before him on her knees. She could say nothing else. She was dazzled, and it seemed as though her soul ascended heavenward in the pure delight of love. "Psyche!" sounded his voice of bronze, "I have come down, for I love you. But I may not bear you any more on my back through the delusive regions of air, because you have committed sin. Psyche, it is your bounden duty to obey Emeralda's command. Go down to Hell and seek the Jewel." "Chimera, adored one, delight of my soul, oh, your splendour fills my eyes! Your word gives strength to my weakness! I feel it! You may not bear me away; I am unworthy of your wings. But I adore and bless you for coming! Chimera, Chimera, your splendour has beamed once more upon me! your voice has inspired me, and I will do what you say.... You let the light of hope break in upon me; new strength flows through my limbs. Chimera, I hope, I hope! I will go down into Hell; I will seek.... Shall I find? I know not.... But I hope! The horizon is quivering with hope and ether and the Future! "Psyche!" sounded his voice again like bronze, "be strong! Take heart! Descend! Do penance! Seek...! Once more you will see me...." "Once more!" "Be strong, take heart, do penance!" He ascended, whilst Psyche remained kneeling. When he was high in the air, there came a peal of thunder, as if the heavens would burst asunder. The sky was dark, but lit up by the lightning. In the black sky, in the lightning flame, rose fearfully the three hundred towers. And the thunder-claps rumbled on, one after the other, as if the Past were perishing in the last day.... With a joyful cry, Psyche hastened along the terraces, the battlements, ramparts, entered the castle, and went down the steps. Lower and lower she descended, lower than the vaults; and as she passed them, she threw a kiss in the direction where the old king lay buried.... She descended still lower, and yet she heard the thunder pealing above, and the castle seemed to tremble to its very foundations. She descended still lower: she descended very deep pits, built like towers reversed to the central nave of the earth. She descended step after step, thousands of steps, groping in the darkness. She walked with unerring foot, that felt for the next step, that detected the slippery stone; she felt and never hesitated. Another step and then another; again a pit, pit after pit, all the pits of the Past. Bats flew up and flapped their wings, spiders she felt crawling over her, an icy dampness fell like a chill wind upon her shoulders. Deeper down she went, and deeper. It was pitch dark, and above she heard nothing more; she heard only the flapping of the gigantic bats, the droning of the envious spiders. But she defended herself with her little hand; as she descended, she beat about her, beat the bats away, seized a vampire, held it tightly by the neck, and strangled it. Her foot glided over toads, she slipped over snakes, but she got up again and beat the bats and fought with the vampires. The Chimera had so inspired her with strength, that she felt strong as a giant, young and courageous; he had filled her eyes with such light that she saw him in the darkness. In the pitchy darkness his flaming wings were distinctly visible. And on she went descending; thick clouds of dust, the deepest shadows of Emeralda's transitoriness, rose up, but she kept breathing, never hesitating, and her foot felt instinctively the next step, and she struck at the bats and fought with the vampires. When she throttled them, a human cry was heard, and the echo sounded a thousand times like the anxious cry of a murder. But she was not afraid. She kept on descending.... She kept descending. At last she felt no more steps but voidness under her feet, and she sank ... like a feather, through heavier air; she sank, she sank deeper and deeper, deeper and deeper.... A black draught of air, an invisible wind, damp and chill, made her feel that she had passed all the pits, that she was sinking outside them in the open air, invisible and black, thick as ink. Then she began to sink more slowly, and ... her feet touched ground. Sounds soft and low, like the plaintive strains of a viol, rose up from afar, like music of the sea, the plaint of a thousand voices which never became melody. The far-off sound continued quivering as an accompaniment of wind, of a black wind which blew, and overpowered the music of the sea. Sometimes it went a little higher, sometimes a little lower, and always remained the vague and distant incomprehensible harmony. From where the wind came, from where the plaintive murmuring arose, thither would Psyche go. And with her foot she kept feeling, and with her outstretched hands, and on she went.... Long, long she went in the darkness, till the darkness became less opaque and lit up with phosphoric flickerings; and she saw: That she was ascending a path between two inky seas. Black as ink were the waves. Then she heard them roaring; then she saw their crests lit up with a blue phosphorescent glow. Then she heard the soft, low sounds, the plaintive viols swell, till they became a dull, continuous soughing. The black wind rose as with a gigantic sail, and suddenly blew the hurricane. In the pitch-dark air, the lightning flashed blue. And between the two inky seas, Psyche went slowly on, against the gusts of wind. Then she uttered a cry, as though she were calling.... The hurricane took her cry for help over the endless sea of Hell.... And from all sides dived up the gruesome frights--leviathan monsters. They opened their jaws at Psyche, and the water streamed out. Their scaly tortuous bodies wound along over the black surface of the ocean, and on the horizon, lit up with phosphorous blue, their tails meandered. They came from the horizon, they dived up and down, and the ocean dived with them. Storm-flood, waterfall--storm-flood, waterfall.... They spread out their dragon wings, and caught up the boisterous wind; they shot up waterspouts like towering fountains, of a blue and yellowish hue. Their round squinting eyes stood out watchful, like green and yellow signals; they lifted their red-lobed jaws, abysses of red-slimy desires, bubbling with foamy slaver. "Monsters of the sea of pain, where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda?" Psyche asked the question in a high, musical key, and her voice rang out clearly in the hurricane and plaintive moanings of the sea. Her high soprano sounded above all the roaring of the elements and plaintive cries; and three times she repeated the question: "Monsters of the sea of pain, where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda?" The leviathans pressed together along the path that Psyche trod. But amidst the noise of their tossing and snorting and spouting, she heard the plaintive sea swelling, the sea of plaintive voices; and then in the blue phosphorescent glow between the monsters, she saw the drowned shades heaving to and fro, always writhing in fear, always drowning in the inky sea; the everlasting wailing of the plaintive sea, the cry of souls in pain; the gigantic plaintive viol, with strings ever playing.... "Vanity, vanity!" Did she hear aright? It was one single sound, like a note repeated again and again. "Vanity, vanity!" was the inexorable answer, first vague as a dream, mystic as a thought, sounding more distinctly as an admonition against worldly pride. And so distinct did the sound become, that Psyche, brave Psyche, who feared neither vampire nor monster of the deep ... that courageous Psyche hesitated and felt all her strength giving way.... "If it were vanity to seek, to ask for the Jewel, how much farther should she go?" "Should she go back?" She looked round. But she saw what made her soul sink within her. She saw that behind her step, the seas immediately closed till they became one single sea of ink; she saw that the only path for her stretched across the seas, that behind her it immediately sank away. She could not go back, she must go on. And she buoyed up her sinking soul; she went on, and in a high soprano voice repeated again and again her question: "Spirits in the sea of pain, where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda?" "Vanity, vanity!" The plaintive viol kept trembling, and the same sound sounded ever, the unchangeable answer. The hurricane was no longer chill, but warm, sultry, strangely sultry; more and more sultry blew the everlasting cyclone. The sea-monsters kept back; they dived again below; the sea sank with them, the shades swayed to and fro in storm-flood, waterfall--storm-flood, waterfall, and many-headed hydras came sinuously up. The sea no longer shone with phosphorescent glow, but was quite black, pitch black, black as boiling pitch, without foam and without light, and kept sending up a discharge of miry, vaporous matter. In the boiling pitch, the hydras, with their thousand snaky heads, kept diving up, tortoise-scaled; swayed to and fro, to and fro the pale faces of the shades, but ever sounded the plaintive viol, and ever rang forth the same note, the unchangeable answer to Psyche's shrill question: "Hydras of the sea of pain, spirits in the sea of pain, where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda...??" "Vanity, vanity...!" The pitch seethed and hissed and steamed. It was no longer a sea of water, no longer a sea of pitch; It was a sea of nothing but flame, pitch-black flame, a sea of jet-black fire, fire and flame, that waved from the horizon, where a single streak of pale light appeared. In the black flames burned the shades, in the black flames wound the hydras in and out; the thick smoke shot up into the clouds, and the clouds sent it back again.... "Spirits in the pitch-black flames, where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda...???" "Vanity, vanity...!" The hurricane kept blowing, the plaintive viol kept trembling, and ever sounded the same note, the unchangeable answer. But scorchingly, more scorchingly blew the wind, like a tempest from a sun for ever doomed. The black night now assumed a dark-purple aspect, like purple steam; the clouds drove a bloody vapour into the heavens. And on either side of Psyche's path suddenly shot out the flaming hurricane of the sun, gigantic purple tongues of fire, scarlet and orange. The lower clouds drove them back, and when Psyche looked round, she stood in a flaming fire. The flaming hurricane seethed round her; behind her feet the path was on fire. The air was fire. But Psyche, whose own soul was on fire, in her own scorching fire of remorse, felt not the glowing heat, and she saw, Out of the living scarlet craters, the orange caves, the hellish chimeras working up their sinuous way like glowing spirals: half arabesque, half beast; half dragon, half tail; flaming sea-horses. They spat and fanned the glowing fire, and, riding aloft on the burning hurricane, the shades swept past Psyche. "Spirits in the scarlet flames...." "Vanity, vanity!" This was the only answer, that sounded afar off in her ears, the answer of the tortured, angry spirits, which in the strength of their sin and passion came flying up from the craters. On she went.... She went on along the path that unfolded before her. How confidently she went on, how calmly! Why was she not afraid? Oh! she knew too much to be afraid and not to go on in confidence. Was the answer not always more distinct and unchangeable? Psyche's soul breathed freely, and in the fire around her her own fire seemed to diminish. For when the fire round her became yellower, sulphur-yellow, pure yellow, the pure golden yellow of the sun, then she uttered a cry of joy, as though she knew the answer: "Spirits in the sulphur flames, spirits in the sun's flames...!" She smiled.... Smiling, she hastened on, with joyful voice, with winged step; and so rapidly did she flee along the path smoothed out small for her foot, that behind her the answer could scarcely reach her. "Vanity, vanity!" Oh! it was always the plaintive viol, but the too poignant grief was tempered with melancholy; the plaintive sea became like a sea of melancholy; the thousands of voices were full of melancholy. And when the flames became less dense and lighter, when they changed from sulphur yellow to soft azure, a flaming sea of azure, in the silent dawning moonlight scenery, high, broad, blue flaming tongues that shot from the moon--when the hellish hurricane no longer raged, but gave away to a more benign breeze--then Psyche asked no more in so shrill a key, but knowing all, her voice murmured dejectedly: "Spirits in the azure flames, where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda?" The melancholy viol vibrated more gently; the spirits rocking to and fro in the thin blue fire sang more softly: "That is vanity, Psyche; that is vanity...." She uttered her jubilant cry, and hastened on with uplifted arms through the azure moon-flames. The firmament spread out in higher circles and formed wider spheres; The flames became clearer and clearer; more benignly blew the breeze; And pale, the spirits flitted to and fro: pale shades with melancholy eyes, singing their song of painful remembrances.... And the spirits looked at Psyche--the spirits smiled benignly on her, astonished that she was still alive. They pointed for her to go on farther and farther; they nodded to her, "On! on!" And she gave a loud cry of joy and hastened on.... She sped through the flames and shades; Till the flames were still, and high and white; High, still, white flames, like sacrificial flames, like altar flames, high in the sky, the lofty sky, the wide sky; the wide expanse full of white flame, still, white, ascending, purifying flames, refined and clear, over the whole wide expanse, the wide refining expanse.... Once more she asked the pale shades, who swarmed about between the flames, hand in hand, who swayed continually to and fro between the flames: "Spirits in the white flames, pure white, in the white flames, where shall I find the Jewel for Emeralda?" "Vanity, vanity!" sang the shades softly and quietly, and in the answer, calm and assuring, of the expectant penitents, vibrated the great viol with a sound like a soft jubilant trill. Psyche asked no more. She slackened her speed and began to walk, her arms raised, her head erect, through the silvery flames. Oh, the dear, tender flames, the adorable purifying flames! how they cooled, in their snow-white glow, the burning remorse of her soul! How freely Psyche breathed, in the innocently white glowing fire! Like lilies were the tongues of flame, fragrant and soothing as balsam, cool and fresh as snow ... cold as water, as foam. The white flames foamed and rippled like a sea, lower and smoother, quieter and more serene; they rippled like a sea of lilies, like a sea of silver snow.... They became moisture and water and foaming ocean, the tender element of gentle compulsion, carrying along as an irresistible dream, white as paradise, and, as slightly rippling waves of foam, they bore Psyche away. On the foaming waves Psyche drifted along, all white in the golden boat of her fair hair. So gently did they rock her, the foaming, rippling waves, that Psyche shut her eyes. Sleep was stealing over her. Her lips smiled with inward peace. The waves bore her away, the sea washed her ashore. She awoke from her slumber, pearl-white she rose from the foam, amidst the joyful dolphins. She stepped out of the sea on to the land. She felt quite cool, and her soul was calm and peaceful, full of reassuring, holy knowledge. But within her was a great desire. Smiling, she stretched out her arms. She yearned for the desire of her heart.... "Not yet ... not yet," was whispered tenderly to her cool and peaceful soul. "Wait, wait...." sounded the echo. In the silent joy of her soul, she wept. She lifted her hand to her eyes; wet were her tears, and in her hand ... lay a pearl...! Then she looked round. She recognised the sea-shore with its many bays, the shore of the Kingdom of the Past. There, on the opal-blue horizon, loomed a town of minarets and pinnacles, of cupolas and obelisks, surrounded with golden walls. That was the capital of the kingdom. Thither she would repair. There, proud and peaceful, still and cool, she would say to Emeralda, her powerful sister, That her Jewel was vanity. That the gem did not exist. CHAPTER XXIV When Psyche approached the capital, she heard at the gates the excited cries of festive merry-makers. Outside the gates flocked the noisy crowd, dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, and bedecked with flowers, singing and dancing, but not knowing why. Everywhere was bustle and commotion; on the roadside sat hundreds of hucksters, and women extolling their wares--glasses with jewels and fruit, cooling drinks, dresses and flowers. In a shrill key they praised their wares; they spread out their stuffs with much ado, and offered the people flowers, and poured them out wine, and held up strings of glass pearls and cheap necklaces of coins. Psyche was naked, and she veiled herself in her hair; she spread over the marks on her shoulders her golden mantle of hair, and as many of the dancing girls, some half naked and others quite, danced round, hand in hand, people thought that she was naked, only because she was so fair--Psyche, so pearl-white in her golden hair. She was not wont to be ashamed of nakedness, which was once her right, her privilege as a princess; but now under the eyes of the people she blushed, and walked with downcast eyes. Then she turned to a saleswoman and asked: "What is the feast for?" "Where do you come from? 'What is the feast for!' Don't you know anything about it?" "I come from the other side of the sea...." "'What is the feast for!' It is the great festival: it is the Festival, the Jubilee-festival, of Emeralda. It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!!" .... "It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!" resounded on all sides. They danced and sang: .... "It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!" They were drunk with joy, dizzy from strange joy; but Psyche suddenly saw that they were deadly pale and frightened, deadly pale under paint and flowers, and frightened whilst they danced round in a ring. "I have no dress for the occasion; give me that veil of golden gauze!" said Psyche to the saleswoman. "That is very dear!" "I will pay you for it with this pearl." .... "With that pearl! Are you a princess, then!" Psyche then took the veil, and she bound it round her loins, just as she used to do before. "I will give you a wreath of fresh roses as well!" said the woman, pleased, and put the flowers on her head. She smiled, and it suddenly occurred to her that she was decked out with those flowers as a victim for the altar; that all the people who were making merry and dancing were bedecked as victims. She went on. Through the round gold gate she entered the city; the squares were seen in the distance, connected with very broad streets; square palaces of marble and bronze, of jasper and malachite, round cupolas and finely pointed minarets, glistered in the sun as if conjured up by magic. They stretched far away, and right behind the blue mountains rose the royal castle, a Babel of pinnacles and towers innumerable, almost indiscernible in the distance, with square ramparts and walls, and lofty summits lost in the rising mist. And along the squares, over palaces, and on the minarets, hung the thick festoons of flowers, as though the towns were decked out for an offering. Close up to the castle, Babel of pinnacles, the festoons of flowers seemed to reach. And in the squares the dancers threw flowers into the air, and it seemed as if white roses were raining down from heaven. To the sound of tabour and cymbals, the people danced madly round, and ever was heard the same cry: "It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!" Then Psyche, in the secret depths of her heart, saw clearly and indubitably what it all meant. As she went along with the dense crowds of noisy, shouting merry-makers, she saw all the people in the town trembling with fear, which made the blood congeal in their veins. Their eyes, through fear, were ready to start out of their sockets; their teeth chattered; their limbs, bedecked with flowers, trembled; the sun was shining, but everyone was shivering with cold. But no one spoke of his trembling, and they danced, madly drunk with foolish joy, and they kept shouting the same thing: "It is the Triumphal Procession of the Queen!!!" CHAPTER XXV A great commotion was going on in the direction of the castle. In that direction all eyes were turned, and the dancing girls forgot to dance. From fear, the crowd stood still, as if petrified, and forgot to conceal the anxiety of their minds. The palaces seemed to tremble; the air-atoms quivered audibly. Something dreadful was about to happen. The royal castle shone with a strange lustre; a sun seemed to send forth a halo; an ominous aureola appeared in the distance. The fearful rays of the Sun of Consternation outshone the day, outshone the sun: from their centre, they penetrated through houses and people. And everything shone, softened by the glow of piercing sunbeams. The rays quivered everywhere in the air, and the aureola filled the world. The cause of consternation came rattling on with the rapidity of an arrow. All hearts stood still, all breath was taken away, all dancing was stopped, all rejoicing ceased. From the castle, over the triumphal way, a triumphal chariot rattled along with the speed of an arrow. On the top, a living jewel, stood Emeralda, and guided the four and twenty steeds. It was her splendour and her aureola which appeared in the air. It was her rays which caused the houses to shine with splendour and pierced the people with flashes. She stood immovable, clad in the strength of precious stones, in a tunic of sapphire, in a robe of brilliants, with deep flounces of gems and white cameos; her mantle was like a bell, with folds of purple carbuncle, lined with enamelled ermine. From her crown of beryl, from her heart of ruby, the rays shot forth, shone out her fear-inspiring aureola and streamed over the town and in the air, eclipsing the sun, which turned pale. Her eyes of emerald, stars in her opal face, chalcedonic, looked inexorable, and her bosom of precious stones heaved not. Only her heart of ruby beat regularly, and then her lustre grew alternately dim and bright.... She stood immovable and guided her horses, her four and twenty foaming stallions, rearing greys, which drew her triumphal car, like a broad enamelled shell on innumerable wheels, on cutting wheels so numerous, that they seemed to run into one another--a turning confusion of spokes. The dazzling, fear-inspiring chariot rattled on with the rapidity of an arrow. And suddenly, awaking from their stupefaction, the people madly danced again and shouted the same jubilant cry. The tabours sounded, the white roses rained down, and before the queen the people prostrated themselves and paved her path with their bodies. The grey stallions foamed and reared; they came on, they came on, they trampled over the first bodies--men and women, girls and children, dressed for a festival and bedecked with flowers.... Over her people rode Emeralda; the innumerable wheels rattled, a confusion of spokes, revolving, cutting furrows in flesh and blood, reducing blood and human flesh to a muddy mass. But farther up they danced, farther up they sang, before casting themselves down for her Triumph.... Then Emeralda, looking over her triumphal way, saw, with the keen glance of her black carbuncle pupil, a little form, naked and fair, who lifted up her small, child's hand. And fiercer and fiercer gleamed her heart of ruby, for she had recognised the form. And the desire flamed up in her: the thirst for more power and to become like a god. Emeralda recognised Psyche. And she reined in her twelve pair of horses, she drove them more slowly, and under the less quickly revolving wheels she heard the jubilant cry of the dying people. The blood dropped from the wheels, but the roses rained down and covered the horrible sight. On the bloody, muddy mass, the roses rained down, white, from the balconies of the palaces. Emeralda stopped. Under her, death was silent. Around, the town was silent. She alone reigned and shot out her terrible fan of rays, which scorched the houses and pierced the air. And before her, at a little distance, stood Psyche, proud, pearl-white, crowned with roses, in a veil of gold. And the silent crowd recognised in her the third princess of the kingdom. "Psyche!" said Emeralda, and her voice sounded loud through the town from the focus of her rays, "have you come to bring me the unutterable Jewel, the Gem of Power, the Bestower of Universal Power, the sacred Stone of Mysticism? Have you found the Mystery of the Godhead, and, "--Do you rule with me the Universe and God?" The town shuddered and quivered. The people were stupefied. The air-atoms trembled audibly. Then Psyche's voice sounded clearly, silver-clearly, from the consciousness of the wisdom and sacred knowledge which she possessed. "Emeralda, for you I have gone through Hell along the black seas, oceans of pitch, along the horrible sloughs of flaming hurricanes, along the craters and caverns scarlet and yellow, along the azure fires and through the white and lilac glow. Give heed to what I say. Hell answered 'Vanity!' when I asked for the Jewel; the leviathans roared 'Vanity!'; the chimeras hissed 'Vanity!'; the spirits cried 'Vanity!'; and the whole plaintive viol trilled: "'Vanity!' "Do you understand me, Emeralda? Your wish was Vanity, for the mystic Jewel that bestows godlike power is Vanity, and.... Does not Exist." Then it was terrible. The queen, a living idol, burned with rage, blazed with rage; her heart was inflamed with rage. Around her, decked out for sacrifice, in festive garb, in the sunshine and her own dazzling splendour, her people trembled with fear. And cruelty gleamed in her fixed face; her emerald eyes started so revengefully from their sockets as though blinded by their own splendour, and she pulled at the numerous reins.... The horses reared, the white roses fell down, the people screamed with joy and the fear of death, and the triumphal chariot rattled on. Swift as an arrow it thundered on over the people, who paved the way in ecstacy, and Psyche saw the maddened horses approaching, snorting, foaming, panting, trampling, pulling, their eyes round and mad.... For a moment she stood firm, proud, tall, pearl-white in the sacred knowledge she possessed; then the angry hoofs struck her down, and the horses trampled her as a flower. Emeralda's chariot rattled over her, with its many cutting wheels, and whilst she died like a crushed lily, trampled in her own lily-whiteness, she thought of her old father, and how she had crept to his breast and hidden her face in his beard, before she went to sleep at night.... She died.... But while she lay trampled to death in the mud of human flesh and blood, and the sacrificial roses kept falling down over her corpse unrecognisable---- She returned to life, hovering through the air, and felt so light and unencumbered, and was whiter than ever and naked. And on her tender shoulders she felt two new wings quivering...! She hovered over her own body into a drifting cloud, a mist of fragrance, which farther on she lost sight of; and light, white, and rarefied, she looked wonderingly at her trampled body and laughed. Strange, clear, and childlike sounded her laugh in the cloud and vapoury fragrance.... CHAPTER XXVI The triumphal chariot rattled on madly. Emeralda stretched out her sceptre, on the top of which glowed a star of destroying rays. When she stretched out the sceptre and directed the rays, she scorched monuments, palaces, and parks to a white ash, and, for her cruel jubilant procession, she cut down everything that came in her way. The thick white ashes flew up like dust; the jubilant multitude were scorched; the palaces of jaspar and malachite shrivelled up like burnt paper; the breath of the horses blew away, like ash, the white burnt gardens. And right over everything went Emeralda, scorching as she went. Powerful, foolish, arrogant, and proud she was, and more unfeeling than ever, spiteful and cruel, hurt in her pride; and she scorched, and made the way smooth before her. Behind her lay all the town, and she drove through her kingdom, filling the air with her rays. She drove through valleys and burnt up the harvest; she reduced villages to dust; she dried up rivers; and before her, the mountains split asunder. Her sceptre made a way for her, and no law of nature resisted her power. The air was grey with the clouds of ash, which rained down upon the earth. She went along as swiftly as an arrow, swiftly as lightning, swiftly as light, swiftly as thought. She went so swiftly, that in a single hour she had gone all round her wide kingdom intoxicated with the pride of annihilation, and she drove her maddened horses through endless plains of sand. Desert after desert she consumed; the lions fled before her; she overtook them in a moment; clouds of sand she sent up into the air.... But then she relaxed her speed. She stopped. Before her, grey and high through the clouds of sand and falling ash, there loomed a most dreadful shadow. The shadow was like a gigantic beast, squatting in the sand, with a woman's head in a stiff basalt veil. The woman's head had a woman's breast, two basalt breasts of a gigantic woman. But the body that squatted in the sand was a lion, and the paws stuck out like walls. And so great was the shadow, so monstrous the beast, that even the triumphal chariot of Emeralda appeared small. "Sphinx!" said Emeralda, "I will know. I am powerful, but there is power above me. There are spheres above mine, and there are gods above my divinity. There are laws of nature which my sceptre cannot alter. Sphinx, tell me the riddle. Reveal to me the place where the Jewel lies hidden, which gives almighty power over the world and God, so that I may find it and become the mightiest of all gods. Sphinx, answer me, I say! Open your stony lips and let your voice once more be heard, that shall make the world tremble with wonder. For centuries you have not spoken. Sphinx, speak now! For if you do not speak, Sphinx, and reveal to me where the Jewel lies hidden, then, great and terrible as you are, I will scorch you to a white ash and go over you in triumph. Sphinx, speak!" The Sphinx was silent. The Sphinx looked with stony eyes at the clouds of sand and raining ash. Her basalt lips remained shut. "Sphinx, speak!!" said Emeralda, threateningly and red with rage. The Sphinx spoke not and looked. Emeralda stretched out her sceptre and directed the destroying rays. The rays split on the basalt with crackling sparks like flashes of forked lightning. Emeralda uttered a cry, hoarse and terrible. She threw away her broken sceptre. But of her greater power she did not doubt, and for the last time she threatened. "Terrible Sphinx, tremble! I am more terrible than you!! Speak, Sphinx!!" The Sphinx was silent. Then Emeralda tugged at the reins. The maddened horses reared, snorting, foaming, panting, trampling, pulling, and dashed against the Sphinx. But the foremost horses were dashed to pieces against the god-like basalt. Then Emeralda uttered cry after cry, one hoarse cry after another, which resounded through the desert. She tugged at the reins; the horses, despairing of their attack against the immovable, drove at the Sphinx, and fell back crushed, falling over one another and trampling one another to death; the triumphal chariot split, and the splinters of sparkling jewels flew up like cracking fireworks, and Emeralda fell between the still revolving wheels. And her heart of ruby broke. All her dazzling splendour suddenly faded. The terrifying fan-like aureola suddenly grew dim, and the desert was grey and gloomy, with a gentle rain of thick white ash falling down. The Sphinx was silent, and looked on.... CHAPTER XXVII Psyche was alive again, soaring through the air, and felt so light and ethereal; pearl-whiter she was than ever, and naked. And on her tender shoulders she felt two new wings fluttering...! She hovered away over her own dead body into a drifting cloud, a fragrant mist, which farther on she lost sight of; and light, white, and ethereal, she looked with wonder at her trampled corpse and laughed.... Strange, clear, and childlike sounded her laugh in the cloud and vapoury fragrance.... "Psyche!" She heard her name, but so dazzled and astonished was she, that she did not see. Then the wind blew about her; the cloud moved, the fragrance ascended like incense, and she saw many like herself, restored to life, hovering in the fragrant cloud, and round her she distinguished the outlines of well-known faces. "Psyche!" She recognised the voice, deep bronze, but yet strange. And the wind blew about her and she saw a bright light before her, and recognised the Chimera! "You promised me: once more!" exclaimed Psyche joyfully. She threw herself on to his back, she clung to his mane, and he soared aloft. "Where am I?" said Psyche. "Who am I? What has happened? And what is going on around me? Am I dead, or do I live? Chimera, how rarefied is the air! how high you ascend! Are you going to ascend higher, higher still? Why is everything so dazzlingly bright about us? Is that water, or air, or light? What strange element is this? Who are going up with us--ethereal faces, ethereal forms? And what is the viol that is playing? "I heard that once before. Then it sounded plaintively; now it has a joyous sound! "Chimera, why is the air so full of joy here...? Look! below us is the Kingdom of the Past. "It lies in a little circle, and the castle is a black dot. Chimera, where are you going so high? We have never been so high before. Chimera, what are those circles all round us, the splendour of which makes me giddy? Are those spheres? Do they get wider and wider? Oh, how wide they get, Chimera, how wide! How high it is here, how wide, how rarefied and how light is the air! I feel myself also so light, so ethereal! Am I dead...? Chimera, look! I have two new wings, and I shine pearl-white all over. Do I not shine like a light? It is true I have been very sinful. But I was what I had to be! Is it good to be what we have to be? I do not know, Chimera: I have thought of neither good nor bad; I was only what I was. But tell me, who am I now, and what am I? And where are you taking me to, Chimera? You carry me so quietly, so safely; up and down go your wings, up and down. The stars are twinkling round us; around us whirl the spheres, and wider and wider they become...! How light, how ethereal! What is that I see on the horizon? Or is it not the horizon? Opal islands, aerial oceans.... O Chimera!!!! I see purple sands wrinkling far, far away, and round them foams a golden sea.... We saw that once before, but not as it is now! For then it was delusion, and now...! The sands are growing more distinct; I see the ripple of the golden sea.... Chimera! What land is that? Is that the rainbow? Is that the land of happiness, and are you the king?" "No, Psyche, I am not a king, and that Land...." "--And that Land...?" "Is ... the Kingdom of the Future!" "The Future! the Future!! O Chimera, where are you taking me to? Will the Future not prove to be a delusion...?" "No, here is the Future. Here is the Land. Look at it well ... well...." "It is wider than the widest sphere, wider than anything I can think of. Where are the limits?" "Nowhere." "How far and how wide is the widest sphere?" "Immeasurably far, indescribably wide...." "And what stretches away round the widest sphere?" "The unutterable, and the All, All! The...." "The...?" "I know no names! On earth things are called by names; here not...." "Chimera...! On the purple strand I see a town of light, palaces of light, gates of light.... Do beings of light dwell there...? Are these the fore-spheres of the farthest sphere...? Is that the way through circles to ... the....? Chimera, I see forms, I see the people of light!! O Chimera! Chimera!! They are beckoning us, they are waving to us! I see two of them: a form of majesty, and another, near him, of love! O Chimera! I know them!! That is my father, and that ... O joy, O joy! ... that is Eros! Eros! Quicker, Chimera--annihilate the space which separates us; speed on, ply your wings faster--away, away! Oh, faster, Chimera! Can you not go faster? You fly too slowly for me! You fly too slowly!! I can fly faster than you." She spread out her tender, light, butterfly wings; she rose above the breathless, winged horse, and ... she flew...! She glided over the Chimera's head toward the strand, toward the city, toward the blessed spirits. There she saw her father, there she saw Eros--Eros, godlike and naked, with shining wings! Round her the viol of joy played its joyous notes, as if all the spheres rejoiced together. In the divine light, the faces of the cherubim began to blossom like winged roses.... She glided swiftly through the air to her father and Eros, and embraced them. She laughed when she saw the flaming Chimera approaching, because she could fly faster than he! "Come!" cried Eros joyfully. And he wanted to take her to the gate, from whence sunbeams issued like a path of sunny gold: a path along which enraptured souls were going hand in hand.... But the kingly shade stopped them for a moment, when they, Eros and Psyche, intoxicated with love, embraced each other.... "Look!" said the shade. "Look down below...." They saw the Kingdom of the Past, with their glorified minds, lying visible, deep in the funnel of the spheres. They saw the castle, fallen to ruins, with a single tower still standing. They saw Astra, old, grey, and blind, sitting before her telescope, and gazing in vain. They saw her star flicker up for a moment with a bright and final light. Then they saw Astra's blind eyes ... see! Astra looked and beheld the land of light, and the little band of happy, loving, dear ones in their shining raiment. Then they heard Astra murmur: "There! there ... the Land...! The ... Kingdom ... of ... the ... Future!!!" And they saw her star extinguish: She fell back dead.... The viol of gladness trilled. 
34678	----	http://www.freeliterature.org From images scanned and generously made available by the National Library of Australia's Document Supply Service. FOOTSTEPS OF FATE _(NOODLOT)_ BY LOUIS COUPERUS TRANSLATED FROM THE DUTCH By CLARA BELL MELBOURNE, SYDNEY, AND ADELAIDE E.A. PETHERICK & CO. LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN 1891 INTRODUCTION. _THE DUTCH SENSITIVISTS._ In the intellectual history of all countries we find the same phenomenon incessantly recurring. New writers, new artists, new composers arise in revolt against what has delighted their grandfathers and satisfied their fathers. These young men, pressed together at first, by external opposition, into a serried phalanx, gradually win their way, become themselves the delight and then the satisfaction of their contemporaries, and, falling apart as success is secured to them, come to seem lax, effete and obsolete to a new race of youths, who effect a fresh esthetic revolution. In small communities, these movements are often to be observed more precisely than in larger ones. But they are very tardily perceived by foreigners, the established authorities in art and literature retaining their exclusive place in dictionaries and handbooks long after the claim of their juniors to be observed with attention has been practically conceded at home. For this reason, partly, and partly also because the mental life of Holland receives little attention in this country, no account has yet been taken of the revolution in Dutch taste which has occupied the last six or seven years. I believe that the present occasion is the first on which it has been brought to the notice of any English-speaking public. There exists, however, in Holland, at this moment, a group of young writers, most of them between thirty-five and twenty-five years of age who exhibit a violent zeal for literature, passing often into extravagance, who repudiate, sometimes with ferocity, the rather sleepy Dutch authorship of the last forty years, and who are held together, or crushed together, by the weight of antiquated taste and indifference to executive merit which they experience around them. Certain facts seem to be undeniable; first, that every young man of letters in Holland, whose work is really promising, has joined the camp; and secondly, that, with all the ferment and crudity inseparable from prose and verse composed in direct opposition to existing canons of taste, the poems and the stories of these young Dutchmen are often full of beauty and delicacy. They have read much in their boyhood; they have imitated Rossetti and Keats; they have been fascinated by certain Frenchmen, by Flaubert, by Goncourt, particularly by Huysmans, who is a far-away kinsman of their own; they have studied the disquieting stories of Edgar Poe. But these exotic influences are passing away, and those who know something of current Dutch _belles-lettres_ can realise best how imperatively a ploughing up of the phlegmatic tradition of Dutch thought was required before a new crop of imagination could spring up. Rejecting the conventional aspects of contemporary Dutch literature, I will now attempt to give some sketch of the present situation as it appears to a foreign critic observing the field without prejudice. The latest novelist of great importance was Madame Gertrude Bosboom-Toussaint, who was born in 1821. After having written a long series of historical romances for nearly forty years, this intelligent woman and careful writer broke with her own assured public, and took up the discussion of psychological questions. She treated the problem of Socialism in _Raymond de Schrijnwerker_ and the status of woman in _Majoor Frans_. Madame Bosboom-Toussaint died in 1886, just too early to welcome the new school of writers, with whom she would probably have had more sympathy than any of her contemporaries. Her place in popular esteem was taken for a short time by Miss Opzomer (A.S.C. Wallis), whose long novels have been translated into English, _In dagen van strijd_ ("In Troubled Times") and _Vorstengunst_ ("Royal Favour"). She had genuine talent, but her style was heavy and tedious. After the new wind began to blow, although she was still young, she married, went to Hungary, and gave up writing novels. Three authors of importance, each, by a curious coincidence, born in the year 1826, fill up the interval between the old and new generation. These are Dekker, Busken-Huët, and Vosmaer. Edward Douwes Dekker, whose novel of _Max Havelaar_ dates from 1858, was a man of exceptional genius. Bred in the interior of Java, he observed the social conditions of life in the Dutch Indies as no one else had done, but his one great book remained a solitary one. He died in 1887 without having justified the very high hopes awakened by that extraordinary and revolutionary work. The career of Konrad Busken-Huët was very different. The principal literary critic of Holland in his generation, he aimed at being the Sainte Beuve of the Dutch, and in his early days, as the dreaded "Thrasybulus" of journalism, he did much to awaken thought. His volumes of criticism are extremely numerous, and exercised a wholesome influence during his own time. He died in Paris in April 1886. These two writers have had a strong effect on the prose style of the younger school of essayists and novelists. They lived long enough to observe the dawn of the new literature, and their relations with the latest writers were cordial if somewhat reserved. What Douwes Dekker and Busken-Huët did in prose, was effected in poetry by Carel Vosmaer. This estimable man, who died in 1888, was well known throughout Europe as an art-critic and an authority on Rembrandt. In Holland he was pre-eminent as the soul of a literary newspaper, the _Nederlandsche Spectator_, which took an independent line in literary criticism, and affected to lead public taste in directions less provincial and old-fashioned than the rest of the Dutch press. Vosmaer wrote also several volumes of more or less fantastic poetry, a translation of Homer into alexandrines, and an antiquarian novel, _Amazone_,1881. But Vosmaer's position was, above all, that of a precursor. He, and he alone, saw that a new thing must be made in Dutch poetical literature. He, and he alone, was not satisfied with the stereotyped Batavian tradition. At the same time Vosmaer was not, it may be admitted, strong enough himself to found a new school; perhaps even, in his later days, the Olympian calm which he affected, and a certain elegant indolence which overcame him, may have made him unsympathetic to the ardent and the juvenile. At all events, this singular phenomenon has occurred. He who of all living Dutchmen was, ten or fifteen years ago, fretting under the poverty of thought and imagination in his fatherland and longing for the new era to arrive, is at this moment the one man of the last generation who is most exposed to that unseemly _ferocité des jeunes_ which is the ugliest feature of these esthetic revolutions. I have just been reading, with real pain, the violent attack on Vosmaer and his influence which has been published by that very clever young poet, Mr. Willem Kloos (_De Nieuwe Gids_, December 1890). All that cheers me is to know that the whirligig of time will not forget its revenges, and that, if Mr. Kloos only lives long enough, he will find somebody, now unborn, to call _him_ a "bloodless puppet." Of one other representative of the transitional period, Marcellus Emants, I need say little. He wrote a poem, _Lilith_, and several short stories. Much was expected of him, but I know not what has been the result. The inaugurator of the new school was Jacques Perk, a young poet of indubitable genius, who was influenced to some degree by Shelley, and by the _Florence_ of the Dutch Browning, Potgieter. He wrote in 1880 a _Mathilde_, for which he could find no publisher, presently died, and began to be famous on the posthumous issue of his poems, edited by Vosmaer and Kloos, in 1883. The sonnets of Perk, like those of Bowles with us a hundred years ago, were the heralds of a whole new poetic literature. The resistance made to the young writers who now began to express themselves, and their experience that all the doors of periodical publication in Holland were closed to them, led to the foundation in 1885 of _De Nieuwe Gids_, a rival to the old Dutch quarterly, _De Gids_. In this new review, which has steadily maintained and improved its position, most of the principal productions of the new school have appeared. The first three numbers contained _De Kleine Johannes_ (Little Johnny), of Dr. Frederik van Eeden, the first considerable prose-work of the younger generation. This is a charming romance, fantastic and refined, half symbolical, half realistic, which deserves to be known to English readers. It has been highly appreciated in Holland. To this followed two powerful books by L. van Deyssel, _Een Liefde_ ("A Love") and _De Kleine Republiek_ ("The Little Republic"). Van Deyssel has written with great force, but he has hitherto been the _enfant terrible_ of the school, the one who has claimed with most insolence to say precisely what has occurred to him to say. He has been influenced, more than the rest, by the latest French literature. While speaking of the new school, it is difficult to restrain from mentioning others of those whose work in _De Nieuwe Gids_ and elsewhere has raised hopes of high performance in the future. Jacques van Looy, a painter by profession, has published, among other things, an exquisitely finished volume of _Proza_ (Prose Essays). Frans Netscher, who deliberately marches in step with the French realists, is the George Moore of Holland; he has published a variety of small sketches and one or two novels. Ary Prins, under the pseudonym of Coopland, has written some very good studies of life. Among the poets are Willem Kloos Albert Verwey, and Herman Gorter, each of whom deserves a far more careful critical consideration than can here be given to him. Willem Kloos, indeed, may be considered as the leader of the school since the death of Perk. It was to Kloos that, in the period from 1880 to 1885, each of the new writers went in secret for encouragement, criticism and sympathy. He appears to be a man of very remarkable character. Violent and passionate in his public utterances, he is adored by his own colleagues and disciples, and one of the most gifted of them has told me that "Kloos has never made a serious mistake in his estimate of the force of a man or of a book." His writings, however, are very few, and his tone in controversy is acrid and uncompromising, as I have already indicated. He remains the least known and the least liked, though the most powerful, of the band. The member of the new generation whose verse and prose alike have won most acceptance is, certainly, Frederik van Eeden. His cycle of lyrical verse, _Ellen_, 1891, is doubtless the most exquisite product of recent Dutch literature. For the peculiar quality which unites in one movement the varied elements of the school which I have attempted thus briefly to describe, the name Sensitivism has been invented by one of themselves, by Van Deyssel. It is a development of impressionism, grafted upon naturalism, as a frail and exotic bud may be set in the rough basis of a thorn. It preserves the delicacy of sensation of the one and strengthens it by the exactitude and conscientiousness of the other, yet without giving way to the vagaries of impressionism or to the brutality of mere realism. It selects and refines, it re-embraces fancy, that maiden so rudely turned out of house and home by the naturalists; it aims, in fact, at retaining the best, and nothing but the best, of the experiments of the French during the last quarter of a century. Van Deyssel greets _L'Argent_ with elaborate courtesy, with the respect due to a fallen divinity. He calls his friends in Holland to attend the gorgeous funeral of naturalism, which is dead; but urges them not to sacrifice their own living Sensitivism to the imitation of what is absolutely a matter of past history. It will be seen that Dutch Sensitivism is not by _any_ means unlike French Symbolism, and we might expect prose like Mallarmé's and verse like Moréas'! As a matter of fact, however, the Dutch seem, in their general attitude of reserve, to leave their mother-tongue unassailed, and to be as intelligible as their inspiration allows them to be. To one of these writers, however, and to one of the youngest, it is time that I should turn. The first member of the new Dutch school to be presented, in the following pages, to English readers, is Louis Marie Anne Couperus. Of him, as the author of this book, I must give a fuller biography, although he is still too young to occupy much space by the record of his achievements. Louis Couperus was born on the 10th of June, 1863, at the Hague, where he spent the first ten years of his life. He was then taken in company with his family to Java, and resided five years in Batavia. Returning to the Hague, where he completed his education, he began to make teaching his profession, but gradually drifted into devoting himself entirely to literature. He published a little volume of verses in 1884, and another, of more importance, called _Orchideïen_ (Orchids), in 1887, Oriental and luscious. But he has succeeded, as every one allows, much better in prose. His long novel of modern life in the Hague, called _Eline Vere_, which ran through _De Gids_, and was published in book form in 1889, is an admirable performance. Of _Noodlot_ (literally to be translated "Fate" or "Destiny"), 1890, our readers will now judge for themselves. Mr. Couperus is at present engaged, as he tells me, on a novel called _Extaze_ ("Ecstasy"). Such is the brief chronicle of a writer from whom much is expected by the best critics of his own country. EDMUND GOSSE. FOOTSTEPS OF FATE I His hands in his pockets, and the collar of his fur coat turned up, Frank was making his way one evening, through squalls of snow, along the deserted length of Adelaide Road. As he approached the villa where he lived--White-Rose Cottage, it was called--sunk, buried, wrapped in white snow, like a nest in cotton wool, he was aware of some one coming to meet him from Primrose Hill. He looked steadily in the man's face, since he evidently intended to address him, doubting as to what his purpose might be this lonely, snowy night, and he was greatly surprised when he heard said in Dutch: "Pardon the intrusion. Are you not Mr. Westhove?" "Yes," replied Frank Westhove. "Who are you? What do you want?" "I am Robert van Maeren. You may perhaps remember--" "What! you, Bertie?" cried Frank. "How came you here in London?" And in his amazement there rose up before him, through the driving snow, a vision of his youth; a pleasing picture of boyish friendship, of something young and warm. "Not altogether by chance," said the other, whose voice had taken a somewhat more confident tone at the sound of the familiar "Bertie." "I knew that you lived here, and I have been to your door three times; but you had not come in. Your maid said that you were expected at home this evening, so I made so bold as to wait here for you." And again his voice lost its firmness and assumed the imploring accent of a beggar. "Is your business so urgent, then?" asked Frank in surprise. "Yes. I want--perhaps you could help me. I know no one here--" "Where are you living?" "Nowhere. I only arrived here early this morning, and I have--I have no money." He was shivering from standing in the cold during this short dialogue, and seemed to shrink into himself, almost fawning, like a cowed dog. "Come in with me," said Frank, greatly astonished, but full of sympathy and of the affectionate reminiscences of his boyhood. "Come and spend the night with me." "Oh, gladly!" was the reply, eager and tremulous, as if he feared that the heaven-inspired words might be retracted. They went together a few steps further; then Frank took a key out of his pocket, the key of White-Rose Cottage. He opened the door; a hexagonal Moorish lantern was burning low, and shed a soft light in the hall. "Go in," said Frank; And he locked the door and bolted it behind them. It was half-past twelve. The maid had not yet gone to bed. "That gentleman called here a little while ago, two or three times," she murmured; with a look of suspicion at Bertie, "And I have seen him hanging about all the evening, as if he was on the watch. I was frightened, do you know; it is so lonely in these parts." Frank shook his head reassuringly. "Make the fire up as quickly as possible, Annie. Is your husband still up?" "The fire, sir?" "Yes. Bertie, will you have something to eat?" "Gladly, if it gives you no trouble," replied Bertie in English, for the benefit of the maid, and he looked with an insinuating expression to meet the surprised, cold blue eyes of the neat, brisk young woman. His voice was persuasive and low; he tried to take as little room as possible in the small hall; and to avoid her gaze, he seemed to shrink, to efface himself in a corner where the shadow fell. Frank led the way into a large back room, cold and dark when they entered, but soon lighted up, and before long genially warmed by the huge fire which blazed up in the grate. Annie laid the table. "Supper for one, sir?" "Lay for two; I will eat something," said Frank, thinking that Bertie would feel more at his ease. At his friend's invitation the visitor had seated himself in a large armchair by the fire, and there he sat, bolt upright, without speaking, feeling shy before the woman, who came and went. And now, in the light, Frank could see the poverty of his appearance; his thin, shabby coat, shining with grease and bereft of buttons; his worn, fringed trousers; his dirty comforter, hiding a lack of underlinen; his ripped and slipshod shoes. In his confusion and awkwardness he still held his battered hat. This garb accorded ill with the aristocratic elegance of his figure; the thin, pale, chiselled features, full of distinction in spite of the unkempt light hair and unshaven stubble of beard. It was like a masquerade of rank and culture in the rags of misery, beseeming it as ill as an unsuitable part in a play. And the actor sat motionless, staring into the fire, ill at ease in the atmosphere of luxury which surrounded him in this room, evidently the home of a young man of fortune, who had no yearnings for domestic society. The curtains and carpets were of handsome quality, so were the furniture and ornaments, but arranged without any reference to comfort; the chairs and tables against the wall, stiff and orderly, and shining with polish. But it did not make this impression on Bertie, for a sense of the blessedness of warmth and shelter possessed him wholly; of peace and reprieve, as calm as a lake and as delightful as an oasis--a smiling prospect after the snow and cold of the last few hours. And when he saw that Frank was gazing at him in visible wonder at his motionless attitude by the glorious fire, where the dancing flames flew up like yellow dragon's tongues, at last he smiled, and said with humble gratitude in the tone of a beggar: "Thank you very much--this is good--" Annie had not much to set before them: the remains from the larder of a young fellow who lives chiefly away from home--a bit of cold beef steak and salad, some biscuits and jam; but it bore some resemblance to a supper, and Bertie did it full honour, eating and drinking with systematic deliberateness, hardly conscious of what; and imbibing hot grog, without confessing the hunger which had nipped his very vitals. At length Frank tried to make him speak, drew him into talk, and into telling him what had reduced him to such misery. Bertie told his tale in a fragmentary fashion, very abjectly, every word sounding like a petition: "Disputes with his father about his mother's fortune--a trifle of a few thousand gulden quickly spent; vicissitudes in America, where he had been by turns a farm-servant, a waiter in a hotel, and a _super_. on the stage; his return to Europe on board a liner, working out his passage in every variety of service; his first day in London--without a cent." He remembered Westhove's address from letters bearing date of some years back, and had at once made his way to White-Rose Cottage, only fearing that meanwhile Frank might have moved half a dozen times, and left no traces-- Oh! his anxiety, that night, waiting in the cold wind, while it grew darker and darker; the gloom, with no relief but the ghostly whiteness of the deathly silent snow! And now, the warmth, the shelter, and food!--And again he thanked his friend, cowering, shrivelled, in his threadbare clothes. "Thank you, thank you--" Annie, sulky over so much trouble at this hour of the night, and for such a vagabond brought in from the street, had nevertheless prepared a bedroom. And Frank led him upstairs, shocked by his exhausted appearance and ashy paleness. He patted him on the shoulder, promising to help him; but now he must go to bed--to-morrow they would see what could be done. When Bertie found himself alone he looked about him. The room was very comfortable; the bed ample, soft, and warm. He felt himself squalid and dirty, amid such surroundings of luxury; and by a natural instinct of decency and cleanliness, though his teeth were chattering with cold, he first carefully and elaborately washed himself--lathering, rubbing, brushing--till his whole body was rosy and glowing, and smelling of soapsuds. He looked in the glass, and only regretted that he had no razors; he would have shaved. At last, having slipped on a nightshirt which lay ready for use, he crept in between the blankets. He did not immediately fall asleep; revelling in the comfort, in his own purification, in the whiteness of the sheets, the warmth of the quilt; in the gleam of the nightlight even, which showed discreetly through a green shade. A smile came into his eyes and parted his lips.--And he was asleep; without a thought of the morrow. Happy in the respite of to-day, and the warmth of the bed, his mind almost vacant, indeed, but for the single recurring thought that Frank was really a good fellow! II. Next morning there was a hard frost; the snow glittered like crystals. They had breakfasted, and Bertie was relating his disasters in America. He had been trimmed and shaved by Frank's barber, and he was wearing Frank's clothes, which were "a world too wide" for him, and a pair of slippers in which his feet were lost. He already felt more at home and began to bask, like a cat which has found a warm spot of sunshine. He lounged at his ease in the armchair, smoking comfortably, and was on the old familiar terms with Frank. His voice was soft and mellow, with a ring of full content, like an alloy of gold. Westhove was interested, and let him tell his story in his own way; and he did so very simply, without making any secret of his poverty; but everything had happened inevitably, and could not have turned out otherwise. He was no favourite of Fortune, that was all. But he was tough; many another would not have pulled through as he had. Frank looked at him in astonishment; he was so frail, so pale, so delicate, almost devoid of all manly development; he was lost in the grotesque amplitude of Frank's coat and trousers--a mere stripling as compared with his own stalwart, angular frame! And he had gone through days of hunger, nights without a shelter, a depth of poverty which to Frank--well-fed and ruddy with vigorous health--seemed unendurable; and he spoke of it so coolly, almost jestingly; without complaining, only looking with regretful pity at his hands, which were thin, and blue with the biting cold, and chapped and raw about the knuckles. At the moment the state of his hands seemed to be the only thing that troubled him. A very happy nature, thought Frank, while he laughed at him for his concern about his hands. But Bertie himself was shocked at his own heedlessness, for he suddenly exclaimed! "But what am I to do--what am I to do?" He gazed into vacancy, helpless and desperate, wringing his hands. Frank laughed him out of his despair, poured him out a glass of sherry, and told him that for the present he must stay where he was, to recover. He himself would be heartily glad of Bertie's company for a few weeks; he was a little sick of his wealthy bachelor life; he belonged to a circle of idlers, who went out a great deal, and spent a great deal, and he was tired of it all--dinners and balls in the world, and suppers and orgies in the half-world. It was always the same thing; a life like a _Montagne Russe_, down and then up again, down and then up again, without a moment for thought; an existence made for you, in the position you made for yourself. At the moment he had but one anxiety; Bertie himself. Frank would help him, after a few weeks' rest, to find an appointment, or some employment; but, above all, he was not to worry himself for the present. Westhove was only glad to have his old friend under his roof. Memories rose up before him like dissolving views, pale-hued and swift, but appealing to his sympathy--memories of his schooldays, of boyish mischief, zigzag excursions, picnics among the sand-hills near the Hague--did Bertie remember? Frank could see him still, the slight, fragile lad, bullied by louts, protected by himself--Frank--whose fists were always ready to hit out, right and left, in defence of his friend. And, later on, their student days in Delft; Bertie's sudden disappearance without leaving a trace, even for Frank; then a few letters at rare intervals, and then years of silence. Oh! he was glad indeed to see his friend at his side once more; he had always had a great love for Bertie, just because Bertie was so wholly unlike himself, with something of the cat about him--loving to be petted and made much of, but now and then irresistibly prompted to flee over roofs and gutters, to get miry and dirty, and return at last to warm and clean himself on the hearth. Frank loved his friend as a twin-brother quite different from himself, imposed upon by Bertie's supercilious and delicately egoistic fascination.--A cat-like creature altogether. Bertie found it a great luxury to stay indoors the whole of that day, sitting by the fire, which he kept blazing by feeding it with logs. Frank had some capital port, and they sat after lunch sipping it, dreaming or talking; Bertie telling a hundred tales of his adventures in America, of his farmer master, of his hotel, and the theatre where he had acted; and one anecdote led to another, all garnished with a touch of singular romance. Frank presently wanted a little fresh air, and said he would go to his club; but Bertie remained where he was; he could not go about in rags, but he could not appear anywhere with Frank in the clothes he had on. Frank was to return to dinner at eight o'clock. And then suddenly, as if it had come to him like a lightning flash, Bertie said: "Say nothing about me, pray, to any of your friends. They need not be told that you know such a bad lot as I am. Promise me." Frank promised, laughing; and, holding out his hand, the "bad lot" added: "How can I ever repay you? What a happy thing for me that I should have met you! You are the most generous fellow I ever knew!" Frank escaped from this volley of gratitude, and Bertie remained alone in front of the hearth; toasting all over in the blaze, or stretching his legs, with his feet on the shining bars. He poured himself out another glass of port, and made himself think of nothing, revelling in the enjoyment of idleness, while he seriously examined his damaged hands, wondering how best to ensure their rapid recovery. III. Bertie had been a month at White-Rose Cottage, and was now hardly recognisable in the young man who sat by Frank's side in a victoria, in an irreproachable fur-lined coat, a fashionable tall hat; both the men wrapped about the knees in a handsome plaid. He now mixed quite at his ease with Frank's other acquaintances, carefully dressed, agreeable, and entertaining, and lisping English with an affected accent, which he thought elegant. He dined with Frank every day at the club, to which he was introduced; criticised game and wines with the most blasé air in the world, and smoked Havanas at two shillings apiece as if they were mere straw. Frank had in his inmost soul the greatest belief in him, and watched him with a smile of secret satisfaction, as he calmly went his own way chatting with men of the world, without ever for a moment feeling shy; and Frank thought the comedy altogether so amusing that he introduced his friend wherever he went. Winter yielded to a foggy spring; the London season was upon them, and Bertie seemed to find great pleasure in assisting at afternoon teas, and evenings at home; in sitting at a grand dinner between two pairs of fine shoulders, and flirting with each in turn, never dazzled by the glitter of jewels, nor bewildered by the sparkle of champagne; in leaning with languid grace in the stalls or dress circle, his chiselled features full of distinction and lordly repose, a fragrant white flower gleaming in his button-hole, and his opera-glass dangling between his now white fingers, as though not one of the ladies was worthy of his inspection. Frank, for lack of occupation, as a man who takes his pleasure where he finds it, had pushed Bertie forward in the world, not merely to help him, but also for the fun of it--a silly amusement, to make a fool of society! Bertie himself had many scruples, and kept note in a pocket-book of everything Frank spent upon him--when times were better he would repay him all--and in a fortnight it had mounted up to a total of some hundred pounds. Even at home Frank found him amusing. Bertie, who had contrived, by a few kind words, to win the good graces of Annie and her husband, Westhove's valet and butler, turned all the furniture about in whimsical disorder, bought statuettes, palms, and oriental stuffs, and changed the unsociable aspect of the room into one of artistic comfort, which invited to indolence; a subdued light, wide divans, the atmosphere of an alcove redolent of Egyptian pastilles and fine cigarettes, in which thought floated into dreams, and the half-closed eyes rested on the nude figures of bronze nymphs seen through the greenery of plants. Here, in the evening, high festivals were held; orgies with a few chosen friends, and select fair ones; two ladies from a skating-rink, and a figurante from a theatre, who smoked cigarettes with their vermilion lips and drank to Bertie's health. Frank laughed to his heart's content to see Bertie, a contemner of the fair sex, quite insensible to the three charmers; making game of them, teasing them, setting them by the ears till they were almost ready to claw each other, and to conclude the matter pouring floods of champagne down their _décolletés_ throats. No; Frank had never been so well amused during all his long residence in London, where he had settled as an engineer in order to give--as he said--a cosmopolitan character to his knowledge of the world. He was thoroughly good-hearted, and too highly prosperous to be a deep thinker. He had tasted of every pleasure, and had no high opinion of life, which was after all but a farce, lasting, according to statistics, on an average six-and-thirty years. He made small pretence of any philosophical views of existence, beyond a determined avoidance of everything that was not amusing. Now Bertie was very amusing, not only in his fun with women, the cruel sport of a panther; but especially in the farcical part he played in Frank's world, where he figured as a man of fashion--he, a vagabond, who only a month since had stood shivering in rags on the pavement. It was a constant secret delight to his friend, who gave Bertie _carte blanche_ to enable him to keep it up; a _carte blanche_ which was amply honoured, bringing in heavy tailors' bills--for Bertie dressed with refined vanity, bought ties by the dozen, adopted every fancy that came into fashion, and scented himself with all the waters of Rimmel. It was as though he was fain to plunge into every extravagant refinement of an exquisite, after having been a squalid scarecrow. And although at first he kept faithful record of his outlay, he soon forgot first one item and then another, till at last he forgot all. Thus weeks slipped by, and Frank never thought of troubling himself to inquire among his influential acquaintances for employment for his companion. Their life as wealthy idlers filled their minds entirely; Frank's at any rate, for Bertie had brought a new charm into it. But suddenly a strange thing happened. One day Bertie went out in the morning alone, and did not come in to lunch. After luncheon, at the club, no Bertie, nor yet at dinner. He did not come home in the evening; he had left no clue. Frank, extremely uneasy, sat up half the night--no one. Two days went by--still no one. Frank inquired right and left, and at last gave information to the police. At last one morning, before Frank was up, Bertie appeared at his bedside with an apologetic smile; Frank must not be angry with him; he surely had not been alarmed? You see such a monotonously genteel life had suddenly been too much for him. Always these elegant ladies, with trains and diamonds; always clubs full of lords and baronets; and skating-rinks--the pink of finery! Always a chimney-pot hat, and every evening full dress, with the regulation button-holer. It was intolerable! He could endure it no longer; it had been too much for him. "But where did you hide yourself?" asked Frank, in utter amazement. "Oh, here and there, among old acquaintance. I have not been out of London." "And you did not know a soul here?" "Oh, well, no fashionable folk, like your friends, but a scapegrace or two. You are not vexed with me?" Frank had sat up in bed to talk to him. He saw that he looked pale, weary, and unkempt. His trousers were deeply bordered with mud; his hat crushed; there was a three-cornered rent in his great-coat. And he stood there in evident confusion, like a boy, with his doubting, coaxing smile. "Come, do not be cross with me; take me into favour once more." This was too much for Frank. Provoked beyond measure, he exclaimed: "But, Bertie, what a cad you look! And where on earth have you been?" he asked again. "Oh; here and there." And he could get no more out of him. Bertie would only say that he had wanted to disappear; and now he was tired--- he would go to bed. He slept till three in the afternoon. Frank laughed over it all day, and Bertie went into fits when he heard of the police. At dinner, at the club, he related, with a melancholy face, that he had been out of town for a few days, attending a funeral. Frank had failed to receive a note through the carelessness of a servant. "But where in the world have you really been?" whispered Frank for the third time, infinitely amused and inquisitive. "Here and there, I tell you--first in one place, and then in another," answered Bertie, with the most innocent face in the world; and, dapper as ever, he delicately lifted an oyster, his little finger in the air, and swallowed down his half-dozen without another word on the subject. IV. The season passed away, but Bertie remained. Sometimes, indeed, he talked of going to Holland; he had an uncle, a stockbroker, in Amsterdam. Possibly that uncle.... But Westhove would not hear of it; and, when his friend's conscience pricked him for sponging on him, he talked him down. What did it matter? If Bertie had been the rich man, and he the pauper, Bertie would have done the same by him. They were friends. A true appreciation of the case began to dawn on him in the now firmly established habits of their life. Frank's moral sense whispered drowsily in the ease of their luxurious existence. Now and then indeed, he had something like a vague suspicion that he was not rich enough for two; that he had spent more in the last few months than in any former season. But he was too heedless to dwell long on such unpleasant doubts. He was lulled to sleep by Bertie as if by opium or morphia. Bertie had become indispensable to him: he consulted his friend on every point, and allowed himself to be led by him on every occasion, completely subjugated by the ascendancy held over him by the fragile little man, with his velvet paws, as though he had him under a yoke. Every now and then--ere long at frequent intervals of about a fortnight--Bertie disappeared, stayed away four or five days, and came back one fine morning, with his insinuating smile, exhausted, pale, and tired out. These were, perhaps, some secret excesses of dissipation--mysterious adventure-hunting in the sordid purlieus of the lowest neighbourhoods--of which Frank never heard nor understood the truth; a depth of depravity into which Frank seemed too precise and dainty to be initiated; sins in which he was to have no part, and which Bertie, in his refinement of selfishness, kept for himself as an occasional treat. Then Frank's hours were passed in disgust of life; he missed the unwholesome stimulant of his existence; in his solitude he sank into grey melancholy and sadness, verging on despair. He stayed at home all day, incapable of any exertion, sulking in his lonely house, where everything--the draping of the handsome curtains, the bronze nudity of the statues, the careless disarray of the cushions on the divan--had still, as it were, an odour of Bertie, which haunted him with regret. On such days as these he was conscious of the futility of his existence, the odious insignificance of his sinewless, empty life; useless, aimless, null! Sadly sweet memories would come over him; reminiscences of his parental home, shining through the magic glass of retrospect, like bright, still pools of tender domestic harmony, in which the figures of his father and mother stood forth grand and noble, glorified by child-like affection. He longed for some unspeakable ideal, something pure and chaste, some high aim in life. He would shake off this torpor of the soul; he would send away Bertie-- But Bertie came back, and Bertie held him tightly once more in his silken bonds, and he saw more clearly every day that he could not live without Bertie. And then, catching sight of himself in a mirror--tall and brawny and strong, the healthy blood tinging his clear complexion--he could not forbear smiling at the foolish visions of his solitude, which struck him now as diseased imaginings, quite out of keeping with his robust vigour. Life was but a farce, and the better part was to play it out as a farce, in mere sensual enjoyment. Nothing else was worth the pains.... And yet sometimes at night, when his big body lay tired out after some riotous evening, a gnawing dissatisfaction would come over him, not to be conquered by this light-hearted philosophy, and even Bertie himself would lecture him. Why did not Frank seek some employment--some sphere of action? Why did not he travel for a while? "Why not go to Norway?" asked Bertie one day, for the sake of saying something. London was beginning to be intolerable to Bertie; and as the notion of travelling smiled on Frank, both for a change and for economy--since they could live more cheaply abroad than in the whirl of fashionable London--he thought it over, and came to a decision to leave White-Rose Cottage for an indefinite period to the care of Annie and her husband, and spend a few weeks in Norway. Bertie should go with him. PART II. I. After luncheon at the table d'hôte of the Britannia Hotel at Dronthjem, the friends made their way along the broad, quiet streets with their low, wooden houses, and they had left the town, going in the direction of the Gjeitfjeld, when they overtook, in the village of Ihlen, an elderly gentleman with a young girl, evidently bent on the same excursion. The pair had sat a few places off at the table d'hôte, and as this much acquaintance justified a recognition in so lonely a spot, Westhove and his friend lifted their hats. The old gentleman immediately asked, in English, whether they knew the road to the Gjeitfjeld: he and his daughter--who, during the colloquy, never looked up from her "Baedeker"--could not agree on the subject. This difference of opinion led to a conversation: the two young men begged to be allowed to join them, Frank being of opinion that "Baedeker" was right. "Papa will never believe in 'Baedeker!'" said the young lady with a quiet smile, as she closed the red volume she had been consulting. "Nor will he ever trust me when I tell him I will guide him safely." "Are you always so sure of knowing your way?" said Frank, laughing. "Always!" she saucily declared, with a gay laugh. Bertie inquired how long a walk it was, and what was to be seen at the end of it; Frank's everlasting walks were a weariness and a bore. During his residence with his friend he had so spoiled himself, in order to forget his former wretchedness, that he now knew no greater pleasure than that of lying on a bench with a cigar, or a glass of port, and, above all, would avoid every exertion. But now, abroad--when a man is travelling--he cannot for ever sit dozing in his hotel. Besides, he was quite stiff with riding in a carriole; all this useless rushing about was really monstrous folly, and White-Rose Cottage was not such a bad place. Frank, on the contrary, thoroughly enjoyed the clear, invigorating air of this brilliant summer day, and he drank in the sunshine as though it were fine wine cooled by a fresh mountain breeze; his step was elastic and his voice had a contented ring. "Are you an Englishman?" asked the gentleman. Westhove explained that they were Dutch, that they lived in London; and his tone had the frank briskness which a man instinctively adopts to fellow-travellers, as sharing his lot for the moment, when the weather is fine and the landscape pleasing. Their sympathy being thus aroused by their admiration of Norwegian scenery, they walked on side by side, the elder man stepping out bravely, the young lady very erect, with her fine figure moulded in a simple, close-fitting blue cloth dress, to which a cape with several folds--something like an elegant type of coach-man's cape--lent a dash of smartness. She wore a sort of jockey-cap, with a mannish air, on her thick twists of ruddy-gold hair. Bertie alone could not understand how all this could be called pleasure; but he made no complaint. He spoke little, not thinking it necessary to make himself agreeable to people whom he might probably never set eyes on again after the morrow. So he just kept up with them, wondering at Frank, who had at once plunged into eager conversation with the young lady, but perceiving on a sudden that his own politeness and tact were a mere superficial varnish as compared with Frank's instinctive good breeding. At that moment, for the first time, notwithstanding his better features and natty travelling costume, he felt himself so far Frank's inferior that a surge of fury resembling hate thrilled through him. He could not bear this sense of inferiority, so he approached the old gentleman, and walking by his side forced himself to a show of respectful amiability. As they followed the windings of the upward and diminishing path they by degrees lagged behind Frank and his companion, and thus climbed the hill two and two. "So you live in London. What is your name?" asked the young lady, with calm curiosity. "Frank Westhove." "My name is Eva Rhodes; my father is Sir Archibald Rhodes, of Rhodes Grove. And your friend?" "His name is Robert van Maeren." "I like the sound of your name best. I believe I can say it like English. Tell it me again." He repeated his name, and she said it after him with her English accent. It was very funny, and they laughed over it--"Fraank, Fraank Westhoove." And then they looked back. "Papa, are you tired?" cried Eva. The old man was toiling up the height with his broad shoulders bent; his face was red under his travelling cap, which he had pushed to the back of his head, and he was blowing like a Triton. Bertie tried to smile pleasantly, though he was inwardly raging in high dudgeon over this senseless clamber. They had half an hour more of it, however, before the narrow track, which zigzagged up the hill-side like a grey arabesque, came to an end, and they sat down to rest on a block of stone. Eva was enchanted. Far below lay Dronthjem with its modern houses, encircled by the steely waters of the Nid and its fjord, a magic mirror on which floated the white mass of the fortress of Munkenholm. The mountains rising on all sides were blue; nearest to them the bloomy, purple blue of the grape; then the deep sheeny blue of velvet; further off the transparent, crystalline blue of the sapphire, and in the distance the tender sky-blue of the turquoise. The water was blue, like blue silver; the very air was blue as pearls are or mother-of-pearls. The equable sunlight fell on everything, without glare and without shadow, from exactly overhead. "It is almost like Italy!" exclaimed Eva. "And this is Norway! I had always pictured Norway to myself as being all like Romsdal, wild and barren, with rocky peaks like the Romsdalhorn and the Trolltinder, and with raging cascades like the Sletta fos; but this is quite lovely, and so softly blue! I should like to build a house here and live in it, and I would called it Eva's Bower, and keep a whole flock of white doves; they would look so pretty flying in the blue air." "Dear child!" laughed Sir Archibald. "It looks very different in winter, I suspect." "No doubt different, but still lovely. In winter I should love the fury of raging winds, and the roar of the waves of the fjord below my house, and grey mists would hang over the hills! I can see it all!" "Why, you would be frozen," argued the father, gravely. "Oh no; and I should sit at my turret window dreaming over Dante or Spenser. Do you love Dante and Spenser?" The question was addressed to Frank, who had listened somewhat puzzled to Eva's raptures, and was now a little startled; for, you see, though he knew Dante by name, he had never even heard of the poet Spenser; only of Herbert Spencer. "What, do you not know the Faery Queen, Una, and the Red-cross Knight, and Britomart? How very strange." "Dear child, what a little fanatic you are over those silly allegories!" said papa. "But they are glorious, papa!" Eva insisted. "Besides, I love allegory above all things, and admire no other kind of poetry." "The style is so affected! You are drowned in symbolism!" "It is the keynote of the Renaissance," Eva protested. "In the time of Elizabeth all the Court talked in that high-flown style. And Edmund Spenser's images are splendid; they sparkle like jewels!" Bertie thought this discourse much too learned, but he kept his opinion to himself, and made some remark about Dante's "Inferno." They were by this time rested and went on again up the hill. "My daughter is half an 'Esthetic,'" said the old gentleman, laughing. And Eva laughed too. "Nay. That is not the truth, papa. Do not believe him Mr.--Mr. Westhove. Do you know what makes papa say so? A few years ago, when I had but just left school, I and a few girls I knew were perfectly idiotic for a while. We towzled our hair into mops, dressed in floppy garments of damask and brocade with enormous sleeves, and held meetings among ourselves to talk nonsense about art. We sat in attitudes, holding a sunflower or a peacock's feather, and were perfectly ridiculous. That is why papa still says such things. I am not so silly now. But I am still very fond of reading; and is that so very esthetic?" Frank looked smilingly into her honest, clear, grey eyes, and her ringing, decided voice had an apologetic tone, as if she were asking pardon for her little display of learning. He understood that there was nothing of the blue-stocking in this girl, as might have seemed from her sententious jest before, and he was quite vexed with himself for having been compelled to confess that he knew nothing of the poet Spenser. How stupid she must think him! But it was a moment when the beauties of the scenery had so bewitched them that they moved, as it were, in a magic circle of sympathy, in which some unknown law overruled their natural impulses, something electrically swift and ethereally subtle. As they climbed the meandering mountain track, or made short cuts through the low brushwood, where the leaves glistened in the sun like polished green needles, and as he breathed that pure, intoxicating air, Frank felt as though he had known her quite a long time, as if it were years since he had first seen her at the table d'hôte at Dronthjem. And Sir Archibald and Bertie, lingering behind, were far off--miles away--mere remembered images. Eva's voice joined with his own in harmonious union, as though their fragmentary talk of art and poetry were a duet which they both knew how to sing, although Frank candidly confessed that he had read but little, and that what he had read he scarcely remembered. She playfully scolded him, and her sweet clear tones now and then startled a bird, which flew piping out of the shrubs. He felt within him a revival of strength--a new birth; and would fain have spread his arms to embrace--the air! II. That evening, on their return from their walk, after dinner, over a cup of coffee, they discussed their further projects. "We are going to Molde!" said Sir Archibald. "And so are we!" Frank exclaimed. The old gentleman at once expressed a wish that the friends would continue to give him and his daughter the pleasure of their society. Frank had taken a great fancy to him, and Bertie thought him courteous, and good company; Bertie had talked a good deal about America, but he had not told the whole history of his farming experiences in the far west; he had indeed idealised it a little by speaking of "My farm." And Frank did not contradict him. By the end of two days spent at Dronthjem they were the best of friends; with that confidential intimacy which, on a tour, when etiquette is out of court, sometimes arises from mere contact, without any knowledge of character on either side, simply from sympathy in trifles and mutual attraction, a superficial sentiment of transient admiration which occupies the traveller's leisure. The day on the sea by steamboat to Molde was like a party of pleasure, in spite of the rain which drove them below; and in the cabin, over a bottle of champagne, Miss Eva and the three men played a rubber of whist. But afterwards, in a gleam of pale sunshine, there was an endless walk to and fro on the wet deck. The low rocky shore glided slowly past on the larboard side; the hills, varying in outline--now close together, and again showing a gap--covered with brown moss down by the water, and grey above with patches of pale rose or dull purple light. At Christiansand they were far from land, and the waters, now rougher, were crimson in the glory of the sinking sun, fast approaching the horizon. Every wave had a crest of flame-coloured foam, as though the ocean were on fire. Frank and Eva, meanwhile, pacing up and down, laughed at each other's faces, reddened like a couple of pæonies, or like two maskers rouged by the glow of the sun to the semblance of clowns. They reached Molde late at night, too late to see its lovely fjord. But next morning, there it lay before them, a long, narrow inlet, encircled by mountains capped with snow; a poem, a song of mountains; pure, lofty, beautiful, severe, solemn, without one jarring note. The sky above them was calmly grey, like brooding melancholy, and the peace that reigned sounded like a passionless _andante_. III. Next day, when Sir Archibald proposed a walk up Moldehoï, Bertie declared that he was tired, and did not feel well, and begged to be left at home. In point of fact, he thought that the weather did not look promising; heavy clouds were gathering about the chain of hill-tops which shut in the fjord, like a sweeping drapery of rain, threatening ere long to fall and wrap everything in their gloomy folds. Eva, however, would not be checked by bad weather: when people were travelling they must not be afraid of a wetting. So the three set out; and Bertie, in his patent slippers, remained in the drawing-room of the Grand Hotel, with a book and a half-pint bottle. The road was muddy, but they stepped out valiantly in their waterproofs and stout boots. The rain which hung threateningly above their heads did not daunt them, but gave a touch of romantic adventure to the expedition, as though it threatened to submerge them in an impending deluge. Once off the beaten road, and still toiling upwards, they occasionally missed the track, which was lost in a plashy bog, or under ferns dripping with rain, or struck across a wild growth of blue bilberries. They crossed the morass, using the rocks as stepping-stones; the old gentleman without help, and Eva with her hand in Frank's, fearing lest her little feet should slide on the smooth green moss. She laughed gaily, skipping from stone to stone with his help; sometimes suddenly slipping and supporting herself against his shoulder, and then again going on bravely, trying the stones with her stout stick. She felt as though she need take no particular heed, now that he was at her side; that he would support her if she stumbled; and they chatted eagerly as they went, almost leaping from rock to rock. "What sort of man is your friend, Mr. Westhove?" Eva suddenly inquired. Frank was a little startled; it was always an unpleasant task to give any information concerning Bertie, less on account of his past life than of his present position; his quiet sponging on himself, Frank, who, though enslaved by Bertie, knew full well that the situation was strange, to say the least of it, in the eyes of the world. "Oh, he is a man who has been very unfortunate," he said evasively, and he presently added: "Has he not made a pleasant impression on you?" Eva laughed so heartily that she was near falling into a pool of mud, if Frank had not firmly thrown his arm round her waist. "Eva, Eva!" cried her father, shaking his head, "pray be more careful!" Eva drew herself up with a slight blush. "What can I say?" she went on, pursuing the subject. "If I were to speak the whole truth--" "Of course." "But perhaps you will be vexed; for I can see very plainly that you are quite infatuated with your friend." "Then you do not like him?" "Well then--if you insist on knowing: the first day, when I made his acquaintance, I thought him insufferable. With you we got on famously at once, as an amusing travelling companion, but with him--but perhaps he has not travelled much?" "Oh yes, he has," said Frank, who could not help smiling. "Well, then, perhaps he was shy or awkward. However, I began to think differently of him after that; I don't think him insufferable now." It was strange, but Frank felt no particular satisfaction on hearing of the young lady's changed opinion; he made no reply. "You say he has had much to trouble him. And, indeed, I can see it in his face. There is something so gentle in him, so tender, I might almost say; such soft, dark eyes, and such a sweet voice. At first, as I tell you, I found it intolerable, but now it strikes me as rather poetical. He must certainly be a poet, and have been crossed in love: he can be no commonplace man." "No, that he certainly is not," said Frank, vaguely, a little ill-at-ease over Eva's raptures; and a mingling of jealousy and regret--something like an aversion for the worldly polish, and a dull envy of the poetic graces which Eva attributed to his friend, ran through his veins like a chill. He glanced up, almost pathetically, at the pretty creature, who was sometimes so shrewd and sometimes so naïve; so learned in all that bore on her favourite studies, so ignorant of real life. A dim compassion came over him, and on a sudden the grey rain-clouds weighed upon him with a pall of melancholy, as though they were ominous of some inevitable fatality which threatened to crush her. His fingers involuntarily clasped her hand more tightly. "Here is the path once more!" cried Sir Archibald, who was twenty steps ahead of them. "Oh yes! There is the path! Thank you, Mr. Westhove!" said Eva, and she sprang from the last stepping-stone, pushing her way through the snapping braken to the beaten track. "And up there is the hut with the weathercock," her father went on. "I believe we have made a long round out of our way. Instead of chattering so much, you would do well to keep a sharp look-out for the path. My old eyes, you know--" "But it was great fun jumping over the stones," laughed Eva. Far above them they could now see the hut with the tall pole of the weathercock, and they went on at an easier pace, their feet sinking in the violet and pink blossomed heath, crushing the bilberries, dimly purple like tiny grapes. Eva stooped and picked some. "Oh! so nice and sweet!" she exclaimed, with childish surprise, and she pulled some more, dyeing her lips and fingers blue with the juice of the berries. "Taste them, Mr. Westhove." He took them from her soft, small hand, stained as it were with purple blood. It was true; they were deliciously sweet, and such fine ones! And then they went on again, following Sir Archibald, often stopping, and triumphing like children when they came on a large patch where the whortleberries had spread unhindered like a miniature orchard. "Papa, papa! Do try them!" Eva cried, heedless of the fact that papa was far ahead; but Sir Archibald was not out of sight, and they had to run to overtake him; Eva's laughter ringing like a bell, while she lamented that she must leave so many berries untouched--and such beauties! "I daresay there will be plenty round the hut," said Frank, consolingly. "Do you think so?" she said, with a merry laugh. "Oh, what a couple of babies we are!" The path grew wider, and they found it easy walking up to the top, sometimes quitting the track and scrambling over the stones to shorten the way. Presently they heard a shout, and looking up, they saw Sir Archibald standing on the cairn in which the staff of the weathercock was fixed, and waving his travelling-cap. They hurried on, and soon were at his side. Eva knocked at the door of the hut. "The hut is shut up," said her father. "How stupid!" she exclaimed. "Why does it stand here at all if it is shut up? Does no one live in it?" "Why, of course not," said Sir Archibald, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Frank helped Eva to climb the cairn round the pole, and they looked down on the panorama at their feet. "It is beautiful, but melancholy," said Eva. The long fjord lay below them, a narrow riband of pale, motionless water, hemmed in by the mountains, now wreathed with grey vapour, through which they gleamed fitfully like ghosts of mountains; Lauparen and Vengelinder, Trolltinder and Romsdalhorn, towering up through the envious, rolling mist, which, swelled by the coming storm, hung in black clouds from every peak and cast a gloomy reflection on the still waters. The hills were weeping--unsubstantial, motionless phantoms, sorrowing and tragical under some august and superhuman woe--a grief as of giants and demigods; the fjord, with its township, a plot of gardens, and roofs, and walls, and the white châlet of the Grand Hotel--all weeping, all motionless under the gloomy sky. A ghostly chill rose up from the gulf to where the trio stood, mingling with the tangible clamminess of the mist, which seemed to weigh on their eyelids. It was not raining, but the moisture seemed to distil on them from the black unbroken rack of clouds; and to the westwards, between two cliffs which parted to show a gleaming strip of ocean, a streak was visible of pale gold and faint rose-colour--hardly more than a touch of pink, a sparkle of gold--a stinted alms of the setting sun. They scarcely said another word, oppressed by the superhuman sadness which enwrapped them like a shroud. When Eva at last spoke her clear voice sounded far away--through a curtain. "Look, there is a glint of sunshine over the sea. Here we are pining for the sun. Oh, I wish the sun would break through the clouds! It is so dismal here--so dreary! How well I understand Oswald's cry in Ibsen's 'Ghosts' when he is going mad: 'The sun, the sun!' Men might pray for sunshine here and get no more than that distant gleam. Oh, I am perished!" She shivered violently under the stiff, shining folds of her waterproof cloak; her face was drawn and white, and her eyes looked large and anxious. She suddenly felt herself so forlorn and lonely that she instinctively took her father's arm and clung to him closely. "Are you cold, my child; shall we go home?" he asked. She nodded, and they both helped her down the heap of stones. Why, she knew not, but suddenly she had thought of her mother, who was dead, and wondered whether she had ever felt thus forlorn in spite of her father's fondness. But when they came in sight of the hut again, she said, as if it had just occurred to her: "Papa, there are some names cut in the door; let us cut ours too." "But child, you are so cold and pale--" "Never mind; let us cut our names; I want to," she urged, like a spoilt child. "No, Eva--what nonsense!" "Oh, but I do want to," she repeated coaxingly, but the old man would not give in, grumbling still; Frank, however, pulled out his pocket-knife. "Oh, Mr. Westhove, do cut my name; nothing but Eva--only three letters. Will you?" she asked softly. Frank had it on his lips to say that he would like to cut his own name with hers, although it was so long, but he was silent; it would have sounded flat and commonplace in the midst of this mournful scenery. So he carved the letters on the door, which was like a traveller's album. Eva stood gazing out to the west, and she saw the three streaks of gold turn pale, and the rose-tint fade away. "The sun, the sun!" she murmured, with a shudder, and a faint smile on her white lips and in her tearful eyes. A few heavy drops of rain had begun to fall. Sir Archibald asked if they were ever coming, and led the way. Eva nodded with a smile, and went up to Frank: "Have you done it, Mr. Westhove?" "Yes," said Frank, hastily finishing the last letter. She looked up, and saw that he had cut, "Eva Rhodes," and in very neat, even letters, smoothly finished. Below he had roughly cut, "Frank," in a great hurry. "Why did you add 'Rhodes'?" she asked, and her voice was faint, as if far away. "Because it took longer," Frank replied simply. IV. They got back to the Grand Hotel in a torrent of rain, a deluge poured out of all the urns of heaven; muddy to their waists, wet to the skin, and chilled to the bone. Eva, after a hot supper, was sent off to bed by her father, and the three men--Sir Archibald, Frank, and Bertie--sat in the drawing-room, where a few other visitors, all very cross at the bad weather, tried to solace themselves with illustrated papers or albums. The old gentleman took a doze in an easy-chair. Frank gazed pensively at the straight streaks of rain, which fell like an endless curtain of close steel needles, thrashing the surface of the fjord. Bertie sipped a hot grog, and looked at his shiny slippers. "And did you not miss my company on your excursion?" he asked, addressing Frank with a smile, just to break the silence that reigned in the room. Westhove turned to him in some surprise, as if roused from a dream; then, with a frank laugh, he briefly answered: "No." Bertie stared at him, but his friend had already turned away, lost in thought over the patter of the rain; so Bertie at last took up his book again, and tried to read. But the letters danced before his eyes; his ears and nerves still thrilled uncomfortably under the remembrance of that one short, astounding word which Frank had fired into the silence like a leaden bullet. It annoyed him that Frank should take no further notice of him. Frank stood unmoved, looking out at the mountains, scarcely visible through the watery shroud; what he saw was their walk back from Moldehoï; the meandering downward path through the tall, dripping braken; the pelting rain streaming in their faces as from a watering-pot; Eva, closely wrapped in her wet mackintosh, and clinging to his arm as if seeking his protection; behind them her father, carefully feeling the slippery, moss-grown stones with his walking-stick. Frank had wanted to wrap her in his own thick waterproof coat, but this she had positively rejected; she would not have him made ill for her sake, she said, in that far-away voice. And then, when they were at home again, after they had changed their clothes and dined, and laughed over their adventure, Sir Archibald was afraid lest Eva should have taken cold. Frank remembered at this moment a fragment of their conversation; his asking her, a little surprised in spite of himself, "Have you read Ibsen's 'Ghosts'? You spoke of Oswald when we were up on Moldehoï." As it happened, he had himself read "Ghosts", and he did not think it a book for a young girl; she noticed his surprise, and had blushed deeply as she replied: "Yes, I have read it. I read a great deal, and papa has brought me up on rather liberal lines. Do you think that I ought not to have read 'Ghosts'?" She herself had seen no harm it, had not perhaps fully understood it, as she candidly confessed. He had not ventured to tell her that the study of such a drama of physiological heredity was, to say the least, unnecessary for a young girl; he had answered vaguely, and she had coloured yet more deeply, and said no more. "She must have regarded me as a prig of a schoolmaster!" thought he, ill at ease. "Why should she not read what she likes? She does not need my permission for her reading; she is grown up enough. She must have thought me a pedantic owl." "Frank!" said Bertie again. "What?" said Frank, startled. "We leave this place to-morrow morning, I suppose?" "Yes, that was our plan. At least if the weather improves." "What is the name of the next outlandish spot we are going to?" "Veblungsnaes; and from thence to Romsdal and Gudbrandsdal." "And the Rhodes?" "They are going to Bergen." "To-morrow?" "I don't know." And he stood once more lost in thought; the grey, wet atmosphere without cast a gloom on the scene within; and in his soul, too, reigned the deepest gloom. What was the use of fostering warm feelings when a few days of sympathetic companionship could only end in parting? This was always the case with friendly travelling-acquaintance, and was it not so throughout life, with every one--everything--we love? Was it worth while to care for anything? Was not all love a great delusion, by which men blinded themselves to their disgust at life? PART III. I. December in London. Cold and foggy. White-Rose Cottage wrapped in mist; in the back room a blazing fire. But Robert van Maeren was no longer in the blissful mood to enjoy this luxury, as we have hitherto known him; moreover, he now regarded it as quite a matter of course, which came to him by right, since he was a creature of such refined feeling, so slight and fragile, and did not feel himself born to endure poverty and want. Still, he had known misery, the slavery of hired labour, to which he had bent his back with crafty subservience; still, he had felt the gnawings of hunger, the bitterness of squalid beggary. But all this seemed long ago, and as vague as a dream, or as the vanishing lines of the London streets out there, dimmed and blurred by the pall of fog; as indistinct as our dubious impressions of a former state of existence. For, after his metamorphosis, he had determined to forget--he had forced himself to forget; never for an instant to recall his sufferings, or to think of the future. He hated the past as an injustice, a disgrace, an ineradicable stain on the superficial spotlessness of his present life; he had persuaded himself that all those things which he had now hidden, buried, for ever ignored, had indeed never happened. And he had succeeded in this effacement of his life in America; it seemed wiped out of the annals of his memory. Why, now, must those years rise slowly before him, like ghosts out of the grave of oblivion? What had they to say to him now? Nearer and nearer, till, year by year, month by month, day by day, they passed before him, dancing in the flames at which he sat staring, like a Dance of Death of the years. They grinned at him from skulls, with hollow eyes and pallid faces, distorted by a crafty smile; the dead years which beckoned to him, wearing filthy rags, and poisoning his cigar with their foul odour! He saw them, he smelt them; he shuddered with their chill--there, in front of the fire; he felt their hunger, in spite of the dinner that awaited him. Why was it that the future, which he no less persistently ignored, was beginning to hang over him as an omen of evil, which each day, each hour, brought nearer and nearer irresistibly, inevitably?--That future must perhaps be such as the past had been. Yes, something was impending. There he sat, sick with alarms, cowardly, spiritless, effete. Something was in the air; he felt it coming nearer, to overwhelm him, to wrestle with him for life or death in a frenzy of despair; he felt himself tottering, sinking; he was torn from the ease and comfort of his present life, cast out into the streets, without shelter, without anything! For what had he of his own? The clothes he wore, the shoes on his feet, the ring on his finger were Frank's. The dinner to come, the bed upstairs, were Frank's. Thus had it been for a year past; and if he were to go with all he possessed, he would go--naked, in the winter. And he could not again be as he had been in America, tramping for work day after day. His body and mind alike were enervated, as by a warm bath of luxury; he had become like a hot-house plant which is accustomed to the moist heat, and perishes when it is placed in the open air. But it hung over him, cruel and unrelenting; not for an instant did the threat relax, and in his abject weakness he feebly wrung his white hands, and two tears, hot with despair, rolled down his cheeks. Struggle for existence! He was incapable of such a battle; his energy was too lax for that--a laxity which he had felt growing on him as a joy after his fight for life, but which now had made him powerless to screw himself up to the merest semblance of determination. And before him he saw the fateful chain of events passing onwards--some so infinitely small--each detail a terrible link, and all leading on to catastrophe. Strange that each one was the outcome of its predecessor! the future the outcome of the past! If, after his failure from sheer idleness at Leyden, his father had not placed him as clerk in the office of a Manchester house, he would probably never have known certain youths, his fellow clerks, fashionable young rakes, and fierce "strugglers for existence;" still scarcely more than boys, and already the worse for dissipation. If he had never known them--and yet, how pleasantly had they borne him along, merely by humouring his natural bent!--he might, perhaps, not have played such underhand tricks with the money belonging to the firm, that his patron, out of sympathy and regard for his father, had helped him to go to America. That was where he had sunk deepest, swamped in the maelstrom of more energetic fortune-hunters. If only he had been less unlucky in America, he would not have found himself stranded in London in such utter destitution, or have appealed to Westhove for help. And Frank--but for his suggestion, Frank would never have gone to Norway, never have met Eva. Oh, that journey to Norway! how he cursed it now; for Frank might, perhaps, not have fallen in love, and never have thought of marriage. And now--only yesterday Westhove had called at Sir Archibald's house, where the two friends had been made very welcome after their acquaintance in Norway, and had come home engaged to Eva. Frank would marry, and he, Bertie? Where was he to go? What was to become of him? He was painfully conscious of the fatality of life, of the injustice of the dispensations of fortune; and he discerned that his own immediate difficulties owed their origin to a single word. One single word: Norway!--Norway, Eva, Frank's falling in love, Frank's engagement and marriage, and his own shipwreck--how horribly clearly he saw every link of the chain of his own life in each word! One word, uttered under a foolish impulse: Norway! And it had irretrievably wrought the happiness of two other persons at the cost of his own. Injustice! Injustice! And he cursed the impulse, the mysterious, innate force which more or less prompts every word we speak; and he cursed the fact that every word uttered by the tongue of man remains beyond recall. What is that impulse? Something obscurely good, an unconscious "better self," as men declare, which, though deeply and mysteriously hidden, dashes ahead like an unbroken colt, treading down the most elaborate results of careful thought? Oh, if he had but held his tongue! Why Norway? What concern had he with that one fatal, fateful land, above all others? Why not Spain, Russia, Japan, good God! Kamschatka, for aught he cared; why especially Norway? Idiotic impulse, which had unlocked his miserable lips to pronounce that luckless name; and oh, the injustice of fate, of life, of everything! Energy? Will? What could will and energy do against fate? They were words, empty words. Be a cringing fatalist, like a Turk or Arab, and let day follow day; never think; for behind thought lurks impulse!--Fight? Against Fate, who forges her chains blindly, link upon link? He threw himself back in his chair, still feebly wringing his hands, and the tears trickled again and again down his cheeks. He saw his own cowardice take shape before him; he stared into its frightened eyes, and he did not condemn it. For he was as fate had made him. He was a craven, and he could not help it. Men called such a one as he a coward: it was but a word. Why coward, or simple and loyal and brave, or good and noble? It was all a matter of convention, of accepted meaning; the whole world was mere convention, a concept, an illusion of the brain. There was nothing real at all--nothing! And yet there was something real: misery and poverty were real. He had felt them, wrestled with them hand to hand; and now he was too weak to fight them again, too delicate, too refined! He _would_ not face them again. Then, leaning back with his pallid head resting against the cushioned back of his chair, his deep-set black eyes clouded With the venom of these reflections, he was aware of a gentle; pleasant electric current thrilling through him--a current of Will. Fatality had willed to bring Frank and Eva together; well, he--a mere plaything of Fate--would will, that-- Yes. He would will to part them. And before his very eyes, as it seemed, that purpose rose up, cold and rigid, an evil and mysterious form, like an incarnation of Satanic malignity. It looked at him with the eye of a Sybil, of a Sphinx; and, as compared with the Titanic cruelty of that image, his former visions sank into nothingness--the Dance of Death of the years, the continuity of Fatality, and his cursing of it all. These now vanished, and he only saw that figure, like a ghost, almost tangible and almost visibly solid in the dusk, against the dying glow of the fire. The gloomy, questioning gaze of those eyes hypnotised his soul; his instinct fell asleep under its crushing power.... Friendship! gratitude! They, too, were mere words. There was nothing real in life but conventionality and--poverty. And then there was that image--there, in front of the fire--with its staring, fixed gaze, petrified to an embodiment of silent, irresistible, infernal magnetism! II That night--he saw Frank no more, for he had stayed to dine with Sir Archibald Rhodes--that night Van Maeren could not sleep; the wildest fancies kept him wide awake. Illusions and schemes whirled through his fevered brain; strange voices buzzed in his ears, hissing like an angry sea. He saw himself sitting with Eva in a cab, passing through the gloomiest and foulest parts of London. Squalid figures stood in their way, and came close to Eva. He laughed as he saw her dragged away by men with brutal faces, and then come back to him, with her clothes torn, sobbing because she had been insulted. A fearful headache hammered in his brain, and he groaned with a painful effort to control the wild extravagance of his fancy. He got up, rubbing his eyes, as if to drive away the melodramatic vision, and wrapped his burning head in a wet, cold towel. He involuntarily looked in the glass; and, in the subdued glimmer of the nightlight, his face stared back at him as pale as death, drawn and haggard, with hollow, sunken eyes, and a gaping mouth. His heart beat violently, as if it were rising into his throat, and he pressed it down with both hands. After drinking a glass of water he lay down again, forcing himself to be calm. Subtler fancies now crowded his mind, like fine threads caught athwart and across--webs mingled in a maze like an inextricable tangle of lace; and his imagination worked out the intricacies of weariful intrigues, as though he were a poet who, during a night of lucid sleeplessness, constructs a drama, and, not content with its plot, goes through it again and again, to master the great conception in his mind before writing it out. Now he saw the orgies of a past day repeating themselves below in the sitting-room. He saw the skating-rink, and Frank and himself drinking champagne, and laughing and singing. But suddenly the door opened, and Sir Archibald came in with Eva on his arm. Sir Archibald cursed Frank with tremendous words and vehement gestures, and Frank hung his head; but Eva threw herself between them, with words of anguish and imploring hands. And it was all the last scene of the fourth act of an opera. The singing in his ears, and the dreadful throbbing in his aching head, were like the thunder of a full orchestra, excited to the utmost by the beat of an energetic conductor, and the loud, strident crash of brass instruments. Bertie moaned, and tossed from side to side, compelling himself to picture less violent scenes. Now it was like a modern comedy. Eva, at his suggestion, was suspiciously watching Annie, the maid and housekeeper at White-Rose Cottage. Eva was jealous, and then a grand catastrophe--Eva finding Annie in Frank's arms. Sick with thinking, bewildered by his own imaginings, he drove away the chaotic vision. Exhaustion overcame him; his frenzy was worn out, though his head was still burning, throbbing, bursting; although acute pain shot through his brain, from his brows to his neck, as if he were being scalped; although the blood in his temples leaped furiously in his veins, with rhythmical torture. And in the immediate torment of physical suffering, his pride, which was to defy Fatality, collapsed like a tower crumbling into ruins. His imagination became vacancy; he forgot his terrors of the future. He lay motionless, bathed in clammy sweat; his eyes and mouth wide open; and the indecision of exhaustion cast a softened light on all his fancies--mere delirious dreams, which could never bear the faintest resemblance to reality. Things must go on as they might, he lazily thought; the future was still remote; he would think no more about it; he would let himself go with the chain of events, link by link; it was madness to double his fists against Fate, which was so strong--so omnipotent. III. The following days passed quietly enough, though a vague fear still hung over Bertie's head. He bowed that head without further thought, but still with a dull ferment in the depths of his heart, below the superficial calm. Then one day he went with Frank to the Rhodes', and Eva, taking his hand, said: "We shall be good friends, shall we not?" And after she had spoken he heard her voice still ringing in his ears like little bells. He mechanically let his velvety eyes rest on hers, and smiled, and allowed her to lead him to a sofa, and show him designs for furniture and patterns of curtains for their new home--her home and Frank's. Frank himself sat a little way off talking to Sir Archibald. He looked at them, sitting side by side, like brother and sister, on the softly cushioned settee--their heads bent together over the rustling pages of the pattern-book, their hands meeting from time to time. And his brows were knit in a frown of displeasure. And yet he laughed, and said to Eva: "Bertie will be of the greatest use; he has far better taste than I." And he felt as though he had spoken the words in spite of himself, or had meant to say something quite other than this compliment, but could not help it. All the time he was talking politics to Sir Archibald his eyes rested on them, magnetically attracted by their familiar manner. There was a sisterly gentleness in Eva, an emanation of sympathy for her lover's friend, a somewhat romantic interest in the mystery of Van Maeren's fine dark eyes and insinuating voice, and a compassion for the deep Byronic sorrows which she attributed to him--something like the esthetic pathos of a sentimental reader over the inexplicable woes of a hero of romance. It was to her a poetic friendship, which very harmoniously supplemented her love for Frank Westhove; a kind of love of which in her girlish enthusiasm she had never imagined the existence, and of which, if she could have suspected it, she would certainly never have thought herself capable: a calm, peaceful, and true affection, practical, almost homely, without the faintest tinge of romance; a love, not blind to her lover's faults, but faithful to him in spite of them, like a mother's for her undeserving child. She perceived his indolence over every voluntary effort, his indecision over every serious question, his vacillation between this and that; and did not blind herself to all this weakness. But it was this very weakness which had gained her heart, as a pleasing contrast with the cool, uneffusive, sober affection of her father, who spoiled her indeed, but never so much as she herself desired. Then there was another contrast which charmed her even more, which had filled her heart with an admiration that had become a passion; the contrast in Frank himself, of his mild, yielding character with the robust vigour of his stalwart person. She, woman as she was, found something adorable in the fact of this splendidly strong youth, with his broad chest and shoulders, his great mane of fair hair and powerful neck--this man, whose suppleness and ease in lifting and moving things betrayed constant practice in the use of his limbs--being so feeble in determination, and so gentle in demeanour. When she was alone and thought of him so, she could not help smiling, though the tears came into her eyes--tears of happiness--for this contrast made her happy. It was very strange, she thought, and she could not understand it; it was a riddle; but she did not try to solve it, for it was a riddle that she loved, and as she thought of it, with smiling lips and tear-dimmed eyes, she longed only to have her arms round his neck--her own Frank's. She did not idealise him; she never now thought of platonic twin-souls in superhuman ecstasy; she took him as he was, a mere man; and it was for what he was that she worshipped him, calm and at rest in her worship. Although she knew that the romantic side of her nature could never find fulfilment--such as it now did through her sisterly regard for Bertie--she had no regret for it in her abounding love for Frank. And since her nature found completion in the enjoyment of the moment, she was pleased and quite satisfied, and felt such a sunny glow in her and about her as deserves to be called true happiness. This was her frame of mind now, as she looked through the patterns with Bertie, while Frank sat chatting with her father. There was the man she loved, here her brother-friend. This was all good; she never could wish for anything more than to be thus happy in her love and her friendship. She looked at Bertie with a protecting and pitying smile, and yet with a touch of contempt at his slight, boyish figure, his white hands and diamond ring, his little feet in patent leather shoes, hardly larger than her own; what a dapper little mannikin he was! Always spotlessly precise in dress and manner, with an appealing cloud of melancholy over his whole person. As he glanced up at her, consulting her about some detail in one of the prints, Bertie detected this smile on Eva's face, ironically patronising and at the same time kind and sisterly; and knowing that she liked him, he could to some extent read its meaning; but he asked her: "What are you smiling at?" "At nothing," said she; and she went on, still smiling affectionately: "Why did you never become an artist, Bertie?" "An artist?" said Van Maeren, "what next?" "A painter, or an author. You have great artistic taste--" "I!" he repeated, much surprised, for he really did not know that he possessed very remarkable esthetic feeling, an exquisiteness of taste worthy of a woman, of a connoisseur; and her words set his own character before him in a new light. Does a man never know himself and what really lies in him? "I could do nothing," he replied, somewhat flattered by Eva's speech; and in his astonishment, candid for once in spite of himself, he went on: "I should be too lazy." He was startled by his own words, as though he had stripped himself bare; and he instinctively looked across at Frank to see if he had heard him. Vexed at his own thoughtlessness he coloured and laughed to hide his annoyance, while she, still smiling, shook her head reproachfully. IV. When, a little later, Eva was alone with her lover, and she showed him the patterns which his friend had preferred, Frank began: "Eva--" She looked at him inquiringly, beaming with quiet happiness. There was a turmoil in his brain; he wanted to speak to her about Bertie. But he suddenly remembered his promise to his friend never to reveal anything of his past life. Frank was a man who simply regarded a spoken word as inviolable, and he suddenly perceived that he could not say what he had on his tongue. And yet, he remembered his uncomfortable sensations when, on the top of Moldehoï, Eva had so innocently expressed her change of opinion in his friend's favour. Had he not then felt, as though the black clouds were an omen of evil hanging over her head? And had he not experienced the same shudder as he saw them sitting side by side on the sofa, as if a noose were ready to cast round her neck? It was an instinctive dread, springing up unexpectedly, without anything to lead up to it. Ought he not to speak, to tell her what Bertie was? But he had promised--and it was foolishly superstitious to allow such an unreasoning terror to have any influence on his mind. Bertie was not like ordinary men; he was very lazy, and lived too contentedly at the expense of others--a thing that Westhove could not understand, and over which in his good nature he simply shook his head with a smile--but Bertie was not wicked. So he was concealing nothing from Eva but that Bertie had no money. Still, he had meant to say something, something was seething in his brain. Eva was looking at him wide-eyed; he must speak. So he went on, embarrassed in spite of himself, coerced by a mysterious force which seemed to dictate the words: "I was going to say--perhaps you will think me silly--but I do not like, I do not think it right--" She still looked at him with her surprised eyes, smiling at his hesitancy. It was this very indecision which, in her eyes, was so engaging a contrast to his stalwart frame; she sat down on his knee, leaning against him, and her voice sounded like a poem of love: "Well, what, Frank? My dearest Frank, what is it?" Her eyes smiled in his; she laid her arms round his neck, clasping her hands, and again she asked: "Tell me, foolish boy, what is the matter?" "I do not like to see you always--that you should always--sit so--with Bertie." The words forced their way against his will; and now that they were spoken it seemed to him that he had meant to say something quite different. Eva was amazed. "Sit so with Bertie!" she repeated. "How do I sit with Bertie? Have I done anything I ought not? Or--tell me, Frank, are you so horribly jealous?" He clasped her closer, and, kissing her hair, he muttered: "Yes, yes! I am jealous." "But of Bertie--your best friend, who lives with you? You cannot surely be jealous of him!" She burst out laughing, and, carried away by her own mirth, fairly shook as she sat there, on his knee, with her head against his shoulder. "Of Bertie!" she said, still gasping. "How is it possible? Oh, oh, of Bertie! But I only think of him as a pretty boy, almost a girl. He is so tiny, and has such neat little hands. Oh, oh! What! jealous of Bertie?" "Do not laugh so!" he said, with a frown. "I really mean it--you are so familiar with him--" "But he is your dearest friend!" "Yes, so he may be--but yet--" She began again to laugh; she thought him most amusing; and at the same time she loved him all the better for being so sullen and jealous. "Silly fellow!" she said, and her fingers played with his fair, golden-tinted moustache. "How foolish--oh! how foolish you are!" "But promise me--" he began again. "Of course, if it will make your mind easy, I shall keep more at a distance. But I shall find it very difficult, for I am so accustomed to Bertie. And Bertie must not be allowed to guess it; thus your friendship will remain unbroken. I must still be good friends with him. No, no! I tell you I must be kind to him. Foolish boy that you are! I never knew that you could be so silly!" And she laughed again very heartily, shaking his head in her engaging merriment, and towzling his thick hair with her two little hands. V. Frank had of late begun to think of Bertie as an intolerable burthen. Though he himself did not understand why, he could not bear to see Eva and his friend together, and their intimacy brought this about almost every day. Eva had rightly perceived that she could hardly behave to Bertie otherwise than she had done hitherto. Meanwhile he had to put up with great coolness from Frank. After one of his escapades, which had lasted three days, this coolness was very conspicuous. Westhove, who usually made very pressing inquiries on his return from these mysterious absences, on this occasion said not a word. And Bertie vowed to himself that this should be the last of these disappearances. But then came the discussion, which Van Maeren had so greatly dreaded; in a confidential moment his friend spoke of his impending marriage, and asked Bertie what plans he had for the future. "For you know dear old fellow," was Frank's kind way of putting it, "that I will with pleasure do my best to help you. Here, or in Holland, I have a few connections. And so long as you have nothing, of course I shall not leave you out in the cold; on that you may safely reckon. But I shall be leaving White-Rose Cottage: Eva thinks it too much out of the way, and, as you know, prefers Kensington. But we have had good times together, haven't we?" And he clapped Bertie on the shoulder, grateful for the life of good fellowship they had enjoyed within those walls, and feeling a little compassion for the poor youth who took so kindly to the good gifts of wealth, and who had, alas! no wealth to procure them with. However, he penetrated no further into Bertie's state of mind; he had always had a turn for a Bohemian existence: he had known luxury after living in misery; now life must be a little less easy for him again. That was all. Bertie, on his part, horrified by the heartless villany of his first reflections, allowed himself to slide on day by day, with no further thought of his various plots. He sometimes even had a naïve belief that at the last moment fortune would look on him with favour: his Fatalism was like a form of worship, giving him strength and hope. VI. However, a moment came when he thought all hope lost; the danger was pressing and imminent. "Bertie," said Westhove, who had just come home in some excitement, "to-morrow you can find some employment to suit you, I think. Tayle--you know, our friend at the club--tells me that he wants to find a secretary for his father, Lord Tayle. The old man lives on his place, up in Northumberland; he is always ailing, and sometimes tiresome, still, it seems to me that you will not easily get such another chance. You will have a salary of eighty pounds, and live in the house of course. I should have spoken of you to Tayle at once, but that you begged me long ago--" "Then you did not mention my name?" said Bertie, hastily and almost offended. "No," replied Frank, surprised at his tone. "I could make no overtures till I had spoken to you. But make up your mind at once, for Tayle has two other men in his eye already. If you can decide at once I will go back to Tayle this minute: my cab is waiting." And he took up his hat. Eighty pounds, and a position as secretary, with free quarters at the Castle! How the splendour of such an offer would have dazzled Bertie not so very long since, in America. But now-- "My dear Frank," he said, very coldly, "I am very much obliged for your kind intentions, but, pray, take no trouble on my account. I cannot accept the place. Dismiss your cab--" "What!" cried his friend, in utter amazement. "Will you not at least think it over?" "Thank you very much. If you have nothing better to offer me than to become the servant of the father of a man with whom I have been intimate as an equal, I can only say, Thank you for nothing. I am not going to shut myself up in a country-house, and scribble for an ailing, fractious old man, for a pittance of eighty pounds a year. And what would Tayle think of me? He has always known me as your friend, and we have been familiar on that footing; and now he is to see me his father's hired menial! I cannot say that you have much delicate feeling, Frank." His brain was in a whirl while he spoke; never before had he assumed such a haughty tone in addressing Frank, but it was like a cry of despair rising up from the ruins of his false pride. "But, good God, man! what do you expect?" exclaimed Westhove. "You know all my friends, and it is only through my friends that I can hope to help you." "I will take no help from any one like the men of our own club, nor from any one to whom you have introduced me as their equal." "That certainly makes the case a difficult one," said Westhove, with a sharp laugh, for great wrath was rising up in him. "Then you have nothing to say to this?" "Nothing." "But what on earth do you want?" said Frank, indignantly. "For the moment, nothing." "For the moment--well and good; but by-and-by?" "That I will see all in good time. And if you cannot be more considerate--" He stopped short, startled by his own voice. He was speaking loudly--as it would seem with domineering vehemence, but in fact only with the energy of despairing indolence and pride at bay. The two men looked at each other for a few seconds, each suddenly feeling as though he had a store of buried grievances against the other--grievances which had accumulated in spite of the friendly intimacy of their lives, and which they were on the point now of flinging in each other's teeth as foul insults. But Van Maeren checked his outburst. He recollected himself, or he had not forgotten himself. He smiled and held out his hand: "Forgive me, Frank," he said, humbly, with that voice like beaten gold, and that mitigating smile; "I know you meant well. I can never, no, never, repay you for all you have done for me. But this place I cannot really accept. I would rather be a waiter, or the conductor of a tramcar. Forgive me if I seem ungrateful." So they made it up. But Westhove thought this pride on his companion's part ridiculous, and was vexed that the whole affair must remain a secret from Eva. He would have liked to consult her on the subject. And it was with a deeper frown and more scowling glance that he watched those two, Bertie and Eva, as they sat side by side in the evening in the subdued light of the blue-shaded lamp, chatting like brother and sister. It was like some covert dishonesty. It was all he could do to keep from proclaiming aloud that Bertie was a parasite, a low fellow, from tearing them apart, from snatching them away from their blissful smiling and guileless intimacy as they discussed furniture and hangings. VII. After this ineffectual attempt to help Van Maeren his friend took no further trouble, expecting that when the case became urgent Bertie himself would ask his assistance. But Bertie's refusal led Frank to perceive for the first time the false position in which he had placed his companion, both with regard to himself and to his associates; his kindness to a friend out of luck in allowing him to live for a year as a man of fortune struck him now--seen in the light of an attachment which had purified, renovated, and transformed his whole nature--as indescribably preposterous, as trampling on every law of honour and veracity; an unjustifiable mockery of the good faith of the world he lived in. Formerly he had thought all this very amusing, but now he felt that it was mean, base, to have enjoyed such amusement as this. And he understood that he had himself encouraged the growth, as of some poisonous weed, of Van Maeren's false pride, which now forbade him to accept a favour from any one of their boon companions. The days glided by, and Westhove could not shake off the sense of self-reproach, which, indeed, grew upon him as time went on. Van Maeren cast a shadow over the happiness of his love. Eva saw that some dull grief made him silent; he would sit brooding for many minutes at a time--his brows knit and a deep furrow across his forehead. "What ails you, Frank?" "Nothing, my darling." "Are you still jealous?" "No. I will cure myself of it." "Well, you see, it is your own fault; if you had not always sung the praises of Bertie as your best friend I should never have become so intimate with him." Yes, it was his own fault; that he saw very clearly. "And are you satisfied with me now?" she asked, laughing. He, too, laughed. For indeed it was true; for Frank's sake she had now suddenly changed her behaviour to Bertie; she would rise and quit the sofa where they sat while he was yet speaking; she sometimes contradicted him, reproached him for his foppishness, and laughed at him for his dainty little hands. He looked at her in amazement, fancied she meant it for flirtation, but could not understand what she would be at. One evening, for hour after hour, she pestered him with petty annoyances, pin-pricks, which she intended should reassure Frank and not wound Bertie too deeply. The conversation presently turned on heraldry, and Sir Archibald wanted to show the two men the blazoned roll of his family tree. Frank rose, ready to follow him to his study, and Bertie did the same. Eva felt a little compunction, thinking she had carried her teasing rather far this time, and she knew that her father's pedigree would not interest him in the least. "Leave Bertie here, papa," said she. "He knows nothing about heraldry." And, at the same time, to comfort Frank, who dared not betray his jealousy, she added lightly, with a mollifying twinkle of her long eye-lashes: "Frank will trust us alone together, I daresay!" Her voice was so simple, her glance so loving, that Frank smiled and nodded trustfully, though annoyed at seeing Bertie sit down again. As soon as they were alone Bertie began: "For shame, Eva, how could you torment me as you have been doing?" She laughed and blushed, a little ashamed of herself for treating him so to please Frank. But Bertie's face was grave, and with an appealing gesture he folded his hands, and said beseechingly: "Promise me that you will not do so again." She gazed at him in surprise at his earnest tone; "It is only my fun," said she. "But a form of fun which is suffering to me," he replied in a low voice. And still she looked at him, not understanding. He sat huddled up, his head on his breast, his eyes fixed before him, and his brown hair, which waved a little over his forehead, clinging to his temples, which were damp with perspiration. He was evidently much agitated. He had no idea what might come of this dialogue, but he was aware that his tone had been solemn, that these first words might be the prelude to a very important interview. He felt that these few minutes were destined to become a precious link in the chain of his life, and he waited with the patience of a fatalist for the thoughts which should take shape in his brain, and the words which should rise to his lips. He kept an eye on himself, as it were, and at the same time spun a web about Eva, as a spider entangles a fly in the thread it draws out of its bowels. "You see," he went on slowly, "I cannot bear that you should torment me so. You think less well of me than you used. But if I have little hands, I cannot help it." She could not forbear a smile at the intentionally coquettish tone he had assumed, an affectation of spoilt-childishness which she saw through at once. But she replied, nevertheless: "Well, I beg your pardon for teasing you. I will not do so again." He, however, had risen from his chair, and, pretending not to see the hand she held out, he silently went to the window, and stood there looking out on the park-like greenery of Kensington Gardens, dimmed with mist. She sat still, waiting for him to speak; but he said nothing. "Are you angry, Bertie?" Then he slowly turned round. The grey daylight fell through the muslin curtains, and gave a pallid look--a hue of Parian china--to his delicate features. Very gently, with a deep, melancholy smile, he shook his head in negation. And to her romantic fancy the sadness of that smile gave him a poetic interest as of a youthful god or a fallen angel; the celestial softness of a sexless mythological being, such as she had seen in illustrated books of verse; a man in form, a woman in face. She longed to invite him to pour out his woes; and at this moment it would scarcely have surprised her if his speech had sounded like a rhythmical monologue, a long lament in blank verse. "Bertie, my dear fellow, what is the matter?" There he stood speechless, in the pale slanting light, knowing that the effect must be almost theatrical. And she, sitting where it was darker, could see that his eyes glistened through tears. Much moved, she went up to him; she took his hand, and made him sit down by her side. "Speak Bertie, have I vexed you? Can you not tell me?" But again he shook his head, with that faint smile. And at last he said huskily: "No, Eva, I am not vexed. I can be vexed no more. But I am very, very sad because we must so soon part, and I care for you so much--" "Part! Why? Where are you going?" "Indeed, I do not myself know that, sweet girl. I shall remain till you are married, and then I must go, to wander hither and thither quite alone. Will you sometimes think of me, I wonder?" "But why do you not stay in London?" He looked at her. He had begun this conversation without knowing whither it might lead him, abandoning himself to chance. But now, with this look which her eyes met in response, there suddenly blazed up in him a little diabolical flame. He knew now what he was driving at; he weighed every word he uttered as if they were grains of gold; he felt himself very lucid, very logical and calm, free from the painful, incoherent agitation of the last few minutes. And he spoke very slowly, in a mournful, hollow voice like a sick man: "In London! No, Eva, I cannot remain here." "Why not?" "I cannot, dear girl. I cannot, not with any decency. It is impossible." The hypocrisy of his eye, the languor of his tone, his assumption of inconsolable grief, distilled into her mind a vague suspicion like an insidious poison--the suspicion that it was on her account that he could not remain in London, because he would have to meet her as his friend's wife. It was no more than a suggestion. The wordless despair which seemed to exhale from him inspired the inference. But her mind rebelled against it; it was a mere suspicion and groundless. He went on, still very slowly, considering every word as if with mathematical accuracy. "And when I am gone and you are left with Frank, always with him, will you be happy, Eva?" "Why, Bertie?" She paused. It would be almost cruel to say "Yes," in the security of her happiness, in the face of his pain. "Why do you ask?" she said, almost timidly. He gazed into her face with the deep, soft, misty blackness of his fine eyes. Then he bent his head, and they filled with tears, and he clutched his hands as if they were cold. "Why--why?" Eva insisted. "Nothing, nothing. Promise me that you will be happy. For if you were not happy I should be heart-broken." "What should hinder my being happy; I love Frank so dearly?" she exclaimed, though still fearing lest she should hurt his feelings. "Yes; and so long as you are happy all is well," he murmured low, still rubbing his hands. Then, on a sudden, while her inquiring gaze still rested on his face, he said: "Poor child!" "What--why poor child?" she asked in dismay. He seized her hands, his tears dropped on her fingers. "Oh Eva, Eva! God, who can read my heart--If you--oh! I feel such pity, such great, passionate pity for you. I would do I know not what--I would give my life if I--if you.... Poor, poor child!" She was standing up now, trembling, and as pale as death; her fingers clutched the table-cover, which slipped as she pulled it, and a glass vase, in which a few flowers were fading, was upset; the water trickled over the velvet cloth in great silvery beads. She let it flow into pools, staring at it with wide, terrified eyes, while he covered his face with his hands. "Bertie," she cried, "oh, Bertie! Why do you speak thus? What is it all? Tell me. Tell me everything. I must know. I desire you to speak out." His reply was a gesture--a perfectly natural gesture of deprecation, with no touch of theatrical insincerity, a gesture as though he would retract his words, and had said something he should have kept to himself; then he, too, rose, and his face had changed; its expression was no longer one of suffering or of pity, but of cool decision. "No, no. There is nothing to tell, Eva." "Nothing! And you could exclaim, 'Poor child!' And you pity me! Good God, but why? What is this--what evil threatens me?" She had Frank's name on her lips, but dared not utter it, and he was conscious of this. "Nothing, really and truly, nothing, dear Eva. I assure you, nothing. I sometimes have the most foolish thoughts, mere fancies. Look, the vase has fallen over." "But what were you thinking then--what fancies?" He wiped the water off the table-cloth with his pocket-handkerchief, and replaced the flowers in the glass. "Nothing; nothing at all," he murmured, huskily; he was tremulous with nervousness, and his tone was deeply compassionate, as if his words were meant to shroud some awful secret. Then, as he said no more, she sank on the sofa and broke into uncontrolled and passionate sobs, scared by the undefinable terror which rose up in her soul. "Eva, dear Eva, be calm!" he entreated her, fearing lest some one should come into the room. And then--then he knelt down close by her, taking her hands, and pressing them tenderly. "Look at me, Eva. I assure you; I swear to you there is nothing wrong--nothing at all, but what exists in my own imagination. But, you see, I care for you so fondly: you will let me say so, won't you? For what I feel for you is only guileless, devoted friendship for my friend's bride and my own little sister. I love you so truly that I cannot help asking myself, Will my dear Eva be happy? It is a foolish thought, no doubt; but in me it is not strange, because I am always thinking of those I love. You see, I have known so much sorrow and suffering. And when I see any one I care for so truly as I do for you--see her so full of confidence in life and of fair illusions, the thought comes over me, terrible, but irresistible: Will she be happy? Is there, indeed, any such thing as happiness? Oh, I ought not to say such things; I only darken your outlook, and give you pessimistic notions; but sometimes when I see you with Frank, my heart is so full! For I love Frank, too. I owe so much to him, and I should so gladly see him happy with some woman--with some one--Still, I can only say, Trust wholly in Frank. He loves you, though he is a little fickle, a little capricious in his feelings; but he adores you. The delicate shades of a woman's nature are above his comprehension, perhaps, and he is apt to carry his light-heartedness a little too far--still, he means no harm. He is so candid, so honest; you know always so exactly what he is at. And so, Eva, dear Eva, never let any misunderstanding come between you--always be open with each other; will you not, my child. Oh, my poor Eva!" And he, too, sobbed low in his mysterious anguish, which was not altogether a pretence, for he was really in despair at the prospect before him. She looked down on him in dismay, greatly distressed by his words, from which she inferred something which he would not reveal: each word a drop of subtle venom, and the germ of strange doubts, which shot up like poisonous weeds. "Then there is nothing to tell?" she said once more, in a weary tone of entreaty, clasping her hands. "No, dear Eva, nothing at all. Only I am worn out, you see--quite an old man--and so I worry myself sometimes about you two. When I am far away--far from London--will you be happy? Tell me, Eva, will you be happy? Promise me, swear to me that you will." She gently nodded in the affirmative, with a sigh of regret that he must leave London--regret for what he had suggested, worst of all for what he had left unsaid: the mystery, the terror! He, meanwhile, had risen; holding out his hands to her, and shaking his head, as though over the follies of man, he said, with his most pathetic smile: "How silly you must think me, to torment myself so about nothing. I ought not to have said so much; perhaps I have saddened you with it all.... Have I?" "No," she replied with a gentle smile, shaking her head. "No, not really." He let himself drop into a chair, sighing deeply. "Alas! such is life!" he murmured, with a fixed gaze full of sinister significance. She made no answer, her heart was too full. By this time it was dark. Van Maeren took his leave. Frank alone had been asked to stay to dinner. "Have you forgiven me?" he asked, very humbly, with his most insinuating and romantic air, as the last rays of daylight shed an ethereal glow on his face. "For what?" she said, but she was silently weeping. "For having distressed you, even for a minute?" She nodded, and rose, trembling, exhausted, and tottering. "Oh, yes; you gave me a great fright. But you will not do so again, I beg." "Never," he murmured. He kissed her hand; a courteous caress he was accustomed to bestow, with a touch of foppery like an eighteenth-century marquis; and he went away. She was left alone. Standing there, in the middle of the room, she closed her eyes, and she felt as though a mist had fallen and enwrapped her. And in that mist she saw Moldehoï and the spectral fjord gleaming between the two ranges of protecting mountains, and far away, in the west, those three thin bars of gold. And suddenly she felt, as she had never felt before, so forlorn, so lonely, in the midst of the cloud, without even a thought of Sir Archibald and Frank, remembering nothing but her long-dead mother. A weight pressed on her brain, like the icy palm of a giant's hand; dusky gloom closed in upon her, and suddenly the living warmth within her was chilled as with a deadly frost. She felt as if she were standing in vast space, and through it--invisible, intangible, and yet sensibly and undeniably real--she was aware of a coming horror, rolling dully on like distant thunder. She stretched out her hands, feeling for some support. But she did not fall senseless; she recovered herself; and found that she was still in the middle of the room, now almost dark, a little tremulous, and with a feeble sensation about the knees. And she could not but think that there was something yet--something which Bertie had concealed from her. VIII. Next day she thought it all over once more. What was it? What was it? Would Bertie have pitied her so if there really had been nothing in it but his own pessimistic fears for her happiness? Or was he not indeed hiding something? And had it anything to do with Frank? And then Frank came, and she often saw him sit quite still for a time, with a frown on his brow. "What is the matter?" she asked. And he replied just as usual: "Nothing, sweetheart." And they chatted together, at first a little constrained, but soon quite happy again in their plans and dreams, forgetting what weighed on their minds. Eva would laugh brightly, and perch herself on Frank's knee, and play with his moustache. But if Bertie came in, something seemed at once to come between them; a shadow which parted them. It was when the friends were alone together that they were most ill-at-ease. Then Westhove could only long to turn Van Maeren out of doors at once, without the smallest perceptible cause, like a mangy hound. He pictured Bertie as he had seen him standing shivering in his wretched raiment that snowy night. Now he was such a dandy, and nothing was too good for him; and he was irreproachable; he did not even go off for a few days at a time, wandering obscurely like a cat. He was always "interesting," with his halo of melancholy; and since the scene over the secretaryship, he often assumed a reproachful tone in his voice and expression when speaking to Frank. Eva, when left to herself, was deeply wretched. Chaotic doubts tortured her soul, doubts which, for the moment, she could set aside, but which would force themselves on her as soon as she thought of Bertie's sympathetic smile and strange compassion for her. Oh! what was it? What was it? She had often meant to talk it over with Frank, but when she was on the point of beginning the subject, she did not know what to say. That Bertie pitied her? It could be nothing but his own pessimism which, in its universal humanity, regarded the world as worthy of pity, since it seemed created to be wretched. Should she ask Frank whether he had any silent grief--if he had anything to trouble him? This she did once or twice, and the answer was always the same: "Nothing, dearest!" What then, oh, what was this horror? Alas! she could get no further; she stood as it were blindfold in an enchanted circle, which she could not overstep, and her hand felt all round but could grasp nothing. If she resolutely banished such thoughts they came back again persistently. They overwhelmed her afresh, they re-possessed themselves of her brain, suggesting endless doubts; and ending always, always, in the same question which was the invariable outcome of these miserable cogitations: "What can it be?--Is there anything at all?" And never an answer. She had once again questioned Bertie; but he had only smiled, with that terrifying smile of woe, and had implored her not to rack her brain over anything which he might have inconsiderately let drop as the natural outcome of his melancholy temper. Otherwise, he should henceforth always be afraid of speaking to her with any frankness; he must weigh his words, and their confidential intimacy as brother and sister would be at an end. And her own feeling in the matter was full of dubious half-lights, in which no outline was distinct, no colour decided--a confusion of shadowy grey tints which dimmed the clear brightness of her love with increasing gloom, fatiguing her spirit by their indefiniteness, their non-existence in actual life, and their intangible semblance of reality, like a dream. IX. Once, however, the dream took substance; once she touched--she saw--she heard--Something. But was that It? They were coming out of the Lyceum. The crowd streamed forth, slowly shuffling, pushing impatiently now and then, shoulder to shoulder. And in the crush, close to her, Eva saw the flaming red plush opera-cloak of a tall, stout woman, and under a babyish "Cherry-ripe" hat a face, rose, white and black, with a doll-like smile, which suddenly leaned across her to address Frank. The brim of the hat rested on a mass of yellow curls, a scent of musk and rice-powder greeted her nostrils, and, like a blow in her own face, she heard the words: "Hallo! good evening, Frank; how are you, old boy?" She started and shrank back, looking hastily first at the rouged face and then at Frank; she saw his flashing look of rage, nor did the tall woman's confusion escape her notice--a damsel of the skating-rink--though the stranger drew back at seeing a lady on Frank's arm; she had evidently at first seen him over Eva's head in the crowd, and she now vanished, disconcerted by her own blunder in addressing a man who had a lady with him. But she shot a glance of amazed inquiry at Van Maeren who was close behind. Bertie might have warned her; for it was Bertie who had whispered three words under the "Cherry-ripe" hat, with a nod towards the front, saying: "There goes Frank." She was vexed with herself; but she really had not seen the young lady. When they reached home, Sir Archibald, who had observed nothing, was bidding them good-night at the door, but Frank exclaimed: "I beg your pardon--but I must speak to Eva--I beg of you--" It was already late, but Sir Archibald was no stickler for etiquette. They were alone, looking at each other with anxious eyes, but neither spoke. Frank began hurriedly, stumbling over his words as if he were eager to forestall any evil suspicion she might entertain. "Eva, believe me, Eva; you must believe me; it was nothing. You must not think anything of--of what happened just now." In a few brief words he told of a former acquaintance--a young man's acquaintance--of the skating rink. This was all at an end, it was a thing of the past; she must know that every man had a past. She knew that--surely? "A past," she echoed coldly. "Oh! every man has a past? But we--we have no past." "Eva, Eva!" he cried, for through the irony of her tone there pierced such acute pain that he stood dismayed and helpless, not knowing how to comfort her. "Tell me only this much," she went on, going close up to him and looking into his face with that strange stare. She laid her hands on his shoulders and tried to read his inmost soul through his eyes. And she slowly said, expecting to hear her own doom in the first word he should utter: "It is at an end?" He fell on his knees before her where she had dropped on a chair, rigidly upright, as if she were frozen; he warmed her resisting hands in his grasp--and he swore that it was. His oath rang true; truth was stamped on his face; and she believed him.... He besought forgiveness, told her that she must never think of it again, that all men-- "Oh yes," she nodded her comprehension. "I know, I understand. Papa has brought me up on rather liberal lines." He recollected that phrase; she had used it once before. And they both at once remembered Moldehoï and the black clouds. Eva shuddered. "Are you cold, dearest?" But she shook her head, still with a strange light in her eyes. He would have clasped her in his arms but she drew back, and he felt himself rebuffed, almost rejected. He could not understand her. Why no kiss, why no generous reconciliation, if she understood so well, if she had been so liberally trained? But she was perhaps a little upset; he would not be too urgent. It would no doubt blow over. When he was gone, Eva, in her own room, shivered and her teeth chattered as if she had an ague. And she began to cry bitterly, miserably, with deep despairing sobs, for grief that she lived, that she was a rational being--a woman--above all, that she had ever loved; that the world existed, that everything was so mean, so base--a mud heap! She loathed it all. She felt as if she had never really understood any of the books she had read; neither the "Faery Queen" nor "Ghosts"--especially "Ghosts"; never understood anything she had learnt under her father's "rather liberal" training. The white-feathery down of her illusions was blown into space; a rough hand had rubbed away the bloom from her most secret and inmost soul; the sacred innocence of her maidenhood had been dragged in the gutter. For the first time the peace of her great but reasonable love for Frank came into violent collision with the romance of her girlish dreams, and the balance of the two feelings was destroyed--of the practical and the romantic side of her character. X. After that conversation with Eva, Bertie felt as though he were living in a more subtle atmosphere, wandering in a labyrinth full of mysterious ways of craft and cunning, in which he must walk very circumspectly if he did not wish to lose himself. He knew very well what he had been driving at; he wanted to instil into Eva suspicions of Frank's constancy. Did she not herself know her lover to be fickle, almost capricious? Had not his hints been well chosen? Had he not sown the seed of doubt? He did not know. He saw nothing to reassure him in the regular, monotonous routine of everyday life, in which subtle shades of manner so often escape even the keenest observer. Eva had, indeed, once asked him about that Something; but after that, in appearance at least, their intercourse had been on the old footing again. He saw no difference in Eva--none in Frank; so Eva could have said nothing to her lover and asked him no questions. Before that afternoon Bertie had known hesitancy, had felt some disgust at his own heartlessness, some horror of his own monstrous selfishness. But that talk with Eva had been the first step on a downward path, where it was now impossible to turn back. A singular lucidity of thought dawned in his brain, as though his brain was a crystal mirror, in which his ideas were reflected in a vivid light. Never yet had he felt himself so keenly alert, so clearly logical; never had he aimed so true at an object in view, with the precision of a needle. The clearness of his mind was so perfect that in a naïve perception of his own baseness--a lucid moment of self-knowledge which once flashed on him, to his surprise, for no more than a second--he wondered that he should not apply so much talent and ingenuity to a nobler purpose. "Why did you never become an artist?" he could hear Eva asking him. But he only smiled; the practical weariness of life rose up before him; his own indolence, his cat-like love of physical ease. No, no, he could not help himself; so it must be. The first step was taken. It was Fate! Then, that evening as they came out of the theatre, that woman who belonged to their past life, his own significant nod, and his words, "There goes Frank." Was not all this, too, a fatality? Did not Fate strew such trivial incidents as these in the path of those who burnt incense at her shrine and paid her due worship, to be utilised by them as benefits--infinitely small links, which they must themselves weld into the chain? Did not Fate give men the illusion of free will, and a semblance of truth to the lie which says that they by their own energy can coerce the course of circumstance? No more than a word, a nod--"There goes Frank!"--and then, for the rest, trust to the chance--Chance! What is chance?--that the smart damsel of the skating rink should overlook Eva--tiny, dainty Eva--lost in the crowd. Had the result been such as he had counted on? Had he guessed the purpose of Fate? Yes, he thought, in some small degree; why else should Frank have craved an interview with Eva at so late an hour? And so, in that atmosphere of finely spun cunning, in that labyrinth of wiles, he no longer regarded himself as base, heartless, selfish. Words--mere words! It was folly to consider things too closely; he dismissed all scruples, and if they would sometimes force themselves on him he would argue with himself: Who could tell whether it was not a good thing if Frank should not marry? He was not a man to marry--no, really; he was changeable, capricious, and inconstant; he would not make a wife happy. Still, Van Maeren could see at once that this was self-deception; and he would laugh to himself, shaking his head, at finding himself so droll, so singular. Life was as nothing; nothing was worth troubling oneself about; but this introspection, this self-study, looking into one's own mind, juggling with one's own thoughts--that was really interesting, that was an amusing occupation, while lying at full length on a comfortable sofa. And yet he seldom enjoyed any repose of mind. The web of his scheming was perpetually being wearily woven in his mind. His interviews with Eva were a fatiguing effort--sometimes a long discourse, sometimes only half utterances--for he had constantly and precisely to weigh every word. Still, this weariness was never to be detected in his air and manner, or in the phrases which fell from his lips, so apparently unpremeditated that they seemed alive with natural impulse. They were, in fact, the outcome of theatrical and carefully elaborated pessimism; they were lamentations over the ills of life, pity for Eva, wrapped in mysterious regrets; and amid all this melancholy, accusations against Westhove--mere trifles, passing hints, amounting to nothing but for the tone and accent--accusations of levity, inconstancy, caprice, fickleness. But at the slightest outcry on Eva's part he was ready to contradict himself, fencing cleverly enough, now with himself, and now with Eva, with all the feints of a master of the foils, just touching her lightly--a prick here and a prick there--drawing a tiny drop of blood at each hit. And to Eva it seemed that her soul, after having been dragged through a gutter, was bleeding to death under these pin-pricks. It was a very sensible pain when she hopelessly compared the reality with her dreams, as they grew more vague and faded away, when she argued with herself in the cold light of reason, and asked herself, "Why am I so wretched? Because Frank is a young man like other young men; because Bertie is a pessimist, and despairs of my ever being happy?" And then she would shrug her shoulders; her trouble was intangible, had paled to a thin cloud, and vanished. She had always been very happy; Bertie's dejection was sickly nonsense; she should be happy again. But, notwithstanding that her common-sense thus dissipated the pain, it constantly returned in spite of reason and argument; returned persistently, like an object tossed on a wave, which comes and goes, comes and goes. She could endure it no longer, and one day when she ventured to look honestly into her own heart, she saw that she did indeed doubt Frank, and the truth of his statements about that woman. Longing for some certainty, she asked Bertie--his friend: "Tell me, Bertie--that Something of which you once spoke to me; that mystery: what is it?" "Oh, nothing, my dear girl, absolutely nothing." She gazed at him with penetrating eyes, and went on in a strange, cold tone: "Well; but I know; I have guessed." Bertie was startled. What was she thinking; what had she got into her head? "Yes, I have guessed it," she repeated. "Frank does not love me; he loves--he loves that woman--that creature of the Lyceum. He has always loved her; is it so?" Bertie said nothing, but stared before him; that was the easiest and best reply. "Bertie, tell me, is it so?" "No, it is not so," he answered, dully. "What a foolish notion to have got into your head. What made you think, of such a thing?" But there was no ring of conviction in his voice; he spoke mechanically, as though in absence of mind, as if he were thinking of something else. "Does he ever see her now?" she went on, feeling as if she were defiling herself with her own words; as if her lips were dropping slime. "Why, of course not. What are you thinking of?" She leaned back with a sigh, and tears glistened in her large eyes. He was silent for a minute, studying her out of the corner of his eye. Then, as if to mitigate his too feeble repudiation of the suspicion, he went on reproachfully: "Really, Eva, you must not think such things of Frank. It is not nice; you must have some confidence in the man you are to marry." "Then it is not the truth?" "Certainly not. He never sees her now." "But does not he think of her still?" He gave her a long, deep, enigmatical look. His eyes were like black velvet darkness; she could not read their meaning. "Fie!" said he, reprovingly, and he shook his head. "That is no answer," she said, urgently. And again he fixed that dark gaze on her. "Good God! answer me!" she cried, her heart wrung to the very core. "How can you expect me to know Frank's feelings?" he dared to murmur. "I don't know--there!" "Then it is so?" she moaned, clutching his hands. "I don't know," he repeated, and, freeing himself from her grasp, he turned away and rose. "He loves her; he cannot live without her; he is that creature's slave, as you men sometimes are to such women; and though he sees her no more, out of respect for me, he thinks of her and talks of her to you--and that is why he is so silent and grave when he is here. Is it so?" "Good Heavens! I do not know," he groaned, with mild impatience. "How should I know?" "But why then does he pretend to love me? Why did he ask me to marry him? Because once, for a moment in Norway, he fancied he could do without her? Because he meant to live a new life, and now finds that he cannot?" She clasped her hands With a gesture of anguish. "Good God, Eva! say no more--say no more. I do not know, I tell you--I know nothing about it--nothing." He sank back in his chair with a sigh of exhaustion. She said no more; the tears streamed from her eyes like rain impossible to be restrained. XI. And in her misery she thought she had been very clever and cunning, and that she had guessed rightly; while, in truth, as guileless as a child, she had been as it were hypnotised by his magnetic gaze, and had spoken the very words he had intended she should utter. She felt nothing of this; she saw him still as her brother-friend, fragile, affectionate, and unhappy, dreading to wound her, anxious to screen her from the truth for fear of hurting her, and yet not crafty enough to conceal it when she pressed him too closely. This was how he appeared to her. Not for an instant did she suspect that she was as a fly wrapping itself closer and closer in the spider's toils. Bertie himself, after this scene, failed to see clearly that he had pulled the wires; that he had been the first to taint her confidence with the poison of suspicion; that he had brought about the catastrophe as they came out of the Lyceum; that he had compelled Eva to follow the clue he had chosen to suggest. Dimness shrouded the clearness of his mental vision, as a breath clouds a mirror; the lucid crisis of his faculties was past. This was all the outcome of circumstances, he thought; no human being of his own free will could work such things out--How easily everything had come about, how simply, without a hitch! It was because Fate had so willed it and had favoured him--he had no part in it. Nor was this self-deception: he really thought so. In the evening after their last interview, Eva went, very late, to seek her father in his study, where he sat reading his books on heraldry. He supposed she had come to bid him good-night, as usual; but she sat down facing him, very upright, and with a set face like a sleep-walker. "Father, I want to speak to you." He looked at her in surprise. In the Olympian peace of his genealogical studies, in the calm, emotionless existence of a hale old man, who finds a solace for advancing years among his books, he had never discerned that a drama was going on close beside him, played by three beings whom he saw every day. And he was startled at his daughter's rigid face and tone of suppressed suffering. "Are you ill, my child?" "Oh no, I am quite well. But I want to ask you something. I want to know if you will speak to Frank?" "To Frank?" "Yes. To Frank. The other evening as we were coming out of the Lyceum--" And she told him the whole story, sitting straight up in her chair, with that strange look in her face, and a husky, subdued voice; all about the yellow-haired woman, and her own suspicions and distrust. It was wrong of her to doubt Frank, but really she could not help it. She would fain have quoted Bertie as evidence, but Bertie had after all said nothing definite, so she did not see how she could bring him into court, and did not therefore mention his name. Sir Archibald listened in dismay. He had never suspected what was going on in his daughter's mind; he had always supposed that everything was as clear as the sun at noon. "And--what then?" he asked in some embarrassment. "And then--I want you to speak to Frank. Ask him point blank whether he still loves this woman, who has played some part in his past life; whether he cannot bear to give her up; whether that is the reason he is always so silent and gloomy when we see him here. Get him to speak out. I would rather hear my doom than live in this dreadful suspense. And to you, perhaps, he will clear it all up, so that things may go on as they were before. Say nothing of my distrust; if it is not justified by the facts it might make him angry. It is too bad of me to suspect his truth, and I have tried to bring myself to a better mind; but I cannot succeed. There is something in it, I know not what. There is something in the air about me--oh! what, I know not--which whispers to me: 'Do not trust him, do not trust him.' I cannot understand what it is, but I feel it in me, all about me! It is a voice in my ear; sometimes an eye which gazes at me. At night, when I cannot sleep, it looks down on me; it speaks to me; I feel as if I were going crazy. Perhaps it is a spirit! But do you speak to him, Papa. Do that much for your child. I am so very, very unhappy." She knelt at his feet and laid her head on his knees, sobbing bitterly. He mechanically stroked her hair, but he did not in the least understand. He loved his child, but his affection was more a matter of tender habit than of sympathetic intelligence. He did not understand her; he thought her foolish and fanciful. Was it for this that he had given her a first-rate education, let her read all kinds of books, and made her know the world as it was--stern, practical, and selfish, a struggle in which each one must endeavour to conquer and secure a place and a share of happiness, by sheer calm determination? He had his own corner in it, with his books and his heraldry; why did she let herself be a victim to nervous fancies? For it was all nerves--nothing but nerves! Cursed things were nerves! How like her mother she was, in spite of her liberal education! Dreamy, romantic, full of absurd imagination. He speak to Frank? Why--what about--what was he to say? The lady at the Lyceum; this woman or that, to whom he had bowed? That might happen to any one. Eva was very absurd not to see that it might. And as to his talking it over with Frank--why, the young man would think that his future father-in-law was a perfect fool. There were thousands of such women in London. Where was the young man who had no acquaintance among them? And the picture of disturbed peace, of an unpleasant discussion, which would destroy an hour or perhaps a day of his Olympian repose and tear him from his studies, rose up in his brain, a terror to his simple-minded selfishness. "Come, Eva, this is sheer folly," he good-humouredly grumbled. "What good do you think I can do? These are mere sickly fancies." "No, no. They are not sickly fancies; not fancies at all. It is something--something quite different. There is something in me, around me--beyond my control." "But, child, you are talking nonsense!" "When I try to think it out, it goes away for a little while; but then it comes back again." "Really, Eva, you must not talk so foolishly. After all, what is this story you have told me; what does it all mean? It comes and it goes, and it stays away, and then again it comes and goes." She shook her head sadly, sitting on the floor at his feet in front of the fire. "No, no," she said, very positively. "You do not understand, you are a man; you do not understand all there is in a woman. We women are quite different. But you will speak to him, will you not, and ask him all about it?" "No, Eva; that I certainly will not. Frank might very well ask me what business it was of mine. You know as well as I do that every man has, or has had, acquaintance among such women. There is nothing in that. And Frank strikes me as too honourable to have anything to do with one of them now that he is engaged to you. I know him too well to imagine that. It is really too silly of you--do you hear: too silly!" She began to sob passionately, and moan in an overpowering fit of grief. She wrung her hands, rocking herself from side to side, as if suffering intolerable torments. "Oh Papa!" she entreated. "Dear Papa, do, do! Do this for your child's sake, your little Eva. Go to him, talk to him. I am so unhappy, I cannot bear it, I am so wretched! Speak to him; I cannot speak of such a matter. I am only a girl, and it is all so horrible, so sickening. Oh Papa, Papa, do speak to Frank!" She tried to lean coaxingly against his knees, but he stood up; her tears angered him and made him more obstinate. His wife had never got anything from him by tears; quite the reverse. Eva was silly and childish. He could not recognise his spirited daughter--always indefatigable and bright--with whom he had travelled half over the world, in this crushed creature dissolved in woe. "Stand up, Eva," he said, sternly. "Do not crouch on the floor. You will end by vexing me seriously by your folly. What are you crying for? For nothing, pure foolish imagining. I will have no more of it. You must behave reasonably. Get up, stand up." She dragged herself to her feet, groaning as she did so, with a white face and clenched hands. "I cannot help it," she said. "It is my nature, I suppose. Have you no pity for your child, even if you do not understand her? Oh, go and speak to him--only a few words, I implore you--I beseech you." "No, no, no!" he cried, stamping his foot, his face quite red as if from a congestion of rage at all this useless, undefined vexation, and his daughter's folly and weeping and entreaties, which his obstinacy urged him on no account to indulge. She however rose, looking taller in her despair; her eyes had a strange look as they gazed into her father's. "Then you will not speak to Frank? You will not do that much for me?" "No. It is all nonsense, I tell you. Worry me about it no more." "Very well. Then, I must do it," she said gravely, as if pronouncing some irrevocable decision. And very slowly, without looking round, without bidding him good-night, she left the room. It was as though Sir Archibald was a total stranger, as though there were no bond of tenderness between her and her father--nothing but the hostility of two antagonistic natures. No; under their superficial affection they had had no feeling in common; they had never really known, never tried to understand each other; she had no sympathy with his old age; he had none with her youth. They were miles asunder; a desert, a pathless waste, lay between them. They dwelt apart as completely as though they were locked up in two shrines, where each worshipped a different God. "He is my father," thought she, as she went along the passage. "I am his child." She could not understand it. It was a mystery of nature that scarcely seemed possible. He--her father, she--his child; and yet he could not feel her anguish--could not see that it was anguish--called it folly and fancy. And a vehement longing for her mother rose up in her heart. She would have understood! "Mamma, Mamma!" she sobbed out. "Oh Mamma, come back. Tell me what I can do. Come as a ghost; I will not be afraid of you. I am so forlorn, so miserable--so miserable! Come and haunt me; come, only come!" In her room, in the darkness, she watched for the ghost. But it came not. The night hung unbroken, like a black curtain, behind which there was nothing but emptiness. XII. When Frank came to call next morning, he at once saw in her face that she was greatly agitated. "What is the matter, dearest?" he asked. At first she felt weak. There was something so terrible--and then again so shocking--but she commanded herself; she drew herself up in her pretty self-will, which gave firmness to the child-like enthusiasm and womanly coyness of her nature, like a sterner background against which so much that was soft and tender stood out. And, feeling above all that she stood alone, abandoned by her father, she was determined to be firm. "Frank, I have no alternative," she began, with the energy of despair. "I must talk matters over with you. Even before you answer me I am almost convinced that I am wrong, and think myself odious; but still I must speak, for I am too unhappy under this--all this. To keep it all to myself in silence is more than I can bear; I can endure it no longer, Frank. I asked Papa to speak to you, but he will not. Perhaps he is right; still, it is not kind of him, for now I must do it myself." Even in the excited state of mind she was in she loathed this cruel necessity; but she controlled herself and went on: "That woman--Frank, Frank! That woman--I can think of nothing else!" "But, dear Eva!" "Oh! let me speak--I must speak; I see that creature always at my elbow; I smell her perfume; I hear her voice. I cannot get it out of my ears." She shuddered violently, and the dreadful thing came over her again, again possessed her; the ghostly hypnotism of that eye, that whisper, that strange magnetic power which her father could not understand. The words she spoke seemed prompted, inspired by that voice; her expression and attitude obeyed the coercion of that gaze. In her inmost soul she felt those eyes as black as night. "Oh, Frank!" she cried, and the tears came from nervous excitement, and the fear lest she should not have courage to obey these promptings. "I must, I _must_ ask you. Why, when you come to see me, are you always so grave and silent, as though you were not happy in my society; why do you evade all direct replies; why do you always tell me that there is nothing the matter? That woman--it is because of her, because you still love her--better, perhaps, than you love me! Because you cannot forget her, because she still is a part of your life, a large part--perhaps the largest? Oh, it is such torture, such misery--ever-present misery. And I am not meanly jealous; I never have been. I quite understand your feeling about her--the first-comer--though it is dreadful. But you yourself are too silent, too sad; and when I think it over I doubt, in spite of myself--Frank, in spite of myself, I swear to you. But the suspicion forces itself upon me and overwhelms me! Great God, why must it be? But, Frank, tell me I am a simpleton to think so, and that she is nothing to you any longer--nothing at all. You never see her, do you? Tell me, tell me." The anguish of her soul as she spoke was eloquent in her face, though disfigured with grief, and pale with the dead whiteness of a faded azalea blossom; a convulsive pang pinched the corners of her mouth, and her quivering eyelids; she was indeed a martyr to her own too vivid fancy. But he, at this moment, was incapable of seeing her as a martyr. Her words had roused in him a surge of fury such as he could remember having felt occasionally as a child, lashed up as it were by the blast of a hurricane, drowning every other feeling, sweeping away every other thought, like dust before the storm. It came blustering up at the notion of his honesty being questioned, his perfect candour, honour, and truth--like a whirlwind of righteous indignation at such injustice; for in his own mind he could not conceive of such a doubt, knowing himself to be honest, honourable, and true. His dark grey eyes flashed beneath his deeply knit brows; his words came viciously from between his set teeth, which shone large and white under his moustache, like polished ivory. "It is inconceivable! Good God, this is monstrous! I have answered you, once for all; I have told you in plain words: 'No--no--no!' And you ask me again and again. Do you think I am a liar? Why? Have you ever seen anything in me to make you think I can lie? I say no, and I mean no! And still you have doubts; still you think and worry over it like an old woman. Why do you not take things as they are? You know the facts; why do you not believe me? I am not sad, I am not gloomy; I am quite happy with you; I love you; I do not doubt you. But you--you!--Believe me, if you go on in this way you will make yourself miserable; and me too, me too!" She looked at him steadfastly, and her pride rose up to meet his wrath, for his words offended her. "You need not speak to me in that tone," she answered, haughtily. "When I tell you that it is against my will--you hear--in spite of myself, that I have doubts, and that this makes me miserable, you need not take that tone. Have some pity on me, and do not speak like that." "But, Eva, when I assure you," he began again, trembling with rage, which he tried to control, forcing himself to speak gently: "when I assure you." "You had done so already." "And you doubt my word?" "Only in so far as--" "You disbelieve me?" he roared, quite beside himself. "Only in so far as that I think you are keeping something back," she cried. "Something back! What, in Heaven's name?" His friend's name was on her tongue; but as soon as she thought of Bertie, hesitancy and indecision took possession of her, for she knew not what exactly Bertie had in fact told her. It was always as though Van Maeren had enclosed her in a magic circle, a spell of silence, which made it impossible for her to mention him; and even at this juncture he was an intangible presence, his name an unutterable word, his hints a mere inarticulate jangle. "What--- what?" she gasped in bewilderment. "Oh, I do not know. If only I knew! But you are concealing something from me--and perhaps it is something about her, that woman!" "But when I tell you that she--" "No, no," she insisted, confirmed in her imaginings by her offended pride. "I know--I know. You men count such matters as nothing. A thing of the past; it is so all the world over, you say; and what I call something, you call nothing. And so I say there is something--that you are hiding, Frank." "Eva, I swear--" "Do not swear to it, for that would be a sin!" she shrieked out, wrought up, in spite of herself, to a paroxysm of insane belief in a thing of which she knew nothing certain. "For I feel it. I feel, it here, in me, about me, everywhere!" He seized her by the wrists, carried away by his rage at her rejecting his asseverations, wounded in his proud consciousness of honour and truthfulness, and amazed at the depth of her infatuated distrust. "Then you do not believe me," he said, with an oath. "You do not believe me?" And for the second time his tone offended and enraged her. The exposure of their two antagonistic natures, with all their passions and infirmities, brought them into collision. "No; since you will have it--No!" she cried, and she wrenched herself free from his vice-like grasp with such violence that her slender wrists cracked. "Now you know it: I do not believe you. You are hiding something from me, and it has something to do with that woman. I feel it, and what I feel is to me undeniable. That creature, who dared to speak to you, has taken root in my imagination; I feel her close to me, smell her scent, and am so intensely conscious that there is still something between you and her that I am bold to say to you: 'You lie; you lie for her sake and are cheating me!'" With a sort of low bellow, which broke from him involuntarily, he rushed at her, clenching his fists, and she mechanically shrank back. But he seized her hands again, enclosing them in his great strong fingers, so that she felt his power through her flesh, in her very bones. "Oh"--and it was like muttering thunder; "you have no heart--none, that you can say such things to me! You are base, mean, even to think them! 'You feel, and you feel!' Yes. It is your own petty narrowness that you feel. You have nothing in you but base and contemptible incredulity! Your whole nature is mean! Everything is at an end between us; I have nothing more to do with you, I was mistaken in you." He flung her off, on to a sofa. There she remained, staring up at the ceiling with wide-open eyes. At the moment she was startled rather than angry, and did not fully understand the state of things. Her over-wrought brain was bewildered; she knew not what had happened. For a minute he stood looking at her. His lips wore a sneer of contempt, and his eyes, half closed in scorn, glanced over her prostrate form; He saw how pretty she was; her graceful figure, stretched on the Turkish pillows, revealed the soft lines of its supple, girlish mould through the clinging folds of a thin pale green material; her hair, which had come loose, hung to the floor, like the red-gold fleece of some rare wild creature; her bosom heaved with spasmodic rapidity. She lay there like a ravished maid, flung aside in a fit of passion. He saw all the charms that he had forfeited; deep wrath sprang up in him, a wild longing for the happiness he had lost; but his injured honour ousted regrets and longing. He turned away and left her there. She remained on the same spot, in the same attitude. She was full of obscure wonderment; darkness had fallen on her soul, as though, after being entrapped by falsehood, blindfolded by doubt, she had been led into a labyrinth and then suddenly released--her eyes unbound--in a dark chamber. Her soul indeed seemed to have bled to death; she could not yet know how deeply it was wounded, and in spite of her intolerable grief she still thought only of the darkness about her. "How strange," she whispered. "But why? In Heaven's name, why?" XIII. After this there was a month of peace. A sudden calm had fallen on them both, full, for both alike, of silent, bitter grief. And, with it all, the insignificant commonplace of ordinary life, and the recurring, monotonous tasks of every day. Even Bertie found himself breathing this strange, stagnant air. He wondered greatly what could have occurred. How simply, how easily, things had worked themselves out! He? No, he had done nothing; he could have done nothing. Events had merely followed each other. What had come about was the inevitable. And the possibility of a life free from care again lay before him; an eternity of comfort and wealth with Westhove, for whom he felt his old affection revive with the glow almost of a passion, now that Frank, severed from Eva, though blaming himself indeed, needed consolation and sympathy. And Bertie's low, unctuous tones were full of sympathy. Oh, the dark melancholy of the first few days, the terrible grief of wondering, when now, his indignation cold, Frank asked himself, as Eva had asked herself, Why? Why, had this happened? What had he done? What had brought it about? And he could not see, could not understand; it was like a book out of which leaves have been torn so as to spoil the sense. He could comprehend neither himself and his fury, nor Eva and her doubts. All life seemed to him a riddle. For hours together he would sit gazing out of the window, staring at the opaque dulness of the London fog, his eye fixed on that riddle. He rarely went out, but sat dreaming in White-Rose Cottage, which was lonely and quiet enough in its remote suburb. An enervating indifference possessed his stalwart frame; for the first time in his life he saw himself in a true light, and detected the vacillation and weakness deep down in his being, like a lymphatic stream traversing his sanguine physical vigour. He saw himself, as a mere child in resistance to the storm of rage, the blast of fury which had swept away his happiness. And his suffering was so terrible that he could not entirely comprehend it; it seemed too all-embracing for the human mind. These were days of dreary gloom which they spent together; Frank too dejected to go out of doors, Bertie creeping about very softly under the pressure of a vague dread and indefinable dissatisfaction. He felt Frank's friendship reviving, and, flattered by this revival, was conscious of a sentiment of pity, almost of sympathy; he tried to rouse Frank from his moodiness, and talked of a supper party--with ladies--on the old pattern. He made plans for going away, here or there, for a few days. He tried to persuade Westhove to take to work, mentioning the names of various great engineers who were to be found in London. But everything fell dead against Frank's obdurate melancholy, everything was swallowed up in the dark cloud of his dejection, which seemed incapable of more than one idea--one self-reproach, one grief. And the only solace of his life was always to have Bertie at his side; a closer intimacy to which Van Maeren himself was no less prompted, now that he had gained his selfish ends, having no further fear of impending poverty, and seeing always by him a consuming sorrow. Had he not rejected the notion that he had been the cause of it all? And had he not, during his late existence as an idle bachelor, become so super-fine a being that he felt a craving for the vague delights of sympathy; nothing more than sympathy, since no great and noble love, no strong and generous friendship could breathe in the complicated recesses of his soul, for lack of room and fresh air in those narrow cells built up on strange fallacies, and since love and friendship must pine and die there, like a lion in a boudoir. Thus it was that he could still feel for Frank, could lay his hands on his shoulders and try to comfort him, could find words of affection--new on his lips--and unwonted phrases of consolation or cheering. Women, he would say, were so narrow-minded; they were nothing, they loved nothing, they were a mere delusion; no man should ever make himself miserable for a woman. There was nothing like friendship, which women could not even understand, and never felt for each other; a passion of sympathy, the noble joy of affinity and agreement. And he believed what he said, sunning himself in Platonism with cat-like complacency, just as he basked in material ease and comfort, rejoicing in his raptures of friendship, and admiring himself for his lofty ideals. But Frank's love for Eva had been, and was still, so absorbing, that he ere long-saw through this effete and decrepit devotion, and thence-forward it afforded him no solace. His depression wrapped him in darker folds. He forced himself to recall exactly everything that had happened; what Eva had said, what he had replied. And he laid all the blame on himself, exonerating Eva for her doubts; he cursed his own temper, his barbarous violence to a woman--and to her! What was to be done? Parted--parted for ever! It was a fearful thought that he might never see her again, that she could be nothing henceforth in his life. Could it be no otherwise? Was all lost? Irrevocably? No, no, no; the desperate denial rose up within him; he would triumph over circumstances; he would win back his happiness. And she? How was she? Was she, too, suffering? Did she still doubt him, or had his vehemence, notwithstanding its brutality, made his innocence clear? But if it were so, if she no longer doubted him--and how could she?--good heavens, how wretched she must be! Grieving over her want of trust, with self-accusation even more terrible than his own--for his wrath had at any rate been justifiable, and her suspicions were not. Was it so? Or was she, on the contrary, stricken almost to death, perhaps, by his cruelty, or filled with contempt for his lack of power to control his anger, which was like some raging wild beast? How was she? What was her mood? A passionate desire to know pierced his heart now and again like a sword-thrust; to go to her, to pray for pardon, for restoration to the happiness he had thrown away, as he had flung her from him on that sofa. She would never admit him to her presence after so great an insult. But he might write.--Of course, a letter! His heart leaped with joy. What bliss to grovel, on paper, in the dust, at her feet; to humble himself in penitential prayers for mercy, and adoring words, while asserting his dignity in the pride of his truth, and his anguish under her doubts! She would hearken, as a Madonna to a sinner; he would recover his lost happiness! And he tried to compose his letter, thrilling with the effort to find words, which still did not seem fervent or humble enough. He spent a whole day over his task, polishing his phrases as a poet does a sonnet. And when at last it was finished he felt refreshed in spirit, with renewed hopes--a complete resurrection. He was convinced that his letter would remove every misunderstanding between him and Eva. In the highest spirits he betook himself to Van Maeren, told his friend of the step he had taken, and all he hoped for. He spoke eagerly; his very voice was changed. Bertie leaned back in his chair, rather grave and pale; but he controlled himself so far as to smile in answer to Westhove's smile, and he agreed in his anticipations in words to which he vainly strove to give a ring of conviction. "To be sure, of course, everything must come right again," he muttered; and the perspiration stood on his forehead under his chestnut curls. XIV. But an hour later, alone in his room that evening, he walked to and fro with such seething agitation as set every nerve quivering in his slight frame, as a storm tosses a rowing-boat. His soft features were distorted to a hideous expression of malignancy, with rage at his own impotence, and he strode up and down, up and down, like a beast in a cage, clenching his fists. Then it was for this that he had elaborated his tastes, had sharpened and polished all his natural gifts, and had directed all the powers of his mind like a battery charged with some mysterious fluid, on the secrets of a girl's love and life! A single letter, a few pages of tender words, and the whole work would be destroyed! For now, in his wrath, he suddenly saw and prided himself on the fact; he saw that he--very certainly he--had guided events to sever Frank and Eva. How could he even for a moment have doubted it? And it was all to come to nought! Never, never! No, a thousand times, no! Awful, and infinitely far as the horizon, the perspective of life yawned before him--the dead level of poverty, the barren desert in which he must pine and perish of hunger. And in his horror of treading that wilderness every sinew of his lax resolve seemed strained to the verge of snapping. He must take steps forthwith. An idea flashed through his brain like the zigzag of forked lightning. Yes; that was his only course; the simplest and most obvious means, a mere stroke of villany--as conventionality would term it.... No need here for any elaborate psychological _pros_ and _cons_; they were never of any use, they got entangled in their own complications. Simply a theatrical _coup_. He took his hat and crept quietly out of the house, with a sneer of contempt, of scorn for himself, that he should have fallen so low. It was half-past ten. He hailed a cab, and laughed to hear the melodramatic sound of his own voice as he gave the driver Sir Archibald's address--the voice of a stage traitor. Then he shrank into a corner of the vehicle, his shoulders up to his ears, his eyes half closed and gazing out through the dim mystery of the night. Deadly melancholy lurked at the bottom of his soul. He got out near Sir Archibald's house, walked a few yards to the door, and rang--and the minutes he waited in the darkness before the closed house seemed an eternity of intolerable misery, of horror, aversion, loathing of himself. His lips were pinched into a grimace of disgust. A man-servant opened the door with a look of surprise at the belated visitor, a surprise which gave way to an impertinent stare when he saw that Van Maeren was alone, without Westhove. He bowed with insolent irony, and held the door wide open with exaggerated servility, for Bertie to enter. "I must speak with you at once," said Bertie, coolly, "at once and alone." The man looked at him, but said nothing. "You can do me a service. I need your assistance--pressingly. Can I say two words to you without being seen by any one?" "Now?" said the servant. "Yes, now; without delay." "Will you come in--into the servants' hall?" "No, no. Come out and walk up and down with me. And speak low." "I cannot leave the house yet. The old man will be going to bed in an hour or so, and then I can join you in the street." "Then I will wait for you; opposite, by the Park railings. You will be sure to come? I will make it worth your while." The footman laughed, a loud, brazen laugh, which rang through the hall, filling Bertie with alarm. "Then you are a gentleman now? And pretty flush, eh?" "Yes," said Van Maeren hoarsely. "Then you will come?" "Yes, yes. In an hour or more, fully an hour. Wait for me. But if I am to do anything for you, you will have to fork out, you know; and fork out handsomely too!" "All right, all right," said Bertie. "But I hope you will not fail me. I count on your coming, mind." The door was ruthlessly shut. He walked up and down for a very long time in the cold and damp. The chill pierced to his very marrow, while the twinkling gas lamps stared at him through the grey mist like watery eyes. He waited, pacing the pavement for an hour--an hour and a half--perishing of fatigue and cold, like a beggar without a shelter. Still he waited, shivering as he walked, his hands in his pockets, his eyes dull with self-contempt, staring out of his white face at the dark square of the door, which still remained shut. XV. When, after a few days of anxious expectancy, Frank still had no answer from Eva, he wrote a second time; and although the first bloom of his revived hopes was already dying, he started whenever the bell rang, and would go to the letter-box in the front door; his thoughts were constantly busy with picturing the messenger who was walking up the road with his happiness--wrapped up in an envelope. And he would imagine what Eva's answer might be: just a few lines--somewhat cool, perhaps--in her large bold English hand, on the scented, ivory-laid paper she always used, with her initials crossed in pink and silver in one corner. How long she took to write that answer! Was she angry? Or could she not make up her mind how to word her forgiveness; was she elaborating her letter as he had elaborated his? And the days went by while he waited for that note. When he was at home, he pictured the postman coming nearer and nearer, now only four--three--two doors away; now he would ring--and he listened; but the bell did not sound, or, if it did, it was not by reason of the letter. When he was out, he would be electrified by the thought that the letter must be lying at home and he hurried back to White-Rose Cottage, looked in the letter-box, and then in the sitting room. But he never found it, and the intolerable emptiness of the place where he looked for it made him swear and stamp with rage. Twice had he written--two letters--and yet she gave no sign! And he could think of no cause in his ardent expectancy which made him regard it as the most natural thing that she should reply at once. Still he lived on this waiting. The reply must come; it could not be otherwise. His brain held no other thought than: It is coming--it will come to day. All life was void and flat, but it could be filled by just one letter. Day followed day, and there was no change. "I have had no answer yet from Eva," he said, in a subdued tone to Bertie, as feeling himself humiliated, disgraced by her determined silence, mocked at in his illusory hopes. "Not yet?" said Bertie; and a mist of melancholy glistened in his black velvety eyes. A weight indeed lay on his mind; he sighed deeply and frequently. He really was unhappy. What he had done was so utterly base. But it was all Frank's fault. Why, now that he was parted from Eva, could he not forget his passion; why could he not find sufficient comfort in the sweets of friendship? How delightful it might have been to live on together, a happy pair of friends, under the calm blue sky of brotherhood, in the golden bliss of perfect sympathy, with no woman to disturb it. Thus he romanced, consciously working up his friendly, compassionate feeling towards Frank to a sort of frenzy, in the hope of comforting himself a little, of forgetting his foul deed, of convincing himself that he was magnanimous; nay, that in spite of that little deception, he now more than ever, since he was sunk in the mire really longed for a high ideal.--It was all Frank's fault. And yet, was Frank to blame because he could not forget Eva? No, no. That was all Fatality. No one was to blame for that. That was the act of Fate. "Yes, that is certain!" thought he. "But why have we brains to think with, and why do we feel pain, if we can do nothing to help ourselves? Why are we not plants or stones? Why should this vast, useless universe exist at all? And why, why did nothingness cease to be? How peaceful, how delightfully peaceful, that would be!" He stood, as it were, before the sealed portals of the great Enigma, suddenly amazed and horrified at himself. Good God! How had he come to this; how was it that nowadays he was always thinking of such things? Had he ever had such notions in America, when he was toiling and tramping in his daily slavery? Had he not then regarded himself as a gross materialist, caring for nothing but plenty of good food and unbroken peace? And now, when he had long experience of such material comforts, now he felt as though his nerves had been spun finer and finer to mere silken threads, thrilling and quivering under one emotion after another, vibrating like the invisible aerial pulsations which are irresistibly transmitted, with a musical murmur, along the telephone wires overhead. How had he come by all this philosophy, the blossom of his idle hours? And in his bewilderment he tried to recall his youth, and remember whether he had then had this predisposition to thought, whether he had then had any books which had impressed him deeply; tried to picture his parents, and whether this might be hereditary. And he--he--had handed round coffee-cups in New York! Was he not after all happier in those days and freer from care? Or was it only that "distance lent enchantment to the view," the distance of so few years? XVI. When Frank, after a few days of death-in-life patience, had still received no answer, he wrote to Sir Archibald. Still the same silence. He poured out his grief to Bertie in bitter complaint, no longer humble, but full of wrath like an enraged animal, and yet half woeful at the ill-feeling shown by Eva and her father. Was it not enough that he had three times craved forgiveness? Had Eva cared for him in fact so little, that when he grovelled at her feet she could find no word even to tell him that all was at an end? "I cannot now remember all I said," he told Bertie, as he paced the room with long, equal, and determined steps. "But I must have been hard upon her. God help me, I can never govern my speech! And I seized her, I recollect, so, by the arms. And then I came away. I was too furious. I ought not to have done it; but I cannot keep cool, I cannot." "Frank I wish you could get over it," said Bertie soothingly, from the depths of his armchair. "There is nothing now to be done. It is very sad that it should have happened so, but you must throw it off." "Throw it off! Were you ever in love with a woman?" "Certainly." "Then you must know something of it.--But you could never love any one much; it is not in your nature. You love yourself too well." "That may be; but at any rate I love you, and I cannot bear to see you thus, Frank. Get over it! They seem to have taken the whole business so ill that there is nothing more to be done. I wish you would only see that, and submit to the inevitable. Try to live for something else. Can there be no other woman in the world for you? Perhaps there is another. A man does not perish so for love. You are not a girl--girls do so." He gazed at Frank with such a magnetic light in his eyes that Westhove fancied there was a great truth in his words; and Bertie's last reproof reminded him of his vacillation, his miserable weakness, which lay beneath his manly and powerful exterior like an insecure foundation. Still he clung to his passionate longings, his vehement craving for the happiness he had lost. "You cannot possibly judge of the matter," he retorted impatiently, trying to escape from Van Maeren's eye. "You never _did_ love a woman, though you may say so. Why should not everything come right again? What has happened after all? What have I done? I fell into a violent, vulgar rage. What then? Is that so unpardonable in the person you love?? But perhaps--I say, can I have addressed the letters wrongly?" During a few seconds there was a weight of silence in the room, an atmosphere of lead. Then Van Maeren said--and his voice had a tender, coaxing tone: "If you had written but once, I might think it possible; but three letters, to the same house--it is scarcely possible." "I will go myself and call," said Westhove. "Yes, yes, I will go myself." "What are you saying?" asked Bertie dreamily. He was still under the influence of that heavy moral atmosphere; he had not quite understood, not grasped the idea. "What was it you said?" he repeated. "I shall go myself and call at the house," Frank reiterated. "At what house? Where?" "Why, at the Rhodes'--on Eva. Are you daft?" But Bertie rose to his feet, and his eyes glittered in his pale face like black diamonds with a hundred facets. "What to do there?" he said with a convulsive effort in his throat to keep his voice calm. "To talk to her and set matters straight; I cannot bear it. It has gone on too long." "You are a fool!" said Van Maeren shortly. "Why am I a fool?" "Why are you a fool? You have not a grain of self-respect. Do you really think of going there?" "Yes, of course." "I consider it absurd," said Bertie. "All right," said Frank, "pray think so. I myself can see that it is very weak of me. But, good God! I can hold out no longer. I love her so; I was so happy; life was so sweet; and now; now, by my own fault! I do not care what you think it. Absurd or not, I mean to go all the same." In his distress of mind he had thrown himself into a chair, and every muscle of his features was quivering with agitation. But he went on: "I do not know what it is that I feel; I am so unhappy, so deeply, deeply wretched. Never in my life had I known what it was to feel so content, in such harmonious equilibrium of soul as when I was with Eva; at least so it seems to me now. And now it is all at an end, and everything seems aimless. I no longer know why I live and move and eat and have my being! Why should I take all that trouble, and then have this misery into the bargain? I might just as well be dead. You see, that is why I mean to call there. And if things do not come right then, well, I shall make an end of myself! Yes, yes, I shall make an end of myself." Crushed by the burthen of life, he lay back in his chair, with his features set, his great limbs stretched out in their useless strength, all his power undermined by the mysterious inertia which gnawed it away like a worm. Before him stood Van Maeren, drawn to his full height in the energy of despair, and his flashing eyes darting sparks of fire. He laid his tremulous hands on Westhove's shoulders, feeling their massive breadth, heavy and strong. A reaction electrified him with something like defiance; he scorned this man of might in his love-sickness. But above all, oh, above all, he felt himself being dragged down to the lowest deep; and it was with the tenacity of a parasitic growth that he clung to Frank, setting his fingers into his shoulders. "Frank," he began, almost hoarsely, "just listen to me. You are making yourself ill. You talk like a fool, and then you cry out; just like a baby. You must get over it. Show a little more pluck. Do not mar your whole life by these foolish lamentations. And what about, when all is said and done, what about? All because a girl has ceased to love you. Do you place your highest hopes of happiness in a girl? They are creatures without brains or heart; superficial and vain, whipped up to a froth--mere windy nothingness. And you would kill yourself for that? Heaven above, man! It is impossible.--I do not know what it is to love a woman, eh? But you do not know what trouble and misery are. You fancy that all the woes on earth have come upon you. And it is nothing, after all, but a little discomfort, a little wounded conceit perhaps--it will be no worse. If I had made away with myself at every turn of ill-luck, I should have been dead a thousand times. But I pulled through, you see. How can you be such a coward? Eva has shown you very plainly that she does not want to have anything more to say to you; and you would seek her once more! Suppose she were to show you the door? What then? If you do such a thing, if you go to her, you will be so mean in my eyes, so weak, so cowardly, so childish, such a fool, such a damned fool, that you may go to the devil for aught I care!" He cleared his throat as if he were actually sick, and turned away with a queer, light-headed feeling in his brain. Westhove said nothing, torn in his mind between two impulses. He was no longer clear as to his purpose, quite bewildered by the false voice in his ear--in his soul. There was something factitious in Bertie's speech, a false ring which Frank could not detect, though he was conscious of it; and the voice of his own desires rang false too, with jarring, unresolved chords, which jangled inharmoniously against each other. He had completely lost his head, but he sat silent for some time, till at length he repeated, with sullen obstinacy: "All right. I do not care a pin. I shall go all the same." But Bertie began again, with honeyed smoothness this time, seating himself on the floor, as was his wont when he was out of luck, on the fur rug before the fire, resting his throbbing head against a chair. "Come, Frank, get this out of your mind. You never meant that you would really go. You are at heart too proud and too brave to think of it seriously. Pull yourself together. Have you forgotten everything? Did not Eva tell you that she did not believe your word, that you were false to her, that you still were friends with that other girl, and that she knew it? To tell you the truth, I observed from the first how suspicious she was, and I did not think it becoming in a young lady; I did not think it quite--quite nice.... To be sure, that evening at the Lyceum, it did look as if there was something in it. Still, when you assured her that it was at an end, it seems to me quite monstrous that she did not believe you then. You cannot possibly mean what you say when you speak of seeking her again. Of course it makes no difference to me; go by all means, for what I care; but I should regard it as such folly, such utter folly--" And still Frank sat speechless, lost, with the bewildering jangle still in his brain. "And you will take the same view of it if you only think it over. Think it over, Frank." "I will," said Frank, gloomily. Bertie went on, flattering his manly courage, and it sounded like bells in Frank's ears: pride, pluck; pride, pluck: only the bells were cracked. And yet the jingle soothed him. Did he at this moment love Eva? Or was it all over, had she killed his love by her doubt? Pride, pluck; pride, pluck. He could not tell--alas! he could not tell. With a movement like a caress, Bertie crept nearer, laid his head on the arm of Westhove's chair, and clasped his hands about his knees, looking, in the dusk and firelight, like a supple panther; and his eyes gleamed like a panther's, black and flame-coloured. "Speak, Frank; I cannot bear to see you like this. I care for you so much, though perhaps it does not seem so to you just now, and though I have my own way of showing it. Oh, I know very well that you sometimes think me ungrateful. But you do not know me; I am really devoted to you. I never loved my father, nor any woman, nor even myself, as I do you. I could do anything in the world for you, and that is a great deal for me to say. I say, Frank, I will not have you look so. Let us leave London; let us travel, or go to live somewhere else--in Paris or Vienna. Yes, let us go to Vienna--that is a long way off; or to America, to San Francisco; or to Australia--Wherever you choose. The world is wide, and you may see so many things that you will get fresh ideas. Or let us make an expedition to the interior of Africa. I should enjoy seeing such a savage country, and I am stronger than I look; I am tough. Let us wander about a great deal, and go through a great deal--great bodily fatigue. Don't you think it must be splendid to cut your way through the impenetrable bush? Oh, yes, let us bathe our souls in nature, in fresh air, and space, and health." "Well, well," Frank grumbled, "we will go away. We will travel. But I cannot do it comfortably: I have very little money. I spent so much last year." "Oh, but we will be economical; what need have we of luxury. I, at any rate, can do without it." "Very well," Frank muttered again. "We will do it cheaply." Then they were silent for a time. In the twilight, Frank by some slight movement touched one of Bertie's hands. He suddenly grasped it, squeezed it almost to crushing, and said in a low voice: "Good old fellow! Dear, good fellow!" XVII. Can he have gone there? thought Van Maeren as he sat at home alone the next evening, and did not know with what purpose Westhove had gone out. Well, he would sit up for him; there was nothing else to be done. Just a few days to arrange matters and then they would be off, away from London. Oh, what a luckless wretch he thought himself. All this villany for the sake of mere material comfort, of idleness, and wealth, which, as he was slowly beginning to discover, had all become a matter of indifference to him. Oh! for the Bohemian liberty of his vagabond life in the States, free, unshackled; his pockets now full of dollars and again empty, absolutely empty! He felt quite homesick for it; it struck him as an enviable existence of careless independence as compared with his present state of vacuous ease and servility. How greatly he was changed. Formerly he had been unfettered indeed by conventional rules but free from any great duplicity; and now, his mind had been cultivated but was sunk in a depth of baseness. And what for? To enable him to hold fast that which no longer had any value in his eyes. No value? Why, then, did he not cut his way out of his own net, to go away, in poverty; and write a single word to Frank and Eva to bring them together again? It was still in his power to do this. He thought of it, but smiled at the thought; it was impossible, and yet he could not see wherein the impossibility lay. But it _was_ impossible, it was a thing which could not be done. It was illogical, full of dark difficulties, a thing that could never come about for mysterious reasons of Fatality, which, indeed, he did not clearly discern but accepted as unanswerable. He was musing in this vein, alone that evening, when Annie, the housekeeper, came to tell him that some one wanted to speak with him. "Who is it?" She did not know, so he went into the sitting-room, where he found Sir Archibald's footman, with his big nose and ugly, shifty, grey eyes, like a bird's, twinkling in his terra-cotta face, which was varied by blue tracts of shorn whisker and beard. He was out of his livery, and dressed like a gentleman, in a light overcoat and a felt hat, with a cane and gloves. "What brings you here?" said Van Maeren, shortly, with a scowl. "I have always told you that I would not have you come to the house. You have no complaint to make of me, I suppose?" Oh, no, he had no complaint to make, he had only come to call on an old friend--such a swell! Bertie would remember the times they had had in New York. They had been waiters together, pals at the same hotel. Rum chance, eh, that they should run up against each other in London? It was a small world; you were always running up against some one wherever you might go. You couldn't keep out of any one's way; in fact, if it was God's will you should meet a feller you couldn't keep out of that feller's way, and then you might sometimes be able to do him a good turn.... There had been some letters written--and he scraped his throat--inconvenient letters. Sixty quid down for two letters to the young woman, that was the bargain. Life was hard; to get a little fun now and then in London cost a deal of money. And now there was a third letter, in the same hand--dear, dear, whose could it be now?--addressed to the old man. He did not want to be too hard on an old pal, but he had come just to ask him whether that letter too was of any value. He had it with him. "Then give it here," stammered Van Maeren, as pale as death, holding out his hand. Ay, but thirty sovs. was too little, a mere song. This letter was to the old man, and was worth more, and, to tell the truth, his old friend was hard up, desperately hard up. Bertie was a gentleman who could throw the money about, and he had a noble heart. He would never leave an old pal in the lurch. The devil's in it, we must help each other in this world. Say a hundred? "You are a rascal!" cried Bertie. "We had agreed on thirty pounds. I have not a hundred pounds; I am not rich." Well, of course he knew that; but Mr. Westhove no doubt, gave his friend sixpence now and then, and Mr. Westhove was made of money. Come, come, Mr. Van Maeren must think it over; he really should do something for an old pal and a hundred pounds was not the whole world after all. "I have not a hundred pounds at this moment, I assure you," said Bertie, huskily, from a parched throat, and shaking as if in an ague fit. Well, he would come again then, by-and-by. He would take great care of the letter. "Hand over the letter. I will give you the money another time." But his "old pal" laughed cheerfully. No, no--given is given. They might trust each other, but it should be give and take--the letter for the hundred pounds down. "But I will not have you coming here again. I will not have it, I tell you." All right. There was no difficulty on that score. His swell friend might bring it himself. To-morrow? "Yes, to-morrow without fail. And now go; for God's sake, go!" He pushed his demon out of the house, promising him, to-morrow--to-morrow evening. Then he called up Annie, and vehemently asked her whether she knew the man. "Who was the fellow?" he roughly inquired, like a gambler who plays a high trump at a critical point of the game. She, however, did not know, and was surprised that Mr. Van Maeren should not have known him. "Had he been troublesome?" "Yes, a beggar, a regular beggar." "He was dressed quite like a gentleman, too." "Be more careful for the future," said Bertie, "and let no one into the house." XVIII. He sat up that evening till Frank came home. As he sat alone he wept; for hours he sobbed passionately, miserably, till, in the slightly built little villa, Annie and her husband might have heard him, till his head felt like a drum, and bursting with throbbing pain. He fairly cried in irrepressible wretchedness, and his sobs shook his little body like a rhythm of agony. Oh, how could he get out of this slough? Kill himself? How could he live on in such wretchedness? And again and again he looked about him for a weapon; his hands clutched his throat like a vice. But he had not the courage--at least not at that moment, for as he clenched his fingers an unendurable pain mounted to his already aching head. And he wept all the more bitterly at finding himself too weak to do it. It was one in the morning. Frank must surely come in soon. He looked in the glass, and saw a pale, purple-grey face with swollen, wet eyes, and thick blue veins on the temples pulsating visibly under the transparent skin. Frank must not see him thus. And yet he must know--and he must ask-- He went up to his room, undressed, and got shivering into bed; but he did not go to sleep. He lay listening for the front door to open. At half-past two Westhove came in. Good God! If he had gone to the Rhodes'. No, no, he must have been at the club; he went straight upstairs to bed. Annie and her husband locked up the house; there was a noise of bolts and locks, the clank of metal bars. Half-an-hour later Bertie rose. Now it would be dark in Frank's room--otherwise he would have seen that purple pallor. Out into the passage. Tap. "Frank." "Hallo! Come in." In he went. Westhove was in bed; no light but the nightlight; Bertie, with his back to the glimmer. Now, would Frank mention the Rhodes? No. He asked "what was up?" And Van Maeren began. There was an urgent matter he must lay before his friend--some old debts he had remembered, which he must pay before they went away. He was so vexed about it; it was really taking advantage of Frank's kindness. Could Frank give him the money? "My dear fellow, I have run completely dry. I have only just enough left to pay for our passage to Buenos Ayres. How much do you want?" "A hundred pounds." "A hundred pounds! I assure you I do not know where to lay my hand on the money. Do you want it now, on the spot? Can you not put it off? Or can you not do with a bill?" "No. I must have money down, hard cash." "Well, wait a bit. Perhaps I can find a way.... Yes, I will manage it somehow. I will see about it to-morrow." "To-morrow morning?" "Are you in such a deuce of a hurry? Well, all right; I will find it somehow. But now go to bed, for I am sleepy; we made a night of it. To-morrow I am sure I can help you. And, at any rate, I will not leave you in a fix; that you may rely on. But you are a troublesome boy. Do you hear? Only the other day you had thirty pounds, and then, again, thirty more!" For a minute Van Maeren stood rigid, a dark mass against the dim gleam of the nightlight. Then he went up to the bed, and, falling on his knees, laid his head on the coverlet and fairly sobbed. "I say, are you ill? Are you gone crazy?" asked Westhove. "What on earth ails you?" No, he was not crazy, but only so grieved to take advantage of Frank's good nature, especially if his friend was himself in difficulties. They were such shameful debts--he would rather not tell him what for. Debts outstanding from a time when for a few days he had disappeared. Frank knew, didn't he? "Old sins to pay for, eh? Well, behave better for the future. We will set it all right to-morrow. Make no more noise, and go to bed. I am dead sleepy; we all had as much as we could carry. Come, get up, I say." Van Maeren rose, and taking Westhove's hand, tried to thank him. "There, that will do--go to bed, I say." And he went. In his own room he presently, through the wall, heard Frank snoring. He remained sitting on the edge of his bed. Once more his fingers gripped his throat--tighter--tighter. But it hurt him--made his head ache. "Great God!" he thought. "Is it possible that I should be the thing I am?" PART IV. I. A life of wandering for two years and more, of voyages from America to Australia, from Australia back to Europe; painfully restless, finding no new aims in life, no new reason for their own existence, no new thing in the countries they traversed or in the various atmospheres they breathed. A life at first without the struggle for existence, dragged out by each under the weight of his own woe; with many regrets, but no anxiety as to the material burden of existence. But presently there was the growing dread of that material burden, the unpleasant consciousness that there was no more money coming out from home, month after month; disagreeable transactions with bankers in distant places, constant letter-writing to and fro; in short, the almost total evaporation of a fortune of which too much had long since been dissipated in golden vapour. Then they saw the necessity of looking about them for means of subsistence, and they had taken work in factories, assurance offices, brokers' ware-houses and what not, simply to keep their heads above water in this life which they found so aimless and wretched. They had known hours of bitter anguish, and many long days of poverty, with no escape, and the remembrance of White-Rose Cottage. Still, they had felt no longing for White-Rose Cottage again. Gradually yielding to indifference and sullen patience, their fears for the future and struggles to live were the outcome of natural, inherited instinct, rather than of spontaneous impulse and personal desire. And even in this gloomy indifference Van Maeren had one comforting reflection, one delicate pleasure, exquisite and peculiar, as a solace to his self-contempt; the consolation of knowing that now that Westhove had known some buffeting of Fortune, now that they had to work for their bread, he had never felt impelled to leave his friend to his fate or desert him as soon as the game was up. The impulse to abandon Frank had never risen in his soul, and he was glad of it; glad that, when it occurred to him afterwards as a possibility, it was merely as a notion, with which he had no concern, and which was no part of himself. No; he had stuck by Frank; partly perhaps as a result of his cat-like nature and because he clung to his place at Frank's side; but not for that alone. There was something ideal in it, some little sentiment. He liked the notion of remaining faithful to a man who had not a cent left in the world. They had worked together, sharing the toil and the pay with brotherly equality. Two long years. And now they were back in Europe; avoiding England and returning to their native land, Holland--Amsterdam and the Hague. A strange longing had grown up in them both to see once more the places they had quitted so long before, bored by their familiarity, to see the wider world; to drag home their broken lives, as though they hoped there to find a cure, a miraculous balm, to console them for existence. They had scraped together some little savings, and might take a few months of summer holiday by thriftily spending their handful of cash. So they had taken lodgings in a villa at Scheveningen--a little house to the left of the Orange Hotel, looking out over the sea; and the sea had become a changeful background for their lazy summer fancies, for they did not care to wander away amid the bustle of the Kurhaus and the sands. Frank would sit for hours on the balcony, in a cane chair, his legs on the railing, the blue smoke of his cigar curling up in front of his nose; and then he felt soothed, free from all acute pain, resigned to his own uselessness; though with a memory now and again of the past, and of a sorrow which was no longer too keen. And then, stiff with sitting still, he would play a game of quoits or hockey, or fence a little with Bertie, whom he had taught to use the foils. He looked full of health, was stouter than of yore, with a fine high colour under his clear, tanned skin, a mild gravity in his bright grey eyes, and sometimes a rather bitter curl under his sheeny yellow moustache. But Bertie suffered more; and as he looked out over the semicircle of ocean and saw the waters break with their endless rollers of blue and green and grey and violet and pearly iridescence--the vaulted sky above, full of endless cloud-scenery, sweeping or creeping masses of opaque grey or white, silvery pinions, dappled feathers, drifts of down-like sky-foam--he fancied that his Fate was coming up over the sea. It was coming closer--irresistibly closer. And he watched its approach; he felt it so intensely that sometimes his whole being seemed to be on the alert while he sat motionless in his cane chair, with his eyes fixed on the barren waste of waters. II. Thus it happened that, sitting here one day he saw on the shore below, between the tufts of yellow broom growing on the sand-hills, two figures coming towards him, a man and a woman, like finely drawn silhouettes in Indian ink against the silver sea. A pang suddenly shot through his frame, from his heart to his throat--to his temples. But the salt reek came up to him and roused his senses with a freshness that mounted to his brain, so that, in spite of the shock, it remained quite clear, as if filled with a rarer atmosphere. He saw everything distinctly, down to the subtlest detail of hue and line: the silver-grey curve of the horizon, like an enormous glittering, liquid eye, with mother-of-pearl tints, broken by the tumbling crests of the waves, and hardly darker than the spread of sky strewn with a variously grey fleece of rent and ravelled clouds; to the right, one stucco façade of the Kurhaus, looking with stupid dignity at the sea out of its staring window-eyes; further away, by the water's edge, the fishing boats, like large walnut-shells, with filmy veils of black netting hanging from the masts, each boat with its little flag playfully waving and curling in the breeze; and on the terrace and the strand, among a confused crowd of yellow painted chairs, a throng of summer visitors like a great stain of pale water-colour, in gay but delicate tints. He could see quite clearly--here a rent in the red sail of a boat, there a ribbon fluttering from a basket-chair, and again a seagull on the shore swooping to snatch something out of the surf. He noted all these little details, minute and motley trifles, bright specks in the expanse of sky and ocean, and very visible in the subdued light of a sunless day. And those two silhouettes--a man and a woman--grew larger, came nearer, along the sands till they were just opposite to him. He knew them at once by their general appearance--the man by a peculiar gesture of raising his hat and wiping his forehead, the lady by the way she carried her parasol, the stick resting on her shoulder while she held the point of one of the ribs. And, recognising them he had a singular light-headed sensation, as though he would presently be floating dizzily out of his chair, and swept away over the sea.... He fell back, feeling strangely weary, and dazzling sparks danced before his fixed gaze like glittering notes of interrogation. What was to be done? Could he devise some ingenious excuse and try to tempt Frank to leave the place, to fly? Oh! how small the world was! Was it for this that they had wandered over the globe, never knowing any rest--to meet, at their very first halting-place, the two beings he most dreaded? Was this accident or Fatality? Yes, Fatality! But then--was he really afraid? And in his dejection he felt quite sure that he was afraid of nothing; that he was profoundly indifferent, full of an intolerable weariness of self-torture. He was too tired to feel alarm; he would wait and see what would happen. It must come. There was no escape. It was Fatality. It was rest to sit there, motionless, inert, will-less, with the wide silver-grey waters before him, waiting for what might happen. To struggle no more for his own ends, to fear no more, but to wait patiently and for ever. It must come, like the tide from the ocean; it must cover him, as the surf covers the sands--and then go down again, and perhaps drag him with it, drowned and dead. A wave of that flood would wash over him and stop his breath--and more waves would follow--endlessly. A senseless tide--a fruitless eternity. "I wish I did not feel it so acutely," he painfully thought. "It is too silly to feel it so. Perhaps nothing will come of it, and I shall live to be a hundred, in peace and contentment. Still, this is undeniable, this is a fact: they are there! They are here! But--if It were really coming I should not feel it. Nothing happens but the unexpected. It is mere nervous weakness, over-tension. Nothing can really matter to me; nothing matters. The air is lovely and pleasantly soft; there floats a cloud. And I will just sit still, without fear, quite at my ease. There they are again!--The seamews fly low.--I will wait, wait.... Those boys are playing in that boat; what folly! They will have it over!" He looked with involuntary interest at their antics, and then again at the gentleman and lady. They were now full in sight, just below him; and they went past, knowing nothing, without a gesture, like two puppets. "Ah! but _I_ know," thought he. "They are here, and It has come in their train perhaps. But it may go away with them too, and be no more than a threat. So I shall wait; I do not care. If it must come it must." They had gone out of sight. The boys and their boat were gone too. The shore in front of him was lonely--a long stretch of desert. Suddenly he was seized with a violent shivering,--an ague. He stood up, his face quite colourless, his knees quaking. Terror had suddenly been too much for him, and large beads of sweat bedewed his forehead. "God above!" thought he, "life is terrible. I have made it terrible. I am afraid. What can I do? Run away? No, no; I must wait. Can any harm come to me? No, none! None, none.... There they were, both of them, she and her father. I am really afraid. Oh! if it must come, great God! only let it come quickly!" Then he fancied his eyes had deceived him; that it had not been those two. Impossible! And yet he knew that they were there. Terror throbbed in his breast with vehement heart-beating, and he now only marvelled that he could have looked at the boat with the boys at all, while Sir Archibald and Eva were walking down on the shore: Would it not be upset?--That was what he had been thinking of the boat. III. A whole fortnight of broiling summer days slipped by; and he waited, always too weary to make the smallest effort to induce Frank to quit the place. It might perhaps have cost him no more than a single word. But he never spoke the word--waiting, and gradually falling under a spell of waiting, as though he were looking for the mysterious outcome of an interesting _dénouement._ Had they already met anywhere? Would they meet? And if they should, would anything come of it? One thing inevitably follows another, thought he, nothing can ever be done to check their course. Westhove was in the habit of remaining a great deal indoors, leading a quiet life between his gloomy thoughts and his favourite gymnastics, not troubling himself about the summer crowd outside on the terrace and the shore. Thus the fortnight passed without his becoming aware of the vicinity of the woman whom Van Maeren dreaded. Not a suspicion of premonition thrilled through Frank's mild melancholy; he had gone on breathing the fresh sea air without perceiving any fragrance in the atmosphere that could suggest her presence. He did not discern the prints of her little shoes on the level strand below the villa, nor the tilt of her parasol passing under his eyes, as he sat calmly smoking with his feet on the railings. And they must often have gazed at the selfsame packet steaming into the narrow harbour, like a coloured silhouette cut out of a print, with its little sails and flag of smoke, but their eyes were unconscious how nearly they must be crossing each other, out there over the sea. After these two scorching weeks there came a dull, grey, sunless day, with heavy rain stored in the driving black clouds, like swollen water-skins. Frank had gone for a walk on the shore, by the edge of the wailing, fretting sea; the basket-chairs had been carried higher up, and were closely packed and almost unoccupied. There was scarcely any one out. A dismal sighing wind swept the waters; it was an autumn day full of the desolation of departed summer joys. And as he walked on, his ears filled with the moaning breeze, he saw her coming towards him with waving skirts and fluttering ribbons, and--Great Heaven! it was she! It was as though a mass of rock had been suddenly cast at his breast with a giant's throw, and he lay crushed and breathless beneath. A surge of mingled joy and anguish struggled through his pulses, thrilled his nerves, mounted to his brain. He involuntarily stood still, and almost unconsciously exclaimed, in a tone inaudible, indeed, at any distance, and drowned in the wind: "Eva! My God! Eva!" But the distance was lessening; now she was close to him, and apparently quite calm; because she had already seen him that very morning, though he had not seen her; because she had gone through the first emotion; because she had walked that way, in the wind, close by the villa into which she had seen him vanish, in the hope of meeting him again. The question flashed through his mind whether he should greet her with a bow, as a stranger--doing it with affected indifference, as though unmoved by this accidental meeting and forgetful of the past. And in spite of his tremulous excitement he could still be amazed at seeing her come straight towards him, without any hesitation, as if to her goal. In an instant she stood before him, with her pale, earnest face, and dark eyes beaming with vitality; he saw her whole form and figure, absorbed them into himself, as though his soul would devour the vision. "Frank," she said, softly. He made no reply, shivering with emotion, and scarcely able to see through the mist of tears which dimmed his eyes. She smiled sadly. "Will you not hear me?" she said, in her low, silvery voice. He bowed, awkwardly muttering something, awkwardly putting out his hand. She gently grasped it, and went on, still in that subdued tone like an echo: "Do not be vexed with me for addressing you. There is something I should like to say to you. I am glad to have met you here in Scheveningen by mere chance--or perhaps not by mere chance. There was some misunderstanding, Frank, between you and me, and unpleasant words were spoken on both sides. We are parted, and yet I should like to ask your forgiveness for what I then said." Tears choked her; she could scarcely control herself; but she concealed her emotion and stood calmly before him; brave as women can be brave, and with that sad smile full of hopeless submission, without affectation, candid and simple. "Do not take it amiss; only let me ask you whether you can forgive me for having once offended you, and will henceforth think of me more tenderly." "Eva, Eva!" he stammered. "You ask me to forgive? It was I--it was I who--" "Nay," she gently interrupted, "you have forgotten. It was I--do you forgive me?" And she held out her hand. Frank wrung it, with a sob that choked in his throat. "Thank you. I am glad," she went on. "I was in the wrong; why should I not confess it? I own it frankly.--Will you not come and see papa? We are living in a _hôtel garni_. Have you anything to do? If not, come now with me. Papa will be very pleased to see you." "Certainly, of course," he muttered, walking on by her side. "But I am not taking you from any one else? Perhaps some one is waiting for you. Perhaps now--by this time--you are married." She forced herself to look at him with her faint smile--a languid, pale courtesy which parted her lips but sadly; and her voice was mildly blank, devoid of any special interest. He started at her words; they conveyed a suggestion which had never occurred to him; a strange idea transferred from her to him; but it took no root, and perished instantly. "Married! Oh, Eva--- no, never!" he exclaimed. "Well, such a thing might have been," said she, coolly. They were silent for a while; but in a few moments, Eva, touched by the tone of his last words, could no longer contain herself, and began to cry gently, like a frightened child, sobbing spasmodically as they walked on, the tears soaking her white gauze veil. In front of their hotel she stopped, and, controlling herself for a moment, said: "Frank, be honest with me: do you not think it odious of me to have spoken to you? I could not make up my mind what I ought to do; but I so much wanted to confess myself wrong, and ask you to forgive me. Do you despise me for doing such a thing which, perhaps, some other girl would never have done?" "Despise you! I despise you?" cried he, with a gulp. But he could say no more, for some visitors were coming towards them--though but few were out on this windy and threatening day. They went a little further, hanging their heads like criminals under the eyes of the strangers. Then they turned into the hotel. IV. Sir Archibald received Frank somewhat coolly, though civilly. Then he left them together, and Eva at once began: "Sit down, Frank. I have something to tell you." He obeyed in some surprise; her tone was business-like, her emotion was suppressed, and she seemed to be prepared to make some clear and logical statement. "Frank," said she, "you once wrote a letter to Papa, did you not?" "Yes," he nodded sadly. "You did?" she exclaimed eagerly. "Yes," he repeated. "Two to you and one to Sir Archibald." "What! two to me as well?" she cried in dismay. "Yes," he nodded once more. "And you had no answers," she went on more calmly. "Did you ever wonder why?" "Why?" he echoed in surprise. "Because you were offended--because I had been so rough--" "No," said she very positively. "Simply and solely because we never received your letters." "What?" cried Westhove. "They never reached us. Our servant William seems to have had some interest in keeping them back." "Some interest?" repeated Frank, dully, bewildered. "Why?" "That I do not know," replied Eva. "All I know is this: our maid Kate--you remember her--came crying one day to tell me that she could not stay any longer, for she was afraid of William, who had declared that he would murder her. I inquired what had happened; and then she told me that she had once been just about to bring up a letter to Papa--in your handwriting. She knew your writing. William had come behind her when she was close to the door, and had snatched it from her, saying that he would carry it in; but instead of doing so he had put the letter into his pocket. She had asked him what he meant by it; then they had a violent quarrel, and ever since she had been afraid of the man. She had wanted to tell me a long time ago, but dared not for fear of William. We questioned William, who was rough and sulky, and considered himself offended by our doubts of his honesty. Papa had his room searched to see if he had stolen any more letters or other things. Nothing, however, was to be found, neither stolen articles nor letters. Not even the letter to Papa, which seems to have been the last of the three you wrote." "It was," said Frank. "Of course Papa dismissed the man. And--oh, what was it I wanted to tell you?--I cannot remember.--So you wrote actually three times?" "Indeed I did; three times." "And what did you say?" she asked, with a sob in her throat. "I asked you to forgive me, and whether--whether all could not be the same again. I confessed that I had been wrong--" "But you were not." "Perhaps not. I cannot tell now. I felt it so then. I waited and waited for a word from you or your father. And none came." "No, none!" she sighed. "And then?" "What could I have done?" "Why did you not come yourself? Oh! why did you never come near us?" she wailed reproachfully. He was silent for a minute, collecting his thoughts; he could not remember it all. "Tell me, Frank?" she said softly. "Why did you not come, yourself?" "I cannot remember exactly," he said, dully. "Then you did think of it?" "Yes, certainly," said he. "Then how was it that you never came?" Frank suddenly broke down; he gulped down his tears with difficulty, a gulp of anguish. "Because I was heart-broken, because I was so wretched, so unspeakably wretched. I had always taken rather cynical views of women, and love, and so forth; and then when I met you it was all so new, so fresh to me, I felt myself a boy again; I was in love with you, not only for your beauty but for everything you said and did; for being what you are, always so calm and sweet. Good God! I adored you, Eva.--Then there was that change: that doubt, that dreadful time. I cannot remember it all now; and I felt so forlorn and broken-hearted. I could have died then, Eva, Eva!" "You were so miserable? And you did not come to me?" "No." "But, good heavens, why not?" "I wanted to go to you!" "And why did you not do it, then?" Again he sat lost in thought; his brain seemed clouded. "Ah yes! I think I remember all about it now," he said slowly. "I wanted to go--and then Bertie said--" "What did Bertie say?" "That he thought me a fool for my pains; a coward, and a cur, and a fool." "But why?" "Because you had disbelieved my word." "And then?" "I thought perhaps he was right and I did not go." She flung herself on a sofa in utter woe, weeping passionately. "Then it was what Bertie, said?" she cried reproachfully. "Yes; nothing else," he said, mournfully. "God in heaven! that alone." They were both silent. Then Eva sat upright again, shivering; her face was white and bloodless, her eyes fixed with a dull, vacant glare, like weathered glass. "Oh Frank!" she cried--"Frank, I am so frightened! It is coming!" "What, what?" he asked in alarm. "I feel it coming upon me!" she moaned, panting. "It is like the sound of distant thunder, droning in my ears and in my brain. Great heavens! It is close to me! Frank, oh Frank! It is above me, over me. The thunder is over my head!" She shrieked and fought the air with her arms as if to beat something off, and her slender frame was convulsed as from a series of mysterious electric shocks. Her breath came rattling in her throat. Then she tottered, and he thought she would have fallen. He clasped her in his arms. "Eva, Eva!" he cried. She allowed him to drag her to the sofa without making any resistance, happy in his embrace in spite of her hallucination; and there she remained sitting by him, with his arm round her, cowering against his breast. "Eva! come, Eva, what is it that ails you?" "It has passed over," she murmured, almost inaudibly. "Yes, it is gone now--it is gone. It has come over me so often lately; it comes roaring on, slowly and stealthily, and then it breaks over my head, shaking me to the core; and then it goes away, dies away--away.... I am in such terror of it; it is like a monster which comes bellowing at me, and it frightens me so! What can it be?" "I cannot tell; over-wrought nerves, perhaps," he said, consolingly. "Oh! hold me close," she said, caressingly; "hold me tightly to you. When I am alone, after it is past, I am left in such deadly fear; but now--now I have you--you once more. You will not cast me from you again; you will protect me, your poor little Eva, will you not? Ah! yes, I have you back now. I knew, I felt, I should have you back some day; and I have made papa come to Scheveningen every summer. I had an idea that you must be somewhere in Holland--at the Hague or at Scheveningen; and that if we were ever to meet again it would be here. And now it has happened, and I have you once more. Hold me tightly now--in both arms--both arms. Then I shall not be frightened." She clung more closely to his breast, her head on his shoulder; and then, in a voice like a child's: "Look," she said, holding out her wrist. "What?" asked he. "That little scar. You did that." "I did?" "Yes; you clutched me by the wrists." He felt utterly miserable, in spite of having found her again, and he covered the line of the scar with little kisses. She laughed quietly. "It is a bracelet!" she said lightly. V. Presently, however, he started up. "Eva," he began, suddenly recollecting himself, "How--why--?" "What is it?" she said, laughing, but a little exhausted after her strange fear of the fancied thunder. "Those letters. Why did William?--what could they matter to William? Not mere curiosity to see what was in them?" "He would not have snatched that last one so roughly from Kate, if that had been all. No, no--" "Then you think he had some interest?" "I do." "But what? Why should he care whether I wrote to you or no?" "Perhaps he was acting for--" "Well?" "For some one else." "But for whom? What concern could my letters be of anybody's. What advantage could it be to any one to hinder your getting them?" She sat up and looked at him for some time without speaking, dreading the question she must ask. "Can you really think of no one?" she said. "No." "Did no one know that you had written?" "No one but Bertie." "Ah! Only Bertie," said she, with emphasis. "But Bertie--no! Surely?" he asked her, indignant at so preposterous a suspicion. "Perhaps," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "Perhaps Bertie." "Eva! Impossible. Why? How?" She sank back into her former attitude, her head on his breast, trembling still from the impression of the thunder she had heard. And she went on: "I know nothing; I only think. I have thought it over day after day for two years; and I have begun to find a great deal that seems mysterious in what had never before been puzzling, but, indeed, sympathetic to me--in Bertie. You know we often used to talk together, and sometimes alone. You were a little jealous sometimes, but you had not the smallest reason for it, for there never was any thing to make you so; we were like a brother and sister. We often talked of you.--Well, afterwards I remembered those talks, and it struck me that Bertie--" "Yes? That Bertie--" "That he did not speak of you as a true friend should. I am not sure. While he was talking it never occurred to me, for Bertie had a tone, and a way of saying things. I always fancied then that he meant well by us both, and that he really cared for us, but that he was afraid of something happening--some evil, some catastrophe, if we were married, He seemed to think that we ought not to marry. When afterwards I thought over what he had said that was always the impression. He really seemed to think that we--that we ought never to be married." She closed her eyes, worn out by this effort to solve the enigmas of the past, and she took his hand and stroked it as she held it in her own. He too tried to look into that labyrinth of the past, but he could discern nothing. His memory carried him back to their last days in London; and he did recall something: he recollected Van Maeren's stern tone when he, Westhove, had said he should call at the Rhodes'; he remembered Bertie's urgent haste to get out of London and wander about the world. Could Bertie--? Had Bertie any interest?--But he could not discern it, in the simplicity of his unpractical, heedlessly liberal friendship, which had never taken any account of expenses, always sharing what he had with his companion because he had plenty, and the other had nothing; he could not see it, since he had never thought of such a possibility in his strange indifference to everything that approached money matters--an indifference so complete as to constitute a mental deficiency, as another man is indifferent to all that concerns politics, or art, or what not--matters which he held so cheap, and understood so little and could only shake his head over it, as over an _Abracadabra_. He looked, but saw not. "You see, I fancied afterwards that Bertie had been opposed to our marrying," Eva repeated dreamily; and then, bewildered by the mystery which life had woven about her, she went on: "Tell me, Frank, what was there in him? What was he, who was he? Why would you never tell me anything about him? For I discovered that too, later, during those two years when I thought out so many things." He looked at her in dismay. Bitter self-reproach came upon him for never having told her that Bertie was poor, penniless, and dependent on his friend's bounty. Why was it he had never told her? Was it out of a sense of shame at being himself so careless, so foolishly weak about a concern in which others were so cautious and prudent? So foolishly weak--careless to imbecility. And still he looked at her in dismay. Then a suspicion of the truth flashed across his mind like the zigzag glimmer of distant lightning, and he shrank from its lurid gleam. "Eva," he said, "I will go to Bertie--" "To Bertie?" she shrieked. "Is he here?" "Yes." "He! here! Oh, I had never thought of that. I fancied he was away, far away--dead perhaps. I did not care what had become of him. Great God! Here! Frank, I implore you, Frank, leave him; do not go near him." "But, Eva, I must ask him." "No, Frank--oh Frank, for God's sake do not go. I am afraid--afraid. Do not go." He soothed her gently with a soft, sad smile which just lifted his yellow moustache; with grave fondness in his honest eyes; he soothed and petted her very gently, to reassure her. "Do not be afraid, my darling. I will be quite calm. But still I must ask, don't you see? Wait for me here; I will return in the evening." "Can you really be calm? Oh, you had better not go--" "I promise you I will be quite calm; quite cool." And he embraced her fondly, closely, with passionate fervour. "Then you are mine once more?" he asked. She threw her arms round his neck, and kissed his lips, his eyes, his face. "Yes," she said, "I am yours. Do what you will with me." "Till we meet again," then said he; and he quitted the house. Eva, left alone, looked about her with a shudder, as if seeking the evil she dreaded. She was afraid--afraid for herself and for Frank, but chiefly for Frank. In an instant her fears had risen to intolerable horror. She heard her father's step in the passage: she recognised his shuffling tread. It was impossible to her to meet him just then; she snatched up a cloak and wrapped it about her, pulling the hood over her head, as she rushed out of doors. It was raining heavily. VI. Frank found Van Maeren at home. And Bertie saw at once that It had come. He read it in Frank's drawn face, heard it in the thick utterance of his voice. And at the same time he felt that the lax springs of his determination were trying to brace themselves in despair, in self-defence, and--that they failed. "Bertie," said Westhove. "I want to speak to you, to ask you something." Bertie made no reply. His legs quaked. He was sitting in a large cane-chair, and he did not move. "I have just met Eva," Frank went on, "and I went with her to see her father. Sir Archibald tells me that they have been here some weeks--" Still Bertie spoke not; he gazed up at Frank with his deep, black eyes, and their brilliancy was overcast by distress and fear. Frank stood in front of him, and he now passed his hand over his brow in some confusion. He had at first purposed to tell his story, and then, quite calmly, to ask a question; but something, he knew not what, in Bertie's cat-like indolence, roused his anger, made him furious with him for the first time in all the years he had known him. He was angry that Bertie could stay there, half lying down languidly at ease, his graceful hand hanging over the arm of the lounge; and he did not detect that his attitude at this moment was assumed merely to conceal an all too overwhelming agitation. And Frank's intention of telling a logical tale and asking a plain question suddenly collapsed in rage, giving way to a mad desire to know at once--at once-- "Listen to me, Bertie. You remember the three letters that I wrote before we left London. Eva tells me that they were kept back by their servant William. Do you know anything about it?" Bertie was silent, but his eyes were fixed on Frank with dull, anxious entreaty. "No one knew of the existence of those letters but you. Have you any suspicion why it should be to William's interest to suppress them, then?" "No. How should I?" said Bertie, scarcely above his breath. "Come, come--speak out!" cried Westhove, quivering in every muscle. "You must know something about it, that is quite clear. You must. Speak out." All thought of self-defence melted away under the vehemence of Frank's tone. Bertie hardly had any curiosity even to know what had occurred to betray William's complicity; and he felt that it would be easiest now to give himself up completely, without reserve, since that which he had been dreading for weeks had come upon him, inevitably and fatally; since whatever was to happen would happen inevitably and fatally; and in his weakness he was conscious of the horrible pathos, the hopeless pity of his being what he was--of things being as they were. "Well, then," he muttered, dejectedly, "I do know." "What do you know?" "It was I who--" "Who did what?" "Who bribed William not to deliver the letters." Westhove looked at him in dumb astonishment; darkness clouded his sight; everything was in a whirl; he did not hear, did not understand, forgetting that the truth had already flashed across his brain. "You! You!" he gasped. "My God! but why?" Van Maeren got up; he burst into tears. "Because--because--I don't know. I cannot tell you. It is too vile." Westhove had seized him by the shoulders: he shook him, and said in a hoarse roar: "You damned villain, you will not tell me why? You will not tell me? Or must I shake it out of your body? Why? Tell me this instant!" "Because, because," sobbed Van Maeren, wringing his white hands. "Tell me--out with it." "Because I wanted to stay with you, and because if you married I should have had to go. I was so fond of you, and--and--" "Speak out. You were so fond of me--and then--" "And you were so kind to me. You gave me everything. I foresaw that I should have to work for my living again, and I was so well off where I was. Frank, Frank, listen to me; hear what I have to tell you before you say anything, before you are angry. Let me explain; do not condemn me till you know. Oh, yes, it was base of me to do what I did, but let me say a word; and do not be angry, Frank, till you know everything. Frank, try to see me as I am. I am as God made me, and I cannot help it; I would have been different if I could--and I only did what I could not help doing. Indeed, I could not help it; I was driven to it by a power outside me. I was so weak, so tired; I could rest with you; and though you may not believe me, I loved you, I worshipped you. And you wanted to turn me out, and make me work. Then it was--then I did it. Hear me, Frank, let me tell you all. I must tell you all. I made Eva believe that you did not really love her; I made her doubt you, so that everything was broken off between you. And the letters, I stopped them.... It was all my doing Frank, all, all; and I hated myself while I did it, because I was not different from what I am. But I could not help it. I was made so.... And you do not understand me. I am such a strange mixture that you cannot understand. But try to understand me and you will, Frank; and then you will forgive me--perhaps you will even forgive me. Oh, believe me, I beseech you, I am not wholly selfish. I love you with all my soul, so truly as one man hardly ever loves another, because you were so good to me. I can prove it to you; did I not stick by you when you had lost all your money in America? If I had been selfish, should I not have left you then? But I stayed with you, I worked with you, and we shared everything, and were happy. Oh, why did not things remain as they were? Now you have met her, and now--" "Have you done with words!" roared Frank. "So you did this, you wrecked all that life held for me! God in heaven! is it possible?--No, you are right; I do not understand you!" he ended with a venomous laugh, his face crimson and his eyes starting with rage. Bertie had dropped crouching in a heap on the ground, and sobbed aloud. "Oh, but try to understand," he entreated, "Try to see a fellow-creature as he is, in all his comfortless nakedness, with no conventional wrappings. My God! I swear to you that I wish I was different. But how can I help being what I am? I was born without any option of my own; I was endowed with a brain and I must think; and I think otherwise than I gladly would think, and I have been tossed through life like a ball--like a ball. What could I do, thus tossed, but try to keep my head up?--Strength of will, strength of mind? I do not know whether you have any; but I have never, never, never felt such a thing. When I do a thing it is because I must, because I can do no otherwise; for though I may have the wish to act differently the strength and energy are not there! Believe me, I despise myself; believe that, Frank; and try to understand and to forgive." "Words, words! You are raving," growled Frank. "I do not know what all your talk means. I can understand nothing at this moment; and, even if I could, at this moment I would not. All I understand is that you have ruined me, that you have destroyed my whole life's joy, and that you are a low scoundrel, who bribed a servant to stop my letters, out of gross, vile, unfathomable selfishness,--Bribed him? Tell me, rascal, wretch, coward--bribed him!--With what, in Heaven's name? Tell me with what you bribed him." "With, with--" but Van Maeren hesitated in abject fear, for Westhove had collared him by the waistcoat as he grovelled on the floor, and shook him again and again. "By thunder, you villain, you bribed him with my money--with my own money! Tell me--speak, or I'll kick it out of you!" "Yes." "With my money?" "Yes, yes, yes." Frank flung him down with a yell of contempt, of loathing of such a thing as he. But Van Maeren was experiencing a reaction from his self-abasement. The world was so stupid, men were stupid, Frank was stupid. He did not understand that a man should be such as he, Bertie, was; he could not understand; he bellowed out in his brutal rage, like some wild beast without brains or sense. He, himself, had brains; happier was he who had none; he envied Frank his lack of them! He sprang up with one leap. "Yes, if you will have it, Yes, yes, yes," he hissed it hard. "If you don't understand, if you are too idiotic to take it in--Yes, I say. Yes, yes, yes. I bribed him with your money, that you were so kind as to give me the very last day when we were leaving London. You gave me a hundred pounds, to pay William--do you remember? To pay William!--You do not understand?--Well--You don't understand! You are a stupid brute without brains. Ay, and I envy you for having none. There was a time when I had none; and do you know how I came by them? Why, through you. There was a time when I toiled and worked, and never thought and never cared. I ate all I earned and when I earned nothing I went hungry. And I was happy! It was you--you who fed me on dainties, and gave me wine to drink; and it was you who clothed me, so that I had not to work, but had nothing to do but to think, think, in my contemptible idleness all day long. And now I only wish I could crack my skull open and throw my brains in your face for having made me what I am, so finikin and full of ideas! You don't understand? Then perhaps you will not understand that at this moment I feel no gratitude for all you have done for me--that I hate you for it all, that I despise you, and that you have made my life infinitely more wretched than I have made yours! Do you understand that much, at any rate, eh? That I despise you and hate you, hate you?" He had entrenched himself behind a table, sputtering out this volley of words in a paroxysm of nervous excitement; he felt as though every fibre of his frame was ready to crack like an over-strained cord. He had got behind the table, because Westhove was standing before him, at the other side now, his eyes staringly white and bloodshot in his purple face; his nostrils dilated, his shoulders up, his fists clenched, ready, as it seemed, to spring upon him. Westhove was waiting, as it appeared, till Van Maeren had spit out in his face all the foul words he could find. "Yes, I hate you!" Bertie repeated, "I hate you!" He could find nothing else to say. Then Frank let himself go. With a bellow like a wild beast, a sound that had nothing human in it, he sprang over the table, which tilted on its side, and came down with all the weight of his impetus on Bertie, who fell under him like a reed, He seized his foe by the throat, dragged him over the legs of the table, into the middle of the room, dropped him with a crack on the floor, and fell upon him, with his bony, square knee on Bertie's chest, and his left hand holding his neck like a vice. And a hard, dry feeling, like a thirst for sheer brutality, rose to Westhove's throat; with a dreadful smile on his lips he swallowed two or three times, fiendishly glad that he had him in his power, in the clutch of his left hand, under his knee. And he doubled his right fist and raised it like a hammer, with a tigerish roar. "There, there, there," he growled; and each time a sledge-hammer blow fell on Bertie. "There, there, there"--on his nose, his eyes, his mouth, his forehead--and the blows resounded dully on his skull, as if on metal. A red mist clouded Westhove's sight; everything was red-purple, scarlet, vermilion. A blood-stained medley circled round him like whirling wheels, and through that strange crimson halo a distorted face grinned up at him under the pounding of his fist. The corners of the room swam in red, as if they were full of tangible red terror, whirling, whirling round him--a purple dizziness, a scarlet madness, a nightmare bathed in blood;... and his blows fell fast and steadily--"there--there--there"--and his left hand closed tighter on the throat below that face-- The door flew open, and she, Eva, rushed up to him through the red mist, parting it, dispelling it by the swift actuality of her appearance. "Frank, Frank!" she screamed. "Stop, I entreat you! Stop! You are murdering him!" He let his arm drop, and looked at her as in a dream. She tried to drag him back, to get him away from the battered body, to which he clung in his fury like a vampire. "Leave him, Frank, I beseech you; let him stand up. Do not kill him. I was outside, and I was frightened. I did not understand, because you were speaking Dutch. Great heavens! What have you done to him? Look, look! What a state he is in!" Frank had risen to his feet, dazed by that red frenzy; he had to lean on the table. "I have given him what he deserved--I have thrashed him, and I will do it again!" He was on the point of falling on the foe once more, with that devilish grin on his face and that brutal thirst still choking him. "Frank, no. Frank!" cried Eva, clinging to him with both hands. "For God's sake be satisfied! Look at him! oh, look at him!" "Well, then, let him get up," Frank snarled. "He may get up. Get up, wretch, at once; get up!" He gave him a kick--and a second--and a third--to make him rise. But Van Maeren did not move. "Great God! only look at him," said Eva, kneeling down by the body. "Look--don't you see?" She turned to Frank, and he, as if awaking from his dream of blood, did see now, and saw with horror. There it lay: the legs and arms convulsed and writhing, the body breathlessly still in the loose, light-hued summer suit; and the face a mask of blue and green and violet, stained with purplish black, which oozed from ears and nose and mouth, trickling down, clammy and dark, drop by drop, on to the carpet. One eye was a shapeless mass, half pulp and jelly; the other stared out of the oval socket like a large, dull, melancholy opal. The throat looked as though it had a very broad purple band round it. And as they stood gazing down at the features it seemed that they were swelling, swelling to a sickening, unrecognisable deformity. Out of doors the storm of rain had not ceased. There they stood, staring at the horror that lay bleeding and motionless on the ground before them; a leaden silence within, and without the falling torrent, an endless, endless plash. Eva, kneeling by Bertie's side, and shuddering with terror, had felt his heart, had listened with her ear against the breathless trunk--close to the dreadful thing, to make sure--and she had got up again quaking, had very softly stepped back from it, her eyes still directed on it, and now stood clinging against Frank, as if she would become one with him in her agony of fear. "Frank," she gasped. "God have mercy! Frank! He is dead! Let us go--let us go; let us fly!" "Is he dead?" asked Westhove, dully.. His mind was beginning to wake--a faint dawn like murky daybreak. He released himself from her grasp; knelt down, listened, felt, thought vaguely of fetching a doctor, of remedies; and then he added huskily, certain, indeed, of what he said, but quite uncertain of what he should do. "Yes, he is dead--he is dead. What can I--?" Eva still hung on to him, imploring him to fly, to escape. But his mind was gradually getting clearer, daylight shining in on his bewilderment; he freed himself from her embrace, and tried to go; his hand was already on the door-handle. "Frank, Frank!" she shrieked, for she saw that he meant to abandon her. "Hush!" he whispered, with a finger on his lips. "Stay here; stay and watch him. I will come back." And he went. She would have followed him, have clung to him in an agony of terror, but he had already shut the door behind him, and her trembling knees could scarcely carry her. She sat down by the body, shivering miserably. There it was--the swollen, bruised, and purple face, sad, and sickening in the diffused afternoon light which came in obliquely through the curtain of rain. Every breath stuck in her throat; she was dying for air, and longed to open the window, being closer to that than to the door. But she dared not; for outside, through the dim square panes, she saw the tragical sky covered with driving slate-coloured piles of cloud, and the rain falling in a perfect deluge, and the sea dark and ominous as an imminent threat, the raging foam gleaming through a shroud of pouring water. "Molde, Molde!" she exclaimed, icy-cold with terrible remembrance. "It is the sky of Molde, the fjord of Molde! That was where I first felt it. Oh, God! Help, help!" And she fell senseless on the floor. PART V. I. Since that day of terror two years had elapsed, years of silent endurance for them both; each suffering alone. For they were parted; with only the solace of a brief meeting now and then, when she could go and see him where he was spending those two years, the days slowly dragging past, in the prison among the sand-hills. He had given himself up at once to the police of Scheveningen, as if he were walking in his sleep, and had been taken to the House of Detention. He had stood his trial--it had lasted six weeks--a short time, his lawyer had said to comfort him, because there was no mystery to clear up; the murder was proved to a demonstration, beyond the shadow of a doubt, to be the result of a quarrel. This was evident also from the evidence of Miss Rhodes, who had stated that the criminal himself had not at first understood that his friend was dead, for that he had immediately after kicked him two or three times to rouse him, thinking he was only in a state of collapse; and that this had taken place in her presence. The trial was watched with interest by the public; and their sympathy was aroused when the purchase of the letters came out through the evidence of Sir Archibald and his daughter, confirmed by William, whose presence was secured by diplomatic interference. There were no difficulties; six weeks settled everything. Frank was sentenced to two years' imprisonment, and the case was not taken to a higher court. He had spent the time, day after day, in a waking dream of gloomy lucidity, with always, always the sinister vision of that writhing body, and the horror of that dreadful battered face before his eyes. He had felt it glide over the pages of his book when he tried to read, among the letters he traced when he tried to write,--what he scarcely knew, fragments of an account of his travels through America and Australia--a melancholy employment and full of pain, since every word reminded him of the murdered man who had been his constant companion. And when he did nothing, but gazed in dreary reverie out of the window of his cell, there, just below, and not very far away, he could see the villa where they had dwelt together and where he had done the deed, with a glimmer of the sea, a shining grey streak; and in fancy he could smell the briny scent, as in the days when he had spent hour after hour, with his feet on the balustrade--the hours which, as they crept on, though he knew it not, were bringing inevitable doom on them both, every moment nearer. So it never left him; it haunted him incessantly. Eva had entreated her father to remain at the Hague during all this terrible time, and Sir Archibald had consented, fearing for his daughter's health. Her natural sweet equanimity had given way to a fitful nervousness, which tormented her with hallucinations, visions of thunder and of blood. So they had settled in the Van Stolk Park, and all through Frank's imprisonment she had been able to see him from time to time, coming home more exhausted from each visit, in despair over his melancholy, however she might try to encourage him with hopes for the future, later on, when he should be free. She herself could hope, nay, lived only on hope; controlling her excitability under the yoke of patience, and of her confidence in something brighter which might come into her life, by-and-by, when Frank was free. A new life! Oh, for a new life! and her spirits danced at the thought--and new happiness! Great God! some happiness! She did not herself understand how she could still hope, since she had known so much of life and of men, and since she had lived through that fearful experience; but she would not think of it, and in the distant future she saw everything fair and good. Even her hallucinations did not destroy her hopefulness; though dreading them, she regarded them as a recurring malady of the brain, which would presently depart of itself. She could even smile as she sat dreaming in the pale light of a starlit summer evening, the calendar in her hand, on which she scratched through each day as it died, with a gold pencil-case which she had bought on purpose and used for nothing else, wearing it in a bracelet;--struck it out, with a glad, firm stroke, as bringing her nearer to the blissful future. And she would even let the days pass without erasing them severally, that she might have the joy at the end of a week of making six or seven strokes, one after another, in a luxury of anticipation. II. And now, long as they had been, the days had all stolen by--all, one after another, beyond recall. The past was more and more the past, and would for ever remain so; it would never come back to them, she thought, never haunt them more with hideous memories. She grew calmer; her nervousness diminished, and something like peace came upon her in her passionate longing for the happy future; for she was going to be happy with Frank. She was now in London again with her father, living very quietly; still feeling the past, in spite of her present gladness, still conscious of what had been, in all its misery and its horror. Frank, too, was in London, in a poorly paid place as assistant overseer in some engineering works, the only opening he could find by the help of his old connections; jumping at it, indeed, in consideration of his antecedents, of which he had no cause to be proud. By-and-by he should get something better, something more suited to his attainments. And he took up his studies again to refresh his technical knowledge, which had grown somewhat rusty. Sir Archibald had grown much older, and was crippled by attacks of rheumatism; but he still sat poring over his heraldic studies. Living in Holland for his daughter's sake, he had too long been out of his own circle of acquaintance and groove of habit; and though he had from time to time, in a fit of childish temper, expressed his vexation at Eva's becoming the wife of a murderer, he now agreed to everything, shrinking from the world and troubling himself about nothing; only craving to be left undisturbed in the apathy of his old age. "He knew nothing about it; old men know nothing of such things. The young people might please themselves; they always knew best and must have their own way." So he grumbled on, apparently indifferent, but glad at heart that Eva should marry Frank, since Frank, if he could be violent, was good at heart; and Eva would be well cared for, and he himself would have some one to bear him company in his own house--yes, yes, a little company. Frank and Eva met but rarely during the week, for he was busy even in the evenings, but they saw each other regularly on Sundays. And Eva had the whole week in which to think over the Sunday when she had last seen him, and she tried to recall every word that he had said, every look he had given her. On these treasures she lived all the week. She had never loved him so dearly as now, when crushing depression weighed on him, which she longed to lighten by the solace of her love. There was something motherly in her feeling for him, as though his sufferings had made a child of him, needing a tenderer regard than of yore. She had loved him then for the mysterious charm, as it seemed to her, of the contrast between his feeble gentleness and his powerful physique; and now it was no more than a higher development of the same charm, since she saw the stalwart, strong man suffering so pitiably under the memory of what he had gone through, and lacking the energy to rise superior to it and begin life anew. But this want of vigour did not discourage her in her hopes for the future; on the contrary, she loved him for his weakness, while regarding this as singular and incomprehensible in herself; dreaming over it in her solitude, or smiling with gladness. For she, as a woman, in spite of her nervous, visionary temperament, could resolutely forget the past, bravely go forward to meet the future, compelling happiness to come to her by her sweet patience and elastic constancy. Had not all the woes of the past lain outside them both? Had not Frank done penance enough for his fit of rage to hold up his head again now? Oh, they would soon have got over it completely; they would insist on being happy, and she would cure him of everything like heart-sickness. Thus she hoped on, a long, long time, refusing at first to acknowledge that he grew more melancholy and gloomy, sinking into deeper and deeper dejection under his burden. But at last she was compelled to see it, could no longer blind herself. She could not help seeing that he sat speechless when she talked so hopefully, listened in silence to her cheerful words and bright illusions, saying nothing, and sometimes closing his eyes with a sigh which he tried to suppress. She could not deceive herself; her sanguine moods aroused in him only an echo of despair. And when one day this was suddenly clear to her, she felt, suddenly too, that her nervous fears had worn her out; that she was sad and ill; that her courage, her hopes, her illusions were sinking down, down, deeper and deeper. A bitterness as of wormwood rose up in her, tainting everything; she flung herself on her bed, in her loneliness, heart-broken, in utter anguish, and cursed her life, cursed God, in helpless woe. III. Then, circumstances occurred which, in spite of all this, led to its being settled that they were to be married in quite a short time--in about six weeks. Frank had been helped by some of his old friends to obtain an appointment as engineer in a great Glasgow firm; Eva was to have her mother's fortune; there were no difficulties in the way. Frank now always spent the whole of Sunday at Sir Archibald's house. He came to lunch, sitting as silent as ever, and after lunch they were usually left to themselves. At first the hours flew by, sped by Eva's day dreams, though she was still, and in spite of herself, somewhat nervous; they would discuss various matters and even read together. But then for some little time minute would link itself to minute, while they did nothing but sit side by side on a deep sofa, holding each other's hands, and gazing into vacancy. And a moment came when they could no longer endure that grasp--no longer dared. The image of Bertie, with his purple, blood-stained face, would rise up between them; their hands parted--they were both thinking of the dead. Eva felt as if she had been an accomplice in the deed. As it grew darker intolerable misery would so overpower her that it seemed as though she must suffocate; then they would throw the windows open and stand for a long, long time to refresh themselves in the cool air, looking out over the Park in the gathering gloom. She listened in dread to Frank's breath as it came and went. Ay, and she was afraid of him, in spite of her love. After all, he had committed murder; he could do such things in his rage! Oh! if in a fit of passion she too--. But she would defend herself; with the strength of despair she would cling to life. Had she not herself felt strong enough to kill--? No, no. Not she, surely. She was too timid. And, besides, she loved him so dearly; she adored him, and soon she would be his wife! Still, she was afraid. The Sundays were no longer days so sweet as to leave a treasure of memory in which she could live through the week. On the contrary, Eva now dreaded Sunday; she awaited it with terror.... Friday--Saturday.... Here it was again! There was Frank, she heard his step. And still she was afraid, and still she loved him. * * * * * They were sitting thus one evening, hand in hand, and silent. It was still early in the afternoon, but a storm threatened, and the grey gloom peered in through the thick lace curtains. Eva, depressed by the heavy weather, thirsting for some comfort, suddenly, in spite of her fears, threw herself on Frank's breast. "I can no longer endure this weather!" she wailed, almost moaning. "This dark, cloudy sky always oppresses me of late. I want to go to Italy, Frank, to the sun, the sun!" He pressed her to him but did not speak. She began to weep softly. "Say something, Frank," she sobbed. "Yes; I do not like this heavy sky," he said, dully. Again there was silence; she tried to control herself, clinging closely to him. Then she went on: "I cannot bear up against it; I believe since that rainy day which overtook us in Molde, so long ago now--five years and more--you remember--when we had met three or four times, a few days before, at Dronthjem?" She smiled and kissed his hand, remembering her youth: she was old now. "You recollect, we got home to the hotel drenched. I believe I have been ill ever since that day, that I took a bad cold which settled in me, though at first I did not feel it and said nothing about it, but which has been undermining me ever since, all this long time--" He made no reply; he, too, had a vague recollection of something tragically painful at Molde, but he could no longer remember what. But she suddenly burst into a violent fit of weeping. "Oh, Frank, speak! Say something," she besought him, in despair at his silence, feeling her terror grow greater in the stillness, and her heart throbbing wildly in spite of herself. He passed his hand over his forehead, trying to collect his thoughts. Then he slowly replied: "Yes, Eva--for I have something to say to you. Just this very day." "What is that?" she asked, looking up through her tears, in surprise at his strange tone. "I want to speak to you very seriously, Eva. Will you listen?" "Yes." "I want to ask you something--to ask you if you would not rather be free. To ask if you would not be glad that I should release you?" She did hot immediately understand him, and sat gazing at him open-mouthed. "Why?" she said at length, shuddering, terrified lest he should understand something of what was torturing her soul. "Because it would be so much better for you, my child," he said, gently. "I have no right to fetter your life to mine. I am wrecked--an old man--and you are young." She clung closely to him. "No, I am old, too," said she, with a smile, "and I will not have it. I will be true to you. I will always comfort you when you are out of heart. And so, together, we will both grow young again, and both be happy." Her voice was as sweet as balm; to give him strength she felt something of her old illusions reviving in her. She would cling to him whatever the cost: she loved him. He clasped her tightly to his breast, and kissed her fondly. For the moment she felt no fear; he was so unhappy. "You are a dear, good girl," he whispered in a husky, trembling voice. "I do not deserve that you should be so good to me. But, seriously, Eva, think it over once more. Consider again whether you would not be unhappy, nay, wretched, if you had to be with me always. There is yet time; we have our future lives in our hands, and I cannot spend mine with you, Eva, only to make yours more miserable than I have done already. So, for your sake, for your happiness, I would gladly give you back your word." "But I will not have it!" she moaned, desperately. "I will not. I do not understand you. Why should you give me back my word?" He took her hands caressingly in his own, and looked in her face a long time, with a sad smile under the gold-coloured moustache. "Why? Because you--because you are afraid of me, my darling." A spasm shot through her whole frame, like an electric shock; wildly she looked at him, and wildly protested: "It is not true, Frank; I swear it is not true! Great God! Why do you think that? What have I done to make you think it? Believe me, Frank; take my word. I swear to you by all that is holy; there. I swear to you it is not true. I am not afraid of you." "Yes, yes, Eva, you are afraid of me," he said, calmly. "And I understand it; it must be so. And yet I assure you, you should have no cause to be. For I should be a lamb in your hands; I would lay my head in your hands; your pretty, cold, white hands, and sleep like a child. You should do with me whatever you would, and I would never be angry with you, for I could never be so again, never again. I would lie at your feet; I would feel your feet on me, on my breast, and lie so still--so calm and blest!--" He had fallen on his knees before her, with his head in her lap, on her hands. "Well, then," she said, gently, "if that is the case, why should I ever be afraid of you since you promise me this? And why do you talk of releasing me from my word?" "Because I cannot bear to live on, seeing you so unhappy; because you are unhappy with me, as I can see; and because you will be even more so when we are together, later--always." She quivered in every fibre. A strange lucidity came over her. She saw all that had happened as if mirrored in crystal. "Hear me, Frank," she said, in a clear, bright voice. "Remain where you are and listen to me; listen well. I mean to be true to you, and we shall be happy. I feel that we shall. What has occurred that we should always be miserable? Nothing. I repeat it--nothing. Do not let us spoil our own lives. I doubted you once; you have forgiven me. That is all at an end. You discovered that Bertie was a scoundrel, and you killed him. That, too, is ended. Nothing of all this can matter to me now. I will never think of it again. It has ceased to exist so far as I am concerned.--And that is all, Frank. Consider, reflect--that is all. Nothing else has happened. And that is not much. We are young and strong; we are not really old. And I tell you we can live a new life, somewhere, together; somewhere, a long way from London. A new life, Frank, a new life!--I love you, Frank. You are everything to me. You are my idol, my husband, my darling, my child, my great child." She clasped his head passionately to her bosom in a rapture, her eyes sparkling, and a flush tinging the azalea whiteness of her cheeks. But his eyes met hers with a look of anguish. "You are an angel, Eva; you are an angel. But I cannot claim you. For, listen now to me. The real truth--" "Well, what is the truth?" "Bertie was not a scoundrel. He was nothing but a man, a very weak man. That is the truth.... Listen to me, Eva; let me speak. I thought a great deal--at Scheveningen--among the sand-hills--you know. I thought over everything I could remember of what he had said to me in those last moments, in self-defence; and by degrees all his words came back to me, and I felt that he had been in the right." "In the right? Oh, Frank! I do not know what he said in self-defence; but now, still, shall Bertie's influence come between us to part us?" she cried, in bitter despair. "No, it is not that," he replied. "Make no mistake; it is not Bertie's influence which divides us; it is my guilt." "Your guilt?" "My guilt, which rises up before me from time to time, reminding me of what I have done, so that I cannot forget it, shall never forget it.... Let me tell you. He was right in what he said at last. He was a weak creature, he said, flung into life without any strength of will. Was that his fault? He despised himself for having done so mean a thing about those letters. But he had not known what else to do. Well, and I forgive him for being weak, for he could not help it; and we are all weak--I am weak, too." "But you would never have done such a thing?" cried Eva. "Because I, perhaps, am different. But I am weak all the same. I am weak when I am angry. And then--then in my fury, I was utterly, utterly weak. This is the truth. This is what is crushing me; and, broken as I am, I cannot be your husband. Oh, what would I not give to have him still alive! I was fond of him once, and now I could say to him that I do understand--that I forgive him." "Frank, do not be so foolish--so foolishly good," she exclaimed. "Oh, it is not foolish goodness," he said, with a melancholy smile. "It is philosophy." "Well, then," she cried, in a hard, rough tone, "I am no philosopher; I am not foolishly good; I do not forgive him for being a villain, and for making us miserable. I hate him, hate him, dead as he is. I hate him for coming between us, and haunting us now that you have killed him, and for the diabolical influence he still brings to bear on you and on me. But, I say, I will not have it," she shrieked despairingly, starting to her feet, but still clinging to him. "I tell you that I will not lose you for the second time. I swear that if you try to leave me here, I will stand, holding you fast in my arms, clasping you to me till we both are dead. For I will not let him part us; I hate him! I am glad you murdered him, and if he were living now, I would do it myself. I would kill him, strangle him, strangle him!" She clenched her hands as if she gripped his throat, and held Frank in her embrace as though he were her prey. Out of doors it was growing darker every minute. He gently released himself, supporting her, indeed, for he felt that she was tottering in her over-tension of energy and courage. She was staring out at the weather with her sunken, grey eyes, and she shivered from head to foot. He led her back to the sofa, made her sit down, and again knelt before her in more passionate devotion than ever. "Eva!" he whispered. "Oh, look at the clouds!" she cried. "It is pouring a deluge." "Yes," said he. "What does that matter?--I love you." "I cannot bear up against such weather," she moaned. "It oppresses me and frightens me--oh, it terrifies me so! Protect me, Frank, shelter me; come close!" She drew him to her on the sofa, and, opening his coat, nestled against him. "I am so frightened. Hold me tightly--wrap your coat round me. Oh, do not let it come upon me! Lord have mercy, and do not let it come over me, again, I beseech Thee!" It was the visionary thunder she prayed to be spared. And she threw both arms round her lover, clinging to him as if to hide herself. So she remained, while he held her close; when, presently, twisting her fingers into his waistcoat-pocket, she murmured: "What is this? what have you here?" "What have you found?" he said, in alarm. "This, in your waistcoat-pocket?" "Nothing--a little phial," he muttered. "Some drops for my eyes. I have been troubled by my eyes lately." She took out the phial. It was a tiny, dark blue bottle, with a cut glass stopper and no label. "For your eyes?" she said. "I did not know--" "Yes, really," he answered. "Give it me." But she held it hidden in her two hands, and laughed. "No, no; I will not give it you. Why are you so uneasy? I shall not break it. Does it smell? I want to open it, but the stopper has stuck." "Eva, I entreat you give it me," he implored her, and the perspiration stood on his brow. "It is nothing but drops for the eyes, and it has no scent. You will spill it, and it stains." But she put her hands behind her back. "It is not for the eyes, and you have nothing the matter with yours," she said positively. "Yes--really--" "No; you are deceiving me. It is.... it is something else--is it not?" "Eva, give it to me." "Does it take effect quickly?" she asked. "Eva, I insist. Give it me!" he repeated, angry now, and at his wits' end. He threw his arm round her, and tried to seize her wrists; but he only grasped one empty hand, while the other flung the phial over his head on the floor. There was a little clatter of falling glass, and before he could rise she had thrown her arms round him again, dragging him down among the cushions. "Let it lie there," she murmured with a smile. "It is broken. I have broken it for you. Tell me, why did you carry that about with you?" "It is not what you fancy," he replied, still on the defensive. "So much the better.--Why did you have it?" He sat silent for a moment. Then, yielding to her insistence, he said: "To take it--when all was at an end between us--in the evening, of course." "And now you cannot do so." "Perhaps I can manage to buy some more," he said, with a gloomy laugh. "But why is everything to be at an end between us?" He was suddenly quite serious, mocking no more at life and death. "For your sake, my angel; for your happiness. I beseech you, let it all be ended. Let me feel that I no longer need make you wretched. You may yet be happy; but I--I feel that everything in me hinders my ever being happy, and all happiness must begin in ourselves alone." "And do you think I shall let you go now, that you have just told me what you would do in the evening?" "But you are not to think that I should do it only for your sake. I always go about with that in my pocket. I have often thought of doing it; but then I have thought of you, and I lacked courage; for I know that you love me only too well." "Not too well. I have lived in you. But for you I should never have truly lived." "But for me you might have lived with another, and have been happy." "No. Never with any other. That could never have been. I had to live with you. It was Fatality." "Ay, Fatality. Bertie used to say--" "Do not mention Bertie." As she spoke the rain dashed against the window panes in a perfect torrent. "It is always raining," she murmured. "Yes--always," he mechanically repeated. She shuddered and looked in his face. "Why do you say that?" she asked quickly. "I do not know," said he, startled and bewildered. "I really do not know. Why, what did I say?" They both were silent. Then she began again. "Frank!" "My darling." "I will not let you leave me again. Not even for a day. I shall always be in terror for you." "Let there be an end to everything, my child." "No, no. Listen. Let us be together for ever. For ever and ever. Let us lie down to sleep--while it is still raining." "Eva!" "Together. You say yourself that everything in you fails of happiness, and that nevertheless happiness must come from within. Well, it is the same with me. And yet we love each other; do we not?" "Yes, yes." "Then why should we remain awake in this weariful life? It is always, always raining. Give me a kiss, Frank. A good night kiss, and let us sleep while it rains. Let me go to sleep in your arms--" "Eva, what do you mean?" he asked, hoarsely, for he did not understand her. "I broke the phial--broke it for you," she went on wildly. "But you can always get another?" An icy chill shot through his very marrow like a sudden frost. "God in heaven, Eva! What do you want?" She smiled at him calmly, with a soft light in her beaming eyes, and she threw her arms round him. "To die with you, my dearest," she whispered as in an ecstasy of joy. "What good can life do us? You were right. You can never be happy again, and I can ever be happy with you. And yet I will not leave you, for you are all in all to me. Then how can we live, or why? But, oh, Frank, to die together, in each other's arms! That is the greatest bliss! A kindly poison, Frank, nothing painful. Something easy to take, that we can take together, and clasp each other, and die--die--die--" Frank shuddered with horror. "No, Eva, no!" he cried. "You must not wish that, you cannot wish that! I forbid it." "Oh, do not forbid it," she said persuasively, falling on the floor and embracing his knees. "Let us share the same fate: that will be bliss. All about us will be rose colour and gold and silver, like a glorious sunset. Oh, can you imagine anything more beautiful? Frank, that is happiness, the happiness we have looked for--which every one in this world is looking for. It is Paradise! It is Heaven!" He was not carried away by her rapture, but her words tempted him as with the promise of a brief joy in this life and an unutterably peaceful rest in death. He could say no more to dissuade her, to check her in the heavenward flight of her fancy; but still he reflected that there were no means at hand, since the phial was broken. Eva had risen, irresistibly attracted to the spot where the phial had fallen. She stooped and picked it up. It had fallen into the drapery of a curtain; it was not broken, only cracked and chipped. Not a drop had been spilt. "Frank!" she screamed, in her frenzied gladness. "It is not broken! Look! It is whole. It is Fate that would not allow it to be broken." He too was standing up, quaking with an icy chill. She had already forced out the stopper and half emptied the phial with a mad, ecstatic smile. "Eva!" he shrieked. And quite calmly, smiling still, she handed it to him. He looked at her for a moment, feeling as if they two were already no longer of this world, as if they were floating in a sphere of unknown natural laws, in which strange things must come to pass. The world, as it seemed, was about to perish in that deluge of pouring rain. But he saw that she stood waiting with her strange smile--and he drank. It was quite dark; they lay on the sofa side by side, in each other's arms. He was dead. She raised her head in an agony of alarm at the storm which was raging outside, and that other storm which was raging in her dying body. The lightning glared white and the thunder was close overhead. But louder than the echoes in the air the thunder came rolling on towards Eva, nearer and nearer, louder and louder, a supernatural thunder, on the wheels of the spheres. "It is coming!" she murmured, in the anguish of death. "Great heavens! the thunder again!" And she sank convulsed on the body of her lover, hiding her head under his coat, to die there. Then came a shuffling step in the passage outside the dark room. An old man's thin voice twice called the name of Eva; and a hand opened the door. The End. 
27425	----	Major Frank By A. L. G. Bosboom-Toussaint Author of "The English in Rome," etc. Translated from the Dutch By James Akeroyd London T Fisher Unwin 26 Paternoster Square 1885 MAJOR FRANK. CHAPTER I. A Letter from Sir Leopold van Zonshoven to Mr. William Verheyst at A----. The Hague, March, 1865. Dear Friend,--If you are not too deeply absorbed in some lawsuit or other, come to me by the first express you can catch from your little provincial town. Something wonderful has happened, and I have great need of a friend to whom I can confide my secret. Imagine Leopold van Zonshoven, who seemed destined from his infancy to figure in this world as a poor gentleman--imagine your friend Leopold suddenly come into an immense fortune. An old aunt of my mother's, of whom I had never heard, and who it seems had quarrelled with all her relations, has hit upon the sublime idea of playing the "Fairy Godmother" to me. By her will I am made sole heir to all the property she died possessed of. I, who with the strictest economy and self-control have barely managed to keep out of debt; I, who have never given way to youthful follies or run into excess, now see a million thrown at my head. This is contrary to the ideas of the romancing novelist, who as a rule reforms and rewards the wildest youth. I almost knocked over the lamp on opening the letter which contained this incredible news; fortunately my landlady caught it, for she was waiting for the eighteenpence which the messenger demanded for his services, and she has since confessed to me she thought that it was a case of "baliffs." I got rid of her as quickly as possible and bolted the door behind her. I felt an irresistible desire to be alone, and to convince myself that the news was real, and not a page out of the "Arabian Nights." After having satisfied myself of the reality of the affair, I was assailed by an indescribable confusion of ideas and impressions. My heart beat as if it would burst; I felt a rising in my throat as if I should choke; and the first profit which I derived from my new fortune was a severe headache. I am not a stoic, and I have never attempted to appear in that character. Lately all my thoughts have been fixed on some method of changing the miserable position in which I have thus far vegetated, and there seemed but one hope left me: a reconciliation with my uncle, the Cabinet Minister, who could get me an appointment as attaché to one of the embassies. But this would be a difficult task, for his Excellency has forbidden me his house because of some articles that I wrote in an opposition paper. How I regretted not having been able to complete my studies and take a degree, the lack of which has shut me out from so many posts open to my fellow-students. At the age of twenty-nine it is a losing game to compete with younger men in possession of a degree; and whilst I sat brooding over my misfortunes, suddenly the news reaches me that I am a rich landed proprietor. I ask you, cool-headed man of the law as you are, whether that is not enough to turn the brain of a simple mortal like myself? Do come, then, as soon as possible to talk the matter over with me, especially as there is one point on which I must have your advice before entering into possession of my estates. Possibly your judicial eye will make light of it, but for me it is a conscientious question, or at least a question of delicacy, which may cause my mountain of gold to crumble to dust. I will decide nothing before consulting you. In the meantime I have given my lawyer power of attorney under reserve. Here I have many acquaintances, but not one trusted friend to whom I can reveal the secrets of my bosom without the fear of being misunderstood or made ridiculous. And now farewell till we meet. With or without the fortune, believe me to be ever yours sincerely, Leopold van Zonshoven. CHAPTER II. Mr. William Verheyst receives an Anonymous Letter. By the same post the barrister, William Verheyst, received the following letter without a signature. Sir,--We think it probable that Sir Leopold van Zonshoven will consult you on an affair of great importance to himself. May we take the liberty of begging that you will kindly assist him in any difficulties that may stand in the way of his taking possession of a certain heritage left to him, and also use your influence to persuade him not to decline any proposition which may be made him. The writer of this letter is perfectly acquainted with the intentions of the worthy testatrix, and wishes the young man joy of his fortune. "Oh dear!" exclaimed the good-natured William, crumpling the anonymous letter in his fingers, "I fear this looks bad for Leopold. It will be hard lines if he has to forego the fortune which is thus dangled before his eyes like a bait on who knows what unreasonable conditions. I don't like this attempt on the part of some unknown persons to bribe his adviser. However, they shall find I am not to be caught in the snare. If there be any clause in the will inconsistent with law and honesty or with honour, I'll show them I have not been called to the bar to no purpose. Poor fellow, he little knows how difficult it is for me to leave home at present. Still, as I must go to the Hague before my departure to Java, I will set off early to-morrow." William Verheyst did as he said. He proved himself a true friend and no loiterer; caught his train, and five minutes after his arrival in the Hague was knocking at his friend's door. Leopold van Zonshoven occupied a single large front room in a quiet part of the town. He was too poor to live in a more fashionable quarter, and too honest to attempt living above his means. And yet there was an air of elegance about the room which marked it as that of a young man of refined tastes, and proved him to be a lover of home comforts rather than the pleasures of club life. To the ordinary furniture to be found in lodgings he had superadded a good writing-table, an easy-chair, an antique, carved book-case, and several small objects of art, which stood out in bold relief against the shabby wallpaper. This, however, he had tried to hide as much as possible by hanging the family portraits all round the room, some of them in solid ebony, others in gilt frames rather characteristic of this cheap, showy age. Even the space between the larger pictures he had tried to cover with small miniatures on ivory, and photographs. The young man had evidently done his best to surround himself by the portraits of his numerous family. He was busily engaged at his writing-table when Verheyst knocked at his door. "I was expecting you," he said. "I knew you would come to help your friend in need. What a strange letter I wrote you! But now I have recovered my senses again." Then turning to his writing-table, he said-- "Look here, here's a bundle of papers soaked with ink. Though my landlady, Mrs. Joosting, saved the lamp from falling on that memorable evening, she did not notice the ink-bottle. Three articles neatly copied, numbered and ready for the press, are utterly spoiled. Nothing for it but to copy them again. Pleasant work this for a millionaire! But I have almost finished now, and the work has done me good; we shall have the whole evening to talk matters over." Leopold lived, in fact, by his pen, contributing to several papers, and making translations for the publishers who patronized him. Though he had not kept his terms at the university, he had talent and style, and his writings had been very successful. "Here are the documents: the lawyer's letter, a copy of the will, the inventory of all effects, both personal and real estate; and all, so far as I can judge, in perfect order." After a minute examination, piece by piece, Verheyst answered that he was of the same opinion. "But," he said, "I cannot find the fatal clause you mentioned, anywhere." "In truth, there is no such clause expressed; nor is there even a condition set down. But there is a desire, a hope expressed in this letter from my aunt; and you must read it before giving your opinion. It seems to me I must renounce the inheritance if I cannot give effect to the wish you will find set down here." "Is it, then, such a difficult matter?" inquired Verheyst, before opening the letter. "Oh, that depends! My aunt wishes me to marry." "No unfair request, since she puts you in a position to maintain a wife." "I agree; but she has gone further and chosen a wife for me." "The deuce! that's the worst part of the business." "Certainly; for she does not seem to have been acquainted with the young lady herself, who seems to be a granddaughter of a certain General von Zwenken, who married my aunt's eldest sister. The young lady is at present living with her grandfather; and it would seem that my shrewd old aunt, to be revenged on the General, has hit upon this means of leaving her fortune to her niece and shutting out the rest of the family from any share in it. Consequently I am made use of, and the fortune is placed in my hands with instructions to hasten to lay it at the feet of this 'fair lady.' Nothing seems easier or more natural. But suppose the 'fair lady' should be ugly, hunchbacked, a shrew, or a troublesome coquette. In this case, you know, with my ideas about women and marriage, I should feel myself bound to refuse the fortune." "Refuse! refuse!--at the worst you can propose to divide it between you." "Now that would be acting in direct opposition to the express and formal wish of the testatrix. Read the letter and you will see." CHAPTER III. The Honourable Miss Sophia Roselaer de Werve's Letter to her Grand-nephew. My very worthy Nephew,--Though I am unknown to you, you are not unknown to me. I don't know you personally; but I am pretty well informed as to what you are, and what you are not. Thanks to all sorts of quarrels in our family, and the inconsistent conduct of my eldest sister, I have been forced to live estranged (and shall die so) from all my relations. My nearest relations, it is true, died years ago; the others are scattered over the world, and scarcely remember their relationship to me. Their ancestors, who have done their utmost to embitter my life, seem to have left it as a legacy to their children to forget me, and to trouble themselves as little about old Aunt Roselaer as if she had never existed. But man must think of his end. I am in my seventy-fifth year, and a recent attack of apoplexy has warned me to put my affairs in order, if I would prevent all disputes about the possession of my property, and, above all, save it from falling into the hands of those who have done so much to embitter my life. I will not suffer it to fall into the hands of a host of nephews and nieces, who would attack it like sharks, and divide and crumble into pieces what I and my forefathers have accumulated with so much care and economy. It is for this reason I have decided to appoint one of my relatives my sole heir, and you are the one I have chosen: first, because your mother's mother is the one of my sisters who has caused me the least grief. She married a man of her own rank, in a good position, with the full consent of her parents; and she could not help his falling a victim to the horrible Belgian revolution, in which he lost his life and fortune, leaving her with seven daughters, one of whom was your mother, who, I must say, troubled herself as little as any of the other nieces about Aunt Sophia. I can pardon her, however, because when she returned from Belgium to Holland an occurrence in our unfortunate family affairs had decided me to break off all intercourse with my relations. The second reason, and the chief one, why I have distinguished you above all the rest is this: I have a good opinion of your disposition and self-command. I have, several times and in divers ways, made inquiries about you, both of friends and strangers, and the information I have received has always been such as to lead me to believe you the most fitting person to carry out one wish which I urgently request you to fulfil, if it be at all possible; namely, to marry the only grandchild of my eldest sister, and in this way put her in possession of that part of my fortune which the unpleasant divisions in our family cause me to withhold. I wished to adopt the girl in her early youth, give her a good education, and save her from the miserable garrison life she has led: but my request was bluntly refused; and General von Zwenken, her grandfather, has recklessly sacrificed the fortune of his granddaughter for the pleasure of being revenged on me. Consequently my will is made with the fixed purpose of preventing his ever enjoying a penny that has belonged to me. On reflection, however, I have come to the conclusion that it would be wrong to punish the granddaughter for the sins of her grandparents. After my death, on the contrary, I should like her to confess that old Aunt Roselaer, whose name she will only have heard mentioned with anger and disdain, was not so very wicked after all, seeing that she has ever had the welfare of her niece at heart. If I were to leave her my fortune, I should only be playing into the hands of her grandfather, who would doubtless spend every penny of it in the same way he spent that of my sister. And so it has occurred to me, Leopold, to single you out and make you the sole possessor of all my wealth, with the request that you will make good the wrong which I have been forced to do. The question now is, whether you will be able to accomplish my desire. Difficulties may be placed in your way by the very person most interested in adopting the means I have thought out: in this case, I beseech you to persevere as long as there remains a hope of success. If, on the other hand, you raise obstacles, if you find it insupportable to have a wife imposed on you by a troublesome old aunt, a wife you cannot love, then I release you from this condition, for I wish at least one member of the family to think of me without abhorrence. Should the worst happen, you must consult lawyer Van Beek, who knows my intentions, if you do not wish to lose my fortune altogether. I expect better things of you, not to mention that I count upon your good heart being moved towards a young lady who has been deprived of her rights and the advantages of her birth from infancy through the ill-will of her relations. These rights and advantages a loving old aunt wishes you both to enjoy. Sophia Roselaer de Werve. P.S.--That I must sign myself simply Roselaer de Werve, and not Baroness de Werve, is the fault of the General; but his obstinacy and folly shall cost him dear. CHAPTER IV. "Now, what do you say to this?" asked Leopold, as Verheyst folded up the letter with a thoughtful face. "What do I say to it? Well, that it is a real woman's letter; the most important point being contained in the post-scriptum." "Ahem! you may be right; how is it possible that a Christian woman, with one foot in the grave, can be inspired with such bitter hatred of this family, and probably for what is the merest trifle." "What shall I say?--From the merest trifles some of the longest and most difficult lawsuits have arisen. But, for your sake, Leopold, I could wish that this lady had been possessed of better feelings towards her relations; it would render the whole business simpler. If the young lady pleases you, marry her; if not, then propose to divide the fortune between you. You will both be independent, and one can live pretty comfortably on half a million." "Would to heaven she had left me thirty thousand guilders without conditions," sighed Leopold; "then I should have none of this bother." "That certainly would have been pleasanter for you," replied Verheyst, smiling, "but we get nothing for nothing; and if the old lady has chosen you to be her instrument of revenge, why you cannot do less than accept the encumbrance." "I don't see it." "I feel sure that on her death-bed she chuckled at the idea of leaving a champion of her griefs behind." "That may be so; but if she imagined that for the sake of her money I should so far demean myself as to serve her evil designs, then either she was greatly mistaken in my character, or she received erroneous information about me." "At present, you don't even know whether anything inconsistent with your character is demanded of you. Let me remind you that the depositions of the dead are not to be discussed, but as far as possible carried out. If after due inquiry you find yourself unable to fulfil the conditions of this will, it will still be possible for you to stop further proceedings." "I have written to the lawyer in that sense. I feel it my duty to see first whether a marriage be possible. This I am bound to do for the young lady's sake; but I should like you to pay a visit to the Von Zwenkens, and bring me word what you think of the young lady, before I make my appearance." "How you do give yourself the airs of a millionaire already!" answered Verheyst--"opening the preliminaries of your marriage by an ambassador. I am sorry to say I cannot accept your commission, worthy patron." There was a mingling of irony and offended pride in the tone of this answer, which caused Leopold to start up in surprise. "You do not mean me to take this reproach seriously?" he asked, feeling somewhat touched by his friend's words. "You know well enough I only asked a friendly service of one whose clear judgment I prize above my own, blinded as I now am by a confusion of contending passions." "Of course. I quite understand your meaning. It was only my chaff; but, unfortunately, it is only too true that I am prevented from obliging you. To-morrow I stay here in the Hague to look after my own affairs, and then I shall have not a day, nor even an hour, to lose in making my preparations for a long voyage." "What long voyage are you alluding to?" "Ah! that's true; we have had so much to say about the change in your life, that I have forgotten to tell you about the change in my own. You are not the only person on whom fortune smiles. I have been offered and have accepted the post of private secretary to the newly appointed Governor-General of our Indian possessions. Besides the high salary, and the excellent opportunity of travelling to Java in such a comfortable way, my future prospects are so promising that I could not for a moment resist the temptation to go. It is much more agreeable to me than vegetating in a provincial town, on the look-out for ill-paid lawsuits or some legal appointment. I expatriate myself for a year or two, to return with all the importance of an Eastern nabob," continued Verheyst, with a faint attempt at a jest which evidently did not come from the heart, as no pleasant smile lit up his face. "I cannot say you are wrong, and yet I am sorry," replied Leopold, with an effort to be cheerful; "all my plans for the future enjoyment of my fortune were bound up with you--we were to shoot, hunt, and travel together." "What about your wife?" asked William. "My first condition would have been that she must treat my friend kindly." "It is all the better; you should not be under the necessity of making any such conditions. Possibly you may have difficulties enough to overcome, without my standing in the way." "Really, William, I feel inclined to refuse the fortune, and go to Java with you." "Nonsense, man, pluck up your courage, and trust to those feelings of honour and delicacy of which your present scruples only afford me a new proof. She may turn out to be a pearl of a wife, this young lady whom you are requested to enchase in gold. By the way, do you know her name, or where you are to go in order to make her acquaintance?" "I have this morning received a letter from the lawyer in Utrecht, requesting me to pay him a visit as soon as possible, when he will give me all necessary information about General von Zwenken and his granddaughter Francis Mordaunt." "Mordaunt! Is her name Francis Mordaunt?" exclaimed Verheyst, in a tone of surprise and disappointment. "Yes, don't you like the name? or have you heard it before?" asked Leopold, all in a breath, for the serious looks of his friend alarmed him. "Heard it before! Well, yes--indeed, often, as that of an English officer on half-pay who some years ago lived in my province; a man against whose character, so far as I know, nothing can be said." "Yes, but I am speaking about the daughter. Do you know her?" "Not personally, and it is a dangerous thing to form an opinion from gossiping reports. What I have heard may not be correct; but if it be so, I cannot hide from you what it would only disturb your peace of mind to know. Therefore, I say, make your own inquiries, seek information from people you can trust, and trust only your own observations and experience." "Is she deformed? Is she a fright?" asked Leopold, growing uneasy. "No, nothing of that sort; in fact, I believe she is rather good-looking--at least, enough so to attract admirers, but----" "Come now, never falter, man! Give me the coup de grâce at once. Is she a coquette?" Verheyst shrugged his shoulders. "I have never heard it said she was; at least, it must be a strange sort of coquetry she's accused of." "Don't keep me on the rack any longer; but tell me at once the worst you know of her." "Oh, there's nothing that one can really call bad; yet in your eyes it may appear sinister enough. What I have heard is, that an acquaintance of ours, a friend of my youngest brother, was madly in love with her, and she refused his offer in a manner little encouraging for you. According to his account she must be a regular shrew, who declines to marry on the grounds that she will acknowledge no man to be her lord and master. She so ill-treated this poor Charles Felters, the best-natured old sheep that ever went on two legs, that he has taken fright and run away--gone off to Africa, as if afraid of meeting her again in Europe. He is not only a good fellow in every respect, but what we call in common parlance a 'catch,' his father being the richest banker in our part of the country. I don't wish to frighten you, but----" "Well, I see nothing in all this to be frightened about," said Leopold, calmly. "That she has refused a booby who runs away for fear of a woman, only proves her to be a girl of character. I begin to think there will be something piquant in this adventure, and I prefer a lively young lady to a wearisome, insignificant girl." "I am glad to hear you take up the subject so pleasantly. I, for my part, should not like to be engaged in such a contest, but you are morally obliged----" "In fact, without the obligation, your account has so excited my curiosity that I should feel tempted to undertake this conquest. Do you see this portrait of the fifteenth century? It is that of one of my ancestors who, for the honour of his lady, suffered his left hand to be cut off. He was very ugly, and whenever I was naughty or in a temper my good mother would lead me up to this portrait and say, 'Fie! Leopold, you are like the Templar,' for he was a knight of that order. She said I had the same fierce glance of the eyes when I was naughty, and I have since been convinced that she was right. The resemblance struck me in a private interview I once had with my uncle, the Cabinet Minister. I was accidentally standing before a glass, when he upbraided the memory of my dead father, saying he had married a wife without fortune, instead of following his (my uncle's) example--using his title as a bait with which to catch an heiress. His Excellency saw the likeness, too; for he politely turned the conversation, and led me to his antechamber, where I am sure he gave his footman orders to say 'Not at home' in future, if ever I should trouble to call again. But tell me more, all you know, about my future wife." "Well, she has had no education. Her manners are rude----" "That I have gathered from my aunt's letter; but it is not her fault, poor girl. I must try to improve her, and be both lover and schoolmaster to my wife. Who knows--perhaps I must also teach her music and dancing!" "At any rate, you will not have to teach her fencing, for she's already an adept at that--at least, according to Charles Felters' report." "The deuce she is!" exclaimed Leopold, laughing; "that's almost enough to frighten one." "Charles was really frightened. At that time she was a very young girl, yet she was already generally known in the little garrison-town where she lived by the nickname of Major Frank." "The nickname does not sound flattering, I must confess; however, I will see if there is not some way of enrolling this major under my colours, and then she shall retire from military life to settle down as a civilian." "It does me good to see you treat the matter so lightly, for there is nothing for it but your making the attempt." "It has always been my maxim to take a cheerful view of things," said Leopold, with a touch of melancholy in his tone; "and, alas! I have been forced to do so under adverse circumstances hitherto. And now, my good fellow, let us go and look out for some dinner. I can recommend Pyl's Restaurant." "Why not at the Club?" asked Verheyst; "there we shall meet many friends whom I wish to see before my departure." "I am no longer a member, my dear fellow. After my father's death I was obliged to cut down all unnecessary expenses, as my mother had but a small pension, and I could bear retrenchment better than a person of her age. It is not the subscription, it is the company one meets which leads to extravagance, and those quiet little supper parties, the invitations to which it is impossible to refuse." At dinner, over a good bottle of wine, William made Leopold promise to write a full account of all that should take place during his absence in Java, and send to him by mail from time to time. We can only hope that this story will prove no less interesting to our readers than it did to William Verheyst. CHAPTER V. Leopold van Zonshoven to Mr. William Verheyst. My dear Friend,--Whilst you are sailing down the Red Sea, I am entrusting to paper what I would not confide to any living mortal but yourself. My fortune still hangs in the balance. Without doubt the worthy testatrix has done everything possible to insure her heritage to me; but there are moments when I feel so great a repugnance to it as to make me question whether it were not better to renounce it than to become the instrument of Miss Roselaer de Werve's vengeance on this side the grave. The idea of having to drive a grey-headed old man from his manor-house, and to render a poor young lady, who has a family claim on her aunt's inheritance, houseless, is too much for me, though a whimsical old woman and the law have done their utmost to set my conscience at ease. But to commence my story. The day after you left me, I went over to Utrecht to call on the lawyer, Van Beek. Perhaps in the hurry of our parting I forgot to tell you this was my intention. At such times a man often forgets the most important things he has to say. The worthy functionary is a short, thin personage, with a tuft of hair hanging over his forehead, sharp eyes, a long, thin nose, and thin lips always closed; in fact, a perfect type of the shrewd, clever, but inexorable lawyer. He received me seated in an armchair, clad in a grey office coat, and with a solemn white neckcloth fastened round his neck so tightly that I really was afraid it would choke him. When I entered the room he rose to salute me with a polite bow, and only when he had learnt my name and my resolve to carry out the intentions of the testatrix did a fine smile play about his mouth--a smile which seemed to say: "You've come round, then, at last, though you appeared to hesitate at first." After a few words as to the sudden death of his client, and her express wish to be buried as quietly as possible, without the attendance of any of her relations, he told me he had been the confidential adviser of Lady Roselaer for the last thirty years, and was consequently able to give me all necessary information with regard to her dealings with General von Zwenken, and her intentions in respect of his granddaughter. I should only weary you if I attempted to relate all the pitiful stories of mischief-making and counter-mischief-making with which, long before the birth of Francis, the General and Aunt Sophia endeavoured to render each other's life miserable. I now comprehend that she neither could nor would leave her fortune to such a man, and I approve of the course she has taken for Francis' sake, who would have been the greatest sufferer if her aunt had not acted with so much foresight and prudence. The General is a spendthrift, or, to put it in the mildest terms, a bad financier. His affairs, the lawyer says--and the lawyer evidently knows more about them than the General does himself--are in such a state that, to use an expression of Macaulay's, "the whole wealth of the East would not suffice to put them in order and keep them so." Still, does this justify my aunt's inexorable hatred? I am sure, if you saw her portrait, you would scarcely believe her capable of it: a stately dame in a rich black silk gown, with silvery grey hair under a black lace cap, and a string of priceless pearls round her neck--so she appears in a painting done in the last year of her life. And this she has bequeathed to her legal adviser, because she believed none of her relations would be able to look upon it with pleasure. On this point, I fancy, she was not far deceived. I myself, her favoured heir, honestly confess that much must happen, much be cleared up, before I can regard it with any degree of cheerfulness and gratitude, seeing I know what a Shylock-spirit once breathed in that thin, slender figure of a woman. The lawyer bore testimony to her kindness to the poor, but said she was very singular in her ways of life and thought. Being strictly orthodox himself, he accounts for all her singularities by saying they are the outcome of her great admiration of the ideas prevalent in the eighteenth century; she was an admirer of Rousseau, and actually adorned her room with a statuette of Voltaire. In fact, she had herself painted holding a volume of Voltaire's Correspondence in her hand, though she knew this would not be particularly pleasing to the future possessor of that portrait. "Well, well, Jonker," he continued, "since you ask me for the truth about the life and actions of your deceased aunt, I must tell you she seldom went to church, and when she did it was to the French church, though she was not a member of it. [1] She gave large sums every year to all sorts of institutions; subscribed liberally to any fund for the benefit of the lower classes; but would never give a penny to the Church. If I sometimes tried to change her views on this point, she cut me short by saying it was a matter of conscience with her not to contribute to the increase of a race of hypocrites. You will understand that in my position I could not insist further on this subject. Besides, she did not make use of her riches for herself, except with the greatest economy. She occupied a small villa just outside the town of Utrecht, and her beautiful country-seat in Gelderland, as well as her magnificent house in town, were both let to strangers. She kept but one man-servant, an aged waiting-woman, and a cook. The gardener who rented her kitchen-garden supplied her with vegetables, and kept her flowers in order. She had no carriage, and sometimes did not go out for weeks together. Neither did she receive company, denying herself to all visitors except Dr. D., her old friend, who made a professional visit every day, and came regularly two evenings a week with his married sister to play cards. I saw her as often as business affairs rendered it necessary, and once a month she invited me, my wife and daughter, to dinner. On these occasions Dr. D. and his sister were also invited; but I never remember to have met any one else, except the painter who did this portrait, and to whom she has left a nice little legacy. He was a young man with roguish eyes, and beautiful mustachios; and I suspect he made love to her à la Voltaire, for she bought drawings of him which she never even looked at. He was, otherwise, a good young fellow, with a widowed mother to maintain; and the capital she has left is large enough to permit of such a freak of fancy----" "Oh, certainly!" I interrupted, "I am glad that the latter days of her monotonous life were cheered by anybody. But what you have told me of her views with regard to the Church leads me to doubt whether I ought to accept her heritage, since, once in possession of it, I shall feel it my duty to make use of her money for purposes directly contrary to her wishes." "I don't think you need have any scruples; for she was very well acquainted with the character of Jonker van Zonshoven, and what might be expected of him in such matters. Yet you see this did not deter her from entrusting her fortune to you. Besides, she was liberal enough with regard to the views of other people. Her maid is strictly orthodox, and yet every Sunday a carriage was placed at her service to convey her to church; and she is left well provided for during the rest of her life. It is probable Lady Roselaer considered you the person likely to make good what she had left undone either from false shame or obstinacy. Had this not been her intention, she was a woman who would have taken measures to prevent her will being ignored, even after her death." CHAPTER VI. With regard to the Castle de Werve, I have found out that it is situated on the borders of Gelderland and Overyssel, and is surrounded by extensive woods, moors, and arable land. It is at present occupied by General von Zwenken, and formerly was in the possession of Aunt Sophia's parents. To its possession is attached the title of Baron, with seignorial rights--rights which in our time are little more than nominal, yet to which old Aunt Sophia seems to have attached immense value. Her father, old Baron Roselaer van de Werve, had no son (a great trial for him, as you may suppose), but three daughters, of whom Aunt Sophia was the second, and my mother's mother the youngest. The eldest, Lady Mary Ann, became, on the death of her father, the rightful heir to the Castle de Werve and the estates attached to it. This arrangement was exceedingly offensive to Aunt Sophia, who had expected her father to leave the castle to her, and at one time she had good reasons for fostering such expectations. Her eldest sister had been the source of much grief and sorrow to the old people. She had secretly entered into a romantic love-engagement with a young Swiss officer--then Captain von Zwenken--and considering it impossible to obtain the consent of her parents to such a marriage, she eloped with Von Zwenken, who took her to Switzerland, where they were married. This union, according to Dutch law, and in the opinion of Aunt Sophia, was illegal. The weak parents (as Sophia called them), however, at length became reconciled to their son-in-law, and when the lost child returned to her old home in reduced circumstances, her parents received her with open arms. In this family scene of reconciliation, Aunt Sophia imitated the eldest son in the parable. She had never been on good terms with her romantic sister; she persisted in regarding her brother-in-law as an abductor and a deceiver, who had obtruded himself on the family; charged her parents with blameworthy infirmity of purpose, and, in short, declined all reconciliation. The stay of the young people under the parental roof was brief; but even these few days were stormy, and sufficed to divide the family connexions into two parties, for and against the Von Zwenkens. Aunt Sophia's strong point was the irregularity of the marriage, solemnized in a foreign country. Those who disagreed with her and recognized the Swiss captain as a relation, she looked upon as deadly enemies; while those who took her side in the contest were received by Baron and Baroness Roselaer with freezing coolness. In a word, it was the history of the Montagues and the Capulets re-enacted on a small scale in the eighteenth century on Dutch territory. They did not attack each other with dagger and poison, but used the tongue for weapon. They annoyed, they insulted each other, whenever and wherever they found an opportunity; there were hair-splitting disputes, and retaliation without truce or pity; and lawsuits followed which swallowed large sums of money. A good business for the lawyers, who only made "confusion worse confounded." When old Baroness Roselaer--who always pleaded for peace and forgiveness--shortly afterwards died, Sophia thought she would be able to exert unlimited influence over her father, as she now became the recognized mistress of the house. She even took advantage of her position, during the stay of her brother-in-law for the funeral, to make him so uncomfortable, that on leaving the house he told the old Baron he would never enter it again. Sophia was in triumph. She thought she had banished Von Zwenken from the house; but she forgot her sister's children, and the joy and pride the old Baron was likely to take in a grandson and future heir to his title and estates. Though he never talked to Sophia on the subject, he was secretly embittered against her as being the cause of this new estrangement, and his great pleasure was to visit his grandchildren; and what is more surprising, Sophia never suspected these visits. Try, then, to imagine the effect produced upon her when her father's will was read, and she found that the Castle de Werve, with its seignorial rights, descended to Madame von Zwenken and her children. It is true she inherited a just share of the property; but the very part she loved best, the home of her childhood, where she had been brought up, and which she never willingly would have quitted, was taken from her and given to the man whom she considered so unworthy of it, and so little capable of appreciating the advantages attached to its possession. She felt herself slighted, and to this slight is to be attributed the restless hatred and unrelenting bitterness with which she pursued the General during the rest of her life. She declared her brother and sister had worked upon her father's feelings by cunning and intrigue; and she would never believe that the old Baron had left them the property of his own free-will, or for the sake of his grandchildren. It being now the Captain's opportunity, he ordered her to leave the house with all possible speed; and this was the more galling, as he did not himself retire from active service and occupy the castle as the old Baron had desired him to do. He was changed about from one garrison town to another, daily expecting to be ordered on foreign service, and therefore unable to derive much enjoyment from his possessions. His wife and children would sometimes stay a few weeks at the castle in the summer; but the former did not long survive her father. The children stayed with Von Zwenken in the garrison, until the daughter was old enough to go to a boarding-school in Switzerland, and the son to be placed under a tutor, who was to coach him for the university. I agree with Aunt Sophia in her assertion that Von Zwenken was not the "right man in the right place." He made no good use of his possessions; and the house was entrusted to a care-keeper, who was as incompetent as he afterwards proved himself dishonest. The old steward, who had been dismissed to make room for this stranger, was immediately engaged by Aunt Sophia to stay in the neighbourhood and keep her informed of all that happened at the castle. For though she had removed to another province in which her own estates were situated, she could neither separate her affections nor her thoughts from her old home. Sometimes the Captain, who had now obtained the rank of Major, would come with a party of friends for the shooting, but he never seemed to observe that the whole place was going to rack and ruin. Further, he was always in want of money; and when his daughter married an English officer, Sir John Mordaunt, he was obliged to sell a considerable part of his estates, so as to be able to give her the portion of the fortune left her by her mother. He had already several mortgages on the property, and as his son led a wild life at college these went on increasing from year to year; until, when at last on obtaining his colonel's pension and the honorary rank of general he was able to retire to the Castle de Werve, all he could call his own was the house, garden, and surrounding grounds. Aunt Sophia, on the contrary, whom it must be confessed was a sharp, clever woman, had in the meantime doubled her fortune, besides inheriting largely from a rich cousin who had taken her part in the family quarrel. As the proverb says, "hatred has four eyes," and so she, making use of the information obtained from the old steward, appointed a lawyer to buy up on her behalf all the land sold by the General. This lawyer had further instructions to advance money on the mortgages, and to exact the interest with the greatest promptitude. In this way my aunt became so well acquainted with Von Zwenken's money difficulties, that she could calculate the day, nay, even the hour, when he would be at her mercy. At last, imagining the favourable moment had arrived, she sent a lawyer to offer him a much larger sum for the castle and the seignorial rights than any one else would be likely to give, seeing that she was secretly in possession of the surrounding estates. The General's answer was to this effect: "He would not sell the seignorial rights at any price; and as for the castle, he had promised his deceased wife to keep her sister out of it at all costs, and he would rather see it fall about his ears than that Miss Sophia Roselaer should ever set foot inside it again." Poor man, he little knew how much she had him in her power, and all the precautions she had taken. Otherwise he would have reflected twice before sending such an answer. Something suddenly occurred which obliged him to mortgage even the house itself--the cause is a mystery--and now Aunt Sophia might have been revenged; but for some inexplicable reason she countermanded her orders to Van Beek, who does not himself know why. Just before her death she sent for him to change her will, and it was on this occasion she made me her sole heir. CHAPTER VII. I was invited to stay to luncheon by my lawyer, and I accepted the invitation. In the course of the conversation Van Beek said-- "The country seat, Runenburg, will be at your disposal on the 31st of October next; but the house in town is let till the May following, and the tenants would like to stay on, if it be agreeable to you. They are very respectable people. How am I to act in the matter?" I stared at him in surprise and perplexity. Such a strange feeling came over me. I who have never possessed a stick or a stone in my life (in fact, I always felt it a relief when the quarter's lodging bill was paid), now I had to decide about a house in town and a country seat. "I think, Mr. Van Beek, everything had better remain as it is until the question of my marriage with Miss Mordaunt is settled." "The Jonker forgets that that condition is not binding." "I look upon it as binding, though such may not be the legal interpretation of the will." "Would you not like to see the house whilst you are in Utrecht? It is beautifully situated, and well worth a visit, I can assure you." "No, thank you, sir; but I should like to see the house in which my aunt lived: from its surroundings I may be able to obtain a better idea of her character." "Oh, with pleasure, Jonker! I thought I had already told you," began Van Beek, somewhat embarrassed, "that the old lady had bequeathed it to me, on condition her maid should occupy it as long as she lives. It is a splendid legacy; that I do not deny. But consider, I have served her thirty years in all kinds of business, some of which cost me much trouble and loss of time. And I may remind you that there is no extra money set aside for my expenses as executor, whilst I am recommended to assist the heir in every way, and to serve him to the best of my ability by my counsel." "My dear sir," I rejoined, "it was to be expected that aunt would treat you generously. It is not my intention to dispute any of her bequests. It will be a sort of pilgrimage for me." "We will drive there at once after luncheon. It is only half an hour's distance from the town." I must confess the interior of my aunt's dwelling did not enable me to gather any new ideas of the strange personage who once occupied it. The old waiting-woman received us with coolness, and chanted the praises of her late mistress in pious terms. The young cook shed a torrent of tears, and was evidently astonished not to see me do the same; whilst the man-servant eyed me askance, as if he feared I had come there to cut off his legacy. The house was furnished in a moderately comfortable style, most of the furniture being of the good solid sort common in the reign of King William I., though there had been an attempt to imitate the style of the First French Empire. There was only one sofa in the house, and one armchair à la Voltaire, in which Miss Roselaer reposed herself for just one hour after dinner every day. She must have been a clever, active woman up to the very last. "She was always making up her accounts or writing," said her maid, "when she was not either reading or knitting." "And what did she read?" I asked. "Mostly 'unbelieving books'--those in the bookcase there; sometimes, but very seldom, the Bible." The "unbelieving books" were French, German, and English classics. I pointed out to Van Beek that I should like to possess this small but well-selected library. All the books are beautifully though not showily bound, and they bear marks of assiduous reading. Among the "unbelieving books" are the works of Fénelon, Bossuet, and Pascal, peacefully assorted with those of Voltaire and the Encyclopædists, whilst Lavater, Gellert, Lessing, and Klopstock find a place by the side of Goethe and Schiller, and the plays of Iffland and Kotzebue. This was the first moment of unalloyed pleasure I have felt since I came into my fortune, when I once more cast my eyes over the library and beheld it with all the pride of ownership. I involuntarily put forth my hand to snatch up one of the volumes, as if I thereby wished to signify I was taking possession. Van Beek smiled and twinkled his cunning little eyes; but the maid, who was standing by, looked at me as though I had committed a sacrilege. "I should rather have thought the Jonker would have preferred my lady's Bible," she said. "I should certainly like the Bible as well as the other books, Mrs. Jones--that is to say, unless you wish to keep it yourself as a memento." "Oh no, Jonker! such a worldly, new-fashioned book I would not have in my possession. I can't look upon it as God's word; and I could never understand how my lady found edification in it." "What's the matter with the Bible?" I asked Van Beek as we left the house. "Nothing, absolutely nothing. It is an ordinary States-Bible, only not printed in the old-fashioned German type." [2] Upon my word, I thought aunt must indeed have been pretty liberal-minded to have put up with so bigoted a servant for so many years. The next day I set out for the small town of Zutphen, which is within an easy drive of the Castle de Werve. CHAPTER VIII. Castle de Werve, April, 1861. You see, my dear William, I have entered the fortress. But to resume my narrative. Van Beek gave me a letter of introduction to his friend Overberg, a lawyer in Zutphen, and I called upon this worthy man of the law as soon as I arrived in the town. This Overberg was the agent of my old Aunt Roselaer in these quarters, and it was through his good management of her affairs that she gradually obtained possession of Von Zwenken's property, as the General usually borrowed money of Overberg. After all, the General was more fortunate than if he had fallen into the hands of usurers, who, speculating on his weakness, would have ruined him in a much shorter time. Overberg had advised the General to accept the offer of his sister-in-law--with what result you already know. For this reason he recommended me, if I wished to obtain a kindly reception at the Castle, not to present myself there as the heir to Miss Roselaer's property; such an introduction being calculated to raise a prejudice against me from the first. Therefore I decided to present myself as a relation anxious to make the acquaintance of the family. Seizing the opportunity, I began to question Overberg about Miss Mordaunt. "I have only spoken to her once," he said; "the General always comes to see me in person. She is never seen in the town now. Once, indeed, whilst the General was still commandant of the garrison here, she came to consult me on a matter personal to herself, but that is a long time ago." The good-natured lawyer, though ignorant of my matrimonial plans, doubtless read disappointment in my face, for he resumed, as if to excuse the meagreness of his information-- "You see, sir, the General then lived in grand style; and a wide distinction was also made in society between the military and the bourgeoisie. I was a widower, my time fully occupied, and I seldom went into society. Since my second marriage, however, we have parties and dinners enough--and that reminds me my wife has a soirée this evening; several young ladies who know Miss Mordaunt are invited. Will you spend the evening with us? You can leave tomorrow early for the Werve. I will introduce you to the company as a gentleman looking out for a villa in our neighbourhood; for as you know, in a small town like ours, it is necessary to give a reason for your appearance among us, otherwise one will be invented--and such inventions are not always of a flattering kind. I can easily give the conversation a turn so as to cause it to fall on the family Von Zwenken, and you need only keep your ears open." This idea took my fancy; I accepted the invitation with pleasure, for a little society would help me to pass the evening more agreeably than I could spend it at my hotel. We dined quietly en famille, and Overberg and his wife--hospitable, jovial people--seemed to me to belie the French verse-- "De petits avocats, Qui se sont fait des sous, En rognant des ducats." Mr. Overberg is a shrewd, clever lawyer, who perfectly understands his business and the way to treat his clients politely and persuasively; he always discourages lawsuits, recommends delay and an attempt at an arrangement, and thus quietly brings about the desired result without, as it were, seeming to interfere. Aunt Sophia respected him highly for his discretion and foresight, though she took care never to let him see through her intentions, since he was not the man to take sharp and decisive measures. For any such business she employed Van Beek, who is a man to carry out the law to the letter, without feeling any pity for the sufferer. It was therefore in keeping with Overberg's character that he recommended me to temporize with the General, to give him time to pay his debts, and not to drive such an old man to despair, though he was a foreigner. The good man little knew he was preaching to one who already shared his views, and whose inmost wish was to deal as gently as possible with Von Zwenken. I must acknowledge that what I heard at the soirée did not make a favourable impression on me. The past life of the young lady must have been a singular one, if there be any truth in the gossip I heard about her. I know much must be set down to slander in a small town, where people are at a loss what to talk about when not criticising their neighbours. But, however, you must judge for yourself from what follows. Among the ladies to whom I was introduced was a charming young widow with jet-black eyes and lively features; she is a niece of the Roselaers, I am told, and at first I felt very sorry her name was not Francis Mordaunt, the niece-elect of Aunt Sophia. However, when Overberg had drawn her out a little on the subject of the Von Zwenkens, I felt exceedingly glad to think our acquaintance would not extend beyond the present evening. I began to feel a most intense hatred against her, so unmercifully did she attack poor Francis. "Yes, they had been well acquainted when her grandfather was commandant of the garrison, and she herself had visited at the house of the Colonel. But no, friendship had never existed between her and the young lady; she was too eccentric and ill-mannered. Just imagine, Jonker, she came to our house one evening when she knew there was to be dancing and music. Yes, she dropped in, as nonchalant as possible, in a dark merino dress, fastened up to the neck, with a turn-down collar and a silk neckerchief--just for all the world like a boy. And her boots--they might have belonged to some plough-boy. Upon my word, I believe there were nails in the soles; a non-commissioned officer would not have been so rude as to enter a salon in them." "Perhaps she had made a mistake about the evening," I said, by way of excuse. "Certainly not! She received her invitation a week beforehand. Surely that was time enough to get a ball-dress made. And it was not because she hadn't got any other dresses; for two days afterwards she came to a house where we were invited to spend a quiet evening, en grande toilette, a low dress (as if she expected to be invited to dance), and resplendent with jewellery and diamonds. Now I ask you if that was not done to annoy us and to wound our feelings?" "It seems to me she took more trouble to do honour to the ladies than she had taken to please the gentlemen." "The truth is, she was not at all complimentary to the gentlemen," rejoined a thin, elderly-looking spinster of an uncertain age, dressed in an old-fashioned style, who I should have thought would have been the last person to come to the defence of a sex that had so clearly neglected her. "And the gentlemen--no doubt they reciprocated her nonchalance?" I asked. "It is very probable she was left in the company of the elderly ladies all the evening to increase the number of 'wall flowers.'" "Yes! but it was because she wished it," replied the widow. "She would be sure of partners, though she were never such a fright. All the young officers are, as a matter of course, obliged 'to do the amiable' to the granddaughter of their colonel. Moreover, Francis Mordaunt is mistress of the art of attracting or repelling as it pleases her. Notwithstanding all her strange whims and caprices, she is never at a loss for a partner, and the moment she enters any ball-room she becomes the observed of all observers. The gentlemen flock round her; she is flattered, flirted with----" "Yes, flirted with, I grant you; but not respected, I'm sure," interrupted the elderly spinster. "It is chiefly done to draw out her smart repartees, and the unladylike answers which have made her so famous (or rather infamous)." "In fact everybody is amused at her scathing replies." "Which the ladies are afraid of," said a gentleman, half jestingly, half reproachfully, "for as a rule they are as true as they are sharp." "As a rule she makes the gentlemen the butt of her raillery." "How strange then, indeed, that the ladies take her part so little!" I could not help remarking. "That is not strange, Jonker! The peculiar manner she has adopted to render herself noticeable is just the one our sex cannot suffer. In all her victories we saw a defeat; the good tone was lost." "And how did the party pass off for Miss Mordaunt in that curious dress?" I inquired, for I had less interest in carrying on a combat d'esprit with the vicious little widow than in drawing out a more complete sketch of Francis' character, though it might be coloured by slander. "Just as she wished it, I believe. In the early part of the evening she was somewhat neglected, and this was evidently her wish, for she did nothing to prevent it; on the contrary, she had told the hostess that she had resolved not to dance, in such a loud and decided tone, that it would have been absurd for any one to invite her afterwards." "She's cunning enough," put in the elderly spinster. "She only said that lest afterwards she should feel ashamed of herself at the close of the party, in case no one invited her to dance." "In fact, it requires more moral courage than the gentlemen in these parts as a rule possess to lead out a lady dressed as she was," interposed the widow again. "It appears that the custom of not sparing us gentlemen is catching," whispered an officer, who had been introduced as Captain Sanders. I silently bowed, for I wished to listen to Mrs. X., who continued-- "Finally, however, when the cotillon was called, she must join, and the unfortunate leader of the dance had to sacrifice himself. Lieutenant Wilibald, her grandfather's adjutant, was obliged to take her in tow, mustering up all his courage. After showing a good deal of resistance, which appeared seriously meant, she allowed herself to be led out, but did nothing to lighten her partner's unpleasant task. On the contrary, she was so recalcitrant, so inattentive and so awkward, that she often caused confusion, and her partner had the greatest difficulty to rectify her mistakes. Indeed, the polite young officer was pitied by the whole company, and the more so because it was known that he was sacrificing himself to a sense of duty; for he was engaged to a charming young lady who had been prevented from attending the ball by a recent death in the family." "Pardon, madame; permit me to say that your representation of the facts is not quite correct," interrupted Captain Sanders, in whose favour I immediately became prepossessed on account of his serious and earnest look. "Allow me to set you right as to facts, for I am a friend of Lieutenant Wilibald's, and I know he would be sorry if what you have said should go forth to the world as truth. It was by no means a disagreeable task for him to lead out Miss Mordaunt in any dress she chose to appear in, for he was too much in love with her to notice such small matters as dress. Yes, I venture to say, if it had depended on him alone he would not have married the woman he has; but he was forced by circumstances, and Miss Mordaunt did her utmost to promote the marriage and to put him in possession of a fortune." I inwardly thanked the Captain for his chivalrous defence of the absent, and I would gladly have taken him by the hand and done so publicly, but that this would have prevented my hearing more on the subject of Francis. "And has Miss Mordaunt been married since?" I asked, trying to put the question as disinterestedly as possible. "Why, no!" cried the elderly spinster with a triumphant smile. "So far as we know (and we know pretty well everything that happens in our circle), she has never had an offer." "Ah! that is very strange; a young lady who seems to be possessed of so many attractions," I observed. "That's not at all strange," interrupted the little widow, in a coquettish, sentimental tone. "It was never difficult for her to attract admirers and flatterers for the moment, but it is only by the heart that a woman wins true affection and esteem; and, with the Captain's permission, no one could ever believe Francis Mordaunt to be in earnest, for she has no heart--she never cared for anything but horses and dogs." "You forget her grandfather!" pleaded the Captain. "Well, yes, she has been his idol; but this very fact has turned out her ruin." "How are we to understand that remark, madame?" asked Overberg, whose jovial face grew serious. "That he has left the girl far too much to her own whims and fancies." "What shall I say, chère amie? He was afraid of her." (It was the elderly spinster who again began the attack.) "He could roar at his officers, but he was afraid of a scene with Francis." "Excuse me for once more contradicting you, miss. Colonel von Zwenken never roared at his officers--this I know by experience; but it is true he was conspicuous by his absence when Francis Mordaunt went into society. He suffered her to go out when she liked, and with whom she liked. Alas! he sat at the card table in his club whilst Francis by her thoughtlessness and certain peculiarities in her character, was rendering herself a victim to calumny and envious tongues." "Bravo, Captain! it's noble of you to defend the absent." "I am only sorry I cannot do so without blaming another absent person; but what I say is known, and well known, in this circle." "As well known as the eccentricities of Major Frank. Whatever Captain Sanders may say, we are not making her conduct appear worse than it is; we are only speaking of it as it struck us at the time." "That everybody must acknowledge," said an old lady, who had thus far listened with sparkling eyes. "Only remember what talk her conduct gave rise to when she met the stranger staying at the 'Golden Salmon,' by appointment, unknown to the Colonel, who had forbidden the man his house! Did she not set all our ideas of good breeding at defiance by walking in the plantation in open daylight with a perfect stranger." "In fact, I am assured she pawned her diamonds to pay his hotel bill. She even wished to sell them, for she asked a friend of mine to buy them." Overberg's healthy, blooming face turned pale; but he said nothing. The Captain, however, spoke again-- "It is only too true she would risk all to attain her ends, if she had once set her mind on a thing." "And that for a person who went to a third-rate hotel--did not even give his own name, as it was said afterwards; and who certainly was a sharper or a coiner." "If such had been the case, the police would have looked after him sharp," interposed Overberg. "That is my opinion also," said the Captain; "and I think Wilibald Smeekens was right. He said it was some one who had formerly committed a breach of military discipline, and whom she out of pity wished to assist in getting out of the country." "Ahem! out of pity," said the old lady. "Young ladies should be careful how they show such pity--carrying on an intrigue. I can assure you that at the time it was a question whether we ought not to banish her from our society." "But no one dared to pronounce the sentence of banishment," said the Captain, "for fear of the Colonel, who had it in his power to refuse the military music for the balls and open-air concerts in summer. And this he certainly would have done if he had known what was hatching against his granddaughter. But the ladies were more prudent; they pulled poor Francis to pieces behind her back." "With this result," added the elderly spinster, "that of her own accord she almost entirely withdrew from our society." "No, there is another reason," said the widow, with a significant shake of the head; "it was not our treatment, but her own conscience which pricked her after that affair with her coachman." "Yes, you are quite right; that was a sad affair," assented the Captain, to my painful surprise. The honourable man, who had evidently combatted calumny and slander, was now silenced. I wished to ask what had happened, but the words stuck in my throat; I felt as if they would choke me. The postmaster, however, who had just entered the room, put the question, which the tongues of the ladies were quivering with impatience to answer. "Unfortunately, no one knows the exact particulars," began the elderly spinster, whose shrill, sharp voice made itself heard above the rest; "but it is generally believed she wished to make her coachman elope with her. Possibly she might have succeeded, but the man was already married, and when that became known----" "She pitched him off the box whilst the horses were going at a furious rate," put in the old lady, with a demoniacal smile of pleasure. "Others who are supposed to know, say she struck him dead with the whip," added the little widow, who must have her say. "Horrible! most horrible!" she continued, turning up her eyes with mock sentimentality. Yes, horrible indeed, thought I, when both young ladies and old vie with each other in a wicked desire to give the coup de grâce to one of their own sex who has erred, or, may be, only taken one false step in life. "I have been told," murmured another voice, "that she fought with him; and the horses taking fright, he fell from the box under their feet." "However it happened, the truth will never be known, for he now lies in the churchyard." "Yes, now you've got the truth without any figures of speech," jested the widow; "and with him the crime is buried, and hushed up for ever." "With your permission, ladies, had there been a question of anything of that sort, the law would have taken its course," observed Overberg; "and I know for certain it was never brought before a court." "That I can believe," answered the widow. "The magistrate is a great friend of the Colonel's, plays cards with him every evening, and to palliate the affair, and silence public indignation, he made an official visit to the commandant's house. Francis Mordaunt was examined, and, as might be expected beforehand, came out of the affair snow-white--at least, according to the magistrate's report," added the widow, with a satirical shrug of the shoulders. "But, madame," interposed Overberg, evidently growing angry, "do you mean to say you suspect the impartiality of the magistrate?" "I suspect no one; I only tell you how the affair ended--namely, that it was hushed up, and the relations of the coachman bribed to keep quiet. Such people are easily frightened. One thing, however, is certain, and that is, Major Frank has not dared to show her face in our circle since; and besides this, it seems to have been the cause of her grandfather retiring from the service." "He had attained the age to be put on the retired list," said the Captain; "and with his pension he obtained the honorary rank of General." "Be that as it may, the General retired from the world to Castle de Werve," observed the old lady. "Where, now, Major Frank has the command," put in the spinster. "And spends her time in riding and shooting," added the little widow, turning up her nose superciliously. "I venture to contradict the latter part of the assertion with regard to the shooting," said Overberg; "for the General has not renewed his shooting license and has leased the shooting over his own estates to a client of mine, who, however, leaves the hares and partridges in perfect peace." This latter remark led to a long conversation amongst the gentlemen about the shooting and fishing in the neighbourhood, whilst the ladies set to work to sharpen their tongues on other absent victims. CHAPTER IX. Notwithstanding all my efforts to appear calm and unconcerned, Overberg observed that the hard judgment passed on Francis had made a deep impression on my mind. Taking me aside, he whispered in my ear-- "We will talk this subject over to-morrow morning before your departure; in the meantime don't let it trouble you. You know the proverb: 'The devil's not so black as he is painted.'" It was easy for him to talk; but, alas! he knew not yet the reasons I had for being so deeply interested in this young lady. I passed a restless night. In the morning, when the carriage I had ordered over-night drove up to the door, I was still debating in my own mind whether I should go to the Werve, or tell my driver to take me to the nearest station and return to the Hague. After a few minutes, however, Overberg made his appearance, and accosted me in the following words-- "I believe I have guessed your noble intention, which is to make the acquaintance of Miss Mordaunt, and, if she please you, to remove all difficulties in the most amiable manner possible. I cannot tell you how praiseworthy, how wise and sensible, your plan seems to me; but what surprises me is that the testatrix never suggested it to you, she being a woman of such clear and sound judgment in matters of this sort." "She has given me such a hint--I will no longer try to conceal it from you--and it was my intention to follow her advice. But what I heard last night has quite changed my mind on that point." "Nonsense! Never let gossip have any influence over you. Remember that people living in a small town are possessed by the evil spirit of slander, and furthermore, that they express their opinions in a very crude manner." "That's all well and good; but in a small town where every one is known by his neighbour, people would not dare to calumniate and slander each other without grounds." "I will not attempt to contradict your statement; but let me remind you that certain uncommon occurrences and eccentric acts on the part of a young lady may be explained in different ways, and why should you believe the worse account of them, coloured as it certainly is by envy, hatred, and malice. I willingly confess I could not contradict all that was said about Miss Mordaunt last night; my business has always been with her grandfather, who speaks of her in the highest terms. For this reason I could not foresee that the ladies would be so severe on her conduct. Otherwise I should have avoided the subject, and made inquiries for you of people less prejudiced and more trustworthy." "Do you know any such people here?" "Such people can be found. Why, in my professional career, I have so often seen the most wicked accusations burst like a soap-bubble when submitted to the touchstone of cross-examination, that now I believe nothing which I have not seen with my own eyes, or for which I have not proofs equal to the same." "Then with regard to the diamonds, you have some certain proofs?" I asked. "You are right; I was engaged in that business. The young lady required more money than the goldsmith was willing to advance on them; and they were never offered for sale unless he took such a liberty during the hour he had them in his possession. In her difficulties she came to me, her grandfather's lawyer. I obtained the money from Miss Roselaer, as I always did for the General, and she refused either to take the diamonds or accept the interest on the money she lent; consequently the diamonds are still in my possession." "And do you know for what purpose this money was required?" "It was to assist a person who dared not apply to the General (and, between you and me, the General had not a penny to assist any one with). What the relationship between them was I am unable to say. The stranger only stayed four days in the village, and I did not see him myself. Of course I have heard the flying reports. Some people say he was dressed like a gentleman, and had a gentleman's manners; others, on the contrary, describe him as a rogue and a vagabond, who got drunk in the lowest public-houses in the place. This latter account may also be true, for, as you know, a woman's sympathy is often bestowed on the most undeserving creatures." "With regard to the coachman, you must allow her womanly sympathy does not show itself in a favourable light," I interposed, with a certain bitterness in my tone. "I am unacquainted with the facts of that case. Still, I fancy it is far from such a bad case as the amiable ladies made it out to be; and in your place I should not suffer it to interfere with my projected visit to the Werve. Miss Mordaunt has been accused, in my presence, of brusque manners, imprudent behaviour, and so forth; but she is renowned for her plain and straightforward dealing, which has brought her into disrepute with her female friends, they preferring to say the most impertinent things in the blandest tone possible. I am sure you will find out the truth if you ask her a plain question. Besides, a single visit will not commit you to anything, and an interview with the General to arrange matters will be absolutely necessary." There was no refuting Overberg's line of argument. I confessed to myself that it would be unfair on my part to form an opinion until after a personal interview and further inquiries. So, accepting his advice, I stepped into the carriage, and ordered the driver to take the road to the Castle de Werve. The morning was raw and cold, without sun, and the air was so heavy that I did not know whether to expect snow or hail. At the toll-bar my driver made inquiries about a short cut through a lane planted with poplars, which would bring us out near the "fir wood." As the country was very monotonous, and there was nothing to attract my attention, I sank into deep thought, and began arranging a plan for my conduct on first meeting with my cousin, a little speech to be made when I was presented to her, and so forth. But then it occurred to me that our best-laid schemes are generally thrown into confusion by the circumstances of the event: how much more likely was this to be the case in dealing with such a whimsical person as Francis? Accordingly, I gave up all such ideas as preparing myself for the occasion, resolving only to keep cool and act according to circumstances. In the midst of these thoughts the carriage suddenly came to a standstill, and the driver pointed out to me that the lane terminated in a half-circle--he had taken the lane on the wrong side of the wood. Whilst speaking we heard a horse galloping behind us, and in another moment it shot past us like lightning. "That's Major Frank!" said the driver. "Major Frank," I repeated, in a tone of anger and surprise. "Whom do you mean by that?" "Why, the young lady of the Castle. They call her so in our village, when she comes to see the boy." Cutting short the conversation, I ordered him to find his way to the Castle as soon as possible. A few minutes later, however, he had got his carriage on such marshy ground that he was obliged to request me to walk until he could lead his horse on to a firmer place. CHAPTER X. Once on my legs I took a view of the surrounding country. We were on the outskirts of the wood, and separated from the ploughed cornfields by a half-dry ditch, luxuriantly overgrown with all kinds of marsh plants. On our right was a heath; on the left potato fields. There was not a soul to be seen, and on consulting my watch I found it was just twelve o'clock. Consequently all the farm labourers had gone home to their midday meal. Suddenly we heard a peal of resounding laughter quite close at hand, only the sound seemed to come somewhat from above us. I looked up in the direction of the undulating heath; and on the top of a sand-hill, overgrown with grass, stood the person who was enjoying our perplexity. "Major Frank!" exclaimed the driver in his shrill tone of voice, his astonishment and annoyance causing him to show little respect. It was indeed Francis Mordaunt herself who was mocking us. Really, I could never have anticipated such a reception. As she stood there, some feet above me but still pretty near, I had a good view of her; and I cannot say that this first sight reconciled me to the person who had already caused me so many disagreeable emotions. Perhaps it was not her fault; but she was dressed in such a strange manner that at first sight I was doubtful whether a man or a woman stood before me. She had gathered up her riding-habit in a way that reminded me of Zouave trousers, and she had, besides, put on a wide cloak made of some long-haired material--which was doubtless very useful this sharp, cold spring day, but which, buttoned up to her throat, was not adapted to show off the beauty of her form if she was really well-shaped. Her head-gear consisted of a gray billy-cock hat with a soft, downward-bent brim, ornamented with a bunch of cock's feathers negligently fastened with a green ribbon--just as if she really wished to imitate the wild huntsman of the fairy tale. And then, because it was rather windy, she had tied a red silk handkerchief over her hat and fastened it under her chin. She wore no veil. As far as I could judge of her appearance, she seemed to be rather delicately built and slim, with a fine Roman nose. Still, I was not in the humour to be agreeably impressed by a face convulsed with laughter, and bandaged up as if she had the toothache. Her laugh sounded to my ears like a provocation, and rendered me little inclined to be courteous to a woman who had so evidently forgotten all feminine self-respect. "Listen," I cried--"listen for a moment, you who are rejoicing so much at your neighbour's distress. You would do better to direct us on our way." "There is no way. I should have thought you could see that. Any one who enters this wood except with the purpose of driving round it, does a very stupid thing." "And you?" "I?" she laughed again. "I jumped my horse over the dry ditch yonder. Imitate me if you feel inclined, though I fear with your horse and carriage it will not be quite so easy. But where are you going to?" "To the Castle de Werve." "To the Werve!" she repeated, descending the hill and approaching me as nearly as she could on the opposite side of the ditch. "What is your business at the Castle, sir?" she inquired, in quite another tone, no longer speaking like a "somebody" to a "nobody." "To pay a visit to General von Zwenken, and his granddaughter, Freule Mordaunt." "The General no longer receives visitors, and what you have to say to his granddaughter you can address to me. I am Freule Mordaunt." "I can scarcely believe it; but, if so, may I request Freule Mordaunt to appoint a more suitable place than this. What I have got to say cannot be shouted across a ditch in the presence of a third person." "Then you must drive back to the toll-bar. There they will direct you to the village, from which you can easily reach the Castle, if your visit is so very urgent." "In order to give you time to get home and deny yourself to all visitors, my little Major," I thought to myself. "But now's my opportunity, and I will not let it slip me." So, giving orders to the driver to go on to the village and wait for me there, I took my stout walking-stick, fixed it as firmly as I could in the muddy bottom of the ditch, and reached the opposite side I scarcely know how. "Bravo! well done!" cried Francis, clapping her hands with delight. As I approached I raised my hat, and she saluted with her riding-whip. "This is an amusing adventure, sir," she said, again laughing; "if you still wish to go to Werve you must cross the heath." "Is it a long walk?" "No, it is much shorter than by the high-road, but as you don't know the way, you run the risk of getting lost again." "You forget that I have a claim on your company for the rest of the way." "A claim! how do you make that out?" "Miss Mordaunt promised me an interview; is it strange that I should seize the first occasion that offers?" "I don't even know the way myself. My horse has lost a shoe, and I have left him at the game-keeper's, so I shall have to get home as well as I can without assistance. Have you really business at the Castle? I can assure you the General has an aversion to visitors!" "I wish to make his acquaintance and yours, as I am staying in the neighbourhood, and I, remember, I am related to the family Von Zwenken by my mother's side." "So much the worse for you. At the Castle relationship is a bad recommendation." "That I have already heard; but I am not a Roselaer, I am a Van Zonshoven, Freule--Leopold van Zonshoven," I said, introducing myself. "I have never heard the name before. However, as you are not a Roselaer you perhaps stand a better chance of a kind reception. But is it quite certain you do not come to trouble the General about business?" "In that case I should have sent a lawyer, with orders not to inconvenience Miss Mordaunt." "Then you would have done wrong," she rejoined, becoming serious. "The General is over seventy, and has had a life full of trouble; and I will not try to conceal from you that he has many cares and difficulties to contend with even now. It is for this reason I desire you to tell me without reserve the object of your visit. Perhaps I can find some means----" "I protest to you that my greatest desire is to assist you in sparing your grandfather all annoyance." "The sentiment does you honour, but it leads me to doubt your relationship, for it is contrary to all our family traditions." "There are exceptions to every rule, as you know, and I hope to prove myself an exception in your family traditions." "Then you shall be welcome at the Werve also by exception, for as a rule we admit no new faces." "That's a pity; for I cannot think it is your wish to live in such isolation." "Quite my wish!" she interposed, with a certain haughtiness. "I have had sufficient experience of mankind to make me care little for their society." "So young, and already such a misanthrope--afraid of the world!" I observed. "I am not so very young--I am turned twenty-six; and the campaign years, as grandfather calls them, count double. You may speak to me as though I were a woman of forty. I have quite as much experience of life." "Ladies talk like that when they wish to be contradicted." "Ladies!" she cried, with ineffable contempt. "I very earnestly request you not to include me in the category of beings commonly denominated ladies." "In which category must I put you? For, to tell the truth, at first sight I did not know what to call you." "I believe you," she said, with a little laugh; "for to any one who does not know me I must appear very odd. But, tell me, what did you take me for at first sight--for an apparition of the wild huntsman?" "An apparition! Certainly not; that's too ethereal. I took you for a sad reality--a gamekeeper suffering from toothache." She seemed piqued for a moment, her cheeks coloured, and she bit her lips. "That's rude," she said at last, and glanced at me with scintillating eyes. "You asked for the truth," I rejoined. "So I did; and you shall find I can endure the truth. Give me your hand, cousin; I think we shall become good friends." "I hope so, cousin. But don't be generous by halves: let me touch your hand, and not that rough riding-glove." "You are a fastidious fellow," she said, shaking her head; "but you shall have your way. There." And a beautiful white hand lay in mine, which I held a minute longer than was absolutely necessary. She did not seem to perceive it. "But call me Francis; I shall call you Leo. The endless repetition of cousin is so wearisome," she said frankly. "Most willingly;" and I pressed her hand again. "Your driver will have told you he recognized Major Frank." "That's but too true; and don't you, Francis, consider it a great insult that people dare to call you by such a name?" "Oh, I don't mind it in the least! I know they have given me this nickname. I am neither better nor worse for it. I know, also, that I am pointed at as a Cossack or a cavalry officer by the people round, and am stared at because I dress to suit my own convenience, and not according to the latest fashions." "But a woman should try to please others in her way of dressing. In my opinion, a woman's first duty is to make herself agreeable. Can we not show our good taste even in the simplest and plainest attire?" She coloured a little. "Do you imagine, then, that I have no taste at all, because I have put on this shaggy cloak to protect me from the east winds?" she demanded sharply. "I do not judge from that single article of dress; I am referring to the ensemble, and one gets a bad opinion of a young lady's taste when she wraps up her face in an unsightly red handkerchief." "Which gives her the appearance of a gamekeeper with the toothache," she interposed, with a quick, bold air. "Well now, that's easily remedied, if the wind will respect my billycock;" and hereupon she untied the handkerchief and unpinned her riding-habit. CHAPTER XI. As she stepped forward, the long train of her riding-habit added to the beauty of her slender figure. Now, indeed, I could see that she was not ugly, though she had done her best to render herself unattractive. It is true her features were sharp and irregular, but neither rude nor coarse. In her face there was an expression of haughtiness and firmness, that spoke loudly of conscientious strength and independent character. It was clear that she had struggled and suffered a good deal, without allowing it to rob her of her natural cheerfulness and good spirits. Her large blue eyes expressed an open-heartedness which inspired confidence. That they could gleam with indignation, or glow with enthusiasm, I had already experienced. She walked along with considerable difficulty, for her dress caused her to trip at almost every step. I offered her my arm, but she refused it. Suddenly she stood quite still and said-- "Forgive me, Leo, for the unmerciful way in which I laughed at you, when I saw the 'mess' your driver had brought you into. I was not laughing at you personally; but I am always so tickled when I see the so-called 'lords of creation' making themselves ridiculous, that I could not restrain my laughter." "Oh, I bear you no malice, Francis, on that account; but how is it you are so embittered against my sex?" "Major Frank," she answered, "has but too often had occasion to study the character of men." "That is to say, that after over-confidence in the brilliant uniforms which have proved deceptive, Major Frank has decided to revenge herself on civilians as well as military men." "You are quite mistaken. Major Frank is acquainted with all the ranks from corporal to general; and in civil life she has had an opportunity of studying men wearing court dress, decorations, and orders. And this is the conclusion she has come to: that discipline is the best means of bringing out whatever good there is in a man, whilst at the same time it keeps the evil within bounds." "What you say is not very encouraging for your future husband, Francis." "My future husband!" she cried, with a bitter laugh. "Now I see you are a perfect stranger in these parts, Leopold. But you need not trouble yourself about me; I shall never marry." "Who knows? Circumstances may induce----" "Me to take a husband," she interrupted, growing indignant. "Listen, Leo: you know nothing about me, and what you think you know will have been told you by slanderous tongues. Therefore I will not take offence at what you have said; but I request you not to think so meanly of me as to believe I would sacrifice my name and my person on the altar of Mammon, and make a mariage de raison--the most unreasonable and immoral union that can exist." "Many a proud lady who once thought as you do, Francis," I answered, "has been induced by the counsel of her friends to change her state of 'single blessedness,' which is such a mark for calumny and lies----" "And you would have me take a husband to serve as a shield against these?" she cried, vehemently. "No, Leopold van Zonshoven, when you once know Francis Mordaunt, you will find she does not fear calumniators, and that she disdains to seek protection from them in the way you recommend!" "Forewarned is forearmed," and I now understood that it behoved me to proceed cautiously. Still I determined to try a ruse of war. Looking her steadfastly in the face, I said-- "And suppose my visit to the Werve were expressly for the purpose of seeking your hand in marriage?" "My hand! It is not true you come with such a purpose!" she exclaimed in a bitter tone. "But let us suppose it to be true; what would your answer be?" "If I thought you came with any such intentions, I should simply leave you where you are, in the middle of the heath, to find your way to the Werve as best you could. There's my answer." And she started off as fast as she could go. "Listen, Francis," I said, rejoining her. "If such had been my object in visiting the Castle, your answer would not stop me. I am obstinate enough myself; but, as I would not willingly wound the feelings of any lady (pardon me the use of this word), I should take good care not to make her an offer in such a brusque manner, and, above all, not until I had some hopes of receiving a favourable answer." "Be it so; but I must tell you I see neither wit nor humour in your kind of pleasantry." In another instant a gust of wind carried away her felt hat, and then her net, causing her golden hair to fall over her shoulders in rich profusion. At this moment I thought her worthy to sit for a Madonna. I could not believe my eyes, or rather I could not remove my eyes from her, so much was I struck with wonder and admiration. She doubtless read her triumph in my looks, and seemed for an instant to enjoy it. Decidedly, then, she had not lost all the feminine instincts, though the time of their duration was short on any single occasion. "Well," she said, "you are very polite. You stand as if you were nailed to the ground, instead of running after my hat." I did not suffer her to say this twice, but, running after the ugly old hat, caught it just before it could disappear in one of the sand pits. She followed me, but unfortunately caught the train of her riding-habit in a bush, which tripped her, and caused her to fall with her beautiful locks of hair amongst the briers. At first she refused all assistance, but in the end she was obliged to let me disentangle her hair--a circumstance which annoyed her much more than the accident itself. I knelt beside her, and heaven knows with what care I loosened one lock after the other. This, however, was a work of time, as she was very impatient, and her struggles were every now and then undoing the little I had accomplished. "Now you see into what a predicament your precious advice has brought me; how much more practical my own arrangement was! The handkerchief looked inelegant, if you like, but it would have prevented me this trouble. Why did I swerve from my principles? Why was I led astray by other people's ideas?" At last I could say, "You are free!" at the same time holding out my hand to assist her in rising. But no, she would have no further aid from me; and bounding up like a hart, requested me to walk on in front whilst she arranged her dress. She was not long about it, and when she overtook me the hateful handkerchief was tied round her hat again, and I had lost my right to protest against it. She now took my arm of her own accord, and said gaily, "This I do, Leo, to recompense you for being so generous as not to revenge yourself by laughing at me in my distress." "Laugh at you, Francis! I was frightened." "There was not much to be frightened about; but I was really afraid you would mock me and pay me back in my own coin." As we walked on we continued to discuss the subject of female propriety, she claiming the right to live according to her own ideas, without any regard for public opinion; I maintaining that reserve and gentleness are more becoming in a woman, from every point of view, than trying to set public opinion at defiance. She, however, interrupted the conversation by pointing out the Werve to me as soon as we came in sight of it. "Now," she said, "I request you to tell me plainly the object of your visit to the General, before I introduce you to the house." "I have already told you: I wish to make the acquaintance of my mother's relations." "I shall feel better satisfied," she rejoined, "if you will promise me not to trouble the poor old gentleman about business matters." I had no difficulty in conscientiously giving such a promise. Then Francis continued-- "I must also warn you the General is not alone. We have a certain Captain Rolf, an old pensioned officer, quartered at the Werve; he is of rude manners and ill-educated, for he has risen from the ranks; but he has a good heart, and my grandfather could not do without his company. Our way of treating each other may surprise you, perhaps annoy you. Even when I was a child he called me his colonel, and flew anywhere at a wink from me; and he does so still, though his movements have been rendered more tardy by his stiff legs and rheumatism. Fishing is his favourite amusement since he has been obliged to give up shooting. I employ him as my gamekeeper; and when the cook is ill, he prefers frying a beefsteak and making the soup himself, to going on short commons. In fact, he is a gastronome, and since he obtained his pension his whole time seems to be occupied with the grand question: 'What shall we eat to day?' And, alas! grandfather is no less interested in the same subject, so that most of their morning conversation is about the dishes to be prepared for the dinner." As we drew near the manor-house Francis gently withdrew her arm from mine, and stepped on sharply as we heard the clock in the village church-steeple strike one, saying-- "I know I am being waited for impatiently, and half the garrison will have turned out in search of me." CHAPTER XII. The Castle de Werve presented all the appearances of ancient opulence; but also of dilapidation dating from a long time back. There was the feudal drawbridge, immovable through long disuse, leading straight to the large gate, full of those iron rivets used in olden times as a defence against the attacks of the hatchet and pike. But the wood itself was rotting, and the rusty hinges could scarcely sustain their accustomed weight. In the tumbledown walls I could see loopholes large enough for a giant to creep through. The house had been rebuilt in the time of the Stadtholder William  III.--King William III. of England--and the rich, solemn style then in vogue had been adopted. There was a sort of rotunda in the centre, kept, relatively speaking, in better repair than the rest of the building, flanked by two wings, which seemed uninhabited, and in fact so neglected as to be uninhabitable. Most of the panes were cracked or broken, and only in some cases had the broken glass been replaced by gray paper. The aloe-trees, set out to ornament the front of the house, were planted for the greater part in cracked or broken vases. As Francis had remarked, before I could follow her into the house "half the garrison turned out" to salute us in the person of the Captain, whom I immediately recognized from the description I had had of him. He wore a blue jacket and trousers, a waistcoat buttoned close up to his chin, and the military black-leather collar, which he had not yet been able to dispense with. The William's Order [3] adorned his breast; and he stood erect in spite of his stiff leg, which obliged him to support himself with a stick. He had placed his cap jauntily and soldier-like on one side of his head, and his entire bearing called up the idea of a military man only half at his ease in civilian dress. Though deep in the fifties, his hair is still jet black, and the length and stiffness of his mustachios, à la Napoléon, indicate a constant use of cosmetics. His face is very red, his eyes brown and bold, his features rude, and his thick red lips and short round chin give him a sensual appearance. He had in his mouth a long German pipe, from which he puffed clouds of smoke, and after a military salute he accosted us in these words-- "Well, Major, what's this? Have you made a prisoner? or is this some one to be quartered on us?" "A visitor for the General, Captain," replied Francis, stepping past him, and giving me a hint to follow her. "Had a deuced bad luncheon! Waited half an hour for the Freule; the eggs too hard, the beefsteak like leather, his Excellency out of humour--and all this because the Freule takes it into her head to ride out at inconvenient hours, and return on foot to the fortress leading the hero of this pretty adventure in triumph behind her," growled the Captain, in a half-angry, half-jesting tone, as he followed us. Francis turning round said-- "All this, Captain, is because your Major--you understand me, your Major--has had the pleasure of meeting with her cousin, Jonker Leopold van Zonshoven; let that suffice you, and if you have any more complaints, put them in your report-book." After this I followed Francis through the vestibule, where a servant received us with a military salute, and showed us into an immense drawing-room hung with embossed gilt leather. Here the General was taking a nap in a high-backed easy-chair. Francis entered the room softly enough, but the loud heavy step of the Captain, who thought fit to follow us, awoke the sleeper with a start. Instead of the pourfendeur I had conjured up in my fancy from old Aunt Roselaer's accounts, I perceived a little, thin, grey-headed old man, the traits of whose face showed him to be a person of superior breeding, wrapped in a very threadbare damask dressing-gown. His nose was long and straight, his lips thin and pale, his eyes of a soft blue, with an expression of lethargy or fatigue. His white, dry hands had very prominent veins; and he wore a large signet-ring, with which he kept playing in a nervous, agitated manner all the time he was speaking. Francis introduced me in her own peculiar way-- "Grandfather, I bring you Jonker Leopold van Zonshoven, to whom you must give a hearty welcome, for he is a curiosity in our family." "In our family! Jonker van Zonshoven--ah! yes, I remember, I understand," he said, in a surprised and embarrassed tone, which proved his recollection to be of the vaguest; but he bowed politely, and offered me his hand, which I shook cordially. "Sit down, Jonker," he said, pointing to a chair behind which the Captain stood as if he intended to dispute the place with me. Francis rang the bell, and asked Fritz if the luncheon were still on the table. The servant, with a surprised look, answered-- "It is half-past one." "Right, Fritz. It is the rule of the house: he who is not here at roll-call is not expected. Bring a plate of cold meat and bread into this room." "And a glass of port-wine for the gentleman," put in the Captain. When Fritz had left the room, the Captain came and stood straight before me, saying-- "Pardon me, Jonker, I must have a good look at you. There must be something peculiar in a young man who has so quickly found favour in the eyes of our Major." I hesitated about giving him the answer he deserved in the presence of the General; and, besides, Francis had warned me he was a man of no education. However, the General, speaking in a soft yet authoritative voice, said-- "Rolf, there are jests which may pass amongst ourselves, but you seem to forget we are not now alone, and you are wanting in respect to Miss Mordaunt." "Because I call her Major in the presence of a relation of the family! Excuse me, your Excellency, but you ought to have given me the watchword beforehand. I shall not forget again." "It is no good, grandfather," said Francis; "at his age we cannot break him of his bad habits, though we might expect him to be respectful to the granddaughter of General von Zwenken, in spite of his having taught her her drill when a child. And now, as you have asked for the watchword of the day, Captain, attend: it is this, 'Politeness to my visitor.'" It became clear to me that the Captain had long been indulged in his vulgar familiarities, and that I ought not to attach too much importance to them. As soon as Fritz brought in the port-wine he filled three glasses brimful; presented the first glass to me, then one to the General, and taking up his own, said in his rough, good-natured way-- "The health of our commandant, and a welcome to you, Jonker!" apparently thinking this the best amends he could make. As soon as Francis had taken a slight repast she left the room, and, at a hint from the General, Rolf did the same. Now that we were left to our two selves, the General, drawing himself up with dignity in his chair, said-- "A word with you, Jonker, if you please." I bowed assent. "But be so good as to move your chair nearer to me; I am a little deaf." I complied with his request. "Pardon me for asking you a question which may seem somewhat out of place. Is this the first time you have met my granddaughter?" "The first time, General;" and I rapidly sketched an account of our meeting and walk to the Castle. "Well, I am glad of it," said the old man with a sigh of relief. "My granddaughter is possessed of many excellent qualities, that I can truly say; but she has her peculiarities. At times she can be very brusque, and she has a foible for braving the laws of good society, and setting all the world at defiance, which has made her many enemies. It occurred to me she was now trying to make amends for some misunderstanding which had arisen between herself and you." I assured him this was not the case, and that I felt my kindly reception to be the more flattering since Miss Mordaunt was not accustomed to flatter. "Then explain to me," he continued, "your relationship to the family, for, though I remember having heard of a Van Zonshoven who was related to my deceased wife, it is so long ago----" "My grandmother, General, was a Freule van Roselaer." "She married a French nobleman, if I recollect aright?" "A Belgian, General: Baron d'Hermaele." "Well, yes, it was during the French occupation of the country under Napoleon I.; and in those days one did not pay so much attention to nationality. Our disagreement with Freule Sophia prevented our making his acquaintance. He settled in Belgium, and I heard afterwards that Baron d'Hermaele stood in high favour at court in the reign of King William I." "This court favour cost him his life," I added, "for he remained faithful to his king during the Belgian Revolution; his castle near Larken was pillaged and burnt by the populace, and he himself cruelly murdered whilst defending his wife and children." "Another fact out of those sad and confused times which I so well remember. My men were burning with rage to punish such rebels and brigands, but, alas! they were kept inactive. What became of the widow and children?" "She returned to Holland with one son and seven daughters, of whom the eldest married my father, Jonker van Zonshoven. I am their only son." "Then I am your great-uncle, Jonker." "I have made the same calculation, General, and it is for this reason----" "You don't come to talk to me about family affairs, I hope?" he interrupted, growing uncomfortable. "But, my dear uncle, we can speak of family affairs without their necessarily causing unpleasantness." "Hum! Well, you are a Van Zonshoven, a stranger to all the pitiful feuds which have separated me from the Roselaers. Whole treasures have been thrown away on the lawsuits they have brought against me. Francis and I are both still suffering from such losses. Look here, if you bring any painful news for Francis, or any humiliating tidings for me--I know that even the validity of my Swiss marriage is contested--I beseech you, be generous, spare her as long as possible, for she is ignorant of this fact. Perhaps, old and broken though I be by trials, I can ward off the evil day a little longer; but be sincere and tell me plainly----" "I assure you, General, my chief desire--as I have already told Miss Mordaunt--is to save you every kind of trouble I can. I wish simply to draw family ties closer, and my most ardent desire is that a Van Zonshoven may have the good fortune to heal the wounds caused by the Roselaers." "Many things are necessary! Much money! As we soldiers say, gold is the sinews of war--and, pardon me if I make a mistake, the Van Zonshovens are not rich." "You are not mistaken, General. My grandmother and her children had to live on the pension allowed the widow of Baron d'Hermaele, and this pension ceased with her life." "And did the king do nothing for the daughters?" "What would you expect from him, uncle? The only son was promoted and rewarded, but he died in the flower of his age. It was impossible for the young ladies to keep William II. in constant recollection of their father's loyalty. Besides, we decided not to petition or supplicate for favours, preferring to rely on our own energies and self-help. This principle was instilled into me whilst I was young." "You surprise me. But is there not a Van Zonshoven Minister for Foreign Affairs in the present Government?" asked the General. "He must be a rich man, I fancy. What is your relationship to him?" "He is my uncle; but I esteem him little. He is married to the coffee-coloured daughter of a rich Java merchant--for her money, of course. She is neither intelligent, amiable, nor educated; and indeed, has got little from him in return for her money except the right to bear his name and title." "A pitiful mésalliance, certainly! But for you the consequences are a rich and childless uncle?" he observed by way of a query. "Yes, and he is already old. But, unfortunately, I am estranged from him, for I consider it beneath my dignity to beg favours from him." The General shook his head. "There spoke the blood of the Roselaers." "No, General, the Van Zonshovens are not vindictive, but proud. Though poor, I have always prized my independence above all things. I have lived soberly, and never indulged in pleasures above my means; consequently I have not been forced to sacrifice my liberty, which, to tell you the truth, is dearer to me than my patent of nobility." "Bravo! bravissimo!" resounded in my ears from the bottom of the room; and it came from the deep, clear voice of Francis, who had been entering the room as I spoke these words. "You see, Jonker," said the General, somewhat fretfully, and knitting his brows, "your style of speaking has touched my granddaughter's weak side. Her dreams are of independence, and her illusion is to be indebted to nobody." "Not my illusion, grandfather. My principle is rather to be poor and independent, and appear so; and rather to suffer privations and make sacrifices, than be guilty of meanness for the sake of supplying imaginary wants and desires which we ought manfully to resist." The General bit his lips, shut his eyes, and sank back in his chair, as if he had received a blow from a club; but unwilling to acknowledge a defeat, after a few seconds he raised himself up and said to Francis-- "I allow that you far surpass me in bearing privations; but it would be well for you to learn a little self-restraint. At my time of life it is hard to bear reproaches. I cannot change my way of living, though I confess you deny yourself much for my sake." "Come, come, grandfather, you know my words sound harsher than I mean them; but you cannot expect me to approve what angers me--such self-restraint I shall never learn." "That's unfortunate," replied the General in a bitter tone; "for what will Leopold think of us if he must listen to such reproaches at every turn." "He will think, uncle, that he is on a visit to a family which is above dissembling to deceive him, and he will esteem such frankness as an honour and a privilege----" "Well! that's an advantage you'll enjoy to your heart's content, Jonker, if you stay here long," interrupted the Captain, who had again entered the room. "Our Major has the praiseworthy custom of speaking her mind without respect of persons; and when she's displeased, it is 'parade and proceed to execution,' as we say in the courts-martial." "Had pardons not been heard of, Captain," retorted Francis, half in jest, half in earnest, "you would have been dismissed the service long ere this." "That only proves my long-suffering and patience, Miss Major; you know I permit you to treat me like a corporal would a raw recruit. I would not bear from the Prince Field-Marshal what I have borne from you." "Captain," said the General, who had been listening nervously, "Captain, I thought I had given you to understand that I desired to be en famille." "And I, General, not guessing the conversation could be so entertaining for you, came to propose our usual remedy against low spirits: a game at piquet." "Thank you, Captain, no cards this afternoon; I am anxious to talk to my nephew." CHAPTER XIII. Francis ordered Rolf off in search of her riding-whip which she had lost on the heath in the morning, making sure this would keep him out of the way for a time. "It's no easy matter to find such a thing in the sand," he growled, as he limped off. "But, you know, I want it very much, and if you can find it you will do me a great pleasure," Francis called after him. "Well, since I need not be on duty with the General, I will do my best," he answered. "You are a cruel despot," I could not help saying to Francis. She smiled and coloured slightly. "Oh, Jonker, this is nothing!" sighed the submissive vassal; "when Miss Major was a child, you should have seen what I had to do and suffer." "Just so," replied Francis; "then you spoilt me, and hence your penance is so hard. Give me your hand, my good Rolf; I won't promise you absolution, but a truce for to-day." The old soldier took the hand held out to him, and I saw a tear sparkle in his eye, which reconciled me to him in spite of his vulgar familiarities. He, ashamed of his weakness, tried to hide it from us by a prompt retreat. Almost immediately afterwards he entered the room again, and approaching Francis he said-- "I know I disturb you, Freule, but it is better that I come instead of Fritz. I met the driver who brought the Jonker, at the gate, and he wishes to know at what hour our visitor intends leaving." Whilst hesitating about my answer, I overheard him whisper to Francis-- "I have passed the turkeys in review, and there is one just ready for the cook, but not to-day: I am sorry for le cher cousin." I hastened to say-- "There is nothing I should like better than to spend the day here; and as for the dinner, I prefer to take pot-luck with my friends." "Well, of course you will stay to dinner, Leopold," said the General, eyeing Francis, who had not yet given her consent. After some hesitation she said, in a decisive tone-- "We will dine early to-day; order the carriage for seven o'clock." "You shame me with such meagre hospitality," interposed the General. "Why not invite your cousin Van Zonshoven to stay the night; he can leave early to-morrow morning?" "Sleep here, grandfather! But you don't understand; really we are unprepared to lodge visitors." "What!" exclaimed Rolf, with a loud laugh, "we could lodge half a company." "Half your company!" Francis cried bitterly; "but you forget that Jonker van Zonshoven is accustomed to the luxuries of the Hague." "To a modest chamber on the second floor, Francis; and he can sleep comfortably on a mattress of straw, if well wrapped up." The old man was again visibly affected, and murmured gently-- "This is another caprice of yours, Francis." "If you are determined to stay," responded Francis, with a cold and sorrowful look at me, "I will try to find you a room where there are no broken panes. Come, Captain, never mind about the whip to-day; you must now act as my quartermaster. Forward, march;" and taking him by the arm, she led off her willing slave. When we were once more alone, the General began-- "Believe me, she means well and kindly towards you; but as we don't reckon on visitors, you have taken us by surprise, and that's what vexes Francis. It is so difficult to procure anything in this out-of-the-way place." "Every lady has her faults and her little caprices," I interposed. "Yes, but others can hide them better under a little polish. Francis cannot understand our social laws; unfortunately she has not had an education suitable to her rank and station. Her own mother she never knew; and my son-in-law, Sir John Mordaunt, did not understand the kind of training necessary for a Dutch lady of position." "Don't despair, General; who knows what effect a good husband will have on her!" "That's just my difficulty, Jonker; Francis would refuse to marry any man she suspected of such intentions." "You are right, grandfather," exclaimed Francis, who had again entered the room. "Major Frank will never give up her command to an inferior; she can only endure slaves and vassals around her, and the sooner Jonker Leopold understands this, the better for him, if he has intentions of conspiring against her freedom." This was said half jestingly; but I replied, quite seriously, that I thought Major Frank would do wrong to refuse a good husband. Francis reddened to the roots of her hair, and then grew pale, as she answered with a forced smile-- "Well, you are not a dangerous suitor. As the General will have told you, Miss Mordaunt can only accept a very rich husband; and I think you have already acknowledged that the Van Zonshovens are not among the people who pay the highest amount of income-tax." "But Francis!" exclaimed the General, deprecatingly. "Well now, dear papa, that's the standard by which people are judged nowadays, and you would wish Major Frank to be sold to the highest bidder, if sold she must be. But come, Leopold, let me show you the grounds before dinner. Grandfather can go with us, for the wind has gone down and the sun come out, so that it is quite a mild spring afternoon." CHAPTER XIV. We directed our steps towards the back of the Castle, passing by the aviary, which had fallen into decay like its surroundings. The Captain had, however, turned it into a poultry-walk, and held undisputed sway over the turkeys with which he had stocked it. The General, who had come out against his will, leaned on the arm of Francis, and I walked by her side. Ascending a small rise in the grounds we came to a summer-house, whence we could obtain a splendid view of the surrounding country--a sweep of undulating heath as far as the eye could reach. Francis said this was her favourite place in the grounds, and that she never grew tired of the charming prospect; but I could see that her grandfather's thoughts were occupied about something quite different from the picturesque view. All the farms in the neighbourhood, and all the woods around, formerly appertained to the lordship of the Werve; and all these ought to have descended intact to his granddaughter, to whom he would not leave a foot of earth. "By the way, nephew, what has become of the six other Miss d'Hermaeles, your mother's sisters?" asked the General, breaking the silence briskly. Francis burst out laughing. "Grandfather beginning to take an interest in the fate of six young ladies all at once! That's too much! But he wishes to know, Leo, whether you have a chance of inheriting anything from a rich aunt," she said, displaying a quickness of perception peculiar to her. "Isn't it so, grandfather?" I hastened to answer-- "Three of them died long ago; two others made good marriages, but they have children of their own; and one, Aunt Sophia, is maintained by the rest of the family, I contributing in proportion to my means." "Aunt Sophia," repeated the General; "had the d'Hermaeles the foresight to make Sophia Roselaer godmother to one of their children?" "It is possible," I answered, "but I don't know for certain; my mother seldom talked to me about her relations." "At any rate it appears to me she has been made heir to the property of that mischief-loving woman, Miss Roselaer," continued the General; "and probably you, Leopold, were not informed of the death, nor invited to the funeral any more than ourselves? As far as I am concerned I expected such treatment; yet I cannot understand that she should allow her hatred to deprive the only granddaughter of her eldest sister of the property." I now felt myself on dangerous ground; but Francis came to my rescue by saying, in a tone of pleasantry-- "Neither did I ever expect anything from her; and yet, who knows, if I had liked--I have only seen her once in my life; and though as a rule people are not prepossessed in my favour at a first interview" (hereupon she gave me a malicious look), "she seems to have had no reason to complain of me;--in fact, if I had only cultivated the acquaintance, probably at this moment my name would be in her will for a good round sum." "What! you have seen the old gossip?" interrupted General von Zwenken, "and you have never told me of it. When and where have you met her?" "At the beginning of this year, when I went to Utrecht on certain business about which it is not necessary to trouble cousin Leopold." "She never likes to hear her good deeds spoken of," the General murmured to me. "Oh, it was only a simple duty I had to fulfil; I had to consult the celebrated Dr. D. about an unfortunate woman who had lost her reason. At his door I had an altercation with his man-servant, who wished to put me off till next day under the pretext that the hour for consultation was passed, and that his master was taking his luncheon with visitors. However, I insisted upon his taking in my card, and finally I obtained admission to the dining-room. Dr. D. politely invited me to take luncheon with them, and introduced me to two elderly ladies, one his sister, and the other his sister's friend. As I was very hungry, I accepted without ceremony. I was soon sensible that his sister's friend was observing my every motion with sharp, penetrating eyes. Her conversation was amusing. She was lively, and criticised persons and events cleverly, though with unsparing severity. This was just to my taste, and excited me to the contest, till, from repartee to repartee, we got almost to a dispute. It was my great-aunt Sophia in person, as I afterwards learnt; and just fancy her mixing up her own name in a malicious manner in the conversation, and then asking me if I knew her, and what my opinion of her was! I simply answered: 'I had heard her spoken of; that there had been quarrels between her and my relations, but that I did not think it fair, on my part, to attack her behind her back in the presence of strangers.' She answered that she approved of my conduct. The doctor, who had for some time been appearing ill at ease, now invited me to go to his surgery. After the consultation I met the old lady in the passage; she invited me to accompany her as far as the house of a friend, where her carriage would await her. I consented, but now I was on my guard, as I knew who she was; and when she invited me to spend a day with her I declined----" "It was imprudent and impolite," interrupted the General. "It was acting in conformity with the spirit of all your dealings with her, grandfather. I said I could not spend a single hour longer in Utrecht than business demanded. Before she could say more, a band of students, of that class better known outside the lecture-room than inside, began to form a circle round us, and treat us to a piece of by no means flattering criticism as to the style of our dress. It is true I was negligently dressed, far behind the fashions; and aunt's bonnet and shawl gave her much of the appearance of a caricature. I felt my blood boil, and yet I retained sufficient calmness to tell these seedling lawyers, authors, and clergymen they ought to be ashamed of themselves, as their conduct was worse even than that of street Arabs. My words took effect; one or two dropped off in silence, others stepped aside, and one of them even attempted to stammer out an apology. We were near the house of lawyer Van Beek, where Miss Roselaer was going; and as we took leave of each other she warmly pressed my hand, thanking me for my protection and presence of mind, but added that 'such conduct was scarcely ladylike in the public streets.' "It might have been more becoming to swoon, but such farces are not in keeping with the character of Major Frank. "If I had known the story would amuse you so much, grandfather, I would have told it you three months ago; but I was afraid it would be disagreeable to you to hear I had seen Aunt Sophia." "And you have never since heard a word of Miss Roselaer?" demanded Von Zwenken, fretfully. "No; but I have reason to suppose she wished to oblige me. I had to make arrangements at Utrecht for the proper nursing of my poor patient. The most important point was the money, and at the time I had very little; but the same evening I received a letter from Dr. D., informing me a rich friend, who desired to remain unknown, had promised to pay all the expenses. So here you have my reasons for surprise that Aunt Sophia should have included me in hatred of the family; for the rich unknown friend could be no other than herself." The General muttered between his teeth-- "Oh, from that woman you might expect anything!" To me this account was as a ray of light. Aunt had changed her will, after this incident, in favour of Francis, and not, it was clear, for purposes of revenge. Now I felt more bound than ever to win the love of Francis, and to marry her; and I confess my inclinations were tending in that direction. Her straightforward, upright character, her original and piquant style of beauty, were already beginning to act like a charm upon me; still it would be well not to precipitate matters, and I controlled a desire which came over me to demand her hand on the spot. There were also mysterious events in her past life which required clearing up. Besides, I had to consider how it would be possible to change her aversion from marriage, the male sex, and social life in general. And I was convinced if she once pronounced the fatal word "No," my suit was hopeless. CHAPTER XV. Fritz, who came up at a trot, after the usual military salute to Francis, interrupted our further conversation. He addressed her in the following words-- "Freule, the Captain sends to inquire if you have thought of the sauce for the pudding, and if you will let him have the key to the pantry?" Turning to me she said-- "Excuse me, Leo--duty first and pleasure afterwards; my worthy adjutant reminds me I have duties in the kitchen." In a moment she had tripped away out of sight, and the General, rising, said-- "I must also go and dress, for I never dine in my dressing-gown." Then calling to Fritz, he said, "Show the Jonker to his room, if it is ready." "Certainly, General; I have taken up his bag." "So you have brought a travelling-bag?" asked the General, with a smile, and giving me an inquiring look. "What shall I say, uncle; did I take too great a liberty in reckoning on an invitation for a few days?" "Certainly not, my boy!" he replied frankly; "a change is very welcome to me--only try to make it all right with Francis." Fritz led the way up a broad oaken staircase to the first floor of the left wing, the very one which had struck me as the least habitable. I was shown into a large room that had once been well furnished, but which now appeared rather sombre, as all the shutters were closed except one, and this was only left ajar. I asked Fritz to open them, telling him I was fond of plenty of light. "Sir, Freule gave me orders to keep the shutters closed, otherwise there would be too much light, for there are no blinds." "Never mind, man; open them for me." "Yes, but there will be a draught; we never have guests, and therefore the broken window-panes have been neglected, and there is no glazier in the village." I dismissed the good fellow, whose fidelity to his mistress was evinced by his reticence. When I had opened one shutter entirely so as to obtain sufficient light, I found the room contained a large old-fashioned bedstead, with red silk hangings; a splendid couch, the covering of which was torn in several places and the horse-hair peeping out--then, even worse, I found it had lost a leg; moreover, there was not a chair in the room I dared seat myself on without the fear of coming to grief. In the middle of the room was a marble-topped table, standing on its three gilt bear-paws; but it was cracked in several places, and the mosaic star in the centre had almost disappeared piece by piece. A simple modern washstand, of grey painted wood with light green borders, had been placed just under an oval rococo mirror, and formed a striking contrast to these neglected antiquities. From my window I was enjoying a view of the beautiful country of Guelderland, and forming plans for the renovation and embellishment of the fallen greatness around--always provided Francis consented--when I heard the second dinner-bell, and hastened downstairs, having been warned that the General still kept up his military habits of punctuality. I was very curious to see whether Francis had dressed for dinner, how she looked, &c. But, alas! my hopes were disappointed. Her beautiful hair was loosely confined in a silk net, which seemed scarcely capable of sustaining its weight. She had not changed her dress, and had only thrown over her shoulders a small faded shawl, which served to hide the white and slender form of her neck. She perceived my disappointment; in fact, her beautiful eyes regarded me with an air that seemed to say-- "Make up your mind that I am totally indifferent as to the impression I may produce on you." Otherwise she performed her part as hostess with exemplary zeal and great ability. She served the soup, carved the meat, and even changed the plates herself--as Fritz seemed to consider his duty done when he had placed the things on the sideboard. To my great surprise, the dinner was abundant and even recherché. After the soup, which was excellent, roast beef with choice preserved vegetables was served up--"surrogate of the primeurs," as the General expressed himself; then partridges in aspic and a poulet au riz, followed by young cabbages with baked eels, which, the Captain said playfully, had only gone into his net for my sake. As plat doux, we had a pudding with the wonderful sauce Francis had been called into the kitchen to make; and to wind up, a complete dessert. It was difficult for me to reconcile all this with the idea of people living in straitened circumstances. The different kinds of wine, furnished in over-great abundance and variety by the Captain, who acted as butler, completed the luxuries of the table. The wines were of the best brands, and my host and his aide-de-camp took care to call my attention to them. My habits of abstinence obliged me to exercise great moderation, and I could plainly see that they were disappointed at my want of enthusiasm. Neither the crockery nor the table-linen was in keeping with the luxury of the courses. The former was French china, dating from the same period as the furniture and the golden leather tapestries, and had evidently suffered a good deal from rough usage and servants. It was cracked, riveted, incomplete; and modern blue ware had been purchased to supply deficiencies, thus enhancing its splendour and emphasizing the contrast. The large damask tablecloth, that represented the marriage of a Spanish Infanta, had certainly done duty when Aunt Sophia ruled as mistress of the establishment. It was exceedingly fine but worn, and the rents had not always been neatly darned. As for the silver, the speed with which Francis sent the forks and spoons to the kitchen and ordered them back, proved to me that the dozens were not complete. On the other hand, there was an abundance of cut glass, to which the Captain directed my attention lest I should overlook it, adding, however-- "I do not attach much value to such things. Many a time during the campaign I have drunk beer out of a milk-pail, and champagne out of teacups; and I did not enjoy it the less for that." "Provided the cups were not too small," interrupted Francis. "But the General," continued Rolf, without noticing the remark, "the General would rather go without Yquem than drink it out of a common glass; and as our Major (I mean Freule, the commander-in-chief) always manifests the greatest indifference in this respect, I have charged myself with the care of the General's wine-cellar." I neither liked nor approved the tone of the Captain's observations; but Von Zwenken said nothing. Francis did not, however, fail to retaliate in her vehement way. "Fie, Captain!" she interrupted. "Are you afraid Jonker van Zonshoven will not observe how great your merits as quartermaster are? If every one in this house would follow my régime, and drink clear spring-water, your zeal and care for the wine-cellar would be superfluous." I had already noticed that she drank nothing but water. The General now came to the Captain's aid with a French expression: "Le luxe, c'est le nécessaire." He had drunk a good deal, and his pale cheeks were growing rosy. Francis rang for Fritz to hand round cigars to the gentlemen, and then retired to the drawing-room in spite of the furious looks of her grandfather. As the door was open, I could follow her movements in the large mirror which faced me. I saw her throw herself on the sofa, wring her hands, and bite her lips as if to suppress her sobs. The General soon dozed off, and the Captain applied himself to the cognac bottle, as he said it was necessary to warm up his stomach after eating cold fruit; so I walked over towards the drawing-room, trying to hide my cigar. Francis was disconcerted at being surprised in her disconsolate mood; but she composed herself, and said, with an attempt at a smile-- "You may smoke here, cousin, if you wish to have a talk with me." CHAPTER XVI. "I am not in the habit of smoking in the presence of----" (I had almost said ladies). "Nonsense! I am not so fastidious; and you know that quite well. Shall I make you some coffee? The gentlemen yonder do not take any; they smoke and drink till----" I interrupted her with-- "I want nothing but to talk confidentially with you for a quarter of an hour. Will you grant me that favour?" "Certainly; take the easy-chair and sit down opposite; that is the best position for a talk." I obeyed, and she began-- "Tell me, first of all, do you now understand why I do not like receiving company?" "Perhaps. I venture to suppose that you wish to simplify the way of living, and that the gentlemen do not approve of it. And visitors cause expense." "Now, indeed, it is clever of you to guess after what you have just seen!" and she laughed a merry laugh. "I see I must explain matters. But let us talk about yourself, Leopold; that will change the current of my thoughts--and they want changing in my present state of mind. You see there my constant and daily society," she continued, looking towards the dining-room. "They have now reached the topmost point of their enjoyment--the General asleep with a cigar in his mouth, and the Captain absorbing his quantum of cognac. Afterwards he will fill his German pipe, totter off to the billiard-room, and smoke and sleep till tea-time. Come, now, as we have a full hour before us, confess yourself. Why have you not studied for a barrister?" And she fixed her large eyes on me as if she suspected that I had been rusticated. "Simply because my good father died too soon." "A good father always dies too soon. Even a bad one who neglects his child is a great loss. Yours left nothing?" "Except a widow with a very small pension--too small to maintain me at Leyden, and therefore I left after one year's residence, as I wished to earn my own living and obtain comforts for my mother, who was in very weak health." "I admire you for that, Leo; a man who is not selfish, and can make sacrifices for his mother or his wife's sake, is a rarity. It does me good to hear such men still exist." "Now, Francis, give me your confidence. Perhaps I can assist you in your troubles." "Don't attempt the impossible, Leopold," she replied in a tone of profound sadness. "However, as I believe you to be loyal and generous, I will be explicit with you; and if I am deceived in you, as I have often been in others, one deception more or less cannot make much difference in the grand total. When my grandfather had obtained his pension we came to the Werve, as it was urgently necessary for us to economize. His rank as commandant in a small fortified town had necessitated our living in grand style. He had to invite the mayor and other dignitaries to his table, as well as his own lieutenants; and let me acknowledge we had both got into the habit of living in abundance and of being very hospitable; consequently we had nearly always an open table. Owing to many events and painful family circumstances, our fortune with the last few years has shrunk so visibly that it was impossible to continue our old style of living. And grandpapa at last saw things as I did. We retired to the Werve; we did not want company, and we severed ourselves from all parasites at one stroke. "I counted on the kitchen garden, the orchard, and the home farm (which in those days still belonged to the Werve) providing for all our wants; and I cherished a secret hope of saving money, so as one day to make some repairs and raise this castle from its state of decay. "At first everything went on tolerably well. We came in the summer-time. We both needed rest; the splendid and varied scenery enticed us out on long rides and drives; in fact, everything combined to make us enjoy our solitude. But, alas! the autumn came with its long evenings and chilly days; the General suffered from rheumatism and could not mount his horse. Then weariness overmastered him like a plague, and I tried music and reading in vain. He is not fond of music, and he does not care for reading. He cannot bear to see me with a book in my hand, unless it be an illustrated book to ornament the drawing-room table. When I had read the paper there was nothing more to say. I played dominoes with him and piquet-à-deux. I could hardly do it any longer; but he never had enough of it. He grew fidgetty and melancholy, began to languish, and was less and less satisfied with our simple way of living. I could not bear to see him so cast down, without the means of helping him. Just about this time one of his former comrades, who had also obtained his pension, invited grandfather to visit him in Arnheim. I thought it would be a nice change, and encouraged him to go. He was quite happy and quite at his ease there, and stayed the three winter months." "And you?" "I stayed at home. They had forgotten to invite me; and when they thought of it, it seemed to me such a formal invitation that I made up my mind to decline it, as I had before reflected it would save a great deal of expense in ball dresses and other ways of squandering money which such visits necessarily bring with them." "Yet, even here, a little attention to dress would not be out of place," I interposed, seizing the opportunity to tell her my opinion on the subject. "Oh, it does not matter for me. I can speak as a certain French woman du temps que j'étais femme. That time's past; what does it matter how Major Frank dresses?" "Major Frank," I replied, "should wear a uniform suitable to her rank and the position in which she finds herself. That is no coquetry, it is only decency--seemliness." "But, Leopold," she cried, feverishly beating the devil's tattoo with her little foot, "since I have been here I have bought nothing new, and part of my wardrobe I have given away to the daughter of a poor officer, who had obtained a place as governess in a rich family, and had scarcely the wherewithal to clothe herself decently. Now, cousin, that you are initiated into the mysteries of my wardrobe, you understand why I could not come to table in a ball costume. But don't trouble me with any more of your silly remarks about dress; let me continue. "My grandfather returned from Arnheim, cured of his melancholy and more deeply in debt than ever. His stay, even with a friend, had cost him much money in dress. He had had to order a new general's uniform, as he could not go into society in that of a colonel; then there were fees to servants; and, worst of all, that abominable high play which is the curse of our nation. In short, on his return he was obliged to sell the home-farm, and even this did not bring in sufficient money to satisfy his creditors. This time my grandfather solemnly vowed he would never enter society again, and he has kept his word; but he soon fell into a black melancholy, from which he is only just recovering. "Rolf, a brave soldier, but one who, in spite of his merits, would never have obtained the rank of officer without grandpapa's protection, called upon us. He was a sort of servant in the house before I was born, making himself generally useful as only soldiers can. His sister was my nurse, my mother having died soon after I came into the world. Unfortunately, she had neither education nor character to fit her for the task. With the best intentions, she thoroughly spoilt me, a work in which she was assisted by her brother, Sergeant Rolf, who would sooner have thought of disobeying his colonel than of opposing any caprice of his 'little Major,' as he already called me. Well, when he got his pension as captain he stayed here a few days, and his company seemed to be a welcome change to grandfather; and perceiving that a third person would be an agreeable addition to our society, I proposed to him to take up his quarters here, as he could live on his pension in one place as well as another. My proposition was eagerly accepted, and I took the command, as he expresses it, whilst he did his best to cheer up the General, and the winter has passed less monotonously than I anticipated. "Meantime Rolf has inherited some property in North Brabant, and now he insists upon paying his quota towards the housekeeping expenses, to which I have consented for the General's sake, because he is so fond of delicacies. But you don't know how I suffer when I see them rivalling each other in the pleasures of the table, and think of the humiliation and abasement of my grandfather----" Fritz entered with the lamp, and asked if Freule had not rung for the tea. The General and the Captain followed. The conversation languished over the tea-table, and Francis became silent; when suddenly the Captain exclaimed, pointing to her hair-- "Ah, the lioness shakes her mane to frighten us!" "It's true," she answered coolly; "excuse me, gentlemen." And away she went to her own room. "It is curious how Francis has these attacks of nonchalance," muttered the General. "And just now, when we have a visitor whom she herself brought," assented the Captain. But to change the subject the General proposed a game at cards. CHAPTER XVII. The Captain arranged the card-table, whilst Fritz removed the tea-things. We took our seats, and the General, as I thought, fixed the counters tolerably high. The old man seemed to undergo a thorough change the moment he held the cards in his hand. His dull, sleepy eyes brightened with intelligence and sparkled with enthusiasm. Every limb moved; the tips of his fingers trembled, and yet they still held the cards firmly whilst he examined them to calculate, with mathematical precision, what was wanting in ours. His pale cheeks flushed a deep red, his nostrils expanded or contracted according to the chances of the game; and the melancholy man, who usually sat with his head bowed down as though overburdened, was of a sudden seized by a spirit of audacity, of rashness, of foolhardiness, that not seldom gained him splendid success, and reminded me of the saying, "Good luck is with the rash man." It certainly is with the audacious player. As for myself I made many blunders, which greatly amused my companions. I had already lost a considerable sum, when the door opened and Francis appeared in evening costume. I threw down my cards on the table to offer her a chair. The General, who sat with his back to the door, looked at me angrily, whilst the Captain cried-- "Our Major in full dress." "What strange whim is this?" growled the General, with difficulty suppressing his anger, for he had an excellent hand of cards this time. "The whole day you have gone about like a Cinderella, and now----" "The fairy has come, and I appear as a princess," replied Francis. "And the famous glass slipper is not wanting," I said, admiring the beautiful little slippers peeping out from under her dress. "Perhaps; but I will take care not to lose it." "Why not?" I asked, looking fixedly at her. "Because I will not make the romance of an hour a question for life." "All you are saying to Francis may be very gallant and witty, nephew," cried the General, "but it is not polite to leave the card-table in the midst of a game." "If the Freule would join us we could play quadrille," said Rolf. "Thanks, Captain, I prefer playing the piano, if it does not disturb you." Her playing was like herself, fantastic and bizarre; gradually, however, it became sweet and melancholy, and moved me almost to tears. My thoughts were with the music, and I lost every game afterwards. The General was furious, and let me perceive it. I was about to pay my debt, when Francis entered precipitately, and said in a decided tone--so decided, indeed, as to displease me--that I should not pay. I answered in the same tone, and to cut short all arguments I placed the money on the table. She then tried to snatch out of Rolf's hand the note I had given him. I told her I thought her interference very unbecoming. "Oh, very well; it's all the same to me if you wish to be plundered." And with this she returned to the piano; whilst the General, who seemed to gloat over his gains, remained silent during this little scene. It gave me a painful insight into his character. I pitied the old man, who played not for amusement but for the sake of money, and would take it in large or small sums from a poor relation or a richer man. But at the same time, as I went to join Francis at the piano, I thought my money well spent in discovering the General's weakness, which had so influenced his granddaughter's past life. "Will you play?" she asked, brusquely. "I don't feel disposed." "As you like," she said, turning to the instrument and striking the keys as if she would break them. I took up an old newspaper and pretended to be reading it. In the end she played a prelude, and then began the air of Bettly in the châlet-- Liberté chérie, Seul bien de la vie, Règne toujours là! Tra la, la, la, tra la, la, la! Tant pis pour qui s'en fâchera! I threw aside the paper, and, approaching the piano, I whispered-- "Do you remember how this charming little opera ends?" "Certainly, like all other pieces suitable for the theatre; but in real life it is just the contrary, and I like reality." Fritz came to announce supper. The gentlemen were cheerful, the Captain noisy and jovial; Francis only gave short and dry answers, and showed me her ill-humour by only giving me the tips of her fingers when she wished us all good-night. CHAPTER XVIII. Unromantic though it may sound, I must confess to having slept well on the first night I spent under the roof of my mother's ancestors. Sleep surprised me whilst I was reflecting on the strange and incomprehensible character of Francis. Proud, generous, noble-hearted, quick-witted, beautiful--and yet with all her charms (which I could feel had already begun to work upon me) spoilt by a detestable education, by the manners of a sutler and a rudeness of the worst kind. And then, in addition to all this, there was the question of her past life which I had heard painted in such black colours. It seemed doubtful whether Major Frank could ever become Lady Francis van Zonshoven. When I awoke the sun was streaming through the one window whose shutters I had purposely left open, with the intention of taking an early morning walk. I crept silently down the stairs so as not to awake anybody, but I met Fritz in the vestibule, and he made his military salute in silence. The hall door was wide open. I took the direction of the home-farm, where I hoped to obtain a glass of new milk, and draw the tenants out a little about the inhabitants of the Castle--one in particular. I had not gone very far before whom should I see coming from the farm but Francis herself, with a basket of fresh eggs. After a moment's hesitation I asked-- "Are we again good friends?" For I had an idea she would have taken another path if she had seen me a little sooner. "I never knew we had ceased to be so," she answered, colouring a little. "Hem! Towards the close of the evening, in spite of what you may say to the contrary." "Say, rather, in spite of myself. Believe me, Leo, I was not morose out of caprice; I was troubled and anxious. I saw my manner displeased you, but I was afraid that to flatter grandfather's weakness you were suffering yourself to become his dupe." "And even in that case I could not permit you to interfere." "You had told me you were poor, that you must economize, and then to squander your money in such a way in our house--it seemed to me like card-sharping." "No, no; nothing of the sort. But supposing it had been, you have tact enough to understand that it was beneath my dignity to take the money back." "That's true, I am of your opinion; but I warned you beforehand that my manners were bad." "I think it less a question of bad manners than a certain arrogance, a certain despotism----" "Well, then, pardon the arrogance, the despotism," she said jestingly; "still, if I confess you were in the right and that I deserve correction, will you on your part acknowledge that you are making somewhat too much ado about a little mistake?" "But you, who are so proud, how can you suppose that a man will consent to be protected by a woman?" "Again you are right, Leopold; such a man would be like so many others I know." "Pardon me, Francis; our friendship is like a tender plant, and we must cultivate it so as to prevent its taking a crooked turn." "If you regard our friendship in such a serious light," she resumed, whilst a slight blush suffused her cheeks, "I will capitulate on condition that our little quarrel of last night be forgotten and forgiven." I felt myself under the charm again, and seizing her hand in a transport of joy, I covered it with kisses. "Leo, what are you doing?" she cried, pale and with tears in her eyes. "Sealing the bond of our friendship." "Leo, Leo! you know not what you do," she said softly; "you forget to whom you are speaking--I am Major Frank." "I will have no more of Major Frank; my cousin Francis Mordaunt must suffer me to offer her my arm." And taking her hand again, I gently drew her arm within mine. She submitted in silence, with a singular expression of dejection on her face. "I feel it will do me good to talk to you for once in this way, though it may be the first and only time. Where are you going, Leo?" "To the farm yonder; I see you have been there already for eggs; let me carry the basket for you." "No, thank you. I had not reckoned on the eggs, but the good people insisted upon my taking them; I went to see a patient." "A patient! Do you play the doctor?" "I do a little of everything; but the patient in question is a dog, a dear, faithful creature, my poor 'Veldher,' who has broken his leg, and will suffer no one to touch him but myself. Another trouble I have brought on myself; and yet, if the others could be remedied as easily!" she said, with a profound sigh. She became pale as death, her lips quivered, and, withdrawing her arm from mine, she stood still, covering her face with her hands as if she would force back the tears already rolling down her cheeks. I remained by her side, and after a pause I said, with gentle earnestness-- "Tell me what has happened, Francis; it will be a relief to you and ease your mind." "Yes," she resumed, calmly, "I must confide my sufferings to some one, but not now. I will not spoil our morning walk by calling up such a frightful scene. I can myself scarcely understand how it is possible that I, who cannot bear to see dumb creatures suffer, have to reproach myself with the death of one of my fellow-men." "I beseech you to tell me all, trusting in me for my sincerest sympathy." "Not now," she cried; "what good would it do? It would only embitter the few minutes we have to spend together." "May I help you with a word it seems to cost you trouble to pronounce? Is it not a certain unfortunate incident with regard to your coachman?" "Just so, that's it," she replied, assuming her defiant and bitter tone. "If you wish to know more about it, ask the people at the farm--they know all the particulars." "I shall take good care not to go making inquiries into your secrets behind your back, Francis." "My secrets!" she exclaimed, her voice quivering with indignation. "There is no secret in the matter. It is a question of a dreadful accident, which happened on the public high-road in the presence of a crowd of spectators attracted by the noise; but the occasion was not lost to set public opinion against me. Was it not Major Frank, who never acted like anybody else--Major Frank the outlaw! It would have been a pity to let such an opportunity of blackening her character pass. I ought to have reflected that you would have heard the story; and very likely you are come here 'to interview' the heroine of such a romantic adventure. It would be a pity you should lose your pains. There's the farm--go straight on and ask the people to tell you all about the affair between Major Frank and her coachman Harry Blount; both the man and his wife were witnesses. And, Jonker van Zonshoven, when they have satisfied you, you may return to the Werve to take your leave, and return as you came." And off she ran, without giving me time to answer, leaving me in a state of terrible confusion. One thing at last seemed clear to me; I had lost her for ever. Should I follow and overtake her? She appeared resolute to tell me no more. Yet I must know more! I could neither stay at the Werve nor go away until my doubts were cleared up. I went on to the farm, and was soon served with a glass of milk. The farmer's wife seemed to know all about my visit, and thought it quite natural for the Freule to send me there for a glass of new milk. She was loud in her praises of the Freule, said her equal was not to be found in the whole aristocracy, "so familiar and kind-hearted, but at times flighty, and then she goes off like a locomotive"--she pronounced it "leukemetief." But it would be impossible for me to reproduce her Guelders dialect; and, to confess a truth, I had myself sometimes great difficulty in understanding her. She showed me the farm and the dog, a splendid brown pointer who allowed me to stroke him, probably for his mistress' sake. Once the good farmer's wife had loosened her tongue, she rattled away with great volubility-- "Yes, she was sorry the General was no longer their landlord; but Overberg was not a bad fellow--he had made many repairs, and even promised to build a new barn which the General would never consent to. It was a pity for the man! A good gentleman, but he took no interest in farming; the whole place must have gone to wrack and ruin if the General had not agreed to sell it before it was too late. The Freule was sorry, for she liked farming; she had learned to milk, and talked to the cows just as if they were human beings. And horses--yes, Jonker, even the plough horses, before they go out into the field in the morning, she talks to them. My husband was groom to her grandfather, in his youth; I think I can see the greys she used to drive with so much pride, and Blount the coachman at her side, as proud as a king, with his arms folded, and looking as if the team belonged to him. Oh dear, yes! And now all that grandeur has disappeared. The beautiful carriage-horses are sold, and the Freule has only her English horse which my husband stables and grooms for her. What a sin and shame it is when the gentry fall into such decay! And the family used to be the greatest in these parts, and good to their tenants. My parents and grandparents always lived on the estate; but oh, oh! since the marriage of the eldest Freule Roselaer, they have never prospered. What can I say? 'A house divided against itself cannot stand,' as the Scriptures tell us. The Jonker has certainly heard of all these things?" "Enough, Mrs. Pauwelsen, more than enough," I responded, for the good woman's chatter was becoming insupportable. I hastily took my leave of her and arrived just in time for breakfast; in fact, I was in the breakfast-parlour before either the Captain or the General. Francis was alone, but when she saw me she left the room under the pretext of seeing if the tea-water boiled. "Stay, Francis--I think I have a right to a kinder reception." "On what do you ground your right? Have you now satisfied your curiosity?" "I know nothing, Francis; I asked no questions." "Asked nothing! on your word of honour?" "I have not asked two words, Francis. I did not ask, because I did not want to hear anything." "Forsooth! You have shown more self-control than I thought a man capable of." "Are the women so much our superiors in this respect?" "If it be necessary, we can keep quiet." CHAPTER XIX. The Captain made his appearance, and put an end to our conversation, without for a moment being aware how unwelcome his presence was to me. I could scarcely give a civil answer to his question-- "Slept well, Jonker?" He went on, however, in his jovial tone-- "The General will be here directly." And, indeed, the General's entrance followed like an echo to the words, and the breakfast began. Francis was silent and preoccupied--yet she gave me a look as if she regretted her want of confidence in me--making all sorts of mistakes. The General's tea was sweetened twice over, and the Captain found he had no sugar in his, a defect which he remedied as furtively as possible, whispering to me-- "Our Major's got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning. We must take care, or the orders of the day will be severe. She----" "But Francis! What's the matter with you today; the eggs are too hard," growled the General. "What a pity, just when we have a visitor," sighed the Captain; "otherwise they are boiled to perfection." "By the way, Leopold, what hour is your carriage ordered for?" interposed the General. "Well, uncle, I left it to the Captain," was my reply. As we spoke a carriage drove up, and Francis rose from the table to look out of the window. "It is indeed too early," said the General, reproachfully, to Rolf. "Wait a moment, Excellency," replied Rolf, with a roguish twinkle of the eye; and he walked over to the window where Francis stood. Then with a loud laugh he said, "The Jonker left the matter in my hands, and perceiving he would like to stay a little longer with us, I simply sent off to Zutphen for his luggage." It was now my turn to speak, and I asked Francis if she would keep me there a few days longer. Her answer, however, was in the negative. "Leave at once; it is better for both of us." In the meantime the Captain, like a worthy major-domo, had not only assisted in bringing in my box, but also a number of packages, bottles, tins, &c., which he spread over the table, and clapping the General on the shoulder, as he said-- "Now, what says your Excellency; have I not made a splendid foraging party?" "No more of your 'Excellency' and insolent nonsense," burst out Francis, her eyes striking fire and her cheeks burning with rage. "You clearly forget, you d----d rascal, that you are an inferior; otherwise you would not dare to act like this. Bless my soul, what a foolish throwing away of money is this--perdrix rouges, pâté-de-foie-gras, all kinds of fish in jelly, all kinds of preserved fruit. Why, it looks as if you were going to start a business here. Why have you brought all these useless dainties again?" And she struck the table with her clenched fist till the pots and bottles danced again. "The General ought to turn you out of doors; and he would if his tongue and sense of honour had not grown dull." "Francis, Francis!" murmured Von Zwenken in a pitiful tone. "No, grandfather," she continued, more loudly and rudely, "it is a shame, and if you had the least fortitude left you would put a stop to such extravagance." "Major, Major!" interposed Rolf, deprecatingly. "Silence, you miserable epicure--I am no longer your major; I have had enough of your quasi-pleasantry. If I had my will all this should be changed. But I have lost my authority; you let me talk----" "Scream, you mean," corrected Von Zwenken, with a quivering voice. "And you go on just the same," resumed Francis, pitching her voice still higher. "But I will not suffer you to take such liberties any longer; and if grandfather does not call you to order, I will myself put you out of doors, and all your delicacies with you." "For heaven's sake, Francis, calm yourself," said Von Zwenken; "remember that Jonker van Zonshoven is a witness of your unseemly conduct." "All the better. The Jonker chooses to become our guest, and he shall see and know into what a mean and miserable a household he has entered. I will put no blind before his eyes." "There is, however, a difference between trying to blind people, and tearing off the bandages from the sores in this way, Miss Mordaunt," I replied, with emphasis. "Possibly, Jonker; but I cannot hide my meaning in fine words. I must speak plainly. I would rather live on bread and water than be beholden to another for these luxuries." With this she left the room, giving me a defiant look, which I returned by a shake of the head, to signify how much I disapproved of her conduct and the intemperance of her language. Whilst we stood staring at each other, we three gentlemen, in a state of stupefaction, she just put her head in at the door and said-- "Captain, you will attend to the housekeeping duties to-day; I am going for a ride." "At your service, Commandant," answered Rolf, bringing his hand to his cap in military fashion. I could not help expressing my amazement at the coolness with which he treated the whole affair. "What could I say, Jonker; such outbursts are not new to me. I saw this morning that the weather-glass stood at storm. The quicker and more violent the storm, the sooner it is over; and you know an old soldier is proof against weather." "I am glad I warned you beforehand, nephew, of my granddaughter's temper," said the General, with a deep sigh, without raising his head to look at me. "Once she's got an idea into her head, there is no opposing her; she'll drive through anything, like a man on his hobby-horse; she never reasons." I thought to myself, she reasons only too logically for you; and he evidently felt it, for throughout the whole scene he had sat with his head down, nervously playing with his ring. "Come, General, don't be cast down," said Rolf, cheerily: "we'll maintain our alliance against the common foe, and the wind will change again." As he spoke he unfolded a long, small parcel; it contained a riding-whip. "I am afraid the moment is inopportune," he said; "and yet she will need it. Who knows but she'll accept my present?" "I hope not," I said to myself; "that would lower her in my esteem." "She deserves to be chastised with it," interposed the General, now giving vent to his pent-up rage. "Yes, Excellency, that we ought to have done twenty years ago. It was a mistake to promote her to the command before we had taught her the discipline." "A great mistake," sighed the General. Rolf now set to work to attend to his housekeeping duties, and I excused myself under the pretext of having letters to write; for I had a great wish to be alone and reflect on all I had seen and heard this morning. CHAPTER XX. Once in my room, I threw off my coat, loosened my collar, and made myself quite comfortable before commencing a letter to Overberg. Suddenly there came a polite rap at my door, and, when I opened it, who should stand before me but Major Frank in person. She was dressed in her riding-habit, and brought me an inkstand, which she placed on the table, then took a chair quite at her ease, though she could see I was not pleased at being surprised in my shirt-sleeves. However, I put on my coat and demanded the object of her visit, as I scarcely believed her sole object was to supply me with an inkstand; and I pointed out to her I had got my own writing-case with me. My freezing manner seemed to disappoint her, so she said-- "I wished to ask a favour of you, but I see I disturb you." I was still silent. "Have you a strap amongst your luggage which I can use as a riding-whip? You know I have lost mine." "I can lend you my ruler. Will that do?" She grew very red, and after a pause she said-- "I see you are in no humour to render me a service." "I am always ready to serve a lady who exercises the privileges of her sex. Why did you not send for me, if you wished to ask me anything?" "Ah!" she exclaimed, in an injured tone, "my want of etiquette causes your ill-humour. I have come into your room. Well, pass it over--you know I am so little of 'a lady.'" "That's only too true, Major." "Major!" she repeated angrily, opening her large eyes in astonishment. "I thought you disliked my nickname." "Not since I have seen the soldier in action. But I should like to know to which class of majors you belong, tambour-major or sergeant-major? For I believe the command of a regiment is usually given to a man of refinement--to a person, in fact, who can make himself respected by his gentleman-like behaviour and dignity; but after the scene I witnessed this morning----" "Leopold!" she cried, deadly pale, her lips quivering, "this is a personal insult. Do you mean it as such?" I was surprised at the change, for I had expected her to wreak her anger on me now. But she sat quite still, as if nailed to her chair; so I continued-- "My remarks only apply to the disagreeable character it pleases you to assume." Still no answer. And I began to be embarrassed in my turn, which embarrassment was only increased by her breaking out in a plaintive tone-- "Leopold, you strike deeper than you suppose." "Francis," I cried, changing my tone, "believe me, it is not my intention to wound you; I wish to cure you." I was going to take her hand, when she sprang up as if she had received an electric shock, and said in her bitterest tone-- "I will not be cured by you; I am what I am, and don't you waste your precious time on such a disagreeable creature as you think me to be." "Oh, Francis! I am not deceived in you, and I will try to cure you in spite of yourself. When you made such a terrible scene in my presence this morning, I understood you. It meant this: He is staying here to study the character of Major Frank; well now, he shall see it in all its rudeness and insufferableness, and we shall see how long he will stay in spite of me. Miss Mordaunt, I have seen through your intentions, and I am not to be frightened away by the rude mask you have put on." "A mask! I am no masker!" she cried, stamping her foot with rage. "You, Jonker van Zonshoven, come from the Hague, a town full of maskers, to tell me this, me whose chief defect or merit--which you like--is to have broken with all social hypocrisies, me whose chief pride is to speak my mind plainly without regard of persons. I did not think it necessary to measure my words in your presence; it appeared to me you had made yourself one of the family, and I thought it best you should know the relationship in which we stand to each other." "Just so," I replied, smiling. "You acknowledge that in raising your voice several notes too high when you gave those two humiliated men a piece of your mind, your real object was to drive a third person out of the house. Be sincere, Francis, confess the truth." I tried in vain to look her in the face whilst I spoke. She had turned her head away, and was kicking the leg of the table. "I observe, and not for the first time, that you can be disagreeable when you like," she remarked, after a long pause. "I confess it; but an evasion is not an answer, Francis." "Well then, yes, it is true; I wished you to leave for your own sake. But never believe, Leopold, whatever stories you hear about me, that I am deceitful, that I would play a part. I was myself when I made the scene--violent, angry, and burning with indignation. I have my whims and fancies, that I know; but I never feign--that would ill become me; for, I may say, I have too much good in me to act falsely. Yet there are so many contradictory feelings in me that I sometimes stand surprised at myself. And let me tell you, Leo, I came here to seek consolation from you, but your tone and your words have bitterly disappointed me, so much so that for a moment I have asked myself whether you were one of those snobs in patent-leather boots, who, while expressing horror at an ungloved hand, are yet not afraid of soiling its whiteness by boxing your wife's ears. Because I did not observe the form of sending a servant to ask you to come to my room, you receive me as you did, and repulse me with mocking words!" It was now my turn to feel piqued, and I should have answered sharply had I not succeeded in controlling myself. "Pardon me, Francis, I should consider myself the greatest of cowards to strike a woman; but it was no question of a woman just now. We were speaking of Major Frank--Major Frank who is angry when reminded of the privileges of the fair sex, because he will not be classed amongst 'the ladies,' and who, in my opinion, ought not to be surprised when, after his own fashion, one tells him the truth roundly, and without mincing matters." Francis listened this time without interrupting me. She was staring at the panes of the window, as if to put herself in countenance again; her paleness disappeared, and, turning round, she said, without anger, but with firmness-- "I confess, Leopold, it is not easy to contradict you; and now I think we are quits. Are we again good friends?" "There's nothing I desire more ardently; but, once for all, with whom? with Major Frank or----" "Well, then, Francis Mordaunt asks for your friendship." She offered me both her hands, and her eyes filled with tears she could no longer keep back. How gladly I would have kissed them away, and pressed her to my heart and told her all! But I could not compromise my commencing victory. "Should I have spoken to you in this way, Francis, if I had not been your sincere friend?" "I see it now, and I have need of a sincere friend. Well then, the Captain is ruining himself for our sakes; and grandfather, in a most cowardly fashion, lends himself to such doings. Is it not horrible?" "It is very wrong, I admit." "Now, suppose the General were to die--I should be left shut up in this place for life with the Captain. When he has rendered himself poor for our sakes, I cannot send him away. Now do you understand I had reasons for being angry this morning?" "That you had reasons, I don't dispute; but the form----" "Come, come, always the form!" "I don't say the form is the main thing, but a woman who gives way to such fits of violence puts herself in the wrong, even though she have right on her side. Just think for a moment what a scene if the Captain had retaliated in the same coarse language of the barracks, which he has probably not forgotten." "I should like to see him try it on with me!" "However, he had a perfect right to do so. I agree you are right in principle; but let me beseech you to change your manner of proceeding. The gentleness of a woman is always more persuasive than the transports of passion. You have told me your early education was neglected; but you have read Schiller?" "Die Räuber," she replied, tauntingly. "But not his 'Macht des Weibes,' nor this line-- 'Was die Stille nicht wirkt, wirket die Rauschende nie!'" She shook her head in the negative. "This part of your education has been much neglected." "I will not deny it." "But it is not yet too late. Will you listen to my advice?" "Not now; I have already stayed too long here, and--and--you stay at the Castle----" "As long as you will keep me, Francis." "Well, stay as long as you can--that is, if you can fall in with our ways. I am going out for a ride; I need fresh air and movement." "Apropos the service you came to ask of me--the strap?" "Oh, I shall pluck a switch. The Captain came to offer me a whip, and----" "And you would rather accept it at my hands," I said, laughing. "No; but I should like to borrow ten guilders of you for a couple of days." I handed over my purse, and told her to take out of it as much as she required. What a strange creature! What a comic conclusion to our battle! I also felt as if a little fresh air would do me good, and so I walked off to the village post-office with my letter to Overberg. CHAPTER XXI. Downstairs I met the General ready for a walk, and he offered to accompany me. He had also a letter for the post, which was a secret to be kept from Francis; and he expected to find a packet awaiting him, which could not be entrusted to a servant. The packet was there amongst the letters marked poste restante; but when he had opened it with precipitation, a cloud of disappointment covered his face, and he heaved a heavy sigh. "Don't say anything to Francis about the packet," he said to me, as we walked back from the post. "Such business I must manage unknown to her; she does not understand these things, and she would not agree with me; and with her temper--at my age I have great need of quiet--that you comprehend. The Captain is entirely indebted to me for his rank, and it is but natural he should pay me some little attention. Yet you heard how my granddaughter took the matter up this morning. Instead of being content with me for retiring to this wilderness of a place, which I did to please her, she does nothing to render my life supportable." "And yet the Werve is beautifully situated, uncle." "I agree with you there; but when one must give up all field sports, this becomes a very isolated place. The village offers not the slightest resource, and the town is too far away." "Why don't you sell the Castle, uncle?" "Ah, my dear boy, for that I must have money, much money; and that I have been in want of all my life. There are so many mortgages on the Castle that nobody would give the sum necessary to pay them. Besides, the person who bought it would like to possess the neighbouring estates. My sister-in-law, who possessed the Runenberg estates bordering on my property, wished to buy it, but I refused her; family hatred would not suffer me to make room for her. Thank heaven, she's gone. She instituted proceedings against me about a strip of land of no real value to either of us; and the lawsuit cost me thousands of guilders. She won, as a matter of course, and then laid claim to a small bridge which connected the land in question with my grounds. Again I lost my money and my case; and now I must make a long round to reach places quite near, because the use of the bridge is forbidden me. Oh, that woman has been the curse of my life!" "But to come back to the question. Overberg has commissioned me to say that the heir to the Runenberg is likely to make you an advantageous offer for the Werve." "It could be done privately--as in the case of the farms? Overberg arranged that for me--and there are reasons for avoiding a public sale," cried the old man, brightening up with a ray of hope. "Yes, Overberg said as much; the only question was whether you could be induced to sell it." "For myself, yes, with all my heart. But Francis--there's the rub! She has an affection for this old rats' nest, for the family traditions, and for heaven know's what; nay, even for the title which its possession carries with it. God bless the mark! She has got it into her head that at some future day she will be Baroness de Werve; and it is an illusion of hers to restore this old barrack. But her only chance of doing it is to make a rich marriage. Formerly she had chances enough amongst the rich bachelors, but she treated them all slightingly; and now we see nobody in this lonely place." "But you do not need her permission to sell the Castle?" "Legally I do not require it; but there would be no living with her if I sold it without her consent. Besides, she has a right to be consulted. When she came of age I had to inform her that her mother's fortune was nearly all spent. It was not my fault. Sir John Mordaunt kept up a large establishment, and lived in English style, without English money to support it; for he was only a second son, and his captain's pay was not large. A little before his death he lost an uncle, to whose property and title Francis would have succeeded if she had been a boy. Shortly after this event my son-in-law died of apoplexy, and I was left guardian to Francis. My evil fate pursued me still, and being in want of a large sum of money to clear off a debt, which would disgrace the family if not paid at once, Francis generously offered me her whole fortune. I accepted it, as there was no alternative, but only as a loan; and promised to leave the Werve to her at my death." "But Francis is your only grandchild--or stay, I have heard you had a son, General; has he children?" "My son is--dead," Von Zwenken answered, with a strange kind of hesitancy in his voice. "He was never married so far as I know--at least, he never asked my consent to a marriage; and if he has left children I should not acknowledge them to be legitimate. In short, you now understand why I cannot sell the Castle without Francis' consent; after my death my creditors cannot take possession of it without reckoning with her." It struck me that Aunt Sophia had never foreseen this, and the mine she had been digging for Von Zwenken would have blown up Francis in the ruins if things had been allowed to take their course. I had, in fact, at my side, a type of the most refined selfishness, profoundly contemptible, recounting to me his shameful scheming under the cover of a gentlemanlike exterior and a polite friendliness, which might deceive the shrewdest man alive. Could I any longer wonder why Francis had so great an aversion to outward forms and ceremonies. "But," I resumed, "are you not afraid that after your death your granddaughter will be sadly undeceived, and perhaps cheated out of her all by your negligence." "What can I say, mon cher? Necessity knows no law; and I still hope to better my fortune before the end comes." "At his age, by what means?" I asked myself. Then I thought of the packet he had been to fetch from the post-office. I believed I had seen it contained long lists of numbers; they were certainly the official numbers of some German lottery. The unhappy man evidently rested all his hopes on this expedient for re-establishing order in his affairs; and probably invested every penny he could scrape together in such lotteries. I though him an idiot to trust to any such means. "Nephew," he exclaimed, briskly, and with vivacity, as if a bright idea had struck him, "if it be true Overberg intends to treat with me about the sale of the Castle, would it not be well for you to break the subject to Francis, just to sound her? It appears to me you have some influence over her; and the greatest obstacle would be removed if you could change her fixed ideas on the point." "I will do so, uncle." "You can make use of this argument, that the company of the Captain would become less of a necessity for me if I were in some town where other society is to be found." Fortunately I did not need to answer him: we were at home, the luncheon bell was ringing, and the Captain came out to meet us, jovial as ever. Francis had not returned, and we took luncheon without waiting for her. Only at dinner-time did she put in an appearance. Her toilette was simply made, but she was dressed in good taste, and her beauty brought out to perfection. I was charmed. She seemed to tell me in a silent way that Major Frank had given place to Miss Mordaunt. She was quiet and thoughtful at dinner, and did not scold the Captain, who watched all her movements with dog-like humility. She paid much attention to the General, who seemed absent and out of sorts, for he only tasted some of the dishes. The dinner itself was a much simpler affair than on the preceding day; yet there was sufficient, and one extra dish had been made specially for Von Zwenken, who did not ask for the finer sorts of wine, but made up for this want by drinking two bottles of the ordinary wine without appearing any the worse for it. The only difference between him and the Captain was, that unlike the latter, he did not frankly confess that he lived to eat, and that his belly was his god. I began to feel a most hearty contempt for this grand-uncle of mine, and more especially when I reflected on the conversation we had had during our morning's walk. CHAPTER XXII. Dinner over, I did not hesitate about leaving the gentlemen to themselves. I declined a cigar, and followed Francis to the drawing-room. Rolf soon joined us, and demanded humbly-- "What says my Major--do I not deserve a word of praise?" "Yes, certainly," she replied, but her face clouded. Guessing the reason, I whispered to the Captain-- "Don't you perceive you annoy my cousin by always addressing her by that hateful nickname? Can't you see by her elegant dress she desires to appear herself--Miss Mordaunt?" "Indeed I am a blockhead not to pay better attention; but the truth is, Jonker--excuse me, Freule--the custom is such an inveterate one." "You and I must break with old customs, Captain," she said softly, but with emphasis, "for we have been on the wrong track--have we not, Jonker?" "May I say one word," interposed the Captain, "before the Freule and the Jonker begin to philosophise; should the General come in I cannot say it. You know the day after to-morrow is the General's seventy-sixth birthday. I had intended the celebration to be a brilliant affair; but when I hear of wrong tracks, changes, and such farrago, I begin to fear all my plans will fall through." "Oh! was that the reason you brought in all those dainties this morning?" "Yes, and I thought the Jonker would be an agreeable addition to our party." "I give you full leave to arrange it all in your own way, Rolf. Grandfather must be fêted." "Hurrah! of course!" he cried merrily; and off he went to make his arrangements, carefully shutting the folding-doors behind him so as to isolate us from the dining-room. I was just going to compliment Francis on the change in her style of dressing, when she complained of the closeness of the room, and skipped off into the garden. Left thus to my own resources, I lit a cigar and walked out in front of the house, where I soon espied my lady; and when I joined her she proposed to walk as far as the ruin to see the sun set. Instead of taking the regular path, Francis preferred making direct for the object in view; and we had to trample through the underwood, and were many times tripped by the roots of felled trees. In answer to my remarks on this whim of hers, she replied-- "People say my education was neglected, which is not quite correct. I am not altogether a child of the wilderness. In fact, much trouble was given to my training, only it was not of the right sort. I was brought up as a boy. As you know already, my mother died a few days after my birth, and Rolf's sister was my nurse. Her own child had died, and I replaced it for her. She had a blind affection for me, almost bordering on fanaticism; she obeyed all my wishes, giving as an excuse to any remonstrances that she was the only person in the world who loved me. This was an exaggeration, for my grandfather, who lived in the same house with us, made much of me, though it is true Sir John Mordaunt took little notice of his child. He had previously had a son called Francis, like myself, on whom all his hopes were fixed during the six months the child lived. I was a disappointment, as he wished to have a son to take the place of the lost infant; and he received me with so little welcome that I have heard the last hours of my poor mother's life were embittered by this knowledge. My nurse, who could no longer bear the indifference with which he treated me, one day took me into his room, to show him what a healthy, strong child I was. 'Indeed,' she said, 'it might have been a boy.' "Rolf has since told me that my father seemed suddenly struck by an idea. From that day forth he devoted much attention to my training, and this has made me what I am. Under pretext of hygiene and English custom, I was dressed in a loose costume, 'a boy's suit,' as my nurse called it, and I was taught all kinds of gymnastic exercises. They hardened me against heat and cold like a young Spartan. Rolf taught me the military exercise, and made me quite an adept at fencing, and all the young officers who dined with us were invited to have a bout with me. Out of complaisance to papa, they allowed me to come off victor; and Sir John was sure to reward me splendidly for any praise I won. At this time grandfather held the rank of Major, and I suppose it was an idea of Rolf's to give me the title of 'Little Major,' with which my father was so pleased that he often addressed me by this sobriquet, and so gave it the stamp of his authority. I well remember, on one occasion, an officer, evidently a stranger, addressed me as Miss Francis, which so much surprised me that I uttered a good round oath in English--it was Sir John's favourite expression; whereupon my father took me in his arms and kissed me, so far as I can recollect for the first time in my life." "It is less to be wondered at that the bad habit has clung to you even to this day." "My nurse of course told me it was wrong, and tried to break me of it; but in my childish way I was a match for her, replying, 'But papa does so--is it a sin, then?' "'Oh, for gentlemen it is different.' "'Very well, I will be a gentleman; I won't be a girl.' "Indeed, my childhood was embittered by the idea that I was a girl and could never become a man. I never went to children's parties; I was always with grown-up people, officers, and lovers of the chase, and at eight years of age I was no bad match for some of them on horseback. When my nurse acknowledged she had lost all control over me, a tutor was engaged--yes, a tutor: don't be surprised. Sir John had never either announced the death of his son or the birth of a daughter to his relations in England. For this reason I was isolated from my own sex, and even learned to regard it with somewhat of an aversion, owing to the conversation of Sir John and Dr. Darkins. I profited by such training, though perhaps not exactly as they desired, for I hated a lie, and my chief desire was to show myself such as I was, proud and frank in all my dealings with men. I am convinced grandfather had no hand in this plot, but he was too weak to speak out and set his face against it. Sometimes, however, he gave me needlework to do, and he had a strong aversion to Dr. Darkins. Disputes arose between him and Sir John, and he shortly after moved to another garrison, taking Rolf with him. When I was close upon my fourteenth year, Dr. Darkins was suddenly cashiered, and it was announced to me that I should be sent to an aristocratic ladies' boarding-school. There I played all sorts of pranks, smoked like a grenadier, and had always a supply of extra-fine cigarettes wherewith to tempt my schoolfellows. "The cause of this great change in my life was brought about in this way. Aunt Ellen, a sister of my father's, had come over to Scheveningen with her husband for the bathing season, and thence she made a flying visit to see her brother, taking everybody by surprise--nobody more so than Sir John himself. "'Francis must be a big boy now; what are you going to make of him?' I heard her ask my father. "'There's nothing to be made of him,' my father answered angrily in his embarrassment, 'for Francis is only a girl. The eldest child, a son, is dead. I have only this one.' "'John, John,' cried the lady reproachfully, 'the whole family believed you had a son, and you have done nothing to undeceive us; and the old baronet, who pays you the yearly income set apart for his heir, is expecting to see you both in England very soon. What do you mean by it? Have you acted like a gentleman?' "Papa lisped something about 'absolute necessity,' and seemed anxious to induce her to co-operate in his schemes. The proud lady burst forth in indignation-- "'Can you imagine I would become a party to such deception?' "Sir John, to relieve his disappointment, uttered his usual oath, and ordered me out of the room, as he now perceived I was listening with all my ears. "I obeyed very unwillingly, and not until I had spoken to Aunt Ellen. He ordered me to hold my tongue, and there was a mingling of menace, of anxiety, and embarrassment in his looks which drove me sheer out of the room. I had never seen him look like that before. What passed between them I cannot say. Aunt Ellen afterwards gave me fifty pounds, and promised to make me that yearly allowance if my conduct was satisfactory at school. I told her I hated girls' schools, and that I should much prefer going to England with Dr. Darkins, as had been promised me. "'That's out of the question, my child.' More she did not say, and I knew better than to ask Sir John any questions. "Well, as you may imagine, I did not stay a whole year at school. In some things I had the advantage of the eldest girls, whilst in others I was more stupid and ignorant than the children in the lowest class. My knitting was always in confusion; I broke my needles in my impatience; I spoilt the silk and sampler if I had any marking to do; and, to make matters worse, if any one laughed at me for my awkwardness, or punished me for my carelessness, I flew into the most violent passion. I fought with the assistant-mistress, and boxed the ears of any girl who called me Major Frank--a girl from the same town as myself having betrayed me. Before I had been there six weeks I ran away, and had to be taken back by Sir John himself; but six months later I was dismissed as an untractable, incorrigible creature, whose conduct was pernicious in its effect on the rest of the school. The dismissal, however, was an injustice to me. Music was the only thing I liked at school, and the music master was the only teacher who had never had reason to complain of me; on the contrary, he praised me, he flattered me, and one day he even gave me a kiss." "The wretch!" "Yes, this liberty aroused all my feelings of feminine dignity, and I boxed his ears for him." "That was just like you!" "The other girls rushed into the room; the headmistress followed to inquire into the cause of the disturbance. Of course the master had the first word, and he was base enough to say I had become so violent on account of his correcting my fingering. When asked for my explanation, I answered that I would not contradict a liar--it was beneath my dignity. "I declined to apologize, and was threatened with the severest punishments known in the school. They shut me up in a room and fed me on bread and water, but all in vain; the mistress was obliged to write for my father. "He sent my old nurse to fetch me away, and I confided the truth to her with many tears. She was very anxious to make a scene, give 'madame' a piece of her mind in the presence of her pupils; but I was so glad to get away from the school that I prevented her carrying out her intentions. I told her I should not be believed. The fact was, one of the elder girls told me I was very foolish to make so much fuss about a kiss. The music master kisses me,' she continued, 'and all the others who are pretty,' as he says. Still, we are much too sensible to tell any one, for he lends us French novels forbidden by madame, and improvises invitations for us when we want to go out: in short, he is ready to do us all kinds of services that we could not trust to a servant of the establishment. What folly to make such a man your enemy! "I have since met this same girl--Leontine was her name--in society, and experienced the advantages of her education. She was ever very polite to my face, and calumniated me directly my back was turned. Thus, you see, under these forms of decorum all kinds of lies and infamy are hidden." "Francis, I am quite of your opinion that a man's fine manners are no guarantee of his morality or uprightness; but do you think society would be improved by turning all its sin, wretchedness, and ugliness to the surface?" "It is certain we should then fly from it in disgust and horror." "But every one cannot fly from it. There are people who are obliged to live in society; and, provided that we do not become its dupe, it is better that what you call the mantle of decorum should give to social life an aspect which renders it supportable." As we returned from the ruin the sky had become misty, and the sun was setting behind the clouds, its presence being only marked by the orange and purple rays struggling through the mist; the fields were already invisible under this wet sheet of nature's procuring. It was time for us to seek shelter from such humidity as surrounded us. Francis proposed to enter the house with all speed. CHAPTER XXIII. Now that Francis was once in the humour to give me the history of her past life, I encouraged her to continue her story. She went on to say that a Swiss governess was engaged to teach her needlework and other ladylike accomplishments. "My father," she said, "seeing all his plans foiled by the unexpected visit of my English aunt, left me entirely in the hands of my governess. And as I no longer wrote a letter every year to the old uncle telling him of my progress in fencing and horsemanship, and signing myself Francis Mordaunt (I had been told this was the accepted orthography in England), Sir John received no more bills of exchange from that source. It was these bills of exchange which had enabled him to keep up such an expensive establishment. He ought now to have adopted a plainer style of living; but he preferred drawing upon his capital. "I thought it my duty to write to Aunt Ellen, and to tell her the truth about my having left the school. She answered me in affectionate terms, and enclosed the annual fifty pounds with many exhortations to industry and much good advice. She even promised me I should come to London on a visit, as she had much to tell me. But, alas! next year she died, and my pension ceased--nor have I ever heard a word of my English relations since. "Mademoiselle Chelles, my governess, was a woman of tact, and won my affection and esteem. In the long walks we took together our conversation was confidential, and she spoke of the sufferings of the poor, and the pleasures to be derived from relieving them; in short, she showed me the serious side of life in a manner no one else had ever done before. She inspired me with a love for the beauties of nature, and awoke the better feelings which, thus far, had lain dormant; assisting me in my preparation for confirmation. Perhaps she would have succeeded in extirpating 'Major Frank' altogether, but that my nurse grew jealous of her influence; and, worse still, Rolf, now promoted to the rank of lieutenant, fell in love with her. She could not bear the grand soudard, the 'ogre,' as she called him; for his manners frightened her, and he made his offer in such a maladroit fashion that she walked off to my father, and said she would leave the house if ever that man were allowed to put his foot into it again. This, as everybody said, was assuming the 'high tone' on her part. Grandfather and nurse were on Rolf's side, and my father answered--'It's only a governess, let her go.' I myself said little for her; I was too anxious to regain my ancient liberty--though I have since known the loss I sustained in losing her. I was young then; my father ought to have known better. Even to the present day this is one of my grudges against Rolf. "Again I became 'Major Frank.' I accompanied my father on his rides, and I saw he was proud of my horsemanship. Sometimes we hunted together, and when he allowed me to drive I was ever ready to show off my daring and skill. In the meantime my nurse died, and now, indeed, I felt the truth of her words--that she was the only person in the world who really loved me. I had to take her place, and fulfil the duties of mistress in the household. My father was expecting a visitor from England----" She stopped abruptly, and fixing her beautiful blue eyes on me with a strange expression, asked-- "Leopold, have you been in the society of women much?" "When I lived with my mother I saw many of her friends and visitors; but since----" "That's not the question. I ask you if, like most men, you have sometimes suffered from the intermittent fever called love?" "I have done my best, cousin, to escape it. Knowing myself to be too poor to maintain a wife in these expensive times, I have always observed a strict reserve in my relations with them in order not to be led away from my principles." "Then you have never been 'passion's slave,' as Hamlet puts it." "My time has always been too much occupied for anything of the sort." "So much the better for you; but I am sorry for myself, because you will not be able to give me the information I am seeking." "Tell me what you want to know; possibly I can enlighten you." "I wish to know if you think it possible for an honourable man, who is neither a fool nor a coxcomb, but who, on the contrary, has given evidences of his shrewdness and penetration, not to observe pretty quickly that a girl--how shall I express myself?--that a girl is deeply attached to him, even though no word of love has been exchanged between them?" I was greatly embarrassed. What could be her meaning? Was this simplicity or maliciousness on her part, to address such a question to me? After a few moments' reflection, however, I answered-- "I believe that, in general, both men and women very quickly discover the mutual feelings which they entertain towards each other, even though no words on the subject have passed between them." "That is my opinion also now; but at the time I am referring to I was as inexperienced as a child. My father's friends always regarded me as an ill-bred girl, whimsical and capricious, a sort of savage whom nobody cared to invite into society either for the sake of their sons or daughters. The young officers who visited at our house would try to make themselves agreeable; but their conduct appeared so insipid, so ridiculous, that I only mocked them, and gave such biting replies as to disconcert the most intrepid amongst them. "It was at this time that Lord William came to stay with us. He was introduced to me as a schoolfellow of my father's; at Eton he had been Sir John's fag, and indeed was his junior by only a few years. For some reason, unexplained to me, it was said he had been obliged to leave England, and my father offered him the suite of rooms left vacant by my grandfather. Lord William appeared to be rich; he brought over an immense quantity of luggage, and paid right royally for any service rendered him. I believe, indeed, he had a private agreement with my father about the housekeeping expenses, though neither of them ever told me so. Now a housekeeper was engaged to assist me in the management of the house, and yet it was with the greatest difficulty that I could adapt myself to the duties of mistress of such an establishment. The presence of our visitor, however, greatly aided in reconciling me to my position. "Lord William (I never knew his family name) was a man of letters, and had had a very valuable and expensive library sent over for his use. Moreover, he was highly gifted with the faculty of communicating his knowledge to others in a pleasant and agreeable manner. He was an enthusiastic lover of art and poetry; he could read and even speak several modern languages, and was passionately fond of antiquities and ancient history. He knew--what we were all ignorant of--that the library of our own small town possessed works of inestimable value on these subjects, and I think this was his reason for choosing it as his place of sojourn on the Continent. At all events he made great use of the library. You may understand my surprise at seeing a man, evidently of high rank, who cared neither for hunting nor noisy pleasures of any kind, and who declared the happiest moments of his life to be those spent in his study, and yet withal he was a perfect gentleman and man of the world. The gentlemen said he was ugly; the ladies were silent on that point, but appeared delighted with the slightest attention he paid them. I thought he bore a striking resemblance to our Stadtholder William III., though less pale. He had a high forehead, strongly marked features, and dark eyes, which made you think of the piercing regard of the eagle." "Had he also the beak?" I asked, growing impatient. "I have told you he was like William III. (of England)," she replied, looking at me in astonishment; "his nose was curved sharply. But not to detain you too long, I will at once confess he exercised a powerful influence over me for good. I soon discovered that my manners were displeasing to him, and that he evinced towards me a compassionate sympathy, as if he regretted the sad turn my tastes had taken. One day I overheard him ask my father why he did not take me out into society. He gave as a reason my wild and brusque manners, and the kind of society to be found in a small town like ours. Lord William was not a man to be easily discouraged. He spoke to me privately about my previous life, and put all sorts of questions to me about my education. I told him everything, in my own way, without trying to hide any of the particulars from him. "'Do you like reading?' he asked me. "'Not at all,' I answered. 'I like society, men and action.' "'But any one who does not read, and read much, becomes idiotic, and makes but a poor figure in society.' "'If that's the case, tell me what I ought to read.' "'I cannot answer your question right away; but, if you are willing, we will read together and try to make up for lost time.'" CHAPTER XXIV. "And so it was settled. He undertook to educate me and to form my tastes. He soon made me acquainted with the masterpieces of German and French literature, and discovered to me the beauties of the classics in his own language; and I learnt from him most assiduously that which Dr. Darkins never could have taught me----" "And so well, that you fell in love with each other!" I interrupted, giving way to a movement of anger. "Not exactly; but if you interrupt in that way I shall lose the thread of my narrative. It is at your desire I recount to you the story of my past life; and how much wiser would you be if I were to compress it into a sentence like this for instance: 'Lord William came to our house in the autumn, and left us the following spring'?" "Without having become your fiancé?" I said in agony. "Without having become my fiancé," she answered in a dry, cold tone. I was angry with myself. I had only too plainly shown that I was jealous of the praise lavished on this stranger. And what right had I to be jealous? She was the first to break the silence which ensued. "Leopold," she said, "I perceive that this account of the events of my youth is anything but agreeable to you. If you had left us as I wished you to do this morning, I should not now be wearying you with my recollections of the past." "Believe me, Francis, I have remained on purpose to listen to them; I promise not to interrupt you again if you will continue." "Well then, now I will confess to you that I loved Lord William with all the strength of a first love, and with all that innocency of a young heart which does not yet even know that the passion which sways it is love. I soon found that Lord William was dearer to me than all the world beside, and that my chief delight was to obey him in all things, to consult him on all occasions, and to accompany him when and wherever it was possible. I even found means to interest myself in his archæological researches. I translated for him Dutch documents which formerly I would not have taken the trouble to read. Besides, finding that, like most men, he was fond of a good dinner, I took care to have such dishes prepared as I knew to be to his liking. I began to pay attention to my dress, because he himself, without going to extremes or exceeding the bounds of good taste, was always well dressed. He introduced me into the society of our small town, and I felt vexed every time he paid the least attention to another lady, though I took care not to let him see it. We also gave dinners and received company, and the ladies were greatly astonished at the manner in which Major Frank played the hostess. The winter was drawing to a close, and it had been settled that, on the first fine day which offered, we should all make an excursion to the Werve. My grandfather had returned to the garrison, and I was soon aware he disapproved of my sentiments towards Lord William. And it was not long before I knew the reason why. "One fine spring morning I was sitting on the balcony with a book in my hand, when I heard my grandfather and father, who sat on a bench underneath, speaking of Lord William and myself in terms which excited my curiosity. "Grandfather, in a very bad humour, said: 'She is always parading him about, and he pays no attentions to anybody but her. In your place, I should ask him to declare his intentions, and then the engagement can be publicly announced.' "My father burst out in a loud laugh. "'Major,' he said, 'what are you thinking of? William, whose intentions are perfectly honest, was at school with me; he is only two or three years my junior, and Francis has not completed her seventeenth year.' "'What does that matter? He does not look much over thirty, and I tell you she's madly in love with him. How is it possible you have never perceived it yourself?' "'Bless me, Major!' cried my father, 'you must know that William is married; and, moreover, I am very grateful to him for acting the part of mentor to Francis; indeed she had need of one!' "'In truth, Sir John, either you are too simple, or you indulge a confidence in your friend I cannot approve of.' "'You would have the same confidence in him that I have, if you knew him as well. He is every inch a gentleman, sir, and if I hinted the slightest suspicion he would leave the house instantly. And, besides, he is generous, very generous--I am deeply indebted to him. His stay with us is almost at its close. He must return to London to preside at the meeting of some society of antiquarians of which he is the president. The disagreeable affair which obliged him to come to the Continent is almost arranged. He was afraid of a lawsuit which would have caused much scandal in high life, but the mediators are now hopeful of success. His wife, who is travelling in the South with his relations, has written him a very humble letter, imploring him to forget and to forgive. He has told me his mind is not yet quite made up, but that he has a great repugnance to a divorce; probably then----' "Hereupon the two speakers got up and walked away into the garden. As for myself, I remained for a long time leaning against the balustrade, immovable as a statue of stone. When I found myself quite alone, I could not suppress a cry of grief. Yes, my grandfather had read me! I loved--I loved with passion, and all at once I discovered my passion to be a crime. And he, had he not deceived me by leaving me in ignorance of what it was most important for me to know? Ought he not to have foreseen the danger into which he was leading me by his kind and affectionate treatment? Without doubt he felt himself invulnerable; without doubt he still loved his absent wife. It is true that with his kind manners he always maintained a certain reserve with me; once, indeed, and once only, he had kissed my hand with marks of tenderness for some attention or other I had shown him. That night I could not sleep for joy; on the morrow, however, he resumed his habitual reserve. "My first idea was to go and reproach him to his face for what I considered his deception towards me; but he was not at home, and would not return before dinner. At table I could not help showing him how much my feelings towards him had changed. This he observed, and when the other gentlemen lit their cigars after dinner, instead of following me to the drawing-room, as was his wont, he took a cigar and stayed with them. I remembered that I could smoke also, and I followed his example. I saw him frown; he threw away his cigar, and invited me to go with him to his study. This was just what I wanted. "'What is the matter with you, Miss Francis?' he asked. 'I cannot understand the reason for this change in your behaviour towards me.' "'On a little reflection, my lord, you will easily discover the reason. You know how much I love plain-speaking.' "'Very good.' "'What can I think of you when I hear from other people that you are married?' "I saw he grew pale, but he answered with great coldness-- "'Has Sir John only just told you that? and why to-day above all others?' "'Sir John has told me nothing; I have heard it by accident. By accident, you understand, my lord, and now I think I have the right to hear from your own lips more particulars about your wife.' "He drew back some paces; his features became so contracted under an expression of violent suffering that I myself was afraid. For a time he was silent, pacing up and down the room; and finally he said to me, with a mingling of sadness and discontent-- "'I am sorry, Francis, but I did not think the time had arrived when I could give you such a mark of confidence. There is too much of bitterness in your tone for me to suppose your question arises out of an interest in my sorrows, and only those who have such an interest have a claim to my explanations. Is it a young girl like you that I should choose out by preference, in whom to confide the sad secrets of my unhappy marriage? And how could I begin to speak about a subject on the termination of which I am still in doubt?' "'And it never occurred to you, my lord, that there might be a danger in leaving me ignorant of your marriage?' "'No, certainly not. I came here to divert my thoughts from my troubles, and to seek solace--which I have found--in my favourite studies. I made your acquaintance in the house of your father, who received me hospitably; and I thought I perceived your education had been neglected, nay, that even a false turn had been given to your ideas. This I have tried to remedy and I must acknowledge you have gratefully appreciated and seconded my efforts; but it does not follow that I ought to acquaint you with all my personal affairs and all my griefs and troubles. I fled from England to escape the condolence of my friends and the raillery of my adversaries. I wished to avoid a lawsuit in which my name--a name of some renown in England--would have been exposed to the comments of a public ever hungering after scandal. Could I have talked to you on such a subject? It would have cast a gloom over the golden dreams of your youth, and rendered the autumn of my life still more cloudy!' "'The clouds surrounding you, my lord, must be pretty thick already,' I replied, exasperated by his cool manner, 'to prevent your seeing that my ignorance of your marriage has caused me to embark on a sea of illusions, where in the spring-time of life I shall suffer shipwreck.' "A movement of fright escaped him. I broke forth in complaints and reproaches; he fell back on a divan and covered his face with his hands. He protested he had never guessed at such an idea, never even suspected anything of the sort. Afterwards, when I had eased my mind and was sitting sobbing before him, he recovered himself, and coming over to me he said, in his usual calm and affectionate tone-- "'My child, there is much exaggeration in all you have told me. Your imagination has been struck, and you have suffered it to carry you away, so that you believe all you say now; but I can assure you, you are mistaken. You are impressionable, susceptible, but too young to understand the real passion of love. At your age, young girls have very often some little love affair with the engaging young dancer they met at the last ball. You, who have been kept out of society on account of the masculine education you had received, have known no such temptations; but perhaps for this very reason you were the more exposed to illusions of another kind, which I confess I ought to have foreseen, namely, that of falling in love with the first gentleman who showed you more than the usual attentions of common civility. I happen to be this man. We have read several plays of Shakespeare together. Every young girl may imagine herself a Juliet; but that is no reason why she should imagine her teacher to be a Romeo. Now, seriously, Francis, could you take me for your Romeo? Look at me, and consider how ridiculous any such pretension on my part would be. I am about the same age as your father; I am turning gray; I should also be as stout, but for a disease which threatens me with consumption. All this is far from poetic, is it not? Exercise your reason, your good sense, and you will be the first to acknowledge that I am most unfitted to become the hero of a love affair.' "I was silent; I felt as if some one were pouring ice down my back. He approached me, and laying his hand on my shoulder, with the greatest gentleness said-- "'I was married one year before your father, and though I have no children, I might have had a daughter of your age. I had accustomed myself, gradually, to regard you as my own daughter; you deprive me of this pleasure, for the present at least, though I am sure you will one day recover from your folly. It is your head which is affected, not your heart, believe me, for I have had experience in the depths of abasement to which the passions may lead a woman who has not energy enough to overcome them. If I had a son--I have only a nephew, who will be heir to my title and property--and if----" "'Thank you, my lord, I could never address you as my uncle!' and I burst out in an hysterical laugh. There was a beautiful edition of Shakespeare lying on the table, a present from him; I took it up and tore it leaf from leaf, scattering them about the room. At the same instant my maid knocked at the door; she came to remind me it was time to dress for the ball. We had accepted invitations for this evening to the house of a banker, one of the most prominent men in our province. My pride having been touched to the quick, I determined to seek solace in the wildest excitement. I flirted with the only son of this banker, who all through the winter had been very attentive to me. I felt much pleasure in showing Lord William how easily I could forget him; but my eyes were all the while furtively following him to see the effect my conduct might produce. He remained calm and cool as ever. After a while he seated himself at the card-table, and lost a considerable sum of money to my grandfather. On the morrow, I perceived preparations were being made for his departure in all haste. Lord William had received the letters he had so long expected, and seemed to have no time to notice me. I became transported with passion, when my father told me at luncheon that the banker's son had asked permission to wait upon me in the course of the afternoon. You can understand my rage. 'What a falling-off was there!'--from Lord William to a Charles Felters! "I answered my father that I would not speak to the simpleton. "'You must!' he replied, in a tone of authority I was little accustomed to in Sir John. 'You have given the young man encouragement, and you had better reflect on the consequences of refusing such a good offer.'" CHAPTER XXV. "Poor Charles Felters was quite thunderstruck at the reception I gave him. His gay partner of last evening's dance had changed into a veritable fury. I told him plainly I didn't care a jot for him. He hesitated, he stammered, and couldn't make up his mind to go. I was expecting Lord William every moment to take leave of me, and I would not have them meet. In my confusion my eyes rested on a 'trophy of arms' with which my father had decorated one side of the room. Scarcely knowing what I was about, I seized a foil, handed it to my would-be lover, and taking another myself, I took up my position on guard, exclaiming-- "'The man who wins my love shall win it with the sword.' "The miserable ninny never even observed that the foils were buttoned, but, throwing down his, rushed out of the room in the greatest alarm." "I have heard of this feat of arms, Francis," I said, laughing; "and, moreover, that Felters is still running away from you." "'Voilà comme on écrit l'histoire.' I have myself heard he made a voyage round the world to escape from me; but the truth is he only made a tour up the Rhine, fell in with the daughter of a clergyman, and married her. She has made him a happy man, and he is now the father of a family; nevertheless, all his relations bear me the most intense hatred, and lose no opportunity of serving me a malicious turn. I still held my foil in my hand when Lord William entered the room. His look was sufficient to show me his disapprobation. "'If your father had taken my advice, Francis,' he said, 'he would have waited some little time before informing you of the intentions of Felters; still there was no reason for your acting in this way. For shame to treat a poor fellow, who perhaps never had a foil in his hand before, in such a manner. But, well! I have always hesitated about putting you to the test; permit me now, however, to take the place of the miserable fugitive.' "And without waiting for an answer he picked up Felters' foil, and cried-- "'En garde!' "I literally did not know what I was doing. I would not decline his challenge, and I determined to show him that he was not fencing with an inexperienced girl. He handled his foil with a lightness and firmness of hand I had little expected to find in a man of letters, confining himself, however, to parrying my attacks only; and yet this he did so skilfully that I was unable to touch him. I exhausted myself in my desperate efforts, but I would not ask for quarter. "'You see such exercise requires more than the arm of a woman,' he said coolly. "My wild despair and anger seemed to give me strength, and falling in upon him I broke my foil upon his breast. He, with a smile, had neglected to parry this attack, and I saw a thin stream of blood trickle down his shirt-front. Now I was overwhelmed with sorrow and repentance. Sir John and grandfather immediately came upon the scene. "'It is nothing, gentlemen,' he said to them, 'only a scratch; a little satisfaction which I owed to Miss Francis, and which will perhaps cure her of her taste for such unladylike weapons.' "'I will never, never more touch them,' I cried in terror when I saw his pocket-handkerchief, which he had applied to the wound, saturated with blood. "And I have kept my word, though it has not prevented my obtaining a wide reputation as a duellist. Neither Charles Felters nor the servant of Lord William could hold their tongues, though the latter had been forbidden by his master to say a word on the subject. I was reminded very unpleasantly, next time I appeared in the town, that the affair had become public property. Lord William would not allow us to send for a surgeon, but had the wound dressed by his own servant; and, fortunately, it turned out to be less dangerous than I feared at first. I sought my own room, and hid myself there with all the remorse of a Cain. I resolved to throw myself at his feet and beg his pardon. But the reaction to my excited state of feelings had now set in, and I fell exhausted on a sofa, where I slept for several hours a feverish kind of sleep. When I awoke Lord William was gone. After this I was seriously ill; and on my recovery my grandfather took me as soon as possible to the Werve for the fresh country air. Sir John told me, when I was quite well, that Lord William had certainly given proof of his good-nature to allow me to touch him; for while at Eton he had been considered one of the best fencers in the school, and just before quitting England he had fought a duel with an officer in the Horse Guards, and wounded him in a manner that report said was likely to be fatal. "My answer to this was that I had never suspected Lord William of being a duellist. "'That he never was; but in this instance his honour was at stake. He could not leave the insult of this captain unpunished. Perhaps, however, he would have acted more justly if he had put his wife to death; and though an English jury would certainly have brought him in guilty of murder, yet, considering the great provocation he had received, public opinion would have sympathized with him in the highest degree. Now he is reconciled to her again, at least in outward appearance; but he has written to me that he is going to make a tour all over the world.'" "And you have never since heard of this 'My lord?'" I asked Francis, to whose story I had listened with as much sorrow as attention. "Never; and I don't even know his family name to this day. Changes now followed in rapid succession. My father died suddenly; my grandfather was promoted in rank, and we removed to Zutphen, where I proposed to begin a new life. But though we break with our antecedents, it is impossible to sponge out the past. However, more of this hereafter. I must attend to the other gentlemen, otherwise I shall be accused of neglecting my duties. I will tell you more of this history at another time if it interests you; for it is a relief to me to confide it to a friend. Only never begin the subject yourself, as there are moments when I cannot bear to think of it." "I promise you this, Francis," I replied, pressing her hand. It would be impossible for me to recount all the feelings which passed through my mind in listening to Francis's trials. I will not weary you, dear William, for I acknowledge I felt sad and irritable. And yet I tried to think these were her "campaign years," as she calls them, though it was evident her heart had suffered long before she attained her twenty-fifth birthday. If she had told me of deception, so common in the world, of an engagement broken off, of a misplaced affection, such things would not have troubled my peace of mind. What affected me was to think this Englishman had won the place in her affections which I wished to be the first to occupy--that place which permits a man to inspire a woman with confidence, and exercise over her an influence authoritative and beneficial. Time had done much to cool her love for him, but she had not forgotten him; and it was certainly a devotion to his memory which rendered her so indifferent to the merits of other men. I wondered if she had told me all this history in order to make me comprehend the improbability of my being able to replace her ideal. Had she not told me on the heath, on our first meeting, that if she suspected I came to demand her hand in marriage, she would leave me there and then? I felt myself diminishing in her estimation. And there was a portrait of William III. hanging over the mantelpiece which seemed to say to me, ironically, "Too late, too late!" Yet again I asked myself whether I was not growing jealous of a vain shadow. Eight years had passed since these events. She was no longer a little girl, who could imagine she saw a Romeo in her mentor who was a long way on the wrong side of forty. Who could say that the comparison, which she could not fail to make now, would be to my disadvantage? I determined not to remain in this perplexity. At the risk of committing an imprudence, I made up my mind to ask her whether she regarded the loss of her Lord William as irreparable. It was necessary for me to know what chance of success was left me. This night I slept little, for I was rolling over in my mind all sorts of extravagant declarations which I intended to make to my cousin next day. This, however, was the day preceding the General's birthday, and Francis was fully occupied with the Captain in making all sorts of preparations; so that during the whole day I never once could find a suitable moment to begin the subject. The master of the village school would bring up to the Castle his best pupils to recite verses made for the occasion; the clergyman and the notables would also come to offer their congratulations. Francis sent me to the post-office to fetch a registered letter for her. [4] General von Zwenken was in a bad humour because Rolf had no time to amuse him, and finding myself rather in the way I went off to my room to write. Here in the afternoon I found on my table a little Russian leather case, on which my initials had been embroidered above the word Souvenir. Inside I found a bank-note equivalent to the sum Francis had borrowed of me; on the envelope which inclosed it she had written, in a bold hand, the word Merci, her name, and the date. The case itself was not new. Poor dear girl! she must have sat up half the night to work my initials in silk, as a surprise. I now felt more than ever how dear she was become to me, and I promised myself not to temporize any longer. Then the idea occurred to me: If I can get her permission, I will ask her hand of the General to-morrow after I have congratulated him on his birthday. This idea threw me into a transport of joy. I got up from my chair with the intention of seeking my cousin and bringing matters to a crisis at any risk. My hand was already on the handle of the door, when I thought I heard a tap at the window. Immediately a hoarse voice called several times-- "Francis! Francis!" Astonished, and wishing to know who this could be, I stood motionless. The voice cried again-- "Francis, if you don't open the window I will break the sash all to pieces." CHAPTER XXVI. As, for very good reasons, Francis gave no answer, a vigorous arm forced open the window, and a man sprang into the room, seemingly quite indifferent about any damage he might have caused. "What is your business with Miss Mordaunt?" I asked, advancing towards the intruder. "A stranger here?" he answered, with an expression of surprise; "I thought they never had visitors now." "I think the manner of your entrance is much more astonishing, and I am the person surprised." "Well, yes, my entrance is somewhat irregular," he replied, in the most familiar style possible; "however, Mr. Unknown, I am neither a thief nor a housebreaker. I have entered in this way because I wished no one but Francis to know of my arrival, and I was sure I should find her here; but, now I am here, allow me to rest myself whilst I reflect a little upon the best means of obtaining an interview with her." And he threw himself at full length on the old sofa, which creaked under his weight. "Ah! ah!" he continued, examining the walls, "the family portraits are gone--eaten away, no doubt, by the moths and the damp." It was quite clear to me the stranger was not here for the first time. Though his manners were free, there was something gentlemanly in his personal appearance. Still his dress was fantastic. He wore a short velvet jacket with metal buttons, and a silk handkerchief loosely tied around his neck; tight trousers of a grey pearl colour, and polished riding-boots with spurs, and a soft felt hat. "You've got nothing to drink here?" he asked, after a pause of some minutes. "I have ridden for three hours, and my throat is almost choked with sand and dust." He spoke Dutch with a foreign accent. His age seemed to be about fifty, though he might be younger. His lively, active features were never at rest for a moment; his greenish-grey eyes, the fine wrinkles on his high sunburnt forehead, and the paleness of his cheeks, all marked him as the adventurer endued with strong passions--an impression that was increased by his thick-set face, large nose, and the tufted mustachios hanging over his thick, sensual lips. I could not refuse him a glass of water, unwelcome as I found his presence. As I handed it to him I said-- "You seem to know this house well." "Yes, and that's no wonder; I played many a prank here in my boyhood. But you, sir, who are you? An adjutant of the Colonel's, or a protégé of Francis's?" "I think I have the best right to question you, and to ask who you are?" "That's true enough; and I would tell you with pleasure, but it's a secret which concerns others besides myself. Call me Mr. Smithson--it's the name I am known by at present." "Very well. Now what is your business here, Mr. Smithson?" "I wish you to tell Francis I am here." "Do you think the news will be agreeable to her?" I demanded. "I cannot say, but she will come all the same." "Here, into my room?" "Bah! our Major Frank is no prude." "Mr. Smithson, I give you fair warning that if you say a single word derogatory to the character of Miss Mordaunt, I shall instantly make you take the same way out of this room by which you entered it." "Oh! oh! Mr. Unknown, I am a first-rate boxer. But easy, man, easy! For I should be the last person in the world to say an offensive word about Francis. Now, since you know her, you ought to be aware that she would never refuse to assist a person in distress out of a sense of prudery. Just you ask her to come here to see--not Smithson, because she does not know me under that name, but a relation of hers, who calls himself Rudolf." "And if she refuses to come?" "Oh, you make too many difficulties. Ah! is it possible you are her----I should have thought Francis Mordaunt more capable of commanding a batalion than of bowing herself under the yoke of marriage. But, after all, women do change their minds. Then you are the happy mortal?" "A truce to your suppositions," I answered him in a firm voice; "I am here as a relation, a grand-nephew of the General's; my name is Leopold van Zonshoven." "Well, upon my word! Probably we are cousins, for I am also related to the General. Francis will not refuse to come, I assure you--especially if you tell her that I do not come to ask for money; on the contrary, I bring some with me." Hereupon he drew from his pocket a purse containing a number of clean, new greenbacks. "Tell her what you have seen; it will set her mind at ease, and possibly yours also--for you seem as yet only half-and-half convinced that I am not a highwayman." I no longer hesitated; but took the precaution to lock my door on the outside, lest he should follow me, and surprise Francis before I had warned her. Having reached her room I knocked gently, and she answered "Come in." It was the first time I had penetrated so far, and I began in a serious tone-- "Something very singular has happened, my dear cousin----" "It is not an accident you come to announce to me, I hope?" she exclaimed. "No, but a visit which will not prove agreeable, I am afraid." "A visit at this time of the day! Who is it?" "A person who says he is a relation of the family, and refuses to give any name but that of Rudolf." She knit her eyebrows. "Good heavens! Unfortunate man! Here again!" I explained to her how he had forced his way in at the window, and offered to make him retrace his steps if she desired it. "No, there must be no disturbance," she said, in a state of agitation. "My grandfather must not even suspect he is here. I will go with you, Leopold; this once you must excuse me if I do anything you consider in bad form. How dare he show his face here? I can do nothing more for him. You will stand by me, won't you?" I took her hand and led her to my room. Rudolf lay on the sofa, fast asleep. When he saw Francis standing before him, he jumped up as if to embrace her, but she drew back. He did not seem hurt, but he lost his tone of assurance. "I understand, Francis, that my return is not a joyful surprise to you." "You have broken your promise. You gave me your word of honour you would stay in America. At any rate, you ought never to have set foot in your native country again----" "Don't judge me without having heard----" "Is it not tempting fortune to come back here to the Werve, where you may so easily be recognized?" "Oh, don't make yourself uneasy on that score, my dear. I have taken precautions; and as for breaking my promise, I beg your pardon on my bended knees." And he made a gesture as if he would fall on his knees before her. "Don't be theatrical," she said severely, and again retreated some steps from him. "Heaven forbid! On the boards, to gain a livelihood, it is another thing; but in your presence, before you, Francis, whom I honour and love, I wish to justify my conduct. You may condemn me afterwards, if you like. It was really my intention never to appear before your eyes again. Alas! man is but the puppet of fortune, and I have not been able to swim against the stream. I have had all sorts of adventures--but can I tell you all now?" he added, looking significantly at me. "To tell you the truth, I had reckoned on our being alone." "Stay, Leopold," she said, in answer to an inquiring look I gave her. "Francis," resumed Rudolf, with tears in his eyes, "you know you need no protector where I am." "I know that, but I will not again expose myself to calumny for your sake. As for your security, Rudolf, I can answer for my cousin Van Zonshoven's discretion. You may tell him who you are without fear." "It is a question of life and death," he said in French, with a most indifferent shrug of the shoulders, and he again stretched himself at full length on the sofa. "The least indiscretion, and my life will be forfeited. What of that? I run the risk of breaking my neck every day." And then, turning towards me, he began to sing, or rather to try to sing, with a voice quite hoarse, and with a theatrical pose, the following lines out of the opera "The Bride of Lammermoor"-- "Sache donc qu'en ce domaine D'où me chasse encor ta haine, En seigneur j'ai commandé. At least," he put in, "during the absence of the Baron, for I was heir-presumptive--a presumption which, alas! is destined never to be changed into certitude----" Francis, visibly affected by his jesting style, interrupted him, and said to me-- "Rudolf von Zwenken, my grandfather's only son." "It would cost my charming niece too great an effort to say 'My uncle.' It is my own fault. I have never been able to inspire people with the necessary respect for me. Well, now, Cousin van Zonshoven, you know who I am, but there is one point I must rectify: Rudolf von Zwenken no longer exists--he is civilly dead." "And morally," murmured Francis. "And if he were to rise again under that name," he continued, without heeding Francis's interruption, "he would commit something like suicide, for he would be arrested and shot." "And knowing that, after all that has been done to put you beyond danger, you show yourself in this place again! It is inexplicable," cried Francis. "But, my dear, who told you I had come to show myself here? It is true we give representations in the provinces; but the person who appears in public is Mr. Smithson, so well begrimed that Baron von Zwenken himself would not recognize his own son." "That's very fortunate, for it would be the death of him," retorted Francis, harshly. "How you exaggerate, dearest. Monsieur mon pere never had so much affection for me. He shall never know Mr. Smithson. His son Rudolf, however, seeks an interview with him, and requests you, Francis, to assist in bringing it about." "It is useless, sir; you may neither see nor speak to your father again." "Can you be so hard-hearted, Francis?" "My duty obliges me, and I must have some regard for the feelings of your father in the first place." "But, my dear child, try to understand me. I only wish to kiss his hand and beg his pardon. With this object I have run all risks, and imposed on myself all kinds of fatigue. I have just ridden hard for three hours, hidden myself in the old ruins, climbed the garden wall at the risk of breaking an arm or a leg; then, seeing a light here, I broke in--and all this for nothing! No, my darling, this cannot be; you will still be my good angel, and arrange the meeting I so much desire----" "I say No; and you know when I have once said a thing I mean it." CHAPTER XXVII. Rudolf, after a pause, began once more-- "You have a good heart, Francis. Ah! I know your reasons. You think I am returned again like the prodigal son, with an empty purse, 'after eating of the husks which the swine did eat.' It is just the contrary." "Don't be profane, Rudolf," said Francis, severely. "But it is true--I bring money with me, over two hundred dollars in clean greenbacks, as a commencement of restitution, an earnest of my reform. What do you think my father would say if he found them to-morrow morning on his pillow? Don't you think he would receive me with open arms?" "No, Rudolf, certainly not. You have broken your word of honour, and for this your father will never forgive you. Don't talk of restitution. What is this sum in comparison with what you have cost him, and all the suffering you have caused him and me? Such sacrifices as we had made gave us the right to hope you would leave us in peace--forget us." Rudolf bowed down his head and heaved a deep sigh. I could not help pitying the unfortunate man. I should have liked to say something in his favour; but the cold, haughty, nay, contemptuous attitude of Francis seemed to impose silence on me. There must be some reason, I felt sure, for her inexorable severity; consequently I remained a passive spectator. At length Rudolf roused himself from his despondency, drank off a glass of water, and, turning towards Francis, said in his most serious tone-- "Just listen, Miss Mordaunt. It appears to me that, under the pretext of acting as guardian to my father, you oppose a reconciliation between us, without even consulting his wishes; and it is strange that a niece, a granddaughter only, should usurp the position of the eldest son, and refuse to listen to the returning prodigal." "Don't talk to me about your prodigal son," cried Francis, angrily; "you are not the prodigal son. It is only a passing whim, and you will be carried away again to-morrow by some new idea as you always were." "Don't you be afraid you will lose anything by it," he said in a bitter tone; "you know I shall never lay claim to my father's property, even though we were reconciled." "Must I then be suspected of cupidity, and by you indeed!" exclaimed Francis, in the greatest indignation. "I should never accuse you of anything of the sort. On the contrary, I am only too sensible of your generosity. I only mentioned this to set you at ease about any consequences which might result from my reconciliation with my father. To the world I am Richard Smithson, American citizen; but let me have the pleasure of being for the few minutes I stay here Rudolf von Zwenken, who would speak to his old father once more, and take a last farewell of him. How can you oppose such a desire?" "Your last farewells signify nothing; you always come back again." "But if, in spite of your opposition, I go at once and seek my father in the large drawing-room--I have not forgotten my way about the house--who shall hinder me?" "Do as you like; only I warn you you will find Rolf, who knows you, with grandfather; and Rolf knows his orders, which he will carry out like an old soldier." "The devil take Rolf! What's the old ruffian doing here?" spitefully exclaimed Rudolf. "The old ruffian does all he can to cheer the declining years of your father, whom you have rendered unhappy by your conduct." "My misery would not be complete without your contumely," sobbed Rudolf. "I came here so cheerful and well disposed." "Mr. Rudolf," I said, "allow me to arrange an interview for you with the General, since Miss Mordaunt declines." "Don't you trouble yourself, Jonker van Zonshoven," retorted Francis, in her most cold and haughty tone. "I do not decline, but I know it is impossible, and therefore better to say nothing. Rudolf well remembers I threw myself at the feet of my grandfather, and besought him not to send his son into exile unforgiven, and it only added to the pain and sorrow of the scene. Don't forget, either, that you yourself caused the report of your death to be spread abroad. The old man believed it, and I have since heard him say it was a comfort to him. His fears lest you should be arrested, tried, and condemned, were only set at rest when he heard the news. Would you renew his distress, and put him to these tortures again?" "It is true, too true--you are right," said Rudolf, quite breaking down. "But you shall not leave the house without some refreshment," returned Francis in a kind tone, now she felt her victory to be certain; "I will go and fetch you something to eat immediately. Cousin Leopold will allow you to have supper and to repose yourself in his room." Whereupon she left the room, and I was left alone with this singular cousin of mine. "Bah!" he said, "our Major is not to be trifled with. What eyes she gave me! I felt as if she would pierce me through and through; and yet she has a good heart--there's not one in a thousand like her." "I think she might have shown a little more of its tenderness towards a relation," I interposed. "What shall I say? She knows only my evil deeds as she has heard them recounted by my father. When chance or misfortune has thrown us two together, it has always been under circumstances which could not dispose her in my favour. I have cost her both trouble and money--nay, I even fear her reputation has been called in question on my account. When I was in trouble she came to my assistance, regardless of what public gossip might say. It was at Zutphen. My father's door was shut upon me. She agreed to meet me in a lane outside the town, a public promenade little frequented at certain hours of the day--in fact, very seldom except on Sundays. But we were discovered; certain idlers took it into their heads to play the spy on us, and Heaven only knows what sort of reports they set flying about the town. The generous girl had pawned her diamonds in order to assist me, unknown to her grandfather. This act of devotion was of course interpreted to her disadvantage. You may think it would be more noble on her part not to remind me of what she has suffered when she sees me again; but, my dear sir, a perfect woman is as scarce a thing as a horse without a defect. Though she were to scratch and to bite me, I would still bow my head in submission to her----" The entrance of Francis with a bottle of wine, bread and meat, &c., interrupted what he had to say further. He attacked the eatables with a most voracious appetite. When he had somewhat allayed his hunger, he began-- "Francis, my darling, where am I to pass the night? I cannot go into that part of the house occupied by the General and Rolf, that's certain. I would go into the stable and sleep in the hay, but that I am afraid the coachman might recognize me." "We have no coachman now," replied Francis, quite pale. "What! You have sent away Harry Blount?" "Harry Blount is dead." "Dead! Why he would scarcely be thirty years of age. I taught him to ride----but Francis, my angel, you are quite pale; have you also sold your beautiful English saddle-horse?" "No, Tancredo is stabled at farmer Pauwelsen's; but it is the recollection of Harry Blount which causes me to turn pale. I--it is dreadful--I was the cause of his death." "Nonsense; come, come! In a moment of passion?" (here he made the gesture of a man who horse-whips another). "I did so more than once, but that does not kill a man--and you will not have murdered him." "Nevertheless, I was the cause of the brave fellow's death. It occurred during a carriage drive. We had sold the beautiful greys----" "What! that splendid pair. My poor father!" "We had a new horse which we wished to run with the only one left us. Harry wanted to try them himself for the first time, but I took it into my head I would drive them. I got on the box by his side, seized the reins, and, as soon as we were on a piece of level road, they went like the wind. I was proud of my skill, and was rejoicing in my triumph; but still Harry shook his head, and recommended me to be prudent. The sky became clouded, and a thunderstorm threatened us. In my folly, I urged the horses on still faster, though they were already taking the bits between their teeth. Harry became alarmed, and tried to take the reins out of my hands; but I resisted, and would not give them up. In an instant the thunder began to roll, and lightning struck right across our way; the horses took fright and began to rear on their hind-legs. Blount jumped off the box to go to their heads, but tripped, and they passed over his body. In despair, I also jumped from the box at the risk of my life, and the violence of the shock caused me to swoon. When I was again conscious, I saw the unfortunate Blount lying on the road, crushed, with scarcely a breath of life left in him. Within an hour he was a corpse." Here Francis burst into tears, and covered her face. "It is a pity, Francis, a great pity," replied Rudolf. "For your sake, I would that I had been the victim of this accident rather than Blount. You would have had one burden less to bear. Don't take it so to heart, my child. I have seen others fall from their horses never to rise again alive. What can we do? Wait till our turn comes, and not make life miserable by thinking too much about it. But," said he, "you have not yet told me where I am to sleep. Must I go back to the ruin? It is a cold place, and doubly so when I think of the parental castle close by." "The truth is, I cannot offer you a room, Rudolf. There is not one suitable for the purpose." "But why cannot Rudolf share mine?" I asked; "I will give up my bed to him." "No," he replied quickly; "I will be content with the sofa, if Francis will consent to my staying here." "Very well," she answered; "only you must promise that to-morrow, before daybreak, you will be far away. It is your father's birthday, and there will be many visitors at the Castle." "I will start early, I promise you, Francis." "Well, I will once more trust to your word of honour. And now good-bye. It is time for me to go; otherwise my absence will be remarked upon by the gentlemen of the house." "Take this purse, Francis; it is a little commencement of restitution; I would I could offer you more, but I have not yet become a veritable Yankee uncle. I have not discovered a gold mine. Accept at least what I can return to you." And he spread out the American greenbacks before her. "Are they real ones, Rudolf?" she asked in a grave tone. "By heavens, Francis, what do you mean by such a question? I have committed many follies in my life--I have been a fool, a ne'er-do-weel, a spendthrift, I am a deserter--but a forger of false bank-notes! Francis, could you suspect me of such infamy?" "I wish I had only suspicions, Rudolf; unfortunately I have the proofs." "The proofs!" he cried, in a sorrowful tone of voice; "but that's impossible." "What am I to think of the false letters of exchange in which you forged your father's signature? We have got them under lock and key, these terrible proofs, and they have cost us dear. I have pardoned this fault with the rest, Rudolf; but facts are facts." "It is impossible, I tell you!" he answered with firmness. "There must be some terrible mistake in this case, and I trust you will assist me in clearing it up. If my father believes that of me, I am not surprised he should rejoice at my death, nor am I astonished you despise me. However, I solemnly protest to you by all that's dear to me, I am innocent, Francis." "Yet these bills were presented to Baron von Zwenken, and we paid them to prevent a lawsuit. It could not have affected you very much, for you were in America; but my grandfather would have been obliged to retire from the army." "Francis, you are possessed of good, sound sense. How dared I have committed such an offence just at the time I was in hiding near Zutphen, at the moment when you were so generously raising funds for my enterprise in America; nay, at the moment when my sincerest desire was to carry my father's forgiveness with me into exile? Show me these accursed bills, and I will prove my innocence." "They are in the General's possession; I cannot get at them to show you them." "If we had them here, I would soon prove to you that it is impossible for me, with my wretched handwriting, to imitate the fine and regular hand of my father. What is your opinion, Mr. Leopold?" "I believe what you say," I answered. "Ah, that's a relief; it does me good!" he murmured, his eyes filling with tears. "My father has been accustomed to spend his leave in fashionable watering-places; is it not possible for him there to have made the acquaintance of some wretch wicked enough to serve him such a turn?" "For the last few years the General has not been from home, except one winter which he spent in Arnheim." "Can Rolf have done it?" "No, don't suspect Rolf; he never had any education, but he's the honestest man living, and he would pluck out an eye rather than cause the old General any trouble." "Then I don't know whom to suspect. Now take these notes, Francis--they are real, I assure you; take them as a proof you still believe my word." "I believe you, Rudolf; but I think you have more need of them than I have." "Never mind me; I have a good position now: first rider in the Great Equestrian Circus of Mr. Stonehouse, of Baltimore, with a salary of two hundred dollars a month--is it not splendid? You see I have not lost my old love for horses. Formerly they cost me much money; now they bring me in a living." "Well, Rudolf, you might have sunk lower; your business demands courage and address. But I will not accept your money; I never take back what I have given. To-morrow morning we shall see each other again. You need not jump from the balcony and scale the garden wall; I will let you out myself." "Ah! you wish to make sure of my departure----" "I have already said I would trust to your promise. Good night, gentlemen." CHAPTER XXVIII. She was scarcely out of the room, when Rudolf, who had drained the bottle, began in his usual tone of banter-- "I don't know whether I ought to congratulate you, Mr. Leopold, but I am firmly convinced our charming Major has found her colonel." I only shrugged my shoulders; for I felt a repugnance to making Francis a subject of conversation with such a fellow. "Do you imagine I have no eyes? I know the women, I can assure you. I have come across all sorts, and all sizes and colours, in my vagabond life; and my niece, though she were a thousand times Major Frank, is still a woman--a woman with a man's heart, as good Queen Bess used to say of herself. I don't know what you intend to do, but it appears to me you have only to propose-- 'Et bientôt on verra l'infante Au bras de son heureux vainqueur.' She is smitten by you, that's certain! Why, she's like a thoroughbred horse. With much patience, much attention, and a firm hand that knows when to be gentle, so one succeeds. As for myself, I was always too rash, too impatient. These gracious devils soon perceive it, and once they know it, you are thrown--there's no help for you. After all, perhaps I am mistaken," he said, seeing I remained silent; "otherwise I would add that I hope you are rich. Her grandfather is ruined----" "And by whom?" I interposed; a little hard upon him, I confess, but his volubility had become insupportable. "By whom? that's the question. I have contributed my share, I acknowledge, yet not more than my own fortune which came to me from my mother, as the eldest and only son. John Mordaunt could tell us something if he were alive. He got his wife's fortune when they were married, and Francis ought to have had something when she came of age; that is if anything were left, for they lived in style--yes, a style that would have run through any amount. I was sent off to the Werve with my tutor, for I had begun to understand and to make observations. After the death of my sister I was never invited to the house of John Mordaunt. But perhaps it will not interest you to listen to my old stories?" "Certainly, I should much like to hear an account of your adventures." "Well, then, my father was the first cause of my misfortunes, for he opposed my wishes in everything. I wanted to be an officer; and my father would not let me go to the military college at Breda because he was prejudiced against it. He insisted upon my studying law at Leyden: this, he said, would lead to a fortune. Ah, I have found a fortune!" he repeated, with a bitter laugh. "Since I was sent to study for my father's pleasure, I thought it only right to seek my own; and, as he made me a fair allowance, I was soon noted as the wildest and most extravagant of students. I kept my horses and a Tilbury, and ran up enormous bills. Still I attended those lectures which interested me, and I had just put on a 'coach' for the final examinations, when my father lost a lawsuit against my Aunt Roselaer. The supplies were stopped, and I left college without having passed my examination as Master in the Law. My father's interests obtained for me a place in the financial world, but with the condition I should marry a rich heiress. The misfortune was, the heiress in question was of an over-ripe age, with a nose too red for my taste, and I neglected her. My father grew furious, and declared he would discard me. Moreover, I could not settle down to the regular routine of a counting-house for several hours a day, and sometimes extra work in the evening after dinner. I found in the office an old clerk, a regular old stager, who had sat on the same stool at the same desk for twenty years without a chance of promotion. This is my man, I thought, and I left the responsibility in his hands, whilst I amused myself with my friends at the club. But one fine day, when I was out picnicing with a party of friends, my worthy clerk started off with the cash-box. I was of course held responsible, and my father's guarantee was forfeited. "I dare say the whole of Francis' remaining fortune was swallowed up by this affair and a lawsuit arising out of it. What could I do now? I had a good voice, and I proposed to go to some music academy abroad, and return as an opera singer. My father would not consent to this, and told me the best thing I could do was to enlist in the ranks as a common soldier. I caught at this idea in the hope of being promoted to the position of an officer at no distant date; but I had never been habituated to discipline. I was sent to a small fortress on the frontiers; Rolf was my lieutenant, and he did not spare me either hard work or picket duty. To cut it short, I had enlisted for five years, and I did not stay five months. One fine morning I walked off altogether. I was caught, and I wounded an under-officer in self-defence; the charge against me was as clear as the light of day. But I succeeded in breaking out of prison. I own I was not very strictly guarded, and Francis, as I afterwards learnt, had done her utmost to facilitate my escape. Again I was free as the air; but I must live. I tried everything. I gave lessons in French and in Latin to little German boys, and I taught the little Fräuleins music and singing; I was even appointed private singer to an Austrian princess, who was deaf, and imagined that my voice resembled Roger's. I wandered about with a travelling opera company, and sang myself hoarse in the open air. I have been coachman to a baron, and travelled for a house in the wine trade, but when they wanted to send me to Holland I had to give up the post. Afterwards I was waiter at an inn, billiard-marker, valet to the secretary of a Polish count, who, appreciating my ability at the noble game of billiards, took me to Warsaw, and hastened to initiate me into his plans for the 'Independence of Poland.' As a matter of course, his enterprise was unsuccessful; but he got sent to Siberia, and I myself was kept in prison for some weeks because I refused to give evidence against him. Again I found myself thrown on the wide world without a penny in my pocket. But I will not weary you with a recital of all I have done and suffered. Perhaps the best thing, and the simplest, for me to have done, would have been to plunge into the Rhine and stay at the bottom; but I have always had a repugnance to suicide, and, besides, I have always been blest with a fund of good spirits and health. I now made a tour of the German watering-places from north to south, getting along as best I could, and changing my name very often. Once I was imprisoned with a Moldavian prince accused of murder, but I was let go, as I could prove my connection with the prince was posterior to the crime. A report then got abroad in Holland that I was dead, and I skilfully manoeuvred to obtain credence for it. At last, weary of my adventurous life, I heard how a member of our family had succeeded in America, and I decided to try my luck there; but I must have money. I flattered myself that after ten years my father would consent to do something for me. I wrote to Francis. The answer was not encouraging. My father threatened, if I dared to cross the frontier, he would hand me over to a court-martial. I thought Francis said this only to frighten me. I came to Zutphen, well disguised, and there I was convinced she had told me the truth. Francis, poor soul, was the only person who took pity on me, and you know already what it cost her. And when I think she could believe me to be guilty of forgery! Oh, the fact is I would not make her more unhappy by telling her what I suspect----" "What then?" "Listen; I have my weaknesses, but I have never been ruled by passions. I am not 'passion's slave.' Wine, play, and pleasant company have run away with my money, and in some respects I am no more than a great baby; but a real passion, a tyrannical passion, capable of making me a great man or a great malefactor, such a passion I have never known. Some one in our family, on the contrary, has been ruled by such a passion; and many things I observed in my boyhood without thinking much about them. But you are a discreet man, otherwise Francis would not confide in you as she has done; and, besides, you are a relation of the family--it is better you should be warned." After a pause-- "Know then that amongst all the trades I tried in Germany, I have had the honour to be croupier in a gaming-house. There, unrecognized by my unfortunate father, I have seen him play with a violence of passion of which you can form no idea; and, believe me, in spite of all my faults, it is in that way both his own and Francis's fortune have been lost. I would have thrown myself at his feet, and besought him not to precipitate himself deeper into this abyss; but my position prevented me. Still, I watched him without his knowing it, and I soon found out for a certainty that he borrowed money of a Dutch banker, to whom he gave bills on Francis's property;--and, you see, rather than confess this to her, he has accused me----" "But such conduct is abominable!" "Ah! passions do not reason. I was far away, and my name was already sullied. I only desire to clear myself in Francis's opinion. But to conclude my history: I was not more lucky in the New World than I had been in Europe; I was shipwrecked and lost my all before I could land at New York. I then went to the far West without meeting with anything which promised me a future; in short, I felt quite happy when I made the acquaintance of Mr. Stonehouse, who engaged me to accompany his circus to Europe. And so it has come about that I once more tread my native earth under the protection of the American flag. Once so near the Werve, I was seized with an irresistible desire to see the old place again. My satisfaction and reception have not been very flattering, as you have witnessed; but I will keep my promise to Francis, cost me what it may. And now good night." Without awaiting my answer he threw himself at full length on the sofa, and soon gave me auricular evidence that he was enjoying the profoundest slumber. I had nothing better to do than follow his example. When I opened my eyes in the morning he had disappeared, but he had left his pocket-book and the notes on the table. After mature reflection I came to the conclusion that his surmises were right, and that the father had defamed his own son to escape the remonstrances of a granddaughter. CHAPTER XXIX. When I began to reflect on the coming day, I remembered that it would be necessary for me to congratulate my uncle on his birthday; and I felt it would require a stretch of the forms of politeness to do this in a becoming manner. It occurred to me now that if Francis could only see through that little glass window in my breast, she would have the best of the argument in future on the subject of the conventionalities of society; for I confess to you, dear William, I had become a convert to Aunt Sophia's opinions with regard to this same General von Zwenken, and now I admired her prudence in preventing her fortune from falling into such hands. As the birthday fell on a Sunday we all went to the village church, a duty which the General considered his position as lord of the manor imposed upon him; and one which he performed as he would have done any other duty laid down by the military code. The clergyman was old, monotonous, and wearisome. The greater part of the congregation went to sleep under the effects of his sermon. Francis took up a Bible and pretended to read, whilst it seemed to me the wakeful part of the congregation paid more attention to us than to their minister; and the remarks they whispered about one to another struck me as not being very favourable to us. The General alone kept his eyes fixed on the preacher throughout the sermon; but whether his mind was so intently occupied with the subject matter, I will not take upon myself to say. On our return the fête commenced. The village schoolmaster brought up his scholars, who recited a string of verses glorifying the Baron as patron of the school, though I doubt whether he had ever entered it. And I believe the same verses had done duty for several generations on similar occasions, when the owners of the Werve admitted the master and his scholars to an audience. Then came the Pauwelsens from the farm, who still address the General as their landlord; after them some of the villagers. All these people were regaled with cake and chocolate. The burgomaster [5] called in his turn; he was a regular rustic, and paid a good deal more attention to me than to the General. He evidently saw in me a mystery which excited his curiosity. Captain Willibald also put in an appearance, and after congratulating my uncle, handed him a box of cigars, saying-- "They are the old sort; I know your taste exactly." "Certainly you do, my good fellow; it is an agreeable present. Here in the country one must lay in a stock. What say you, Leo?" "To my shame, I must own I did not know what to buy you on such an occasion; but I will take care to make up for this omission of mine very soon." Uncle rejoined in a whisper-- "The one thing I should like you to do is to reconcile yourself with your uncle, the Minister for Foreign Affairs." Happily it was not necessary for me to reply to this remark. Francis entered the room, and quite charmed me by her manner. She was cordial to all the visitors--I thought I had never seen a better hostess. I saw how amiable she could be when quite at her ease, and not beset by fears of what envious tongues might say as soon as her back was turned. The dinner was beautifully arranged. The Captain had put on his full-dress uniform, the General his also, and I had given some extra attention to my toilette. Francis was dressed plainly as usual, without much regard for the day or the visitors; and yet there was something original in her style of dress, an elegance which seemed to heighten her beauty considerably. I was struck by the richness and weight of the silver, all engraved with the family coat-of-arms. I felt sure that the Captain and Francis had put their money together to get it from the pawnbrokers for the occasion. At table she took her place between the clergyman and myself. The village lawyer, the postmaster, and some rough-looking country farmers, together with the churchwardens and several members of the local board, had been invited to the dinner. Rolf took his place in the midst of them, and soon loosened their tongues by pointing out the various sorts of wine, and filling up their glasses with no sparing hand. Even the clergyman I found to be much more entertaining at table than in the pulpit, and the conversation never flagged. Fritz, assisted for the nonce by one of the sons of farmer Pauwelsen, had donned a livery which I felt pretty certain was the uniform of an officer metamorphosed. He was more attentive, and more particular than ever in his manner of serving every one; it seemed to me as if he had something on his mind, he was so solemn and serious. In spite of myself I could not help thinking of the utter ruin this once opulent house had fallen into, and of the unhappy son banished from his father's table. As for the General, I had never yet seen him in such good spirits. The table so well served, the appetizing dishes, and the wines which he had such a delicate manner of tasting--all this just suited his epicurean habits. Afterwards we drank coffee in the garden, and Rolf insisted upon our drinking a bowl of May wine; for he was most anxious to display his skill in the composition of this very famous German beverage. This completed the entertainment, for the country people are accustomed to retire early; and the evening was still young when a great lumbering coach drew up before the hall door, to convey the visitors back to the village. I had hoped to meet Francis and propose a walk round the garden, but she was nowhere to be found. It appeared she had run over to the Pauwelsens with some of the dainties for the old bed-ridden grandmother. And her first care on her return was to inquire the whereabouts of her grandfather. "He must not be left alone for a moment to-day," she said to me; "I have not been at my ease all this day." "Because of Rudolf?" I inquired. "I can never be sure what whim he will take into his head next. But you are sure that he is gone?" "Certainly, before I was awake; but he left his pocket-book on the table. I will take it to him to-morrow." "Don't do anything of the sort, I am sure he will come back; this thought has pursued me like my shadow all this day. But tell me what you thought of my dinner." "You were a charming hostess, Francis. How I should like to see you mistress of a well-furnished house of your own!" "And one in which it would not be necessary to take the silver out of pawn when I expected visitors," she replied bitterly. "My dear cousin, I know this must have been a bitter trouble to you," I answered compassionately. "This I feel the most humiliating of all; but I did it to please my old grandfather, upon whom I can be severe enough at times about his weaknesses. Rolf, who in spite of his faults is the best-natured fellow in the world, went to the town of----, and we polished it up ourselves. We would not let Fritz into the secret." "And to me, Francis, to whom you owe nothing, you have given much pleasure, by surprising me with this little Russian leather case----" "Don't mention such a trifle. I only wished to mark the day on which you became my friend." "Yes, indeed, your friend for life," I answered, gently drawing her arm within mine. This word had given me courage, it rendered me bold. "I thank you for that word, Francis; but it is not yet enough. Let me be to you more than a friend; permit me----" "More than a friend?" she cried, visibly agitated. "I beseech you, Leopold, let us not aim at what cannot be realized, nor destroy this relationship which is dear to me, by striving after the impossible. Promise me seriously, Leopold, you will not mention this subject to me again, or use any such language to me." This answer seemed very like a formal refusal, and yet I remarked an emotion in her voice which to a certain extent reassured me. "And why should it be impossible, Francis?" I resumed, mustering up all my courage. This time I got no answer; she uttered a shriek and rushed off to the summer-house, I following her. There a frightful spectacle awaited us. Rudolf, the miserable Rudolf, was on his knees before his father, kissing his hand. The latter was seated on the bench, to all appearance motionless. Suddenly Rudolf uttered a cry of terror and despair. "I warned you," said Francis; "you have been the death of your father." "No, Francis, no, he has fainted. But I found him in this condition; I swear to you by all that's dear to me that I found him thus." The fact was that the General had become stiff and motionless as a corpse. The trellis work alone had prevented his falling to the ground. His face had turned a little blue, his eyes were fixed and wide open, and his features distorted. Francis rubbed his temples with the contents of her scent-bottle. This friction revived him a little; but prompt medical aid was necessary. "Tell me where the village doctor lives," cried Rudolf, beside himself in his agitation, "that I may fly to him." "It will be better to send Fritz," replied Francis, in a cold, decided tone. I ran off in search of the old and faithful servant, to whom I explained the state of affairs. "The General has had an attack!" he exclaimed, with tears in his eyes, "and it is my fault!" "How so?" "I ought not to have allowed it--but I--I could not drive away the only son of the house." "Of course not, but keep your own counsel and make haste." And the old soldier started off at a speed I had thought him little capable of. When I returned the General was in the same condition; Rudolf, leaning against a tree, was wringing his hands. "That will do no good," Francis said to him; "help me to carry him to his room; Leopold will give us a hand." "That's not necessary--he is my father, and it is my place to carry him." In an instant he took up the old man with so much gentleness, and yet with such firmness of muscle, that you would have thought he carried a babe. He refused my assistance even up the staircase. He laid the old Baron on his bed, with his eyes still fixed, and quite unconscious. "Thank God! there he is safe," said Rudolf, falling into a chair. "I have had many a hard piece of work in my life, but never one in which my heart was so deeply concerned. May I stay here until he regains consciousness?" he asked of Francis like a supplicant. "I feel that it is impossible for you to leave at such a moment," she answered; "but we must call in Rolf, and if he sees you here----" "Oh, if he makes the slightest to do I'll twist his neck about like a chicken's." It occurred to me that the more simple and prudent plan would be for me to go and make the Captain acquainted with what had happened, and obtain his promise to keep silent and to pretend not to know anything about Rudolf's presence. He was enjoying his after-dinner nap when I found him, and I was afraid he would have an attack of apoplexy when I told him about the coming of Rudolf. His anger seemed to make him forget the gravity of the General's position. I endeavoured to make him understand that the accident might possibly be attributed to a fit of cold, caused by drinking May wine in the cool of the evening so shortly after the copious dinner of which the General had partaken; but he had made up his mind that Rudolf was the cause of the misfortune, and he asserted that his duty as a soldier and an officer was to have him forthwith arrested as a deserter. It was only with the greatest difficulty that I could get this fixed idea out of his head. I succeeded, however, at length in proving to him that the duty which he owed to humanity far surpassed all others at present; that it would be an unheard-of cruelty to arrest the son now at the bedside of a father, dying, for all we knew; that even Francis herself had consented to his staying, and that we were in duty bound to cast a veil over the family secrets. Finally the inborn good-nature of Rolf triumphed, and we went together to the General's room. The doctor had just arrived. He considered the case serious, and said it would be necessary to bleed the patient. Fritz and Rolf were left to aid the doctor and undress the invalid. Meantime I led Francis into a cabinet where Rudolf had taken refuge and was breathlessly awaiting the doctor's verdict. As we had left the door ajar we heard the patient recover consciousness, and call for Francis in a strangely altered voice, and address questions to her in a frightened tone; which questions the doctor, not understanding, put down to delirium, though they made it clear enough to us that he had seen and recognized Rudolf, although he mentioned no names. "If the patient is not kept strictly quiet, I fear it will turn to brain fever," said the doctor on leaving. "Would you like to see the person you referred to just now?" I asked the General in a whisper, as soon as we were alone. "No, indeed! I know he is here; he must leave in peace, and at once, never more to appear before my eyes, or--I will curse him." We could hear a suppressed sigh in the neighbouring cabinet. Rudolf had understood. Rolf and Francis undertook the duty of watching at the bedside of the patient during the night; and I led Rudolf to my room--I may say supported him, for the strong man reeled. He threw himself on the sofa and wept like a child. "It is finished," he said. "I could not, after all, have expected anything else, and I have my deserts." "Francis was in the right, you see; you ought not to have broken your promise." "It is not my fault I broke it. Fritz caught me this morning just as I was scaling the garden wall, and I was obliged to make myself known to him, otherwise he would have given me in charge as a housebreaker. He then offered to hide me in an unoccupied room on the ground floor until to-night. Thence, unseen, I could watch the movements of my father; and when his guests were gone, I saw him walking alone towards the summer-house, where he sat down, and, as I thought, he had fallen asleep. Then it was I ventured out of my hiding-place and approached him. It appears, however, he must both have seen me and recognized me. But now I have said enough, and this time I will go away for good. God bless him! May the Almighty strengthen dear Francis." I persuaded him to spend this night with me, and try to get a little rest. From time to time I went to make inquiries about the General, and towards morning I was able to inform Rudolf that his father had passed a fair night and was now sleeping calmly; he could therefore leave with his mind more at ease. I accompanied him a part of the way outside the grounds, and promised to keep him informed of the state of his father's health. He gave me his address, as I was to write to him under the name of Richard Smithson, and he then parted from me with the most passionate expressions of gratitude for the little kindnesses I had been able to show him. CHAPTER XXX. The General escaped for this time, but his recovery was slow. He was weak, and both his arms and legs seemed as if they were paralyzed. I allowed myself to be easily persuaded to prolong my stay at the Werve, and I was able to render Francis many little services. One of us two had to be constantly at the side of the convalescent, for Rolf had better intentions than judgment. He let the General have just what he asked for, and would soon have brought on a relapse if we had not watched them both. Francis was very thankful to have me with her; and yet she could not be satisfied that it was possible for me to spare so much time from all my business. She little suspected that my most pressing and agreeable occupation was to remain at her side and win her affections. Her devotion to her grandfather was sublime; she forgot all the wrongs he had done her, and only reproached herself for having caused him pain by her plain speaking. Notwithstanding, as the old man gradually grew better, she was soon again convinced that a certain amount of firmness was absolutely necessary to manage him. During his illness he had requested me, in his first lucid moments, to receive and open all his letters. And in this way I became aware that he was engaged in "risky" speculations, and that he was making debts unknown to Francis. When he was well enough to talk on such a subject, I ventured to remonstrate with him, and to point out the consequences of persisting in such a course, both for himself and for Francis. He promised me he would give up all such speculations, and excused the past on the grounds that he wished to leave Francis something when he died. I was to make the best conditions I could for him in the sale of the Werve. It was time. Overberg consented to wait; but Van Beek, the executor of the will, a man as inflexible as the law itself, had lost all patience. And I was not yet sure of Francis. Weakness on my part, you will say; but no, it was delicacy--it was the fear of having to cut short my stay. I was afraid of the obstinacy of Francis--that she would not consent to a marriage even though I might have won her heart. I was constantly calling to mind that terrible sentence she had uttered in the garden: "You will not use such language to me again." I shuddered at the very idea that a new attempt on my part might draw from her lips a definite and decided No. The old General had discovered my intentions--of that I was convinced. He was continually insisting upon a reconciliation with my uncle the minister, and that I should prepare Francis for the sale of the Werve. On this latter point, I assured him Francis would listen to reason, and, armed with his power of attorney, I went over to Zutphen to arrange the preliminaries with Overberg. Van Beek was growing less and less manageable; he had sent in reams of stamped paper to Overberg, and the interest on several of the mortgages was six months over due; in fact the situation of affairs had become desperate. I charged Overberg to write to Van Beek that the Werve would be sold, in all probability, at the same time as my marriage with Francis took place; and I thought this would be enough to keep the lawyers quiet for a few days longer. I brought back some little presents for the General and Rolf, who were both highly pleased; and a plain set of earrings and a brooch for Francis, as the time had not yet arrived when I could offer her the diamonds I intended for my bride. On my return, to my great surprise, I found Francis sadder and more anxious than I had left her in the morning. She accepted my present, but seemed to be little interested in it. She retired early, and I followed her example, as I did not find Rolf's company particularly interesting. Most of the night I spent in reflection and conjectures as to this change in Francis; for I had observed tears in her eyes when she bade me good-night. Once more I made up my mind that the coming day should put an end to all my doubts. At breakfast, Francis, less depressed than the night before, told us she had received a letter from Dr. D., of Utrecht, who gave her very encouraging news of the invalid in whom she was so much interested. I wished to propose to her a long walk in the wood; but when I came downstairs from my room, where I had gone after breakfast to make a change in my dress, I met Francis in the hall, arrayed in her riding-habit. This time she had put on an elegant hat and blue veil, and was waiting for her beautiful horse Tancredo, which the son of the farmer led up to the door saddled. "Give up your ride this morning, to oblige me," I said to her, with a certain tone of impatience in my voice that could not escape her. She looked at me in surprise and silence as she played with her riding-whip. "You can take your ride an hour later," I insisted. "I have a long ride before me, and I must be back before dinner." "Then put it off until to-morrow. This is the first opportunity we have had to take a long walk since your grandfather fell ill. Don't refuse me this pleasure." "You always like to disarrange my plans, Leo." "To-day I have good reasons for doing so, Francis; believe me, to-morrow it will be too late." "Really? Your words sound threatening," she said, attempting to smile. "Well, you shall have your way," and she threw aside her riding-whip pettishly. "You'll have to wait until I change my dress; I cannot walk in my riding-habit." Tancredo was sent back to the stable, and in much less time than I could have imagined my cousin reappeared in a very neat walking-costume. "And where shall we go?" she asked. "Well, into the wood, I suppose." "That's right, the weather is splendid: we can walk as far as the round point, and rest there on the rustic bench which you perhaps remember." And so we walked through the great lane towards the wood, silent, just because we had so much to say to each other. I had resolved to speak; but I could not decide in my own mind how to begin the subject. She herself seemed to have a thousand other things to talk about beside the one I wished to come to. At length I tried to change the subject by saying it would be necessary for me to fix a day for my return to the Hague. "I was expecting it, Leopold." "And are you sorry I am going away?" "I ought to say 'No,' by way of opposition, which is the only suitable answer to such a foolish question." "But I--will come back, if you would like it." "No, Leopold, I should not like it. And I still believe you would have done better to go away the day I first advised you to do so." "Have I been a burden to you, Francis?" "You know better than that. You know I have much to thank you for: you have stood by me in days of suffering, and borne my troubles with me; you have been open, frank, and obliging with me; in a word, you have spoilt me, and I shall feel my loneliness doubled when you are gone." "Not for long, though, for I will come back soon--with--with a trousseau!" "And, in the name of goodness, for whom?" "For whom, indeed, but my well-beloved cousin Francis Mordaunt!" "That's a poor, very poor sort of jest, sir; you know very well that your cousin Mordaunt has no intentions of ever marrying." "Listen to me, Francis! When we first met on the heath, and you told me your intentions on this point, I had no reasons for trying to dissuade you from them; but to-day, as you yourself know, the case is different. You will recollect the freedom with which I have pointed out to you any defects which I considered a blemish on your noble character. Do you think I should have taken such a liberty if I had not conceived the idea, fostered the hope, of your one day consenting to become--my wife?" The word, the all-important word, was at last said. "Well, indeed, Leo," she began with a profound sigh, "since you force me to speak seriously, I must remind you of my last warning, 'not to use such language to me;' it cannot, it may not be." "And why not, Francis? Did I deceive myself when I thought I was not altogether indifferent to you?" She turned aside her face in silence, but I was sure I heard something like a suppressed sigh. "Is it possible you are not disengaged?" I inquired, taking her hand gently and placing myself before her so that I could look into her eyes. "Disengaged! Certainly I am disengaged," she answered bitterly. "I have done my best to remain so; and I have all along told you I must be independent. It is necessary." "Ah, I comprehend, Francis!" I exclaimed, carried away by an absurd jealousy; "you are still waiting for your Lord William." "I?" she returned with passion; "I waiting for Lord William, who never loved me, who caused me to commit a thousand follies, who broke my heart, and who must now be nearly sixty! No, Leopold; don't humiliate me by pretending to be jealous of Lord William. Could I have told you the history of his stay with us if I still loved him?" "Is it then only a whim of Major Frank, who will surrender to no man, but prefers his savage kind of independence?" "Don't torment me in this way, Leopold. You can break my heart, but you cannot overcome my objections." "Then I will discover this mysterious power which enthrals you," I cried, full of anger and pain. "You already know the duties I have to fulfil, Leopold. Why should you throw yourself into this abyss of misfortunes and miseries, in which I am sinking? and I shall never be able to get out of it my whole life." "I wish to know your miseries, my dear Francis, to share them with you, and help you to bear them. We will overcome them together--be assured of that, my adored----" Passion was getting the mastery over me; I caught her in my arms and pressed her to my breast. She made no resistance, but, as if wearied with the struggle, she rested her head on my shoulder--her head so charming in its luxuriancy of golden curls. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were crimson. I thought myself in the seventh heaven. Suddenly a croaking voice broke the profound silence of the wood-- "Don't let me disturb you. Ah! Now Missy has a lover, it is not surprising she neglects the little boy." Such were the words we heard close to us, uttered by a hoarse voice and in the coarsest of country dialects. CHAPTER XXXI. Francis, pale with terror, disengaged herself from my embrace, and stepped forward a few paces. As for myself, I stood as if thunder-struck. The person who had spoken these offensive words, and who had doubtless been watching our movements for some time, was an old peasant woman bearing a strong resemblance to the witches in Macbeth. Her sharp black eyes, bare skinny arms, as red and dry as a boiled crab, her face wrinkled and tanned, her blue checked handkerchief tied over her white cap, and the stick on which she supported herself, all contributed to call up before my mind one of those creatures our ancestors would have burned alive. I confess I wished her such a fate when she advanced towards Francis and said, with her ingrained impertinence-- "Now, miss--now I see what you have been so busy about the last five weeks, that you have never once had time to come and see the child." "My grandfather has been ill, Mrs. Jool." "Yes, rich people's sickness--there's no great danger; but the young gent there, that's another thing, eh? I tell you all the village is talking about it." "About what, Mrs. Jool?" asked Francis, indignantly. "Your neglecting the child for----" "Listen to me, Mrs. Jool," interrupted Francis, in a calm and firm tone: "neither you nor the village have any right to interfere with my business." "Hum! the month is up, and a week gone in the second, and when Trineke [6] is not paid the boy suffers for it." "You shall be paid to-morrow; but I warn you if the child suffer on account of a week's delay in payment, either at your hands or your daughter's, I will take him away from you. To-morrow, or the day after, I shall come to see him myself, and I shall make inquiries of the neighbours." "What! You would disgrace me and my daughter by taking him away? You try it! we shall then see who is the strongest." And the insolent, vulgar woman set her arms akimbo, as she whined out-- "This is what one gets for defending great folks." "It has cost you no sacrifices, Mrs. Jool; for you have simply tried to make money out of your daughter's misfortune." "And he must have shoes and socks, or else he will have to run about bare-legged in clogs like a peasant's child." "I will provide them, Mrs. Jool; and now I have heard enough. This is the path which leads to the village." "What a hurry you're in!" "These are private grounds; do you understand that? Now take yourself off, or----" "Marry come up! how anxious you are to get rid of me. Well, well, I am going. Otherwise I am afraid this dandy will play the policeman for her." And so she limped off along the path indicated, mumbling all the way. Francis then turned to me and said-- "Well, Leopold, this incident will serve to enlighten you; behold a power opposed to my freedom and happiness." "I understand," I answered, trying to assume a calmness I did not possess; "I understand, Francis--you are too honest to bind any man to you for life, saddled as you are with such a burden. But why did you not confide this terrible secret to me sooner? I will attempt the impossible to save you!" "But, Leopold, what are you thinking of?" she responded, quite red with emotion; "you surely do not suspect me of anything unworthy? You comprehend that my honour is not herein concerned, though I must suffer for the deplorable consequences of the fault I committed." "I am listening, Francis; but, excuse me, I do not rightly understand you. Is this not a question of a child which you are obliged to maintain?" "Yes, certainly; and that's not the heaviest part of the burden. I have also to maintain the mother." "Francis!" I exclaimed, in a transport of joy and relief. "Now it is my turn to say I don't understand you," she rejoined, regarding me with an adorable simplicity. "Do you think it a light charge for me, in my position, to bring up a child, and provide for its mother whom I have sent to a private asylum?" I thanked Heaven from the bottom of my heart that she, in her innocency, did not suspect the conclusions I had drawn from the words and manner of the old witch. "This is the fatal consequence of my rash obstinacy with poor Harry Blount," she continued. "You have heard me speak of the accident before. He was carried in a dying state into the cottage of this Mrs. Jool and her daughter. In my despair, I repeated several times: 'It is my fault; I have killed him, I have killed him.' The daughter knelt beside Blount in the wildest agony; and Harry could just murmur, 'My wife, my poor wife; have pity on her, Miss Francis!' I did not know until this moment that they were secretly married. I promised solemnly I would care for her, and even if I had made no promise I should still have done all I have done for her. "The mother always was, and is, a bad woman; she had, as it were, thrown her daughter into the arms of Blount, whom she considered a good match. After the funeral, she made such good use of my words uttered in despair, and spread such nefarious reports in the village, that I was accused in all earnest of being his murderer. In fact, we were obliged to consult the magistrate, a friend of ours, as to the measures we ought to take to contradict and put a stop to such slanderous charges. This, of course, did not relieve me of my obligations towards the daughter, in whom, very soon after the birth of her child, symptoms of insanity manifested themselves. The child had to be taken from her, and it was given in care to a sister of hers in the neighbouring village, who had just lost her youngest born. Perhaps you would imagine she took it out of sisterly charity; but no, she insisted upon my paying her monthly wages as I should have to do any other wet nurse. Besides, I had to do what I could for the poor mother. It was most fortunate for me that on the occasion of my visit to Utrecht I met with Aunt Roselaer, otherwise I could not have afforded the expense the mother has cost under the care of Dr. D. Mrs. Jool, not caring to live alone, went to the house of her married daughter under the pretext of watching over the little one; but the fact is, she would there have a better opportunity of extorting money from me, and this she does under all kinds of pretences. The child has long been weaned, and ought not to be left in their charge. I am always threatening to take it away from them, but I have not yet done so; for, to confess a truth, I have recoiled from the rumours and false charges such a change would give rise to. The mother and child are now costing me the greater part of my income. My grandfather finds fault with me about it, for he regards it as so much money thrown away. Now, Leopold, do you think I could draw a man I really loved into such a maëlstrom as this?" "The man worthy to possess you, Francis, will not be drawn in, but will aid you in getting out of it." "It is impossible; I will never abandon this child of Harry Blount's." "I would never advise you to do anything of the sort. I know the way to treat such people as Mrs. Jool. The child must be taken away from her and brought up by respectable farmers; perhaps the Pauwelsens would take him. To-morrow I will go with you to the village----" "You will only stir a wasps' nest about your ears." "Oh, never mind; I am not afraid of a sting." "It's bad enough that this woman has been playing the spy on us to-day." "When she sees us together to-morrow she will understand that it is useless playing the spy on us any longer." "But then she will make us the talk of the country-side. You don't know the wickedness that woman's capable of." "Well, what can she say more than that we are an engaged couple? And is this not true, Francis?" I said, gently taking her hand in mine. "You come back to the subject again, even now you know all," she murmured; "but you have not calculated all the troubles and burdens which would fall upon you: Rolf, whom we could not send away from the Werve; my grandfather with his large wants--and small income. Oh yes, I know you are going back to the Hague to reconcile yourself with your uncle the minister, as the General has advised you to do; and I understand why. But don't do so for my sake, Leopold, for you have yourself said it would demean you." "Reassure yourself on that point, Francis; I may forgive my uncle and seek to be reconciled to him, as my religion bids me; but never for the sake of his favours. But why so many difficulties? Don't you see I love you, Francis; that during the last few days I have been at some pains to suppress my feelings, and have therein succeeded better than I gave myself credit for; that, now I have told you all, we must either part for ever, or I must have the assurance you will accept me as your husband? I desire it, Francis; I desire it with a firmness of will that despises all objections and will remove all difficulties." "Leopold," she replied, "don't talk to me like this. No one ever spoke to me as you have done--you make me beside myself. And yet I ought to resist. I don't wish to be an obstacle in the way of your happiness, whatever it may cost me." I took both her hands in mine. "Francis," I said, "I love you!" This was my only answer. "You persist? Can it be? May I still be happy!" "Enough, Francis; you are mine! I will never forsake you; you are mine for life!" "For life!" she repeated after me, becoming so pale that I was afraid she would faint. "Leopold, yes, I am yours; I put my trust in you, and I love you as I have never loved before--never before," she whispered quite low. "At last!" I cried; and pressed the first kiss of love on her lips. I need not tell you we came in too late for luncheon. It is true we were not hungry. We returned to the house slowly, and almost in silence, and we even slackened our pace as we drew nearer the Castle. Francis, especially, seemed loath to enter. "Let us rest on the moss at the foot of this large oak tree," she said; "it seems to me that all my misfortunes will come back to me as soon as I enter yonder. I cannot yet separate myself from my happiness. Oh, Leopold! I wish we could fly away together, that no one might interpose between us two." "We will fly away, dearest; but first we must go through certain formalities which will give us the right to appear in the world as man and wife, and lift up our heads with the best of them." "And then will follow the breakfast, the visits, and the congratulations of mean and false people, who come with a hypocritical smile to wish us joy, whilst behind our backs they will make a mock of the man who has dared to marry Major Frank!" "Oh, what a supposition!" I replied; "you must pay for that," kissing her sad face into cheerfulness. "I don't understand," she continued, "how people can treat so serious a subject as marriage with such lightness. The woman especially makes an immense sacrifice--her name, her will, her individual self; a sacrifice which I always considered it would be impossible for me to make, until I met you." "And now?" I asked, kneeling before her on the moss, the better to see into her beautiful eyes, which sparkled with happiness and tenderness. "Now I have no longer so many objections," she replied with her sweetest smile. "But do not remain in that position before me, Leopold. It is only acting a lie, for I foresee you will be my lord and master. But let us now go in, my dear, otherwise they will be alarmed about us at the Castle. They won't know what to think of our long absence." "Just let me say, Francis, it must be with us as Tennyson puts it-- "Sit side by side, full summed in all their powers, ------ Self-reverent each, and reverencing each: Distinct in individualities, But like each other even as those who love." "Exactly my opinion!" she exclaimed, applauding the sentiment. CHAPTER XXXII. It was just as well we went in, for we met Rolf and Fritz, who had been sent out in search of us, as the General, though in a good humour, was most impatient to speak to us. When we entered his room he was arranging his papers, and did not give us time to announce our engagement, as we intended. "Francis," he cried, "why did you stay out so long when I have such good news to tell you?" "That's just what I have to tell you, grandfather; but what can have pleased you so much? You have not been made heir to Aunt Roselaer's property, have you?" "It comes almost to the same thing, my child. Know then that the heir to Aunt Roselaer's property asks your hand in marriage. It is one of the conditions of the will; and I believe he will be agreeable to you." I smiled, though I found that Overberg and Van Beek had been in too great a hurry to inform the old Baron of the real state of affairs. I had wished to be the first to break this agreeable surprise to Francis. She stepped forward towards the General, and in a firm voice she said-- "I am sorry, grandfather, to disappoint you. The gentleman comes too late, for I have just promised my hand and heart to my cousin, Leopold van Zonshoven--and that is the good news I came to tell you." "But that's all the better, dear child--all the better; for the heir to Aunt Roselaer's property and your cousin Leopold van Zonshoven are one and the same person; and on the condition that you should marry the heir." Francis, turning on me brusquely, cried, "It is not true, Leopold? Oh, say it is not true!" she exclaimed, violently agitated. "Then I should not speak the truth," I answered. "The only difference for you," I continued, "is this: you thought you were giving your heart to a 'poor gentleman,' and now, like a prince in the fairy tales, he turns out to be a millionaire. Can such a surprise be disagreeable to you?" "Not a disagreeable surprise to me"--she almost shrieked, with scintillating eyes and flushed cheeks--"to find you have put on a mask to deceive me! Have you not succeeded in inspiring me with esteem for you by your proud and dignified behaviour, and the elevated sentiments you professed? And do you think I can be happy to find that all this was but a comedy? Could a gentleman have treated me so? But you have deceived yourself, Jonker van Zonshoven. I gave my heart to a young man without fortune, whose upright and noble character I admired, and in whom I had more confidence than in myself; but for the intriguer, who, to seize upon my aunt's fortune and make sure of it, has put on a disguise to win the heart of the woman he was ordered to marry, for this hypocrite, this pretended sage, I have nothing but--my contempt!" "Be careful, Francis; I know your violent temper often causes you to say that which in cooler moments you regret; but don't insult in such a manner the man you have just accepted as your husband--a man whom no one ever dared to address in such language, neither will he meekly bear it from any living being." "Need I make any respectful apologies, or do I owe any excuses to you, who have deceived me, lied to me, who have introduced yourself here like a spy, and carried on your mean and degrading speculations up to the very moment when you thought it impossible for me to retract my word? Once more, sir, I tell you, you are mistaken in my character. I will never pardon a man who has abused my confidence!" "I have not abused your confidence, Francis," I answered, in as calm and gentle a tone as I could; "I have only been studying your character, and trying to gain your affections, before I would venture an avowal of my sentiments--that is all I have done." "You have been false, I tell you. How can I any longer believe in your love? You came here to make what is called a good stroke of business, to gain your million. It is true, I loved you such as you were not as you now appear in my eyes. I will not be disposed of in marriage by any person dead or alive; and as for you, I refuse your offer. Do you understand me? I refuse you!" Upon this she fell back in an armchair, pale as death. I was myself obliged to lean on the back of a chair, for I felt my legs trembling under me. Rolf, tender-hearted as ever, had withdrawn to a corner of the room with tears in his eyes. The General, with agony depicted on his face, sat in his chair wringing his hands, and seemed unable to move from the spot. "Francis, Francis," he said, "don't let your temper overmaster you in this way. Reflect that the Castle is mortgaged to the last stone, and that the last six months' interest is not yet paid. If sold to-morrow it will not fetch a third of the amount for which I have mortgaged it, and it is only by the generosity of Jonker Leopold that the sale can any longer be delayed. He has offered to take it off my hands, together with all the mortgages with which it is burdened, and to allow me a yearly income which will make me comfortable for life; but you must marry him, otherwise all our plans come to nought. Understand that, and don't insult a man who has such generous intentions towards us. He is still willing to forgive you, if you don't persevere in your senseless refusal, I am sure; for I have for some time already been aware he loves you. And we have not to deal with him alone; there is a will made, and executors and lawyers appointed to see its provisions carried out. Now what shall I write to Overberg?" "Write, grandfather," said Francis, rousing herself with an effort, "that Francis Mordaunt will not suffer herself to be disposed of in marriage by anybody's testamentary disposition; that she will neither sell herself for one million nor for two millions, and that she has decidedly refused Jonker van Zonshoven's offer of marriage." Feeling confident Francis would do me justice when more calm and resigned, but feeling also the necessity of not giving way to violence in dealing with a character such as hers, I said-- "I who have your promise and will not release you from it, I request the General to write to Overberg that Miss Mordaunt has accepted my offer, and that the transfer of the Castle de Werve can forthwith be concluded." "If I will consent to the sale," interposed Francis, still pale and unmoved. "I beg your pardon, Miss Mordaunt," I rejoined, "your grandfather is the sole owner of the Castle; and during his life the will by which it is bequeathed to you has no force nor value." "Ah! if she could only be brought to see all the circumstances in their true light," sighed Von Zwenken. "Well, uncle, you write what I have requested you to write; you know only too well the consequences of any other decision." "He wants you to write lies!" cried Francis, exasperatingly; "he'll stick to his million, that's clear." "Francis," said the General, with the tone of a supplicant, "if you knew all I know! You are insulting a man who is generosity itself, who has power to ruin us all, and yet who seeks to save us if you will simply take the hand he holds out to you. Remember he can force us to sell the Castle if we do not consent to hand it over to him, however much against our own will." "It is possible that he has secretly acquired the power to drive us out of the Werve like beggars, but he cannot compel me to marry him." "We shall see about that," I rejoined, proudly. "You dare to talk to me of constraint--to me!" she cried, becoming furious, and advancing towards me--"you, Leopold," she added, with an accent of real pain. "Yes, Francis," I answered, resolved to follow up my advantage, "you shall submit to the constraint of your own conscience, which must tell you that you owe me an apology. I am going away. Farewell. Try to reflect on this in your calmer moments. You have touched me to the quick; you have wounded my feelings of honour and my heart. Do not let me wait too long, or the wound will become incurable." I gave her a last look of gentle reproach, but her glassy eyes seemed insensible to all around her. I shook hands with the old Baron, who, with bowed head, was weeping like a child. Rolf followed me to my room, and besought me not to leave the Castle in such haste. "She is like this," he said, "when anything goes wrong with her. Within an hour she will regret what she has said, I am sure; the storm was too violent to last long." But my mind was made up. I packed up my luggage, slowly, I must confess, and always listening for a well-known step and a knock, which should announce Francis repentant and seeking a reconciliation. But she did not come. I was miserable beyond all expression. It was like being shipwrecked in the harbour after a long voyage. To think this was the same woman at whose feet I had kneeled an hour ago, and whose hand I had kissed in a delirium of pleasure. And now she had turned upon me like a fury and declined my offer with contempt! I reflected that I ought to have acted more frankly and straightforwardly with her. For a moment the idea occurred to me to renounce all my rights as to Aunt Sophia's property; but, after all, what good end could it serve--it would only reduce us both to poverty. I promised myself that, once arrived at Zutphen, I would send her in writing a complete statement of how affairs stood, and enclose aunt's letter, which, out of delicacy, I had so far kept to myself. I would add a few words of explanation, and I doubted not that, in her calmer moments, she would do me justice. And thus I acted; but as all the documents together made up too large a packet for the post, I confided them to a waiter at the hotel, who was to hand them over to a carrier calling every day at the Werve for orders. I flattered myself I should speedily receive an answer, and all the following day I passed in a feverish excitement, only increased in the evening when no answer came. During the night I never slept a moment. Another day passed, and still no answer; and now I gave myself up to the most complete despair. There was nothing for me to do but settle my affairs in all haste at Zutphen and return to the Hague. I kept Overberg in the dark about my rupture with Francis, only telling him pressing business called me back to the Hague. I signed all the papers he put before me, and told him I would return as soon as possible. The fact was I felt seriously unwell, and, as you know, home is the best place under such circumstances; I thought I could there immerse myself in my favourite studies, but I only remember feeling an unbearable weight of oppression come over me. CHAPTER XXXIII. Instead of regaining my usual calm in my own "sweet home," I fell seriously ill the first night after my return. I was attacked by a nervous fever, and remained for several days insensible. My landlady now proved herself a faithful and attentive nurse, and she tells me that my life was almost despaired of for some days. I am convalescent at last, and I shall travel. You will ask where? I don't know yet; nothing is decided. When I was able to look over the papers which had accumulated on my table during my illness, I found a card from my uncle the minister, who had called to make inquiries about me. My worthy uncle had heard the report that I was a millionaire. I also found quite a heap of letters from Overberg and Van Beek, which I had not the courage to read; one, however, marked "Important," I broke open. It announced the death of my uncle Von Zwenken, and I was invited to the funeral. The date told me that the letter was three weeks old! What had become of Francis? Doubtless she was still ill-disposed towards me. She seemed to be unaware of my illness, since she had invited me to the funeral of her grandfather. What must she have thought of my silence? Not a single word of comfort or encouragement from me. What annoyances she might already have suffered from the lawyers. I was expecting my doctor every moment, and I had determined to ask his permission to start immediately for Zutphen, when I heard some one coming up the stairs, whom my landlady was endeavouring to call back, she being very strict about my being kept quiet. But, in spite of all her efforts, Rolf burst into the room--Rolf, whom I had ended by loving almost as much as I detested him the first few days of our acquaintance. "My General is dead," he said, with tears in his eyes--"died in my arms. Francis is gone----" "She is not ill, however?" I interrupted quickly. "Not in the least, she is in excellent health; but--she has turned me out of the Werve." "What do you say?" "Oh, it was not done in anger or malice; but because she herself will be forced to leave the Castle very soon. In fact, she has already hired a room at farmer Pauwelsen's; but she will tell nobody what she intends to do." "But tell me all the particulars of the General's death." "Well, the General had not the courage to resist her, and write to Overberg in the sense you advised him. And as everything was vague and uncertain because of your answering nobody's letters, the lawyers lost patience; and Overberg, egged on, I believe, by that quill-driver in Utrecht, wrote to Freule Mordaunt to know for certain whether or not she was engaged to you. You will guess her answer, short and dry, but without a word of reproach as far as you were concerned, I can assure you. I know she reproaches herself bitterly, and has done so since the day you left, as I told you would be the case." "Even after she had received the packet from me?" "She never received anything from you." "That's very surprising!" "No, it's not at all surprising, for everything was in the utmost confusion with us from the fatal Friday you left----But I see this is sherry, may I help myself?" "Certainly, Captain; I beg your pardon, I ought to have thought of asking you sooner." "Well, then, after you were gone she fainted. Such a thing never happened to her before within my knowledge. I felt almost ashamed of her; but she loved you so much, as she later confessed to me weeping! When she came to herself again, and whilst, as we thought, she was reposing in her own room, she had stealthily gone off to the farm, ordered Tancredo to be saddled, and ridden away at full gallop. At dinner we became dreadfully uneasy as she did not put in an appearance, and neither the General nor myself could eat. But it was much worse when, in the evening twilight, young Pauwelsen came to say Tancredo had returned to the stable alone, without saddle and white with foam." "An accident!" I cried, beside myself. "Do tell me the worst at once. What has happened to her?" "Oh, it was not so bad after all, Jonker--only a sprained foot; we found her lying on the moss at the foot of an oak, to which she had been able to crawl to rest herself a little." "I know that oak!" I exclaimed. "I feel what she must have felt there. She loves me still!" "I believe so, Jonker, for she said we were to leave her there to die, and to tell you where she died. It appears she had ridden towards the town, and then, suddenly changing her course, was returning to the Castle through the wood; but either she must have pressed Tancredo too hard, or dropped the reins--she cannot explain it herself. But certain it is, the noble animal, no longer recognizing the hand of his mistress, galloped home, and she fell out of the saddle. We carried her home, and laid her on the sofa in the drawing-room. The surgeon declared there was no danger, but said she must not be moved for some days." "And why did you not send me word immediately?" "Hum! I wanted to write to you, and she also. I ought not to tell you perhaps, but she wrote a note to you." "Which I never received." "No, for young Pauwelsen was charged to deliver it into your own hands at Zutphen; but when he arrived there they told him you had left, and he brought back the letter, which the Freule tore up, with a bitter laugh saying-- "'I deserved no better.'" "Oh, if I could have foreseen all this!" I cried, wringing my hands. "I advised you to stay," replied the Captain; "why need you go off in such a hurry?" "My dear Captain, I felt I was going to be ill; I was ill already. But how was it she did not receive my packet? I waited until the third day for an answer." "What could you expect? Everything was turned upside down. Fritz had orders to place all letters on the General's writing-table, and he had taken such an aversion to anything in the shape of a communication from the lawyers, that he never opened one of them. Miss Francis was scarcely able to move about again when those accursed creatures set to work and threatened to send in the bailiffs, and Heaven only knows what besides. Then she had to attend to everything, for the General had a second attack of paralysis: those people have been the death of him, and I could not prevent it." The Captain forgot to add here, what I afterwards learnt, that he had himself hastened the General's end by administering a glass of old cognac to him under the pretext of strengthening him for the occasion of meeting the bailiffs. "As soon as his eyes were closed," he continued, "the lawyer from Arnheim, who was in possession of the General's will, and Overberg advised Francis to arrange matters with you in an amicable manner; but she would not listen to them. You understand, it was in your name these proceedings had been taken against her grandfather." "Whilst I lay unconscious on a bed of sickness." "That's what the Pharisees knew, but they had your power of attorney; and Francis said-- "'Behold the constraint with which he threatened me! And he imagines I shall give way? Never!' You should have seen her, how pale she was, but firm; when the men came to make the inventory of all there was in the Castle!" "Afterwards she took me aside. 'Rolfie,' she said--it was her word when she wanted to get anything out of me--'Rolfie, now tell me honestly, have you not sacrificed the greater part of your fortune to the wants of my grandfather?' "'Well, certainly not, Maj--Miss Francis; we have only spent that small sum which we won in the lottery. The General would make use of his part of it to try his luck once more; but I preferred spending my part on a few extras for the table that we might all enjoy it together.' "'Then that story of yours about an inheritance was a pure invention?' she demanded severely. "'Pardon, Freule, I have inherited a nice little farm in North Brabant, where I always intended to end my days, if the Freule should' (marry, I would have said, but I was afraid) 'wish to dispense with my services.' "'And can you live comfortably on it, Captain?' "'Very; and, besides, I have my pension. Living is very cheap in that part of the country; if the Freule can make up her mind to go with me, we should have a very pleasant life of it together. Though it is no castle, the best room in the house is set apart for your service.' "'I thank you most cordially, my good Captain; I was most anxious to know whether you were provided for. But we must separate, my dear Rolf.' "'And where will you go, what will you do?' "'I cannot tell you that; but one thing is certain, you cannot go with me.'" The Captain plied himself well with sherry to keep up his spirits, and concluded by saying-- "And so we parted, Jonker. But I thought to myself, I'll pass through the Hague; and here I heard of your illness, and said to myself, 'Probably the Jonker is ignorant of all that has occurred.'" "Do you know what you must do, Rolf? Go back to the Werve at once. I shall give you a letter for the lawyers to stop all proceedings, and you will take command of the fortress until I come. Retain Fritz in the service, and try to find the packet. I shall be with you to-morrow or the day after, if my doctor will give me permission to leave my room." "Oh, the packet will be at Overberg's with the rest of the General's papers." "Then try to find out where Miss Francis is, and induce her to return to the Werve; but don't tell her I am coming there." At the same moment my landlady brought me the following telegram from Overberg-- "Your immediate presence indispensable; no arrangement possible; F. M. has left the Castle." I did not hesitate any longer. Without awaiting the doctor's leave, I got Rolf to pack my portmanteau, and we were off before he could stop us. These thick-coming events called forth all my strength, and I forgot how weak I really was. CHAPTER XXXIV. When I arrived at the hotel in Zutphen, I was surprised to find a letter awaiting me from Rudolf, who was still travelling through the provinces of Guelderland and Overyssel with his troupe, which was now performing at Laren fair. It ran as follows-- "If you wish to prevent Francis from committing the greatest folly she has yet been guilty of in life, try to meet me at the 'Half-way House,' between Zutphen and Laren, to-morrow morning about nine o'clock." I promised myself I would not neglect this appointment. I then sent for Overberg, who confirmed all I had heard from Rolf, and explained many things I thought inexplicable. It was Van Beek who had pushed matters to extremities, and he (Overberg) had been quite willing to grant any reasonable delay. He told me one thing I was still ignorant of. A lawyer had sent into Van Beek a copy of a codicil to Aunt Sophia's will, drawn up by her order on the eve of her death, by which she bequeathed to her grandniece, Francis Mordaunt, a yearly income of three thousand florins in case she did not marry Jonker van Zonshoven; and I was bound to pay this pension on condition she made no marriage without my consent. A very far-seeing woman this aunt of mine! I charged Overberg to make known this codicil, and to hand over to Francis the packet which he had found amongst the General's papers. He had sent it to the Castle, but too late; Francis was already gone. I requested him to do his best to find her out, and to deliver it into her hands. Next morning, when I arrived at the appointed place, a little country inn, the landlady told me that a lady and gentleman were already awaiting me upstairs. I hastened into the large assembly-room, and at the bottom of it I could perceive Rudolf and Francis, almost hidden behind a platform which had been erected for the musicians. Francis stood with her back to the door at which I entered. I wished to give her warning of my presence, but I could not speak; and as I advanced all of a tremble, I heard Rudolf saying to her-- "Nonsense, my dear! you have no idea of the sort of life you wish to lead. You talk of liberty and independence; but I tell you it is slavery and the whip into the bargain. Do you know our bed-room is in the stable with the horses? Do you think the women are much respected because they are so politely assisted to mount their horses during the performance? I can tell you Madame Stonehouse herself is not spared by her gracious husband. And you would cast in your lot with us, susceptible and haughty as you are!" "There's nothing else I can do," replied Francis. "I can manage a horse, but I cannot become a governess and undertake the care of young children any more than I could earn my bread with my needle. I will not be guilty of the sin of suicide. I have a duty to fulfil in life, though to me life is but a martyrdom. And this is my only resource." "But, you foolish girl, why don't you seek a reconciliation with your Cousin van Zonshoven? You would then have all a woman could wish for--your castle back, a beautiful fortune, and a husband who would love you truly. Upon that I'll wager my head." "Yes; he's a man of rare loyalty, indeed, and has shown himself such!" she answered with a choking voice. "Bah! at the worst he has only acted a little insincerely; white lies, my dear, white lies may be pardoned. Forgive him his peccadillo. He will have much to forgive in you, as you have confessed to me yourself. Tell him you are sorry for what you have said. He will then embrace you and all will be well." "It is impossible, I tell you; it is too late." "Why too late, Francis?" I exclaimed, as I stepped forward, unable to restrain myself any longer. "Leopold!" she cried, turning deadly pale, and covering her face with her hands. "Francis," I went on gently, "nothing is changed; I still regard you as my betrothed wife." And saying this I tried to take her hand in mine. But the touch pained her; she sprang back as if she had received the discharge of an electric battery. "Your betrothed! You have given me to understand this by the manner in which I have been treated!" "It grieves me to the heart, Francis--I cannot tell you how much. I come now from a sick-bed, and what the lawyers did whilst I lay insensible in the fever was in opposition to my wishes, and quite contrary to my intentions." "And was it contrary to your intentions to cause my grandfather the shock which led to his death?" "Most certainly it was, and I did my utmost to prevent it; but you would not assist me, and afterwards it was too late. It was the executors carrying out the last will and testament of the deceased, and it was out of my power to interfere with them. And if the consequences hastened your grandfather's death, you cannot blame me, Francis. For after a calm consideration of all the facts, you will be bound to agree that I was a better friend both to him and to you than you have been to yourselves. Because of a little misunderstanding which I could easily have explained, you have brought all this trouble on yourself, and caused me the most acute suffering. Still all may be well." "All may be well! Oh, Leopold, Leopold! how can you say so, when the gulf between us is so wide," she replied, with a profound sigh. "You threatened me with force, and you have meanly carried that threat into execution! You had it in your power to drive me to extremities, your one fixed idea being to compel me to marry Aunt Roselaer's heir. I have heard this so often I am sick of the subject; and though I acknowledge you are right from a worldly and material point of view, I had given you credit for better things. Don't you understand, that were I to marry you now under constraint, I should tug at my chains until they made life unbearable to us both, or until they broke!" "I agree with you, Francis, if you regard our engagement in this light, and I release you from your promise." "Thank you, but I had already taken measures which render such generosity on your part unnecessary. I am going to travel about in the world, and I have taken steps to separate myself from the past entirely. I have made my contract with Mr. Stonehouse, to whom Rudolf is to introduce me as soon as he arrives here to sign the same." "Your Uncle Rudolf came here, my dear, to dissuade you from such a step; and if you are awaiting the arrival of Mr. Stonehouse, you will have to wait a long time," responded Rudolf, coolly. "Did you think me such a fool, Francis, as to assist you in your insane idea?" "Then you never delivered my letter to your master?" "Certainly not, I did much better. I warned your Cousin Leopold that you were going to commit a folly which would lead to your inevitable ruin." "Oh, I see! this is another plot against me. Enough; as I cannot trust any one but myself, I will ride off at once and ask to see Mr. Stonehouse in person." "You will do nothing of the sort," I said, authoritatively, seeing that she rose to depart. "The General is dead, Rudolf civilly dead, and I am consequently, in the eyes of the law, your nearest male relation. Therefore I forbid your entering this abyss, from whence no one ever rises again, in the flower of your age." "What am I to do?" she cried passionately, yet with an accent of submission in her tone. "You have simply to return to the Werve," I answered, "where you will find a friend actively preparing for your reception." "A friend!" she repeated, in astonishment. "Yes, Rolf; who is to stay there until further orders. Don't be afraid--I shall not importune you with my presence, for I am going to travel." This latter declaration seemed to make a great impression on her. She regarded me with a strange kind of look, and replied in a tone of voice which betrayed something more than pride and anger-- "In very sooth, Leopold, you are going to travel? Well, then, I will stay at the Werve. Farewell." And she escaped from the room quickly, shutting the door after her. We soon heard the pawing of her horse outside, and we trusted she would ride back to the Castle. "Ought I not to follow her?" Rudolf inquired of me. "No; any mistrust on our part would offend her." "She is in an unusual state of excitement, and such a reckless rider. Only lately she had an accident." "That's true; for Heaven's sake follow her! But if you should be recognized yourself?" "Never fear, I am too well disguised for that. In my present dress I made more than one visit to the Werve during my father's last illness. I have pressed his hand on his death-bed; and he has given me his signet ring. Out of prudence I do not wear it on my finger, but like this, in my bosom, attached by a cord round my neck. And Francis," he cried in triumph, "has accepted assistance from me during these last days of trial. When the Kermis at Laren is over, we shall leave this country; and I shall never more set foot on my native soil," he added, sadly, as he mounted his horse; and pressing my hand for the last time, took an eternal farewell of me. CHAPTER XXXV. Our surprises were not yet at an end. On my return to Zutphen I found Overberg waiting for me at my hotel. He had just received from England a packet addressed to Francis, which Fritz had refused to take charge of, as he did not know where to find her. I assured him that Miss Mordaunt had now returned to the Castle; and I offered my driver double fare if he would go at once to the Castle, and bring me back a reçu from Francis. I should then have proof positive of her return to the Werve. I was very anxious to find out what this packet could contain; and I was in despair as to any suitable means of satisfying my curiosity, when early next morning old Fritz arrived at the hotel with a note from his mistress. He had his orders not to deliver it into anybody's hands but mine. I broke the seal with trembling fingers, and read as follows-- "Cousin Leopold--I must speak to you once more before you start on your travels; it is absolutely necessary. You once assured me you were always ready to oblige a woman who exercised the privileges of her sex. May I hope you will come to the Werve to have a last interview with me? Instead of writing I should have preferred to come to your hotel to see you; but I was afraid of scandalizing you by such a liberty. Please send word by Fritz the day and hour I may expect you. F. M." I had but one answer to this note; it was to order out the hotel carriage, and drive back with Fritz. My hopes and fears as we drove along I will not attempt to describe; they are better left to your imagination; but everything seemed to turn round before my eyes as we passed over the old drawbridge, and drove up to the hall-door. Rolf was awaiting me at the entrance; and he led me into the drawingroom without a word, only expressing his delight by the manner in which he swung about his cap. Francis was seated on the sofa which I remembered so well, her head cast down, paler than on the preceding day; but charmingly beautiful in her mourning-dress. She rose hastily, and advanced to greet me. "Thank you, Leopold, for coming so soon. I knew you would come; I had confidence in your generosity." "And--am I then no longer contemptible in your eyes, Francis? You have received my packet, and read Aunt Sophia's letter?" "I have received all the documents, read all--more than was necessary to convince me I had done you an injustice, and ought to apologize to you. Now I am ready to confess it before all the world that I did you wrong; will you pardon me without reserve?" "Need you ask me that, Francis? But you must never doubt me more, never more, Francis." After a moment's silence she answered in a low voice--"Never more, Leopold!" So saying, she pressed my hand with ardour, as a sign of reconciliation. Still, there was a constraint about her manner which prevented my pressing her to my heart as I desired to do. "Sit down, Leopold," she said; "now we are reconciled I have to ask your advice as my nearest relation and my most trusted friend." At the same time she unfolded the packet which she had received from England. "Lord William is dead," she went on; "will you read this letter addressed to me, together with a copy of his will?" I could scarcely control myself sufficiently to read the letter; but I obeyed mechanically. This letter contained a few words of serious advice, breathing nothing but words of paternal love; though I read between the lines that it had cost him a struggle after her confession to regain this kind of calm affection for her. He had left with Cupid's arrow in his heart. The letter concluded with the most ardent wishes for her happiness; and he expressed a hope she would one day find a husband worthy of her, begging her to accept as a marriage portion the legacy he had left her by his will. Finally, he said, she must allow no considerations whatever, especially money considerations, to induce her to marry a man whom she did not love with all her heart. The family name with which this letter was signed is one of the most illustrious in the scientific as well as in the political world. There was also a second letter from the nephew and heir to Lord William's title and immense fortune. He assured Francis of his intentions scrupulously to fulfil the last will of the deceased. Francis was to receive from the estates an annuity of three thousand pounds for the term of her natural life. "Ought I to accept it, Leopold?" she demanded. "My opinion is you cannot refuse it, Francis. Your greatest desire has always been to have an independence; and here it is offered you by the hand of a friend." "You are right, Leopold; I shall follow your advice and accept it. Now I shall not be forced to marry any one; and if I should choose a husband, he cannot suspect me of having done so for the sake of his money. Shall I be rich enough to buy back the Werve?" "No, Francis; the Werve is in the possession of one who will not sell it for money. If you still desire to become Baroness de Werve, you must take another resolution." "Leopold," she said, rising, "you say that independence has always been my chief desire. It is possible; but now I understand that my greatest happiness is to be dependent on the man I love. Leo, Aunt Roselaer has left me an annuity which I decline to accept, as a matter of course; but her intentions towards me were kindly, and I will follow her advice. She has forbidden me to marry without your consent." Then with an indefinable mixture of grace, confusion, and malice, she sank down on her knees before me, and said-- "Leo, I wish to marry my Cousin van Zonshoven; have you any objections?" "Heaven forbid! I have no objections!" And with what rapture did I raise her, and clasp her to my breast, where she shed many tears, whilst my own eyes were not dry. We had loved so much, and suffered so much for each other. What can I tell you more, dear William? We walked out in the grounds, and again visited all the places which had become endeared to us by our former walks. We made all sorts of plans for the future. We wrote letters to Van Beek and the other men of the law, informing them in a grave tone that all the bills would be paid at maturity, or on presentation. The fact that Francis was in mourning for the General served us as a pretext for being married privately, and in as quiet a manner as possible, an arrangement in accordance with both our wishes. An old college friend of mine, vicar in a small town near the Werve, married us. Little Harry Blount is already confided to the care of the farmers Pauwelsens. His mother has perfectly recovered, and will one of these days, we trust, marry young Pauwelsen, a son of the farmer, who had already fixed his eyes on her before her engagement to Blount. This good news has removed an immense weight from Francis's mind. We are going to make a long journey, and try to enjoy ourselves thoroughly; the trials we have both passed through have taught us to appreciate our present happiness. During our absence the Werve will be restored, and Rolf will be left in charge. To conclude, dear William, I have got Francis to enclose you a note in her own handwriting. Geneva, 1861. Leopold van Zonshoven. "That it is becoming in Leo to have sketched the doings of Major Frank in all their shades and peculiarities, even for a friend, I shall never allow; but I feel that in his delicate position it was necessary for him to ease his mind to some one, and that it was better he should do so to a friend across the seas. Therefore I have pardoned him. Now I will request you not to have his letters printed in any of your Indian papers! That would be too bad! Not that Francis van Zonshoven would attempt to defend such a person--oh no! It appears to me no such person ever existed. But there are family secrets in the letters, which I must seriously recommend to your discretion. "Don't wait until your term of service in India expires, but get your leave of absence and visit us at the Werve. All the windows are now glazed, and there is room enough for Leo's friend, though he came with a whole family. "Francis van Zonshoven." NOTES [1] Strictly orthodox Dutch people think that a sermon in the light, airy French language cannot be so serious and solemn as in their own tongue. [2] The strictly orthodox party in Holland will only make use of the version of the Bible approved by the States-General in the seventeenth century; the bigots insist upon its being printed in the German characters in use at the time when the first copies were issued. [3] The Victoria Cross of the Dutch. [4] In Holland one is obliged to fetch a registered letter; they are never delivered by the postman. [5] In Holland every village has its burgomaster, who acts as chairman of the local board. [6] Trineke is a diminutive of Catherine. 
40656	----	(Images generously made available by Internet Archive and Toronto University) LITTLE JOHANNES _Translated from the Dutch of_ _FREDERIK VAN EEDEN_ _By CLARA BELL_ _With an Introductory Essay_ _by ANDREW LANG_ _LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN_ _MDCCCXCV_ INTRODUCTION LITERARY FAIRY TALES The _Märchen_ or child's story, is a form of literature primevally old, but with infinite capacity of renewing its youth. Old wives' fables, tales about a lad and a lass, and a cruel step-mother, about three adventurous brothers, about friendly or enchanted beasts, about magical weapons and rings, about giants and cannibals, are the most ancient form of romantic fiction. The civilised peoples have elaborated these childlike legends into the chief romantic myths, as of the Ship Argo, and the sagas of Heracles and Odysseus. Uncivilised races, Ojibbeways, Eskimo, Samoans, retain the old wives' fables in a form far less cultivated,--probably far nearer the originals. European peasants keep them in shapes more akin to the savage than to the Greek forms, and, finally, men of letters have adopted the _genre_ from popular narrative, as they have also adopted the Fable. _Little Johannes_, here translated from the Dutch of Dr. Frederik van Eeden, is the latest of these essays, in which the man's fancy consciously plays with the data and the forms of the child's imagination. It is not my purpose here to criticise _Little Johannes, an Allegory of a Poet's Soul_, nor to try to forestall the reader's own conclusions. One prefers rather to glance at the history of the Fairy Tale in modern literature. It might, of course, be said with truth that the Odyssey, and parts of most of the world's Epics are literary expansions of the _Märchen_. But these, we may be confident, were not made of set literary purpose. Neither Homer, nor any poet of the French _Chansons de Geste_, cried, 'Here is a good plot in a child's legend, let me amplify and ennoble it.' The real process was probably this: adventures that from time immemorial had been attributed to the vague heroes of _Märchen_ gradually clustered round some half divine or heroic name, as of Heracles or Odysseus, won a way into national traditions, and were finally sung of by some heroic poet. This slow evolution of romance is all unlike what occurs when a poet chooses some wild-flower of popular lore, and cultivates it in his garden, when La Fontaine, for example, selects the Fable; when the anecdote is developed into the _fabliau_ or the _conte_, when Apuleius makes prize of _Cupid and Psyche_ (a _Märchen_ of world-wide renown), when Fénelon moralises the fairy tale, or Madame d'Aulnoy touches it with courtly wit and happy humour, or when Thackeray burlesques it, with a kindly mockery, or when Dr. Frederik van Eeden, or Dr. Macdonald, allegorises the nursery narratives. To moralise the tale in a very ancient fashion: Indian literature was busy to this end in the Buddhist Jatakas or Birth-stories, and in the _Ocean of the Stream of Stories_. Mediæval preachers employed old tales as texts and as illustrations of religious and moral precepts. But the ancient popular fairy tale, the salt of primitive fancy, the drop of the water of the Fountain of Youth in modern fiction, began its great invasion of literature in France, and in the reign of Louis XIV. When the survivors of the _Précieuses_, when the literary court ladies were some deal weary of madrigals, maxims, _bouts-rimés_, 'portraits,' and their other graceful bookish toys, they took to telling each other fairy tales.[1] On August 6, 1676, Madame de Sévigné tells her daughter that at Versailles the ladies _mitonnent,_ or narrate fairy tales, concerning the Green Isle, and its Princess and her lover, the Prince of Pleasure, and a flying hall of glass in which the hero and heroine make their voyages. It is not certain whether these exercises of fancy were based on memories of the _Pentamerone_, and other semi-literary Italian collections of Folk-Tales, or whether the witty ladies embroidered on the data of their own nurses. As early as 1691, Charles Perrault, inventing a new _genre_ of minor literature, did some Folk-Tales into verse, and, in 1696, he began to publish his famous _Sleeping Beauty_, and _Puss in Boots_, in Moetjens's miscellany, printed at the Hague. In 1696 Mlle. L'Héritière put forth a long and highly embroidered fairy tale, _Les Enchantements de l'Eloquence_, in her _Bizarrures Ingénieuses_ (Guignard), while Perrault's own collected _Contes de ma Mère l'Oye_ were given to the world in 1697 (Barbin, Paris). The work of Mlle. L'Héritière was thoroughly artificial, while the immortal stories of Perrault have but a few touches of conscious courtly wit, and closely adhere to the old nursery versions. Perrault, in fact, is rather the ancestor of the Grimms and the other scholarly collectors, than of the literary letters of fairy tales. The Fairy Godmothers of modern _contes_ play quite a small part in Perrault's works (though a larger part than in purely popular narrative) compared with their _rôle_ in Madame d'Aulnoy, and all her successors. Much more truly than la Comtesse de M---- (Murat), author of _Contes des Fées_(1698), Madame d'Aulnoy is the true mother of the modern fairy tale, and the true Queen of the _Cabinet des Fées_.[2] To this witty lady of all work, author of _Mémoires de la Cour d'Espagne_, and of many novels, a mere hint from tradition was enough. From such hints she developed her stories, such as _Le Mouton, Le Nain jaune, Finette Cendron, Le Bon petit Souris_, and very many others. She invented the modern Court of Fairyland, with its manners, its fairies--who, once a year, take the forms of animals, its Queens, its amorous, its cruel, its good, its evil, its odious and its friendly _fées_; illustrious beings, the counsellors of kings, who are now treated with religious respect, and now are propitiated with ribbons, scissors, and sweetmeats. The Fairies are as old as the Hathors of Egypt, the Moerae who came to the birth of Meleager, the Norns of Scandinavian myth. But Madame d'Aulnoy first developed them into our familiar _fées_ of fairy tale. Her _contes_ are brilliant little novels, gay, satirical, full of hits at courts and kings. Yet they have won a way into true popularity: translated and condensed, they circulate as penny scrap-books, and furnish themes for pantomime.[3] It is from Madame d'Aulnoy that the _Rose and the Ring_ of Thackeray derives its illustrious lineage. The banter is only an exaggeration of her charming manner. It is a pity that Sainte-Beuve, in his long gallery of portraits, found no space for Madame d'Aulnoy. The grave Fénelon follows her in his _Rosimond et Braminte_, by no means the worst effort of the author of _Télémaque_.[4] From Madame d'Aulnoy, then, descend the many artificial stories of the _Cabinet des Fées_, and among these the very prolix novel out of which _Beauty and the Beast_ has been condensed takes a high place. The tales of the Comte de Caylus have also humour, wit, and a pleasant invention.[5] The artificial fairy tale was in the eighteenth century a regular literary _genre_, a vehicle, now for satire, now for moralities. The old courtly method has died out, naturally, but the modern _Märchen_ has taken a hundred shapes, like its own enchanters. We have Kingsley's _Water Babies_, a fairy tale much too full of science, and of satire not very intelligible to children, and not always entertaining to older people, but rich in tenderness, poetry, and love of nature. We have the delightful _Rose and the Ring_, full of characters as real to us, almost, as Captain Costigan, or Becky Sharpe. Angelica is a child's Blanche Amory; Betsinda is a child's Laura Bell, Bulbo is the Foker of the nursery, and King Valoroso a potentate never to be thought of without respectful gratitude. How noble is his blank verse. --'He laid his hands on an anointed king, --Hedzoff! and floored me with a warming pan!' Then we have the _Phantastes_ of Dr. Macdonald, which the abundant mysticism does not spoil, a book of poetic adventure perhaps too unfamiliar to children. To speak of Andersen is superfluous, of Andersen so akin in imagination to the primeval popular fancy; so near the secret of the heart of childhood. The _Tin Soldier,_ the _Ugly Duckling_ and the rest, are true _Märchen_, and Andersen is the Perrault of the North, more grave, more tender, if less witty, than the kind Academician who kept open for children the gardens of the Louvre. Of other modern _Märchen_, the delightful, inimitable, irresponsible nonsense of _Alice in Wonderland_ marks it the foremost. There has been, of course, a vast array of imitative failures: tales where boisterousness does duty for wit, and cheap sentiment for tenderness, and preaching for that half-conscious moral motive, which, as Perrault correctly said, does inform very many of the true primeval _Märchen_. As an inveterate reader of good fairy tales, I find the annual Christmas harvest of them, in general, dull, imitative,--_Alice_ is always being imitated,--and, in brief, impossible. Mere vagaries of absurdity, mere floods of floral eloquence, do not make a fairy tale. We can never quite recover the old simplicity, energy, and romance, the qualities which, as Charles Nodier said, make Hop o' my Thumb, Puss in Boots, and Blue Beard 'the Ulysses, the Figaro and the Othello of children.' There may possibly be critics or rather there are certain to be critics, who will deny that the modern and literary fairy tale is a legitimate _genre_, or a proper theme of discussion. The Folklorist is not unnaturally jealous of what, in some degree, looks like Folk-Lore. He apprehends that purely literary stories may 'win their way,' pruned of their excrescences, 'to the fabulous,' and may confuse the speculations of later mycologists. There is very little real danger of this result. I speak, however, not without sympathy; there was a time when I regarded all _contes_ except _contes populaires_ as frivolous and vexatious. This, however, is the fanaticism of pedantry. The French _conteurs_ of the last century, following in the track of Hop o' my Thumb, made and narrated many pleasing discoveries, if they also wrote much that was feeble and is faded. To admit this is but common fairness; literary fairy tales may legitimately amuse both old and young, though 'it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill.' The _conteurs_, like every one who does not always stretch the bow of Apollo till it breaks, had, of course, their severe censors. To listen to some persons, one might think that gaiety was a crime. You scribble light verses, and you are solemnly told that this is not high poetry, told it by worthy creatures whose rhymes could be uncommonly elevated, if mere owl-like solemnity could make poetry and secure elevation. You make a fairy tale, and you are told that the incidents border on the impossible, that analysis of character, and the discussion of grave social and theological problems are conspicuously absent. The old _conteurs_ were met by those ponderous objections. Madame d'Aulnoy, in _Ponce de Léon_, makes one of her characters defend the literary _Märchen_ in its place. 'I am persuaded that, in spite of serious critics, there is an art in the simplicity of the stories, and I have known persons of taste who sometimes found in them an hour's amusement.... He would be ridiculous who wanted to hear and read nothing but such legends, and he who should write them in a pompous and inflated style, would rob them of their proper character, but I am persuaded that, after some serious occupation, _l'on peut badiner avec_.' 'I hold,' said Melanie, 'that such stories should be neither trivial nor bombastic, that they should hold a middle course, rather gay than serious, not without a shade of moral, above all, they should be offered as trifles, which the listener alone has a right to put his price upon.' This is very just criticism of literary fairy tales, made in an age when we read of a professional _faiseur des contes des fées vieux et modernes_. _Little Johannes_ is very modern, and, as Juana says in _Ponce de Léon_: 'Vous y mettrez le prix qu'il vous plaira, mais je ne peux m'empêcher de dire que celui qui le compose est capable de choses plus importantes, quand il veut s'en donner la peine.' ANDREW LANG. [Footnote 1: Part of what follows I have already stated in a reprint of _Perrault's Popular Tales_, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1888.] [Footnote 2: In forty-one volumes, Paris, 1785-89.] [Footnote 3: There are complete English translations of the eighteenth century. Many of the stories have been retold by Miss M. Wright, in the _Red_ and _Blue Fairy Books_.] [Footnote 4: I am unacquainted with the date of composition of this story about a Ring more potent than that of Gyges. (It is printed in the second volume of _Dialogues des Morts_ Paris, 1718).] [Footnote 5: From one of these tales by Caylus the author, who but recently made their acquaintance, finds that he has unconsciously plagiarised an adventure of Prince Prigio's.] I I will tell you something about little Johannes. My tale has much in it of a fairy story; but it nevertheless all really happened. As soon as you do not believe it you need read no farther, as it was not written for you. Also you must never mention the matter to little Johannes if you should chance to meet him, for that would vex him, and I should get into trouble for having told you all about it. Johannes lived in an old house with a large garden. It was difficult to find one's way about there, for in the house there were many dark doorways and staircases, and cupboards, and lumber-lofts, and all about the garden there were sheds and hen-houses. It was a whole world to Johannes. He could make long journeys there, and he gave names to all he discovered. He had named the rooms in the house from the animal world; the caterpillar-loft, because he kept caterpillars there; the hen-room, because he had once found a hen there. It had not come in of itself; but Johannes' mother had set it there to hatch eggs. In the garden he chose names from plants, preferring those of such products as he thought most interesting. Thus he had Raspberry Hill, Cherry-tree Wood, and Strawberry Hollow. Quite at the end of the garden was a place he had called Paradise, and that, of course, was lovely. There was a large pool, a lake where white water-lilies floated and the reeds held long whispered conversations with the wind. On the farther side of it there were the dunes or sand-hills. Paradise itself was a little grassy meadow on the bank, shut in by bushes, among which the hemlock grew tall. Here Johannes would sometimes He in the thick grass, looking between the swaying reeds at the tops of the sand-hills across the water. On warm summer evenings he was always to be found there, and would lie for hours, gazing up, without ever wearying of it. He would think of the depths of the still, clear water in front of him--how pleasant it must be there among the water-plants, in that strange twilight; and then again of the distant, gorgeously coloured clouds which swept across the sand-downs--what could be behind them? How splendid it would be to be able to fly over to them! Just as the sun disappeared, the clouds gathered round an opening so that it looked like the entrance to a grotto, and in the depths of the cavern gleamed a soft, red glow. That was what Johannes longed to reach. 'If I could but fly there!' thought he to himself. 'What can there be beyond? If I could only once, just for once, get there!' But even while he was wishing it the cavern fell asunder in rolling dark clouds before he could get any nearer. And then it grew cold and damp by the pool, and he had to go back to his dark little bedroom in the old house. He did not live all alone there; he had his father, who took good care of him, his dog Presto and the cat Simon. Of course he loved his father best: but he did not love Presto and Simon so very much less, as a grown-up man would have done. He told Presto many more secrets than he ever told his father, and he held Simon in the greatest respect. And no wonder! Simon was a very big cat with a shining black coat and a bushy tail. It was easy to see that he was perfectly convinced of his own importance and wisdom. He was always solemn and dignified, even when he condescended to play with a rolling cork or to gnaw a stale herring's head behind a tree. As he watched Presto's flighty behaviour he would contemptuously blink his green eyes and think: 'Well, well, dogs know no better!' Now you may understand what respect Johannes had for him. But he was on much more familiar terms with little brown Presto. He was not handsome nor dignified, but a particularly good-natured and clever little dog, who never went two yards from Johannes' side, and sat patiently listening to all his master told him. I need not tell you how dearly Johannes loved Presto. But he had room in his heart for other things as well. Do you think it strange that his dark bedroom with the tiny window-panes filled a large place there? He loved the curtains with the large-flowered pattern in which he could see faces, and which he had studied so long when he lay awake in the mornings or when he was sick; he loved the one picture which hung there, in which stiff figures were represented in a yet stiffer garden, walking by the side of a tranquil pond where fountains were spouting as high as the clouds, and white swans were swimming. But most of all he loved the hanging clock. He pulled up the weights every day with solemn care, and regarded it as an indispensable civility to look up at it whenever it struck. This of course could only be done as long as Johannes remained awake. If by some neglect the clock ran down Johannes felt quite guilty, and begged its pardon a dozen times over. You would have laughed, no doubt, if you had heard him talking to his room. But perhaps you sometimes talk to yourself; that does not seem to you altogether ridiculous; and Johannes was perfectly convinced that his hearers had quite understood him, and he required no answer. Still he secretly thought that he might perhaps have a reply from the clock or the curtains. Johannes had schoolmates, but they were not exactly friends. He played with them, and plotted tricks with them in school, and robber-games out of school; still he never felt quite at home but when he was alone with Presto. Then he never wanted any boys, and was perfectly at his ease and safe. His father was a wise, grave man, who sometimes took Johannes with him for long walks through the woods and over the sand-hills; but then he spoke little, and Johannes ran a few steps behind, talking to the flowers he saw, and the old trees which had always to stay in the same place, stroking them gently with his little hand on the rough bark. And the friendly giants rustled their thanks. Sometimes his father traced letters in the sand as they went along, one by one, and Johannes spelt the words they made: and sometimes his father would stop and tell Johannes the name of some plant or animal. And now and then Johannes would ask about what he saw, and heard many strange things. Indeed, he often asked very silly questions: Why the world was just as it was, and why the plants and animals must die, and whether miracles could ever happen. But Johannes' father was a wise man, and did not tell him all he knew; and this was better for Johannes. At night before he went to sleep Johannes always said a long prayer. His nurse had taught him this. He prayed for his father and for Presto. Simon did not need it, he thought. He had a long prayer for himself too, and almost always ended with the wish that just for once a miracle might happen. And when he had said _Amen_ he would look curiously round the half-dark room at the figures in the picture, which looked stranger than ever in the dim twilight, at the door-handle and the clock, wondering how the miracle would begin. But the clock always ticked in its own old fashion, and the door-knob did not stir, and it grew darker and darker, and Johannes fell asleep without any miracle having happened. But it would happen some day; of that he was sure. II It was a warm evening, and the pool lay perfectly still. The sun, red and tired with its day's work, seemed to pause for a moment on the edge of the world, before going down. Its glowing face was reflected, almost perfect, in the glassy water. The leaves of the beech-tree which overhung the lake took advantage of the stillness to gaze at themselves meditatively in the mirror. The solitary heron, standing on one leg among the broad leaves of the water-lilies, forgot that he had come out to catch frogs, and looked down his long nose, lost in thought. Then Johannes came to the meadow to look into the cloud-cavern. Splash, dash! the frogs went plump off the bank. The mirror was rippled, the reflection of the sun was broken up into broad bands, and the beech-leaves rustled indignantly, for they were not yet tired of looking at themselves. A little old boat lay tied up to the bare roots of the beech-tree. Johannes was strictly forbidden ever to get into it. Oh! how strong was the temptation this evening! The clouds were parting into a grand gateway, through which the sun would sink to rest. Shining ranks of small clouds gathered on each side like life-guards in golden armour. The pool glowed back at them, and red rays flashed like arrows between the water-reeds. Johannes very slowly untied the rope that moored the boat to the beech-root. Oh, to float out there in the midst of that glory! Presto had already jumped into the boat; and before his master knew what he was doing, the reeds had pushed it out, and they were drifting away together towards the setting sun. Johannes lay in the bows staring into the heart of the cavern of light. 'Wings!' thought he. 'Oh, for wings now, and I should be there!' The sun was gone. The clouds were of fire. The sky in the east was deep blue. A row of willows grew on the bank. Their tiny silvery leaves stood motionless in the still air, looking like pale green lace against the dark background. Hark! What was that? A breath flew over the surface of the pool--like a faint gust of wind making a little groove in the water. It came from the sand-hills, from the cloud-cavern. When Johannes looked round he saw a large blue dragon-fly sitting on the edge of the boat. He had never seen one so large. It settled there, but its wings quivered in a large circle; it seemed to Johannes that the tips of them made a ring of light. 'It must be a glow-worm dragon-fly,' thought he, 'and they are very seldom seen.' But the circle grew wider and wider, and the wings fluttered so fast that Johannes saw them only as a mist. And by degrees he saw out of the mist two dark eyes gleaming, and a slender, shining figure in a pale blue dress sat in the place where the dragon-fly had been. Its fair hair was crowned with a garland of white convolvulus, and on its shoulders were gauzy insect-wings glittering like a soap-bubble, with a thousand colours. A shiver of delight tingled through Johannes. Here was a miracle! 'Will you be my friend?' he whispered. It was an odd way of addressing a stranger, but this was not a common case. And he had a feeling as though he had always known this strange sky-blue creature. 'Yes, Johannes!' he heard, and the voice sounded like the rustling of the sedges in the evening breeze, or the whisper of rain on the leaves in the wood. 'What is your name?' asked Johannes. 'I was born in the bell of a bindweed flower. Call me Windekind.'[1] And Windekind laughed and looked so kindly into Johannes' eyes that he felt strangely happy. 'To-day is my birthday,' Windekind went on, 'I was born close to this spot. The last rays of the sun and the first beams of the moon are my father and mother. People in Holland call the sun _she_, but that is not right. The sun is my father.' Johannes made up his mind to call the sun _he_ in school to-morrow. 'And look! There comes my mother's round shining face. Good-day, mother! Oh, oh! But she looks very sad!' He pointed to the eastern horizon. The moon was rising, broad and bright in the grey heavens, behind the lace-work of willow-twigs which stood out black against the silver disc. It really had a melancholy face. 'Come, come, mother. There is nothing wrong. I can trust him.' The fair being fluttered his gauzy wings gleefully, and tapped Johannes on the cheek with an iris flower he had in his hand. 'She does not like my having come to talk to you. You are the first, you see; but I trust you, Johannes. You must never, never mention my name to any human being, nor speak of me at all. Will you promise me this?' 'Yes, Windekind,' said Johannes. It was still very strange to him. He felt happy beyond words, but feared lest his happiness should vanish. Was he dreaming? By his side, on the seat, lay Presto, sleeping quietly. His dog's warm breath reassured him. The gnats crept over the surface of the water and danced in the sultry air, just as usual. Everything about him was quite clear and real. It must be true. And he felt all the time that Windekind's trustful look was on him. Then again he heard the sweet low voice:-- 'I have often seen you here, Johannes. Do you know where I was? Sometimes I sat on the sand at the bottom of the pool among the thicket of water-plants, and looked up at you when you bent over to drink, or to catch the water-beetles or the efts. But you did not see me. Then again I would hide near you among the reeds. There I was very comfortable; I sleep there most times when it is warm, in an empty reed-warbler's nest. And that is deliciously soft!' Windekind rocked himself contentedly on the edge of the boat, hitting at the gnats with his flower. 'Now I have come to keep you company. Your life is too dull. We shall be good friends, and I will tell you a great many things--much better things than the schoolmaster teaches you. He knows nothing about them. And if you do not believe me I will let you see and hear for yourself. I will take you with me.' 'Oh, Windekind! Dear Windekind! Can you take me with you out there?' cried Johannes, pointing to the spot where the purple rays of the vanished sun had streamed out of the golden gate of clouds. The glorious structure was already fading into grey mist, but the rosy light still could be seen in the farthest depths. Windekind looked at the glow, which tinged his delicate face and fair hair, and he gently shook his head. 'Not now, not now. You must not ask too much at once, Johannes. I myself have never been to my father's home.' 'I am always at my father's,' said Johannes. 'No; he is not your father. We are brothers. My father is your father too. But the earth is your mother and so we are very different. And you were born in a house among men, and I in a bindweed flower; and that is much better. But we shall get on very well together nevertheless.' Then Windekind sprang lightly into the boat, which did not rock under his weight, and kissed Johannes on the forehead. What a strange change then came over Johannes! Everything about him seemed different. He saw everything better and more clearly, as he fancied. He saw the moon look down with a kinder glance, and he saw that the water-lilies had faces, and gazed at him in pensive amazement. He now suddenly understood why the gnats danced so merrily up and down, and round and round each other, touching the water with the tips of their long legs. He had often wondered and thought about it, but now he understood it at once. He heard too what the reeds whispered to the trees on the bank, softly complaining that the sun had gone down. 'Oh! Windekind, thank you, this is glorious. Yes; we shall be very happy together!' 'Give me your hand,' said Windekind, spreading his many-coloured wings. Then he drew Johannes in the boat over the pool through the splashing leaves which glistened in the moonlight. Here and there a frog was sitting on a leaf; but he did not now leap into the water when Johannes came by. He only made a little bow and said, 'Quaak.' Johannes politely bowed in return; above all, he would not seem ill-bred. Then they came to the reeds; they grew so far out into the water that the whole boat was swallowed up in them without touching the shore. But Johannes held fast to his leader and they scrambled to land between the tall stems. It seemed to Johannes that he had grown quite small and light, but perhaps that was fancy. Still, he could not remember that he had ever before been able to climb up a sedge. 'Now, keep your eyes open,' said Windekind, 'and you shall see something pretty.' They walked on among the tall grass and under dark brushwood which here and there let through a bright narrow streak of moonlight. 'Did you ever hear the crickets of an evening out on the sand-hills, Johannes? It is as if they were giving a concert, isn't it? And you can never find out exactly where the sound comes from. Now they do not sing for pleasure: the voices come from the crickets' school, where hundreds of little crickets are learning their lessons. Be quite still, for we are near them now.' Shurr! Shurr! The bushes were thinner here, and when Windekind pushed the grass stems aside with his flower, Johannes saw a beautiful open glade where, among the fine spiky grass of the down, the crickets were busy reading their lessons. A great stout cricket was master and teacher. One after another the pupils skipped up to him with one leap forward and one leap back again. The cricket who missed his leap had to stand on a toadstool. 'Now listen, Johannes,' said Windekind; 'you too may perhaps learn something.' Johannes could understand what the little crickets said. But it was not at all the same as the master at his school taught him. First came geography: they knew nothing of the quarters of the world. They only knew twenty-six sand-hills at most, and two ponds. No one could know of anything beyond, said the master, and what was told of it was mere idle fancy. Then came the botany lesson. They were all very sharp at this, and many prizes were given, consisting of the youngest and sweetest blades of grass of various length. But the zoology was what most puzzled Johannes. The animals were classified as leaping, flying, and creeping. The crickets could leap and fly, and thus stood at the head of all; next to them the frogs. Birds were mentioned with every sign of horror, as most malignant and dangerous creatures. Finally man was spoken of. He was a huge useless and mischievous being, very low in the scale, as he could neither leap nor fly; but happily he was very rarely met with. A very tiny cricket, who had never yet seen a man, had three blows with a reed for including man among the harmless beasts. Johannes had never heard anything like this before. Then the master called out: 'Silence! Leaping exercise!' And the little crickets immediately ceased conning their lessons, and began to play leap-frog, in the cleverest and nimblest way, the big teacher at their head. It was such a merry sight that Johannes clapped his hands with glee; but at that sound, the whole school vanished in an instant into the sand-hills, and the grass plot was as still as death. 'There, that is your doing, Johannes! You must not behave so roughly. It is easy enough to see that you were born among men.' 'I am so sorry! Twill do my best. But it was so funny!' 'It will be still funnier,' said Windekind. They crossed the grass plot and went up the down on the other side. Oof! it was hard walking in the heavy sand; but as soon as Johannes held on to the pale-blue robe he flew upwards, lightly and swiftly. Half-way up there was a rabbit-burrow. The rabbit who lived there was lying with his head and forepaws over the edge. The wild roses were still in bloom, and their sweet, delicate fragrance mingled with that of the thyme which grew on the sand-hill. Johannes had often seen rabbits pop into their holes, and had wondered what the burrows looked like inside, and how they sat there together, and would they not be stifled? So he was very glad when he heard his companion ask the rabbit whether they might step in. 'So far as I am concerned, and welcome,' said the rabbit. 'But it most unfortunately happens that I have this very evening lent my burrow for a charitable entertainment, and so am not properly master in my own house.' 'Dear, dear! Has some disaster occurred?' 'Oh, yes!' said the rabbit sadly--'a terrible misfortune! It will take us years to get over it. About a dozen jumps from here, a man's house has been built, so big, so big! And its men are come to live there with dogs. Seven members of my family have already perished, and three times as many holes have been robbed. The mouse family and the mole tribe have fared no better. Even the toads have suffered. So now we are giving an entertainment for the benefit of the survivors. Every one does what he can; I have lent my burrow. One must find something to spare for one's fellow-creatures.' The polite rabbit sighed and passed his long ear over his face with his right forepaw, as though to wipe a tear from his eye. It was his pocket-handkerchief. There was a rustling sound in the grass and a fat, heavy body came shuffling up to the hole. 'Look,' said Windekind, 'here comes daddy toad too, all humped up. Well, how are you getting on, old fellow?' The toad made no reply. He carefully laid an ear of corn neatly wrapped in a dry leaf close to the entrance, and nimbly climbed over the rabbit's back into the hole. 'May we go in?' said Johannes, who was excessively inquisitive. 'I will give something.' He remembered that he still had a biscuit in his pocket--a little round biscuit, from Huntley and Palmer's. When he took it out he at once observed how much smaller he had grown. He could scarcely grasp it with both hands, and could not understand how his breeches pocket had still held it. 'That is most rare and precious!' cried the rabbit. 'That is a princely donation!' And he respectfully made way for them to pass. It was dark in the burrow, and Johannes let Windekind lead the way. Soon they saw a pale-green light approaching them. It was a glow-worm, who obligingly offered to light them. 'It promises to be a delightful evening,' said the glow-worm as they went forward. 'There are a great number of guests. You are elves as it seems to me--are you not?' And the glow-worm glanced doubtfully at Johannes as he spoke. 'You may announce us as elves,' replied Windekind. 'Do you know that your king is of the party?' the glow-worm went on. 'Is Oberon here? Well, I am pleased indeed,' cried Windekind. 'He is a personal friend of mine.' 'Oh!' said the glow-worm. 'I did not know that I had the honour--' and his light almost went out with alarm. 'Yes, his Majesty prefers the outer air as a rule, but he is always to be seen at a beneficent meeting. It will be really a most brilliant affair.' And so indeed it was. The chief apartment in the rabbit-burrow was beautifully decorated; the floor was patted flat and strewn with scented thyme, and over the entrance a bat hung head downwards. He called out the names of the guests, and at the same time his wings served as curtains--a most economical arrangement. The walls were tastefully lined with dry leaves, cobwebs, and tiny hanging bats. Glowworms innumerable crept between them and over the ceiling, forming a very pretty and twinkling illumination. At the end of this hall stood a throne made of fragments of decayed wood which gave a light of themselves. That was a very pretty sight. There were a great many guests. Johannes felt very shy in this crowd of strangers, and clung closely to Windekind. He saw wonderful things there. A mole was talking to a field-mouse of the charming effect of the lighting and decorations. Two fat toads sat together in a corner, shaking their heads and lamenting over the persistent drought. A frog tried to walk round the room arm in arm with a lizard; but this was a failure, for he was embarrassed and excited, and now and then made too long a leap, whereby he somewhat damaged the wall decorations. On the throne sat Oberon, the Elfin King, surrounded by his little train of elves who looked down on the rest of the company with some contempt. The King himself was full of royal condescension, and conversed in the most friendly way with several of the company. He had just arrived from a journey in the East, and wore a strange garment of brightly coloured flower-petals. 'Such flowers do not grow here,' thought Johannes. On his head he had a dark blue flower-cup which still shed a fresh perfume as though it had but just been plucked. In his hand he carried the stamen of a lotus-flower as a sceptre. All the company were struck with silent admiration of his condescension. He had praised the moonlight over the downs, and had said that the glow-worms here were as beautiful as the fire-flies in the East. He had also glanced with approval at the decorations, and a mole had observed that he had nodded his head very graciously. 'Come along,' said Windekind to Johannes. 'I will present you.' And they made their way to the King's throne. Oberon opened his arms with joy when he saw Windekind, and embraced him. There was a murmur among the guests, and unfriendly glances from the Elfin court. The two fat toads in the corner muttered something about 'flattery' and 'servility' and 'it would not last'--and nodded significantly to each other. Windekind talked to Oberon for a long time in an unknown language, and then beckoned to Johannes to come forward. 'Shake hands, Johannes,' said the King. 'Windekind's friends are my friends. So far as I can, I will gladly serve you. I will give you a token of our alliance.' Oberon took a tiny gold key from the chain he wore about his neck and gave it to Johannes, who received it with great respect and clasped it tightly in his hand. 'That key may bring you luck,' the King went on. 'It opens a golden casket which contains a priceless treasure. But where that is I cannot tell you; you must search for it diligently. If you remain good friends with me, and with Windekind, and are steadfast and true, you may very likely succeed.' The Elfin King nodded his handsome head with hearty kindness, and Johannes thanked him, greatly delighted. Hereupon three frogs, who sat perched on a little cushion of moist moss, began to sing the prelude to a slow waltz, and the couples stood up. Those who did not dance were requested by a green lizard--who acted as master of the ceremonies and who rushed hither and thither very busily--to move into the corners; to the great indignation of the two toads, who complained that they could not see; and then the dancing began. It was very droll at first. Each one danced after his own fashion and naturally imagined that he did it better than any one else. The mice and frogs leaped as high as they could on their hind legs; an old rat spun round so roughly that all the rest had to keep out of his way; and even a fat slug ventured to take a turn with a mole, but soon gave it up, excusing herself by saying that she had a stitch in her side--the real reason was that she could not do it well. However, the dance went on very gravely and ceremoniously. Every one regarded it as a matter of conscience, and glanced anxiously at the King to see some token of approval on his countenance. But the King was afraid of causing jealousies, and looked quite unmoved. His suite thought it beneath them to dance with the rest. Johannes had stood among them quite quietly for a long time; but he saw a little toad waltzing with a tall lizard who sometimes lifted the hapless toad so-high above the ground that she described a semicircle in the air, and his amusement burst out in a hearty laugh. What an excitement it caused! The music ceased. The King looked angrily about him. The master of the ceremonies flew in all haste to implore Johannes to behave less frivolously. 'Dancing is a very serious thing,' said he, 'and certainly no subject for laughter. This is a very distinguished party, where people do not dance for amusement. Every one is doing his best and no one expects to be laughed at. It is extremely rude. Besides, this is a mourning feast, on a very melancholy occasion. You must behave suitably, and not as if you were among men and women.' Johannes was quite alarmed. On every side he met disapproving looks; his intimacy with the King had already made him some enemies. Windekind led him aside. 'We shall do better to go, Johannes,' he whispered. 'You have spoilt it all. Yes, yes; that comes of having been brought up among men.' They hastily slipped out under the wings of the porter bat, into the dark passage. The glow-worm in waiting attended them to the door. 'Have you been amused?' he asked. 'Did King Oberon speak to you?' 'Oh, yes; it was a beautiful party,' replied Johannes. 'Must you stay here in the dark passage all the time?' 'It is my own free choice,' said the glow-worm in a tone of bitter melancholy. 'I have given up all such vanities.' 'Come,' said Windekind; 'you do not mean that.' 'Indeed I do. Formerly--formerly--there was a time when I too went to banquets, and danced and cared for such frivolities. But now I am crushed by suffering--now-' And he was so much overcome that his light went out. Fortunately they were close to the opening, and the rabbit, who heard them coming, stood a little on one side so that the moonlight shone in. As soon as they were outside with the rabbit, Johannes said-- 'Tell us your history, Glow-worm.' 'Alas!' sighed the glow-worm,' it is simple and sad. It will not amuse you.' 'Tell it, tell it all the same,' they all cried. 'Well--you all know of course, that we glow-worms are very remarkable creatures. Yes, I believe that no one will venture to dispute that we are the most gifted creatures in existence.' 'Pray why? I do not see that!' said the rabbit. 'Can you give light?' asked the glow-worm contemptuously. 'No, certainly not,' the rabbit was forced to admit. 'Well, _we_ give light! all of us. And we can let it shine or extinguish it at will. Light is the best of nature's gifts, and to give light is the highest function to which a living creature can attain. Can any one now doubt our pre-eminence? Besides, we, the males, have wings and can fly for miles.' 'That I cannot do,' the rabbit humbly owned. 'For the divine gift of light which we possess, all other creatures look up to us; no bird may attack us. One animal alone, the lowest of them all, seeks us out and carries us off. That is man--the vilest monster in creation!' At this Johannes looked round at Windekind as though he did not understand the meaning of it. But Windekind smiled and nodded to him to say nothing. 'Once I flew gaily about the world like a bright will-o'-the-wisp among the dark bushes. And in a lonely damp meadow, on the bank of a stream, dwelt she whose existence was inseparably bound up with my happiness. She glittered in exquisite emerald green light as she crept among the grass stems, and she entirely possessed my youthful heart. I fluttered round her and did my utmost to attract her attention by changing my light. I gladly perceived that she noticed my salutation and eclipsed her own light. Tremulous with devotion, I was about to fold my wings and drop in ecstasy at the side of my radiant and adored one, when a tremendous noise filled the air. Dark figures were approaching: they were men. I fled in terror. They rushed after me and struck at me with great black tilings, but my wings were swifter than their clumsy legs.--When I returned--' Here the narrator's voice failed him. It was only after a pause of silent meditation, while his three hearers reverently kept silence, that he went on: 'You have guessed the rest. My gentle bride, the brightest and most sparkling of her kind, had disappeared, carried away by cruel men. The peaceful, moist grass plot was trodden down, and her favourite place by the stream was dark and desolate. I was alone in the world.' Here the tender-hearted rabbit again used his ear to wipe a tear from his eyes. 'From that night I am an altered creature. I have a horror of all vain amusements. I think only of her whom I have lost, and of the time when I may see her again.' 'What, have you still a hope?' asked the rabbit in surprise. 'I have more than hope; I have assurance. Up there I shall see my beloved once more.' 'But--' the rabbit put in. 'Rab,' said the glow-worm solemnly, 'I can understand the doubts of those who must feel their way in the dark. But to those who can see with their own eyes!--then all doubt is to me incomprehensible. There!' cried the glow-worm, looking reverently up at the twinkling, starry sky, 'I see them there! All my ancestors, all my friends,--and she among them--they shine up there in still greater radiance than here on earth. Ah! when shall I be released from this lower life and fly to her who twinkles at me so tenderly. When, ah! when?' The glow-worm turned away with a sigh, and crept back into the dark again. 'Poor fellow!' said the rabbit, 'I hope he may be right.' 'I hope so too,' added Johannes. 'I have my fears,' said Windekind. 'But it was very interesting.' 'Dear Windekind,' Johannes began, 'I am very tired and sleepy.' 'Come close to me, then, and I will cover you with my cloak.' Windekind took off his blue mantle and spread it over Johannes and himself. So they lay down together in the sweet moss on the down, their arms round each other's necks. 'Your heads lie rather low,' cried the rabbit. 'Will you rest them against me?' And so they did. 'Good-night, mother!' said Windekind to the Moon. And Johannes shut his hand tight on the little golden key, laid his head on the downy fur of the good-natured rabbit, and slept soundly. [Footnote 1: The child of the bindweed.] III 'Well, where is he, Presto? Where is your little master then?' How alarming to wake in the boat among the reeds--quite alone--the master vanished entirely! this is something indeed to be frightened at. And now run about, hunting on all sides with timid little whinings, poor Presto! How could you sleep so soundly as not to notice when your master left the boat? Generally you are wont to wake if only he moves a little. Here--you can see here where your master landed; but now you are on land the track is very much confused. All your busy snuffing is in vain! What a misfortune! The little master gone, quite lost! Seek, Presto, seek him then! 'Look! There, against that low mound just before you--Is there not a little dark figure lying? Look at it closely!' For a moment the dog stood motionless, looking eagerly into the distance. Then he suddenly stretched out his head and flew as fast as his four slender legs could carry him to the dark object on the mound. And when he found that it really was the little master he had so sorely missed, all his powers were too feeble to express his joy and thankfulness. He wagged his tail, his whole body wriggled with glee, he leaped, barked, yelped, and laid his cold nose against his re-found friend, licking and sniffing all over his face. 'Down, Presto! Go to your basket!' cried Johannes, but half awake. How stupid of master! There was no basket to be seen, look where he might. Slowly, slowly, light began to dawn on the little sleeper's mind. Presto's sniffing!--he was used to that, every morning. Faint images still floated before his soul, dream-pictures of elves and moonlight, like morning mists over a landscape of sand-hills. He feared that the cold breath of day would waft them away. 'Keep your eyes shut,' said he to himself, 'or you will see the clock against the wall where it always hangs!' But there was something strange about his bed. He felt that he had no bed-clothes over him. Gently and warily he opened his eyes, just a little way. Bright daylight. Blue sky. Clouds. Then Johannes opened his eyes very wide and said: 'Then it was true?' Yes. He was lying among the sand-hills. The cheerful sunshine warmed him; he breathed the fresh morning air; a filmy mist hung over the woods beyond. He saw the tall beech-tree by the pool, and the roof of his own home rising above the shrubbery. Bees and beetles were buzzing around him, overhead a lark was singing; in the distance he could hear dogs barking and the hum of the neighbouring town. It was all real, beyond a doubt. What then had he dreamed, and what was true? Where was Windekind? And the rabbit? He saw nothing of either. Only Presto, who sat as close to him as possible and looked at him expectantly. 'Can I have been walking in my sleep?' Johannes murmured softly to himself. By his side there was a rabbit's burrow; but there were so many in the down. He sat up to see more plainly. What was this in his tightly clasped fingers? A glow flashed through him from head to foot as he opened his hand. In it lay a bright little gold key. For a few moments he sat silent. 'Presto,' said he then, and the tears almost came into his eyes, 'Presto. Then it _was_ true!' Presto sprang up, and tried by barking to make his master understand that he was hungry and wanted to go home. Home? To be sure. Johannes had not thought of that, and he did not particularly care to go. However, he presently heard his name called by loud voices. Then he began to understand that his proceedings would certainly not be regarded as right and satisfactory, and that far from kindly words awaited him on his return. For a moment he could hardly be sure whether his tears of joy had not, in vexation, turned to tears of fear and contrition; but then he remembered Windekind, who was now his friend, his friend and ally; and the Elfin King's gift; and the splendid, indisputable reality of all that had happened;--and so he made his way homeward calmly, and prepared for whatever might betide. It fell out as he had anticipated. But he had not imagined that the distress and alarm of the house-hold could be so serious a matter. He must solemnly promise never again to be so naughty and heedless. This quite restored his presence of mind. 'That I cannot promise,' he said very resolutely. They looked at him in amazement. He was questioned, coaxed, threatened. But he thought of Windekind and was firm. What did he care for punishment so long as he had Windekind for his friend--and what would he not endure for Windekind's sake? He clutched the little key tightly to his breast and shut his mouth firmly, answering every question with a shrug of his shoulders. 'I cannot promise,' was all he replied. But his father said: 'Leave him in peace; he is quite in earnest about it. Something strange must have happened to him. He will tell us all about it some day.' Johannes smiled, ate his breakfast in silence, and crept up to his little room. There he nipped off a bit of the blind-cord, slipped it through his precious little key and hung it round his neck next to his breast. Then he very contentedly went to school. Things went ill with him at school that day. He knew none of his lessons and paid no attention at all. His thoughts were constantly wandering to the pool, and the wonderful things which had happened last evening. He could scarcely believe that a friend of the fairy king's could be expected and required to do sums and conjugate verbs. But it had all been true, and no one there knew anything about it, or would believe it or understand it; not even the master, however cross he might be, calling Johannes an idle little boy in a tone of great contempt. He took the bad marks he had earned with a light heart, and did the task set him as a punishment for his inattention. 'You, none of you understand anything about it. You may scold me as much as you please. I am Windekind's friend, and Windekind is worth more to me than all of you put together. Ay, with the master into the bargain!' This was not respectful of Johannes. But his estimation of his fellow-creatures had not been raised by all the evil he had heard said of them the evening before. But, as is often the case, he was not yet wise enough to use his wisdom wisely, or, better still, to keep it to himself. When the master went on to say that man alone of all creatures was endowed by God with speech, and appointed lord over all other animals, Johannes began to laugh. This cost him a bad mark and serious reproof. And when his next neighbour read the following sentence out of an exercise-book: 'The age of my wilful aunt is great, but not so great as that of the Sun'--parsing 'the Sun' correctly as feminine, Johannes shouted out loudly, correcting him: 'Masculine, masculine!' Every one laughed excepting the master, who was amazed at such utter stupidity as he thought it, and he desired Johannes to remain in school and write out a hundred times: 'The age of my wilful aunt is great, but not so great as that of the Sun (feminine), and greater still is my arrogant stupidity.' His school-fellows had departed, and Johannes sat alone writing, in the great empty school-room. The sun shone in brightly, making the dust-motes glitter in its beams, and painting the wall with patches of light which crept round as time went on. The master, too, was gone, slamming the door behind him. Johannes had just got to the fifty-second 'wilful aunt' when a tiny, brisk mouse, with black, beady little eyes and erect ears, came out of the farthest corner of the room and ran noiselessly along by the wall. Johannes kept as still as death, not to scare the pretty little thing; but it was not shy and came close to where he was sitting. It looked sharply about for a minute or two, with its small, bright eyes; then with one spring leaped on to the bench, and with a second on to the desk on which Johannes was writing. 'Well done!' said he half to himself, 'you are a very bold little mouse.' 'I ought to know whom I should be afraid of,' said a wee-wee voice, and the mouse showed his little white teeth as if he were laughing. Johannes was by this time quite used to marvels; still, this made him open his eyes very wide. Here, in school, in the middle of the day--it was incredible. 'You need not be afraid of me,' said he, very gently for fear of frightening the mouse. 'Did Windekind send you?' 'I am sent to tell you that the master was quite right, and that you thoroughly deserved your extra task.' 'But it was Windekind who told me that the sun was masculine. He said he was his father.' 'Yes; but no one else need know it. What have men to do with that? You must never discuss such delicate matters with men; they are too gross to understand them. Man is an astonishingly perverse and stupid creature that only cares to catch or kill whatever comes within his reach. Of that we mice have ample experience.' 'But why then, little mouse, do you live among men? Why do you not run away to the woods?' 'Oh, that we cannot do now. We are too much accustomed to town living. And so long as we are prudent, and always take care to avoid their traps and their heavy feet, we get on very well among men. Fortunately we are very nimble. The worst of it is, that man ekes out his own slowness by an alliance with the cat; that is a great grievance. But in the woods there are owls and hawks, and we should all be starved. Now, Johannes, mind my advice--here comes the master.' 'Mouse, mouse; do not go away. Ask Windekind what I am to do with my little key. I have tied it round my neck, next my skin. But on Saturday I am tubbed, and I am so afraid that it will be found. Tell me, where can I hide it?' 'Underground, always underground, that is always safest. Shall I keep it for you?' 'No, not here in school.' 'Then bury it out in the sand-hills. I will tell my cousin the field-mouse that he must take care of it.' 'Thank you, little mouse.' Tramp, tramp! In came the master. While Johannes was dipping his pen the mouse had vanished. The master, who wanted to go home, let Johannes off the other forty-eight lines. For two days Johannes lived in constant dread. He was kept strictly within sight, and had no opportunity of slipping off to the sand-hills. It was already Friday, and still the precious key was about his neck. The following evening he would inevitably be stripped; the key would be discovered and taken from him--his blood turned cold at the thought. He dared not hide it in the house or garden--no place seemed to him safe enough. Friday afternoon, and dusk was creeping down! Johannes sat at his bedroom window, gazing with longing at the distance, over the green shrubs in the garden to the downs beyond. 'Windekind, Windekind, help me!' he whispered anxiously. He heard a soft rustling of wings close at hand, he smelt the scent of lilies of the valley, and suddenly heard the sweet, well-known voice. Windekind sat by him on the window-sill, waving the bells of a lily of the valley on their slender stems. 'Here you are at last!' cried Johannes; 'I have longed for you so much!' 'Come with me, Johannes, we will bury your little key.' 'I cannot,' said Johannes sadly. But Windekind took him by the hand and he felt himself wafted through the still evening air, as light as the wind-blown down of a dandelion. 'Windekind,' said Johannes, as they floated on, 'I love you so dearly. I believe I would give all the people in the world for you, and Presto into the bargain.' 'And Simon?' 'Oh, Simon does not care whether I love him or not. I believe he thinks it too childish. Simon loves no one but the fish-woman, and that only when he is hungry. Do you think that Simon is a common cat, Windekind?' 'No, formerly he was a man.' Whrrr--bang! There went a fat cockchafer buzzing against Johannes. 'Can you not look where you are going?' grumbled the cockchafer, 'those Elves fly abroad as though the whole air were theirs by right. That is always the way with idlers who go flitting about for pleasure; those who, like me, are about their business, seeking their food and eating as hard as they can, are pushed out of their road.' And he flew off, scolding loudly. 'Does he think the worse of us because we do not eat?' asked Johannes. 'Yes, that is the way of cockchafers. According to them, the highest duty is to eat a great deal. Shall I tell you the history of a young cockchafer?' 'Ay, do,' said Johannes. 'There was a pretty young cockchafer who had just crept out of the earth. That was a great surprise. For a whole year he had sat waiting in the dark earth, watching for the first warm summer evening. And when he put his head out of the clod, all the greenery, and the waving grass, and the singing-birds quite bewildered him. He had no idea what to be about. He touched the blades of grass with his feelers, spreading them out in a fan. Then he observed that he was a male cockchafer, very handsome in his way, with shining black legs, a large, fat body, and a breastplate that shone like a mirror. As luck would have it, he at once saw, not far off, another cockchafer, not indeed so handsome as himself, but who had come out the day before and who was quite old. Very modestly, being still so young, he crept towards the other. 'What do you want, my friend?' said the second cockchafer rather haughtily, seeing that the other was a youngster, 'do you wish to ask me the way?' 'No, I am obliged to you,' said the younger one civilly, 'but I do not know what I ought to be doing. What is there for cockchafers to do?' 'Dear me,' said the other, 'do not you know that much? Well, I cannot blame you, for I was young myself once. Listen, then, and I will tell you. The principal thing in a cockchafer's life is to eat. Not far from this is a delicious lime-walk which was placed there for us, and it is our duty to eat there as diligently as we can.' 'Who put the lime-walk there?' asked the younger beetle. 'Well, a great being who means very kindly to us. He comes down the Avenue every morning, and those who have eaten most he takes away to a splendid house where a beautiful light shines, and where chafers are all happy together. Those, on the other hand, who, instead of eating, spend the night in flying about are caught by the Bat.' 'What is that?' asked the young one. 'A fearful monster with sharp teeth who comes flying down on us all on a sudden and eats us up with a horrible crunch. As the chafer spoke they heard a shrill squeak overhead which chilled them to the very marrow. 'Hark! There he is!' cried the elder, 'beware of him, my young friend, and be thankful that I have given you timely warning. You have the whole night before you. Make good use of your time. The less you eat, the greater the risk of the bat's seizing you. And none but those who choose a serious vocation in life ever go to the house where the beautiful light is. Mark that; a serious vocation.' Then the chafer, who was by a whole day the elder, disappeared among the blades of grass, leaving the other greatly impressed. 'Do you know what a vocation is, Johannes? No? Well, the young chafer did not know. It had something to do with eating--he understood that. But how was he to find the lime-walk? Close at hand stood a slender but stalwart grass-stem, waving softly in the evening air. This he firmly clutched with his six crooked legs. It seemed a long journey up to the top, and very steep. But the cockchafer was determined to reach it. 'This is a vocation!' he thought to himself, and began to climb with much toil. He went but slowly and often slipped back; but he got on, and when at last he found himself on the slender tip, and rocked with its swaying, he felt triumphant and happy. What a view he had from thence! It seemed to him that he could see the whole world. How blissful it was to be surrounded by air on all sides! He eagerly breathed his fill. What a wonderful feeling had come over him! Now he craved to go higher!' 'In his rapture he raised his wing-cases and quivered his gauzy wings. Higher! and yet higher I His wings fluttered, his legs released the grass-stem, and then--oh joy! Whoo-oo I He was flying--freely and gladly, in the still, warm evening air!' 'And then?' said Johannes. 'The end is not happy. I will tell it you some day later.' They were hovering over the pool. A pair of white butterflies fluttered to meet them. 'Whither are you travelling, elves?' they asked. 'To the large wild rose-tree which blooms by yonder mound.' 'We will go with you; we will go too!' The rose-bush was already in sight in the distance, with its abundance of pale-yellow sheeny blossoms. The buds were red and the open flowers were dashed with red, as if they remembered the time when they were still buds. The wild down-rose bloomed in peaceful solitude, and filled the air with its wonderfully sweet odours. They are so fine that the down-elves live on nothing else. The butterflies fluttered about and kissed flower after flower. 'We have come to place a treasure in your charge,' cried Windekind. 'Will you keep it safe for us?' 'Why not--why not?' whispered the rose. 'It is no pain to me to keep awake--and I have no thought of going away unless I am dragged away. And I have sharp thorns.' Then came the field-mouse--the cousin of the school-mouse--and burrowed quite under the roots of the rose-tree. And there he buried the little key. 'When you want it again you must call me; for you must on no account hurt the rose.' The rose twined its thorny arms thickly over the entrance and took a solemn oath to guard it faithfully. The butterflies were witnesses. Next morning Johannes awoke in his own little bed, with Presto, and the clock against the wall. The cord with the key was gone from round his neck. IV 'Children! children! A summer like this is a terrible infliction!' sighed one of three large stoves which stood side by side to bewail their fate in a garret of the old house. 'For weeks I have not seen one living soul or heard one rational remark. And always that hollow within! It is fearful!' 'I am full of spiders' webs,' said the second. 'And that would never happen in the winter.' 'And I am so dry and dusty that I shall be quite ashamed when, as winter comes on, the Black Man appears again, as the poet says.' This piece of learning the third stove had of course picked up from Johannes, who had repeated some verses last winter, standing before the hearth. 'You must not speak so disrespectfully of the smith,' said the first stove, who was the eldest. 'It annoys me.' A few shovels and tongs which lay on the floor, wrapped in paper to preserve them from rust, also expressed their opinion of this frivolous mode of speech. But suddenly they were all silent, for the shutter in the roof was raised; a beam of light shone in on the gloomy place, and the whole party lapsed into silence under their dust and confusion. It was Johannes who had come to disturb their conversation. This loft was at all times a delightful spot to him, and now, after the strange adventures of the last few days, he often came here. Here he found peace and solitude. There was a window, too, closed by a shutter, which looked out towards the sand-hills. It was a great delight to open the shutter suddenly, and, after the mysterious twilight of? the garret, to see all at once the sunlit landscape shut in by the fair, rolling _dimes_. It was three weeks since that Friday evening, and Johannes had seen nothing of his friend since. The key was gone, and there was nothing now to assure him that he had not dreamed it all. Often, indeed, he could not conquer a fear that it was all nothing but fancy. He grew very silent, and his father was alarmed, for he observed that since that night out of doors Johannes had certainly had something the matter with him. But Johannes was only pining for Windekind. 'Can he be less fond of me than I of him?' he murmured, as he stood at the garret window and looked out over the green and flowery garden. 'Why is it that he never comes near me now? If I could--but perhaps he has other friends, and perhaps he loves them more than me. I have no other friend, not one. I love no one but him! I love him so much--oh so much!' Then, against the deep blue sky he saw a flight of six white doves, who wheeled, flapping their wings, above the roof over his head. It seemed as though they were moved by one single impulse, so quickly did they veer and turn all together, as if to enjoy to the utmost the sea of sunshine and summer air in which they were flying. Suddenly they swept down towards Johannes' window in the roof, and settled with much flapping and fussing on the water-pipe, where they pattered to and fro with endless cooings. One of them had a red feather in his wing. He plucked and pulled at it till he had pulled it out, and then he flew to Johannes and gave it to him. Hardly had Johannes taken it in his hand when he felt that he was as light and swift as one of the doves. He stretched out his arms, the doves flew up, and Johannes found himself in their midst, in the spacious free air and glorious sunshine. There was nothing around him but the pure blue, and the bright shimmer of fluttering white wings. They flew across the great garden, towards the wood, where the thick tree-tops waved in the distance like the swell of a green sea. Johannes looked down and saw his father through the open window, sitting in the house-place,--Simon was lying in the window seat with his crossed forepaws, basking in the sun. 'I wonder if they see me!' thought he; but he dared not call out to them. Presto was trotting about the garden walks, sniffing at every shrub and behind every wall, and scratching against the door of every shed or greenhouse to find his master. 'Presto, Presto!' cried Johannes. The dog looked up and began to wag his tail and yelp most dolefully. 'I am coming back, Presto! only wait,' cried Johannes, but he was too far away. They soared over the wood, and the rooks flew cawing out of the top branches where they had built their nests. It was high summer, and the scent of the blossoming limes came up in steamy gusts from the green wood. In an empty nest, at the top of a tall lime-tree, sat Windekind, with his wreath of bindweed. He nodded to Johannes. 'There you are! that is good,' said he. 'I sent for you; now we can remain together for a long time--if you like.' 'I like it very much,' said Johannes. Then he thanked the friendly doves who had brought him hither, and went down with Windekind into the woods. There it was cool and shady. The oriole piped his tune, almost always the same, but still a little different. 'Poor bird!' said Windekind. 'He was once a bird of Paradise. That you still may see by his strange yellow feathers; but he was transformed and turned out of Paradise. There is a word which can restore him to his former splendid plumage, and open Paradise to him once more; but he has forgotten the word; and now, day after day, he tries to find his way back there. He says something like the word, but it is not quite right.' Numberless insects glittered like dancing crystals in the sun's rays where they pierced between the thick leaves. When they listened sharply they could hear a humming, like a great concert on one string, filling the whole wood. This was the song of the sunbeams. The ground was covered with deep dark-green moss, and Johannes had again grown so tiny that it appeared to him like another wood on the ground, beneath the greater wood. What elegant little stems! and how closely they grew! It was difficult to make a way between them, and the moss forest seemed terribly large. Presently they crossed an ants' track. Hundreds of ants were hurrying up and down, some dragging chips of wood or little blades of grass in their jaws. There was such a bustle that Johannes was almost bewildered. It was a long time before one of the ants would spare them a word. They were all too busy. At last they found an old ant who was set to watch the plant-lice from which the ants get honeydew. As his herd was a very quiet one he could very well give a little time to the strangers, and let them see the great nest. It was situated at the foot of an old tree-trunk, and was very large, with hundreds of passages and cells. The plant-louse herd led the way, and conducted the visitors into every part of it, even into the nurseries where the young larvæ were creeping out of their cocoons. Johannes was amazed and delighted. The old ant told them that every one was very busy by reason of the campaign which was immediately at hand. Another colony of ants, dwelling not far off, was to be attacked by a strong force, their nest destroyed and the larvæ carried off or killed; and as all the strength at their command must be employed, all the most necessary tasks must be got through beforehand. 'What is the campaign about?' said Johannes. 'I do not like fighting.' 'Nay, nay!' replied the herdsman. 'It is a very grand and praiseworthy war. You must remember that it is the soldier-ants we are going to attack; we shall exterminate the race, and that is a very good work.' 'Then you are not soldier-ants?' 'Certainly not. What are you thinking about? We are the peace-loving ants.' 'What do you mean by that?' 'Do not you know? Well, I will explain. Once upon a time all ants were continually fighting, not a day passed without some great battle. Then there came a good, wise ant, who thought that he should save much sorrow if he could persuade them all to agree among themselves to fight no more. But when he said so every one thought him very odd, and for that reason they proceeded to bite him in pieces. Still, after this, other ants came who said the same thing, and they too were bitten to pieces. But at last so many were of this opinion that biting them to pieces was too hard work for the others. So then they called themselves the Peaceful Ants, and they did everything which their first teacher had done, and those who opposed them they, in their turn, bit in pieces. In this way almost all the ants at the present time have become Peaceful Ants, and the fragments of the first Peaceful Ant are carefully and reverently preserved. We have his head--the genuine head. We have devastated and annihilated twelve other colonies who pretended to have the True Head. Now there are but four who dare to do so. They call themselves Peaceful Ants, but in fact they are Fighting Ants by nature--but we have the True Head, and the Peaceful Ant had but one head. Now we are going to-morrow to destroy the thirteenth colony. So you see it is a good work.' 'Yes, yes,' said Johannes. 'It is very strange!' He was in fact a little uneasy, and felt happier when, after thanking the herd-keeper, they had taken their leave, and were sitting far from the Ant colony, rocked on the top of a tall grass-stem, under the shade of a graceful fern. 'Hooh!' sighed Johannes, 'that was a bloodthirsty and stupid tribe!' Windekind laughed, and swung up and down on the grass haulm. 'Oh!' said he, 'you must not call them stupid. Men go to the ants to get wisdom.' Then Windekind showed Johannes all the wonders of the wood; they flew up to visit the birds in the tree-tops and in the thick shrubs, went down into the moles' clever dwellings, and saw the bees' nest in the old hollow tree. At last they came out on an open place surrounded by brushwood. Honeysuckle grew there in great abundance. Its luxuriant trails climbed over everything, and the scented flowers peeped from among the greenery. A swarm of tomtits hopped and fluttered among the leaves with a great deal of twittering and chirping. 'Let us stay here a little while,' said Johannes; 'this is splendid.' 'Very well,' said Windekind. 'And you shall see something very droll.' There were blue-bells in the grass. Johannes sat down by one of them and began to talk with the bees and the butterflies. They were friends of the blue-bells', so the conversation went on at a great rate. What was that? A huge shadow came across the grass, and something like a white cloud fell down on the blue-bell--Johannes had scarcely time to get away,--he flew to Windekind who was sitting high up in a honeysuckle flower. Then he saw that the white cloud was a pocket-handkerchief, and bump! A sturdy damsel sat down on the handkerchief and on the poor blue-bell which was under it. He had not time to bewail it before the sound of voices and the cracking of branches filled the glade in the forest. A crowd of men and women appeared. 'Now we shall have something to laugh at,' said Windekind. The party came on, the ladies with umbrellas in their hands, the men with tall chimney-pot hats, and almost all in black, completely black. In the green sunny wood they looked like great, ugly ink-spots on a beautiful picture. The brushwood was broken down, flowers trodden underfoot; many white handkerchiefs were spread, and the yielding grass and patient moss sighed as they were crushed under the weight they had to bear, fearing much that they might never recover from the blow. The smoke of cigars curled among the honeysuckle wreaths, and enviously supplanted the delicate odour of their blossoms. Sharp voices scared the gleeful tomtits, who, with terrified and indignant piping, took refuge in the nearest trees. One man rose and went to stand on a little mound. He had long light hair, and a pale face. He said something, and then all the men and women opened their mouths very wide and began to sing so loud, that the rooks flew cawing out of their high nests, and the inquisitive little rabbits, who had come from the sand-hills to see what was going on, ran off in alarm, and were still running fully a quarter of an hour after they were safe at home again in the dunes. Windekind laughed and fanned away the cigar-smoke with a fern leaf; but there were tears in Johannes' eyes, though not from the tobacco. 'Windekind,' said he, 'I want to go. This is all so ugly and so rude.' 'No, no, we must stay. You will laugh; it will be more amusing.' The singing ceased and the pale man began to speak. He shouted hard, that every one might hear him; but what he said sounded very kind. He called them all his brothers and sisters, spoke of the glories of nature and the wonders of creation, of God's sunshine and the dear little birds and flowers. 'What is this?' asked Johannes. 'How can he talk of these things? Does he know you? Is he a friend of yours?' Windekind shook his flower-crowned head disdainfully. 'He does not know me, and the sun and the birds and the flowers even less. What he says is all lies.' The people listened very attentively. The stout lady who sat on the blue-bell began to cry several times, and wiped her eyes on her skirt, as she could not get at her handkerchief. The pale man said that God had made the sun shine so brightly for the sake of their meeting here, and Windekind laughed and threw an acorn down from the thick leaves, which hit the tip of his nose. 'He shall learn to know better,' said he; 'my father shines for him, indeed! a fine idea!' But the pale man was too much excited to pay any heed to the acorn, which seemed to have dropped from the sky; he talked a long time, and the longer the louder. At last he was red and purple in the face, doubled his fists, and shouted so loud that the leaves quivered and the grass stems were dismayed, and waved to and fro. When at last he came to an end they all began to sing again. 'Well, fie!' said a blackbird, who was listening from the top of a high tree, 'that is a shocking noise to make! I had rather the cows should come into our wood. Only listen. Well, for shame!' Now the blackbird knows what he is talking about, and has a fine taste in music. After singing, the folks brought all sorts of eatables out of baskets, boxes and bags. Sheets of paper were spread out; cakes and oranges were handed round. And bottles and glasses also made their appearance. Then Windekind called his allies together, and they began to attack the feasters. A smart frog leaped up into an old maid's lap, flopped on to the bread she was just about to put into her mouth, and sat there as if amazed at his own audacity. The lady gave a fearful yell, and stared at the intruder without daring to stir. This bold beginning soon found imitators. Green caterpillars crept fearlessly over hats, handkerchiefs and rolls, inspiring terror and disgust; fat field-spiders let themselves down on glittering threads into beer glasses, and on to heads or necks, and a loud shriek always followed their appearance; endless winged creatures fairly attacked the human beings in the face, sacrificing their lives for the good cause by throwing themselves on the food and in the liquor, making them useless by their corpses. Finally the ants came in innumerable troops and stung the enemy in the most unexpected places, by hundreds at once. This gave rise to the greatest consternation and confusion. Men and women alike fled from the long crushed moss and grass. The poor blue-bell, too, was released in consequence of a well-directed attack by two ear-wigs on the stout maiden's legs. The men and women grew desperate; by dancing and leaping with the most extraordinary gestures, they tried to escape their persecutors. The pale man stood still for a long time, hitting about him with a small black stick; but a few audacious tomtits, who were not above any form of attack, and a wasp, who stung him in the calf through his black trousers, placed him _hors de combat_. Then the sun could no longer keep his countenance, and hid his face behind a cloud. Large drops of rain fell on the antagonistic parties. It looked as though the shower had suddenly made a forest of great black toadstools spring out of the ground. These were the umbrellas, which were hastily opened. The women turned their skirts over their heads, thus displaying their white petticoats, white-stockinged legs, and shoes without heels. Oh, what fun for Windekind! He had to hold on to a flower-stem to laugh. The rain fell more and more heavily; the forest was shrouded in a grey sparkling veil. Streams of water ran off the umbrellas, tall hats and black overcoats, which shone like the shell of a water-snail; their shoes slopped and smacked in the soaking ground. Then the people gave it up, and dropped off doubtfully in twos and threes, leaving behind them a litter of papers, empty bottles and orange peel, the hideous relics of their visit. The open glade in the forest was soon deserted once more, and ere long nothing was to be heard but the monotonous rush of the rain. 'Well, Johannes! now we have seen what men are like. Why do you not laugh at them?' 'Oh, Windekind! Are all men like these?' 'Indeed, there are worse and uglier. Sometimes they shout and rave, and destroy everything that is pretty or good. They cut down trees and stick their horrible square houses in their place; they wilfully crush the flowers, and kill every creature that comes within their reach, merely for pleasure. In their dwellings, where they crowd one upon another, it is all dirty and black, and the air is tainted and poisoned by the smell of smoke. They are complete strangers to nature and their fellow-creatures. That is why they cut such a foolish, miserable figure when they come forth to see them.' 'Oh dear! Windekind, Windekind.' 'Why do you cry, Johannes? You must not cry because you were born to be a man. I love you all the same and choose you out of them all. I have taught you to understand the language of the butterflies and birds, and the faces of the flowers. The moon knows you, and the good kind earth regards you as her dearest child. Why should you not be glad since I am your friend?' 'You are, Windekind, you are!--still I cannot help crying over men.' 'Why? You need not remain among them if it vexes you. You can live here with me, and always keep me company. We will make our home in the thickest of the wood, in the solitary, sunny downs, or among the reeds by the pool. I will take you everywhere, down under the water among the water-plants, in the palaces of the elves and in the earth-spirits' homes. I will waft you over fields and forests, over strange lands and seas. I will make the spiders spin fine raiment for you, and give you wings such as I have. We will live on the scent of flowers, and dance with the elves in the moonlight. When autumn comes we will follow the summer, to where the tall palm-trees stand, where gorgeous bunches of flowers hang from the cliffs, and the dark blue ocean sparkles in the sun. And I will always tell you fairy tales. Will you like that, Johannes?' 'And I shall never live among men any more?' 'Among men, endless vexations await you, weariness, troubles and sorrow. Day after day you will toil and sigh under the burden of life. Your tender soul will be wounded and tortured by their rough ways. You will be worn and grieved to death. Do you love men more than you love me?' 'No, no! Windekind, I will stay with you.' Now he could prove how much he cared for Windekind. Yes, he would forsake and forget everybody and everything for his sake: his little room, and Presto, and his father. He repeated his wish, full of joy and determination. The rain had ceased. A bright smile of sunshine gleamed through the grey clouds on the wet sparkling leaves, on the drops which hung twinkling from every twig and blade of grass, and gemmed the spiders' webs spread among the oak leaves. A filmy mist rose slowly from the moist earth and hung over the underwood, bringing up a thousand warm, sleepy odours. The blackbird flew to the topmost bough and sang a short, passionate melody to the sinking sun--as though he would show what kind of singing befitted the spot--in the solemn evening stillness, to the soft accompaniment of falling drops. 'Is that not more lovely than the noises of men, Johannes? Ah, the blackbird knows exactly the right thing to sing! Here all is harmony; you will find none so perfect among men.' 'What is harmony, Windekind?' 'It is the same thing as happiness. It is that which all agree in striving after. Men too, but they do so like children trying to catch a butterfly. Their stupid efforts are just what scare it away.' 'And shall I find it with you?' 'Yes, Johannes. But you must forget men and women. It is a bad beginning to have been born to be a man; but you are still young. You must put away from you all remembrance of your human life; among them you would go astray, and fall into mischief and strife and wretchedness--it would be with you as it was with the young cockchafer of whom I told you.' 'What happened to him afterwards?' 'He saw the beautiful light of which the old chafer spoke; he thought he could do no better than fly towards it at once. He flew straight into a room, and into a human hand. For three days he lived in torture; he was shut up in a cardboard box; they tied a thread to his feet and let him fly at the end of it; then they untied him, with one wing and one leg torn off; and at last, helplessly creeping round and round on a carpet, trying to feel his way back to the garden, a heavy foot crushed him to death. 'All the creatures, Johannes, which come out and about at night are just as much children of the Sun as we are. And although they have never seen their glorious father, still an obscure remembrance always tempts them wherever a light is beaming. And thousands of poor creatures of the darkness find a miserable end through their love for the Sun, from which they were so long since parted, and to which they have become strangers. And in the same way a vague and irresistible attraction brings men to ruin in the false image of that Great Light whence they proceeded, but which they no longer know.' Johannes looked inquiringly into Windekind's eyes, but they were as deep and mysterious as the dark sky between the stars. 'Do you mean God?' he timidly asked. 'God?' There was a soft smile in the deep eyes. 'I know, Johannes, what you are thinking of when you speak that word,--of the chair by your bed-side where you knelt to say your long prayers last evening--of the green serge curtains in front of the church window, which you gaze at by the hour on Sunday mornings--of the capital letters in your little Bible--of the church-bag with its long pole--of the stupid singing and the stuffy atmosphere. All that you mean by the word, Johannes, is a monstrous, false image. In place of the sun a huge petroleum lamp, to which thousands and thousands of flies are helplessly and hopelessly stuck fast!' 'But what then is the name of that Great Light, Windekind? And to whom must I pray?' 'Johannes, it is as though a patch of mould should ask me what was the name of the earth which bears it round in space. Even if there were any answer to your question you would no more understand it than an earthworm can hear the music of the stars. Still, I will teach you to pray.' And while Johannes was still silently wondering over Windekind's reply, the elf flew out of the wood with him, high up, so high that beyond the edge of the down a long narrow line was visible, gleaming like gold. They flew on and on, the undulating sand-hills beneath them gliding away, and the streak of light growing broader and broader. The green hue faded, the wild broom was grey and thin, and strange bluish-green plants grew among the bushes. Then another range of hills--a long narrow strip of sand--and beyond, the wide unresting sea. The vast expanse was blue to the very horizon; but out there, under the sun, a small streak shone in blinding red fire. An endless fringe of downy-looking white foam edged the waters, as ermine borders blue velvet. On the horizon a wonderful, fine line divided the air from the ocean. It was indeed a marvel; straight yet curved; sharply defined yet non-existent; visible yet intangible. It was like the vibration of a harp-string, which thrills dreamily for a long time, seeming to die away and yet still be there. Then little Johannes sat down on the sand-hill and gazed--gazed long--motionless and silent; till he felt as though he were about to die,--as though the great golden gates of the Infinite had opened majestically before him, and his little soul were soaring forth towards the first light of eternity; until the tears, which welled up to his wide-open eyes, had dimmed the radiance of the sun, and the splendour of sky and earth floated off into soft tremulous light. 'That is the way to pray!' said Windekind. V Have you ever loitered in the woods on a fresh autumn day? When the sun shines calmly and clearly on the richly-tinted foliage; when the boughs creak, and the dry leaves rustle under foot. The forest seems weary of life; it can merely think, and lives in its memories of the past. A blue mist hangs about it like a dream, full of mysterious splendour, and the glistening gossamers float on the air with slow undulations--a sweet aimless musing. And now from the moist ground among the mosses and withered leaves suddenly and inexplicably the strange forms of toadstools spring into being. Some sturdy, deformed and fleshy; others slim and tall with ringed stems and gaily painted hats. These are the quaint dream-figures of the forest. On the decayed tree-trunks, too, there are little white columns in numerable, with black heads as though they had been burnt. Certain learned men regard them as a sort of fungus. But Johannes knew better:-- 'They are little tapers. In the still autumn nights they burn while the boguey-sprites sit near them, reading their little books.' Windekind had told him this one such tranquil autumn day, and Johannes dreamily drank in the faint earthy smell which came up from the mouldering ground. 'How is it that the leaves of the ash-trees are so speckled with black?' 'Ah! the boguey-sprites do that too,' said Windekind. 'When they have been busy writing at night, in the morning they throw out what is left in their ink-bottles over the leaves. They do not love the ash-trees; crosses are made of ash-wood, and poles for church bags.' Johannes was curious to know all about the busy little sprites, and he made Windekind promise to take him to see one of them. He had now stayed some time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret for his promise to forget all he had left behind him. And he had no hours of loneliness or terror, when repentance is always apt to intrude. Windekind never quitted him, and with him he felt everywhere at home. He slept soundly in the swinging nest, where it hung between the green reeds, however ominously the bittern might boom or the raven croak. He knew no fear of the pelting rain or howling storm--he could creep into a hollow tree or a rabbit's burrow, and hide close under Windekind's cloak, and listen to his voice as he told him tales. And now he was to see the Wood-Sprites. It was a good day for such a visit. So calm, so still, Johannes fancied he could already hear tiny voices and the rustle of little feet, though it was mid-day. The birds had almost all fled; only the thrushes were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There he hung with flapping wings, struggling till his sharp clenched claws were almost torn away. Johannes made haste to set him free, and he flew off with a happy chirp. The toadstools had a great deal to say. 'Only look at me!' said a fat puffy Toadstool. 'Did you ever see the like? See how thick and white my stem is, and how my hat shines. I am the biggest of you all. And that in one night!' 'Pooh!' said the red spotted toadstool. 'You are most vulgar!--so brown and clumsy. Now, I sway on a tall stem like a reed; I am of a splendid red like the rowan berries, and most elegantly speckled. I am the handsomest of you all.' 'Hush!' said Johannes, who knew them both of old. 'You are both poisonous.' 'That is a virtue,' said the red fellow. 'Or are you a man by chance?' retorted the fat toadstool. 'Then indeed I wish you would eat me.' But Johannes did not eat him; he took some dry twigs and stuck them into his round hat. That looked funny, and all the others laughed; even a swarm of slender toadstools with little brown heads who had only come up a few hours since, and pushed themselves everywhere to look out on the world. The fat toadstool turned blue with spite, thus displaying his venomous nature. Earth-stars raised their little pert heads on angular stems. Now and then a little cloud of the finest brown powder puffed out of the opening in a round head. Wherever that dust fell on the moist soil, threads would tangle and plait beneath the dark earth, and next year myriads of fresh stars would come up. 'What a beautiful existence!' they said to each other. 'The happiest lot in life is to shed dust. What joy to think we may do it as long as we live!' And they puffed the little smoke-like cloud into the air with the deepest concentration. 'Are they really happy, Windekind?' 'Why not? What higher joy can they know? They are happy, for they ask no better because they know no better.' When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were merged in uniform gloom, the mysterious vitality of the forest knew no rest. The branches snapped and cracked, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither among the grass and in the underwood. Then Johannes felt the touch of invisible wings and was aware of the presence of invisible beings. He could plainly hear the murmur of little voices and tripping of little feet. There! there in the darkest depth of the thicket, a tiny blue spark glowed and vanished. There was another and another!--Hark! When he listened attentively he could hear a rustling in the leaf-strewn floor near him, close to the black tree-trunk. The blue lights again were visible and then stood still on the top. Now Johannes saw such lights all about him; they flitted among the brown leaves, dancing along with airy leaping; and in one place a large sparkling mass beamed like a blue bonfire. 'What fire is that?' asked Johannes. 'It burns splendidly.' 'That is a rotten tree-stump,' replied Windekind. They went towards a bright light which remained steady. 'Now I will introduce you to Wistik.[1] He is the oldest and wisest of the Wood-Sprites. As they approached Johannes saw him sitting by his candle. The wrinkled little face with its grey beard could be plainly seen by the blue light; he was reading diligently with knitted brows. On his head he wore an acorn-cup with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a wood-spider listening to his reading. When the pair went near him, the little boguey, without raising his head, looked up from his book and lifted his eyebrows. The spider crept away. 'Good-evening,' said he. 'I am Wistik. Who are you?' 'My name is Johannes. I should like to make acquaintance with you. What are you reading?' 'It is not meant for your ears,' said Wistik. 'It is only for wood-spiders.' 'Just let me once look at it, dear Wistik,' begged Johannes. 'I cannot. This is the sacred book of the spiders, and is in my charge. I may not let it out of my own hands. I have the keeping of the sacred books of the snails, and the butterflies, and the hedge-hogs, and the moles, and all the creatures that live here. They cannot all read, and when they want to know anything I read it to them. This is a great honour for me, a post of trust, you understand.' The sprite nodded very gravely several times, and pointed with his tiny forefinger. 'And what were you studying just now?' 'The history of Kribbelgauw, the great hero among spiders, who lived very long ago and had a net which spread over three trees, and in which he caught millions of flies every day. Before the time of Kribbelgauw spiders made no nets, but lived on grass and dead creatures; but Kribbelgauw was a very clever fellow, and proved that all living insects were created on purpose for food for spiders. Then, by the most laborious calculation, Kribbelgauw discovered the art of making nets, for he was very learned. And to this day the wood-spiders make their nets exactly as he taught them, thread for thread, only much smaller. For the spider race is greatly degenerate. Kribbelgauw caught great birds in his net, and murdered thousands of his own children--he was something like a spider! At last there came a great storm and carried away Kribbelgauw and his net, with the three trees it was made fast to, through the air to a distant wood, where he is now perpetually honoured for his great achievements and sagacity.' 'Is that all true?' asked Johannes. 'It is all in this book,' said Wistik. 'Do you believe it?' The boguey shut one eye and laid his forefinger to his nose. 'The sacred books of other creatures, when they mention Kribbelgauw, speak of him as a hateful and contemptible monster. But that is no concern of mine.' 'And is there a Sprites' Book, Wistik?' Wistik looked at Johannes rather suspiciously. 'What sort of creature are you really, Johannes? There is something--just something--human about you, so to speak.' 'No, no; be easy, Wistik,' said Windekind, 'we are elves. But formerly Johannes saw a good deal of men and their doings. You may trust him entirely. It can do him no harm.' 'Ay, ay, well and good. But I am called the wisest of the sprites--and I studied long and hard before I knew what I know. So now I must be cautious with my learning. If I tell you too much, I shall lose my reputation.' 'But in what book do you think that the truth is to be found?' 'I have read a great deal, but I do not believe that I have ever read that book. It is not the Elves' Book nor the Sprites'. Yet it must exist.' 'The Men's Book perhaps?' 'That I do not know, but I do not think it. For the True Book must bring with it great peace and great happiness. In it there must be an exact explanation of why everything is as it is, so that no one need ever ask or inquire any more. Now men, I believe, have not got so far as that.' 'Oh dear, no!' said Windekind, laughing. 'Is there anywhere such a book?' said Johannes eagerly. 'Yes, yes,' whispered the sprite. 'I know there is, from very ancient legends. And--hush!--I know where it is, and who can find it.' 'Oh, Wistik! Wistik!' 'Why then have you not yet got it?' asked Windekind. 'Patience, patience,--it will be found. I know as yet no particulars,--but I shall soon find it. I have toiled for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it life shall be one perpetual autumn day--blue air above and blue mists all round,--only no falling leaves shall rustle, no twigs shall snap, no raindrops patter, the shadows shall not change, the sun-gold on the tree-tops shall not fade. What seems to us now to be light shall be darkness; what seems to us now to be joy shall be woe by comparison, to those who read that book! Ay! I know this much, and some day I shall find it.' The Wood-Sprite raised his eyebrows very much and laid his finger on his lips. 'Wistik, if you could but teach me----' Johannes began; but before he could say more he felt a strong gust of wind and saw a great, broad black shroud overhead, which silently and swiftly swept by. When he looked for Wistik again he saw one little foot just vanishing into the hollow tree. Whisk! the sprite had leapt into his cave, book and all. The candles burnt paler and paler and suddenly went out. Those were very strange little candles. 'What was that?' asked Johannes, clinging in terror to Windekind in the darkness. 'An owl,' said Windekind. Then they were both silent for some time. Presently Johannes said:-- 'Do you believe what Wistik said?' 'Wistik is not so wise as he thinks himself. He will never find such a book, nor you either.' 'But does it exist?' 'It exists, as your shadow exists, Johannes. However fast you run, however cautiously you seize it, you can never overtake it or hold it. And at last you discover that you are trying to catch yourself. Do not be foolish; forget the sprite's chatter. I can tell you a hundred finer tales. Come along! We will go to the outskirts of the wood and see how our good father draws off the white woollen coverlets of dew from the sleeping meadows. Come.' Johannes went; but he did not understand Windekind's words, nor did he follow his counsel. And while he watched the dawn of the glorious autumn morning, he was meditating over the book in which it is written why everything is as it is, and repeating to himself in a low tone, 'Wistik!' VI It seemed to him, all the next few days, as though it was no longer so delightful or so beautiful to be with Windekind in the wood or on the sand-hills. His thoughts were no onger wholly occupied with all that Windekind told him or showed him. He could not help thinking of that Book, but he dared not speak of it. The things he saw seemed to him less fine and wonderful than before. The clouds were so black and heavy, he was afraid lest they should fall upon him. It distressed him when the unresting autumn wind shook and bowed the poor weary trees, so that the sallow under side of the leaves was seen, and yellow leaves and dry twigs were swept before the gale. What Windekind told him had ceased to interest him. A great deal of it he did not understand, and he never got a perfectly clear and satisfactory answer when he asked one of his old questions. And this again made him think of that Book in which everything was set forth so plainly and simply; and of that everlasting still and sunny autumn day which would ensue. 'Wistik! Wistik!' he murmured. Windekind heard him. 'Johannes, I am afraid you ought to have remained a human being. Even your friendship is as that of men--the first person who has spoken to you after me has won all your confidence from me. Ah! my mother was right after all!' 'No, Windekind. But you are much wiser than Wistik--as wise as that Book. Why do you not tell me everything? See now! Why does the wind blow through the trees so that they bend and bow? Look, they can bear it no longer; the boughs snap and the leaves are flying by hundreds on all sides, though they are still green and fresh. They are so tired they can no longer hold on, and yet they are constantly shaken and thrashed by the rude, spiteful wind. Why is it so? What does the wind mean?' 'My poor Johannes, you are talking as men talk.' 'Make it stop, Windekind. I want calm and sunshine.' 'You question and want as a man; there is no answer, no fulfilment. If you cannot learn to ask or wish better, the autumn day will never dawn for you, and you will be like the thousands of human beings who have talked to Wistik.' 'What, so many?' 'Yes, thousands. Wistik affects great mystery, but he is a chatterbox who cannot keep his own secrets. He hoped to find the Book among men, and communicates his knowledge to every one who might be able to help him. And he has made many as unhappy as himself. They believe in him, and go forth to seek the Book with as much zeal as some use in seeking the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, give up their calling and their happiness, and shut themselves up among big volumes or strange matters and instruments. They risk their lives and health, they forget the blue sky and kindly gentle Nature--nay, even their fellow-creatures. Some find good and useful things, as it were gold nuggets, which they throw out of their holes on to the bright sunlit surface of the earth; but they do not themselves care for these; they leave them for others to enjoy, while they dig and grub on in the dark without cessation or rest. They are not seeking gold but the Book. Some lose their wits over the work, forgetting their object and aim, and becoming mere miserable dotards. The sprite has made them quite childish. You may see them building up little castles of sand, and calculating how many grains more are needed to make them fall in; they make little watercourses, and estimate precisely the bends and bays the water will make; they dig trenches, and devote all their patience and reason to making them very smooth and free from stones. If these poor idiots are interrupted in their work and asked what they are doing, they look up with great importance, shake their heads and mutter, 'Wistik, Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that little foolish Wood-Sprite. Have nothing to say to him, Johannes.' But Johannes stared before him at the swaying, creaking trees. The smooth brow above his clear childish eyes puckered into furrows. He had never before looked so grave. 'And yet--you yourself said--that there is such a Book! And oh! I am quite sure that in it there is all about the Great Light, whose name you will not tell me.' 'Poor, poor little Johannes!' said Windekind, and his voice rose above the dizzy clamour of the storm like a peaceful hymn, sounding very far away. 'Love me, only love me with all your might. In me, you will find even more than you wish. You shall understand that which you cannot conceive of, and be, yourself, what you desire to know. Earth and heaven shall be familiar to you, the stars shall be your neighbours, infinitude shall be your dwelling-place. Love me! only love me! Cling to me as the hop-bine to the tree, be true to me as the lake is to its bed--in me alone shall you find rest, Johannes.' Windekind ceased speaking, but the choral psalm still went on. It seemed to float at an immense distance, in solemn rhythm, through the raging and sighing of the wind--as tranquil as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds. Windekind opened his arms and Johannes fell asleep on his breast, under the shelter of the blue cloak. But in the night he awoke. Peace had suddenly and imperceptibly fallen on the world; the moon was below the horizon; the leaves hung limp and motionless; the forest was full of silence and darkness. And questions came back on Johannes' mind, in swift spectral succession, dislodging all his newly-born confidence. Why were men thus made? Why must he come away from them and lose their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall and the flowers die? Why--why? Down in the thicket the blue lights were dancing again. They came and went. Johannes gazed at them with eager attention. He saw the larger, brighter light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind was sleeping soundly and peacefully. 'Just one more question!' thought Johannes, creeping out from under the blue mantle. * * * * * 'So, here you are again!' cried Wistik, with a friendly nod, 'I am very pleased to see you. And where is your friend?' 'Out yonder. But I wanted to ask you one more question--alone. Will you answer it?' 'You have lived among men, I am sure. Has it anything to do with my secret?' 'Who will find the Book, Wistik?' 'Ay, ay! That's it, that's it. If I tell you, will you help me?' 'If I can--certainly.' 'Then listen, Johannes.' Wistik opened his eyes astonishingly wide, and raised his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered behind his little hand. 'Men have the golden casket; elves have the golden key; the foe of the elves can never find it, the friend of men alone can open it. The first night of Spring is the right time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way.' 'Is that true, quite true?' cried Johannes, remembering his little key. 'Yes,' said Wistik. 'How is it that no one has found it yet?' asked Johannes, 'so many men are seeking for it.' 'I have never confided to any man, never to any man, what I have told you. I never before knew a friend of the Elves.' 'I have it, Wistik, I can help you!' Johannes leaped and clapped his hands. 'I will ask Windekind about it.' Away he flew over the moss and dry leaves. But he stumbled now and then and his feet were heavy. Stout twigs snapped under his tread, while before, it had not even bent the blades of grass. There was the shady fern under which they had been sleeping. Their bed was empty. 'Windekind!' he called. But he started at the sound of his own voice. 'Windekind!' It sounded like a human voice. A scared night-bird flew up with a shriek. There was no one under the fern. Johannes could see no one. The blue lights had vanished. It was very cold and perfectly dark on all sides. Overhead, he saw the black tree-tops against the starry sky. Once more he called. Then he dared no more; his voice was an insult to the silence, and Windekind's name a mockery. Poor Johannes fell on the ground and sobbed in helpless grief. [Footnote 1: 'Wistik' means, Could I but know.] VII The morning was cold and grey. The black shining boughs, swept bare by the storm, dripped in the fog. Little Johannes ran as fast as he could over the wet, down-beaten grass, looking before him in the distance where the wood was thinnest, as though he had some goal beyond. His eyes were red with crying, and dazed with fear and grief. He had been wandering about all night, seeking some light,--the feeling of being safe and at home had vanished with Windekind. The spirit of loneliness lurked in every dark corner; he dared not look round. At last he came out of the wood; he looked over a meadowland, and fine close rain was pouring steadily. A horse was standing out in the rain close to a bare willow tree. It stood motionless, with bowed head, and the water trickled slowly off its shining flanks and plaited mane. Johannes ran on, along the skirt of the wood. He looked with dim, timid eyes at the lonely beast, and the grey drizzle, and he softly groaned. 'Now it is all over,' thought he. 'Now the sun will never come again. Now everything will always look the same to me as it does here.' But he dared not stand still in his despair; something most dreadful would befall him, he thought. Then he espied the high wall of a garden, and a little house, under a lime-tree with faded yellow leaves. He went into the enclosure and ran along broad paths where the brown and gold lime-leaves thickly covered the ground. Purple asters and other gay autumn flowers grew by the grass plots in wild abundance. Then he came to a pond. By the side of it was a large house, with windows and doors all opening down to the ground. Climbing roses and other creepers grew against the walls. But it was all shut up and deserted. Half-stripped chestnut trees stood about the house, and on the earth, among the fallen leaves Johannes saw the shining brown chestnuts. The cold, dead feeling about his heart disappeared. He thought of his own home--there two chestnut-trees grew, and at this season he always went out to pick up chestnuts. He suddenly longed to be there, as though an inviting voice had called him. He sat down on a bench close to the big house and cried himself to rest. A peculiar smell made him look up. A man was standing by him, with a white apron on and a pipe in his mouth. Round his waist he had a wisp of bast with which he tied up the flowers. Johannes knew that smell so well! It reminded him of his own garden, and the gardener who brought him pretty caterpillars and showed him starling's eggs. He was not frightened,--though it was a man who stood before him. He told the man that he had got lost and did not know his way, and thankfully followed him to the little cottage under the lime-tree. Indoors, the gardener's wife sat knitting black stockings. A large kettle of water was hung to boil over the turf-fire in the hearth-place. On the mat by the fire lay a cat with her forepaws crossed, just as Simon had been lying when Johannes left home. Johannes was made to sit down by the fire to dry his feet. 'Tick-tick, tick-tick,' said the great hanging clock. Johannes looked at the steam which came singing out of the kettle, and at the little flames which skipped and jumped fantastically about the peat blocks. 'Here I am among men,' thought he. It was not alarming. He felt easy and safe. They were kind and friendly, and asked him what he would like to do. 'I would rather stay here,' he replied. Here he was at peace, and if he went home there would be scolding and tears. He would have to listen in silence, and he would be told that he had been very naughty. He would be obliged to look back on the past, and think everything over once more. He longed, to be sure, for his little room, for his father, for Presto--but he could better endure the quiet longing for them here than the painful, miserable meeting. And he felt as though here he could still think of Windekind, while at home he could not. Windekind was now certainly quite gone. Gone far away to the sunny land where palm-trees bend over the blue sea. He would do penance here and await his friend's return. So he begged the two good folks to let him live with them. He would be obedient and work for them. He would help to take care of the garden and the flowers, at any rate through this winter; for he hoped in his heart that Windekind would return with the Spring. The gardener and his wife supposed that Johannes had run away from home because he had been hardly treated. They pitied him, and promised to let him stay. So he remained and helped to work in the garden and attend to the flowers. They gave him a little room to sleep in with a bedstead painted blue. Out of it, in the morning, he could see the wet yellow lime-leaves flutter past the window, and at night the black boughs waving to and fro, and the stars playing hide-and-seek between them. And he gave names to the stars, and the brightest of them he called Windekind. He told his history only to the flowers, most of which he had known before at home; to the large, solemn asters, the many-hued zinnias, and the white chrysanthemums which bloom on so late into the blustering autumn. When all the rest of the flowers were dead the chrysanthemums still stood upright--even when one morning the first snow had fallen and Johannes came to see how they were getting on, they held up their cheerful faces and said: 'Yes, we are still here. You would never have thought it!' And they looked very brave; but two days later they were all dead. But palms and tree-ferns were still thriving in the hot-house, and the strange blossoms of orchids hung in the damp heat. Johannes peeped with amazement into their gorgeous cups, and thought of Windekind. How cold and colourless everything seemed then when he came out again--the sloppy snow with black footmarks, and the sighing, dripping branches of the trees! But when the snow-flakes had been noiselessly falling hour after hour so that the boughs bent under the growing burthen, Johannes ran off gleefully into the purple twilight of the snow-laden wood. That was silence--but not death. It was almost more lovely than summer verdure, as the dazzling whiteness of the tangled twigs made lace-work against the light-blue sky, or as one of the over-weighted boughs shook off its load of snow, which fell in a cloud of glittering powder. Once in the course of such a walk, when he had gone so far that all round him there was nothing to be seen but snow and snow-wrapped woods, half white and half black, and every sound of life seemed stifled under the glistening downy shroud, it happened that he thought he saw a tiny white creature running swiftly in front of him. He followed it--it resembled no animal that he knew; but when he tried to catch it, it promptly vanished into a hollow trunk. Johannes stared into the hole where it had disappeared and thought to himself: 'I wonder if it was Wistik?' But he did not think much about him. He fancied it was wrong, and he would not spoil his fit of repentance. And his life with these two kind people left him little to ask for. In the evenings he had indeed to read aloud out of a thick book in which a great deal was said about God; but he was familiar with the book, and read unheeding. That night, however, after his walk in the snow, he lay awake in his bed, looking at the cold gleam of the moonlight on the floor. All at once he saw two tiny hands which came out from below the bedstead and firmly clutched the edge. Then the top of a little white fur cap came into sight between the two hands, and at last he saw a pair of grave eyes under uplifted eyebrows. 'Good-evening, Johannes!' said Wistik. 'I am come to remind you of your promise. You cannot yet have found the Book, for it is not yet Spring time. But do you ever think it over? What is that thick book which you are made to read? But that cannot be the right book. Do not imagine that.' 'I do not imagine that, Wistik,' said Johannes. He turned over to go to sleep again; but he could not get the gold key out of his head. Before now, when reading the big Book, he had thought of that, and he saw plainly that it could not be the right Book. VIII 'Now he will come back,' thought Johannes, the first time the snow had melted here and there, and the snowdrops peeped out in bunches. 'Will he come now?' he asked of the snowdrops. But they did not know, and stood there with hanging heads, looking down at the earth as if they were ashamed of their haste to come out, and would gladly creep back again. If only they could have done so! The numbing east wind soon began to blow again, and the snow drifted deep over the foolish, forward little things. Some weeks later came the violets; their sweet smell betrayed them among the brushwood; and when the sun had shone warmly on the mossy ground the pale primroses came out by hundreds and thousands. The shy violets with their fine fragrance were the mysterious harbingers of coming splendour, but the glad primroses were the glorious reality. The waking earth had caught and captured the first sunbeams and turned them into a golden jewel. 'Now--now he will certainly come!' thought Johannes. He eagerly watched the leaf-buds on the trees as they slowly swelled day by day and freed themselves from the bark, till the first pale-green tips peeped out between the brown scales. Johannes would stand gazing for long at the little young leaves--he could never see them move, but if he only turned round, they seemed to have grown bigger. 'They dare not, so long as I am looking at them,' thought he. The shade had already begun to be green. Still Windekind did not come, no dove had settled near him, no little mouse had spoken to him. When he spoke to the flowers they merely nodded and never answered. 'My punishment is not yet ended,' thought he. One sunny spring morning he went to the pond by the great house. The windows were all wide open. Had the people who lived there come back? The bird-cherry which grew by the water-side was entirely covered with fresh leaves; every twig had a crop of delicate green winglets. On the grass by the tree lay a young girl; Johannes could only see that she had a light-blue dress and fair hair. A robin, sitting on her shoulder, fed out of her hand. She suddenly turned her head and looked at Johannes. 'Good-day, little man!' said she, with a friendly nod. Johannes felt a glow from head to foot. Those were Windekind's eyes; that was Windekind's voice. 'Who are you?' he asked. His lips trembled with excitement. 'I am Robinetta, and this is my bird. He will not be afraid of you. Are you fond of birds?' The Redbreast was not afraid of Johannes; it flew on to his arm. This was just as it used to be. The being in blue must be Windekind. 'And tell me what your name is, boy,' said Windekind's voice. 'Do you not know me? Do you not know that my name is Johannes?' 'How should I know that?' What did this mean? For it was the sweet familiar voice, and those were the same dark, heavenly-deep blue eyes. 'Why do you look at me so, Johannes? Have you ever seen me before?' 'Yes I have, indeed.' 'You must surely have dreamed it.' 'Dreamed it?' thought Johannes. 'Can I have dreamed it? Or can I be dreaming now?' 'Where were you born?' he inquired. 'A long way from hence, in a great town.' 'Among human beings?' Robinetta laughed--it was Windekind's laugh. 'Why, I should think so. Were not you?' 'Oh yes, I was too.' 'Do you object to that? Do you not like human beings?' 'No. Who could?' 'Who?--Well, Johannes, you are a very strange little boy. Do you like beasts better?' 'Oh, much better,--and flowers.' 'So do I myself sometimes; just for once in a while. But it is not right. We ought to love our fellow-men, my father says.' 'Why is it not right? I love whom I choose, whether it is right or not.' 'Fie, Johannes! Have you no parents or any one to take care of you? And do you not love them?' 'Yes,' said Johannes thoughtfully, 'I love my father. But not because it is right--nor yet because he is a man.' 'Why then?' 'That I do not know,--because he is not like other men; because he too is fond of birds and flowers.' 'And so am I, Johannes, as you may see.' And Robinetta called the robin to sit on her hand and talked to him fondly. 'That I know,' replied Johannes, 'and I love you very much.' 'Already? That is quick work!' laughed the girl. 'And whom, then, do you love best?' Johannes hesitated. Should he utter Windekind's name? The fear that he might accidentally speak it in the presence of other persons was never out of his thoughts. And yet, was not this fair-haired creature in blue Windekind in person? How else could she give him such a sense of rest and gladness? 'You,' he suddenly replied, looking full into those deep blue eyes. He boldly made a complete surrender; but he was a little alarmed nevertheless, and anxiously awaited her reception of his precious offering. Robinetta laughed again, a light clear laugh; but she took his hand and her look was no colder nor her voice less full of feeling. 'Why, Johannes,' said she, 'what have I done to deserve it all at once?' Johannes made no reply, but stood looking at her with trustful eyes. Robinetta rose and laid her arm on his shoulder. She was taller than he. Thus they wandered on through the wood, gathering great bunches of cowslips till they could have hidden under the mass of bright yellow blossoms. The robin flew, as they went on, from branch to branch, and watched them with his glittering little black eyes. They did not talk much, but looked at each other now and then, with a side glance. They were both embarrassed by this meeting and did not know what to think of each other. But Robinetta had soon to turn back. It was growing late. 'I must go now, Johannes. But will you come and walk with me again? I think you are a nice little boy,' she said as they turned round. 'Weet, weet!' piped the robin, and flew after her. When she was away and he had only her image left to think of, he had not a moment's doubt as to who she was. She it was to whom he had given his friendship: the name of Windekind faded from his mind, and that of Robinetta took its place. And now everything was the same to him again as it had formerly been. The flowers nodded gaily, and their scent drove away the melancholy home-sickness which he had felt and encouraged now and then. Amid the tender greenery, in the warm, soft breeze of spring, he all at once felt himself at home, like a bird that has found its nest. He spread out his arms and drew a deep breath; he was so happy. As he went homewards the figure in light blue with yellow hair, floated before him whichever way he turned his gaze. It was as though he had looked on the sun, and its image danced before his eyes where-ever he looked. From that day forward Johannes found his way to the pond every fine morning. He went early, as soon as he was roused by the squabbling of the sparrows in the ivy round his window, and by the twitter and wheeze of the starlings as they fluttered on the roof and wheeled in the early sunshine. Then he flew off through the dewy grass, to wait close by the house, behind a lilac-bush, till he heard the glass door open and saw the light figure come out. Away they went, wandering through the wood and over the sand-hills which skirted it. They talked of all they saw, the trees, and the plants and the downs. Johannes had a strange bewildered feeling as he walked by her side; sometimes he felt so light that he fancied he could fly through the air. But that never happened. He told her all the stories of the flowers and animals that he had heard from Windekind. But he had forgotten who had told them to him, and Windekind did not now stand before him, only Robinetta. He was happy when she smiled at Mm and he saw her friendship for him in her eyes; and he would talk to her as of old he had talked to his little dog, telling her everything that came into his head, without reserve or timidity. During the hours when he could not see her he thought of her; and in everything he did he asked himself whether Robinetta would think it right or nice. She herself seemed no less pleased to see him; she smiled and ran quicker to meet him. She told him indeed that there was no one she was so glad to walk with as with him. 'But, Johannes,' said she one day, 'how do you know all these things? How do you know what the cockchafers think about, what the thrushes sing, what the inside of the rabbit-holes is like, and how things look at the bottom of the water?' 'I have been told,' answered Johannes, 'and I have myself been inside a rabbit-burrow, and down to the bottom of the water.' Robinetta knit her pretty eyebrows and looked at him half mockingly. But he looked as if he were speaking the truth. They were sitting under lilac-trees covered with large bunches of purple blossoms. In front of them was the pond with its reeds and duck-weed. They saw the black water-snails gliding below the surface, and red spiders busily swinging up and down. It was swarming with life and movement. Johannes, lost in remembrance, gazed down into the depths and said-- 'I went down there once. I slipped down a reed to the very bottom. It is covered all over with dead leaves which fall so lightly and softly. It is always twilight there--green twilight, because the light comes through the green duck-weed. And over my head I saw the long white rootlets of the duck-weed hanging down. Newts came and swam round me; they are very inquisitive. It is strange to see such great creatures swimming overhead; and I could not see far before me, it was too dark, and all green. In that darkness, the creatures appeared like black shades. Water-snails with their swimming-foot and flat shells, and sometimes a little fish. I went a long way, for hours, I believe, and in the middle was a great forest of water-plants, where snails were creeping and water-spiders wove their glistening nets. Sticklebacks shot in and out, and sometimes paused to stare at me, with open mouth and quivering fins--they were so much astonished. I made friends there with an eel, whose tail I unfortunately trod on. He told me the history of his travels; he had been as far as the sea, he said. For this, he had been chosen king of the pool, for no one else had ever been so far. He always lay sleeping in the mud, except when he got something to eat which the others brought him. He ate a terrible quantity. That was because he was king; they like to have a very fat king; it looks grand. Oh! it was lovely down in that pool.' 'They why do you not go down there again now?' 'Now?' repeated Johannes, looking at her with wide, bewildered eyes. 'Now? I can never go again now. I should be drowned. But I do not care. I had rather stay here, by the lilac-bush, with you.' Robinetta shook her yellow head, much puzzled, and stroked Johannes's hair. Then she looked at her bird, which seemed to be finding all sorts of delicious morsels by the edge of the pond. It glanced up at that moment, and watched the pair for a moment with its bright little eyes. 'Do you understand anything of all this, Dicky-bird?' The Robin looked very knowing and went on hunting and pecking. 'Tell me something more, Johannes, of the things you have seen.' This Johannes was very glad to do, and Robinetta listened with attentive belief in all he said. 'But where did this all happen? Why cannot you go now with me? Everywhere--all about? I should like it so much.' Johannes did his best to remember, but a sunlit mist covered the dim landscape where he had once wandered. He could not quite make out how it was that his former happiness had deserted him. 'I do not know exactly--you must not ask about that. A foolish little being spoiled it all. But it is all right now--better even than before.' The scent of the lilac poured down on them from the bushes, and the humming of the insects on the pool, and the peaceful sunshine filled them with pleasant drowsiness, till a bell rang at the great house with a swinging clang, and Robinetta flew off. When Johannes went into his little room that evening, as he looked at the moon-shadows of the ivy leaves which stole across the brick floor, he fancied he heard a tap at the window. He thought it was an ivy leaf shaken by the wind. But it was such a distinct knocking, three taps each time, that Johannes softly opened the window and cautiously peeped out. The ivy against the wall glistened in the blue gleam--the dark world below was full of mystery; there were hollows and caves, where the moon lighted up small blue sparks, which made the darkness behind seem deeper still. After staring for a long time into the marvels of the shadow-world, Johannes discerned the form of a tiny mannikin, close to the window, screened by a large ivy leaf. He at once recognised Wistik by his large wondering eyes and uplifted eyebrows. The moon had set a spark of light on the tip of Wistik's long nose. 'Have you forgotten me, Johannes? Why do you never think of me? It is the right time of year. Have you asked Robin Redbreast to show you the way?' 'Oh, Wistik, why should I ask? I have all I can wish for. I have Robinetta.' 'But that cannot last long. And you might be happier still--and certainly Robinetta might. And is the little key to lie there? Only think how splendid it would be if you two were to find the Book! Ask Robin Redbreast about it, and I will help as far as I can.' 'I can ask about it at any rate,' said Johannes. Wistik nodded, and nimbly scrambled down to the ground; and Johannes looked at the deep shadows and the shining ivy leaves for a long time before he went to bed. Next day he asked the Redbreast whether he knew the way to the golden chest. Robinetta listened in surprise. Johannes saw the Robin nod his head and give a side-glance at Robinetta. 'Not here! not here!' piped the little bird. 'What are you asking, Johannes?' said Robinetta. 'Do you know anything about it, Robinetta? Do you know where it is to be found? Are you not waiting for the little golden key?' 'No, no. Tell me, what is it?' Johannes told her all he knew about the Book. 'And I have the key, and I thought that you must have the little golden chest. Is it not so, Dicky-bird?' But the bird pretended not to hear, and flew about among the young pale-green birch boughs. They were sitting under a sand-hill, on which little birches and broom shrubs grew. A grassy path ran up the slope, and they sat at the edge of it, on the thick, dark, green moss. They could see over the tops of the low shrubs, a green sea of leaves with waves in light and shade. 'I believe,' said Robinetta, after thinking for some time, 'that I can find what you want before you do. But what do you mean about the little key? How did you come by it?' 'Ah!--how did I?--How was that?' muttered Johannes to himself, staring across the green landscape into the distance. Suddenly, as though they had come into being under the sunny blue sky, a pair of white butterflies met his sight. They flitted and wheeled, and shone in the sunshine with purposeless giddy flutterings; but they came close to him. 'Windekind! Windekind!' The name came back to Johannes, and he spoke it in a whisper. 'What is Windekind?' asked Robinetta. The Redbreast flew chirping up, and the daisies in the grass at their feet seemed all at once to be staring at Johannes in alarm with their round white eyes. 'Did he give you the little key?' the girl went on. Johannes nodded; still he said nothing, but she wanted to know more about it. 'Who was it? Did he tell you all these things? Where is he?' 'He is gone.--Now it is Robinetta--no one but Robinetta--only Robinetta.' He took her arm and laid his head against it. 'Silly boy!' she said, laughing, 'I will make you find the Book; I know where it is.' 'But then I must go to fetch the key, and it is a long way off.' 'No, no, you need not. I can find it without the key.--To-morrow, I promise you, to-morrow.' And as they walked homewards, the butterflies flitted in front of them. That night, Johannes dreamed of his father, of Robinetta, and of many others. They were all good friends; they stood round him and looked at him kindly and trustfully. But on a sudden, their faces were changed, they looked coldly and laughed at him. He gazed about him in terror--on all sides there were none but angry, unfriendly faces. He felt a nameless misery, and awoke with a cry. IX Johannes had sat waiting for a long time. The air was chill, and heavy clouds swept over the scene in endless succession. They spread a dark grey mantle in wide folds, and lifted their proud heads to the bright light which shone above them. Sunshine and shadow chased each other with wonderful swiftness across the trees, like a fitfully blazing fire. Johannes was uneasy in his mind; he was thinking of the Book, not really believing that he should ever find it. Between the clouds very, very high up, he saw the clear, deep blue strewn with fleecy white clouds, soft and feathery, floating in calm and motionless rest. 'It must be like that!' thought he. 'So high, so bright, so still!' Then came Robinetta. Her bird 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 doubtfully. 'He did not come; as we are not going for a walk.' So he went with her, still thinking to himself: 'It cannot be.--It will not be like this,--it must be quite different.' However, he followed the shining golden hair which lighted up the way. * * * * * Alas! Sad things now befell little Johannes. I wish that his history ended here. Did you ever have a beautiful dream of an enchanted garden, with flowers and beasts who loved you and talked to you? And have you in your dream had the consciousness that you would presently awake, and all the glory of it vanish? Then you try with all your might to hold it fast, and not to see the cold light of morning. Johannes had just such a feeling as he followed Robinetta. She led him into the big house, into a passage where his steps echoed. He could smell the scent of clothes and food; he thought of the long days when he had been kept indoors--of his school-days--and of everything in his life which had been cold and gloomy. They went into a room full of men and women; how many, he could not see. They were talking, but as he went in they were silent. He noticed that the carpet had a pattern of huge, impossible flowers in gaudy colours. They were as strange and monstrous as those on the curtains in his bedroom at home. 'So that is the gardener's little boy?' said a voice opposite him. 'Come here, my little friend; there is nothing to be afraid of.' And another voice close to him said-- 'Well, Robbie, you have found a nice little companion.' What did it all mean? The deep lines gathered again above Johannes's dark childlike eyes, and he looked about him in bewilderment and alarm. A man dressed in black sat near him, looking at him with cold, grey eyes. 'So you want to see the Book of Books? I am surprised that your father, whom I know for a pious man, should not have put it into your hands before now.' 'You do not know my father; he is far, far away.' 'Indeed! Well, it is the same thing. Look here, my little friend! Read this diligently; it shall show you the way of life----' But Johannes had already recognised the Book. This was not what he wanted. No, something very different. He shook his head. 'No, no! that is not what I mean. I know this Book. This is not it.' He heard exclamations of surprise, and felt the looks which were fixed on him from all sides. 'What? What do you mean, little man?' 'I know this book. It is the book men believe in. But there is not enough in it--if there were, there would be peace and goodwill among men. And there is none. I mean something different--something which no one can doubt who sees it; in which it is written, precisely and clearly, why everything is as it is.' 'How is that possible? Where can the boy have picked up such a notion?' 'Who taught you that, my little friend?' 'I am afraid that you have read some wicked books, child, and are talking like them.' Thus spoke the various voices. Johannes felt his cheeks burning--his eyes were dim and dazzled--the room turned round, and the huge flowers on the carpet swayed up and down. Where was the little mouse who had so faithfully helped him that day in the school-room? He wanted her badly. 'I am not talking like any book, and he who taught me what I know is worth more than all of you together. I know the language of flowers and animals, and am friends with them all. And I know too what men are, and how they live. I know all the fairies' secrets and the wood-sprites'; for they all love me--more than men do.' Oh Mousey, Mousey! Johannes heard sounds of disapprobation and laughter behind him, and all sides. There was a singing and roaring in his ears. 'He seems to have read Hans Andersen's tales.' 'He is not quite right in his head.' The man opposite to him said: 'If you know Andersen, my little man, you ought to have more of his reverence for God and His Word.' 'For God!' He knew that word, and he remembered Windekind's teaching. 'I have no reverence for God. God is a great Petroleum-lamp which leads thousands to misery and misfortune.' There was no laughter now, but a terrible silence, in which horror and amazement might be felt on all sides. Johannes was conscious of piercing looks, even at his back. It was like his dream of the night before. The man in black stood up and took him by the arm. This hurt him and almost crushed his courage. 'Listen to me, youngster: I do not know whether you are utterly ignorant or utterly depraved, but I suffer no ungodly talk here. Go away, and never come in my sight again, I advise you. I will keep an eye on what becomes of you, but you never more set foot in this house. Do you understand?' Every face was cold and hostile as he had seen them in his dream. Johannes looked about him in anguish. 'Robinetta--where is Robinetta?' 'Ay indeed! You would contaminate my child! Beware if you ever dare to come here again!' And the cruel grip led him down the echoing passage--the glass door slammed--and Johannes found himself outside, under the black driving clouds. He did not turn round, but stared straight before him as he slowly walked away. The sad furrows above his eyes were deeper, and did not smooth out again. The Redbreast sat in a lime hedge looking after him. He stopped and gazed back, but did not speak; but there was no longer any confidence in the bird's timid sharp little eyes, and when Johannes took a step nearer, the quick little creature shot away in hasty flight. 'Away, away! Here is a man!' piped the sparrows who were sitting in a row on the garden path, and they fluttered away in all directions. Even the open blossoms laughed no more, but looked grave and indifferent, as they do to all strangers. Still Johannes did not heed these signs, but only thought how cruelly he had been hurt by those men; it was as though a cold hard hand had been laid on his inmost secret soul. 'They shall believe me yet!' thought he. 'I will fetch my little key and show it to them.' 'Johannes, Johannes!' called a tiny voice. There was a bird's nest in a holly bush and Wistik's big eyes peeped out over the edge of it. 'Where are you off to?' 'It is all your fault!' said Johannes. 'Leave me in peace.' 'What took you to talk with men? Men can never understand you. Why do you tell men such things? It is most foolish.' 'They laughed at me, and hurt me. They are detestable creatures! I hate them.' 'No, Johannes; you love them.' 'No, no!' 'If you did not, it would not vex you so much to find yourself different from them; it could not matter to you what they say. You must learn to care less.' 'I want my key. I want to show it to them.' 'You must not do that; and they would not even then believe you. Of what use would it be?' 'I want my little key from under the rose-bush. Do you know where to find it?' 'Yes, certainly; by the pool you mean? Yes, I know it.' 'Then take me there, Wistik.' Wistik clambered up on Johannes's shoulder and showed him the way. They went on and on, all the day; the wind blew, and heavy rain fell from time to time, but towards evening the clouds ceased driving, and packed into long grey and gold bars. When they reached the sand-hills which Johannes knew so well, his heart was sad within him, and he whispered again and again, 'Windekind, Windekind!' There was the rabbit-hole, and the sand-hill where he had fallen asleep. The grey reindeer-moss was soft and damp, and did not crack under his feet. The roses were all over, and the yellow evening-primroses with their faint oppressive scent opened their cups by hundreds. Higher yet grew the tall mulleins with their thick woolly leaves. Johannes looked carefully to espy the small russet leaves of the wild rose. 'Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it.' 'I know nothing of it,' said Wistik. 'You buried the key, not I.' Where the rose-tree had stood there was a plot covered with yellow Oenotheras staring heedlessly at the sky. Johannes questioned them, and the mullein too; but they were much too proud, for their tall stems rose far above his head; so he asked the little three-coloured pansies on the sandy ground. However, no one knew anything of the wild rose. They were all new-comers this summer, even the mullein, arrogant and tall as it was. 'Oh! where is it? where is it?' 'Have you too deceived me?' cried Wistik. 'I expected it; it is always so with men.' And he let himself slip down from Johannes's shoulder, and ran away among the broom. Johannes looked about him in despair--there stood a tiny wild rose-bush. 'Where is the big rose-bush?' asked Johannes; 'the big one which used to stand here?' 'We never talk with human creatures,' said the shrub. That was the last thing he heard; everything remained silent. Only the broom-shrubs sighed in the light evening breeze. 'Am I then a man?' thought Johannes. 'No! it cannot be, it cannot be! I will not be a man! I hate men!' He was tired and sick at heart. He lay down at the edge of the meadow, on the soft grey moss which gave out a strong, damp scent. 'Now I cannot find my way back, and shall never see Robinetta again. Shall I not die if I have not Robinetta? Shall I live and grow to be a man--a man like those others who laughed at me?' On a sudden he saw once more the two white butterflies which came flying towards him from the side where the sun was setting. He watched them anxiously; would they show him the way? They fluttered over his head, sometimes close together and sometimes far apart, flitting about as if in whimsical play. By degrees they went farther and farther from the sun, and vanished at last over the ridge of the sand-hills towards the wood, where only the topmost boughs were now red in the evening glow which blazed out brightly from beneath the long dark levels of cloud. Johannes rose and went after them, but as they flew up over the first trees he saw that a black shadow followed them and overtook them with noiseless flight. The next instant they were gone. The black shade pounced swiftly down on them, and Johannes in terror covered his face with his hands. 'Well, my little friend, what have you to cry about?' said a sharp mocking voice close at hand. Johannes had seen a big bat coming towards him, but when he now looked up a little black dwarf not much taller than himself was standing on the sand-hill. He had a large head with big ears which stuck out dark against the bright evening sky; a lean shape and thin legs. Johannes could see nothing of his face but the small twinkling eyes. 'Have you lost anything, my little fellow? Can I help you seek it?' said he. But Johannes shook his head in silence. 'Look here. Would you like to have these?' he began again, opening his hand. In it Johannes saw something white which still moved a little. This was the two white butterflies, their crushed and broken wings quivering in their death-struggle. Johannes shuddered as though some one had blown against the nape of his neck, and he looked up in alarm at the strange being. 'Who are you?' he asked. 'You would like to know my name? Well, call me Pluizer[1]--simply Pluizer. I have other prettier names, but you would not understand them yet.' 'Are you a man?' 'Better and better! Well, I have arms and legs and a head--see what a head--and the boy asks me whether lama man! Why, Johannes, Johannes!' And the mannikin laughed with a shrill piercing note. 'How do you know who I am?' asked Johannes. 'Oh, that, to me, is a mere trifle. I know a great deal more than that. I know whence you have come and what you came to do. I know a wonderful deal--almost everything.' 'Ah, Master Pluizer----' 'Pluizer, Pluizer--without any fine words.' 'Then do you know anything----' but Johannes was suddenly silent. 'He is a man,' thought he. 'Of the little key, do you mean? Why, to be sure!' 'But I did not think that any man could know about that.' 'Foolish boy! Besides, Wistik has told me all about it.' 'Then do you know Wistik too?' 'Oh yes! One of my best friends--and I have many friends. But I know it without Wistik. I know a great deal more than Wistik. Wistik is a very good fellow--but stupid, uncommonly stupid. Now, I am not! Far from it!' And Pluizer tapped his big head with his lean little hand. 'Do you know, Johannes,' he went on, 'what Wistik's great defect is?--but you must never tell him, for he would be very angry.' 'Well, what is it?' said Johannes. 'He does not exist. That is a great defect, but he does not admit it. And he says the same of me, that I do not exist. But that is a lie. I not exist, indeed! What next, I wonder?' And Pluizer put the butterflies into his satchel, and suddenly turning a somersault stood before Johannes on his head. Then, with a hideous grin, he stuck out a vile long tongue. Johannes, who did not feel at all at his ease alone with this strange being in the growing dusk on the deserted sand-hills, now fairly quaked with fear. 'This is a delightful manner of surveying the world,' said Pluizer, still upside down. 'If you like I will teach you to do it. You see everything much clearer, and more life-like.' And he flourished his little legs in the air and waltzed round on his hands. As the red light fell on his inverted face Johannes thought it perfectly horrible; those little eyes twinkled in the glow and showed the whites at the lower edge where it is not generally visible. 'You see, in this position the clouds seem to be the ground and the earth the top of the world. It is just as easy to maintain that as the converse. There is really no above or below. A very pretty place to walk on those clouds must be!' Johannes looked up at the long stretches of cloud. They looked to him like a ploughed land, with red furrows, as though blood welled up from it. Just over the pool yawned the gate of the cloud-grotto. 'Can any one go there and enter in?' he asked. 'What nonsense!' said Pluizer, suddenly standing on his feet again, to Johannes's great relief, 'Nonsense! If you were there you would find it just the same as here, and it would look as beautiful as that further on again. But in those lovely clouds it is all foggy and grey and cold.' 'I do not believe you,' cried Johannes. 'Now I see you really are a man.' 'Come, come! You do not believe me, my little friend, because I am a man? And what sort of creature are you then, I should like to know?' 'O Pluizer! Am I, too, really a man?' 'What do you suppose? An elf? Elves are never in love.' And Pluizer unexpectedly sat down on the ground at Johannes's feet with his leg crossed under him, staring at him with a villainous grin. Johannes was unutterably embarrassed and uncomfortable under his gaze, and wished he could escape or become invisible. But he could not even take his eyes off him. 'Only men fall in love, Johannes, d'ye hear! And so much the better, or there would be none left by this time. And you are in love like the best of them, although you are but a little fellow. Of whom are you thinking at this moment?' 'Of Robinetta,' whispered Johannes, hardly above his breath. 'Whom do you most long for?' 'Robinetta.' 'Without whom do you think you could not live?' Johannes's lips moved silently: 'Robinetta.' 'Well then, youngster,' grinned Pluizer, 'what made you fancy that you could be an elf? Elves do not love the daughters of men.' 'But it was Windekind,' Johannes stammered out in his bewilderment. But Pluizer flew into a terrible rage and his bony fingers gripped Johannes by the ears. 'What folly is this? Would you try to frighten me with that whippersnapper thing? He is a greater simpleton than Wistik--much greater. He knows nothing at all. And what is worse, he does not exist in any sense, and never has existed. I only exist, do you understand? And if you do not believe me, I will let you feel what I am.' And he shook the hapless Johannes by the ears. Johannes cried out-- 'But I have known him such a long time, and have travelled such a long way with him!' 'You dreamed it, I tell you. Where are the rose bush and the little key, hey? But you are not dreaming now. Do you feel that?' 'Oh!' cried Johannes, for Pluizer nipped him. It was by this time dark, and the bats flew close over their heads and piped shrilly. The air was black and heavy, not a leaf was stirring in the wood. 'May I go home?' asked Johannes,--'home to my father?' 'To your father! What to do there?' said Pluizer. 'A warm reception you will get from him after staying away so long.' 'I want to get home,' said Johannes, and he thought of the snug room with the bright lamp light where he would sit so often by his father's side, listening to the scratching of his pen. It was quiet there, and not lonely. 'Well then, you would have done better not to come away, and stayed so long for the sake of that senseless jackanapes who has not even any existence. Now it is too late, but it does not matter in the least; I will take care of you. And whether I do it or your father, comes to precisely the same in the end. Such a father--it is a mere matter of education. Did you choose your own father? Do you suppose that there is no one so good or so clever as he? I am just as good, and cleverer--much cleverer.' Johannes had no heart to answer; he shut his eyes and nodded feebly. 'And it would be of no use to look for anything from Robinetta,' the little man went on. He laid his hands on Johannes's shoulders and spoke close into his ear. That child thought you just as much a fool as the others did. Did you not observe that she sat in the corner and never spoke a word when they all laughed at you? She is no better than the rest. She thought you a nice little boy, and was ready to play with you--as she would have played with a cockchafer. She will not care that you are gone away. And she knows nothing of that Book. But I do; I know where it is, and I will help you to find it. I know almost everything.' And Johannes was beginning to believe him. 'Now will you come with me? Will you seek it with me?' 'I am so tired,' said Johannes, 'let me sleep first.' 'I have no opinion of sleep,' replied Pluizer, 'I am too active for that. A man must always be wide awake and thinking. But I will grant you a little time for rest. Till to-morrow morning!' And he put on the friendliest expression of which he was capable. Johannes looked hard into his little twinkling eyes till he could see nothing else. His head was heavy and he lay down on the mossy knoll. The little eyes seemed to go further and further from him till they were starry specks in the dark sky; he fancied he heard the sound of distant voices, as though the earth beneath him were going away and away--and then he ceased to think at all. [Footnote 1: The plucker, the spoiler.] X Even before he was fairly awake, he was vaguely conscious that something strange had happened to him while he slept. Still he was not anxious to know what, or to look about him. He would rather return to the dream which was slowly fading like a rising mist--Robinetta had come to be with him again, and had stroked his hair as she used to do--and he had seen his father once more, and Presto, in the garden with the pool. 'Oh! That hurt! Who did that?' Johannes opened his eyes, and in the grey morning light, he saw a little man standing at his side who had pulled his hair. He himself was in bed, and the light was dim and subdued, as in a room. But the face which bent over him at once carried him back to all the misery and distress of the past evening. It was Pluizer's face, less boguey-like and more human, but as ugly and terrifying as ever. 'Oh, no! Let me dream!' cried Johannes. But Pluizer shook him. 'Are you crazy, sluggard? Dreaming is folly; you will never get any further by that. A man must work and think and search; that is what you are a man for.' 'I do not want to be a man. I want to dream.' 'I cannot help that; you must. You are now in my charge, and you must work and seek with me. With me alone can you ever find the thing you want. And I will not give in till we have found it.' Johannes felt a vague dismay; still, a stronger will coerced and drove him. He involuntarily submitted. The sand-hills, trees, and flowers had vanished. He was in a small dimly-lighted room; outside, as far as he could see, there were houses, and more houses, dingy and grey, in long dull rows. Smoke rose from every one of them in thick wreaths, and made a sort of brown fog in the streets. And along those streets men were hurrying, like great black ants. A mingled, dull clamour came up from the throng without ceasing. 'Look, Johannes,' said Pluizer. 'Now is not that a fine sight? Those are men, and all the houses, whichever way you look, and as far as you can see--even beyond the blue towers there--are full of men--quite full from top to bottom. Is not that wonderful? That is rather different from a sand-hill!' Johannes listened with alarmed curiosity, as though some huge and hideous monster had risen up before him. He felt as if he stood on the creature's back, and could see the black blood flowing through its great arteries, and the murky breath streaming from its hundred nostrils. And the portentous hum of that terrible voice filled him with fears. 'Look how fast the men walk,' Pluizer went on. 'You can see that they are in a hurry and are seeking something, cannot you? But the amusing thing is, that not one of them knows exactly what he is seeking. When they have been seeking for some little time, some one comes to meet them--his name is Hein.' 'Who is he?' asked Johannes. 'Oh, a very good friend of mine. I will introduce you to him some day. Then Hein says to them, "Are you looking for me?" To which most of them reply, "Oh no. I do not want you!" But then Hein says again, "But there is nothing to be found but me." So they have to be satisfied with Hein.' Johannes understood that he meant death. 'And is it always, always so?' 'To be sure, always. And yet, day after day, a new crowd come on, who begin forthwith to seek they know not what, and they seek and seek till at last they find Hein. This has been going on for a good while already, and so it will continue for some time yet.' 'And shall I never find anything, Pluizer--nothing but--?' 'Ay, you will find Hein some day, sure enough! but that does not matter; seek all the same--for ever be seeking.' 'But the Book, Pluizer, you were to make me find the Book.' 'Well who knows? I have not taken back my word. We must seek it diligently. At any rate we know where to look for it; Wistik taught us that. And there are folks who spend all their lives in the search without even knowing so much as that. Those are the men of science, Johannes. But then Hein comes and it is all over with their search.' 'That is horrible, Pluizer!' 'Oh no, not at all! Hein is a very kind creature; but he is misunderstood.' Some one was heard on the staircase outside the bedroom door. Tramp, tramp, up the wooden steps--tramp, tramp,--nearer and nearer. Then some one tapped at the door, and it was as though iron rapped against the panel. A tall man came in. He had deep-set eyes and long lean hands. A cold draught blew into the room. 'Good-day,' said Pluizer, 'so it is you! Sit down. We were just speaking of you. How are you getting on?' 'Busy, busy!' said the tall man, and he wiped the cold dews from his bald, bony forehead. Without moving Johannes looked timidly into the deep-set eyes which were fixed on his. They were grave and gloomy, but not cruel, not angry. After a few minutes he breathed more freely and his heart beat less wildly. 'This is Johannes,' said Pluizer. 'He has heard of a certain book in which it is written why everything is as it is, and we are now going to seek it together, are we not?' And Pluizer laughed significantly. 'Ay, indeed? That is well!' said Death kindly, and he nodded to Johannes. 'He is afraid he will not find it, but I tell him first to seek it diligently.' 'To be sure,' said Death. 'Seek diligently, that is the best way.' 'He thought, too, that you were very dreadful. But you see, Johannes, that you were mistaken.' 'Oh yes,' said Death good-humouredly, 'men speak much evil of me. I am not attractive to look upon, but I mean well, nevertheless.' He smiled faintly, as one who is occupied with more serious matters than those he is speaking of. Then he took his dark gaze from Johannes's face, and looked out thoughtfully over the great city. For a long time Johannes dared not speak; but at last he said in a low voice-- 'Are you going to take me with you?' '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 grow to be a man like all the rest.' 'Come, come,' said Death, 'there is no help for it.' And it was easy to hear that this was a frequent phrase with him. He went on-- 'My friend Pluizer can teach you how to become a good man. There are various ways of being good, but Pluizer can teach you admirably. It is a very fine and noble thing to be a good man. You must never look down on a good man, my little fellow.' 'Seek, think, look about you,' said Pluizer. 'To be sure, to be sure,' said Death. And then he inquired of Pluizer: 'To whom will you take him?' 'To Doctor Cypher, my old pupil.' 'Ah yes,--a very good pupil. A very capital example of a man! Almost perfect in his own way.' 'Shall I see Robinetta again?' asked Johannes, trembling. 'What does the boy mean?' asked Death. 'Oh, he was in love, and fancied that he was an elf. Ha, ha, ha!' laughed Pluizer spitefully. 'No, no, my little man, that will never do,' said Death. 'You will soon forget all that when you are with Doctor Cypher. Those who seek what you seek must give up everything else. All or nothing.' 'I shall make a real man of him. I will let him see some day what being in love really means, and then he will cast it from him altogether.' And Pluizer laughed heartily. Death again fixed his black eyes on poor Johannes, who had some difficulty in refraining from sobbing. But he was ashamed to cry in the presence of Death. Death suddenly rose. 'I must be going,' said he. 'I am wasting my time in talk, and there is much to be done. Good-bye, Johannes!--We shall meet again. But you must not be afraid of me.' 'I am not afraid of you; I wish you would take me with you.' But Death gently pushed him away; he was used to such entreaties. 'No, Johannes.--Go now to your work in life; seek and see! Ask me no more. _I_ will ask you some day, and that will be quite soon enough.' When he had disappeared Pluizer again began to behave in the wildest fashion. He leaped over the seats, turned somersaults, climbed up the cupboard and chimney-shelf, and played break-neck tricks at the open window. 'Well, that was Hein, my good friend Hein!' said he. 'Did you not like him greatly? A little unattractive and bony-looking, perhaps. But he can be very jolly too, when he takes pleasure in his work. Sometimes it bores him; it is rather monotonous.' 'Pluizer, who tells him where he is to go next?' Pluizer stared at Johannes with a look of cunning inquiry. 'What makes you ask?--He goes where he pleases--He takes those he can catch.' Later, Johannes came to see that it was not so. But as yet he knew no better, and thought that Pluizer was always right. They went out and up the street, moving among the swarming throng. The men in their black clothes bustled about, laughing and talking so gaily that Johannes could not help wondering. He saw how Pluizer nodded to several, but no one returned the greeting; they all looked in front of them as if they did not even see him. 'They go by and laugh now,' said Pluizer, 'as if they none of them knew me. But that is only make-believe. When I am alone with one of them they cannot pretend not to know me, and then they are not so light-hearted.' And as they went on Johannes was presently aware of some one following them. When he looked round he saw that the tall pale figure was striding on among the people, with long noiseless steps. He nodded to Johannes. 'Do the people see him too?' asked Johannes of Pluizer. 'Certainly, but they do not choose to know him. Well, I pardon them for their arrogance!' The crowd and the turmoil produced a sort of bewilderment which made Johannes forget his woes. The narrow streets and the high houses, which cut the blue heavens above into straight strips, the people going up and down them, the shuffling of feet and the clatter of vehicles, ousted the visions and dreams of the night, as a storm dissipates the images in a pool of water. It seemed to him that there was nothing in the world but walls, and windows, and men. He felt as if he too must do the same, and rush and push in the seething, breathless whirl. Presently they came to a quieter neighbourhood, where a large house stood, with plain grey windows. It looked stern and unkindly. Everything was silent within, and Johannes smelt a mixture of sour, unfamiliar odours, with a damp, cellar-like atmosphere for their background. In a room filled with strange-looking instruments sat a lonely man. He was surrounded by books, and glass and copper objects, all unknown to Johannes. A single ray of sunshine fell into the room above his head, and sparkled on flasks full of bright-coloured liquids. The man was gazing fixedly through a copper tube and did not look up. As Johannes approached he could hear him murmuring, 'Wistik, Wistik!' By the man's side, on a long black board, lay something white and furry which Johannes could not see very clearly. 'Good-morning, doctor,' said Pluizer; but the doctor did not move. But Johannes was startled, for the white object which he was watching intently, suddenly began to move convulsively. What he had seen was the white fur of a rabbit lying on its back. The head, with the mobile nose, was fixed in an iron clamp, and its four little legs were firmly bound to its body. The hopeless effort to get free was soon over, then the little creature lay still again, and only the rapid movement of its bleeding throat showed that it was still alive. And Johannes saw its round, gentle eye staring wide in helpless terror, and he felt as if he recognised the poor little beast. Was not that the soft little body against which he had slept that first delightful night with the elves? Old memories crowded in his mind; he flew to the rabbit. 'Wait, wait! Poor rabbit! I will release you!' and he hastily tried to cut the cords which bound the tender little paws. But his hands were tightly clutched, and a sharp laugh sounded in his ear. 'What do you mean by this, Johannes? Are you still such a baby? What must the doctor think of you?' 'What does the boy want? What brings him here?' asked the doctor in surprise. 'He wants to become a man, so I have brought him to you. But he is still young and childish. That is not the way to find what you are seeking, Johannes.' 'No, that is not the way,' said the doctor. 'Doctor, set the rabbit free!' But Pluizer held him by both hands till he hurt him. 'What did we agree on, little man?' he whispered in his ear. 'To seek diligently, was it not? We are not on the sand-hills now, with Windekind and the dumb brutes. We are to be men--men. Do you understand? If you mean to remain a child, if you are not strong enough to help me, I will send you about your business and you may seek by yourself.' Johannes was silent, and believed him. He would be strong. He shut his eyes so that he might not see the rabbit. 'My dear boy,' said the doctor, 'you seem still too tender-hearted to begin. To be sure--the first time it is horrible to look on. I myself, for some time, was most averse to it, and avoided it as far as possible. But it is indispensable; and you must remember we are men and not brutes, and the advancement of mankind and of science is of more importance than a few rabbits.' 'Do you hear?' said Pluizer,--'science and mankind.' 'The man of science,' the doctor went on, 'stands far above all other men. But he must make all the smaller feelings which are common to the vulgar give way to the one grand idea of science. Will you be such a man? Is that your vocation, my boy?' Johannes hesitated; he did not know justly what a vocation might be--any more than the cockchafer. 'I want to find the book of which Wistik spoke,' said he. The doctor looked surprised and asked, 'Wistik?' Pluizer hastened to reply. 'He will, doctor; I know he really will. He desires to seek the highest wisdom and to understand the true nature of tilings.' Johannes nodded, 'Yes!' So far as he understood the matter, that was what he meant. 'Very well; but then you must be strong, Johannes, and not timid and soft-hearted. Then I can help you. But remember: all or nothing.' And with trembling fingers Johannes helped to tighten the relaxed cords round the rabbit's little paws. XI 'Now we shall see,' said Pluizer, 'whether I cannot show you just as pretty things as Windekind did.' And when they had taken leave of the doctor, promising to return soon, he led Johannes into every nook and corner of the great town; he showed him how the Monster lived, how he breathed and took in food, how he digested within and expanded without. But what he liked best were the gloomy back slums, where men sat closely packed, where everything was grey and grizzly, and the air black and heavy. He took him into one of the great buildings from which the smoke rose which Johannes had seen the first day. The place was filled with deafening noise--thumping, rattling, hammering and droning--great wheels were turning and long belts sliding endlessly onward; the walls and floors were black, the windows broken and murky. The towering chimneys rose high above the dingy structure, and poured forth thick wreaths of smoke. Amid the turmoil of wheels and axles, Johannes saw numbers of men with pale faces and blackened hands and clothes, working busily without a word. 'Who are they?' he asked. 'Wheels, wheels too,' said Pluizer with a laugh, 'or men, if you choose to call them so. And what you see them doing, they do from morning to night. Even so, they can be men--after their own fashion, of course.' Then they passed along filthy streets, where the strip of heavenly blue seemed no more than a finger's breadth wide, and was still more shut out by clothes hung out to air. These alleys were swarming with people, who jostled each other, shouted, laughed and sometimes even sang. In the houses here, the rooms were so small, so dark and foul, that Johannes could scarcely breathe. He saw squalid children crawling about on the bare floor, and young girls with tangled hair crooning songs to pale, hungry babies. He heard quarrelling and scolding, and every face he looked upon was weary, or stupid and indifferent. It filled Johannes with a strange sudden pang. It had nothing in common with any former pain, and he felt ashamed of it. 'Pluizer,' said he, 'have men always lived here in such grief and misery? And when I--' he dared not finish the question. 'To be sure, and a happy thing too. They are not in such grief and misery; they are used to it and know no better. They are mere animals, ignorant and indifferent. Look at those two women sitting in front of their door; they look out on the dirty street as contentedly as you used to gaze at the sand-hills. You need not worry yourself about the lot of man. You might as well cry over the lot of the moles who never see daylight.' And Johannes did not know what to answer, nor what, then, he ought to weep over. And ever through the noisy throng and bustle, he still saw the pale, hollow-eyed figure marching on with noiseless steps. 'A good man, don't you think?' said Pluizer. 'He takes them away from this at any rate. But even here men are afraid of him.' When night had fallen and hundreds of lights flared in the wind, casting long, straggling reflections in the black water, they made their way down the quiet streets. The tall old houses seemed tired out, and asleep as they leaned against each other. Most of them had their eyes shut; but here and there a window still showed a pale gleam of yellow light. Pluizer told Johannes many a long tale of those who dwelt within, of the sufferings which were endured there, and the struggle waged between misery and the love of life. He spared him nothing: he sought out the gloomiest, the lowest, the most dreadful facts, and grinned with delight as Johannes turned pale and speechless at his horrible tales. 'Pluizer,' Johannes suddenly asked, 'do you know anything about the Great Light?' He thought the question might deliver him from the darkness which grew thicker and more oppressive about him. 'All nonsense!' said Pluizer. 'Windekind's nonsense! Mere visions and dreams! Men alone exist--and I myself. Do you suppose that a God, or anything at all like one, could take pleasure in governing such a muddle as prevails on this earth? And such a Great Light would not shine here in the dark.' 'But the stars, what about the stars?' asked Johannes as if he expected that the visible Splendour would raise up the squalor before him. 'The stars! Do you know of what you are talking, boy? There are no lights up there like the lamps you see about you here below. The stars are nothing but worlds, a great deal larger than this world with its thousand cities, and we move among them like a speck of dust; and there is no "above" or "below," but worlds all round, and on every side more worlds, and no end of them anywhere.' 'No, no!' cried Johannes in horror. 'Do not say so, do not say so! I can see the lights against a great dark background overhead.' 'Very true. You cannot see anything but lights. If you stared up at the sky all your life long you would still see nothing but lights against a dark background overhead. But, you know, you must know, that there is no above nor beneath. Those are worlds, amid which this clod of earth, with its wretched, struggling mass of humanity, is as nothing--and will vanish into nothing. Do not ever speak of "the stars" in that way, as though there were but a few dozen of them. It is foolishness.' Johannes said no more. The immensity which ought to have elevated the squalor had crushed it. 'Come along,' said Pluizer. 'Now we will go to see something amusing.' At intervals bursts of delightful, soft music were wafted to their ears. On a dark slope in front of them stood a large building with lamps blazing in its numerous long windows. A row of carriages was in waiting outside; the pawing of the horses rang hollow through the silent night, and as they shook their heads, sparks of light shone on the silver fittings of their harness, and on the varnish of the coaches. Inside, everything was a blaze of light. Johannes was half blinded as he gazed, by the hundreds of candles, the bright colours, the glitter of mirrors and flowers. Gay figures flitted across the windows, bowing to each other, with laughter and gestures. Beyond, at the other side of the room, richly dressed persons were moving about with slow dignity or spinning with swift, swaying motion. A confused sound of laughter and merry voices, of shuffling feet and rustling dresses came through the front door, mingling with the waves of that soft bewitching music which Johannes had already heard from afar. In the street, close to the windows, stood a few dark figures, their faces only strangely lighted up by the illumination within, at which they stared with avidity. 'That is pretty! That is splendid!' cried Johannes, delighted at the sight of so much light and colour, and so many flowers. 'What is going on in there? May we go in?' 'Indeed! So you really think that pretty? Or do you not prefer a rabbit-hole? Look at the people as they laugh, and bow, and glitter. See how stately and polite the men are; and how gay and fine the ladies! And how solemnly they dance, as if it were the most important thing on earth.' Johannes recalled the ball in the rabbit-burrow, and he saw a great deal which reminded him of it. But here, everything was much grander and more brilliant. The young ladies in their beautiful array seemed to him as lovely as elves, as they raised their long, bare arms, and bent their heads on one side in the dance. The servants moved about incessantly, offering elegant refreshments with respectful bows. 'How splendid! How splendid!' cried Johannes. 'Very pretty, is it not?' said Pluizer. 'But now you must learn to look a little further than the end of your nose. You see nothing there but happy smiling faces? Well, the greater part of all that mirth is falsehood and affectation. The friendly old ladies in the corner sit there like anglers round a pond; the young girls are the bait, the men are the fish. And affectionately as they gossip together, they envy and grudge each other every fish that bites. If either of the young ladies feels some pleasure, it is because she has a prettier dress than the rest, or secures more partners; the pleasure of the men chiefly consists in the bare shoulders and arms of the ladies. Behind all these bright eyes and pleasant smiles there lurks something quite different. Even the thoughts of the respectful servants are very far from respectful. If suddenly every one should give utterance to his real thoughts the party would soon be at an end.' And when Pluizer pointed it ail out to him, Johannes could plainly see the insincerity of the faces and manners of the company, and the vanity, envy, and weariness which showed through the smiling mask, or were suddenly revealed as though it had just been taken off. 'Well,' said Pluizer, 'they must do things in their own way. Human creatures must have some amusement, and they know no other way.' Johannes was aware of some one standing just behind him. He looked round; it was the well-known tall figure. The pale face was strangely lighted up by the glare, so that the eyes showed as large dark caverns. He was muttering softly to himself and pointed with one finger into the splendid ball-room. 'Look,' said Pluizer, 'he is seeking out some one.' Johannes looked where the finger pointed, and he saw how the old lady who was speaking closed her eyes and put her hand to her head; and how a fair young girl paused in her slow walk, and stared before her with a slight shiver. 'How soon?' Pluizer asked of Death. 'That is my affair,' was the answer. 'I should like to show Johannes this same company once more,' said Pluizer with a grin and a wink, 'can I do it?' 'This evening?' asked Death. 'Why not?' said Pluizer. 'There, time and the hour are no more. What now is has always been, and what shall be, is now already.' 'I cannot go with you,' said Death. 'I have too much to do. But speak the name we both know and you can find the way without me.' Then they went a little way along the deserted streets where the gas was flaring in the night wind, and the dark cold water plashed against the sides of the canals. The soft music grew fainter and fainter, and at last died away in the hush which lay over the town. Presently, from high above them, a loud and festal song rang out with a deep, echoing, metallic ring. It came down suddenly from the tall church tower on the sleeping city, and into little Johannes' sad and gloomy soul. He looked up much startled. The chime rang on with clear, steady tones, rising joyfully in the air, and boldly scaring the death-like silence. The glad strain struck him as strange--a festal song in the midst of noiseless sleep and blackest woe. 'That is the clock,' said Pluizer, 'it is always cheerful, year in, year out. It sings the same song every hour, with the same vigour and vivacity; and it sounds more gleeful by night than even by day, as if the clock rejoiced that it has no need of sleep, that it can sing at all times with equal contentment, while thousands, just below, are weeping and suffering. But it sounds most gladly when some one is just dead.' Again the jubilant peal rang out. 'One day, Johannes,' Pluizer went on,' a dim light will be burning in a quiet room, behind just such a window as that yonder; a melancholy light, flickering pensively, and making the shadows dance on the wall. There will be no sound in that room but now and then a low, suppressed sob. A bed will be standing there, with white curtains, and long shadows in their folds. In the bed something will be lying--white and still. That will have been little Johannes. And then, how loud and joyful will that chime sound, breaking into the room, and singing out the first hour after his death!' Twelve was striking, booming through the air with long pauses between the strokes. At the last stroke, Johannes, all at once, had a strange feeling as though he were dreaming; he was no longer walking, but floating along a little way above the ground, holding Pluizer's hand. The houses and lamps sped past him in swift flight. And now the houses stood less close together. They formed separate rows, with dark, mysterious gaps between them, where the gas lamps lighted up trenches, puddles, scaffoldings and woodwork. At last they reached a great gate, with heavy pillars and a tall railing. In a winking, they had floated over it and come down again on some soft grass by a high heap of sand. Johannes fancied he must be in a garden, for he heard the rustling of trees hard by. 'Now pay attention, and then confess whether I cannot do greater things than Windekind.' Then Pluizer shouted aloud a short and awful name which made Johannes quake. The darkness on all sides echoed the sound, and the wind bore it up in widening circles till it died away in the upper air. And Johannes saw the grass blades growing so tall that they were above his head, and a little pebble which but just now was under his feet, seemed to be close to his face. Pluizer, by his side, and no bigger than he was, picked up the stone with both hands and threw it away with all his might. A confused noise of thin, shrill voices rose up from the spot he had cleared. 'Hey day! who is doing that? What is the meaning of it? Lout!' they could hear said. Johannes saw black objects running in great confusion. He recognised the quick, nimble ground-beetle, the shining, brown ear-wig with his fine nippers, the millipede with its round back and thousand tiny feet, in the midst of them a long earthworm shrank back as quick as lightning into its burrow! Pluizer made his way through the angry swarm of creatures to the worm's hole. 'Hey there! you long, naked crawler! come up and show yourself once more with your sharp red nose!' he cried. 'What do you want?' asked the worm from below. 'You must come out, because I want to go in; do you hear, you bare-skinned sand-eater!' The worm cautiously put his pointed head out of the hole, felt all round it two or three times, and then slowly dragged his naked ringed body up to the surface. Pluizer looked round at the other creatures who had crowded curiously about them. 'One of you must go first with a light--no, Master Beetle, you are too stout, and you with your thousand feet would make me giddy. Hey, you ear-wig! I like your looks. Come with me and carry a light in your nippers. You, beetle, must look about for a will-o'-the-wisp, or fetch a chip of rotten wood.' The creatures were scared by his commanding tones and obeyed him. Then they went down into the worm's burrow; the ear-wig first, with the shining wood, then Pluizer, and then Johannes. It was a narrow passage and very dark down there. Johannes saw the grains of sand glittering in the dim blue gleam. They looked like large stones, half transparent and built up into a smooth firm wall by the worm's body. The worm himself followed, full of curiosity. Johannes saw the pointed head come close up behind him, and then stop till the long body had been dragged after it. Down they went, without speaking, far and deep. When the path was too steep for Johannes, Pluizer helped him. They seemed never to be coming to an end; still fresh galleries of sand, and still the ear-wig crept on, turning and bending with the sinuosities of the passage. At last this grew broader, and the walls opened out. The grains of sand were black and wet, forming a vault overhead, down which driblets of water made shining streaks, while the roots of trees came through in coils like petrified snakes. And suddenly there rose before Johannes's eyes an upright wall, black and high, cutting off all space beyond. The ear-wig turned round. 'Here we are. The next question is how to get any further. The worm ought to know; he is at home here.' 'Come on; show us the way,' said Pluizer. The worm slowly dragged his jointed body up to the black wall and felt it inquisitively. Johannes could see that it was of wood. Here and there it had fallen into brownish powder. The worm bored his way into one such place and the long, wriggling body vanished with three pushes and pauses. 'Now for you,' said Pluizer, pushing Johannes into the little round opening. For a moment he thought he should be suffocated in the soft damp stuff, but he soon felt his head free, and with some trouble worked his way completely through. A large room seemed to lie open before him; the floor was hard and moist, the air thick and intolerably oppressive. Johannes could scarcely breathe, and stood waiting in mortal terror. He heard Pluizer's voice, which sounded hollow, as in some vast cellar. 'Here, Johannes, follow me.' He felt the ground before him rise to a hill--and he climbed it, clutching Pluizer's hand in the darkness. He trod, as it were, on a carpet which yielded under his foot. He trampled over hollows and ridges, following Pluizer who led him on to a level spot where he held on by some long stems which bent in his hand like reed-grass. 'Here we can stand very comfortably. Bring a light,' said Pluizer. The dim light came on from a distance, up and down with its bearer. The nearer it approached, and the more its pale gleam spread in the place they were in, the more terrible became Johannes's anguish of mind. The eminence on which he stood was long and white; the support he clung to was brown, and lay about in glistening waves and curls. He recognised the features of a human being, and the icy level on which he stood was the forehead. Before him lay the sunken eyes, two deep, dark hollows, and the blue gleam fell on the pinched nose and ashy lips which were parted in the hideous, rigid smile of death. Pluizer laughed sharply, but the sound seemed smothered by the damp, wooden walls. 'Is not this a surprise, Johannes?' The worm crept up along the plaits of the shroud: he glided over the chin and the stiffened lips and into the mouth. 'This was the beauty of the ball, whom you thought lovelier even than an elf. Then her hair and dress shed sweet fragrance; then her eyes sparkled and her lips smiled. Now,--look at her!' With all his horror there was doubt in Johannes's eyes. So soon? The splendour was but now--and already----? 'Do you not believe me?' grinned Pluizer. 'Half a century lies between now and then. Time and the hour are no more. What has been shall always be, and what shall be has ever been. You could not conceive of it, but you must believe it. Everything here is the truth. All I tell you is true! True!--and Windekind could not say that.' With a nod and a grimace he leaped round the dead face, and played the most horrible antics. He sat on the eyebrows and raised the eyelids by the long lashes. The eye, which Johannes had seen bright with gladness, stared dull and white in the pale light. 'Now onwards!' cried Pluizer. 'There is more yet to be seen.' The worm came creeping up from a corner of the mouth, and the dreadful march began once more. Not back again, but along new paths, no less long and gloomy. 'This is much older,' said the earthworm as he made his way through another black wall. 'This has been here a very long time.' It was less dreadful here than before. Johannes saw nothing but a confused mass, out of which brown bones projected. Hundreds of insects were silently busy here. The light startled and alarmed them. 'Where do you come from? Who brings a light here? We want no light.' And they hastily vanished into the folds and crevices. But they recognised a fellow-creature. 'Have you been in the next one?' asked the worms. 'The wood is still hard.' The first worm denied it. 'He wants to keep the find to himself,' said Pluizer to Johannes in a low voice. Then they went forward again; Pluizer explained everything, and pointed out persons whom Johannes had known. They came to an ugly face with prominent, staring eyes, and thick dark lips and cheeks. 'This was a very fine gentleman,' said he in high glee. 'You should have seen him--so rich, so fashionable, so arrogant. He is as much puffed up as ever!' And so they went on. There were lean and haggard faces with white hair that shone blue in the feeble light, and little children with large heads and old-looking, anxious features. 'These, you see, died first and grew old afterwards,' said Pluizer. They came to a man with a flowing beard and parted lips, showing glistening white teeth. There was a round black hole in the middle of his forehead. 'This one lent Death a helping hand. Why had he not a little patience? He would have come here in the end.' Through passage after passage, one after another, they passed, no end of them--straight-laid figures, with rigid, grinning faces, and motionless hands laid one over the other. 'Now I can go no further,' said the ear-wig. 'I do not know my way beyond this.' 'Let us turn back,' said the worm. 'One more, one more!' cried Pluizer. So on they went. 'Everything you see here, actually exists,' said Pluizer, as they made their way forward. 'It is all real. One thing only is not real, and that is yourself, Johannes. You are not here; you cannot come here.' And he laughed maliciously as he saw Johannes's terrified and bewildered face at these words. 'This is the last, positively the last.' 'The way stops here. I am going no further,' said the ear-wig crossly. 'I will go further,' said Pluizer; and where the path ended he began grubbing the earth with both hands. 'Help me, Johannes.' And Johannes, submissive with wretchedness, obeyed, scratching away the fine damp soil. Silent and breathless they worked away till they came to the black wood. The worm had drawn back his ringed head and disappeared. The ear-wig dropped the light and turned away. 'It is impossible to get in, the wood is new,' said he as he withdrew. 'I will do it!' said Pluizer, and with his clawed fingers he tore long white splinters cracking out of the wood. A fearful anguish came over Johannes. But he could not help himself; there was no escape. At last the dark thing was opened. Pluizer seized the light and hurried in. 'Here, here!' he cried, running to the head. But when Johannes came as far as the hands, which lay quietly folded over the breast, he stopped. He gazed at the thin white fingers, dimly lighted from above. On a sudden, he recognised them,--he knew the shape and turn of the fingers, the look of the long nails, now blue and dull. He recognised a brown spot on one of the forefingers. These were his own hands. 'Here, this way!' Pluizer called from the head. 'Only look, do you know him?' Hapless Johannes tried to stand up and go towards the light which winked at him; but he could not. The gleam died into total darkness and he fell senseless. XII He had sunk into deep sleep--that sleep which is too deep for dreams. When he came out of the darkness--very slowly--into the cool grey light of dawn, he passed through varied and peaceful dreams of an early time. He woke up, and they glided off his soul, like dew-drops off a flower. The look in his eyes was calm and sweet as they still gazed on the crowd of lovely images. But he closed them again quickly as though the glare were painful, to shut out the pale daylight. He saw just what he had seen the morning before. It seemed to him far away and a long time ago. Still, hour by hour, he remembered it all, from the dreary day-break to the terrible night. He could not believe that all these horrors had come upon him in a single day. The beginning of his wretchedness seemed so remote, lost in grey mist. The sweet dreams vanished, and left no trace on his spirit; Pluizer shook him, and the dreadful day began, gloomy and colourless; the first of many, many more. But all he had seen last night in that terrible walk dwelt in his mind. Had it been no more than a fearful vision? When he asked Pluizer doubtfully, he looked at him with mockery and amazement. 'What do you mean?' he said. But Johannes did not see the sarcasm in his eyes, and asked whether all this, which he still saw so plainly and clearly, had not indeed been true. 'Why, Johannes, how silly you are! Such a thing could never happen at all.' And Johannes did not know what to think. 'We must set you to work at once, and then you will ask no more such foolish questions.' So they went to Doctor Cypher, who was to help Johannes to find what he sought. But as they went along the crowded street, Pluizer suddenly stood still, and pointed out a man in the throng. 'Do you remember him?' asked Pluizer, and he laughed aloud when Johannes turned pale and stared at the man in terror. He had seen him last night, deep under ground. The doctor received them kindly and imparted his learning to Johannes, who listened to him for hours that day--and for many days after. The doctor had not found what they sought; but was very near it, he said. He would lead Johannes as far as he himself had gone, and then, together, they would be sure to achieve to it. Johannes learned and listened, diligently and patiently--day after day, and month after month. He had very little hope, but he understood that he must go on now, as far as possible. He thought it strange that the longer he sought the light the darker it grew around him. The beginning of everything, he learned, was the best part of it, but the deeper he got the duller and more obscure it became. He began with the study of plants and animals, of everything about him, and when he had studied these a long time they all turned to numbers. Everything resolved itself into numbers--pages of figures. This Doctor Cypher thought quite splendid; he said that light would come to them as the numbers came, but to Johannes it was darkness. Pluizer never left him, and drove and urged him on when he was disheartened or weary. His presence marred every moment of enjoyment and admiration. Johannes was amazed and delighted when he learnt and saw how exquisitely flowers were constructed, how the fruit was formed, and how insects unconsciously helped in the process. 'That is beautiful!' he exclaimed. 'How exactly it is all arranged, and how delicately and accurately contrived!' 'Yes, amazingly contrived,' said Pluizer. 'The pity is that the greater part of this ingenuity and accuracy comes to nothing. How many flowers produce fruit, and how many seeds become trees?' 'But still, it seems to be all wrought by some grand plan,' said Johannes. 'Look, the bees seek honey for their own ends and do not know that they are serving the flowers, and the flowers attract the bees by their colours. That is a scheme, and they both work it out without knowing it.' 'That all looks very pretty, but it fails in many ways. When the bees have a chance, they bite a hole through the flower and make the whole internal structure useless. He is a clever Contriver indeed who can be laughed to scorn by a bee!' And when he came to study the organism of men and beasts, matters were even worse. Whenever Johannes thought anything beautiful or well adapted, Pluizer would demonstrate its imperfections and inefficiency. He expatiated on the host of ills and woes to which every living creature is liable, selecting by preference the most disgusting and terrible. 'The Contriver, Johannes, was very shrewd, but in everything he made he forgot something, and men have as much as they can do to patch up these defects as best they may. You have only to look about you. An umbrella, a pair of spectacles--for shelter and better sight--these are specimens of man's patching. They are no part of the original plan. But the Contriver never considered that men would have colds, and read books, and do a thousand other things for which his plan was inadequate. He gave his children clothes without reflecting that they would outgrow them. Almost all men have by this time long outgrown their natural outfit. Now they do everything for themselves, and never trouble themselves at all about the Contriver and his schemes. What he failed to give them, they simply take by brute force; and when the obvious result is that they must die, they evade death, sometimes for a long period, by a variety of devices.' 'But it is men's own fault,' said Johannes. 'Why do they wilfully deviate from the laws of nature?' 'Oh, silly Johannes! If a nursemaid lets an innocent child play with fire and it is burned, whose fault is it? The child's, who knew nothing about fire; or the nurse's, who knew that it would burn itself? And who is to blame if men pine in misery and disobedience to nature--they or the all-wise Contriver, compared with whom we are ignorant children?' 'But they are not ignorant, they know--' 'Johannes, if you say to a child: Do not touch that fire, it will hurt you--and if the child touches it all the same because it does not know what pain is, can you then plead your own innocence and say: The child was not ignorant? Did you not know that it would not heed your advice? Men are as foolish as children. Glass is brittle and clay is soft. And He who made men and did not take their folly into account, is like a man who should make weapons of glass and not expect them to break, or arrows of clay and not expect them to bend.' His words fell like drops of liquid fire on Johannes's soul, and his heart swelled with a great grief to which his former woes were as nothing, and which often made him weep in the silent, sleepless hours of the night. Oh, for sleep! sleep! There came a time after long days, when nothing was so dear to him as sleep. Then he neither thought nor suffered; in his dreams he was always carried back to his old life. It seemed to him beautiful as he dreamed of it, but day by day he could never remember exactly how things had then been. He only knew that the vexations and cravings of that former time were better than the vacant, stagnant feeling of the present. He once had longed bitterly for Windekind; he once had waited hour after hour on Robinetta. How delightful that had been! Robinetta! Did he still long for her? The more he learnt the feebler that craving became. For that too was dissected, and Pluizer showed him what love really was. Then he felt ashamed, and Doctor Cypher said that he could not as yet express it in numbers, but that he should soon accomplish this. Then things grew darker and darker round little Johannes. He had an obscure feeling of thankfulness that he had not seen Robinetta in the course of that fearful expedition with Pluizer. When he spoke of it to Pluizer he made no reply but a sly laugh; but Johannes understood that this was from no desire to spare him. Those hours which Johannes did not spend in study or work Pluizer took advantage of to show him the life of men. He managed to take him everywhere--into the hospitals where sick people lay in great numbers--long ranks of pale, haggard faces with a dull, suffering expression--and where unearthly silence reigned, broken only by coughing and groaning. And Pluizer showed him how many of them could never leave the place. And when at a fixed hour streams of men and women came pouring into the place to visit their sick relations, Pluizer said: 'You see, they all know that they too must some day find their way into this house and these gloomy rooms, only to be carried out in a black chest.' 'Then how can they ever be so light-hearted?' thought Johannes. And Pluizer took him up to a little attic-room where a dismal twilight reigned, and where the distant tinkle of a piano in a neighbouring house made an incessant dreamy noise. Here they found, among others, one man who lay staring helplessly before him at a narrow sunbeam which slowly crept up the wall. 'He has lain there for seven years,' said Pluizer. 'He was a sailor, and has seen the palms of India, the blue seas of Japan, the forests of Brazil; and now, for seven long years, he has amused himself all day and every day with the sunbeams and the sound of the piano. He will never leave this room again; but it cannot last much longer now.' After this day Johannes had his worst dream; he fancied himself in that little room, listening to the feeble music, in the melancholy half-light, with nothing to look at but the rising and waning sunbeams --never more till the end. Pluizer took him, too, to the great churches to listen to what was said there. He took him to festivals and grand ceremonies, and made him intimate in many houses. Johannes learnt to study men, and it sometimes happened that he could not help thinking of his past life, of the tales Windekind had told him and of his own disappointments. There were men who reminded him of the glow-worm, who fancied that the stars were his departed friends; or of the cockchafer who was one day older than his comrade, and who had said so much about a vocation; and he heard tales which made him think of Kribbelgauw, the Spider-Hero, and of the eel who did nothing, but was fed because it was a grand thing to have a fat king. Himself, he could only compare to the younger cockchafer, who did not know what a vocation was, and flew to the light. He felt that he in the same way was creeping, helpless and crippled, over the carpet with a string round his body, a cruel string which Pluizer tugged and twitched. Ah! he should never see the garden again! When would the heavy foot come and crush him to death? Pluizer laughed at him if he ever spoke of Windekind; and by degrees he began to think that Windekind had never existed. 'But, Pluizer, then the little key does not exist--nothing is real!' 'Nothing, nothing. Men and numbers--those are real and exist, endless numbers!' 'Then you deceived me, Pluizer. Let me go away--let me seek no more--leave me alone.' 'Have you forgotten what Death told you? That you are to become a man, a complete man?' 'I will not! it is horrible!' 'You must. You wished it once. Look at Doctor Cypher, does he think it horrible? Become like him----' It was very true. Doctor Cypher seemed always content and happy. Unwearied and imperturbable, he pursued his way, studying and teaching, satisfied and equable. 'Look at him,' Pluizer went on, 'he sees everything, and yet sees nothing. He looks on men as though he himself were a being apart, having nothing to do with their sufferings. He moves among griefs and wretchedness as though he were invulnerable, and meets Death face to face as though he were immortal. All he aims at is to understand what he sees, and everything is good in his eyes that comes in the way of knowledge. He is satisfied with everything so long as he understands it. That is what you must be.' 'But that I can never be.' 'Well, I cannot help that.' This was the hopeless conclusion of all their discussions. Johannes grew dull and indifferent, and searched and searched, knowing no longer why, or for what. He had become like the multitudes of whom Wistik had spoken. It was now winter, but he scarcely observed it. One chill and misty morning, when the snow lay wet and dirty on the roads, and fell from the trees and roofs, he went with Pluizer for his daily walk. In a public garden he met a party of young girls, in a row, and carrying school-books. They pelted each other with snow, and laughed and gambolled; their voices rang out clearly over the snowy plain. There was no sound of feet or wheels to be heard; nothing but the tinkling bells of the horses, or the latch of a shop door. Their merry laughter sounded distinctly through the silence. Johannes noted that one of these damsels looked at him and stared back after him. She wore a coloured cloak and a black hat. He knew her face very well, but he could not think who she was. She nodded to him once and again. 'Who is that? I know her.' 'Yes, very likely. Her name is Maria, some persons call her Robinetta.' 'No, that cannot be. She is not like Windekind. She is a girl like any other.' 'Ha, ha, hah! She cannot be like Nobody. But she is what she is. You have longed to see her so much; now I will take you to see her!' 'No, I do not want to see her. I would rather see her dead like the others.' And Johannes would not look round again, but hurried on, murmuring: 'This is the last! There is nothing--nothing!' XIII The clear warm sunshine of an early spring morning shone down on the great city. Its bright rays fell into the room where Johannes lived, and on the low ceiling danced and flickered a large patch of light reflected from the rippling water in the canal. Johannes sat by the window in the sunshine, looking out over the town. Its aspect was completely changed. The grey fog was now a sheeny blue sun-mist, veiling the end of the long streets and the distant towers. The slopes of the slate roofs shone like silver. All the houses showed clear outlines and bright surfaces in the sunshine; the pale blue atmosphere was full of glittering warmth. The water seemed alive. The brown buds of the elm-trees were swollen and shiny, and loudly-chirping sparrows fluttered among the branches. A strange feeling came over Johannes as he sat looking out on it all. The sunshine filled him with sweet vague emotion, a mixture of oblivion and ecstasy. He gazed dreamily at the dancing ripples, the bursting leaf-buds; he listened to the chirping of the birds. There was gladness in their tune. He had not for a long time felt so soft at heart, nor for many a day been so happy. This was the sunshine of old; he knew it well. This was the sun which of yore called him forth--out into the garden where, under the shelter of a low wall, he would stretch himself on the warm ground, where he might for hours enjoy the light and heat, gazing before him at the grasses and sods basking in the glow. He was glad in that light; it gave him a safe home-like feeling, such as he remembered long ago when his mother held him in her arms. He thought of all he had gone through, but without either grieving or longing. He sat still and mused, wishing nothing more than that the sun might continue to shine. 'What are you about, mooning there?' cried Pluizer. 'You know I do not approve of dreaming.' Johannes looked up with absent, imploring eyes. 'Leave me alone for a little longer,' said he; 'the sun is so good!' 'What can you find in the sun?' said Pluizer. 'It is nothing, after all, but a big candle--sunlight or candlelight, it is all the same in the end. Look at the patches of light and shadow in the street--they are nothing more than the effect of a light which burns steadily and does not nicker. And that light is really quite a small flame shining on a quite small speck of the universe. Out there, beyond the blue, above and beneath, it is dark,--cold and dark! It is night there, now and always.' But his words had no effect on Johannes. The calm warm sunbeams had penetrated him, bathed his whole soul--he was full of light and peace. Pluizer carried him off to Doctor Cypher's cold house. For some time yet the sunny images floated before his brain; then they slowly faded away, and by the middle of the day all was dark again within him. But when evening came he made his way through the town once more, the air was soft and full of the vapourous odours of the past. Only the fragrance was ten times stronger, and oppressed him in the narrow streets. But as he crossed the open square he smelt the grass and leaves from the country beyond. And overhead he saw the spring in the tranquil little clouds and the tender rose of the western sky. The twilight shed a soft grey mist, full of delicate tints, over the town. The streets were quiet, only a grinding organ in the distance played a love-sick tune; the houses stood out black against the crimson heavens, their fantastic pinnacles and chimneys stretching up like numberless arms. To Johannes it was as though the sun were giving him a kind smile as he shed his last beams over the great city--kind, like the smile which seals a pardon. And the warmth stroked Johannes's cheek with a caress. Deep tenderness came over his soul, so great that he could walk no farther, but lifted up his face to the wide heavens with a deep sigh. The Spring was calling to him and he heard it. He longed to answer--to go. His heart was full of repentance and love and forgiveness. He gazed up with longing tears flowing from his sad eyes. 'Come, Johannes! do not behave so strangely; people are staring at you!' cried Pluizer. The long monotonous rows of houses stretched away on each side, gloomy and repulsive--an offence in the soft atmosphere, a discord in the voices of the Spring. The folk were sitting at their doors and on the steps, to enjoy the warmth. To Johannes this was a mockery. The squalid doors stood open and the stuffy rooms within awaited their inhabitants. The organ was still grinding out its melancholy tune in the distance. 'Oh, if I could but fly away--far away! To the sand-hills and the sea!' But he must needs go home to the little garret room; and that night he could not sleep. He could not help thinking of his father, and of the long walks he had been used to take with him, when he trotted ten yards behind, or his father traced letters for him in the sand. He thought of the spots where the violets grew under the brushwood, and of the days when he and his father had hunted for them. All the night he saw his father's face just as he had seen him in the evenings when he sat by his side in the silence and lamplight, watching him and listening to the scratching of his pen. Every morning now he asked Pluizer when he might once more go home to his father, and see the garden and the sand-hills again. And he perceived now that he had loved his father more than Presto, or his little room, for it was of him that he asked-- 'Tell me how he is, and if he is not angry with me for staying away so long.' Pluizer shrugged his shoulders. 'Even if I could tell you, what good would it do you?' But the spring still called him, louder and louder. Night after night he dreamed of the dark green moss and the downs, and the sunbeams falling through the fine, fresh verdure. 'I can bear it no longer,' thought Johannes. 'I cannot stay.' And as he could not sleep he softly got out of bed, went to the window, and looked out on the night. He saw the drowsy, fleecy clouds slowly sailing beneath the full moon, peacefully floating in a sea of pale light. He thought of the downs far away, sleeping through the warm night; how beautiful it must be in the low woods where none of the baby leaves would be stirring, and where the air was smelling of damp moss and young birch sprouts! He fancied he could hear the rising chorus of frogs, sounding mysteriously from afar over the meadows, and the pipe of the only bird which accompanies the solemn stillness--which begins its song with such soft lament and breaks off so suddenly that the silence seems more still than before. And it called to him--everything called to him. He bowed his head on the window-sill and sobbed in his sleeve. 'I cannot, I cannot bear it! I shall die soon, if I do not get away!' When Pluizer came to call him next day he was still sitting by the window, where he had fallen asleep with his head on his arm. The days went by, longer and warmer, and still there was no change. But Johannes did not die, and had to bear his troubles. One morning Doctor Cypher said to him-- 'Come with me, Johannes; I have to visit a sick man.' Doctor Cypher was well known as a learned man, and many appealed to him for help against disease and death. Johannes had already gone with him on such errands now and then. Pluizer was unusually cheerful that morning. He would at times stand on his head, dance and leap, and play all sorts of impudent tricks. He wore a constant mysterious grin, as though he had a surprise in store for some one. Johannes dreaded him most in this mood. Doctor Cypher was as grave as ever. They went a long way that morning, in a train, and on foot. They went farther than Johannes had ever been before outside the town. It was a fine hot day. Johannes, looking out from the train, saw the broad green fields fly past, with tall feathery grasses and grazing kine. He saw white butterflies flitting over the flowery land where the air quivered with the heat of the sun. But suddenly he saw a gleam in the distance.--There lay the long undulating stretch of sand-hills. 'Now, Johannes,' said Pluizer with a grin, 'now you have your wish, you see.' Johannes, half incredulous, sat gazing at the sand-hills. They came nearer and nearer. The long ditches on each side of the railway seemed to whirl round a distant centre, and the little houses flew swiftly past and away down the road. Then came some trees: thickly green horse-chestnut trees, covered with thousands of spikes of pink and white blossoms--dark, blue-green pines--tall, spreading lime-trees. It was true, then,--he was going to see his sand-hills once more. The train stopped; they all three jumped out, under verdurous shade. Here was the deep, green moss, here were the flecks of sunshine on the ground under the forest-trees--this was the fragrance of birch-buds and pine-needles. 'Is it real--is it true?' thought Johannes. 'Can such happiness befall me?' His eyes sparkled and his heart beat high. He began to believe in his happiness. He knew these trees and this soil. He had often trodden this forest-path. They were alone here. But Johannes could not help looking round, as though some one were following him. And he fancied that between the oak boughs he caught sight of a dark figure hiding itself, as they threaded the last turns of the path. Pluizer looked at him with mysterious cunning. Doctor Cypher hurried forward, with long strides, keeping his eyes on the ground. At each step the way was more familiar--he knew every stone and every shrub--and suddenly Johannes started violently: he stood before his old home. The horse-chestnut in front of the house spread the shade of its large, fingered leaves. Above him the beautiful white flowers, and thick, round mass of foliage towered high overhead. He heard the sound of an opening door which he knew well--and he smelt the peculiar smell of his own home. He recognised the passage, the doors, everything, bit by bit--with a keen pang of lost familiarity. It was all a part of his life--of his lonely dreamy childhood. He had held council with all these things, had lived with them his own life of thoughts--to which he had admitted no human being. But now he felt himself dead, as it were, and cut off from the old house, with its rooms and passages and doorways. The severance, he knew, was irremediable, and he felt as melancholy and woeful as though he had come to visit a graveyard. If only Presto had sprung out to meet him, it would have been less dreary. But Presto, no doubt, was gone or dead. But where was his father? He looked back through the open door out into the sunny garden, and saw the man who, as he had fancied, was following them on the way, coming towards the house. He came nearer and nearer, and seemed to grow in stature as he approached. When he reached the door a vast cold shadow filled the entrance. Then Johannes knew him. There was perfect silence indoors, and they went up-stairs without speaking. There was one step which always creaked under foot as Johannes knew; and now he heard it creak three times with a sound like a groan of pain. But under the fourth footstep it was like a deep sob. Above stairs, Johannes heard moaning, as low and as regular as the slow ticking of a clock. It was a heart-rending and doleful sound. The door of his own little room stood open; he timidly glanced in. The strange flowers on the curtains stared at him with unmeaning surprise. The clock had stopped. They went on to the room whence the groaning came. It was his father's bedroom. The sun shone in brightly, on the green bed-curtains which were drawn close. Simon, the cat, sat on the window-sill, in the sun. There was an oppressive smell of wine and camphor; the low moaning now sounded close at hand. Johannes heard whispering voices and carefully softened footsteps. Then the green curtains were opened. He saw his father's face, which had so often risen before him during the last few weeks. But it was quite different. The kind, grave expression had given way to a rigid look of suffering, and his face was ashy pale, with brown shadows. The teeth showed through the parted lips, and the white of the eyes under the half-closed lids. His head lay sunk in pillows, and was lifted a little with every moaning breath, falling back wearily after each effort. Johannes stood by the bed without stirring, staring with wide fixed eyes at the well-known features. He did not know what he thought; he dared not move a finger, he dared not take the wan old hands, which lay limp on the white linen sheet. All about him was black, the sun and the bright room, the greenery outside and the blue air he had come in from--all the past was black--black, heavy and impenetrable. And that night he could see nothing but that pale face. He could think of nothing but the poor head which seemed so weary, and yet was lifted again and again with a groan of anguish. But there was a change in this regular movement. The moaning ceased, the eyes slowly opened and stared about inquiringly, while the lips tried to say something. 'Good-morning, father,' whispered Johannes, looking into the seeking eyes and trembling with terror. The dim gaze rested on him, and a faint, faint smile moved the hollow cheeks; the thin clenched hand was lifted from the sheet and made a feeble movement towards Johannes, but it dropped again, powerless. 'Come, come,' said Pluizer. 'No scenes here.' 'Get out of the way, Johannes,' said Doctor Cypher. 'We must see what can be done.' The Doctor began his examination, and Johannes went away from the bed-side and stood by the window, looking out at the sunlit grass and broad chestnut leaves on which large flies were sitting which shone blue in the sun. The groaning began again with the same regularity. A blackbird was hopping among the tali grass, large red and black butterflies fluttered over the flower-beds, and from the topmost boughs of the highest trees a soft, tender cooing of wood-pigeons, fell on Johannes's ear. In the room the moaning went on--without ceasing. He could not help listening--and it came as regularly, as inevitably as the falling drip which may drive a man mad. He watched anxiously at every interval and it always came again--as awful as the approaching footsteps of Death. And outside, warm and rapturous delight in the sunshine reigned. Everything was basking and happy. The blades of grass thrilled and the leaves whispered for sheer gladness. High above the trees in the deep, distant blue, a heron was soaring on lazy wing. Johannes did not understand--it was all a mystery to him. Everything was confused and dark in his soul-- 'How can all this exist in me at the same time?' thought he. 'Am I really myself? Is that my father--my own father? Mine--Johannes's?' And it was as though a stranger spoke. It was all a tale which he had heard. He had heard some one tell of Johannes, and of the house where he dwelt with his father from whom he had run away, and who was now dying. This was not himself--he had only heard of it all; and indeed it was a sad story,--very sad. But it had nothing to do with him. And yet--and yet.--It was he himself, Johannes. 'I cannot understand the case,' said Doctor Cypher, pulling himself up. 'It is a very mysterious attack.' Pluizer came up to Johannes. 'Come and look, Johannes; it is a very interesting case. The Doctor knows nothing about it.' 'Leave me alone,' said Johannes, without turning round. 'I cannot think.' But Pluizer went close behind him and whispered sharply in his ear, as was his wont-- 'You cannot think? Did you fancy that you could not think? That is a mistake. You must think. Staring out like this at the green grass and the blue sky will do no good. Windekind will not come to you. And the sick man is sinking fast; that you must have seen as clearly as we did. But what is his disorder, do you think?' 'I do not know!--I do not want to know!' Johannes said no more, but listened to the moaning; it sounded like a gentle complaint and reproach. Doctor Cypher was taking notes in a book. At the head of the bed sat the dark figure which had followed them in; his head was bowed, his lean hand extended towards the sick man, and his hollow eyes steadfastly gazing at the clock. That sharp whisper in his ear began again. 'Why are you so unhappy, Johannes? You have got what you wished for. There lie the sand-hills, there is the sunshine through the verdure, there are the dancing butterflies, the singing birds. What more do you want? Are you waiting for Windekind? If he exists anywhere, it must be there. Why does he not come to you? He is frightened, no doubt, by our dark friend by the bed. He always has been afraid of him. Don't you see, Johannes, that it was all fancy? And listen to the moaning. It is weaker than it was just now. You can hear that it will soon cease altogether. Well, and what matter? Many folks must have groaned just so when you were at play here among the wild roses. Why do you now sit here grieving instead of going out to the sand-hills as you used to do? Look! Out there everything is as flowery and fragrant as if nothing had happened. Why do you care no more for all the gladness of that life? 'First you complained and longed to be here. Now I have brought you where you yearned to be, and yet you are not content. See. I will let you go--go out into the tall grass, lie in the cool shade, let the flies hum about you, and breathe the perfume of growing herbs. You are free! Go. Find Windekind once more. You will not? Then do you now believe in me alone? Is all I have told you true? Am I or is Windekind the false one? 'Listen to the moans! So short and feeble! They will soon be stilled. But do not look so terrified, Johannes, the sooner it is ended, the better. There could be no long walks now, no more seeking for violets together. With whom has he wandered these two years, do you think, while you were away? You can never ask him now. You can never know. If you had known me a little earlier you would not look so wretched now. You are a long way yet from being what you must become. Do you think that Doctor Cypher in your place would look as you do? It would sadden him no more than it does the cat blinking there in the sunshine. And it is best so. Of what use is brooding sorrow? Have the flowers learnt to grieve? They do not mourn if one of them is plucked. Is not that far happier? They know nothing, and that is why they are thus content. You have begun to know something; now you must learn everything to become happy. I alone can teach you. All, or nothing. 'Listen to me. What is there remarkable in your father's case? It is the death of a man--that is a common occurrence. Now do you hear the gasping? Weaker still! It must be very near the end!' Johannes looked at the bed in agonised fear. Simon the cat jumped down from the window-sill, stretched himself, and then, still purring, lay down on the bed by the dying man. The poor weak head moved no longer; it lay still, sunk in the pillows, but the short, dull panting still came through the half-open mouth. It grew weaker and weaker till it was scarcely audible. Then Death took his hollow eyes off the clock and looked at the weary head; he raised his hand. Then all was still. A grey shadow fell on the rigid features. Silence, oppressive, unbroken silence! Johannes sat and sat, waiting. But the regular sound was heard no more. All was still--a great, murmuring stillness. The tension of the last hours of listening was over, and to Johannes it seemed that his soul had been let fall down into black and bottomless space. Deeper and deeper he fell. All about him grew darker and more silent. Then he heard Pluizer's voice as if it were a long way off. 'There! That tale is told.' 'That is well,' said Doctor Cypher. 'Now you can see what was wrong with him. I leave that to you. I must be off.' Still, as if half-dreaming, Johannes saw the gleam of bright knives. The cat set her back up. It was cold by the corpse, and she returned to the sunshine. Johannes saw Pluizer take a knife, which he examined carefully, and then went up to the bed. Then he shook off his lethargy. Before Pluizer could get to the bed he stood in front of him. 'What do you want?' he asked. His eyes were wide open with horror. 'We must see what he died of,' said Pluizer. 'No,' said Johannes, and his voice was as deep as a man's. 'What is the meaning of this?' said Pluizer, with a glare of rage. 'Can you hinder me? Do you not know how strong I am?' 'I will not have it,' said Johannes. He drew a deep breath and set his teeth, staring firmly at Pluizer, and put out his hand against him. But Pluizer came nearer. Then Johannes gripped him by the wrists and struggled with him. Pluizer was strong; he knew that; nothing had ever been able to resist him. But he did not leave go, and his will was steadfast. The knife gleamed before his eyes; he seemed to see sparks and red flames, but he did not give in, and wrestled on. He knew what would happen if he yielded. He knew--he had seen it before. But that which lay behind him was his father, and he would not see it now. And while he panted and struggled, the dead body lay stretched out motionless, just as it was lying when the silence fell; the white of the eyes visible through a narrow opening, the corners of the mouth curled to a ghastly smile. Only as the two knocked against the bed in their wrestling, the head gently moved a little. Still Johannes held his own. His breath came hard and he could not see; a blood-red mist was before his eyes--and still he stood firm. Then gradually the resistance of those wrists grew weaker in his grasp, his muscles relaxed, his arms fell limp by his sides and his clenched hands were empty. When he looked up Pluizer had vanished. Death sat alone by the bed and nodded to him. 'That was well done, Johannes,' said he. 'Will he come back again?' whispered Johannes. Death shook his head. 'Never. Those who have once defied him, never see him again.' 'And Windekind? Shall I ever see Windekind again?' The gloomy man gazed long at Johannes. His look was no longer terrible, but gentle and grave. It seemed to allure Johannes like some great deep. 'I alone can take you to Windekind. Through me alone can you find the Book.' 'Then take me too, there is no one left. Take me with you as you have taken others. I want nothing more.' But again Death shook his head. 'You love men, Johannes. You do not know it, but you have always loved them. You must grow up to be a good man. It is a very fine thing to be a good man.' 'I do not want that--take me with you.' 'You are mistaken; you do want it; you cannot help it.' The tall dark figure became dim in Johannes' sight--it melted into a vague shape--a formless grey mist filled its place and floated away on the sunbeams. Johannes bowed his head on the edge of the bed and mourned for the dead man. XIV It was long before he looked up again. The sun's rays fell aslant into the room and were glowing red, looking like straight bars of gold. 'Father, father!' whispered Johannes. Outside, the sun filled the whole atmosphere with a cloud of glittering golden fire. Every leaf was motionless, and all was still in the solemn, holy sunshine. A low sighing chant came down on the sun's rays; it was as though they were singing: 'Child of the Sun--Child of the Sun!' Johannes raised his head and listened. It was in his ears, 'Child of the Sun--Child of the Sun!' It was like Windekind's voice. No one else had ever called him so. Was it he who called him now? But he looked at the face before him; he would listen no more. 'Poor, dear father!' he murmured. But suddenly it sounded again close to him, on every side of him, so loud, so urgent, that he thrilled with strange excitement-- 'Child of the Sun--Child of the Sun!' Johannes rose and looked out. What radiance! What a glory of light! It flooded the leafy tree-tops, it sparkled in the grass, and danced even in the dappled shadows. The whole air was full of it, high up towards the blue sky where the first soft clouds of evening were beginning to gather. Beyond the meadows, between the green trees and shrubs, he could see the sand-hills. They were crowned with glowing gold, and the blue of heaven hung in their dells. There they lay, at rest, in their robe of exquisite tints. The beautiful curves of their expanse were as peace-giving as a prayer. Johannes felt once more as he had felt when Windekind had taught him to pray. And was not that he, his slender form in its blue robe? There in the very heart of the light--gleaming in a shimmer of gold and blue--was not that Windekind beckoning to him? Johannes flew out into the sunshine. There he stood still for a moment. He felt the consecration of the light, and scarcely dared stir where the very leaves were so motionless. But the figure was there, before his eyes. It was Windekind. Certainly, surely! The radiant face was turned towards him with parted lips, as if to call him. He beckoned Johannes with his right hand. In his left he held some object on high. He held it very high with the tips of his slender fingers, and it trembled and shone in his hand. With a glad cry of joy and yearning, Johannes flew to meet the beloved vision. But it floated up and away before his eyes. With a smile on his face, and waving his hand now and then, he touched the earth, descending slowly; but then he rose again lightly and swiftly, soaring higher than the thistle-down borne by the wind. Johannes, too, would fain float up and fly, as of yore--and as in his dreams. But the earth clung to his feet, and his tread was heavy on the grassy sod. He had to make his way with difficulty through the brushwood where the leaves caught and rustled against his clothes, and the lithe branches lashed his face. He climbed the moss-grown hillocks panting as he went. Still he went on, unwearied, and never took his eyes off the radiant vision of Windekind and the object which shone in his uplifted hand. There he was, in the midst of the sandy downs. The wild roses of that soil were in bloom in the warm hollows, with their thousand pale yellow cups gazing up at the sun. There were many other flowers too, light-blue, yellow and purple; sultry heat lurked in the little hollows, warming the fragrant herbs; the air was full of strong aromatic scents. Johannes inhaled them as he toiled onward. He smelt the thyme and the dry reindeer-moss, which crackled under his feet. It was overpoweringly delightful. Between him and the lovely vision he was pursuing, he saw the gaudy butterflies flitting--small ones, black and red, and the 'sand-eye' as they call it--the restless little flutterer with sheeny wings of tenderest blue. Round his head buzzed golden beetles that live on the wild rose--and heavy bumble-bees buzzed from blade to blade of the scorched short grass. How delicious it all was, how happy he could be, when he should find himself with Windekind once more! But Windekind glided away, farther and farther, Johannes breathlessly following. The straggling, pale-leaved thorn bushes stopped his way and tore him with their spines; the grey woolly mulleins shook their tall heads as he pushed them aside in his course. He scrambled up the sandy slopes and scratched his hands with the prickly broom. He struggled through the low birch-wood where the tall grass came up to his knees, and the water-fowl flew up from the little pools which glistened among the trees. Thick white-blossomed hawthorns mingled their perfume with that of the birches and of the mints which grew all over the marshy ground. But presently there were no more trees, or shade, or flowers. Only weird-looking grey eryngium growing amid the parched white-blossomed broom. On the top of the farthest knoll rested the image of Windekind. That which he held up shone blindingly. From beyond, with mysterious allurement, there came, borne on a cool breeze, the great unceasing, surging roar. It was the sea. Johannes felt that he was getting near to it, and slowly climbed the last slope. At the top he fell on his knees, gazing over the ocean. Now he had got above the sand-hills he found himself in the midst of a ruddy glow. The evening clouds had gathered round the departing day. They surrounded the sinking sun like a vast circle of immense rocks with fringes of light. Across the sea lay a broad band of living, purple fire--a flaming sparkling path of glory leading to the gates of distant heaven. Below the sun, on which the eye could not yet rest, soft hues of blue and rose mingled together in the heart of that cave of light; and all over the expanse of sky crimson flames and streaks were glowing, and light fleeces of blood-red down, and waves of liquid fire. Johannes gazed and waited, till the sun's disc touched the rim of the path of light which led up to him. Then he looked down; and at the beginning of the path of light he saw the bright form he had followed. A boat, as clear and bright as crystal, floated on the fiery way. At one end of the boat stood Windekind, slender and tall, with that golden object shining in his hand. At the other end, Johannes recognised the dark figure of Death. 'Windekind! Windekind!' he cried. But as he approached the strange barque, he also saw the farther end of the path. In the midst of the radiant space, surrounded by great fiery clouds, he saw a small dark figure. It grew bigger and bigger, and a man slowly came forward, treading firmly on the surging glittering waters. The glowing waves rose and fell under his feet, but he walked steadily onward. He was a man pale of aspect, and his eyes were dark and deep-set: as deep as Windekind's eyes, but in his look was an infinite, gentle pity, such as Johannes had never seen in any other eyes. 'Who are you?' asked Johannes, 'are you a man?' 'I am more,' was the reply. 'Are you Jesus?--are you God?' said Johannes. 'Do not speak those names!' said the figure. 'They were holy and pure as priestly raiment, and precious as nourishing corn; but they are become as husks before swine, and as motley to clothe fools withal. Speak them not, for their meaning has become a delusion, and their sacredness is laughed to scorn. Those who desire to know me cast away the names and obey themselves.' 'I know Thee! I know Thee!' cried Johannes. 'It was I who made you weep for men when as yet you knew not the meaning of your tears. It was I who made you love before you understood what love was. I was with you, and you saw me not; I moved your soul and you knew me not!' 'Why have I never seen Thee till now?' 'The eyes that shall see Me must be cleared by many tears. And you must weep not for yourself alone, but for Me also; then I shall appear to you, and you will recognise Me for an old friend.' 'I know Thee! I recognised Thee. I will ever remain with Thee!' Johannes stretched out his hand but the figure pointed to the gleaming barque which slowly drifted off up the fiery path. 'Look!' said he, 'that is the way to all you have longed for. There is no other. Without those two you will never find it. Now, take your choice; there is the Great Light; there you would yourself be what you crave to know. There,' and he pointed to the shadowy East, 'where men are, and their misery, there lies my way. I shall guide you there, and not the false light which you have followed. Now you know--take your choice.' Then Johannes slowly took his eyes off Windekind's vanishing form, and put up his hands to the grave Man. And led by Him, he turned and faced the cold night wind, and made his toilsome way to the great dismal town where men are, and their misery. * * * * * Perhaps I may some day tell you more about Little Johannes; but it will not be like a fairy tale. THE END. Contents Introduction I VIII II IX III X IV XI V XII VI XIII VII XIV 
33779	----	(http://www.freeliterature.org) MAJESTY A Novel by LOUIS COUPERUS Newly Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos With a Preface by Stephen McKenna New York Dodd, Mead and Company 1921 PREFACE The betting-book in one of London's oldest and most famous clubs contains a wager, with odds laid at one hundred sovereigns to ten, that "within five years there will not remain two crowned heads in Europe." The condition--"in the event of war between Great Britain and Germany"--was imposed by the date of the wager, for one member was venturing his hundred to ten at a moment when another was dining with him to kill time before the British prime minister's ultimatum took effect: the imperial German government had to deliver its reply before midnight, by Greenwich time, or eleven o'clock, by Central European reckoning. Since the fourth of August, 1914, the King of the Hellenes, the Czar of Bulgaria, the Emperor-King of Austria-Hungary, the German Kaiser and a host of smaller princes have abdicated and sought asylum in countries left neutral by the war; the Czar of All the Russias also abdicated, but was executed without an opportunity of escape. Thus, though republican and royalist may protest that the wager was too sanguine or too pessimistic, the challenger must have taken credit for his prescience, as three of the great powers and two of the lesser converted, one after another, their half-divine sovereign into their wholly material scapegoat; by no great special pleading he might claim that the bet was won in spirit if not in fact when the morning of Armistice Day shewed monarchy surviving only in Spain, Italy, Roumania and Greece, in the small liberal kingdoms of Scandinavia and the Netherlands, in the minute principality of Monaco, in the crowned republic of Great Britain and Ireland and in the eternal anachronism of the Ottoman Empire. And the time-limit of five years had been exceeded by only three months. In the peaceful period, four times longer, between the publication of _Majesty_ in 1894 and the outbreak of the Great War, historians were kept hardly less busy with their record of fallen monarchs and extinguished dynasties: King Humbert of Italy was assassinated in 1900; King Alexander of Servia, with his queen, in 1903; King Carlos of Portugal, with the heir-apparent, in 1908; and the Sultan Abdul Hamid was deposed and imprisoned in 1909. Before the year 1894 no ruler of note had removed himself or been removed since the assassination of the Czar Alexander II in 1881; this study of "majesty" in its strength and, still more, in its weakness was published at a time when even the autocrat was more secure on his throne than at any period since "the year of revolution," 1848. If _Majesty_ is to be regarded as a _roman à clef_, there is a temptation, after six and twenty years, to call Couperus 'prophetic:' to call him that and nothing else is to turn blind eyes to the intuitive understanding which is more precious than divination, to ignore, in one book, the insight which illumines all and to overlook the quality which, among all the chronicles of kings, penetrates beyond romance and makes of _Majesty_ an essay in human psychology. So long as the fairy-tales of childhood are woven about handsome princes and the fair-haired daughters of kings, there is no danger that the setting of royalty will ever lose its glamour; so long as "romantic" means primarily that which is "strange," the writer of romance may bind his spell on all to whom kings' houses and queens' gardens are an unfamiliar world; so long as the picturesque and traditional hold sway, the sanction and titles of kingship, the dignities and the procedure, the inhibitions and aloofness of royalty will fascinate, whether they like it or not, all those in whose veins there is no "golden drop" of blood royal. A romance of kingship, alike in the hands of dramatist, melodramatist and sycophant, is certain of commercial success. The strength of this temptation is to be measured by the number of novels written round the triumphs and intrigues of kings, their amours and tragedies, their conflicts and disasters: King Cophetua and "King Sun," Prince Hal and Richard the Second, Louis the Eleventh and Charles the First, a king in hiding, a king in exile, a king in disguise; so long as he is a king, he is a safe investment for the romantic writer. But the weakness of those who succumb to this temptation is to be measured by their failure to make kings live in literature. Those few who survive beyond the brief term of ephemeral popularity survive more by reason of their office than of themselves and Jan de Witt makes little show beside Louis the Sixteenth; their robes are of so much greater account than their persons that the feeblest German prince cuts a more imposing figure than the strongest president of the Swiss Confederation. Those who stand out in despite of their romantic setting, the human, perplexed Hamlets and vacillating, remorseful Richards, are inevitably few; and few they are likely to remain so long as the frame outshines the picture and the prince is labelled and left a celestial being apart, or labelled and dragged into passing sentimental contrast with men less exalted; it would seem that to regard a king first as a man and afterwards as an hereditary office-holder was to waste his romantic possibilities. This, nevertheless, is what Couperus has set himself to do in _Majesty_; he presents his family of kings as a branch of the human family; their dignity ceases to be stupefying when all are equally high-born; they wear their uniforms and robes as other men wear the conventional clothes of their trade; and, stripping them of their titles and decorations, he paints his group of men and women who have been born to rule, as others are born to till the soil; to marry for love or reasons of state, as others marry for love or reasons of convenience; to experience such emotions as are common to all men and to face the special duties and dangers apportioned to their caste by the organization of society: _"... The Gothlandic family,"_ says Couperus, _"... lived [at Altseeborgen] for four months, without palace-etiquette, in the greatest simplicity. They formed a numerous family and there were always many visitors. The king attended to state affairs in homely fashion at the castle. His grandchildren would run into his room while he was discussing important business with the prime minister.... He just patted their flaxen curls and sent them away to play, with a caress.... From all the courts of Europe, which were as one great family, different members came from time to time to stay, bringing with them the irrespective nuances of different nationality, something exotic in accent and moral ideas, so far as this was not merged in their cosmopolitanism."_ To this "one great family" the organization of society apportioned with one hand special privileges and exemptions, with the other special hardships and dangers. Revolution, to these professional rulers, was what successful trade rivalry is to a store-keeper; assassination was a daily risk to which store-keepers are commonly not exposed: _"... Such is the life of rulers: the emperor lay dead, killed by a simple pistol-shot; and the court chamberlain was very busy, the masters of ceremonies unable to agree; the pomp of an imperial funeral was prepared in all its intricacy; through all Europe sped the after-shudder of fright; every newspaper was filled with telegrams and long articles...._ _"All this was because of one shot from a fanatic, a martyr for the people's rights._ _"The Empress Elizabeth stared with wide-open eyes at the fate that had overtaken her. Not thus had she ever pictured to herself that it would come, thus, so rudely, in the midst of that festivity and in the presence of their royal guest...."_ It is to be understood, none the less, that she had always expected it to come: assassination is one of the special risks attaching to majesty at all times when one form of kingship or the whole institution of kings is debated and criticized. _"When the intellectual developments or culture of a race,"_ wrote Heine, in _The Citizen Kingdom in 1832, "cease to accord with its old established institutions, the necessary result is a combat in which the latter are overthrown. This is called a revolution. Until this revolution is complete, so long as the reform of these institutions does not agree at all points with the intellectual development, the habits and the wants of the people, during this period the national malady is not wholly cured and the ailing and agitated people will often relapse into the weakness of exhaustion and at times be subject to fits of burning fever. When this fever is upon them, they tear the lightest bandages and the most healing lint from their old wounds, throw the most benevolent and noble-hearted nurses out of window and themselves roll about in agony, until at length they find themselves in circumstances or adapt themselves to institutions that suit them better."_ So much for the race, in the gripe of growing-pains; but what of the nurses? How little benevolent or noble-hearted soever they be, nurses are bound by the honour of their profession and by personal pride not to forsake their patients. In one passage of _Majesty_ the crown-prince is shaken by fundamental doubts of his own inherited right to rule; he questions and analyses until he is brought to heel by his imperial father who remembers that an excess of "victorious analysis" rotted the intellectual foundations of the old order and prepared the way for the logical French revolution. In another passage the boy realizes without any qualification that he at least is unfitted for the burthen of empire and that it is better to abdicate in favour of his brother or to commit suicide than to play Atlas with a world that he cannot sustain; once more, his imperial father silences any admission that his own flesh and blood can be too degenerate for the task of majesty. And so, at the moral sword-point, this hereditary nurse is held to the duty and privilege of standing by an hereditary patient whom he cannot relieve with "the most healing lint" and who may at any moment throw him out of window. Not even in thought may majesty abdicate: a prince inherits his philosophy as he inherits his title. _"Life is so simple,"_ proclaims the collectivist Zanti. _"'As you picture it, but not in reality,' objected Herman._ _"Zanti looked at him angrily, stopped still, to be able to talk with greater ease, and, passionately, violently, exclaimed:_ _"'And do you in reality find it better than I picture it? I do not, sir, and I hope to turn my picture into reality. You and yours once, ages ago, made your picture reality; now it is the turn of us others: your reality has lasted long enough....'_ _"Othomar, haughtily, tried to say something in contradiction; the old man, however, suddenly turned to him and, gently though roughly, with his penetrating, fanatical voice which made Othomar shudder:_ _"'For you, sir, I feel pity!... Do you know why? Because the time will come!... The hour will come. Perhaps it is very near. If it does not come in your father's reign, it will come in your reign or your son's. But come it will! And therefore I feel pity for you. For you will not have enough love for your people. Not enough love to say to them, "I am as all of you and nothing more. I will possess no more than any of you, for I do not want abundance while you suffer need. I will not rule over you, for I am only a human being like yourselves and no more human than you." Are you more human? If you were more, then you would be entitled to rule, yes, then, then.... See here, young man, you will never have so much love for your people as to do all this, oh, and more still and more! You will govern and possess abundance and wage war. But the time will come! Therefore I have pity for you ... although I oughtn't to!'"_ The dead weight of inheritance, always a psychological fascination for Couperus, becomes doubly fascinating when one generation after another inherits an undwindling legacy of divine, ironic whim. As, in _The Books of the Small Souls_ and in _Old People and the Things that Pass_, the children and grandchildren are born with minds tainted by prenatal memories, so, in _Majesty_, a prenatal influence has ordered the life and determined the fate of an infant who first draws breath as Count of Lycilia, eldest son of the Duke of Xara, himself crown-prince and eldest son of the Emperor of Liparia. There is no escape, no lack of heirs to the ironic inheritance: _"'If it's a son,'"_ says the empress mother, on the morrow of her husband's assassination, _"'it will be a Duke of Xara....'_ _"And then the Emperor of Liparia ... lost his self-restraint. In one lightning-flash, one zig-zag of terror, he saw again his life as crown-prince, he thought of his unborn son. What would become of this child of fate? Would it be a repetition of himself, of his hesitation, his melancholy and his despair?..."_ If _Majesty_ be a _roman à clef_, "this child of fate," with his father and mother and sisters, had his short spell of hesitation, melancholy and despair ended in 1918 by the revolver-shots of his gaolers. If Othomar be not a portrait of the Czar Nicolas II., it is hard to believe that the character was not suggested by him; though the Czar Alexander III. died a natural death, he would seem to have supplied a parallel for the Emperor Oscar, as Alexander II. supplied one for the liberal emperor, Othomar XI. The fanatical Zanti has his model in Count Tolstoi; and even the tragic romance of Prince von Lohe-Obkowitz has its historical counterpart. But the interest and value of the book do not lie in any fancied resemblance, among the characters, to living or dead kings; the study of Prince Othomar does not depend on any likeness to the Czar Nicolas II.; Couperus succeeds or fails not as a court painter, but as a great sympathetic and imaginative artist who does or does not create, in the unfamiliar atmosphere of a court, first the collective life and spirit of a caste long trained to formalize its life and suppress its emotions, then a group of human characters who stand out compelling and vital against the posturing, shadowy kings and queens of romance. To the composition of _Majesty_ go the understanding and the historic sense, the irony and tenderness that enable Couperus in later books to draw with unfaltering touch his exquisite portraits of old age and youth, of men and women, in their moments of solitude and in their reactions upon one another. Few men have stepped so lightly and surely across the confines of the centuries and the continents; his intuition makes him equally at home in Alexandria and the Hague, with women and men, in the second century and in the twentieth; and it is not benumbed by the surface inhumanity of a court. When the Archduchess Valérie had lost her lover, the crown-prince could not understand her being able to talk as usual at dinner. _"It irritated him, his want of penetration of the human heart: how could he develop it? A future ruler ought to be able to see things at a single glance.... And suddenly, perhaps merely because of his desire for human knowledge, the thought arose within him that she was concealing her emotions, that perhaps she was still suffering intensely, but that she was pretending and bearing up: was she not a princess of the blood? They all learnt that, they of the blood, to pretend, to bear up! It was bred in their bones."_ Perhaps it was bred in his bones, perhaps it was his mere desire for human knowledge that gave Couperus his penetration into the emotions which they of the blood were taught to conceal. In none of his books has he lavished more sympathy than in his painting of Prince Othomar's vacillation and passionate good-will, his timidity and desperate courage; nowhere has he used greater tenderness than in his sketch of the chivalry and gratitude which did duty for love in the passionless union of Valérie and the crown-prince. STEPHEN MCKENNA. LINCOLN'S INN, LONDON, 7 _October_, 1920. TRANSLATOR'S NOTE My first translation of _Majesty_ was written in collaboration with my dear friend Ernest Dowson and published in the year 1895. A small edition was sold by the London publisher to Messrs. D. Appleton & Company and has long been out of print. Messrs. Appleton, with characteristic generosity, have relinquished to the present publishers any copyright which they had established in the book and have thus enabled me to produce this new version. For even a translator's style undergoes notable modifications in a quarter of a century; and I should not have been satisfied to see this novel reissued in its earlier English form. The story should not therefore be regarded as a mere reprint. Incidentally, when collating the old Teixeira-Dowson version with the original, I was struck with the chaste and discreet appearance of the Dutch as compared with the English edition, soiled as the latter was on every page with a splash of capital letters. Is it some innate snobbery or merely lack of intelligence or thought that induces English writers--and for long myself among them--to dab a capital at the head of such nouns as the "emperor," the "crown-prince," the "duke," the "chancellor," "empire" and "state," nay, even the "major," the "professor," the "doctor," or of such adjectives as "royal" and "imperial"? If we are to write of the "Major" and the "Professor," why not be still more lavish with our capitals and write of the "Midshipman," the "Postmistress" and the "Postman"? Anyhow, I felt that a suitable time had come to experiment with an innovation and I decided to reduce my capital letters to a minimum and to affix them to titles only when these were followed by the name. Even the Germans do not distinguish their titles with capitals; they have the more logical habit of beginning every substantive with a capital; and, in their murky language, this habit has one advantage, that it assists the reader to hunt the elusive verbs to their lair. The English have not this reason nor this excuse. My thanks are due not only to Messrs. Appleton but also to Mr. Stephen McKenna, the most acceptable of our younger novelists, who in his admiration for the elder craftsman, has volunteered to write a preface to Louis Couperus' present masterpiece. ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS. VENTNOR, I.W., 1 _November_, 1920. MAJESTY CHAPTER I 1 Lipara, usually a city white as marble: long, white rows of villas on a southern blue sea; endless, elegant esplanades on the front, with palms whose green lacquer shimmered against an atmosphere of vivid blue ether. But to-day there drifted above it, heavily, a sombre, grey sky, fraught with storm and tragedy, like a leviathan in the firmament. And this grey sky was full of mystery, full of destiny, of strange destiny: it precipitated no thunder, but remained hanging over the city, merely casting faint shadows over the brightness of its palaces, over the width of its squares and streets, over the blue of its sea, its harbour, where the ships, upright, still, anxious, raised their tall masts on high. White, square, massive, amid the verdure of the Elizabeth Parks, in the more intimate mystery of its own great plane-trees--the celebrated plane-trees of Lipara, world-famed trees--stood the Imperial, the emperor's palace, quasi-Moorish, with white, pointed arcades: it stood as the civic crown of the capital, one great architectural jewel, separated from the city, though standing in its very midst, by all that park-like verdure. The empress, Elizabeth of Liparia, sat in the private drawing-room of her apartments in the right wing; she sat with a lady-in-waiting, the Countess Hélène of Thesbia. The windows were open; they opened on the park; the famous plane-trees rose there, knotty with age, wide-spreading, anxious, motionless with their trimmed leaves, between which a dull-green twilight shimmered upon the lawns which ran into the distance, rolling softly and smoothly, like tight-stretched velvet, into an endless violet vista, with just here or there the one strident white patch of a statue. A great silence buzzed its strange sound of stillness indoors from the park; it buzzed around the empress. She sat smiling; she listened to Hélène reading aloud; she tried to listen, she did not always understand. A nervous dread haunted her, surrounded her, as with an invisible net of meshes, unbreakable. This dread was for her husband, her children, her elder son, her daughters, her younger boy. This dread crept along the carpet beneath her feet; it hung from the ceiling above her head, stole round about her through the whole room. This dread was in the park: it came from afar, from the violet vistas; it swept over the lawns and climbed in through the open windows; it fell from the trees, it fell from the sky, the grey, thunder-laden sky. This dread trembled through Liparia, through the whole of Liparia, through the whole empire; it trembled in, in to the empress, enveloping her whole being.... Then Elizabeth drew a deep breath and smiled. Hélène had looked up to her at a certain sentence with a light stress of voice and eyes, pointing the dialogue of the novel; this made the empress smile and she listened afresh. The anxiety smouldered in her, but she extinguished it with abounding acquiescence, acquiescence in what was to happen, in what must happen. The novel which Hélène was reading was _Daniële Cortis_, a work that was in vogue at court because the Princess Thera had liked it. The countess read carefully and with great expression; the rhythm of the Italian came from her lips with the elegance of very pointed Venetian glass, flowery and transparent. And the empress wondered that Hélène could read so beautifully and that she did not seem to feel the anxiety which nevertheless stole about everywhere, like a spectre. There was a knock at the door leading from the anteroom; a flunkey opened the door; a lady-in-waiting appeared between the hangings and curtseyed: "His highness Prince Herman," she announced in a voice that hesitated a little, as though she knew that this hour of the afternoon was almost sacred to the empress. "Ask the prince to come in," replied the empress: her voice, with all its haughtiness, sounded kind and attractive and sympathetic. "We have been expecting the prince so long...." The door remained open, the lady-in-waiting disappeared, the flunkey waited at the hangings, motionless, for the prince to come. His firm tread sounded, approaching quickly, through the anteroom; and he made a pleasant entrance, with friendliness in his healthy, red face and the joy of meeting in his large grey eyes, with their gleaming black pupils. The flunkey closed the door behind him. "Aunt!" The prince stepped towards the empress with both hands outstretched. She had risen, as had Hélène, and she moved a step towards him; she took his two hands and allowed him to kiss her heartily on both cheeks. Hélène curtseyed. "Countess of Thesbia," said the prince, bowing. "So you have come at last!" said the empress, with jesting discontent. She shook her head, but could not but look kindly at his pleasant, handsome, healthy face. "Why did you not telegraph for certain when you were coming? Then Othomar would have gone to the station, but now...." She shrugged her shoulders with a smile of regret, as much as to say that now it could not be helped that his reception had only been _tel quel_.... "But, aunt," said Herman--the tone of his voice implied that he would never have demanded this of Othomar--"I have been excellently received: General Ducardi, Leoni, Fasti, our worthy minister and Siridsen...." "Othomar will be sorry all the same," said the empress. "He is out driving now with Thera. Thera is driving her new bays. I can't understand why they went; it is sure to rain!" The empress resumed her seat, with an anxious look at the weather outside; the prince and Hélène likewise sat down. A cross-fire of enquiries after the two families was kindled between the empress and her nephew; they had not seen each other for months. There was much to be discussed; the times were full of disaster; and the empress showed a long telegram which the emperor had sent from Altara about the inundations. Her fingers shook as they held the message. She was still a woman of remarkable beauty, in spite of her grown-up children. But the charm of her beauty was apparent to very few. In public that beauty acquired a hardness as of a cameo: fine, clear-cut lines; great, cold, brown eyes, without expression; a cold, closed mouth; before people her slender figure assumed something stiff and automatic; she even showed herself thus before the more intimate circles of the court. But when she was seen, as now, in the seclusion of her own drawing-room, with no one except her nephew, whom she loved almost as much as her own children, and one little lady-in-waiting whom she spoilt, then, in spite of the dread which she repressed deep down in her heart, she became another woman. In her simple grey silk--she was in slight mourning for a relation--what was stiff and automatic in her figure changed into a gracious suppleness of carriage and movement, as spontaneous as the other was studied; the cameo of her face became animated; a look almost of melancholy came into her eyes; and, above all, a laugh about that cold, hard mouth was as a gleam of sympathy that rendered her unrecognizable to one who had seen her for the first time cold, stiff and austere. Prince Herman of Gothland was the second son of her sister, the Queen of Gothland. A tall, sturdy lad in his undress uniform as a naval lieutenant, with the healthy, Teutonic fairness of the house of Gothland: a firm neck, broad shoulders, the swelling chest of an athlete, the determined quickness of movement of a lively nature, more than sufficient intelligence in his large grey eyes with the black pupils and with now and then a single pleasant, soft note in his baritone voice, a note that caused a momentary slight surprise and rendered him attractive when it sounded gently in the midst of his virility. And now that he sat there, easily, simply, pleasantly and yet with a certain dignity that did not permit him an absolute excess of joviality; now that he spoke, with his sweet voice, of his father, his mother, his brothers and sisters and asked after his uncle, the Emperor Oscar of Liparia, asked after Othomar, Thera: now, yes, now he aroused in the empress a delicate feeling of family affection, something of a secret bond of blood, a very solid support of relationship amid the isolation of their respective grandeurs, the grandeurs of Liparia and Gothland. Yonder, at the other side of Europe, far, far away from her and yet so near through the magnetism of this delicate feeling, she felt Gothland lying as one vast plain of love, whither she could allow her thoughts to wander. She was no longer giddy with melancholy and dread in that she was so high together with those whom she loved, her husband and her children, for she was not high alone: in her highness she leant against another highness, Liparia against Gothland, Gothland against Liparia. It brought moist tears to her eyes, it brought a melancholy that was like happiness clinging to her breath. The spectre of dread had disappeared. She could have embraced her nephew; she would have liked to tell him all this: his mere presence gave her this feeling, a feeling of comfort and of strength; she had not known it for months. 2 The door was opened; the flunkey stood stiff and upright, with a fixed look that stared straight before him, in the shadow of the hangings. Princess Thera and Othomar entered. The princess went up gaily and kindly to her cousin, they kissed; Othomar also embraced Herman, with a single word. But, in comparison with the natural utterances of the empress and of Thera, this single word of the Duke of Xara sounded studied and smilingly cold, not intimate, and carried a needless air of etiquette. It failed to conceal a translucent insincerity, a transparent show that made no effort to simulate affection, but seemed quite simply what at this moment it could not but seem, a greeting of feigned kindness between two cousins of the same age. Prince Herman was accustomed to this: there was no intimacy between him and Othomar; and this was the more striking when they saw each other for the first time after several months; it affected the empress keenly, disagreeably. The conversation again turned upon the inundations in the north. The empress showed her children the latest telegram, the same that she had shown to Herman; it mentioned fresh disasters: still more villages swept away, towns harassed by the swollen and overflowing rivers, after a month of rain that had resembled the Flood. It had caused the emperor to proceed three days ago to the northern provinces; but they at court were now every moment expecting his orders that the crown-prince should replace him there, as he himself was returning to Lipara because of the cabinet crisis. The crown-prince discussed all this a little coldly and formally. He was a young man of twenty-one, slender and of short stature, very slightly built, with delicate, melancholy features and dull, black eyes, that generally stared straight before him; a young moustache tinted his upper lip as with a stripe of Indian ink. He had a way of drooping his head a little on his chest and then looking up from under his eyelids; he generally sat very quiet; his hands, which were small and broad but delicate, rested evenly upon his knees; and he had a trick of carrying his left hand to his eyes and then--he was a little short-sighted--just peering at his ring. He was tightly girt in the blue-and-white uniform of a captain in the lancers, the uniform which he generally wore in public: its silver frogs lent a certain breadth to his slenderness; on his right wrist he wore a narrow, dull-gold bracelet. "This is the first letter," said the empress. "Read it out, Thera...." The princess took the letter. The emperor wrote: "It is heartrending to see all this and to be able to do so little. The whole district south of the Zanthos, from Altara to Lycilia, is one expanse of water; where villages stood there now float the remains of bridges and houses, trees, accumulations of roofs, dead cattle, carts and household furniture and, as we were going along the Therezia Dyke, which--God be praised!--still stands firm at Altara, a cluster of corpses was slowly washed straight before our feet in one gigantic embrace of death...." The crown-prince had suddenly turned pale; he remained sitting in his usual attitude, peering at his ring, with the trick that was his habit. Thera read on. When the crown-prince looked up he met his mother's eyes. She nodded to him with her eyelids, unseen by the others, who were listening to the letter; he smiled--a smile full of heartbreaking melancholy--and answered her with the same invisible quiver of the eyelids; it was as though he understood that gentle greeting and drew a scrap of comfort from it for a mysterious, silent sorrow that depressed him within himself, that lay on his breast like an oppression of the breath, like a nightmare in his waking life. But Prince Herman was already talking about the ministerial crisis: it was momentarily expected that the authoritative government, rendered powerless, since the new elections, in the house of deputies with its majority of constitutionals, would proffer its resignation to the emperor. The question, as always, was that of a revision of the constitution, which the constitutionals desired and the authoritatives--taking the side of the emperor--opposed. The Empress Elizabeth heaved a sigh of fatigue: how often had not this question of a revision of the constitution, which in Liparia always meant an extension of the constitution and a restriction of the imperial authority, come looming up during their twenty years' reign as a personal attack upon her husband! Resembling his long line of Liparian ancestors, hereditarily autocratic, Oscar could never forgive his father, Othomar XI., for allowing a constitution to be passed in his more liberal reign. And now, at this crisis, it was no small thing that they were asking, the constitutionals. The house of peers, hereditary and authoritative, the emperor's own body, which cancelled every proposal of a too constitutional character sent up from the house of deputies, was no longer to stand above them, hereditary and therefore, because of its hereditary nature, invariably authoritative: they wanted to make it elective! Even Othomar XI., with his modern ideas in favour of a constitution, would never have suffered this attack upon one of the most ancient institutions of the empire, an attack which would shake Liparia to its foundations.... While Herman was debating this, casually, his words lightly touching this all-important question, it seemed to Othomar as though he were turning giddy. A world passed through his head, rushing with rapid clouds through his imagination; and out of these clouds visions loomed up before him, pale-red, quick as lightning, terrible as a kind of apocalypse, the universe ending in a dynamite explosion. Out of these clouds there flashed up for an instant a scene, a recollection of the history of his imperial inheritance: an emperor of Liparia murdered centuries ago by one of his favourites at a court festival. Revolutions in other countries of Europe, the French revolution, flickered up with a blood-red reflection; the strikes in the quick-silver mines of the eastern provinces grinned at him out of them, out of the clouds, the world of clouds storming through his thoughts.... And so many more, so many more, all so rapid, with the rapidity of their lightning-flashes; he could not grasp them, the ruddy lightning-flashes; it all just flickered through him and then away: it flickered away, far away!... And it seemed strange to him that he was sitting there, in his mother's drawing-room, with the stately park swarming behind the plate-glass windows, with tints of old, medieval gold-leather, now, in the lowered gleam of the sun-rays; with his mother opposite him, so sweet, so daintily gentle in the intimacy of this short, uninterrupted meeting: his cousin talking and his sister replying and the little lady-in-waiting listening with a smile.... How strange to sit like this, so easily, so peacefully, so serenely, in the seclusion of their palace, as though Liparia were not shaking like an old, crazy tower!... Yes, they were talking about the crisis, Herman and Thera, but what did talking amount to? Words, nothing but words! Why this endless stringing together of words, beautiful, empty words, which a sovereign is obliged to string together and then utter to his subjects, now on this occasion, now on that? No, no, they were not in his province, speeches! For what, after all, were they supposed to express, this or that? What was right, what was just, what was right and just for their empire, this or that? How could one know, how could one be certain, how could one avoid hesitating, seeking, groping, blind-folded? Even if he had a thousand eyes all over the empire, would he be able to see everything that might happen? And, if he were omniscient, would he always be able to know what would be right? The constitution: was it good for a country to have a constitution or not? In Russia: was it good in Russia? A republic: would a republic be better? And who was right? Was his father right in wanting to reign as an absolute monarch, with his hereditary house of peers, in which he, Othomar, now recalled his admission, as Duke of Xara, at his eighteenth year, with the ducal crown and the robes and chain of the order of the Imperial Orb? Or was the house of deputies right? Would it be a good thing to place a restriction upon absolute sovereignty? It was difficult to decide.... The inundations: "It is heartrending to see all this and to be able to do so little.... An expanse of water all the way to Lycilia, a cluster of corpses in the embrace of death...." It lightened. Dull, heavy rumblings rolled through the sky; thick drops fell hard as liquid hail upon the leaves of the plane-trees; the whole park seemed to shiver, dreading the threatening cloud-burst. Hélène rose and closed the open window. Then Othomar heard a strange sound: Syria.... Had they ceased talking of the house of peers? Syria, Syria.... "The king and queen were to have come next week, but they have now postponed their visit," said the empress. "Because of the inundations," added Thera. "They are going to Constantinople first. I only wish they would remain with the sultan...." "This visit seems to me at least to be something of an infliction," said Herman, laughing. "And how long do they stay, aunt?" The empress raised her shoulders to say that she did not know: the approaching visit of the King and Queen of Syria pleased neither her nor the emperor, but it was not to be avoided.... However, not wishing to say much on this subject before Hélène, she replied: "All the court festivities are now postponed, as you know, Herman, because of these terrible disasters. You will have a quiet time, my boy. You had better go with Othomar to Count Myxila's this evening...." Count Myxila, the imperial chancellor, was that day keeping his sixtieth birthday. He was the emperor's principal favourite. That morning he had been to the empress to receive her congratulations. The crown-prince was, by the emperor's desire, to appear for a moment at the reception in the chancellor's palace. Prince Herman glanced at Othomar enquiringly, as though expecting a word from him too. "Of course," the Duke of Zara hastened to say. "Myxila will reckon on seeing Herman...." 3 When, at half-past ten in the evening, Othomar and Herman returned from the chancellor's palace in a downpour of rain, it was known among the empress' entourage also that the government had resigned; the princes had met the ministers at Count Myxila's; the crisis had thrilled through the outward ceremonial of the reception like a threatening shudder of fever. Also there was a telegram from the emperor for the Duke of Xara: "I wish your imperial highness to proceed to Altara to-morrow. "OSCAR." The telegram did not come as a surprise, but was the natural consequence of the resignation of the government and of the emperor's return, for the emperor did not wish to leave the scene of the disasters without the consolation that the heir-apparent was about to replace him. After a moment spent with the empress, Othomar withdrew to his own apartments. He sent for his equerry, Prince Dutri, and consulted with him shortly and in a few words, after which the equerry hurried away with much ado. In his dressing-room Othomar found his valet, Andro, who had been warned by one of the chamberlains and was already busily packing up. "Don't pack too much," he said, as the valet rose respectfully from the trunk before which he was kneeling. "It would only be in the way...." So soon as he had said this, he failed to see the reason. Nor did the valet seem to take any notice of it: kneeling down again before the trunk, he continued to pack what he thought fit. It would be quite right as Andro was doing it, thought Othomar. And he flung himself into a chair in his study. One of the windows was open; a single standard lamp in a corner gave a dim light. The furious downpour raged outside; a humid whiff of wet leaves drifted indoors. The prince was tired, too tired to summon Andro to pull off his tight patent-leather boots. He was wearing the white-and-gold uniform of a colonel of the throne-guards, the imperial body-guard; the chain of the order of the Imperial Orb hung round his neck; other decorations studded his breast. The reception at the imperial chancellor's still whirled before his eyes; in his brain buzzed, mingling with the rain, the inevitable conversations about the crisis, the government, the house of peers. He saw himself the crown-prince, always the crown-prince, always too condescending, too affable, not sufficiently natural, not simple, not easy like Herman; and he saw Herman moving easily through the rooms of the chancellor's palace, asking quite simply to be introduced to the ladies, now by Count Myxila and again by an equerry. And he envied his cousin, who was a second son. Herman did not cause the atmosphere around him to freeze at once, as did he, with the cold imperial look of his crown-princedom. He saw the ministers, the ministers who were about to retire, each with his own interests at heart instead of those of Liparia. He suspected this from their humble attitudes before him, the crown-prince, when he had spoken to all of them.... He felt that they were only playing a part, that there was much in them that they did not allow to transpire; and he suddenly asked himself why, why this should all be so, why so much show, nothing but show.... And he was suffering now, deep in his breast; the tightness of his uniform, loaded with decorations, oppressed him.... He saw old Countess Myxila and some other ladies, whom he had seen curtseying amid the crackling of their trains and the sudden downward glitter of their diamonds, whom he had seen flushing with pleasure because the Duke of Xara had taken notice of them. And the wife also of the court-marshal, the Duchess of Yemena, who had so long been absent from court in voluntary exile at her estate in Vaza: he saw her approaching on Prince Dutri's arm. For he did not know her: years ago, when she was at court, he was a boy of fifteen, undergoing a strict military education, seldom with the empress and never at the court festivals; he had never seen the duchess at that time. Now, in the twilight of that one lamp, with the weather raging outside, he saw her once more and she became as it were transparent in the lines of the rain; she looked strange, seen through the rain, as through a curtain of wet muslin. A tall woman, voluptuously formed, half-naked under the white radiance of her diamond necklace, that was how she approached him: her hair blue-black with a gleam in it, her face a little pale under a thin bloom of rose powder; she came nearer, slowly, hesitating, in her yellow-gold figured satin, edged with heavy sable; she bowed before him, with a deep, reverential curtsey before the imperial presence: her head sank upon her breast, the tiara in her black hair shot forth rays, her whole stature curved down as with one serpentine line of grace in the material of gleaming gold that shone about her bosom and seemed to break over the thick folds of her train with a filagree of light. He had spoken to her. She rose from the billows of her reverential grace; she replied, he forgot what; her eyes sparkled upon his like black stars. She had made an impression upon him. He thought it was because he had heard her much spoken of as a woman with a life full of passion, a thing that was a riddle to him. His education had been military and strictly chaste, his youth had remained uncorrupted by the easy morals of the court, perhaps because his parents, after a long and secret separation, known to none but themselves, had come together again from a need of family-life and mutual support; the Empress Elizabeth had forgiven the Emperor Oscar and submitted to his infidelities as inevitable. Round about him Othomar had never had occasion to observe the life of the senses. At the university of Altara, where he had studied, he had never taken part, except officially, in the diversions of the students; he had always remained the crown-prince, not from haughtiness, but because he was unable to do otherwise, from lack of ease and tact. And something in the duchess had made an impression on him, as of a thing unknown. He felt in this woman, who curtseyed so deeply before him with her sphinx-like smile, a world of emotion and knowledge which he did not possess; he had felt poor in comparison with her, small and insignificant. What was it that she possessed and he not? Was it a riddle of the soul? Were there such things, soul-enigmas, and was it worth while to try to fathom them? Such a woman as she, was she not quite different from his mother and sisters? Or did his equerries, among themselves, speak of his sisters too as they spoke of the duchess? And this life of passion, this life of love for so many, was that then the truth? Did they not slander her, the equerries, or at least did they not make truth seem different from what it was, as they always did in everything, as if the truth must always be made to seem other to a prince than to a subject? He felt tired. And he sat on, striving in vain to drive from him the whirl of the strange figures of that reception seen through a transparency of rain. Before him, as though in his room, they all walked through one another: the ministers, the equerries, Count Myxila and the duchess.... A knock, a chamberlain: "Prince Herman is asking whether he may intrude on your highness for a minute." He nodded yes. After a moment Prince Herman entered. "You are always welcome, Herman," said Othomar; and his voice sounded cold in spite of himself. "I have come to ask you something," said Herman of Gothland. "I should much like to go with you to Altara to-morrow; but I want to be certain that you don't mind. I would not have asked it of my own accord, if my aunt hadn't spoken of it. What do you think?" Othomar looked at Herman; Othomar did not like his cool voice: "If you do so out of sympathy, because you happen to be at Lipara, by all means," he began.... "Let me tell you once more: I am doing this chiefly because of ... your mother." His voice sounded very emphatic. "Do it for her then," replied Othomar, gently. "It will give me great pleasure if you go with me for my mother's sake." Herman realized that he had been unnecessarily cool and emphatic. He was sorry. The empress had asked him to accompany Othomar. He had hesitated at first, knowing that there was a lack of sympathy between Othomar and him. Then he had yielded, but had not known how to ask Othomar. His usual ease of manner had forsaken him, as it always did in Othomar's presence. "Very well, then," Herman stammered, awkwardly. Othomar put out his hand: "I understand your intention perfectly. Mamma would like you to go too, because she will then be sure that there is some one with me whom I can trust in everything. Isn't that it?" Herman pressed his hand: "Yes," he said, pleased, contented, feeling no annoyance that Othomar had had the best of the conversation, delighted that his cousin took it like this. "Yes, just so; that's how it is. Don't let me detain you now: it's late. Good-night...." "Good-night...." Herman went. It was still pouring with rain. Othomar sat down again; the chill of the rainy night pressed coldly into the room and fell upon his shoulders. But he remained staring motionlessly at the tips of his boots. Andro entered softly: "Does your highness wish me to...." Othomar nodded. The valet first closed the window and drew the blind and then knelt before the prince, who, with a gesture of fatigue, put out his foot to him and rested the heel of his boot on the man's knee. 4 The downpour ceased during the night; but it was raining again in the morning. It was seven o'clock; a sultry moisture covered the colossal glass roof of the station, as though it had been breathed upon from end to end. The special train stood waiting; the engine gave short, powerful snorts, like a discontented, tired beast. A great multitude, a buzzing accumulation of vague people filled the glass hall; a detachment of infantry--two files, to right and left; the uniforms, dark-red and pale-grey; above, a faint glitter of bayonets--drew two long stripes of colour diagonally through the sombre station, cut the crowd into two and kept a broad space clear in front of the imperial waiting-room. Dissatisfaction hovered over the crowd; angry glances flashed; rough words crackled sharply through the air, mingled with curses; a contemptuous laugh sounded in a corner. There was a long wait; then a cheer was heard outside: the prince had arrived in front of the station. The waiting-room became filled with uniforms, glistening faintly in the morning light; brief sentences were exchanged in a low voice. Othomar entered with Herman and the Marquis of Dazzara, the governor of the capital, the highest military authority, whose rich uniform stood out against the simpler ones of the others, even against those of the princes; they were followed by adjutants, Liparian and Gothland equerries, aides-de-camp. The mayor of the town and the managing director of the railway stepped towards Othomar and saluted him; the mayor stumbled through long phrases before the two princes. "Why wasn't the approach to the platform closed to the public?" asked General Ducardi of the director, after the adjutant-general had glanced at the platform through the lace curtains, curious about the humming outside. The director shrugged his shoulders: "That was our first intention; it was done in that way when the emperor left," he replied. "But a special message was received from the Imperial, urgently requesting us not to shut off the platform; it was the Duke of Xara's wish." "And how about all those soldiers?" "By command of the governor of the capital. An aide-de-camp came and told us that a detachment of infantry was coming as a guard-of-honour." "Was that aide-de-camp also from the Imperial?" "No, from the governor's palace...." Ducardi shrugged his shoulders; an angry growl fluttered his great, grey moustache. He walked straight up to the crown-prince: "Is your highness aware that there is a detachment of infantry outside?" he said, interrupting the mayor's long sentences. The governor heard him and drew nearer. "A detachment?... No," said Othomar, in astonishment. "Did your highness not command it, then?" Ducardi continued. "I? No," Othomar repeated. The governor bowed low; the general's loud, gruff voice unnerved him. "I thought," said the governor, urbanely, but mumbling, stammering--and he tried to be at once humble before the prince and haughty towards the general--"I thought it would be well to safeguard your highness against possible ... possible unpleasantness, especially as your highness desired ... desired that the platform should remain open to the public...." Othomar looked out as Ducardi had done; he saw the infantry drawn up and the crowd behind; angry, murmuring, drab, threatening: "But, excellency," he said, aloud, to the governor, "in that case it would have been better to shut off the platform entirely. This is quite wrong. The police would have been sufficient to prevent any crowding." "I was afraid of ... of unpleasantness, highness. Troubled times, the people so discontented," he whispered, fearing to be overheard by the equerries. "Quite wrong," repeated Othomar, angrily, nervously excited. "Let the infantry march off." "That's out of the question now," Ducardi hastened to say, with an unhappy smile. "You understand that that can't be done." The conversation had been carried on aside, in a half-whispering tone; yet everybody seemed to listen. All eyes were gazing on the group surrounding the princes; the others were silent. "Then let us prolong this regrettable situation as little as possible; we may as well go," said Othomar; and his voice quivered high, young and nervous in his clear throat. The doors were opened; Othomar, in his hurry, stepped out first; the equerries and aides-de-camp did not follow him at once, as they had to make way for Prince Herman, who happened to be a little behind. Herman hurried up to Othomar; the others followed. The princes made a movement of the head to left and right as though to bow; but their eyes met the fixed, round eyes of the soldiers, who had presented arms with a flash; they saluted and walked on to their compartment a little quickly, with an unpleasant feeling in their backs. Under the colossal glass roof of the station, behind the files of soldiers, the crowd stood as still as death, for the humming had almost ceased; there was no curse nor scornful word heard, but also no cheer, no loud, loyal hurrah sweet to the ears of princes. And the faces of those vague people, separated by uniforms and bayonets from their future ruler, remained gazing fixedly with dull, hostile eyes, with firmly-closed lips, full of forced restraint, as though to stare him out of existence in the imperial compartment. The princes waved their hands from the windows to the dignitaries, who stood on the platform bowing, saluting. The engine whistled, shrieked, tore the close atmosphere of humidity under the dome; the train left the station, drove into the early morning, which was lighter outside the glass roof, glided as it were over the rainy town upon viaducts, with canals, streets, squares beneath it; farther on, the pinnacles and spires of the palaces and churches; the two marble towers of the cathedral, with the doves nestling in the renascence tracery of the lace-work of its steeples, standing out pale-white against the sky, which was now turning blue; then, in the centre of the town--green and wide, one oasis--the Elizabeth Parks, the white mass of the Imperial and, behind that, the gigantic bend of the quays, the harbour with its forest of masts, the oval curve of the horizon of the sea, all wet, glittering, raining in the distance. Othomar looked sombrely before him. Herman smiled to him: "Come, don't think about it any more," he advised him, adding with a laugh, "Our poor governor has had his appetite spoilt for to-day." General Ducardi muttered an inward curse: "Monstrously stupid," Herman heard him mumbling. "I wanted to show them," said Othomar, suddenly.... He had intended to say, "that I am not afraid of them." He threw a glance around him, saw the eyes of Prince Dutri, his equerry, fixed upon him like a basilisk's and let his voice change from proud to faint-hearted; sadly he concluded, "that I love them and trust them so completely. Why need it have happened like this?..." His voice had sounded faint, to please Prince Dutri; but it displeased the general. He first glanced aside at his crown-prince and then at the Prince of Gothland; he drew a comparison; his eye continued to rest appreciatively, in soldierly approval, on the smart naval lieutenant, broad and strong, sitting with his hands on his thighs, bending forward a little, looking back at the white capital as it receded before his eyes through the slanting rainbeams.... * * * * * After four hours' travelling, Novi, in the province of Xara. The train stops; the princes and their suite alight, consult clocks, watches. They express surprise, they walk up and down the platform for half an hour, for an hour. Prince Herman engages in a busy conversation with the station-master. It is still raining. At last the special from Altara is signalled. The train glides in and stops; the Emperor Oscar alights from the imperial compartment. He is followed by generals and aides-de-camp: their uniforms, the emperor's included, have lost something of their smartness and hang in tired creases from their shoulders, like clothes worn a long time. The emperor, still young, broad and sturdy and only just turning grey, walks with a firm step; he embraces his son, his nephew, brusquely, hastily. The imperial party disappear into the waiting-room; Ducardi and one of the Gothlandic officers follow them. The interview, however, is a short one: in ten minutes they reappear on the platform; brief words and handshakes are exchanged; the emperor steps back into his compartment, the crown-prince into his. The prince's train waits until his father's passes it--a last wave of the hand--then it too steams away.... Care lies like a cloud upon Othomar's forehead. He remembers his father's words: in a desperate condition, our fine old city. The Therezia Dyke may be giving way; so little energy in the municipal council; thousands of people without a roof to cover them, fleeing, spending the night in churches, in public buildings. And his last word: "Send some of them to St. Ladislas...." Othomar reflects; all are silent about him, depressed by the after-sound of the emperor's words, which have painted the disaster anew, brought it afresh before their eyes: the eyes of Ducardi, who knows himself to be more ready with sword in war than with sympathy in cases of inundation; the eyes of Dutri, still filled with the mundane glamour of the incomparable capital. Some part of their self-concentration falls silent; a thought of what they are about to see crosses their minds. And Othomar reflects. What shall he do, what can he do? Is it not too much that is asked of him? Can he, _can_ he combat the stress of the waters? "Oh, this rain, this rain!" he mutters, secretly clenching his fist. Five hours' more travelling. The towers of the city, the crenulated outline and Titanic plateaus of St. Ladislas, with its bastions, shoot up on the horizon, shift to one side when approached. The train stops, in the open country, at a little halting-place; the princes know that the Central Station is flooded; the whole railway-management has been transferred to this halt. And suddenly they stand in the presence of the smooth, green, watery expanse of the Zanthos, which has spread itself into one sea of water, broad and even, hardly rippled, like a wrath appeased. A punt is waiting and carries them through ruins of houses, through floating household goods. A dead horse catches on to the punt; a musty odour of damp decay hovers about. At an over-turned house, men in a punt are busied fishing up a corpse; it hangs on their boat-hooks with slack arms and long, wet hair, the pallid, dead head drooping backwards; it is a woman. Herman sees Othomar's lips quiver. Now they float through a street of tall, deserted houses in a poor suburb. This part has been flooded for days. They alight in a square; the people are there; they cheer. Louder and louder they cheer, moved by the sight of their prince, who has come across the water to save them. A group of students shout, call out his name and cheer and wave their coloured caps. Othomar shakes hands with the mayor, the minister for waterways, the governor of Altara and other dignitaries. His heart is full; he feels a sob welling up from his breast. From among the group of students one steps forward, a big, tall lad: "Highness!" he cries. "May we be your guard-of-honour?" Etiquette hardly exists here, though the dignitaries look angry. Othomar, remembering his own student days, not yet so long ago, presses the student's hand; Prince Herman does the same; and the students grow excited and once more shout and clamour: "Hurrah! Hurrah! Othomar for ever! Gothland for ever!" Behind this square the city is perceived to be in distress, a silent distress from yet greater danger threatening: the old coronation-city, the city of learning and tradition, the sombre monument of the middle ages; she looks grey compared with white Lipara, which lies laughing yonder and is beautiful with new marble on her blue sea, but which does not love her sovereigns so well as she does, the dethroned capital, with her gigantic Romanesque cathedral, where the sacred imperial crown with the cross of St. Ladislas is pressed on the temples of every emperor of Liparia. Though her masters are faithless to her and have for centuries lived in their white Imperial over yonder and no longer in the old castellated fortress of the country's patron saint, she, the old city, the mother of the country, remains faithful to them with her maternal love and not because of her oath, but because of her blood, of her heart, of all her life, which is her old tradition.... * * * * * But, like his father, Othomar was not this time to go to the Castle of St. Ladislas: the fortress lay too high and too far from the town, too far from the scene of disasters. Open carriages stood in waiting; they stepped in, the students flung themselves on horseback; the princes were to take up their residence in the palace of the cardinal-archbishop, the primate of Liparia, in the Episcopal, which, together with the cathedral and the Old Palace, formed one colossal, ancient, grey mass, a town in itself, the very heart of the city. They rode quickly on. The people cheered; they look upon them as a train of deliverers who, they thought, would at last bring them safety. Between the departure of the emperor and the arrival of the prince a depression had reigned which, at the sight of Othomar, changed into morbid enthusiasm. It became suddenly dark, but not through the sun's setting--it was only five o'clock in the month of March in the south--it became dark because of the clouds, the ships in the sky carrying in their tense, bowl-shaped, giant sails water which already was beginning to trickle down again in drops. Under that grey sky the cheering of the people rose in a minor key, when suddenly, as though the swollen clouds were bursting open with one rent, a flood dashed down in a solitary, perpendicular sheet of water. Othomar was sitting with Herman and Ducardi in the first carriage. "Would not your highness prefer to have the carriage closed?" asked the old general, helping the prince on with his cape. Othomar hesitated; he had no time to answer the general; the crowd increased, became thicker, cheered; and he bowed in acknowledgement, saluted, nodded. The heavy rain clattered straight down. The hard rainbeams ran down the princes' and the general's necks, down their backs, soaked their knees. The crowd stood sheltered under an irregular roof of umbrellas, as though grouped under wet, black stars, filled the narrow streets of the old city, pressed in between the outriders and the carriage: the coachman had to drive more slowly. "Won't you have the carriage shut?" Herman repeated after Ducardi. Othomar still hesitated. Then--and he himself thought his words a little theatrical and did not know how they would sound--he answered aloud: "No, do not let us be afraid of the water; they have all suffered from the water here." But Ducardi looked at him; he felt something quiver inside him for his prince.... The carriage remained open. In one of the landaus following, Prince Dutri looked round furiously to see how much longer the Duke of Xara meant to let himself be saturated with rain and his suite with him. In the narrow, high streets near the cathedral they had to drive almost at a walking-pace, right through the cheering of the crowding populace. Soaked to the skin, the Crown-prince of Liparia with his following arrived at the cardinal-archbishop's; they left a trail of water behind them on the staircases and in the corridors of the Episcopal. 5 In changed uniforms, a short dinner with the high prelate; a few canons and minor ecclesiastics sit down with them. The room is large and sombre, barely lighted with a feeble glimmer of candles; the silver gleams dully on the dressers of old black oak; the frescoes on the walls--sacred subjects--are barely distinguishable. A silent haste quickens the jaws; the conversation is conducted in an undertone; the servants, in their dark livery, move as though on tiptoe. The cardinal, on either side of whom the princes are seated, is tall and thin, with a refined, ascetic face and the steel-blue eyes of an enthusiast; his voice issues from low down in his throat, like that of an oracle; he says something of the Lord's will and makes a submissive gesture with both hands, the fingers lightly outspread, as Jesus does in the old pictures. One of the priests, the cardinal's private secretary, a young man with a round, pink face and soft, white hands, laughs rather loudly at a joke of Prince Dutri, who, sitting next to him, tells a story about a countess in Lipara whom they both know. The cardinal casts a stern glance at the frivolous secretary. After the hurried dinner, the princes and their suite ride into the town on horseback, cheered wherever they go. The water already mounts close to the cathedral and the Archiepiscopal Palace. Groups of men, women and children, sobbing, flow towards the prince, as he rides across the dark squares; they carry torches about him, as the gas is not everywhere lighted; the ruddy flares look strange, romantic, over the ancient dark mass of the walls and are reflected with long streaks of blood in the water lying in the narrow alleys. A large house of many storeys and rows of little windows appears to have suddenly gone under: a sudden mysterious pressure of water, filtering from the foundations through the masonry of the cellars, making its treacherous way through the least crack or crevice. The inhabitants save themselves in skiffs, which pass with little red lights through the black, watery town; a child cries at the top of its voice. They are poor people there in hundreds, living, packed as in boxes. The princes alight and step into a boat and are rowed to the spot; it becomes known who they are; they themselves help an old woman with three children, all wet to the waist, to climb on to a raft; they themselves give them money, shout instructions to them. And they point to the old fortress of St. Ladislas as a refuge.... But a cry arises, farther on, a cry at first not clearly perceived in the darkness of the evening, then at last distinctly audible: "The Therezia Dyke! The Therezia Dyke!..." The princes want to go there; it is not possible on horseback; the only way is in boats. Prince Herman himself grasps the sculls; in the next boat Dutri declares to Von Fest, one of the Gothlandic equerries, that, taken all round, he thinks Venice more comfortable.... "The Therezia Dyke! The Therezia Dyke!..." The dyke lies like the black back of a great, long beast just outside the town, on the left bank of the Zanthos, and protects the whole St. Therezia district, the eastern portion of the city, which stands tolerably high, from the river, which generally overflows in springtime. The boats glide over the water-streets; a landing is possible in the Therezia Square; lanterns are burning; torches flare, ruddy scintillations dart over the water. The square is large and wide; the houses stand black round about it and surround it in the night with their irregular lines of gables and chimneys, with the massive pile of the church of St. Therezia, whose steeples are lost in the dark sky; in the centre of the square rises a great equestrian statue of a Liparian emperor, gigantic in motionless bronze, stretching one arm, sword in hand, over the petty swarming of the crowd. Othomar and Herman have sent their three equerries, Dutri, Leoni and Von Fest, for whom horses have been found and saddled, to the dyke, which protects a whole suburb of villas, factories and the St. Therezia railway-station against the waters of the Zanthos, which has already poured its right bank over the country and is drowning it. The princes stand in the middle of the square on the steps of the pedestal of the statue; they would have liked to go on farther, but the mayor himself has begged them to stay where they are: farther on mortal danger threatens at every moment.... All that could be done has been done; there is nothing more to do but wait. Quarters of an hour, half-hours, pass. This waiting for terrible news calms them; they hope afresh. The officers ride to and fro; the villas and factories yonder are deserted: a whole town lies empty, forsaken. Prince Dutri, turning his horse, which he has ridden out of breath, assures them that the embankment will hold firm; after he has spoken with the princes, he is surrounded: it is the occupiers of the villas, the manufacturers, who overwhelm him with questions, fortified by the self-assurance of the imperial equerry. Dutri gallops off once more. Now the doors of the church are opened wide, quite wide; at the end of the vista, between the pillars, the tiny lights glitter on the altar; a procession files out slowly: a mitred bishop, priests, acolytes, singing and carrying banners and swinging clouds of smoke from their censers; behind the upraised crucifix, the relics of St. Therezia, in their antique shrine of medieval gold and crystal and precious stones, round or roughly cut; it is borne under a canopy and in the shimmering gleam of candles it glitters and sparkles like a sacred jewel, like a constellation, across that sombre square, through that black night of disaster; flicker the giant emeralds, glitters the precious chased gold and before the Most Holy the crowded populace draws back on either side and falls upon its knees. This is the fifth time to-day that the procession goes its round, that the reliquary is borne on high, to exorcize the calamity. It passes the statue, the princes kneel down; the Latin of the chant, the gleam of the relics in their shrine, the cloud of the incense pass over them with the blessing of the bishop.... The procession has brought stillness to the square, but a murmur now approaches as from afar.... The crowd seems to surge as though in one wave, nobody is now kneeling; the very procession is broken up and confused. Through the throng rushes the report: the dyke has given way!... They do not yet believe it; but suddenly from above the fort of St. Ladislas, which spreads its ramparts about the castle, a shot thunders out and vibrates over the black city and shakes through the black sky as though its rebound were breaking against the lowering clouds. A second shot thunders after it, as with giant cymbals of catastrophe, a third ... the whole town knows that the Zanthos has broken the dyke. The whole square is in confused motion, like a swarm of ants; troops of tardy fugitives still come thronging in, poor ones now and indigent, who had not been able to fly earlier, who had been still hoping; through the crush Prince Dutri, panting, cursing, on horseback, terror in his eyes, strives to reach the statue; the distant murmur as of a sea comes nearer and nearer. Men scatter along the streets, on foot or in boats; the disordered procession, with the glitter of its reliquary, seeming to reel on the billows of a human sea, scatters towards the church. "Is not even the square safe?" asks Othomar. He can hardly speak, his chest seems cramped as it were with iron, his eyes fill with tears, an immense despair of impotence and pity suffuses his soul. The mayor shakes his head: "The square lies lower than the suburbs, highness; you cannot remain here. For God's sake go back to the Episcopal in a boat!..." But the princes insist on remaining, though the murmur grows louder and louder. "Go into the church in that case, highnesses: that is the only safe place left," the mayor beseeches. "I beg you, for God's sake!" The square is already swept clean, the torch-bearers lead the princes to the steps of the church; the Zanthos comes billowing on, like a soft thunder skimming the ground. Inside the church the organ sounds; they sing, they pray all through the night. And the whole night long everything outside remains chaotically black, gently murmuring.... When the first dawn pales over the sky, which begins in the distance to assume tints of rose and grey, faint opal and mother-of-pearl, Othomar and Herman and the equerries emerge on the steps of the church. The square stands under water; the houses rise out of the water; the statue of Othomar III. waves its bronze arm and sword over a lake that ripples in the morning breeze. From the Therezia Square to the Cathedral Square everything lies under water. 6 "TO HER IMPERIAL MAJESTY THE EMPRESS OF LIPARIA "THE EPISCOPAL, "ALTARA, "--_March_, 18--. "MY ADORED MOTHER, "Your letter reproaches me with not writing to you two days ago, without delay; forgive me, for my thoughts have so constantly been full of you. But I felt so tired yesterday, after a busy day, and I lacked the strength to write to you in the evening. Let me tell you now of my experiences. "You describe to me the terrible impression produced at Lipara by the telegram from here about the breach in the Therezia Dyke and how none slept at the Imperial. We too were up all night, in St. Therezia's Church. No such fearful inundation has been remembered for fifty years; at the time of that which my father remembers in his childhood, the Therezia Square was not flooded and the water only came as far, they say, as the great iron-factory. "How can I describe to you what I felt that night, while we were hoping and waiting, hoping in turn that God and His Holy Mother would ward off this disaster from us and waiting for the catastrophe to burst forth! We stood on the pedestal of the equestrian statue, unable to do anything more. Oh, that impotence about me, that impotence within me! I kept on asking myself what I was there for, if I could do nothing to help my people. Never before, dearest Mother, have I felt this feeling of impotence, of inability to counteract the inevitable, so possess my soul, until it was wholly filled with despair; but neither have I ever so thoroughly realized that everything in life has its two sides, that the greatest disaster has not only its black shadow but also its bright side, for never, never have I felt so strongly and utterly, through my despair, the love for our people, a thing that I did not yet know could exist in our hearts as a truth, as I then felt it quivering all through me; and this love gave me an immense melancholy at the thought that all of them, the millions of souls of our empire, will never know, or, if they did know, believe that I loved them so, loved them as though my own blood ran in their veins. Nor do I wish to deceive myself and I well know that I should never have this feeling at Lipara, but I have it here, in our ancient city, which gives us all her sympathy. I feel here that I myself am more of a Slav, like our Altarians, than a Latin, like our southerners in Lipara and Thracyna; I feel here that I am of their blood, a thing that I do not feel yonder. "No doubt much has been said and written in the papers about the want of tact of the Marquis of Dazzara, with his foolish guard-of-honour at the station at our departure; be that as it may, I felt great sadness in the train to think that, in spite of their having come to see me leave, they did not seem to love me. I know you will again disapprove of this as false sensitiveness on my part, but I cannot help it, my dear Mother: I am like that, I am hypersensitive to sympathy in general and to the utterances of our people in particular. And for that reason too I love the people here, very simply and childishly perhaps, because they show that they love me: enthusiasm everywhere, genuine, unaffected enthusiasm wherever we go; and yet what are we able to do for them, except give them money! I find this sympathy among the lowest: workmen and labourers whom I had never seen before to my knowledge and to whom I could only speak three or four words of comfort--and I can never find much else to say, it is always the same--and among the soldiers, although they must feel instinctively, in spite of never seeing me except in uniform, that I am no soldier at heart; and also among the students, the priests, the civic authorities and the higher functionaries. Yesterday we went round everywhere, to all the places appointed as refuges: not only the barracks and shops and factories, but even some of the rooms at the law-courts, two of the theatres and the prison, poor souls! And also St. Ladislas. From the Round Tower we had a view of the surrounding country: towards the east there was nothing but water and water, like a sea. My heart felt as though screwed tight into my breast. "We went to the university also. I remembered most of the professors from two years ago, when I was here as an undergraduate. "It was a terrible scene outside the town. Oh, Mamma, there were hundreds, there were thousands of corpses, laid out side by side on a meadow, as in a mortuary, before the burial, for identification! I saw harrowing scenes, my heart was torn asunder: troops of relations who sought or who, sobbing, had found. A terrible air of woe filled the whole atmosphere. I felt sick and turned quite pale, it required all my energy to prevent myself from fainting, but Herman put his arm through mine and supported me as well as he was able without ostentation, while a couple of doctors from among the group of physicians to whom I was speaking gave me something to smell. Oh, Mamma, it was a terrible spectacle, all those pallid, shapeless, swollen corpses, on the green grass, and, above, the sky, which had become deep blue again! "I have informed the municipal council, in accordance with your wish and my father's, that you are each of you presenting a personal donation of a million florins and I presented my own at the same time. The whole world seems in sympathy with us; money is flowing in from every side, but the damage is like a pit that cannot be filled up. As you say, the donation of our Syrian friends is truly princely and oriental. "What more have I to tell you? I really do not know; my brain is confused with a nightmare of ghastly visions and I have difficulty in thinking logically. But I promise you, my dear Mother, to do what I can and to do it with all my might; and all I ask is that you will send me a single word to tell me that you are not too dissatisfied with your boy. "As my father desires, I will stay here another week; it seems to do the people good to see us, they love us so. They were enraptured when it was announced that after my departure you and Thera were coming to Altara. You with your soft hand will be able to do so much that we have omitted. How they do love us here! And why are we not always at St. Ladislas? Though the fortress is sombre, it is bright with their sympathy. "But do not let me write to you so poetically in these distressful days, in which we should be practical. Herman's society does me a deal of good and I can do more when he is by my side. General Ducardi is a fine, indefatigable fellow, as always. The others have all been very willing and practical; and, if I may be allowed respectfully to differ from my Father, I am inclined to think that the municipal council does what it can. It is true, an English engineer told me that with better precautions and a more thorough supervision the Therezia Dyke would perhaps have held out; however, I don't know. "Herman will accompany me on my journey through the provinces. We shall go to Lycilia and Vaza and so far as possible to the lowlands. These are of course in the worst case. "I have just received the telegrams: the Marquis of Dazzara dismissed and the Duke of Mena-Doni--I don't like that man--governor of the capital! Lipara under martial law! And will my father succeed in preserving our house of peers by this dissolution of the house of deputies? "Dearest Mother, his eminence has just sent to ask me to receive him. I do not want to keep him waiting and therefore close my letter hurriedly; with a fond embrace, I am, with fondest and most respectful love, "your own boy, "OTHOMAR." CHAPTER II 1 The Province of Vaza also, lying to the north of the Altara Highlands, the Alpine range of the Gigants, was harassed in parts by the Zanthos. The capital, Vaza, was flooded. In the neighbourhood of the mountain-slopes the province had been spared. There vast terraces of vineyards lay, alternating with forests of chestnut-trees and walnut-trees and olives. The glittering white snow-line of the mountain-tops surged up against a dazzling blue sky, piercing it with its crests and biting long pieces out of the deep azure in ragged lines; it seemed to whet ice-teeth, gleaming white fangs, against the metal of the firmament, which was like burnished steel. There, enthroned on its rocks, twelve miles from the town, stood old Castel Vaza, the castle of the dukes of Yemena and counts of Vaza, surrounded by parks and woods, half castle, half citadel, strong, simple, medieval, rough in outline, with its four towers and its square patches of battlements, rounding off the horizon about it on every side and keeping it aloof. Near at hand, a swarm of little villages; in the distance, the towers and steeples, the huddled roofs of Vaza; still farther, in the circle of panorama that broadly girt the towers, the wide Zanthos, winding down to hurl itself into the sea, and Lycilia, white in the sun with its little squares of houses, set brilliantly on the blue of the water; then a second sea: the mountain-tops, surging away in snowy vistas and distant mists. And, also glittering in the sun, those strange lakes on the Zanthos: the water which the full river had vomited, the inundations.... * * * * * The square castle, enclosing a courtyard in its four wings, has two more wings added at the back, in a newer style of more elegant renascence, and looking on the park, in which lie the ornamental basins, like oval dishes of liquid silver, set in emerald lawns. The fallow deer graze there, dreaming, as it were, and graceful, roaming slowly on slim legs: sometimes, suddenly, extending themselves, their heads thrown back, their eyes wild, they run some distance, a number of them, fleeing before an unseen terror; others, calmer, graze on, laconically, philosophically. The dukes of Yemena and counts of Vaza are one of the oldest families of the empire; and their ancestral tree is rooted ages back, before the time of the first emperor of Liparia. The present duke, court-marshal and Constable of Liparia, has three children of his first marriage: the heir to his title, the young Marquis of Xardi, aide-de-camp to the emperor, and two daughters, younger, girls still, at a convent. The duchess is alone at the castle. She is sitting in a large boudoir, built out with a triangular loggia, and looking over the park, the basins, the deer. A breeze is blowing outside; and the rapid clouds, which, like flaky spectres, like rags hidden beneath diaphanous veils, chase one another through the clear blue sky, trail their shadows, like quick eclipses, across the park, just tinting it with passing darkness, which darkens the deer in their turn and then makes them gleam brown again in the sun. It is silent outside; it is silent in the castle. The castle stands secluded; within, the servants move softly through the reception-rooms and corridors, speaking in whispers, in expectation of the august visitors. Lunch is over. The duchess lies half-out-stretched on a couch and gazes at the deer. She is not yet dressed and wears a tea-gown, loose, with many folds: _vieux rose broché_, salmon-coloured plush and old lace. When she is alone, she likes plenty of light, from a healthy need of space and air; the curtains are drawn aside from the tall bow-windows and the shrillness of the spring sky comes streaming in. But the light does not suit her beauty; for, though her hair is still raven black, her complexion has the dullness of faded white roses; her eyes, which can be beautiful, large, liquid and dark, look full of lassitude, encircled with pale-yellow shadows; and very clearly visible are the little wrinkles at the side, the little grooves etched around the delicate nose, the lines that have lengthened the mouth and draw it down. The duchess rises slowly; she passes through a door that leads to her bedroom and dressing-room and stays away for a few moments. Then she returns; in both hands, pressing it to her, with difficulty, she carries an obviously heavy casket and sets it on the table in front of the couch. The casket is of old wrought silver enriched with gilt chasing and great blue turquoises, of that costly renascence work which is not made nowadays. She selects a little straight, gold key from her bracelet and unlocks the casket. The jewels glisten--pearls, brilliants, sapphires, emeralds--and catch in their facets all the spring light of the sky, blue, white and yellow. But the duchess presses a spring unclosing a secret drawer, from which she takes two packets of letters and some photographs. The photographs all show the face of a man no longer young, a strange face, half-dreamy, half-sensual, filled with great mystery and great charm. The photographs show him in the elaborate uniform of an officer of the throne-guards, in fancy-dress as a medieval knight, in flannels and in ordinary mufti. The duchess' eyes pass slowly from one to the other; she compares the likenesses, a sad smile about her mouth and melancholy in her eyes. Then she unties the ribbons of the letters, takes them out of the carefully preserved envelopes, unfolds them and reads here and there and reads again and refolds them.... She knows by heart the phrases that still tell her of a strange passion, the most fervent, the truest, the simplest and perhaps for that reason the strangest that she has ever felt, that has surrounded her with fairy meshes of fire. Though her eyes look out again at the deer--the sunshine streams like fluid gold over the park--between her and the peaceful landscape there rise up, transparent, in tenderly gleaming phantasmagorias, remembrances of the past, the pictures of that love, and it seems to her as though sparks are dancing before her eyes, as though brilliant curves and scintillations of light are swarming on every hand. She lives through past events in a few moments; then she closes her eyes, draws her hand over her forehead and thinks how sad it is that the past is nothing more than a little memory, which flies like dust and ashes through our souls which we sometimes endeavour, in vain, to collect in a costly urn. How sad it is that one cannot go on mourning, though one wish to, because life does not permit it! Nothing but that dust and ashes in her soul ... and those letters, those photographs.... She locks them away again and now gazes at the jewels. And she looks well into her own heart, sees herself exactly as she is, for she knows that she has been loyal, always, loyal to him and to herself: loyal when their love broke like a glittering rainbow of sparkling colours on a wide firmament and she became unwilling to see or to exist and withdrew from the court into this castle and let it be rumoured that a lingering illness was causing her to pine away. And she mourned and mourned, first sobbing and wringing her hands, then calmer in despair, then ... The deer had gone on grazing there, as though they always remained unchanged. But she.... * * * * * She had been loyal, always: in her despair and also in what followed, in the abatement of that despair. Then she was saddest of all, because despair was able to abate. Then sad, because she still lived and felt vitality within her. Then ... because she began to grow bored. Because of all this a great despair had filled her strange soul, luxuriantly, as with the morbid blossoms of strange orchids. She hated, despised, cursed herself. But nothing changed in her. She was bored. She led a solitary life at the castle. Her husband and her stepson were at Lipara; her stepdaughters, to whom she was much attached, were finishing their education at a convent, of which an imperial princess, a sister of the emperor, was abbess. She was alone, she never saw anybody. And she was bored. Life awoke in her anew, for it had only slumbered, she had deemed it dead, had wished to bury it in a sepulchre around which her memories should stand as statues. Within herself, she felt herself to be what she had always been, in spite of all her love: a woman of the world, hankering after the glamour of imperial surroundings, that court splendour which fatally reattracts and is indispensable to those who have inhaled it from their birth as their vital air. And, at moments when she was not thinking of her despair, she thought of the Imperial, saw herself there, brilliant in her ripe beauty, made much of and adored as she had always been. Then she caused her stepson, the Marquis of Xardi, to spread the rumour that she was convalescent. A month later, in the middle of the winter season, after a great court festival but before one of the intimate assemblies in the empress' own apartments, she requested an audience of Elizabeth. Thus she beheld herself in true, clear truth and was deeply mournful in her poor soul filled with desire of love and desire of the world and humanity, because life insisted on continuing so cruelly, as in a mad triumphal progress, crushing her memories under its chariot-wheels, clattering through her melancholy with its trumpet-blasts, making her see the paltriness of mankind, the pettiness of its feeling, the littleness of its soul, which is nevertheless the only thing it has.... * * * * * The duchess locks the twice-precious casket away again. She forgets what is going on about her, what is awaiting her; she gazes, dreams and lives again in the past, with the enjoyment which a woman finds in the past when she loses her youth. There is a knock at the door, a footman appears and bows: "Excellency, the cook begs urgently to be allowed to speak to you in person...." "The cook?..." She raises her beautiful face, dreaming, half-laughing, with its profile like Cleopatra's, so Egyptian in its delicacy and symmetry, settles herself a little higher on the couch and leans on her hand: "Let him come in...." Everything returns to her, reality, the actual day; and she smiles because of it and shrugs her shoulders: such is life. The footman goes out; the cook enters in his white apron and white cap: he is nervous and, now that his mistress is already frowning her eyebrows because of his disrespectful costume, he begins to stammer: "Forgive me, excellency...." And he points with an unhappy face to his apron, his white sleeves.... And he complains that the head gamekeeper has not provided sufficient ortolans. He cannot make his pasty; he dares not take it upon himself, excellency. She looks at him with her sphinx-like eyes; she has a great inclination to burst out laughing at his comical face, his despairing gestures, his outstretched arms, to laugh and also to cry wildly and loudly. "What are we to do, excellency, what are we to do?" The town is too far away; there is no time to send there before dinner and, for the matter of that, they never have anything in the town. Besides, it is really the steward's fault, excellency; the steward should have told her excellency.... "There are larks," she says. "Those were to go to Lipara to-morrow, excellency, to his excellency the duke!" The duchess shrugs her shoulders, laughing a little: "It can't be helped, my friend. His imperial highness the Duke of Xara comes before his excellency, does he not? Make a _chaufroid_ of larks." Yes, that is what he had thought of doing, but he had not ventured to suggest it. Yes, that would do very well, admirably, excellency. She gives another little laugh and then nods, to say that he can go. The cook, evidently relieved, bows and disappears. She rises, looks at herself in a mirror as she stands erect in her lazily creased folds of pink and salmon-colour and old lace, stretches her arms with a gesture of utter fatigue and rings for her maid, after which she enters her dressing-room. Does she want to laugh again ... or to cry again? She does not know; but she does know that she has to get dressed.... Whatever confront a person, love or ortolan-pasty, that person must dress, must dress and eat and sleep ... and after that the same again: dress ... and eat ... and sleep.... 2 Three carriages, with postillions, bring Othomar, Herman and the others along the broad, winding, switchback road to Castel Vaza. It is five o'clock in the afternoon; the weather is mild and sunny, but not warm: a fresh breeze is blowing. The landscape is wide and noble; with each turn of the road come changes in the panorama of snow-clad mountains. The country is luxuriantly beautiful. The little villages through which they drive look prosperous: they are the duke's property. Between Vaza and the castle the land has been spared by the water: the overflowing of the Zanthos has inundated rather the eastern district. It is difficult here to think constantly of that dreadful flood and of the condition of Lipara yonder, which the emperor has proclaimed in state of siege. It is so beautiful here, so full of spring life; and the sunset after a fine, summery day is here devoid of sadness. The chestnut-trees waft their fresh green fans; and the sky is still like mother-of-pearl, though a dust of twilight is beginning to hover over it. A lively conversation is in progress between the princes, Ducardi and Von Fest, who sit in the first carriage: they talk with animation, laugh and are amused because the villagers sometimes, of course, salute them, as visitors to the castle, with a touch of the cap or a kindly nod, but do not know who they are. Prince Herman nods to a handsome young peasant-girl, who stays staring after them open-mouthed, and recalls the delightful big-game hunt last year when he was the duke's guest, together with the emperor and Othomar. They did not see the duchess that time: she was unwell.... General Ducardi tells anecdotes about the war of fifteen years ago. And they all find some difficulty in fixing their faces in official folds when they drive through the old, escutcheoned gate over the lowered drawbridge into the long carriage-drive and are received by the chamberlain in the inner courtyard of the castle. This is prescribed by etiquette. The duchess must not show herself before the chamberlain, surrounded by the duke's whole household, has bidden the Duke of Xara welcome in the name of his absent master and offered the crown-prince a telegram from Lipara, which the steward hands him on a silver tray. This telegram is from the Duke of Yemena; it says that his service and that of his son, the Marquis of Xardi, about the person of his majesty the emperor, the Duke of Xara's most gracious father, prevent them from being there to receive their beloved crown-prince in their castle, but that they beg his imperial highness to look upon the house as his. The prince reads the telegram and hands it to his aide-de-camp, the Count of Thesbia. Then, conducted by the chamberlain, he ascends the steps and enters the hall. Notwithstanding that it is still daylight outside, the hall is brilliantly lighted and resembles a forest full of palm-trees and broad-leaved ornamental plants. The duchess steps towards the crown-prince and breaks the line of her graciousness in a deep curtsey. He has seen her bow like this before. But perhaps she is still handsomer in this plain black velvet gown and Venetian lace, cut very low, her splendid bosom exposed, white with the grain of Carrara marble, her statuesque arms bare, a heavy train behind her like a wave of ink; a small ducal coronet of brilliants and emeralds in her hair, which is also black, with a gold-blue raven's glow. She bids the princes welcome. Othomar offers her his arm. Prince Herman and the equerries follow them up the colossal staircase, through the hedge of flunkeys, who stand motionless with fixed eyes that do not seem to see. Then through a row of lighted rooms and galleries to a great reception-room, glittering with light from the costly rock-crystal chandelier, in which the candle-light coruscates and casts expansive gleams and shimmers over the marble mosaic of the floor and along the decorative mirrors, in their frames of heavy Louis-XV. arabesques, and the paintings by renascence masters on the walls. A momentary standing reception is held, a miniature court: in their dazzling uniforms--for it was a delightful, though long drive from Vaza and the men had had time to change into their full-dress uniforms in the town--the equerries and aides come, one after the other, to kiss the duchess' hand; except the Gothlandic officers, she knows them all, nearly all intimately; she is able to speak an almost familiar word to each of them, while the gold of her voice melts between her laughing lips and her great, Egyptian eyes look out, strangely dreaming. So she stands for a moment as a most adorable hostess between the two princes, she, a woman, alone among these officers who surround them, in the midst of a cross-fire of compliments and badinage that sparkles around them all. Then the steward appears, while the doors open out and the table is revealed brightly glittering, and bows before his mistress as a sign that she is served. The duchess takes the crown-prince's arm; the gentlemen follow. The dinner is very lively. They are an intimate circle, people accustomed to meet one another every day. The duchess sees that an easy tone is preserved, one of light familiarity, which restrains itself before the crown-prince, yet gives a suggestion of the somewhat cavalier roughness and _sans-gêne_ that is the fashionable tone at court. The Gothlandic officers are evidently not in the secret; Von Fest, a giant of a fellow, looks right and left and smiles. For the rest, the duchess possesses this smart, informal manner in a very strong degree, but moderates herself now, although she does sometimes lean both her shapely elbows on the table. The crown-prince once more has that indescribable stiffness which makes things freeze around him; the ease which he displayed at Altara has again made way for something almost constrained and at the same time haughty; his smiles for the duchess are forced; and the handsome hostess in her heart thinks her illustrious guest an insufferable prig. Possibly Othomar behaves as he does because of the conversations, which all focus themselves about the duchess and concern the gossip of the Imperial; the inundations are hardly mentioned, hardly either the state of siege in the capital; only a single word now and again recalls them. But for the greater part all this seems to be forgotten here, in these delightful surroundings, at this excellent dinner, under the froth of the soft gold lycilian from the duke's private vineyard. This lycilian is celebrated and they also celebrate it now: even the crown-prince touches glasses with the duchess with a courteous word or two, which he utters very ordinarily, but which they seem to think a most witty compliment, for they all laugh with flattering approbation, with glances of intelligence; and the duchess herself no longer thinks him so insufferable, but beams upon him with her full and radiant laugh. But what has he said? He is astounded at himself and at their laughter. He intended nothing but a commonplace; and.... But he remembers: it is always like that; and he now understands. And he thinks them feeble and turns to Ducardi and Von Fest; he forces the conversation and suddenly begins to talk volubly about the condition of the town of Vaza, which also has suffered greatly. Then about Altara. He gives the duchess a long description of the bursting of the Therezia Dyke. The duchess thinks him a queer boy; for an instant she fancies that he is posing; then she decides that for some reason or other he is a little shy; then she thinks that he has fine, soft eyes, looking up like that under his eyelids, and that he has a pleasant way of telling things. She turns right round to him, forgets the officers around her, asks questions and, with her elbows on the table and a goblet of lycilian in her hand, she listens attentively, hangs on the young imperial lips and feels an emotion. This emotion comes because he is so young and august and has those eyes and that voice. She is attracted by his hands, with their broad, delicate shape, as of an old strength of race that is wearing out; she notices that he looks now and then at his ring. And, becoming serious, she talks of the dreadful times, of all those thousands of poor people without a roof over their heads, without anything.... This is, however, only the second moment that she has thought of those thousands; the first was that short half-hour when the duke's chaplain was asking her for money and how she wished it bestowed.... She remembers that, at the time of this conversation with the chaplain, a cutter from Worth's was waiting for her to try on the very dress which she is now wearing and she thinks that life's accidents are really most interesting. She knows, in her inner consciousness, that this philosophy is as the froth of champagne and she herself laughs at it. Then she again listens attentively to Othomar, who is still telling of the nocturnal watch in St. Therezia's Church. The officers have grown quiet and are listening too. His imperial highness has made himself the centre of conversation and dethroned the duchess. She has noticed this too, thinks it strange of him but nice, above all does not know what she wants of him and is charmed. 3 After dinner a cosy gathering in two small drawing-rooms. One of them contains a billiard-table; and the duchess herself, gracefully pointing her cue, which she holds in her jewelled fingers, plays a game with Prince Herman, Leoni and young Thesbia. Sometimes, in aiming, she hangs over the green table with an incredible suppleness in her heavy lines; and the beautiful Carrara breast heaves the Venetian lace and the black velvet up and down at each rapid movement. In the other room, under a lamp of draped lace, Othomar and General Ducardi and the Gothlandic equerries are attentively engaged in studying on an accurately detailed ordnance-map the route which they are to follow to-morrow on horseback to the inundated villages. The steward and a footman go round with coffee and liqueurs. When the game of billiards is over, the duchess comes into the next room with her gentlemen, laughing merrily. The prince and his officers look up, politely smiling, from their map, but she, bewitchingly: "Oh, don't let me disturb you, highness!..." She takes Dutri's arm for a stroll on the terrace outside. The doors are open, the weather is delicious: it is a little cool. The steward hangs a fur cloak over her bare shoulders. On the long terrace outside she walks with Dutri to and fro, to and fro, constantly passing the open doors and as constantly throwing a glance to the group under the lamp: bent heads and fingers that point with a pencil. Her step is light on the arm of the elegant equerry; her train rustles gaily behind her. She talks vivaciously, asks Dutri: "How are you enjoying your tour?" "Bored to death! Nothing and nobody amusing, except the primate's secretary!... Those Gothlanders are bores and so terribly provincial! And it's tiring too, all this toiling about! You see, I look upon it as war and so I manage to carry on; if I were to look upon it as times of peace, I should never pull through. Fortunately our reception has been tolerably decent everywhere. Oh, there is no doubt the crown-prince is making himself popular...." "A nice boy," she says, interrupting him. "I had hardly seen him for a long time since, when he was studying at Altara; after that I only remember seeing him once or twice at the Imperial, shot up from a child like an asparagus-stalk and yet a mere lad. I remember it still: he flushed when I curtseyed to him. Then again lately, at Myxila's...." Dutri is very familiar with the duchess: he calls her by her Christian name, he always flirts with her a little, to amuse himself, from swagger, without receiving any further favours; they know each other too well, they have been in each other's confidence too long and she looks upon him more as a _cavaliere servente_ for trifling services and little court intrigues than as one for whom she could ever feel any sort of "emotion." "_Ma chère Alexa_, take care!" says he, wagging his finger at her. "Why?" she retorts, defiantly. "As if I did not see...." She laughs aloud: "See what you please!" she exclaims, indifferently, with her voice of rough _sans-gêne_, which is in fashion. "No, my dear Dutri, you needn't warn me, I assure you! Why, my dear boy, I have two girls to bring out next year! In two years' time I may be a grandmamma. I have given up that sort of thing. I can't understand that there are women so mad as always to want that. And then it makes you grow old so quickly...." Dutri roars; he can't restrain himself, he chokes with laughing.... "What are you laughing at?" she asks. He looks at her, shakes his head, as though to say he knows all about it: "Really, there's no need for you to play hide-and-seek like that with me, Alexa. I know as well as you do ... that you yourself are one of those mad women!..." He bursts out laughing again; and this time she joins in: "I?" "Get out! You want that as much as you want food and sleep at regular intervals. You would have been dead long ago, if you had not had your periodical 'emotions'. And, as to growing old, you know you hate the very thought of it!" "Oh no! I do what I can to remain young, because that's a duty which one owes to one's self. But I don't fight against it. And you shall see, when the time comes, that I shall carry my old age very gracefully...." "As you carry everything." "Thanks. Look here: when I begin to go grey, I shall put something on my hair that will make me grey entirely and I will powder it, do you see? That's all!" "A good idea...." "Dutri...." He looked at her, understood that she wanted to ask him something. They walked on for an instant silently, in the dark; constantly walking to and fro, they each time passed twice through the light that fell in two wide patches through the doors on to the terrace. The park was full of black shadow and the great vases on the terrace shone vaguely white; above, the sky hung full of stars. "What did you want to ask me?" asked the equerry. She waited till they had passed through the light and were again walking in the darkness: "Do you ever hear of him now?" "Thesbia had a letter from him the other day, from Paris. Not much news. He's boring himself, I believe, and running through his money. It's the stupidest thing you can do, to run through your money in Paris. I think Paris a played-out hole. Of course it couldn't be anything else. A republic is nothing at all. So primitive and uncivilized. There were republics before the monarchies: Paradise, with Adam and Eve, was a republic of beasts and animals; Adam was president...." "Don't be an idiot. What did he write?" "Nothing particular. But what a mad notion of his, to send in his papers as captain of the guards! How did he come to do it? Tell me, what happened between you two?" They were walking through the light again and she did not answer; then, in the darkness: "Nothing," she said; and her voice no longer had that affected smartness of brutality and _sans-gêne_, but melted in a plaintive note of melancholy. "Nothing?" said Dutri. "Then why...?" "I don't know. We had talked a great deal together and so gradually began to feel that we could no longer make each other happy. I really can't remember the reason, really I can't." "A question of psychology therefore. This comes of all that sentiment. You're both very foolish. Meddling with psychology when you're in love is very imprudent, because then you start psychologizing on yourselves and cut up your love into little bits, like a tart of which you are afraid you won't be able to get enough to eat. Practise psychology on somebody else, that's better: as I do on you, Alexa." "Come, don't talk nonsense, Dutri. Don't you know anything more about him?" "Nothing more, except that he has made himself impossible for our set. And that perhaps through your fault, Alexa, and through your psychology." She walked silently, leaning on his arm; her mouth trembled, her Egyptian eyes grew moist: "Oh!" she said; and she suddenly made the equerry stand still, grasped his arm tightly and looked him straight in the face with her moist eyes. "I loved him, I loved him, as I have never loved any one! I ... I still love him! If he were to write me one word, I should forget who I was, my husband, my position, I should go to him, go to him.... Oh, Dutri, do you know what it means, in our artificial existence, in which everything is so false around you, to ... to ... to have really loved any one? And to know that you have that feeling as a sheer truth in your heart? Oh, I tell you, I adore him, I still adore him ... and one word from him, one word...." "Lucky that he's more sensible than you, Alexa, and will never say that word. Besides, he has no money: what would you do if you were with him? Go on the stage together? What a volcano you are, Alexa, what a volcano!" He shook his foppish, curly head disapprovingly, adjusted the heavy tassels of his uniform. She took his hand, still serious, not yet relapsing into her tone of persiflage: "Dutri, when you hear from him, will you promise to tell me about him? I sometimes hunger for news of him...." She looked at him with such intense, violent longing, with such hunger, that he was startled. He saw in her the woman prepared to do all things for her passion. Then he smiled, flippant as always: "What silly creatures you all are! Very well, I promise. But let us go in now, for the geographical studies seem to be finished and I am dying for a cup of tea...." They went indoors. Busying herself at the tea-table, letting her fingers move gracefully over the antique Chinese cups, she straightway asked the crown-prince which road his highness proposed to take, feeling great concern about the inundated villages, the poor peasants, agreeing entirely in all things with the Duke of Xara, bathing in the sympathy which she gathered from his sweet, black, melancholy eyes--eyes from which she felt tempted to kiss all the melancholy away--bathing in his youthful splendour of empire.... Dutri helped her to sugar the tea. He watched her with interest: he knew her fairly well, she retained very little enigma for him; yet she always amused him and he always found in her a fresh subject for study. 4 It was one of the historic apartments of Castel Vaza, an ancient, sombre room in which the emperors of Liparia who had been guests of the dukes of Yemena had always slept on an old, gilt bed of state, raised five steps from the floor, a bed around which the heavy curtains of dark-blue brocade and velvet hung from an imperial crown borne by cherubs. On the walls were portraits of all the emperors and empresses who had rested there: the dukes of Yemena had always been much loved by their sovereigns and the pride of the ducal family was that every Liparian emperor had been at least one night its guest. Historical memories were attached to every piece of furniture, to every ornament, to the gilt basin and the gilt ewer, to everything; and the legends of his house rose one by one in Othomar's mind as he stretched himself out to rest. He was very weary and yet not sleepy. He felt a leaden stiffness in his joints, as though he had caught cold, and a continuous shiver passed through his whole body, a mysterious quivering of the nerves, as if he were a tense string responding to a touch. The week spent at Altara, the subsequent five days at Vaza, the drives in the environs had tired him out. During the day he could not find a moment's time to yield to this fatigue, but at night, as he lay stretched for rest, it shattered him, without being followed by a healthy sleep. He was used to his little camp-bed, on which he slept in his austere bedroom at the Imperial, the bed on which he had slept since childhood. The state-beds, at the Episcopal, at Vaza and now here, made him feel strange, laid-out and uncomfortable. His eyes again remained open, following the folds of the tall curtains, seeking to penetrate the shadows which the faint light of a silver lamp drove creeping into the corners. He began to hear a loud buzzing in his ears. And he thought it curious to be lying here on this bed on which his ancestors had already lain before him. They all peered at him from the eight panels in the walls. What was he? An atom of life, a little stuff of sovereignty, born of them all; one of the last links of their long chain, which wound through the ages and led back to that mysterious, mystical origin, half-sacred, half-legendary, to St. Ladislas himself.... Would that same thing come after him also, a second chain which would wind into the future? Or...? And to what purpose was the ever-returning, endless, eternal renascence of life? What would be the end, the great end?... Suddenly, like a vision, the night on the Therezia Square recurred to his mind, the thundering salute from the fort, thrice repeated, and the mighty, roaring onslaught of an approaching blackness, resembling a sea. Was it only a humming in his ears, or ... or was it really roaring on again? Did the black future come roaring on, in reply to his question as to the end, the great end, with the same sound of threatening waters which nothing could withstand? It burst through dykes; it dragged with it all that was thrown up as a protection, inexorable, and--with its grim, black, fateful frown and the sombre pleats of its inundations, which resembled a shroud trailing over everything that was doomed--it marched to where they stood, his kin, on their high station of majesty by the grace of God and of St. Ladislas; to where his father sat, on their age-old throne, crowned and sceptred and bearing the orb of empire in his imperial palm; and it did not seem to know that they were divine and sacred and inviolate: it seemed to care for nothing in its rough, sombre, indifferent, unbelieving, roaring profanation; for suddenly, fiercely, it dragged its black waves over them, dragged them with it--his father, his mother, all of them--and they were things that had been, they of the blood imperial, they became a legend in the glory of the new day that rose over the black sea.... His ancestors stared at him and they seemed to him to be spectres, themselves legends, falsities against which tradition would no longer act as a protection. They seemed to him like ghosts, enemies.... He opened wider his burning eyes upon their stiff, trained and robed or harnessed figures, which seemed to step towards him from the eight panels of the walls, in order to stifle him in their midst, to oppress him in a narrow circle of nightmare on his panting breast, with iron knees forcing the breath out of his lungs, with iron hands crushing his head, from which the sweat trickled over his temples. Then he felt afraid, like a little child that has been told creepy stories, afraid of those ghosts of emperors, afraid of the glimpses of visions which again flashed pictures of the inundations before him: the meadow with the corpses, the men in the punt fishing up the woman. The corpses began suddenly to come to life, to burst out laughing, with slits of mouths and hollow eyes, as though they had been making a fool of him, as though there had been no inundations; and the dusk of the bed-chamber, filled with emperors, pressed down upon him as with atmospheres of nitrogen. "Andro! Andro!" he cried, in a smothered utterance and then louder, as though in mortal anguish, "Andro! Andro!..." The door at the end of the room was thrown open; the valet entered, alarmed, in his night-clothes. The reality of his presence broke through the enchantment of the night and exorcized the ghosts back into portraits. "Highness!..." "Andro, come here...." "Highness, what's the matter?... How you frightened me, highness! What is it?... I thought...." "What, Andro?" "Nothing, highness. Your voice sounded so terribly hoarse! What's the matter?..." "I don't know, Andro: I am ill, I think; I can't sleep...." The man wiped Othomar's clammy forehead with a handkerchief: "Will your highness have anything to drink? A glass of water?..." "No, thank you, thank you.... Andro, can you come and sleep in here?" "If you wish it, highness...." "Yes, here, at the foot of my bed. I believe I'm not very well, Andro.... Bring your pillow in here." The man looked at him. He was not much older than his prince. He had waited on him from childhood and worshipped him with the worship of a subject for majesty; he felt wholly bound to him, tied to him; he knew that the prince was not strong, but also that he never complained.... Growing suddenly angry, he turned to go to his room and fetch his pillow: "No wonder, when they fag and tire you like this!" he cried, unable any longer to restrain his fury. "General Ducardi no doubt thinks that you have the same tough hide as himself!" Muttering in his moustache, he went away, returned with his pillow and laid it on the step of the bed of state: "Are you feverish?" he asked. "No ... yes, perhaps a little. It will pass off, Andro. I ... I am...." He dared not say it. "I am a little nervous," he continued; and his eyes went anxiously round the room, where the emperors were once more standing quiet. "Would you like a doctor fetched from Vaza?" "No, no, Andro, by no means. What are you thinking of, to make such a disturbance in the middle of the night? Go to sleep now, down there...." "Will you try to sleep also then, my 'princie'?" he asked, with the endearing diminutive which in his language sounded like a caress. Othomar nodded with a smile and suffered him to shake up his pillows after the manner of a nurse. "What a bed!" muttered Andro. "It might be a monument in a cemetery!..." Then he lay down again, but did not sleep; he stayed awake. And, when Othomar asked, after an interval: "Are you asleep, Andro?" "Yes, your highness," he answered, "nearly." "Is there anything murmuring in the distance? Is it water or ... or is it my fancy?" The man listened: "I can hear nothing, highness.... You must be a little feverish." "Take a chair and come and sit by the head of the bed...." The man did as he was told. "And let me feel you near me: give me your hand, so...." At last Othomar closed his eyes. In his ears the buzzing continued, still continued.... But under the very buzzing, while the lightness in his head lifted like a mist, the Crown-prince of Liparia fell asleep, his clammy hand in the hard hand of his body-servant, who watched his master's restless sleep in the quivering round the mouth, the jerking of the body, until, to quiet him, he softly stroked the throbbing forehead with his other hand, muttering compassionately, with his strange, national voice of caress: "My poor princie!..." The dawn rose outside; the daylight seemed to push the window-curtains asunder. 5 The next morning the duchess was to preside at the breakfast-table: she was in the dining-room with all the gentlemen when Othomar entered, as the last, with Dutri. His uniform of blue, white and silver fitted him tightly; and he saluted, smilingly, but a little stiffly, while Herman shook hands with him and the others bowed, the duchess curtseying deeply. "How pale the prince looks!" Leoni said to Ducardi. It was true: the prince looked very pale; his eyes were dull, but he bore himself manfully, ate a little fish, trifled with a salmi of game. Yet the prince's fatigue was so evident that Ducardi asked him, softly, across the table: "Is your highness not feeling well?..." All eyes were raised to Othomar. He wished to give the lie to their sympathy: "I'm all right," he replied. "Did your highness have a bad night?" continued Ducardi. "Not very good," Othomar was compelled to acknowledge, with a smile. The conversation continued, the duchess gave it a new turn; but after breakfast, on the point of departure--the horses stood saddled in the courtyard--Ducardi said, bluntly: "We should do better not to go, highness." Othomar was astonished, refused to understand. "You look a little fatigued, highness," added Ducardi, shortly; and, more softly, deprecatingly, "And it's not surprising either, that the last few days have been too much for you. If your highness will permit me, I would recommend you to take a rest to-day." Already a soft feeling of relaxation overcame the prince; he felt too much delighted at this idea of rest to continue his resistance. Yet his conscience pricked him at the thought of his father: a feeling of shame in case the emperor should hear of his exhaustion, which seemed so clearly evident. And he absolutely insisted that the expedition should not be abandoned altogether. He yielded to Ducardi in so far as not to go himself and to take repose, provided that they thought he needed it; but he urgently begged Prince Herman and the others to follow the route planned out for that day and to go. And this he said with youthful haughtiness, already relieved at the thought of the day of repose before him--a whole day, unexpectedly!--but above all afraid of allowing his joy to be perceived and therefore sulking a little, as though he wished to go too, as though he thought General Ducardi foolish, with his advice.... The gentlemen went. The duchess herself conducted Othomar to the west wing, pressed him to rest in her own boudoir. Through the windows of the gallery Othomar saw Herman and the others riding away; he followed them for an instant with his eyes, then went on with the duchess and across the courtyard saw a groom lead back to the stables the horse that had been saddled for him, patting its neck. He was still disturbed by mingled emotions: the pleasant anticipation of resting, a little anxiety lest he should betray himself, a certain feeling of shame.... In the boudoir the duchess left him alone. It was quiet there; outside, the lordly fallow-deer grazed peacefully. The repose of the boudoir of a woman of the world, with the rich, silent drapery of silken stuffs, the inviting luxury of soft furniture, the calm brilliancy of ornaments each a costly object of art, surrounded him with a hushed breathlessness, like a haze of muslin, fragrant with an indefinable, gentle emanation, which was that woman's very perfume. The indolence of this present moment suddenly overwhelmed Othomar, a little strangely, and dissolved his thoughts in gentle bewilderment. He felt like a runaway horse that has suddenly been pulled up and stands still. He sat down for a minute and looked out at the deer. Then he rose, reflected whether he should ring and thought better to look round for himself. On the duchess' little writing-table--Japanese lacquer inlaid with mother-of-pearl landscapes and ivory storks--he found a sheet of paper, a pencil. And he wrote: "To HER MAJESTY ELIZABETH "EMPRESS OF LIPARIA. "CASTEL VAZA, "--_April_, 18--. "Pray do not be alarmed if the newspapers exaggerate and say that I am ill. I was a little fatigued and Ducardi advised me to rest to-day. Herman and the others have gone on; to-morrow I hope myself to lead our second expedition from here. The day after that we go to Lycilia. "OTHOMAR." Then he rang and, when the footman appeared: "My valet, Andro." In a few moments Andro appeared. "Ask for a horse, Andro," said Othomar, "ride to Vaza and dispatch this telegram as quickly as you can to her majesty the empress...." Andro went out and the strange, indolent vacancy overcame Othomar once more. The sun shone over the park, the deer gleamed with coats like cigar-coloured satin. The last fortnight passed once more before Othomar's eyes. And it was as though, in the vistas of that very short past, he saw spreading out like one great whole, one vast picture of human distress, the misery which he had beheld and endeavoured to soften. And the great affliction that filled the land made his heart beat full of pity. A slack feeling of melancholy, that there was so much affliction and that he was so impotent, once more rose within him, as it never failed to do when he was alone and able to reflect. Then he felt himself small, insignificant, fit for nothing; and something in his soul fell feebly, helplessly from a factitious height, without energy and without will. Then that something lay there in despair and upon it, heavy with all its sorrow, the whole empire, crushing it with its weight. Serious strikes had broken out in the eastern quicksilver-mines, beyond the Gigants. He remembered once making a journey there and suffering when he saw the strange, ashy-pale faces of the workmen, who stared at him with great, hollow eyes and who underwent a slow death through their own livelihood, in a poisonous atmosphere. And he knew that what he had then seen was a holiday sight, the most prosperous sight that they were able to show him; that he would never see the black depths of their wretchedness, because he was the crown-prince. And he could do nothing for them and, if they raised their heads still more fiercely than they were doing now, the troops, which had already started for the district, would shoot them down like dogs. He panted loudly, as though to pant away the weight upon his chest, but it fell back again. The image of his father came before his mind, high, certain, conscious of himself, unwavering, always knowing what to do, confident that majesty was infallible, writing signatures with big, firm letters, curtly: "Oscar." Everything signed like that, "Oscar," was immaculate in its righteousness as fate itself. How different was he, the son! Then did the old race of might and authority begin to yield with him, as with a sudden crack of the spine, an exhaustion of the marrow? Then he saw his mother, a Roumanian princess, loving her near ones so dearly; womanliness, motherliness personified, in their small circle; to the people, haughty, inaccessible, tactless as he was, unpopular, as he was, too, at least in Lipara and the southern part of the empire. He knew it: beneath that rigid inaccessibility she concealed her terror, terror when she sat in an open carriage, at the theatre, at ceremonial functions, or in church, or even at visits to charitable institutions. This terror had killed within her all her great love for humanity and had morbidly concentrated her soul, which was inclined by nature to take a wider outlook, upon love for that small circle of theirs. And beneath this terror hid her acquiescence, her expectation of the catastrophe, the upheaval in which she and hers were to perish!... He was their son, the heir to their throne: whence did he derive his impotent hesitation, which his father did not possess, and his love for their people, which his mother no longer possessed? His ancestors he knew only by what history had taught him: in the earlier middle-ages, barbarian, cruel; later, displaying a refined sensuality; one monarch, a weakling, ruled entirely by favourites, a _roi-fainéant_, under whom the empire had fallen a prey to intestinal divisions and foreign greed; afterwards, more civilized, a revival of strength, a reaction of progress after decline, followed by the glory and greatness of the empire to the present day.... To the present day: to him came this inheritance of greatness and glory. How would he handle it, how would he in his turn transmit it to his son? Then he felt himself so small, so timid that he could have run away somewhither, away from the gaping eyes of his future obligations.... 6 The luncheon had all the intimacy of a most charming _tête-à-tête_, served in the small dining-room, with only the steward waiting at table. The duchess enquired very sympathetically how Othomar was; the prince already felt really rested, showed a good appetite, was gay and talkative, praised the cook and the famous lycilian wine. When the duchess after luncheon proposed to him to go for a small excursion in the neighbourhood, he thought it an excellent idea. He himself wished to ride--he knew that the duchess was an excellent horsewoman--but Alexa dissuaded him, laughingly, said that she was afraid of General Ducardi, who had recommended the prince to rest, and thought that a little drive in an open carriage would be less tiring. She had remembered betimes that a riding-habit made her look old and heavy; and she was very glad when the prince gave way. The weather had remained delightful: a mild sun in a blue sky. The landscape stretched wide, the mountains stood shrill and steep, pointing their ice-laden crests into the ether. The drive had all the charm of an incognito free from etiquette, with the prince, in his undress uniform, seated beside the duchess, in a simple, dark gown of mauve corduroy velvet, in the elegant, light victoria, on which the coachman sat alone, without a footman, setting the two slender bays briskly about. The sun gleamed in patches over the horses' sleek hides and cast its reflections in the varnish of the carriage, in the facets of the cut-glass lamps, on the coachman's tall hat and in the buttons of Othomar's uniform. All this sparkle scintillated with short, bright flashes; and thus, lightly flickering, the carriage glided along the road, through a couple of villages, whose inhabitants saluted their duchess, but did not know who the simple young officer was, sitting beside her. A breeze had dried away the dampness of the preceding days and light clouds of dust blew up from under the quick-rolling wheels. The duchess talked fluently, of Lipara, the emperor, the empress. She possessed the tact of knowing intuitively what to say and what to speak about, when she was anxious to please. Her voice was a charm. She was sometimes capable of great simplicity and naturalness, generally when she was not thinking of making an impression. Intuitively she assumed towards the prince, to make him like her, that same simplicity which was her nature. It made her seem years younger: the smart brusqueness that was in fashion flattered her much less and made her appear older and even vulgar, whereas now she grew refined in the natural distinction of an ancient race. The little black veil on her hat hid the ugly wrinkles about her eyes, which gleamed through it like stars. The prince remembered stories told by his equerries--including Dutri--about the duchess; he remembered names mentioned in a whisper. He did not at this minute believe in these slanders, as he considered them to be. Sensible as he was to sympathy, he was won over by hers, which he read in her intuitively; and it made him think well and kindly of her, as he thought of all who liked him. The carriage had been going between terraces of vineyards, when suddenly, as though by surprise, it drove past a castle, half-visible through some very ancient chestnut-trees. "What estate is that?" asked the prince. "Who are your neighbours, duchess?" "No one less than Zanti, highness," replied the duchess: she shivered, but tried to jest. "Balthazar Zanti lives here, with his daughter." "Zanti! Balthazar Zanti!" cried Othomar, in a tone of astonishment. He stood up and looked curiously at the castle, which lay hidden behind the chestnut-trees: "But how is it, duchess, that last year, when I was hunting here with the emperor, with the duke, I never heard of Prince Zanti or that he lived here?" The duchess laughed: "Presumably, highness, because the duke's covers lie in the opposite direction"--she made a vague gesture--"and you never drove past this way and because his majesty will never suffer the name of Balthazar Zanti to be uttered in his presence." "But none of the equerries...." The duchess laughed still more merrily, looked at the prince, who was also chuckling, and said: "It is certainly unpardonable of them not to have informed you more fully of the curiosities in the province of Vaza. But ... now that I think of it, highness, it's quite natural. The castle was empty last year: Zanti was travelling about the country, making speeches. You remember, they were afterwards forbidden by law. His name, therefore, had no local significance here at the time...." The prince was still staring at the castle, which never came fully into view, when the carriage, in a turn of the road, almost touched a little group as it drove past them, against the slope of a vineyard: an old man, a young girl, a dog. The girl was frail, slender, pale, fair-haired, dressed in furs in spite of the sun and retaining beneath them a certain morbid elegance; she sat on the grass, wearing a dark fur toque on her silvery fair hair; her long, white hand, ungloved, soothingly and insistingly patted the curly head of the retriever, which barked at the carriage. Next to her stood a tall, erect old man, looking eccentric in a wide, grey smock-frock: a grey giant, with a heavy beard and sombre eyes, which shone with a dull light from under the brim of a soft felt hat. The dog barked; the girl bowed--she recognized the duchess as a neighbour--without knowing who the prince was; the old man, however, looked straight before him, frowning and making no sign. The carriage rattled past. "That was Zanti," whispered the duchess. "Zanti!" repeated the prince. "And how long has he been living here?" "Only a very short time: I believe the doctors think the air of Vaza good for his daughter." "Was that young girl his daughter?" "Yes, highness. I have seen her once before; she appears to be delicate." "Prince Zanti, is he not?" "Certainly, highness; but, by his own wish, Zanti quite plain.... Titles are all nonsense in the nineteenth century, highness." She jested and yet felt a silent shudder, she knew not why. She thought it ominous that Zanti had come to live so near to Castel Vaza. Shivering, she gave a quick side-glance at the prince. She perceived a strange pensiveness drawing over his face like a shadow. Then, to change the conversation and to think no longer of that horrid man: "You are looking much better, highness, than you did this morning. The air has done you good...." She suppressed her shiver. The prince, on the other hand, remained strange: a sudden emotion seemed to be stirring within him. When they were back at the castle, in the boudoir, the duchess offered herself to make the prince a cup of tea. He stood looking out of the window at the deer, but, while she busied herself with the crested, gilt array of her tea-table, she saw him turn pale, white as chalk--as he had looked that morning--his eyes dilating strangely: "What is the matter, highness?" she cried, in alarm, approaching him. He turned towards her, tried to laugh: "I beg your pardon, duchess; I am very discourteous ... to behave like this, but ... but that man took me by surprise." He laughed. "I did not know that he was here; and then the air ... that rarefied air...." He put his hand to his forehead; she saw him grow paler, his blood seemed to be running out of him, he staggered.... "Highness!" she cried. But Othomar, groping vaguely with his hand for a support, fell up against her; she caught him in her arm, against her bosom, mortally frightened, and saw that he had swooned. A thin sweat stood on his forehead; his eyes closed beneath their weary lids, as though they were dying away; his mouth was open without breathing. The duchess was violently alarmed; she was mortally frightened lest anything serious should happen to the Duke of Xara, alone with her in the castle; she suddenly felt that the future of Liparia was entrusted to the support of her arms; she already saw the prince lying dead, herself disgraced at the Imperial.... All this flashed across her brain at the first moment. But she looked at him long; and a gentle expression overspread her face: pride, that the Duke of Xara lay there half-fainting on her shoulder, and sudden passion, containing much motherliness and pity, blended into a strange feeling in her soul. She softly smoothed back his hair, wiped his perspiring forehead with her handkerchief.... And the strange sensation became still stranger within her, intenser in its two constituent parts: intenser in pride, intenser in compassionate love, that of a mistress and mother in one. Then, with a smile, she pressed the handkerchief, lightly moistened with the imperial sweat, to her trembling lips. The soft aroma of the moisture seemed to intoxicate her with a fragrance of virile youth.... She thought of the letters and photographs in the silver casket with the turquoises. A deep melancholy, because of life, smarted through her soul; yet more of her memories seemed to fly away like dust. Then, refusing to yield any longer to this melancholy, she bent her head and, serious now, giving herself to the present, which revived her with new happiness, she pressed her lips, trembling still more than before, on Othomar's mouth. For a moment she lingered there; her eyes closed; then she gave her kiss. They opened their eyes together, looked at each other. Earnestly sombre, almost tragically, she flashed her glance into his. He said nothing, remained gazing at her, still half in her arms. The colour came mantling back to his cheeks. Their eyes imbibed one another. He felt the unknown opening before him, he felt himself being initiated into the world of knowledge which he suspected in her and did not know of himself. But he felt no joy because of it; her eyes continued sombre. Then he merely took her hand, just pressed it in a solitary caress and said, his eyes still gazing into her deep, quiet, dark glances of passion, his features still rigid with surprise: "I was feeling a little giddy, I fear, just now? Please forgive me, duchess...." She too continued to look at him, at first sombrely, then in smiling humility. Her pride soared to its climax with one beat of its wings: the mouth of her future emperor was still sealed with her kiss! Her love touched her inner life as a wafting breeze skims over a lake, rippling its surface into utter silver with a single fresh gust and stirring it to its very depths; she worshipped him because of his youthful majesty, which so graciously accepted her kiss without further acknowledgment, because of his imperial candour, his boyish voice, his boyish eyes, the pressure of his hand: the only thing he had given her; and she experienced all this as a very strange, proud pleasure: the delight of assimilating that candid youth, that maiden manhood, as a magic potion that should restore her own youth to her. 7 They dined late that evening, as they had waited for Herman and the others. The conversation at table turned upon the condition of the lowlands, upon the peasants, who had lost their all. The duchess was silent; the conversation did not interest her, but her silence was smiling and tranquil. That evening Othomar again studied the map with Ducardi, under the lace-covered lamp. The evening had turned cold, the terrace-doors were closed. The duchess did not feel inclined for billiards, but sat talking softly with Dutri in the second drawing-room. She looked superb, serene as a statue, in her dress of old lace, pale-yellow, her white bosom rising evenly with her regular breathing; a single diamond star gleamed in her front hair. Othomar pointed with the pencil across the map: "Then we can go like this, along this road.... Look, General Ducardi; look here, Colonel von Fest: this is where I drove this afternoon with the duchess; and here, I believe, is where Zanti lives. Did you know that?" The officers looked up, looked down at the spot to which the crown-prince pointed, expressed surprise: "I thought that he lived in the south, in Thracyna," said the young Count of Thesbia. Othomar repeated what the duchess had told him. "Zanti!" cried Herman. "Balthazar Zanti? Why, but then it is he!... I was talking this afternoon to a party of peasants; they told me of the new huts which a new landlord was fitting up in the neighbourhood, but they spoke in dialect and I could not understand them clearly; I thought they said Xanti and I never suspected that it could be Balthazar Zanti. So he's the man!" "Huts?" asked Othomar. "Yes, a village of huts, it seems; they said he was so rich and so generous and was housing I don't know how many peasants, who had lost all that they possessed." "I now remember reading in the papers that Zanti had gone to live at Vaza," said Leoni. "I should like to see those huts: we can take them on our way to-morrow," said Othomar. General Ducardi compressed his bushy eyebrows: "You know, highness, that his majesty is anything but enamoured of Zanti and is even thinking of exiling him. It would perhaps be more in accordance with his majesty's views to ignore what Zanti is doing here for the moment." Othomar, however, was not disposed to yield to the general; a youthful combativeness welled in his breast. "But, general, to ignore anybody's good work in these times is neither gracious nor politic." "I am convinced that, if his majesty knew that Zanti was occupying his castle here, he would have specially requested your highness to hold no communication with the man," said Ducardi, with emphasis. "I am not so sure of that, general," said Othomar, drily. "I believe, on the contrary, that, if his majesty knew that Zanti was doing so much for the victims of the inundations, his majesty would overlook a good deal of his amateur communism." Ducardi gnawed his moustache with a wry smile: "Your highness speaks rather light-heartedly of that amateur communism. Zanti's theories and practice are more than mere dilettantism...." "But, general," rejoined Othomar, gently, "I really do not understand why Zanti's socialism need prevent us at this moment--I repeat, at this particular moment--from appreciating what he is doing, nor why it need interfere with our visiting his huts, considering that we have come to Vaza to inform ourselves of everything that concerns the inundations...." Ducardi looked at him angrily. He was not accustomed to being contradicted like this by his highness. The others listened. The duchess herself, attracted by the discussion, amid which she heard Othomar's voice ringing with youthful authority, had approached with Dutri, curiously. "To say the least of it, it could do no harm just to see those huts: I must grant my cousin as much as that, general," said Herman of Gothland, who was beginning to like Othomar. Von Fest also supported this view, convincingly, roundly, honestly, thought that they could do no less, having regard to the victims whom Zanti had housed. Every one now gave his opinion: Leoni thought it impossible that the crown-prince should visit Vaza and not those huts; it would look as though his highness were afraid of a bugbear like Zanti. The fact that Othomar was contradicting Ducardi gave them all grounds for thwarting the old general, who hitherto had conducted the expedition with a sort of military tyranny which had frequently annoyed them. Even Dutri, who as a rule was rather indifferent, joined forces with them, cynically, his eyes gleaming because Ducardi for once was being put in his place. He winked at the duchess. And only Siridsen and Thesbia took Ducardi's side, hesitating because the general declared with such conviction that the emperor's will would be different from his son's wish; especially Thesbia: "I can't understand why the prince insists so," he whispered to the duchess in alarm. "Ducardi's right: you yourself know how the emperor loathes Zanti...." The duchess shrugged her handsome shoulders with a smile, listening to Othomar, whom she heard defending himself, supported by ejaculations and nods from the others. "Well," she heard Ducardi answer, drily, "if your highness absolutely insists that we should go to Zanti's, we will go; I only hope that your highness will always remember that I did not agree with you in this matter...." The Duke of Xara now answered laughingly, was the first to make peace after this victory; and, as to the rest of the route to Lycilia, which they worked out on the map, he agreed with the general in everything, with little flattering intonations of approval and appreciation of his penetrating and practical judgement.... "He may not have the makings of a great commander," whispered Dutri to the duchess, "but he will turn out a first-rate little diplomatist...." But Ducardi was inwardly very angry. For a moment he thought of ascertaining the emperor's wishes by a secret telegram, but he rejected this idea, as it would make a bad impression at the Imperial if the Duke of Xara were not left free in such an apparent trifle. He therefore only attempted, next morning, once more to dissuade Othomar from the visit, but the prince held firm. "You seem very much opposed to this expedition, general," said Von Fest. "Isn't it really quite reasonable?" "You don't know the prejudice his majesty has against that man, colonel," replied the general. "As I have told you before, his majesty is thinking of exiling him and is sure to do so when he hears that he has now shut himself in his castle, doubtless with the object of stirring up the peasantry, as he has already stirred up the workmen in the towns. The man is a dangerous fanatic, colonel: dangerous especially because he has money with which to put his visions into practice. He instigates the lower orders not to fulfil their military duties because it is written: 'Thou shalt not kill.' He looks upon marriage as a useless sacrament; and I have heard that his followers simply come to him and that he marries them himself, with a sort of blessing, which in its turn is based upon a text, I forget which. He is always writing socialistic pamphlets, which are promptly seized and suppressed, and he makes seditious speeches. And the man is even standing for the house of deputies!" "One who abjures his title a member of the house of deputies!" smiled Von Fest. "Oh, his doctrine swarms with such inconsistencies!" growled Ducardi. "He will tell you of course that, so long as there is nothing better than the house of deputies, he is content to be a member of it. And the crown-prince wants to take notice of what a man like that does!" Von Fest shrugged his shoulders: "Let him be, general. The prince is young. He wants to know and see things. That's a good sign." "But ... the emperor will never approve of it, colonel!" thundered the general, with an oath. Again Von Fest shrugged his shoulders: "Nevertheless I should not dissuade him any longer, general. If the prince wants a thing, let him have it, it will do him good.... And, if he gets blown up by his father afterwards, that will do him good too, by way of reaction." Ducardi looked him straight in the face: "What do you think of our prince?" he asked, point-blank. Von Fest returned the general's glance, smilingly, looking straight into his searching eyes. He was honest by nature and upright, but enough of a courtier to be able to dissimulate when he thought necessary: "A most charming lad," he replied. "But life--or rather he himself--will have to change him very much if he is to hold his own ... later on." The officers understood each other. Ducardi heaved a deep sigh: "Yes, there are difficult times coming," he said, with an oath. "Yes," answered the Gothlandic colonel, simply. The princes mounted their horses in the courtyard; they took the same road along which Othomar had driven with the duchess the previous afternoon past Zanti's castle. Leoni had learnt where the huts lay; the mountains began to retreat, the road wound curve after curve beneath the trampling hoofs of the horses. Suddenly the Zanthos spread itself out on the horizon: the wide expanse of flooded water, one great lake under the broad, gleaming, vernal sky. "That must be they," said Leoni. His finger pointed to a hamlet of long wooden buildings, evidently newly built, smelling of fresh timber in the morning breeze. As they rode nearer, they saw carpenters and masons; a whole work-yard came into view, full of busy movement, with stacks of red bricks and piles of long planks. Singing was heard, with a pious intonation, as of psalms. Ducardi, whose custom was always to ride in front, to the left of the crown-prince, deliberately reined in his horse, allowed the others to come up with him; Othomar perceived that he did not wish to act on this occasion. He thought it petty of the general and said to Thesbia: "Ask if Zanti is here." The aide-de-camp turned and put the question to a sort of foreman. None of the workpeople had saluted; the equerries doubted whether they had recognized the crown-prince. Yes, Zanti was there. Plain "Zanti." Very well, he would fetch him. The man went. He was long away. Othomar, waiting with the others on horseback, already began to find his position difficult, lost his tact, assumed his stiff rigidity, talked in forced tones to Herman. He found it difficult to wait when one had never done so hitherto. It made him nervous and he made his horse, which was tugging at the reins with skittish movements of its head, nervous too and was already thinking whether it would not be better to ride on.... But just then Zanti, with the foreman who had called him, approached, slowly, making no effort to hurry. He looked under his hand from a distance at the group of officers on horseback, flashing in the sunlight; stood still; asked the foreman some question or other; looked again. "The unmannerly fellow!" muttered Thesbia. The aide-de-camp rode up to him angrily, spoke in a loud voice of his imperial highness the Duke of Xara; the duke wished to see the huts. "They are not huts," said Zanti, in peevish contradiction. "What then?" asked the aide, haughtily. "Dwellings," answered Zanti, curtly. Thesbia shrugged his shoulders with annoyance. But the crown-prince himself had ridden up and saluted Zanti before the latter had vouchsafed any greeting: "Will your excellency give us leave to look at what you are doing for the victims of the inundations?" he asked, politely, gently, graciously. "I'm not an excellency," muttered the grey-beard, "but, if you like to look, you can." "We should like to," replied Othomar, a little haughtily, "but not unless we have your entire approval. You are the master on your own estate; and, if our visit is unwelcome, we will not force our presence on you." Zanti looked him in the eyes: "I repeat, if you like to look round, you can. But there is not much to see. Everything is so simple. We make no secret of what we do. And the estate is not mine: it belongs to all of them." Othomar dismounted, the others followed; with difficulty Leoni and Thesbia found a couple of boys to hold the horses in return for a tip. Othomar and Herman had already walked ahead with the old man: "I hear that you are doing much good work to mitigate the disaster of the inundations," said Othomar. "The inundation is not a disaster." "Not a disaster!" asked Herman, surprised. "What then?" "A just punishment of heaven. And there will be more punishments. We live in sinful times." The princes exchanged a quick glance; they saw that the conversation would not go very easily. "But the sinners whom heaven punishes you assist for all that, Mr. Zanti," said Herman. "For all these huts...." "Are not huts. They are sheds, workshops or temporary dwellings. They will grow into a settlement, if such be God's will ... to enable men to live simply, by their work. Life is so simple, but man has made it so strange and complicated." "But you take in the peasants who have lost their all through the inundations?" Herman persisted. "I don't take them. When they feel their sins, they come to me and I save them from destruction." "And do they not come to you also without feeling their sins, because they feel that they will get food and lodging for nothing?" "They get no food and lodging for nothing: they have to work here, sir!" said the old man. "And perhaps more than you, who walk about in a uniform.... They are paid, according to the amount of work they do, out of the common fund. They are building here and I build with them. Do you see this tree here and this axe? I was employed in felling down this tree when you came and interrupted me." "A capital exercise," said Herman. "You look a vigorous man." "So you say you are forming a settlement here?" asked Othomar. "Yes, sir. The cities are corrupt; life in the country is purifying. Here they live; farther on lies arable land, which I give them, and pasture-land; I shall buy cattle for them." "So you are simply trying to recruit farmers here?" asked Herman. "No, sir!" answered the grey-beard gruffly. "I recruit no farmers; they are not my farmers. They are their own farmers. They work for themselves and I am a simple farmer like them. We are all equal...." "You are a simple farmer," Prince Herman echoed, "yet you live in a castle." "No, young man," replied Zanti, "I do not live in a castle; I live _here_; my daughter lives there by herself. She is ill.... She would not be able to stand an alteration in her mode of life, or any deprivation. But she will not live long...." He glanced up, looked at the Princes alternately, askance, almost anxiously: "She is my only weakness, I think," he said, in a faint, deprecating voice. "She is my sin; I have called in doctors for her and believe in what they say and prescribe. You see, she would not be able to do it ... to follow me in all things, for she has too much of the past in her poor blood. For her, a castle and comfort are necessities, vital necessities. Therefore I leave her there.... But she will not live long.... And then I shall sell it and divide the money, every penny of it, among them all.... You see, that is my weakness, my sin; I am only human...." The princes saw him display emotion; his hands trembled. Then he seemed to feel that he had already spoken to them too much and too long of what lay nearest to his heart, his sin. And he pointed to the buildings, explained their uses.... "I have read some of your pamphlets, Mr. Zanti," said the crown-prince. "Do you apply your ideas on matrimony here?" "I apply nothing," the grey-beard growled, resuming his tone of contradiction. "I leave them free to do as they please. If they wish to get married according to your law, they can; but, if they come to me, I bless them and let them go in peace, for it is written, 'Again I say to you, that if two of you shall consent upon earth, concerning any thing whatsoever they shall ask, it shall be done for them by my father who is in heaven. For where there are two or three gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.'" "And how do you rule so many followers?" asked Herman. "I don't rule them, sir!" roared the old man, clenching his fists, his face red with fury. "I am no more than any of them. The father has authority in his own household and the old men give advice, because they have experience: that is all. Life is so simple...." "As you picture it, but not in reality," objected Herman. Zanti looked at him angrily, stopped still, to be able to talk with greater ease, and, passionately, violently, exclaimed: "And do you in reality find it better than I picture it? I do not, sir, and I hope to turn my picture into reality. You and yours once, ages ago, made your picture reality; now it is the turn of us others: your reality has lasted long enough...." Othomar, haughtily, tried to say something in opposition; the old man, however, suddenly turned to him and, gently though roughly, said, his penetrating, fanatical voice which made Othomar shudder: "For you, sir, I feel pity! I do not hate you, although you may think I do. I hate nobody. The older I have grown, the less I have learned to hate, the more softness has entered into me. See here: I hear something in your voice and see something in your eyes that ... that attracts me, sir. I tell you this straight out. It is very foolish of me, perhaps, to talk like this to my future emperor. But it is so: something in you attracts me. And I feel pity for you. Do you know why? Because the time will come!" He suddenly pointed upwards, with a strange impressiveness, and continued: "The hour will come. Perhaps it is very near. If it does not come in your father's reign, it will come in your reign or your son's. But come it will! And therefore I feel pity for you. For you will not have enough love for your people. Not enough love to say to them, 'I am as all of you and nothing more. I will possess no more than any of you, for I do not want abundance while you suffer need. I will not rule over you, for I am only a human being like yourselves and no more human than you.' Are you more human? If you were more, then you would be entitled to rule, yes, then, then ... See here, young man: you will never have so much love for your people as to do all this, oh, and more still and more! You will govern and possess abundance and wage war. But the time will come! Therefore I have pity for you ... although I oughtn't to!" Othomar had turned pale; even Herman gave a little shudder. It was more because of the oracular voice of the man who was prophesying the doom of their sovereignty than because of his words. But Herman shook off his shudder and, angrily, haughtily: "I cannot say that you are polite to your _guests_, Mr. Zanti," he said. "I do not speak of his imperial highness...." Zanti looked at Othomar: "Forgive me," he said. "I spoke like that for your sake. Your eyes are like my daughter's. That's why I spoke as I did." Herman burst out laughing: "A valid reason, no doubt, Mr. Zanti." Othomar, however, signed to him to cease his tone of persiflage and also with a glance restrained his equerries, who had listened to Zanti's oracular utterances in speechless indignation: the old man had addressed Othomar almost in a whisper. His last words, however, which resounded with emotion, changed this indignation into bewilderment, calmed their anger, made them regard the prophet as half a madman, whose treason the crown-prince was graciously pleased to excuse. And the officers looked at one another, raised their eyebrows, shrugged their shoulders. Dutri grinned. Othomar asked Zanti coolly whether they had not better proceed. The settlement was very much in its first stage; yet a few farm-houses were beginning to rise up, chestnut-trees lay felled, hundreds of peasants were busily working. The group of officers excited great curiosity; the princes had been recognized. On almost every side the people stopped work, followed the uniforms with their eyes. The princes and their suite felt instinctively that a hostile feeling was passing through Zanti's peasants. When they asked a question here and there about the sufferings experienced, the answer sounded curt and rough, with a reference to the will of God, and was always like an echo of Zanti's own words. Pecuniary assistance seemed uncalled for. And Zanti had really nothing to show. The settlement made a poor impression on Othomar, perhaps because of a sort of mortified sovereignty. He was accustomed always to be approached with respect, as a future majesty; and his sensitiveness was more deeply wounded by Zanti's bluntness, by the surliness of Zanti's peasants, than he himself was willing to admit. He felt that at this spot they saw in him not the crown-prince who loved his people and wanted to learn how to succour them, but the son of a tyrant, who would act as a tyrant also when his turn came. He felt that, though Zanti called himself the apostle of peace, this peace was not in his disciples; and, when he looked into their rough, sullen faces, he saw hatred gleam luridly from deep, hollow eyes, as with sudden lightning-flashes.... The weight of it all fell heavily upon his chest; his impotence pressed with a world of inconsolable misery and unappeasable grief upon his shoulders, as though to bear him to the ground. It was the misery and grief not of one, but of thousands, millions. Vindictive eyes multiplied themselves around him in a ferment of hatred; each one of his people who asked happiness of him, demanding it and not receiving it, seemed to be there, staring at him with those wide eyes.... He felt himself turning giddy with an immense feeling of helplessness. He looked for nothing more, this was the end. And he was not surprised at what happened: the man with the brown, hairy, distorted face, who rushed upon him like a nightmare and laid hold of him, full of hatred. A foul, tobacco-laden breath swept over his face, a coarse knife in a coarse fist flashed towards his throat.... A cry arose. A shot rang out, sharp, determined, with no suspicion of hesitation. The man cursed out a hoarse yell, gnashing his teeth in revolt, and struggled, dying. His brains splashed over Othomar, soiling the prince's uniform. And the man plumped down at his feet on the ground, grown limp at once, with relaxed muscles, still clutching the knife in his hairy fingers. All this had happened in a single instant. It was Von Fest who had fired the shot from a revolver. The colonel drew up his broad figure, looked around him, still held the revolver raised at a threatening slant. The people stood staring, motionless, perplexed by the sudden reality before their eyes. Zanti, stupefied, gazed at the corpse; then he said, while the startled officers stood by in fussy confusion around the prince: "Now go and, if you can, go in peace!..." Full of bitterness, he pointed to the corpse. He shook his head, with the grey locks under the felt hat; tears sprang to the corners of his eyes. "Thou shalt not kill!" they heard him mutter. "They seem not to know that yet; nobody knows it yet!..." A strange, mad look troubled his normally clear, grey eyes; he seemed for a moment not to know what he should do. Then he went to a tree, caught up the axe and, without taking further notice of the princes, began to hew like a lunatic, blow upon blow.... The officers hurried to their horses. Dutri gave a last look back: near the corpse, now surrounded by peasants, he saw a woman standing; she sobbed, her desperate arms flung to heaven, she howled, she shook her fist at the equerry's turned face, screaming. Othomar had said nothing. He heard the woman howling behind him. He quivered in every nerve. On the road, preparing to mount, Ducardi asked him, agitatedly: "Shall we return to Castel Vaza, highness?" The prince looked at the general haughtily. Quickly the thought flashed through him that the general had strongly opposed his coming here. He shook his head. Then his eyes sought Von Fest: they glanced up at the colonel under their eyelids, deep-black, moist, almost reproachful. But he held out his hand: "Thank you, colonel," he said, in a husky voice. The colonel pressed the hand which the prince offered him: "Glad to be of service, highness!" he replied, with soldierly brusqueness. "And now let us go on to the Zanthos," said Othomar, walking up to his horse. But the old general could master himself no longer. In these last moments he had felt all his passionate love--seated hereditarily, firmly in his blood, of a piece with him, his very soul and all that soul--for the reigning house. His fathers had died for it in battle, without hesitation. And with the mad, wide embrace of his long, powerful old arms, he ran up to Othomar, grateful that he was alive, pressed him as if he would crush him against his breast, until the buttons of his uniform scratched Othomar's cheek, and cried, sobbing, under his trembling moustache: "My prince, my prince, my prince!..." 8 The attempt on Othomar's life was known at Castel Vaza before the princes returned, from peasants of the duke's, who had told the castle-servants long stories of how the prince had been severely wounded. The duchess had at first refused to believe it; then, in rising anxiety, in the greatest tension and uncertainty, she had walked about the corridors. She had first tried to persuade herself that the people were sure to exaggerate. When she reflected that, in the event of Othomar's being wounded, the princes and the equerries would have returned at once, she became more tranquil and waited patiently. But the chamberlain, who had been to Vaza, returned in dismay: people were very uneasy in the town, pressing round the doors of the newspaper-offices to read the bulletins, which mentioned the attempt briefly, with the provoking comment that further particulars were not yet to hand. The duchess realized that by this time the bulletin had also been telegraphed to Lipara; and she feared not only that Othomar had met with harm, but that she herself would lose favour with the empress.... When the duchess at last, after long watching from a window in the west corridor, saw the princes and their suite come trotting, very small, along a distant road, she could not restrain herself and went to meet them in the courtyard. But she saw that Othomar was unhurt. The Duke of Xara dismounted, smiled, gave her his hand; she kissed it, curtseying, ardently; her tears fell down upon it. The chamberlain approached, assured Othomar, in the name of all the duke's servants, of their heartfelt gratitude that the Duke of Xara had been spared, by the grace of God and the succour of St. Ladislas. Ducardi had not been able to telegraph from anywhere before, but he now sent in all haste to Vaza with a message for the emperor, mentioning at the same time that the prince had calmly resumed the expedition immediately after the attempt upon his life. Dinner took place amid a babel of voices; the duchess was greatly excited, asked for the smallest details and almost embraced Von Fest. The crown-prince drank to his preserver and every one paid him tribute. Afterwards Ducardi advised the crown-prince, in an aside, to retire early to rest. The general spoke in a gentle voice; it seemed as though the thought that he might have lost his crown-prince had made him fonder of him. Herman too pressed Othomar to go to bed. He himself had grown calm, but a vague feeling of lassitude had come over all his being: he had even drunk Von Fest's health in a strangely weary voice. He now took their advice, withdrew, undressed himself; his soiled uniform, which he had changed before dinner, still hung over a chair; he shuddered to think that he had worn it the whole afternoon: "Those things!" he said to Andro, who was still quite confused and, nervously weeping, was tidying up. "Burn them, or throw them away, throw them away." Othomar flung himself in his dressing-gown on a couch in the room adjoining his bedroom. This was also an historical apartment, with tapestry on the walls representing scenes from the history of Lipara: the Emperor Berengar I., triumphantly riding into Jerusalem, with his crusaders holding aloft their white banners; the Empress Xaveria, seated on horseback in her golden armour before the walls of Altara, falling backwards, struck dead by a Turkish arrow.... The prince lay staring at them. A deadly calm seemed to make him feel nothing, care about nothing. In his own mind he reviewed the whole historical period from Berengar to Xaveria. He knew the dates; the scenes passed cloudily before his eyes as though tapestries were being unrolled, kaleidoscopically, with the faded colours of old artwork. He saw himself again, a small boy, in the Imperial, in an austere room, diligently learning his lessons; he saw his masters, relieving one another: languages, history, political economy, international law, strategy; it had all heaped itself upon his young brain, piled itself up, built itself up like a tower. By way of change, his military education--drilling, riding, fencing--conducted by General Ducardi, who praised him or grumbled at him, or growled at the sergeants who instructed him. He had never been able to learn mathematics, had never understood a word of algebra; in many subjects he had always remained weak: natural philosophy and chemistry, for instance. For a time he had taken great pleasure in the study of mineralogy and zoology and botany; and afterwards he had shown some enthusiasm for astronomy. Then came the university and his legal studies.... He remembered his little vanities as a child and as a boy, when in his ninth year he had become a lieutenant in the throne-guards; when later he had received the Garter from the Queen of England and the Black Eagle from the German Emperor and the Golden Fleece from the Queen-regent of Spain. With such minor vanity there had always been mingled a certain dread of possible obligations which the Garter or the Eagle might imply: obligations which hovered vaguely before his eyes, which he dared not define and still less ask about of Ducardi, of his father. Gradually these threatening obligations had become so heavy and now, now they were the weights that bore upon his chest.... The weights.... But he did not stir, feeling strangely calm. Then he thought of Von Fest, of the duchess.... Yesterday, her kiss.... He had lain swooning on her shoulder and she had kissed him and long watched him with passionate looks. And all those stories of the equerries.... Then it came as with a fierce wave foaming over his absolute calmness.... Why had that man hated him, tried to murder him, tried to slay him like a beast?... Pride welled up in him, pride and despair. The man had touched him, soiled him with his breath, him, the crown-prince, the Duke of Xara! He gnashed his teeth with rage. That was a thing which Berengar I. would never have suffered! Off with his head! Off with his head!... Oh, that populace which did not know, which did not feel, which pressed up against him, seething and foaming against the throne, which terrified his mother, however haughtily she might look beyond it into the distance, with her imperial composure!... How he hated it, hated it, with all the hatred of his house for those who were now free and were yet once its slaves! How he would have them shot down, have them shot down when he came into power!... He looked at Xaveria: she herself was shot down, the haughty amazon; backwards she fell, wounded by the arrow of a Turkish soldier. And he, that morning, if Von Fest had not.... He threw himself back wildly, buried his face in his hands and sobbed. No, no, oh no! He would not shoot them down, not kill them, not hate them! He was not like that: he might be like that for a moment, but he was not like that! He was fond of his people; he was so grateful when they rejoiced, when he was able to help them. Surely he would never have them shot on! He was only growing excited now. What was there in his soul for all of them, for those millions, of whom he had perhaps seen only a few thousands and knew only a few hundreds, but one great love, which threw out arms to them in every direction, to embrace them? Had he not felt this in that black night on the Therezia Square? Were hatred and violence his? No, oh no! He was soft, perhaps too soft, too irresolute, but he would grow older, he would grow stronger; he would wish to and he would make all of them happy. Oh, if they only cared for him, if they only loved him with their great mass of surging, black, frothing humanity, a sable Milky Way of swarming souls, each soul a spark, like his own; oh, if they only loved him! But they must not hate him, not look at him with those bloodshot eyes of hatred, not aim at his throat with those coarse, hairy fingers, not try to murder him, O God, not try to slay him like a bullock, with a common knife, him, their future sovereign!... And he felt that they did not belong to him and did not know him and did not understand him and did not love him, all of them, and that they hated him merely out of instinct, because he was born upon the throne! And his despair because of all this spanned out, immense, a desert of black night, which he felt eternities wide around him; and he sobbed, sobbed, like an inconsolable child, because this was as it was and would become more desperate with each day that brought him nearer to his future as emperor and to their future: the mournful day which would rise upon the destruction of the old world.... Then there came a knock at a little door; and the door was softly opened.... "Who's there?" he asked, startled, feeling the breach of etiquette, not understanding why Andro had not come through the anteroom to announce whoever it might be. "If your highness permits me...." He recognized the duchess' soft voice, rose, went to the door: "Come in, duchess...." She entered, hesitatingly; she had thrown a long cloak over her bare shoulders to go through the chilly passages of the castle.... "Forgive me, highness, if I intrude ... if I disturb you...." He smiled, said no, apologized for his costume, feeling surprised and pleased.... She saw that his eyes were swimming with moisture: "I am indiscreet," she said, "but I couldn't help it; I felt I must find out how you were, highness.... Perhaps I wished to surprise you as well: I don't quite know. Something impelled me: I could not help coming to you. You are my guest and my crown-prince; I longed to see for myself how you were.... Your highness bore up well at dinner, but I felt...." Her voice flowed on, soft and monotonous, as though with drops of balsam. He asked her to sit down; she did so; he sat down by her side; the dark cloak slipped off and she was magnificent, with her white neck, siren-like in her opalescent, pale-green watered silk. He noticed that she had laid aside the jewels which she had worn at dinner. "I wanted to come to you quietly, through that door," she resumed, "in order to tell you once more, to tell you alone, how unspeakably thankful I am that your highness' life has been preserved...." Her voice trembled; her ebony glances grew moist; the light of the great candles in the silver candelabra shimmered over the silk of her dress, played with soft light and slumbering shadow in the modelling of her face, in the curve of her bosom. He pressed her hand; she retained his: "Was your highness crying when I came in?" she asked. His tears were still flowing, a last sob heaved through his body. "Why?" she asked again. "Or am I indiscreet?..." He looked at her; at this moment he could have told her everything. And, though he contained himself, yet he gave her the essence of his grief: "I was sad," he said, "because they seem to hate me. Nothing makes me so sad as their hatred." She looked at him long, felt his sorrow, understood him with her feminine tact, with her courtier-like swiftness of comprehension, which had ripened in the immediate contact of her sovereigns. She understood him: he was the crown-prince, he must suffer his special princely suffering; he must drink an imperial cup of bitterness to the dregs. She remembered that she herself had suffered, so often and so violently, for love, passionate woman that she was; she understood that his suffering was different from hers, but doubtless more terrible, as it seized him already at so young an age and as it depended not upon his own single soul, but upon the millions of souls of his empire. She too had suffered because she had not been loved; he also suffered like that. And so in one instant she understood him quite entirely, with all her strange woman's heart. A thrill of compassion welled up in her breast as a yet unknown delight and, like a fervent, gentle oracle, she uttered the words: "They do not all hate you...." He recognized her passionate glances of the day before. He remembered her kiss. He looked at her long, still hesitating a little in the presence of the unknown. Then he extended his arms and, with a dull cry of despair, hoarse with hunger for consolation, he called to her in his helplessness: "Oh, Alexa!..." She first smiled, with radiant eyes, then flung herself bodily into his young arms, crushing him against her bare breast. She felt like a maid and a mother in one. But, when he clung to her in a wild passion of despair, she felt herself to be nothing but a lover. She knew that he would be her last love. The knowledge made her proudly sad and diabolically happy. Her kisses clattered upon his eyes like hail.... And in their love, that night, they mingled the wormwood of what they both were suffering, each seeking consolation for life's sorrows in the other.... 9 "To HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF XARA, "LYCILIA. "THE IMPERIAL, "LIPARA, "--_April_, 18--. "MY DEAR BROTHER, "I want to tell you before you read it in those tedious papers that our respected father and emperor this morning, on my tenth birthday, dubbed me a knight of St. Ladislas in the knights' hall of the palace. You can understand how proud I feel. I shall not tell you about the ceremony, because you will remember that yourself. I was very much impressed as I walked up to our father between all those tall knights in their blue mantles and knelt before his throne. I wore my new uniform of a lieutenant in the guards. The king-at-arms, the Marquis of Ezzera, held up the rule of the order on a cushion, on which I took the oath. I must have looked rather small with my little mantle: the cross of St. Ladislas was just as big on it, however, as on those of all the others. I felt that they were all looking over my head; and that is not a pleasant feeling when you are the hero of the day. But of course I am the youngest of the knights, so there is no harm in my being a little shorter. The sword our father gave me is also a little smaller than that of the other knights, but the hilt is rather pretty and blazes with precious stones. Still, I think I prefer the chasing on the scabbard of yours, but when I am eighteen--so in eight years from now!--I am to have another sword and of course another mantle too. "Mamma was terribly alarmed and nervous when she heard of that man who attacked you and she wanted to have you recalled at once, because it did not seem safe where you are; and she simply could not understand that this could not be done. But safe: who is safe nowadays? One's not safe in war either and not even here in the Imperial. One shouldn't think so much of all that safety, that's what I say; but of course mamma is a woman and therefore she thinks differently from what we do. The riots and the martial law also upset her, but I think it rather jolly: everything's military now, you know. That Von Fest is a fine fellow. I should like to shake hands with him and to thank him myself; but, as I can't, I beg you _particularly_ to do so for me and _on no account_ to forget it. You have heard, no doubt, through General Ducardi, that papa is going to make Von Fest a commander of the Imperial Orb. What a pity that we can't create him a knight of St. Ladislas, but for that of course he would have to be a Liparian and not a Gothlander. "Now, dear brother, I must finish, because Colonel Fasti is expecting me for my fencing-lesson. Give my _very kindest_ regards to Herman and General Ducardi and remember me to the others; and accept for yourself the fond embrace of your affectionate brother, "BERENGAR, "Marquis of Thracyna "(Knight of St. Ladislas)." CHAPTER III 1 It was after the opening of the new parliament. The sun streamed as though with square patches of molten gold along the white palaces of the town, touching with blue what was shadow in the corners. Two regiments of grenadiers, red and blue, stood in two double lines, drawn up along the principal streets which led from the Parliament House to the Imperial. The crowd pressed and tossed and cheered; all the windows, open wide, swarmed with heads; people looked on from every balcony. A shot thundered from Fort Wenceslas on the sea; the emperor returned; the grenadiers presented arms in company after company.... * * * * * The lancers lead the van, blue and white, with streaming pennants at the points of their lances, six squadrons of them. The whole strength of the throne-guards, white, with breastplates of glittering gold flashing in the sunlight above the black satin skins of the stallions, ride halberd on thigh, surrounding the gently swaying state-carriages, scintillating with rich gilding and bright crystal and two of them crowned with the imperial crown, with teams of six and eight plumed greys. The horses foam over their bits, impatient, nervously pawing the ground, prancing because of the slow, ceremonious pace along the blinding, flagged roadway. In the first coach, the master of ceremonies, the Count of Threma; in the second, with the crown and the team of eight--and the roar of the cheering rises from behind the hedge of soldiers--the emperor, his uniform all gold, his robes of scarlet and ermine, his crown upon his head. It is the only time that the people have seen their emperor wear his crown. And they cheer. But the emperor makes no acknowledgment: through the glass of the coach he looks out, to left and right in turns, at the crowd, with a proud smile of self-consciousness and victory; and his face, full of race, full of force, cold with will, proud with authority, is inaccessible in its smile as that of a Roman emperor on his triumphal entry. It is a triumphal entry, this return from the Parliament House to his Imperial: a triumph over that which they denied him and upon which he has now laid his heavy hand, showing them all that his mere will can bend them to his word and purpose. And the cheers rise louder and louder from that capricious crowd, restrained like a woman by a ruler whom it now adores for his strength and admires for his imperial might, upon which he leans, as he passes from the Parliament House to his own palace, as though it were a whole army that lived upon his nod; and louder and louder, louder and louder the cheers ring out that sunny afternoon over the marble houses; and the emperor smiles continually, as though his smile meant: "Cheer away! What else can you do but cheer?..." In the next coach rides the Duke of Xara, robed, crowned; he stares rigidly over the vociferating crowd with the same glance that his mother reserves for the populace. In the next to that, the new governor-general of the capital, the head of the emperor's military household, the Duke of Mena-Doni, a rougher soldier than the Marquis of Dazzara and a less practised courtier, under whose military fist the white capital, like a beaten slave, crouched low during the martial law proclaimed after a single hour of disturbance that ventured to follow upon the emperor's decision to dissolve the house of deputies. His coarse, sensual mouth smiles with the same smile as that of the emperor, whose rude force he seems to impersonate; and he too seems to say: "Cheer away, shout hurrah!" Then the following carriages: the imperial chancellor, Count Myxila; the ministers: seven of them forming part of the twelve who wished to resign, the others chosen from among the most authoritative of the old nobility in the house of peers itself! Cheer away, shout hurrah! Behind the coaches of the higher court-officials, the Xara cuirassiers, the crown-prince's own regiment; behind them, a regiment of colonials: Africans, black as polished ebony, with eyes like beads, their thick mouths thrust forwards, clad in the muslin-like snow of their burnouses; behind them, two regiments of hussars on heavy horses, in their long, green, gold-frogged coats and their tall busbies. Was ever parliament opened thus before, with such a display of military force? And outside the town, on the high parade-grounds, do not the people know that there are troops drawn together from every province, camping there for the manoeuvres, the date of which has been accelerated? And the increased garrisons of the forts, the squadron in the harbour? Do the people themselves feel that they can do nothing else than cheer and is that why they are cheering now, happy once more in their cheering, with Roman docility and southern submission, enamoured of the emperor because of the weight of his crushing fist, loving the crown-prince for the attractive charm of his attitude in the north, or perhaps because they think him interesting after an unsuccessful attempt on his life? And they seem not to feel that, through the grenadiers presenting arms, they see neither the emperor nor the crown-prince saluting; they cheer away, loving them in spite, perhaps because, of their indifference; they cheer away like madmen.... Slowly the procession wends its way along the interminable main streets. The whole city, despite its marble, trembles with the clatter of the horses' hoofs upon the flagged pavement. Between the front escort and the endless escort in the rear, the state-carriages, with their glittering throne-guards, shimmer like a kind of jewel, small, rare, carefully guarded. The cavalry are at this moment the soul of Lipara, their echoing step its heart-beat; and between the grenadiers and the tall houses the massed and cheering populace seems to have hardly room to breathe. The procession approaches the Imperial. Along the immense marble fore-court the lancers and cuirassiers range themselves on three sides, before the wings and along the front. Outside them the guards are drawn up in line. The Africans close off the courtyard.... The carriages pull up; and the emperor alights. With the crown-prince by his side, he goes through the vestibule up the stairs. The corridors of the palace swarm with gold-laced uniforms; a packed suite crowds up behind Oscar and Othomar. The master of the robes, with twelve grooms of the bed-chamber, comes towards the emperor, who takes off his crown, as does the crown-prince; their robes are unfastened for them. They go to the great white hall, white with the Corinthian columns with gilt capitals. The empress and the Princess Thera are there, surrounded by their ladies. It is a great day: in this sun-apotheosis of the opening of parliament the monarchy is triumphing over the threats of the future and deferring that future itself. The empress, in her trailing pale-mauve velvet, steps towards her spouse and curtseys before him ceremoniously. The princess, the mistress of the robes, all the ladies curtsey.... Outside, in front, the square is now filled by the multitude; an excited popular clamour surges up against the immovable palace, as it were the sea against a rock. The doors of the centre balcony are opened. The emperor and the prince will show themselves.... "Only just salute once," whispers the emperor to his son, sternly. The sun outside rains down gold upon the swarming mass, tinging it with many-changing, chameleon, southern tints between the white, motionless wings of the Imperial, whose caryatids look down placidly. The imperial pair step on the balcony. Hats are thrown up towards them; the yelling bellows with a shout as from a single noisy, vulgar throat and echoes through the open doors against the gilt ceiling and columns of the white hall. The empress is frightened by it, turns pale; her breath catches.... On the balcony the Emperor of Liparia salutes his excited people with a solitary wave of the hand; the Duke of Xara bows his head slightly. 2 There was no more talk of a revision of the constitution and reform of the hereditary house of peers. The constitutional majority of three-fourths which is required in the house of deputies before such a proposal can be taken into consideration, though there at first, no longer existed after the new elections. Oscar, immediately after his return from Altara, had shown them his daring strength. Lipara was surrounded with troops: this was as well, for the manoeuvres, for the King of Syria, who was expected. The forts were strengthened, the fleet lay in the harbour; then came the imperial decree that the house of deputies should simply ... be dissolved. What an outcry, after the promulgation of that decree, in the newspapers and in the streets! For one moment, at night, there was an abortive riot. But the emperor, furious with the Marquis of Dazzara for his delay in taking prompt and energetic measures, had next day affirmed his august dissatisfaction. The marquis was shown that there were moments when the emperor was not to be trifled with; the emperor dismissed him personally, on the spot, and told him he could go. Crushed, his eyes full of despair, the marquis left the Imperial; in the fore-court his carriage crossed that of the Duke of Mena-Doni, lieutenant-general of the hussars; he saw the duke's sensual, Neronic head, covetous with ambition, staring up at the front of the palace. The marquis threw himself back in his carriage, wringing his hands and weeping like a child.... That same morning martial law was proclaimed at Lipara and the Duke of Mena-Doni appointed governor of the capital. With a great military display and a speech of three words the emperor dissolved the house of deputies. The people trembled, beaten off, thrashed, reduced to crouching at the imperial feet. The decree was issued for the general election. Must the people be chastised to make them attached to their emperor? Was it because of the innumerable articles in the newspapers of the northern provinces--Altara, Vaza and Lycilia--which bestowed all their sympathy upon their most charming, charitable crown-prince, indefatigable, omnipresent, mitigating what suffering he could? Was it because of the colossal, fabulous presents of millions contributed from the imperial privy purse to the fund for the victims of the disaster? The result of the elections became known: the new house of deputies contained a bare, impotent majority of constitutionals. What did it profit that the liberal papers shrieked of intrigue and undue pressure? Without and within the city lay the army; each day the emperor showed himself, with by his side the Duke of Mena-Doni.... The emperor invited the old ministry to remain in office, but dismissed those of the ministers who were not absolutely authoritative. The crisis was at an end. The great spring manoeuvres were to take place on the parade-ground so soon as the King and Queen of Syria arrived at Lipara. In Othomar there sprang up a vast admiration for his father. He did not love him with the fondness, the intimacy, the still almost childish dependence with which he loved the empress; he had always looked up to him; as a child he had been afraid of him. Now, after the personal courage which he had seen the emperor display, the sovereign power which he had watched him exercise, his majesty rose higher before Othomar's eyes, as it were the statue of a demi-god. He felt himself a lowly mortal beside him, when he thought: "What should _I_ have done, if I had had to act in this case? Should I have dared to take the prompt decision to dissolve the house of deputies and should I not have feared an immediate revolution in every corner of the country? Should I, after the disturbances, have dared to dismiss the Marquis of Dazzara at once, like a lackey, attached as he was to our house and descended from our most glorious nobility? Should I have dared to summon that duke, that swashbuckler, with his cruel face, even before I had dismissed the marquis, so that the one arrived as the other departed?" And he already saw himself hesitating in imagination, not knowing what would be best, above all not knowing what would be most just; he pictured himself advised by old Count Myxila, at last determined to dissolve the deputies, but not dismissing the marquis, not declaring martial law in Lipara and assembling the troops too late and seeing the revolution burst out at all points simultaneously, with bomb upon bomb.... To do what was most just, this seemed to him the most difficult thing for a sovereign. But the emperor's monarchic triumph had this result, that, clearly as Othomar saw his own weakness, a reflex of strength and determination was cast upon him from his father himself, by whose side he stood. Moreover, he had not much time for brooding. Each day brought its special duties. Scarcely was he able to allow himself one hour of solitary repose. He was accustomed to this life of constant movement, of constant public appearances, now here, now there, so thoroughly accustomed to it that he did not feel the fatigue which was already exhausting him before his tour in the north and which had now eaten into his nerves and marrow. He gave this fatigue no thought, regarded it perhaps as an organic languor, a transitory symptom, which was bound to pass. And each day brought its own fatigue. Thus he had grown accustomed to rise early, at seven every morning; Lipara then still lay white and peaceful in its rosy slumber of the dawn; he rode out on his thorough-bred Arab, black Emiro, with his favourite collie close behind him, galloping with him, its pointed nose poked out, its shaggy collar sticking up; unaccompanied by equerries, he rode through the park of the Imperial to the Elizabeth Parks, in the afternoon the resort of elegant carriages and horsemen, but in the morning peaceful, wide and deserted, with barely a solitary early rider, who made way respectfully for the prince and took his hat off low. Then he rode along the white quays with their villas and palm-trees, their terraces and aloes; and the incomparable harbour lay before him, always growing an intenser blue beneath the pink morning light, which became cruder. Higher up, the docks, the ships, the hum of industry already audible. Slowly he walked his horse along the harbour; in the porticoes of the villas he sometimes caught a glimpse of a woman's figure, saw her eyes following him through roses and clematis. He loved this ride because of the soft, fresh air, because of his horse, his dog, because of his solitude with these two, because of the long, silent quays, the wide, silent sky, the distant horizon still just enveloped in latest morning mist. The morning breeze blew against his forehead under his uniform cap; thoughts wandered at random through his brain. Then he shook himself free from this voluptuousness, rode back to the town and went to the Xaverius Barracks, occupied by the lancers; to the Wenceslas Barracks occupied by the grenadiers; or to the Berengar Barracks, occupied by the hussars. Here he enquired, investigated, inspected; and here he found his equerries, Dutri and Leoni; he rode back with them to the palace, and repaired to his father's room. This was the hour when Count Myxila came to the emperor and when affairs of state were discussed with the imperial chancellor; lately the crown-prince had assisted at these meetings. Next he visited the empress, who was expecting him: it was generally a most delightful moment, this which they spent confidentially together before lunch, a moment full of charm and intimacy. He sat close by her on a low chair, took her hand, poured out to her the burdens of his heart, communicated to her his anxiety about the future, about himself when later he himself would wear the crown. At such times his eyes peered up through their lashes, with their dark melancholy; his voice was querulous and begged for comfort. And she encouraged him: she told him that nothing happened but what had to happen; that everything was inevitable in the world's great chain of events, joined link by link; that he must wait for what might come, but at the same time do his duty; and that he must not unnerve himself with such endless pondering, which led to nothing. He told her how he feared his own hesitation and how he suspected that his decisions would always come too late; and she, gently laughing, replied that, if he knew his own faults so well, he should train himself to make his mind. He questioned her about justice--the one thing that seemed impossible to him on earth--and she referred him to his own feeling, as a human soul. But yet, intensely sweet as these hours were, he felt that he remained the same under their interchange of words and that, though words had been exchanged, nothing was changed within him. Wherefore he thought himself wicked and was afraid that he did not love his mother enough, with enough conviction. Then he looked at her, saw her smiling, divined beneath her smile the nervous dread which would never again relinquish its grasp of her and felt that she spoke like this only for his sake, to cheer him, and not from conviction. And his thoughts no longer wandered discursively about him, as on his morning ride along the quays: they fell like fine mists one upon the other in his imagination and formed his melancholy. Lunch was taken privately. After lunch he sat for an hour to Thera, who was painting his portrait. In the afternoon there were always different things to do: exhibitions, charities, institutions of all kinds to be visited, a foundation-stone to be laid, a man-of-war to be launched. Every minute was filled; and each day filled his minutes differently from the day before. Dinner was always a meal of great etiquette and splendour; every day there were numerous guests: diplomatists, high officials, officers. It lasted long; it was an emperor's daily ceremonial banquet. Then in the evening the parties at court, or at the houses of the ambassadors or dignitaries; the theatres and concerts. The prince, however, never stayed late. He then read or worked for a couple of hours in his own room; at twelve o'clock he went to bed. He was used to this life of monotonous variety, had grown up in it. So soon as he returned from Lycilia to Lipara--the city was then still under martial law--he found it waiting for him busier than ever; the opening of parliament had followed close upon his return. The emperor was pleased with the crown-prince's conduct in the north, perhaps because of the praise which the northern newspapers bestowed upon the Duke of Xara for his ready sympathy, because of his moment of popularity. He wanted to let his son take more and more part in affairs of state and discussed them with him more frequently either alone or in the company of the imperial chancellor. But the stern measures of drastic violence which the Duke of Mena-Doni had taken--he himself at Lipara, his officers at Thracyna: furious charges of hussars against the threatening crowds--these revolted Othomar; he had heard of them with anguish and despair, though he knew that there was nothing to be achieved by gentleness. And with his veneration for the emperor, as for a demi-god of will and force, there was mingled a certain antipathy and grudge, which divided him from his father and made any interchange of thought between them difficult. Now, after the opening of parliament, the town, the whole country had quieted down; the troops, however, remained on the parade-ground, for the approaching manoeuvres. The arrival of the King and Queen of Syria was fixed. Othomar's days succeeded one another as before. He was entertained at banquets by the officers of the throne-guards and of the other regiments to which he belonged. Yes, this was his hour of popularity. It was already said that his surname one day would be Othomar the Benevolent. It was at this time that he laid the foundation-stone of a great alms-house, to whose establishment the will of an immensely wealthy, childless duke--one of the oldest Liparian families, which had become extinct--had contributed millions. Othomar's gentleness was in amiable contrast with Oscar's justly exerted but rough force. He himself, however, was inwardly very much astonished at this talk of benevolence: he liked to do good, but did not feel the love of doing good as a leading feature in his character. After the dinner given to him by the staff-officers, Othomar was to go in the evening with Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni to the Duke of Yemena, to thank the court marshal officially for the hospitality shown him at Castel Vaza. The duke occupied at Lipara a large, new house; his old family-residence was at Altara. * * * * * It is nine o'clock; the crown-prince is not yet expected. The duke and duchess, however, are already receiving their guests; the duchess sent out numerous invitations when Othomar announced his visit. The spacious reception-rooms fill up: almost the whole of the diplomatic corps is present, as are some of the ministers and great court-officials with their wives, old Countess Myxila and her daughters and a number of officers. They form the intimate circle of the Imperial. A jaunty familiarity prevails among them, with the _sans-gêne_ in vogue. Near the duchess stands Lady Danbury, the wife of the British first secretary, and the Marquis of Xardi, the duke's son. They are talking busily about the Dazzaras: "I've seen them," says Lady Danbury. "It's shocking, shocking. They're living at Castel Dazzara, that old ruin in Thracyna, with their five daughters, poor things! The ceilings are falling in. Three crooked old men in livery; and the liveries even older than the servants. And debts, according to what I hear, debts! I was astonished to see how old the marchioness had grown; she has taken it terribly to heart, it seems." "Grown old?" asks the duchess. "I thought she looked quite young still, last time I saw her...." She detests Lady Danbury, who is tall, thin and sharp-featured, her appearance rather suggesting that of a graceful adder. And she continues: "She still looked so well; she is slender, but she has a splendid neck and shoulders.... I really cannot understand how she can have grown so old...." And, as though brooding over this puzzle, the duchess stares at the lean shoulders of Lady Danbury. Xardi's eyes glitter; he expects a skirmish. "They say that the marquis _used_ to be one of your intimates, don't they?" the Englishwoman insinuates. But that hateful "used to be" grates on Xardi's nerves. "I am very fond of the Dazzaras," says the duchess; "but"--and she laughs mysteriously and meaningly--"he was always an unlucky bird...." "His excellency the Duke of Mena-Doni," the butler announces. "The rising sun!" Xardi whispers to Lady Danbury. Mena-Doni bows before the duchess, who smiles upon him. Lady Danbury, standing by Xardi's side, continues: "And the lucky bird?" "Oh no!" says Xardi, with decision. "At least, not altogether...." They look at each other and laugh: "Imperial eagles are the finest birds, after all, don't you think?" says Lady Danbury, jestingly. "What do you know about it?" "Alas, I am too unimportant to know anything! Before I get so far in my zoological studies...." "But what have you heard?" "What everybody hears when Dutri can't hold his tongue." "What about?" "About a certain tender parting at Castel Vaza...." The Marquis of Xardi bursts out laughing. Lady Danbury suddenly clutches his arm: "I say, Xardi, I know less slender people than the Marchioness of Dazzara who would fall into a decline if they lost the imperial favour. _Et toi?_" The marquis laughs loudly and: "Even the crown-princely favour," he whispers, behind Lady Danbury's Watteau fan. And they chuckle with laughter together. "His imperial highness the Duke of Xara; their excellencies Count Ducardi, Prince Dutri and the Marquis of Leoni!" are announced, slowly and impressively. There is a slight movement in the groups. The room divides into two rows; a couple of ladies get entangled in their trains and laugh. Then they all wait. Othomar appears at the open door; Ducardi, Dutri and Leoni are behind him. The old duke hastens towards the prince; the Marquis of Xardi hurriedly thrusts Lady Danbury's fan into her hand and joins his father. The old duke is a well-knit, elegant man, full of racial refinement, with a clean-shaven face; he is dressed simply in evening-clothes, with the broad green riband of a commander of the Imperial Orb slanting across his breast and the grand cross of St. Ladislas round his neck. Othomar wears his full-dress uniform as colonel of the Xara Cuirassiers, silver, red and white; he holds his plumed helmet under his arm; he presses the duke's hand, he addresses him with genial words; but, in the ingenuousness of his youthful soul, he feels bitter remorse gnawing at his conscience now that he speaks of Castel Vaza, now that he listens to the cordial protestations of the duke. Othomar also shakes hands with the Marquis of Xardi. Then the duchess approaches and greets the crown-prince with her famous curtsey. Lady Danbury envies her her grace and asks herself how it is possible, with those statuesque lines; she cannot deny that the Duchess of Yemena is a splendid woman.... Between the duke and the duchess, the prince walks down the row of bowing guests; the Marquis of Xardi follows with the equerries. Othomar has seen the duchess once or twice at the Imperial since his return to Lipara, but never alone. They now exchange courteous phrases, with official voices and intonations. The groups form once more, as at an intimate rout. The duchess walks on with Othomar, till they reach the long conservatory, dimly lighted, dusky-green, with the stately palm-foliage of the tall plants, with the delicate tracery of the bamboos, which exude beads of dew against the square panes. They are silent for a moment, looking at each other; and Othomar feels that his emotions for this woman are nothing more than fleeting moments, cloudlets in his soul. The unknown has opened out to him, but has turned to disillusion. Nevertheless he is thankful to her for what she gave him: the consolation of her passion, while his eyes were still moist with tears. She strengthened him by this consolation and made him discover his manhood. But everything in life is twofold; and his gratitude has a reverse of sin. He sees the duke in the distance holding an animated conversation, underlined with elegant, precise gestures, with Ducardi; and remorse softly pierces his boyish soul. And next to his gratitude he feels his disillusion. Love! Is this love?... He feels nothing; nothing new has come into his heart. He sees how deliciously beautiful the duchess is in her ivory brocade, her train edged with dark fur, her bodice cut square, a string of pearls round her neck. The half-light drifts past her through the plants, a faery green, with a gentle slumbering and with shadows full of mystery; her face, with its delicate smile, stands out against the background of blurred darkness. He recalls her kiss and the mad embrace of her arms. Yes, it was a blissful enervation, an intoxication of the flesh, an unknown giddiness, a physical comfort. But love: was it love?... And he has to make up his mind: perhaps it is love; and, though he feels something lacking in his soul, he makes up his mind for all that: yes, perhaps that is what it is ... love. "And when shall I see your highness again?" she whispers. The question is put crudely and surprises him. But this single second of momentary solitude is so precious to the duchess that she cannot do otherwise. She observes his surprise and adores him for his innocence; and her eyes gaze so beseechingly that he replies: "To-morrow I am dining with the French ambassador; after that I am going to the opera.... Can I find you here at eleven o'clock?" He is surprised at the logical sequence of his thoughts, at his question, which sounds so strangely in his ears. But she answers, laughing disconcertedly: "For God's sake, highness, not here, at eleven o'clock! How could we!... But ... come to ... Dutri's...." She stammers; she remembers the equerry's luxurious flat and sees herself there again ... with others. And in her confusion she does not perceive that she has wounded him deeply and torn his sensitiveness as though with sharp claws; she fails all the more to perceive this, because he answers, confusedly: "Very well...." They return, laughing, with their official, colourless voices; they walk slowly: he, so young in his silver uniform, with the helmet, with its drooping plume, under the natural grace of his rounded arm; she, with her expansive brilliancy, trailing her ivory train, waving her fan of feathers and diamonds to and fro against her Carrara-marble bosom. All eyes are turned in their direction and observe the duchess' triumph.... And Othomar now knows that his "love" will become what is called a _liaison_, such as he has heard of in connection with this one and that, or read of in novels. He had not yet imagined such an arrangement. He does not know how he is to tell Dutri that he has made an assignation with the duchess in his rooms; and, when he thinks of the equerry, something of his innate sovereignty is chipped off as little pieces of marble or alabaster might be from a frail column.... Joining the duke and the general, he talks of the approaching manoeuvres. He now sees the duchess standing at a distance and Mena-Doni bending his Neronic head close to her face. His great antipathy for this man is mingled with jealousy. And, while he smiles and listens to the Duke of Yemena, he feels that he now knows for certain that his love after all _is_ love, because jealousy plays a part in it. 3 Next morning, when Othomar rode out alone, he was thinking the whole time of Dutri. The difficulty of broaching the subject to his equerry struck him as unsurmountable. His heart beat when he met Dutri waiting for him in the Xaverius Barracks. But the young officer had the tact to whisper to him, very calmly and courteously, as though it were the simplest matter in the world: "I was talking with the Duchess of Yemena, highness.... Her excellency told me that your highness wished to speak to her in private and did me the honour.... Will your highness take this key?..." Othomar mechanically accepted the key. His face remained rigid and serious, but inwardly he felt much annoyed with the duchess and did not understand how and why she could drag Dutri into their secret. The ease and simplicity with which she had evidently done so flashed across him as something alarming. A confusion seemed to whirl through his head, as though the duchess and Dutri had, with one breath, blasted all sorts of firm convictions of his youth. He thought of the old duke. He considered all this wrong. He knew that Dutri was a young profligate; he was in the habit of hearing the whole gazette of court scandal from him, but he had never believed one-half of what Dutri related and had often told the equerry bluntly that he did not like to hear ill spoken of people whom they saw daily, people attached to his house. Now it seemed to him that everything that Dutri had said might be true and that yet worse things might well take place. This key, offered with such simple politeness, with such libertine ease, appeared to him as an object of searing dishonour. He was already ashamed of having put the thing in his pocket.... He went on, however. The key burnt him while he spoke with General Ducardi and, on his return to the Imperial, with his father and Myxila. Before going to visit the empress, who was awaiting him, he locked it away in his writing-table; then slowly, his forehead overshadowed, step by step he went through the long galleries to the empress' apartments. In the anteroom the lady-in-waiting rose, curtseyed, knocked at the door and opened it: "His highness the Duke of Xara...." Othomar silently made the sign of the Cross, as though he were entering a church: "May God and His Mother forgive me!" he murmured between his lips. Then he entered the empress' room. She was sitting alone in the large drawing-room, at one of the open windows overlooking the park. She wore a very simple, smooth, dark dress. It struck him how young she looked; and he reflected that she was younger than the duchess. An aureole of delicate purity seemed to quiver around her tall, slender form like an atmosphere of light and gave her a distinction which other women did not possess. She smiled to him; and he came up slowly and kissed her hand. She had not yet seen him that day; she took his head between her cool, slim hands and kissed him. He sat down on a low chair by her side. Then she passed her hand over his forehead: "What's the matter?" she asked. He looked at her and said there was nothing particular. She suspected nothing further; this was not the first time he brought her a clouded forehead. She stroked it once more: "I promised papa to have a serious talk with you," she said. He looked up at her. "He thought it better that I should talk to you, because it was his idea that I could do so more easily. For the rest, he is very pleased with you, my boy, and rejoices to find that you have such a clear judgement, sometimes, upon various political questions." This opinion of his father's surprised him. "And about what did you promise to talk to me?" "About something very, very important," she said, with a gentle smile. "About your marriage, Othomar." "My marriage?..." "Yes, my boy.... You will soon be twenty-two. Papa married much later in life, but he had many brothers. They are dead. Uncle Xaverius is in his monastery. And we--papa and I--are not ever likely to have any more children, Othomar." She put her arms about him and drew him to her. She whispered: "We have no one but you, my boy, and our little Berengar. And ... papa therefore thinks that you ought to marry. We want an hereditary prince, a Count of Lycilia...." His eyes became moist; he laid his head against her: "Two to become emperor? Berengar, if I should be gone before him: is not that enough, mamma?" She smilingly shook her head in denial. No, that was not certainty enough for the house of Czyrkiski-Xanantria. "Mamma," he said, gently, "when sociologists speak of the social question, they deplore that so many children are born among the proletariate and they even hold the poor parents, who have nothing else but their love, responsible for the greater social misery which they cause through those children. Does not this reproach really affect us also? Or do you think an emperor so happy?" Her brow became overcast. "You are in one of your gloomy moods, Othomar. For God's sake, my boy, do not give way to them. Do not philosophize so much; accept life as it has been given to you. That is the only way in which to bear it. Do not reflect whether you will be happy, when you are emperor, but accept the fact that you must become emperor in your turn." "Very well, for myself: but why children, mamma?" "What sovereign allows his house to die out, Othomar? Do not be foolish. Cling to tradition: that is all in all to us. Don't have such strange ideas upon this question. They are not those of a future--I had almost said--autocrat; they are not those of a monarch. You understand, Othomar, do you not? You must, you must marry...." Her voice sounded more decided than usual, sounded almost hard. "And, dearest boy," she continued, "thank the circumstances and marry now, as quickly as possible. Our relations with foreign countries are at this moment such that there are no particular indications as to whom you ought to marry. You can more or less pick and choose. For you are the crown-prince of a great empire, my boy, of one of the greatest empires in Europe...." He tried to speak; she continued, hurriedly: "I repeat, you can--very nearly--choose. You don't know how much that means. Appreciate this, appreciate the circumstances. Travel to all the courts of Europe that are worth considering. Use your eyes, make your choice. There are pretty princesses in England, in Austria...." Othomar closed his eyes an instant, as though exhausted with weariness: "Later on, mamma," he whispered. "No, my boy," said the empress, "do not speak of later on, do not put off. Think it over. Think how you will order your journey and whom you will take with you and then talk it over with papa and Myxila. Will you promise?" He just pressed his head against her and promised, with a weary smile. "But what's the matter with you, my boy?" she asked. "What is it?" His eyes grew moist. "I don't know, mamma. I am so tired sometimes...." "Aren't you well?" "Yes, I'm all right, but I am so tired...." "But why, my child?" He began to sob softly: "Tired ... of everything ... mamma." She looked at him for a long time, shook her head slowly, disapprovingly. "Forgive me, mamma," he stammered, wiping his eyes. "I shan't give way like this again...." "You promised me that once before, Othomar dear." He leant his head against her once more, like a child: "No, really," he declared, caressingly, "I really will resist it. It is not right of me, mamma. I will employ myself more, I shall grow stronger. I swear to you I shall grow stronger for your sake...." She again looked long in his eyes, with her pure smile. Utter tenderness went out from her to him; he felt that he would never love any one so much as his mother. Then she took him in her arms and pressed him close against her: "I accept your promise and I thank you ... my poor boy!" she whispered through her kiss. At this moment there came a buzz of young voices, as though from birds set free, out of the park, through the open windows. The tripping of many little feet grated on the gravel. A high, shrill, childish voice suddenly rang with furious words from among the others; the others were silent.... The empress started with a shock that was electric. She drew herself up hastily, deadly pale: "Berengar!" she cried; and her voice died away. "And I shall tell his majesty what a scoundrel you are and then we'll see! Then we'll see, then we'll see!..." The empress trembled as she leant out of the window. She saw ten or eleven little boys; they looked perplexed. "Where is his highness?" she asked. "His highness is over there, ma'am!" shyly answered a little count, pointing to the back-court, which the empress could not see. "But what is happening? What a noise to make! Send his highness here at once! Berengar! Berengar!" His highness, Berengar, was called and came. He passed through the little dukes and counts and looked up at the window through which his mother was leaning. He was a small, sturdily built, vigorous little chap; his face was crimson with indignation, his two small, furious eyes were like two black sparks. "Berengar, come here!" cried the empress. "What is all this? Why can't you play without quarrelling?" "I'm not quarrelling, mamma, but ... but I shall tell papa ... and ... and then we'll see! Then we'll ..." "Berengar, come in here at once, through the palace, at once!" commanded the empress. Othomar looked out from behind the empress at the group of boys. He saw Berengar speak a word of apology to the biggest little duke and disappear through the back-court. A minute later, the boy entered the room. "Berengar," said the empress, "it's very bad manners to make such a noise in the park ... and just behind the palace too." The boy looked at her with his serious little crimson face: "Yes, mamma," he assented, gently. "What happened?" Berengar's lips began to tremble. "It was that beastly sentry ..." he began. "What about the sentry?" "He ... he didn't present arms to me!" "Didn't the sentry present arms to you? Why not?" "I don't know!" cried Berengar, indignantly. "But surely he always does?" "Yes, but this time he did not. He did the first time when we passed, but not the second time.... We were playing touch and, when we ran past him the second time, he didn't present arms!" Othomar began to scream with laughter. "There's nothing to laugh at!" cried Berengar, angrily. "And I shall tell papa and then you shall see." "But, Berengar," said the empress, "did you expect the man to present arms to you every time you ran past him while you were playing touch?" Berengar reflected: "He might at least have done it the second time. If it had been three, or four, or five times, I could have understood.... But only the second time!... What can the boys have thought of me?" "Listen, Berengar," said the empress, "whatever happens, it is not at all proper for you to call people names, whoever they may be, nor to make such a noise in the park, right behind the palace. An emperor's son never calls names, not even to a sentry. So now you must go straight to that sentry and tell him you are sorry you lost your temper so." "Mamma!" cried the child, in consternation. The empress' face was inflexible: "I insist, Berengar." The boy looked at her with the greatest astonishment: "But am I to say that ... to the sentry, mamma?" "Yes." Evidently Berengar at this moment failed to understand the order of the universe; he suspected for an instant that the revolution had broken out: "But, mamma, I can't do that!" "You must, Berengar, and at once." "But, mamma, will papa approve of it?" "Certainly, Berengar," said Othomar. "Whatever mamma tells you to do papa of course approves of." The boy looked up at Othomar helplessly; his little face grew long, his sturdy little fists quivered. Then he burst into a fit of desperate sobbing. "Come, Berengar, go," the empress repeated. The child was still more dismayed by her severity: that was how he always saw her stare at the crowd, but not at her children. And he threw himself with the small width of his helpless little arms into her skirts, embraced her and sobbed, with great, gulping sobs: "I can't do it, mamma, I can't do it!" "You must, Berengar...." "And ... and ... and I _shan't_, I _shan't!_" the boy screamed, in a sudden fury, stamping his foot. The empress did nothing but look at him, very long, very long. Her reproachful glance crushed the boy. He sobbed aloud and seemed to forget that his little friends outside would be sure to hear his highness sobbing. He saw that there was nothing to be done, that he must do it. He must! His imperial highness Berengar Marquis of Thracyna, knight of St. Ladislas, must say he was sorry to a sentry and one moreover who denied him, his highness, his rights. His medieval little childish soul was all upset by it. He understood nothing more. He only saw that he must do as he was told, because his mother looked at him with such a sad expression: "Othomar!" he sobbed, in his despair. "Othomar! Will ... you ... go with me ... then? But how am I to do it, how am I to do it?" Othomar smiled to him compassionately and held out his hand to him. The empress nodded to the princes to go. "How am I to do it? O God, how am I to do it?" she still heard Berengar's voice sobbing desperately in the lobby. Elizabeth had turned deadly pale. As soon as she was alone, she sank into a chair, with her head flung back. Hélène of Thesbia entered at this moment: "Madam!" cried the young countess. "What is it?" The empress put out her hand; Hélène felt that it was icy cold. "Nothing, Hélène," she replied. "But Berengar frightened me so terribly. I thought ... I thought they were murdering him!" And in an hysterical fit of spasmodic sobbing she threw herself into the countess' arms. 4 That night, before Othomar left with his equerries to dine at the French ambassador's, he drew Dutri aside: "I see, prince, that her excellency the duchess confides in you fully," he said, in curt tones. "I do not doubt that her confidence is well placed. But I assure you of this: if it should ever appear that it was misplaced, I shall never--now or at any later period--forget it...." Dutri looked up strangely; he heard his future emperor address him. Then he pouted like a sulky child and said: "I cannot say that your highness is very grateful for the hospitality which I have offered you...." Othomar smiled painfully and gave him his hand.... "Or that it is kind of your highness to threaten me to-day with your displeasure," Dutri continued. "I know you, Dutri," the prince said in his ear. "I know your tongue. That's my only reason for warning you.... And now, for God's sake, say no more about this, for it ... it all gives me pain...." Dutri was silent, thought him a child and a prince in one. He shrugged his shoulders silently at Othomar's incomparable innocence, but he shuddered when he thought of a possible disgrace. He had no fortune; his position with the crown-prince was his life, his ambition, his all, for now and for later, when the prince should be emperor!... How pleased he had been at first that Alexa had told him everything, that he knew a secret of his prince, who never seemed to have any secrets! A vague pleasure that this secret would give him a power over his future emperor had already flitted through his head, full of frivolous calculations. And now the prince was threatening him and that power was frustrated at its very inception! And Dutri was now almost sorry that he had learned this secret; he even feared that the emperor might come to hear of it, that he would be visited with the father's displeasure even before the son's.... "If only Alexa had not dragged me into it!" he complained to himself, with his shallow fickleness of thought. But, although Dutri was silent and even contradicted the rumour, the crown-prince's _liaison_ was discussed, possibly only because of Alexa's triumphant glances whenever Othomar addressed a word to her at a reception, at a ball. Nevertheless, Dutri's contradiction introduced a certain confusion--for he was known as a ready blabber--and people did not know what to think or what to believe. But Othomar did not feel happy in his love. The fierce passion of this woman with her fiery glances, who overpowered him one moment with her kisses and the next crept before him like a slave and crouched at his feet in humility before her future sovereign, at first astonished him and, in one or two of his fits of despair, carried him away, but in the long run aroused in him a feeling of disinclination and opposition. In the young equerry's scented flat where they met--it was as dainty as any young girl's sitting-room and padded like a jewel-case--he sometimes felt a wish to repulse this woman, for all that she loved him with her strange soul and did not feign her love; he felt a wish to kick her, to beat her. His temperament was not fit for so animal a passion. She seemed to harry his nerves. She revolted him at times. And yet ... one single word from him and she mastered her fierceness, sank down humbly by his side, softly stroked his hand, his head; and he could not doubt that she adored him, perhaps a little because he was the crown-prince, but also greatly for himself. And so April came; already it was almost summer; the King and Queen of Syria were expected. They had been first to the sultan and afterwards to the court of Athens. From Liparia they were to go on to the northern states of Europe. On the day of their arrival, Lipara fluttered with flags; the southern sun, already potent, rained down gold upon the white city; the harbour rippled a brilliant blue. A hum of people--tanned faces, many peasants from Thracyna still clad in their parti-coloured national dress--swarmed and crowded upon the quays. On the azure of the water, as on liquid metal, the ironclads, which were to welcome the king and queen and serve as their escort, steamed out to the mouth of the harbour. There, on the _Xaveria_, with their suite of admirals and rear-admirals, were the two princes, Othomar and Berengar, and their brother-in-law, the Archduke of Carinthia. Innumerable small boats glided rapidly over the sea, like water-spiders. A shot from Fort Wenceslas, tearing the vivid ether, announced the moment at which the little fleet met the Syrian yacht and the oriental potentates left her for the _Xaveria_. From the villas on the quays, from the little boats full of sight-seers, every glass was directed towards the blue horizon, tremulous with light, on which the ships were still visibly shimmering. Half an hour later there rose, as though coming from the Imperial, the cheers of the multitude, surging louder and louder towards the harbour. Through the rows of the grenadiers, who lined the streets from the palace to the pavilion where the august visitors were to land, came the landaus, driven by postillions, in which their majesties sat. These were followed by the carriages of the two sisters, the Archduchess of Carinthia and Thera, and of the suite. The fleet, with the Syrian yacht in its centre, had steamed back into the harbour. Across the guard-of-honour formed by the throne-guards, through the purple draperies and the flags, the crowd were able to see something of the meeting of the sovereigns in the pavilion. They shouted their hurrahs; and then the procession drove to the Imperial, the emperor with the King of Syria in the first carriage, the empress with the queen in the next; after these, the landaus with the princes and princesses and the suite. A series of festivals and displays followed. After the tragedies of the inundations and the parliamentary crisis, a mood of gaiety blew over the capital, as it glittered in the sun, and lasted till late in the lighted rooms and parks of the Imperial. This gaiety was because of the eastern queen. The King of Syria may have had a few drops of the blood of Solomon still flowing through his veins. But the queen was not of royal descent. She was the daughter of a Syrian magnate and her mother's name was not mentioned in the _Almanach de Gotha_. That mother was doubtless a favourite of dubious noble descent, but nobody knew who she had been exactly. A _demi-mondaine_ from Paris or Vienna, who had stranded in the east and made her fortune in the harem of some great Syrian? A half-European, half-Egyptian dancer from a Cairene or Alexandrian dancing-house? Whoever she was, her lucky daughter, the Queen of Syria, showed an unmistakable mixture of blood, something at once eastern and European. Next to the true Semitic type of the king, who possessed a certain nervous dignity in his half-European, half-oriental uniform glittering with diamonds, the queen, short, fat, chubby, pale-brown, had the exuberant smiles, the restless movements, the turning head and rolling eyes of a woman of colour. Her very first appearance, as she sat in the carriage, next to the delicate figure of the Empress Elizabeth, in a gaudy travelling-dress and a hat with great feathers, bowing and laughing on every side with profuse amiability, had affected the Liparians, accustomed to the calm haughtiness of their own rulers, with an apparently inextinguishable gaiety. The Queen of Syria became the universal topic of conversation; and every conversation referring to her was accented with a smile of wickedness. Withal she seemed so entirely good-natured that it was impossible to say a word against her; and people were only amused about her. They remembered that the Syrians had subscribed fabulous sums at the time of the inundations. And the merriment that blew over Lipara was a southern merriment, free from malice and vented in sheer jolly laughter and delight, because the Liparians had never seen so droll a queen. The great manoeuvres took place on the parade-ground. The king accompanied the emperor and the princes on horseback, with a bevy of European and oriental aides-de-camp. Their consorts with their suite watched the march-past from landaus. Berengar marched bravely with his company of grenadiers, in which he was a lieutenant, as well as he could march with his short little legs, and stiffened his small features, so as not to betray the difficulty it cost him to keep pace with his men's long step. The hussars astonished the Syrian monarch by their unity with their horses, when in wild career they threw themselves half off and in still more rapid rushes picked up a flag from the ground, swung themselves up again with a yell and waved the bunting. The Africans executed their showy fantasias, brandished their spears, which flashed like loosened sheaves of sunbeams, and came fluttering on in clouds of white burnouses and dust, amid which their negro heads clustered darkly in endless black patches and their eyes glistened. In addition there was a military tournament, followed by garden-parties, races, regattas, popular games and fireworks. Lipara was one city of pleasure. Every day it was traversed by royal processions, the array of uniforms glittered like live gold, the imperial landaus rattled in the sun, with the spokes of their wheels flashing through the light dust which flew up from the flagged pavements of the town. Most brilliant of all, like drops of white flame, were the diamonds which the Syrian pair wore even in the streets. At night, when the sun ceased shining, there shone over the white town, vague with evening light, and over its violet harbour, festoons of salamanders and gaudy bridges of fire, factitiously bright beneath the silent silver glances of the stars; rockets fell hissing into the water, on which the boats showed black, and left behind them a faint, oppressive savour of gunpowder in the night. In the great hall of pillars the ceremonial banquets followed one after the other, with a display of gold plate of incredible value. The Queen of Syria wore her curious, theatrical costumes, her broad bosom always crossed by the blue ribbon of an order covered with badges; her hair was dressed with tall plumes, hung with small diamonds. She talked with great vivacity, thankful for the kindness of her Liparian friends, for the enjoyment and for the cheering. Her profuse gestures enlivened everybody, introduced an element of fun into the stately Liparian etiquette. Elizabeth herself could not but laugh at them. The queen played her royal part with the self-possession of a bad but good-natured actress. She spoke to everybody, spread amiable little atoms of her small, chubby, brown majesty over one and all. Next her sat the king, looking dignified and wise as Solomon. The emperor praised him for a sensible, broad-minded sovereign: the king had already paid many visits to Europe. The Syrian aide-de-camps were dignified too, calm and composed, a little stiff in their ways, adapting themselves to western manners; the queen's ladies-in-waiting wore the trains of their Paris or London dresses a little strangely, but still looked slender in them, brown and attractive, with their curly little heads and long, almond-shaped eyes: still they would have been prettier in draped gold-gauze. The Syrians stayed twelve days before going on to Italy. It was the last evening but one: in the Imperial a suite of fourteen rooms had been lighted up around the great ballroom for a ball. Three thousand invitations had been sent out. In the fore-court and in the neighbouring main-streets stood the grenadiers. The ballroom was at the back of the palace; the tall, balconied windows were open and looked across their balustrades upon the shadows of the park of plane-trees. The band resounded from the groups of palms in the gallery. The imperial quadrille had been formed in the centre of the room: the emperor with the queen, the king and the empress, the Archduke of Carinthia and Thera, Othomar with the archduchess. The other official quadrilles formed their figures around them. Hundreds of guests looked on. From the coruscating rock-crystal of the chandeliers, the electric light flowed in white patches out of the high dome, glided along the inlaid-marble walls and porphyry pillars of the ballroom and poured in millions of scintillations on the smooth facets of the jewels, on the gold of the uniforms and court-dresses, on the shimmering white brocades of the trains; for white was prescribed: all the ladies were in white; and the snow of the velvets, the lily glow of the satins were silver-shrill. One blinding whirl of refulgence passed through the immense room with its changing glamours. For the light never stood still, continually changed its brightest spot, turned the ball into one glittering kaleidoscope. The light gilded each bit of gold-lace, was caught in every brilliant, hung in every pearl. The music seemed to be one with that light; the brass resounded like gold. The Duchess of Yemena stood among a group of diplomatists and equerries; she rose monumental in her beauty, which was statuesque and splendid in this wayward illumination. She seemed supernaturally tall, thanks to the heavy Watteau plait which trailed from her back in white brocade. She wore her tiara of emeralds and brilliants; and the same green stones sparkled in a great jewelled spray that blossomed over her bodice. The emperor came up to her; she drooped in her famous curtsey and Oscar jested with her for a moment. When the emperor had passed on, she saw the crown-prince approach. She curtseyed again; he bowed smilingly and offered her his arm. Slowly they went through the ballroom. "I have something important to say to you," he whispered, in a conversational tone. He could not move away with her; they would be missed. So they continued to walk through the rooms. "It is so long since I saw you ... alone!" she whispered, reproachfully, in the same voice. "And what did ... what did your highness wish to say to me?" They spoke cautiously, with the smile of cool conversation on their lips, deadening the sound of their voices, casting indifferent glances around them, to see whether they could be overheard. "Something ... that I have long wanted to tell you.... A decision I have to take...." The words came crumbling in fragments from his lips and not sounding with their true accent, from caution. She perceived that he was about to tell her some great piece of news. She trembled without knowing why.... He himself did not know whether what he was doing was cruel or not: he did not know this woman well enough for that. But he did know that he had purposely chosen this difficult moment for his interview, because he was uncertain how she would bear it ... how she would bear it in a _tête-à-tête_, when she would be able to give way to her passion. Here he knew how she would bear it: smilingly, as a woman of the world, although it turned to anguish for her. Perhaps after all he was cruel.... But it was too late now: he must go through with it. She looked up at him, moving the feathers of her fan. He continued: "A decision.... When our Syrian guests have left ... I ... I am going on a journey...." "Where to, highness?" "To ... to different European courts...." She asked nothing more; her smile died away; then she smiled again, like an automaton. She asked nothing more, because she well knew what it meant when a crown-prince went on a journey to different European courts. That meant a bridal progress. And she merely said, in a voice that could not but sound plaintively: "So soon?..." So soon!... Was her imperial romance to last so short a time? She had indeed known that this might be the end of it, for she knew him to be too pure to retain her by the side of a young consort. Also she had pictured an end like this after a year, two years perhaps, she withdrawing herself, and she had pictured to herself that she would do so without any feeling of spite against her young future empress. But now! So soon! Barely a few weeks! So short a time as that no romance of her life had ever lasted! She felt an aching melancholy; a mist hazed over her eyes; and the lights of the ballroom shimmered before her as if through water. She constantly forgot to smile, but, so soon as she remembered, she smiled again: "So soon?..." "It must be...." Yes, it must be, it could not be otherwise. For her, this was the end of her life. She felt no despair because of this ending; only a smarting sorrow. It was the end. After this imperial romance there would be no other. Oh no, never more! She would sacrifice her youth to it; she would launch her stepdaughters into society. She would be grateful that she had lived and would now grow old. But old: she was still so young, she still felt herself so young! She now first perceived how she loved her crown-prince. And she would have liked to be elsewhere, far from the brilliant ball, to embrace him once more alone, for the last time.... Oh, this sorrow because everything must end, as though nothing were more than a fleeting perfume!... "I am trusting you, duchess," he now said. "I hope you will say nothing about this journey. You understand, it is all still a secret; no choice has been made yet ... it has been discussed with no one except their majesties and Myxila. I can trust you, can't I?" She smilingly nodded yes. "But I wanted to tell you at once," he continued. She smiled again. At this moment a strange storm seemed to burst ... behind the palace, under the palace, where? Right through the blare of the music and the blaze of the light, a crash of thunder shook and rolled. It was as though the palace had been struck by lightning, for immediately afterwards, through the open windows, there came from one of the back-wings of the palace a rattling clatter of stones, which seemed tossed into the air, of great rafters, which fell noisily and roughly, of shivers of glass, which seemed to be splintering shrilly on every side.... The music was suddenly silenced. The uniforms, the court-trains rushed to the open balconies, which overlooked the park; but the night was dark, the park was hushed. A last couple of rafters seemed to be still falling, with a last crash of stones.... In the bright glare of the electric light, faces turned deathly pale, like the faces of corpses. Eyes stared at one another in terror. The duchess half-sank against Othomar when she saw Elizabeth tear past her with wild, vacant eyes and out at a door, her long, white velvet train trailing madly after her, round the corner. The mistress of the robes followed her; so did Hélène of Thesbia. The emperor appeared to give the chamberlains some hurried orders; then he also left the ballroom, accompanied by a few officers. Shortly afterwards the music again burst forth from the balcony in the gallery. Many equerries and aides-de-camp were seen bowing to their partners, the ladies trembling as they rose. The ball proceeded; the uniforms and trains glittered as before in the windings of the waltz. But the smiles seemed to have been obliterated from the dancers' features and their pallid faces turned the ball into a dance of death. Leoni, shivering, bowed before Othomar: "A dynamite explosion, low down in the cellars of the western back-wing. The anterooms of his majesty's private apartments are destroyed. His majesty requests your highness to make every effort to continue the ball. All officers and court-ladies are commanded to dance." The duchess clutched Othomar's arm, almost fainting. The rumour spread around them. The equerries dragged their partners along half-swooning. Two were seen carried away in a dead faint. The Queen of Syria stood vacantly beside the Archduke of Carinthia, who put his arm round her heavy waist to dance. She did not yet seem able to make up her mind. Othomar passed his arm round the duchess: "O God, I can't do it!" she stammered. "For God's sake, highness, don't ask me!..." "We must," he said. "His majesty wishes it...." "His majesty wishes...." she repeated. Her legs trembled beneath her as though with electric thrills. Then she let him take her and they danced. Every one danced. The empress had rushed up the stairs and along the galleries to the bedroom-floor. She did not see that two ladies were following her; she thrust back a door: "Berengar!" she screamed. The young prince's bedroom was lighted. The boy had half-risen, in his little shirt, from his camp-bed. His valet and a chambermaid stood in dismay in the middle of the room. "Berengar!" the empress gasped out, rejoicing when she saw him unharmed. She threw her arms around him, pressed him to her bosom. "Oh, mamma, you're hurting me!" cried the boy, indignantly. Her jewels had brought a drop of blood from his little bare chest. She now embraced him more gently, with nervous sobs that choked in her throat. A spray of diamond ostrich-feathers fell to the ground; the maid picked them up with awkward fingers. "Mamma, are they blowing up the palace?" "No, Berengar, no, it's nothing...." "Mamma, I want to go and look! I must see what's happening!" "Berengar...." The door had been left open; the emperor entered, calmly. The ladies stood in the corridor, waiting for the empress.... "Papa, may I go with you and look?" "No, Berengar, there's nothing to see. Go to sleep...." Then he offered his arm to Elizabeth: "Madam," he said, tranquilly. She threw him an imploring glance. He continued to hold out his arm to her. Then she kissed the boy once more, soothed him to sleep: "Wait a moment," she stammered to Oscar. She went to the glass; the maid, with her clumsy fingers, fastened the jewelled spray to the edge of the low-cut bodice, spread out the square train. "I'm ready," the empress said to Oscar, in a lifeless voice. She took his arm; the emperor just pressed her hand; and they nodded once more to Berengar and went. Arm-in-arm the imperial pair appeared for the second time at the ball. The empress was pale but smiling. She was magnificent, delicate with dainty majesty in the trailing white velvet, upon which, on the bodice and over the front of the skirt, flickered sprays of diamond ostrich-feathers, formed into fleurs-de-lys. An empress' crown of brilliants crowned her small, round head. It was two o'clock. Generally the sovereigns were accustomed to stay till one o'clock at the court balls. The Queen of Syria, however, in her exuberant love of life, had begged them to stay longer. They had consented. Had they left at one o'clock, the explosion would have taken place at the moment when Oscar would probably just have entered his apartments. They had first talked of the anterooms only: but it would now appear that great damage had also been done to the emperor's own room. Supper began. They supped in a large hall; from every table rose a palm-tree and the hall was thus turned into a forest of palms. The floor was strewn with gold sand, which powdered the trains as their wearers walked upon it. Electric light shone through the long leaves like moonlight. In this moonlight the faces remained deadly white, like patches of chalk, above the glittering crystal and all the gold plate. The music clattered with great cymbal-strokes of brass. 5 "To HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN OF GOTHLAND. "IMPERIAL, "LIPARA, "--_May_, 18--. "MY DEAREST SISTER, "At last I can find time to write to you. The excitement of the visit of our good Syrians is over and Lipara has calmed down. But my reflections are nothing but sadness. And this is why, Olga. "I fear that Othomar is much more ill than the doctors perceive. He has become thinner and looks very bad. He never complains much, but yet he told me lately that he often felt tired. The doctors think that he needs a rest and recommend a long sea-voyage. His journey through Europe, about which I wrote to you in my last, will have to be postponed. And now I want to ask you a favour. "I know that Herman is soon going to take a long voyage on the _Viking_ to India, Japan and America; and it would be my fondest wish at this moment that Othomar might accompany him. When the doctors advised a sea-voyage, I discussed the matter to Oscar, but we came to no decision. My boy, you must know, Olga, has no friend of his own age; and this made me so sad and we did not know how nor with whom to send him on this voyage in a way which would be pleasant for him and which would not involve a solitary banishment from our home-circle. He is on excellent terms with his equerries, but yet that is not what I should desire: a cordial, mutual, confidential friendship with some one of his own age with whom he could spend a certain time, solely with a view to enjoyment and relaxation. "I know quite well that it is to some extent my boy's fault and due to his innate diffidence and reticence. Nevertheless he has qualities for which he could easily be loved, if they were known, if he allowed them to appear. Don't you agree, Olga? You are fond of him too: it is not only my own blind mother's love that finds my son lovable and sympathetic? And that is why I should be so very glad if Herman would take him with him and learn to know him better: who knows whether they would not then come to love each other! Othomar has already told me that, on their journey through the north of Liparia, they were drawn much closer together than they had thought they would be; but it was a busy time: every moment was filled with duties and business and they had no time to talk together and get to know each other. And yet, at such a difficult period of united labour, two young men can learn to know each other even without talking. At any rate, they have already become more friendly. At one time, Olga, they used to dislike each other, to my bitter sorrow; they would even not meet; even outwardly there was nothing but coolness between them: oh, how unhappy all this used to make me, when I saw our boys so hostile to each other and remembered how _we_ used to be, Olga, when we were girls together in our beautiful old castle near Bucharest! How we lived bound up in each other! Olga, Olga, how terribly long ago that all is! Our parents are dead, our brothers dispersed, the castle is deserted and we are separated: when do we see each other? Scarcely now and then, for a couple of days at a time, when we meet somewhere for a wedding of relations; and then these are always restless days, when we can see next to nothing of each other. Then, sometimes, not even every year, a fortnight either in Gothland or here. You sometimes reproach me that I, who am so fond of Gothland, come to you so seldom, but it is always for the same reason: Othomar does not care to leave Liparia and I can't leave my husband. I can be strong when I am at his side, but alone I am so weak, Olga. That anything might happen to _him_ which I should not share increases my dread unbearably. I felt that again quite lately, when I was with Thera at Altara: our visit was announced and binding; and, however unwilling I was to leave Oscar, I was obliged to go, was I not? It was just at that trying period; Lipara was under martial law. But Oscar wished me to go and I went. Oh, how I suffered at that time! "But I am becoming used to my fears, I do not complain and I accept life as it comes; I only hope that my boy will also learn to accept it thus. Perhaps he will learn. Indeed it is not so easy for him, for he will have to do more than his mother, who, as a woman, can be much more passive; and it is easier to learn to acquiesce passively than actively. But the Saints will surely give him strength later to bear his lot and his crown; this I rely upon. And yet, O Olga, it makes me so immensely sad that we are sovereigns! But let me not continue in this strain: it weakens one, it is not right, it is not right.... "There is also a secret reason why I should like to get Othomar away from Lipara, though it always grieves me so much to part from my darling. There seems after all to be some truth in those rumours about the Duchess of Yemena: Oscar asked Myxila about it and he could not deny it and even said that it was generally known. I do my best not to take it too much to heart, Olga, but I think it a terrible thing. O God, let me not think or write about it any more; otherwise it will go whirling so in my poor head! What can my son see in a woman who is older than his own mother! What a terrible world, this is, Olga, in which these things take place; and how can there be such women, whom you and I will never understand! For, after all, temperament is not everything: every woman has her own heart; and in that we ought all to see one another; but it would seem that we can't. In my sadness about this, I prefer to assume that the woman loves my boy and therefore deceives her husband. Oh, it is so wicked also of my boy: why need he be like this, he who is otherwise so good! I just assume that she loves him. Not long ago we had my last drawing-room, the function with which, as you know, our winter-season ends; and, when she came up to me and bowed before me and pressed her lips to my hand, she must have felt my disapproval and my sadness radiating from my fingers, for she rose out of her curtsey with a desperate look of anguish in her eyes and a sort of sob in her throat! I stared at her coldly, but all the same I pitied her, Olga, for, when a woman of our world is so little able to control herself at a ceremonial moment, in the presence of her empress, her soul must have sustained a severe shock: do you not think so too? "We are now quiet. In a week we are going to our summer-quarters in Xara, at Castel Xaveria; the weather is already very hot here. I should so much like to have your answer before we leave and to know how Herman takes my request. I know that he is very fond of me and will doubtless gladly grant it and that he will try to like Othomar for my sake; and let me hasten to add that it is also _Othomar's_ dearest wish that he should travel with Herman. The sea-voyage did not attract him in the least at first, because he knew of no one to take with him and he said he preferred to go with us to Castel Xaveria; but, when I mentioned Herman, he joined in my plan entirely. "Olga, what will the summer bring us, peace or not? I dare not hope. The winter has been horrible; our northern provinces have not yet recovered from the disasters. The misery there is irretrievable. There is an epidemic of typhoid and there have been many cases of cholera. The strikes in the east are now over, but I am so afraid of that rough, violent repression. Oh, if everything could only be done with gentleness! That attempt on Othomar's life and the explosion at the last ball have also made me so ill. How I should love to see you and take you in my arms: can you not come to Castel Xaveria and spend the summer with us? It would give me such intense, such intense pleasure! "Kiss Siegfried and the children for me. And answer me soon, will you not? I embrace you fervently. "Your affectionate sister, "ELIZABETH." CHAPTER IV 1 August, on the Baltic. The grey billows curl against the rocks with high, rounded crests of thick foam. The sky above is one wide cupola, through which drift great mountain-ranges of grey-white clouds. They come up slowly, filling the firmament with their changing, shadowy masses, like chains of rocks and Alps floating on the air, and slowly drift away again. The sea has a narrow beach, with many crumbling cliffs; quite close at hand loom sombre green pine-woods. With the gloom of the pine-woods for a background, as it were half out of the cliffs rises old Altseeborgen. It is a weather-beaten castle, at which the writhing waves seem to gnaw; its three tall, uneven towers soar round and massive into the sky. The broad road to the castle slants up from the woods terrace-wise and leads to the esplanade at the back, where the main entrance is. Round the castle the wide granite terraces are cut into stairs, with their rugged balustrades, whose freestone is worn away by the salt air. These terraces enjoy a more extensive view of the sea as they rise higher, higher; and, seen from the topmost terrace, the sea lies against the beach, to right and left, in one great, strangely mobile expanse, a living element. Across the sea the south-winds blow upon the castle; the pine-woods shelter it to some extent from the northernly gales. From the tallest tower an imposing standard flaps gaily in the air: two yellow stripes and a white stripe between, with the dark patch of the crenellated fortress which forms the arms of Gothland. It floats there on the sunless morning like a smile in the sky; it swells and falls limp again and then again lets itself be blown high up by the wind, which comes swinging lustily over the water. A young man and a girl are walking on the beach; they talk, smile, look at each other. She is taller than he, with a very fair complexion; under her little sailor-hat a few of her auburn tresses, tangled by the wind, blow across her face; she keeps on smoothing them away. She wears a simple blue serge skirt and a white blouse, with a broad leather belt around her waist. Her dainty little feet, in their black-silk stockings and yellow-leather shoes, are constantly uncovered by the wind. She carelessly swings a pair of gloves in her hand. The young man wears a light check summer suit and a straw hat. He is short and slender; his black eyes have a look of gentle melancholy. He appears to be telling the girl by his side a tale of travel; she listens, with her smile. Round about them, in spite of the wind, the atmosphere is full of peace. Walking along the beach, they go by the castle, pass round behind it and look up. From one of the windows somebody gaily waves a hand and calls out something. They try to hear, with their hands to their ears, but they shrug their shoulders: the wind has blown the words away. They wave their hands again and walk on. They do not go far, however, always along the beach. Yonder lies the fishing-village, lie a couple of small villas, almost cottages. One of them seems just to have been taken by a large family, for the holiday-month no doubt; a hum of voices issues from it, children chase one another along the beach; a tiny girl, in running, bumps against the young man. "Hullo there!" he says, pleasantly, with a laugh. Laughing they walk on. The children run along. A fisherman comes with his nets, grins cheerily and mutters a greeting. A fat lady in the verandah has been watching the young people inquisitively; she sees the fisherman touch his cap and beckons to him: "Who are that lady and gentleman?" The fisherman points cheerily to Altseeborgen: "From the castle." "But who are they?" asks the lady, alarmed. "Well, the gentleman is the Prince of Liparia and the young lady is an Austrian princess," says the fisherman, as if it could not well be anybody else. The lady looks in dismay after the princely pair and then in despair at her running children. The young couple are just turning back in their walk; they are now laughing even more gaily than before and are hastening a little towards the castle, as though they had delayed too long. The lady, still pale, does not dare to offer excuses, but makes a low bow; she receives a pleasant greeting in return. 2 The royal family of Gothland were in the habit of spending the whole summer at Altseeborgen. The beach was particularly well-suited for laying out a watering-place around the fishing-village, but King Siegfried would never hear of this: the beach and the village were royal domains; a few modest villas were all that he had granted permission to build. Generally these were visited in the summer by two or three middle-class families with their children. Altseeborgen should never become a modern bathing-place, however excellent the fashionable world might consider it as a means of summer display, lying as it did in the immediate neighbourhood of the royal castle. But the Gothlandic family made a point of guarding the freedom of their summer lives. They lived there for four months, without palace-etiquette, in the greatest simplicity. They formed a numerous family; and there were always many visitors. The king attended to state-affairs in homely fashion at the castle. His grandchildren would run into his room while he was discussing important business with the prime minister, who came down to Altseeborgen on certain days. He just patted their flaxen curls and sent them away to play, with a caress. Staying at the castle were the Crown-prince Gunther and the Crown-princess Sofie, a German princess--Duke and Duchess of Wendeholm--with their four children, a girl and three boys. Next to the duke came Prince Herman; next to him Princess Wanda, twenty years of age; next to her, the younger princes, Olaf and Christofel. In addition there were always two old princesses, sisters of the king, widows of German princes. From all the courts of Europe, which were as one great family, different members came from time to time to stay, bringing with them their respective _nuances_ of a different nationality, something exotic in voice and manner, so far as all this was not merged in their cosmopolitanism. Othomar had been three months at sea with Herman; they had touched shore in India, China, Japan and America. They had travelled incognito, so as to escape all official receptions, and Othomar had borne no other title than that of Prince Czykirski. The voyage had done Othomar much good: he was even feeling so well that he had written to the Empress Elizabeth that he would like to stay some time longer in the family-circle at Altseeborgen, but that he would afterwards undertake his long-contemplated journey to the European courts. Their easy life in each other's company had done much to bring the cousins closer together. Herman had learnt to see in Othomar, beneath his stiffness and lack of ease, a young crown-prince who was afraid of his future, but who possessed much reasonableness and was willing to learn to acquiesce in life and to fortify himself for his coming yoke of empire. He understood Othomar and felt sorry for him. He himself took a vital pleasure in life: merely to breathe was an enjoyment; his existence as a second son, with only his naval duties, which he loved by heredity, as a descendant of the old sea-kings might well love them, opened before him a prospect of nothing but continued, cloudless freedom from care; that he was a king's son gave him nothing but satisfaction and delight; and he appreciated his high estate with jovial pleasure, skimming the cream from a chalice out of which Othomar in due time would drink gall and wormwood. If at first he compared Othomar with his brother, the Duke of Wendeholm--a crown-prince too, of Gothland he--Herman now compared them no longer; his judgement had become more reasonable: he understood that no comparison was possible. Liparia was a tremendous, almost despotic empire; the people, especially in the south, always very fickle, always kept in check by force, on account of their childish uncertainty as to what, in their capriciousness, they would do next. The Gothlanders, on the other hand, calmly liberal in temperament, devoid of noisy vehemence, ranged themselves peacefully, with their long-established, ample constitution, round King Siegfried, whom they called the father of his country. That Gunther was not afraid of having to wear the crown one day, was this a reason why Othomar should be without his fear? Did Othomar not possess the gentler qualities, which are valued in the narrow circle of intimate surroundings and arouse esteem among a few sympathetic natures, rather than that fiercer brilliancy of character, which makes its possessor stand out in clear relief in high places and awakens admiration in the multitude? Was this boy, with his soul full of scruples, his nostalgia after justice, his yearning for love, his easily wounded sensitiveness, was he the son of his ancestors, the descendant of Berengar the Strong, Wenceslas the Cruel, son of the warlike Xaveria, or was he not rather the child of his gentle mother alone? It was not in Herman's way to reflect much and long on all this, but it came to him suddenly, abruptly, like a new view that is opened out in a brighter light. And what had been antipathy in him became compassion, friendship and astonishment at the disposition of the universe, which knew not what else to do with a soul like Othomar's but to crush it beneath a crown. The simple family-life at Altseeborgen worked on Othomar like a cure. He felt himself reviving amid natural surroundings, his humanity developing wide and untrammelled. Accustomed as he was to the ceremonial life of the Imperial, with its court-etiquette strictly maintained by the Emperor Oscar, he was at first surprised, but soon delighted by the almost homely simplicity of his Gothlandic relations. In former years, it is true, he had paid an occasional brief visit to Altseeborgen, but had never stayed long enough to be able to count himself, as now, quite one of themselves. Othomar was at this moment the only visitor from abroad, except the Archduchess Valérie, a niece of the Emperor of Austria. Did the young people suspect anything, or not? Were their names coupled together by the younger princes and princesses? Not so, to all outward seeming: only once or twice had Princess Sofie or Princess Wanda found it necessary to hush her young brothers with a glance. And yet it was with a serious intention that the Queen of Gothland, in concert with the Emperor of Liparia and Valérie's parents--the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess of Eudoxie, who lived at Sigismundingen Castle--had brought the young people together. The Emperor Oscar would certainly have preferred one of the young Russian grand-duchesses, a niece of the Czar, for his daughter-in-law; but the difference in religion remained an insurmountable obstacle; and the emperor, despite his preference, had no objection to the Austrian alliance. Perhaps Othomar and Valérie divined this intention, but the secret caused no constraint between them; they were both so accustomed to hearing the names of well-known princes or princesses connected with theirs and even to seeing them mentioned in the papers: announcements of betrothals which were immediately contradicted; they had even jested together about the number of times that public opinion had married them to this one or to that, each time to somebody else; sometimes even the news came as a surprise to themselves, which they found in the newspapers and laughed at. They paid no heed therefore to the rare mischievous remarks of Prince Olaf or Prince Christofel, sturdy lads of seventeen and fifteen, who thought it great fun to tease. And all this time Queen Olga, so sensible and reasonable, brought not the least influence to bear upon them. She had invited them together, but she did nothing more. Perhaps she observed silently how they behaved towards each other and wrote just one letter on the subject to her sister, but she kept quite outside the meshes which were weaving between their two crowned lives. Yet it was difficult for her to stand aloof. She was fond of Valérie and thought that this marriage would be in every way good. But added to that came urgent letters from Sigismundingen and even from Vienna, where they wished for nothing more eagerly than to see the young archduchess Duchess of Xara. For this, apart from the natural inclination of the Austrian court to set store by a renewed alliance with Liparia, there were other reasons of a more intimate character. 3 The sun had appeared through the clouds in the afternoon and made the grey of the sky and the water turn blue with the hazy blueness of a northern summer. The sea glowed and put on scales of gold; the weather-beaten castle stood blistering its broad granite pile in the sun, as an old man does his back. The striped canvas awning was lowered on the top terrace, which led into the great hall through three glass doors. Rugs lay scattered over the ground. Princess Sofie and the Archduchess Valérie sat in great wickerwork chairs, painting in water-colours. From the hall sounded, monotonously, the soft exercises of Princess Elizabeth, the crown-princess' eldest daughter, who was practising. Princess Wanda sat on the ground, romping a trifle boisterously with her youngest two nephews, Erik and Karl. On a long wicker chair lay Prince Herman, with both legs up; next to him was a little table heaped with newspapers and periodicals, some of which had fallen to the ground; a great tumbler of sherry-cobbler stood on the wicker ledge of his chair; the blue smoke rose from a cigarette between his fingers. Sofie and Valérie compared their sketches and laughed. They looked at the sky, which was bisected by the awning: the clouds, woolly white, surged one above the other; the sea was dazzling with its golden scales, like a giant cuirass. "What are you two painting there?" asked Herman, who was turning the pages of an illustrated paper. "Clouds," replied Valérie, "nothing but clouds. I have persuaded Sofie to make studies of clouds with me. Presently, if you're not too lazy, you must come and look at my album." She gave a little laugh. "It contains nothing but clouds!" "By Jove!" drawled Herman. "How very odd!..." "Yes," said Sofie, dreamily, "clouds are very nice, but you never know how to catch them: they change every instant." "Erik," said Herman, "just ask Aunt Valérie to lend me her album." "No, no," cried Wanda, "go and fetch it yourself, lazybones!..." But Erik wanted to go; and there came a great struggle. Wanda hugged the little fellow tight in her arms; Karl joined in: there was a general romp and Wanda, laughing, fell sideways to the ground. "But, Wanda!" said Sofie, reprovingly. Valérie stood up and went to Herman: "With all this, you're not seeing my clouds, you lazy boy. I suppose I must take pity on you. Look...." Herman now suddenly drew himself up and took the album: "How funny!" he said. "Yellow and white and violet and pink. All sunsets!" "And sunrises. I dare say I see more of them than you do!" "The things you see in clouds, Valérie! It's astonishing. How one person differs from another! I should never take it into my head to go and sketch clouds. You ought to come for a cruise with me one day; then you could make whole collections of clouds." "Why didn't you propose that earlier?" said Valérie, jestingly. "Then I might have joined you and Xara." "But where is Othomar?" said Herman. Valérie said that she did not know.... Herman sipped his sherry-cobbler. Wanda wanted a taste, but Herman refused and told her to ring for a glass for herself. Wanda insisted; he seized her by the wrists. "But Wanda!" Sofie repeated, reprovingly, languidly, drawing her hand over her forehead and laying down her brush. Wanda laughed gaily: "But Wanda!" she mimicked. And they all laughed at Sofie, including Sofie herself: "Did I speak like that?" she asked, with her languid voice. "I don't know: I get so sleepy here, so lazy...." They were all making fun of Sofie, when voices sounded from the hall, shrill, old voices. It was the two dowagers, with Othomar; the old ladies were talking in a courtly, mincing way to the young prince, who brought them chairs. The aunts had had a siesta after lunch; they now made their reappearance, with tapestrywork in large reticules. All greeted them with great respect, beneath which lurked a spark of mischief. "_Pardon, lieber Herzog_," murmured old Princess Elsa, the older of the two, "I would rather have that little chair...." Princess Marianne also wanted a small, straight chair; the old ladies thanked Othomar with an obeisance for his gallantry, sat down stiffly and began their embroidery: great coats-of-arms for chair-backs. They were very stately, with clear-cut but wrinkled faces, grey _tours_ and black lace caps; they wore crackling watered-silk gowns, of old-fashioned cut. Now and then they exchanged a quick, sharp word, with a sudden crackling movement of their sharp cockatoo-profiles; they gazed thoughtfully for a moment out to sea, as though they were bound to see something important arriving out of the distance; then they resumed their work. Their old-fashioned, stately, tight-laced, shrivelled figures formed a strange contrast with the easiness of the young people in their simple serge summer suits: they made Princess Wanda's tangled hair and rumpled blouse look perfectly disreputable. A third old lady came sailing up; she seemed as though she were related to the two dowagers, but was actually Countess von Altenburg, who used to be mistress of the household to Princess Elsa. Behind her were two footmen, carrying trays with coffee and pastry, the old princesses' _goûter_. The countess made a stately curtsey before the young princes. "The territory is occupied," whispered Herman to Valérie. They had all sat down again and among themselves were teasing Othomar with his three Fates, as they called them, unheard by the aunts or the countess, who was rather deaf. A noisy babel of tongues ensued: the aunts spoke German and screamed, to make themselves heard, something about the calmness of the sea into the poor old ears of the countess, who poured out the coffee and nodded that she understood. The younger princes talked English for the most part; Herman sometimes spoke a word or two of Liparian to Othomar; and the children, who had gone to play on a lower terrace, chattered noisily in Gothlandic and French indifferently. The footmen had brought out afternoon tea and placed it before Princess Sofie, when a lady-in-waiting appeared. She bowed to the young crown-princess and said, in Gothlandic: "Her majesty requests your royal highness to come to her in the small drawing-room." "Mamma has sent for me," said Princess Sofie, in English, rising from her chair. "Wanda, will you pour out the tea? Children, will you go upstairs and get dressed? Wanda, tell them again, will you?" The crown-princess went through the hall, a great, round, dome-shaped apartment, full of stags' antlers, elks' heads, hunting-trophies, and then up a staircase. In the queen's anteroom the footman opened the door for her. Queen Olga was sitting alone; she was some years older than her sister, the Empress of Liparia, taller and more heavily built; her features, however, had much in common with Elizabeth's, but were more filled out. "Sofie," she at once began, in German, "I have had a letter from Sigismundingen...." The Duchess of Wendeholm had sat down: "Anything to do with Valérie?" she asked, in alarm. "Yes," the queen said, with a reflective glance. "Poor child!..." "But what is it, Mamma?" "There, read for yourself...." The queen handed the letter to her daughter-in-law, who read it hurriedly. The letter was from the Archduchess Eudoxie, Valérie's mother, written with a feverish, excited hand, and said, in phrases which tried to seem indifferent but which betrayed a great satisfaction, that Prince Leopold of Lohe-Obkowitz was at Nice with Estelle Desvaux, the well-known actress, that he was proposing to resign his titular rights in favour of his younger brother and that he would then marry his mistress. The letter requested the queen or the crown-princess to tell this to Valérie, in the hope that it would not prove too great a shock to her. Further, the letter ended with violent attacks upon Prince Leopold, who had caused such a scandal, but at the same time with manifest expressions of delight that now perhaps Valérie would no longer dream of becoming the lady of a domain measuring six yards square! The archduke added a postscript to say that this was not a vague report but a certainty and that Prince Leopold himself had told it to their own relations at Nice, who had written to Sigismundingen. "Has Valérie ever spoken to you about Prince Lohe?" asked the queen. "Only once in a way, mamma," replied the Duchess of Wendeholm, handing back the letter. "But we all know well enough that this news will be a great blow to her. Is she not in the least prepared for it?" "Probably not: you see, we had none of us heard or read anything about it! Shall I tell her? Poor child!..." "Shall I do so, mamma? As I told you, Valérie _has_ spoken to me...." "Very well, you do it...." The duchess reflected, looked at the clock: "It is so late now: I'll tell her after dinner; we are none of us dressed yet.... What do you think?" "Very well then, after dinner...." The crown-princess went out: it was time to hurry and dress. At seven o'clock a loud, long bell sounded. They assembled in the hall; the dining-room looked out with its large bow-windows upon the pine-forest. It was a long table: King Siegfried, a hale old sovereign with a full, grey beard; Queen Olga; the Crown-prince Gunther, tall, fair, two-and-thirty; Princess Sofie and her children; Othomar, sitting between his aunt and Valérie; Herman and Wanda; Olaf and Christofel; the two dowagers with Countess von Altenburg; equerries, ladies-in-waiting, chamberlains, Princess Elizabeth's governess, the little princes' tutors.... The conversation was cheerful and unconstrained. The ladies wore simple evening-frocks; the king was in dress-clothes, the younger princes and equerries in dinner-jackets. The young princesses wore light summer dresses of white serge or pink _mousseline-de-laine_; they had stuck a flower or two from the conservatory into their waist-bands. Valérie talked merrily; Herman once more teased her about her cloud-sketches, but Othomar said that he admired them very much. Queen Olga and Princess Sofie exchanged a glance and were quieter than the others. The king also looked very thoughtfully at the young people. After dinner the family dispersed; the crown-prince and Herman went for a row on the sea, with the younger princes and the children, in two boats. Wanda and Valérie, their arms wound around each other's waists, strolled up and down along the front-terrace; the awning was already drawn up for the night. The sea was still blue, the sky pearl-grey and no longer so bright; above the horizon the sun still burnt ragged rents in the widely scattered clouds. The girls strolled about, laughed, looked at the two little boats on the sea and waved to them. Very far away, a steamer passed, finely outlined, with a dirty little ribbon of smoke. The young princes shouted, "Hurrah! Hurrah!" and hoisted their little flag. "Do look at those papers of Herman's!" said Valérie. "Aunt Olga hates that untidiness...." She pointed to all the magazines and newspapers which the servants had forgotten to clear away. They lay over the long wicker chair, on the table and on the ground. "Shall I ring to have them cleared away?" asked Wanda. "Oh, never mind!" said Valérie. She herself picked up one or two papers, folded them, put them together; Wanda again waved to the boats with her handkerchief. "My God!" she suddenly heard Valérie murmur, faintly. She looked round: the young archduchess had turned pale and sunk into a chair. She had dropped the papers again; one of them she held tight, crushing it convulsively; she looked down at it with eyes vacant with terror: "It's not true," she stammered. "They always lie.... They lie!" "What is it, Valérie?" cried Wanda, frightened. At this moment the Duchess of Wendeholm came out through the hall: "Valérie!" she called. The girl did not hear. The duchess came nearer: "Valérie!" she repeated. "Could I talk to you for a moment, alone?" The archduchess raised her pale little face. She seemed not to hear, not to understand. "My God!" whispered the duchess to Wanda. "Does she know?" "What?" asked Wanda. But a footman also came through the hall; he carried a silver tray with letters. There were a couple of letters for the duchess; he presented them to her first; then one to Valérie. In spite of her blurred eyes, the archduchess seemed to see the letter; she snatched at it greedily. The man withdrew. "O ... God!..." she stammered at last. She pulled the letter from the envelope, half-tearing it in her eagerness, and read with crazy eyes. Sofie and Wanda looked at her in dismay. "O ... God!" screamed the archduchess in agony. "It's true ... it's true ... it's true! ... Oh!..." She rose, trembling, looked about her with wild eyes and threw herself madly into the duchess' arms. A loud sob burst from her throat, as though a pistol-shot had gone through her heart. "He writes it to me himself!" she cried out. "Himself! It's true what the paper says.... Oh!..." And she broke down, with her head on Sofie's shoulder. Sofie led her back into the hall; Valérie allowed herself to be dragged along like a child. Wanda followed, crying, wringing her hands, without knowing why. From the boats, which were now very far away, the young princes waved once more; little Princess Elizabeth even tried to call out something; she could not understand why Wanda and Valérie were such muffs as not to wave back. The sun sank on the horizon; the glowing clouds were all masked in little frothy, gold-rose mists with shining edges; but evening fell, the sky grew dark: one by one the little pink clouds melted away; still one last cloud, as though with two wings formed of the last rays of the setting sun, flickered up softly, as if to fly, and then suddenly sank, with broken wings, into the violet dusk. The first stars twinkled, brightly visible. 4 Next morning, very early, at half-past five, the Archduchess Valérie climbed down the terraces of Altseeborgen. She had merely told her maid that she would be back in time for breakfast, which the family took together. Resolutely, as though impulsively, she descended terrace after terrace. She met nobody but a couple of servants and sentries. She walked along the bottom terrace to the sea; there was a little square harbour, cut out of the granite, where the rowing- and sailing-boats lay moored in a boat-house. She chose a long, narrow gig and unhooked it from its iron chain. She took her seat adroitly and grasped the sculls: a few short strokes took her clear of the little harbour and out to sea. A south-westerly wind was blowing over the sea. The water was strangely grey, as though it were mirroring in its oval the uncertain sky above: a dull-white sky in which hung dirty shreds of clouds blown asunder. The horizon was not visible; light mists floated over it, blotting out the division between sea and sky with smeared tints. The wind blew up strongly. Valérie removed her little sailor-hat; and her hair blew across her face. She had intended to row to the fishing-village, but she at once felt that it was beyond her strength to work up against the wind. So she let herself go with the wind. For a moment she thought of the weather, the wind, the sky; then she cast aside all thought. She pulled sturdily at the sculls. Though the sea was comparatively calm, the boat was constantly swinging over the smooth back of a wave and then sinking down again. Splashes of spray flew up. When Valérie, after a little while, looked round, she was a trifle startled to see Altseeborgen receding so far from her. She hesitated once more, but soon let herself go again.... On leaving the castle, she had had no thought, only an impulse to act. Now, with her very action, thought rose up again within her, as though roused from its lethargy by the wind. Valérie's eyes stared before her, wide and burning, without tears. It was true, it was real. This was the wheel continually revolving in her thoughts. It was true, it was real. It was in the papers which Herman had been skimming through for hours; Sofie had told her; his own letter informed her of it. She no longer had that letter, it was destroyed. But every word was still branded on her imagination. It was his letter, written in his own words, in his style. How she had once worshipped his every word! But these words, were they indeed his? Did he write like that? Could she picture to herself that he would ever speak thus to her? He would not like to make her unhappy by loving her against the wish of her parents, her imperial relations. It was true, of course, that he was not her equal in birth. His house was of old nobility, but nothing more. She was of the blood royal and imperial. He was grateful to her for stooping to him and wishing to raise him to her level. But it was not right to do this. The traditions of mankind should be inviolate: it was not right, especially for them, the great ones of the earth, to act against tradition. They should be grateful for the love which had brought happiness to their souls, but they must not expect more. It was not the wish of Vienna that they should love each other. Would he ever be able to make her entirely happy, would she, if they were married and retired with their love to a foreign country, never look back with yearning and feel homesick for the splendour from which he had dragged her down? For, if they married, he would be still less her equal than he was before, thanks to his emperor's disfavour. No, no, it could not be. They must part. They were not born for each other. For a short moment they had shared the glorious illusion that they were indeed born for each other; that was all. He would be grateful to her for that memory all his life long. With a breaking heart he took leave of her: farewell, farewell! It was all over: his proud career, his life, his all. He begged her to forgive him. He knew that he was too weak to love her against the will of his sovereign. And for that he begged her to forgive him. She would hear a woman's name mentioned in connection with his own: for this also he begged her pardon. He did not love that woman, but she was willing to console him in his grief.... The wind had suddenly increased in violence, with heavy, regular blasts. The sky was dark overhead. The waves rolled more wildly against the boat and swung it up on their backs as it were on the backs of sleek sea-monsters. The spray had wetted Valérie. She looked round. Altseeborgen lay very far away, scarcely within sight; she could just see the flag defined against the sky like a tiny ribbon. "I must be mad," she thought. "Where am I going to?... I must turn back...." But it was difficult to bring the boat round. Each time the wind beat it off again and drove it farther. Despair came upon Valérie, body and soul, moral and physical despair. "Well, let it be," she thought. She let the sculls drop, drifted farther away, away. And why not? Why should she not let herself drift away? Without him, without him ... she could not live! Her happiness was ruined; what was life without happiness? For she wanted happiness, it was essential to her.... She sat half-huddled in the boat. The sculls flapped against the sides. A wave broke over her. Her eyes stared burning before her, into the distance. A second wave broke; her feet were wet through. She slowly drew herself up, looked at the angry sea, at the lowering sky. Then she grasped the sculls again, with a sigh of pain: "Come on!" she thought. She rose higher and sank lower. But with a frantic effort she made the boat turn: "It _shall!_" she bit out between her teeth. She kept the boat's head to the wind and began to row. It _shall_. She wrinkled her forehead, gnashed her jaws, grated her teeth together. She felt her muscles straining. And she rowed on, up against the wind. With her whole body she struggled up against the stiff breeze. It _shall_. It _must_. And she grew accustomed to the exertion; she rowed on mechanically. So much accustomed did she grow to it that she began to sob as she rowed.... O God, how she had loved him, with all her soul! Why? Could she tell? Oh, if he had only been a little stronger, she would have been so too! What mattered to them the disfavour of her uncle the emperor, so long as they loved each other? What the fury of their parents, so long as they loved each other? What did they care for all Europe, so long as they cared for each other? Nothing, nothing at all.... If he had only dared to grasp happiness for them, when it fluttered before them, as it flutters only once before mortal men! But he had not dared, he felt himself too weak to risk that grasp, he acknowledged it himself.... And now ... now it was over, over, over.... As she sobbed she rowed on. Her arms seemed to swell, to burst asunder. A few thick drops of rain fell. What was she really rowing on for? The sea meant death, release from life, oblivion, the extinction of scorching pain. Then why did she row on? "O God, I don't know!" she answered herself aloud. "But I must! I must!..." And with successive jerks of her strong imperial body she worked herself back, towards life.... But at Altseeborgen they were in great alarm. It was three hours since Valérie had left the castle. The maid was unable to say more than that her highness had assured her she would be back to breakfast. The sentries had seen her go down the terraces, but had paid no further heed to the direction which her highness had taken. They thought it was towards the woods, but they were not sure.... Every minute the alarm increased; no suspicion was uttered, but they all read it in one another's eyes. King Siegfried ordered that they should themselves set out and search quietly, so as to attract no attention among the household and the people of the village. There could be no question of her having lost her way: the pine-woods were not extensive and Valérie knew Altseeborgen well. And there was nothing besides the woods, the beach and the village. The king and the crown-prince themselves went into the woods, with an equerry. Herman and his younger brother Olaf went into the village, to the left; Othomar and Christofel along the sea, to the right. The queen remained behind with the princesses, in palpitating uncertainty. For all their efforts to bear up and to eat their breakfasts, a sort of rumour had already spread through the castle. Othomar had gone with Christofel along the rocky shore; the rain began to come down, in hard, thick drops. "What are we really looking for here?" asked Othomar, helplessly. "Perhaps she has thrown herself into the sea!" answered the young prince. And for the first time of his life, he felt afraid of those depths, which meant death. Unconsciously they went on, on, on.... "Let's go back," said Othomar. Nevertheless they continued to go on; they could not give in.... Then a scream sounded over the water: they started, but at first saw nothing. "Did you hear?" asked Christofel, turning pale, thinking of ghostly legends of the sea. "A sea-mew, I expect," said Othomar, listening, however. The scream was repeated. "There, don't you see something?" asked Christofel, pointing. He pointed to a long streak that came surging over the water. Othomar shook his head: "No, that's impossible!" he said. "It's a fisher-lad." "No, no, it's a rowing-boat!" cried Christofel. They said nothing more, they ran along. The streak became plainer: a gig; the scream rang out again, piercingly. "My God!... Valérie!" shouted Othomar. She called back a few words; he only partly understood them. She was rowing not far from the shore towards the castle. Othomar took off his coat, his shoes, his socks, turned up his trousers, his shirt-sleeves. "Take those with you," he cried to Christofel, "and go back to the castle, tell them...." He ran on his bare feet over the rocks and into the sea, flung himself into the water, swam out to the boat. It was very difficult for him to climb into the little gig without capsizing it. It lurched madly to right and left; however, with a single, quick, light movement, Othomar managed to jump in. "I give up...." said Valérie, faintly. She let go the sculls; he seized them and rowed on. For an instant she fell against him, but then sat up straight, so as not to hamper him. 5 The young archduchess did not appear at luncheon; she was asleep. Not long before dinner--it was raining and the queen was taking tea in the hall with the princesses, the aunts, the children--she appeared. She looked rather pale; her face was a little drawn, her eyes strangely wide and burning. She was wearing a simple summer costume of some soft, pale-lilac material, with two white ribbons tied round her waist; the colour went well with her strange hair, which now looked brown and then again seemed auburn. The queen held out her hand to Valérie, shook her head and said: "You naughty girl! How you frightened us!" Valérie kissed the queen on the forehead: "Forgive me, aunt. The wind was so strong, I could hardly make way against it. I oughtn't to have gone. But I felt a need ... for movement." The queen looked at her anxiously: "How are you feeling now?" "Oh, very well, aunt! Rather stiff; and a little headache. It's nothing. Only my hands are terribly blistered: just look...." And she laughed. The old aunts asked for copious details of what had happened: it was difficult to make them understand. Wanda sat down between the two of them, told them the story; their sharp cockatoo-profiles kept on wagging up and down at Wanda, in astonishment. The aunts pressed their hands to their hearts and looked at Valérie with terror in their eyes; she smiled to them pleasantly. When Countess von Altenburg appeared, the aunts took the old mistress of the household between them and in their turn told her the story, screeching it into the countess' poor old ears. King Siegfried entered; he went up to Valérie, who rose, took her head in his hands, looked at her and shook his grey head; nevertheless he smiled. Then he looked at his sisters; he was always amused at them; they were still in the middle of their story to the countess and kept on taking the words out of each other's mouths. "Come, it was not so dreadful as all that!" said the king, interrupting them. "It's very nice to go rowing like that, once in a way, and an excellent remedy for a sick-headache. You ought to try it, Elsa, when you have one of yours." The old princess looked at him with a sugary smile; she never knew whether her brother meant a remark of this kind or not. She shook her stately head slowly from side to side: "No, _lieber Siegfried_, that is more than we can do. _Unsere liebe Erzherzogin_ is still a young thing!..." Othomar, Gunther and Herman entered: they had been playing billiards; the young princes followed them. Valérie gave a little shiver, rose and went up to Othomar: "I thank you, Xara," she said. "I thank you a thousand, thousand times!" "But what for?" replied Othomar, simply. "I did no more than row you a bit of the way back. There was no danger. For, if you had been too tired to go on rowing, you could always have jumped into the sea and swum ashore. You're a strong swimmer. You would only have lost the boat." She looked at him: "That's true," she said. "But I never thought of it. I was ... bewildered perhaps. I should not have done that; I had a fixed idea that I had to row back. If I hadn't been able to keep on rowing, I should certainly.... Don't refuse my thanks, I beg of you: accept them." She put out her hand; he pressed it. He looked up at her with quiet surprise and failed to understand her. He did not doubt but that she had that morning left the castle with the intention of committing suicide. Had she felt remorse on the water, or had she not dared? Did she want to live on and did she therefore turn back? Was she so shallow that she had already recovered from the great grief which had crushed her the night before? Did she realize that life rolls with indifferent chariot-wheels over everything, whether joy or pain, that is part of ourselves and that it is best to care for nothing and also to feel nothing? What of all this applied to her? He was unable to fathom it. And once more he saw himself standing perplexed before the question of love! What was this feeling worth, if it weighed so little in a woman's heart? How much did it weigh with him for Alexa? What was it then?... Or was it something ... something quite different? At dinner Valérie talked as usual and he continued not to understand her. It irritated him, his want of penetration of the human heart: how could he develop it? A future ruler ought to be able to see things at a glance.... And suddenly, perhaps merely because of his desire for human knowledge, the thought arose within him that she was concealing her emotions, that perhaps she was still suffering intensely, but that she was pretending and bearing up: was she not a princess of the blood? They all learnt that, they of the blood, to pretend, to bear up! It was bred in their bones. He looked at her askance, as he sat next to her: she was quietly talking across him to the queen. He did not know whether he had guessed right and he still hesitated between the two thoughts: was she bearing up, or was she shallow? But, yet he was happy at being able to hesitate about her and to refute that first suspicion of shallowness by his second thought. He was happy in this, not solely because of Valérie, that she should be better than he had thought at first; he was happy especially for the general conclusion which he was able to draw: that a person is mostly better, thinks more deeply, cherishes nobler feelings than he allows to appear in the everyday commonplaces of life, which compel him to occupy himself with momentary trifles and phrases. A delicate satisfaction took possession of him that he had thought this out so, a contentment that he had discovered something beautiful in life: a beautiful secret. Everybody knew it perhaps, but nobody let it be perceived. Oh yes, people were good; the world was good, in its essence! Only a strange mystery compelled it to seem different, a strange tyranny of the universal order of things. He glanced around the long table. Every face wore a look of kindness and sympathy. He was attached to his uncle so calm, gentle and strong, with the seeming dogged silence of his Norse character, with his tranquil smile and now and then a little gleam of fun, aimed especially at the old aunts, but also at the children and even at the equerries, the ladies-in-waiting. He knew that his uncle was a thinker, a philosopher; he would have liked to have a long discussion with him on points of philosophy. He was fond also of his aunt, a first-rate queen: what a lot she did for her country, what a number of charities she called into existence; a first-rate mother: how sensibly she performed her difficult task, the bringing up of royal children! She was more beloved in her country than was his mother, whom yet he adored, in hers; she had more tact, less fear, less haughtiness also towards the crowd. It should perhaps have been the other way about: his mother queen here, her sister empress yonder.... And the crown-prince, with his simple manliness; Herman, with his joviality; the younger brothers, with their vigorous, boyish chaff: how fond he was of them! Sofie, Wanda, the children: how he liked them all! He even liked the aunts and the devoted old mistress of the household. Oh, the world was good, people were good! And Valérie was not indifferent, but suffered in quiet silence, as a princess of the blood must suffer, with unclouded eyes and a smile! After dinner Queen Olga took Othomar's arm: "Come with me for a moment," she said. The rain had ceased; a footman opened the French windows. Behind the dining-room lay a long terrace looking upon the woods. The queen put her arm in Othomar's and began to walk up and down with him: "And so you are going to leave us?" she asked. He looked at her with a smile: "You know I am, aunt; with much regret. I shall often long for Altseeborgen, for all of you. I feel so much at home in your circle. But yet I am anxious to see mamma again: it's nearly four months since I saw her last." "And are you feeling better?" "How could I but feel better, aunt? The voyage with Herman made me ever so much stronger; and living here with you has been a delightful after-cure. A delightful holiday." "But your holiday will soon be over. Will you now be able to play your part again?" He smiled, while his sad eyes expressed calm resignation: "Certainly, aunt. Life can't be always holidays. I should think I had had my fill of them, doing nothing for six weeks except lie on the sand, or in the woods, or in that most comfortable wicker chair of Herman's!" "Have you done nothing besides?" she said, playfully. "How do you mean?" "Saved Valérie's life, for instance?" He gave a slight movement of gentle impatience: "But, aunt, I didn't really. I suppose the papers will go and say I did, but there was really no saving in the matter. Valérie knows how to swim and she was close to the shore." "I've had a letter from papa, Othomar." "From papa?" "Yes.... Have you never thought of ... Valérie?" He reflected for a second: "Perhaps," he laughed. "Do you feel no affection for her?" "Certainly, aunt.... I thought papa preferred the Grand-duchess Xenia?" The queen shrugged her shoulders: "There's the question of her religion, you know. And papa would be just as glad of an Austrian alliance.... How do you propose to make the journey? And when do you start?" "Ducardi and the others will be here this week. Towards the end of the week. First to Copenhagen, London, Brussels, Berlin and then to Vienna." "And to Sigismundingen." "Yes, Sigismundingen, if papa wishes." "But what do you wish, Othomar?" He looked at her gently, smiling, shrugged his shoulders: "But, aunt, what wish have I in the matter?" "Could you grow fond of Valérie?" "I think so, aunt; I think she is very sweet and very capable and thorough." "Yes, that she certainly is, Othomar! Would you not speak to her before you go?" "Aunt...." "Why shouldn't you?" "Aunt, I can't do that. I am only staying a few days longer, and ..." "Well?" "Valérie has had a great sorrow. She cannot but still be suffering under it. Think, aunt, it was yesterday. Good God, yesterday!... And to-day she was so calm, so natural.... But it must be so, mustn't it? She must still be suffering very severely. She went on the sea this morning, in this weather: we don't know, do we, aunt, but we all think the same thing! Perhaps we are quite mistaken. Things are often different from what they seem. But, however that may be, she is certainly in distress. And so I can't ask her, now...." "It's a pity, as you're here together. A thing of this sort is often settled at a distance. If it was arranged here, you would perhaps not need to make the journey." "But, aunt, papa was so bent upon it!" "That's true; but then nothing was yet decided." "No, aunt, let me make the journey. For in any case it's impossible to arrange things here. If papa himself asked me, I should tell him ... that it was impossible." "Papa does ask you, Othomar, in his letter to me." He seized her hands: "Aunt, in that case, write to him and say that it's impossible, at this moment ... oh, impossible, impossible! Let us spare her, aunt. If she becomes my wife, she will still become so while she loves another. Will that not be terrible enough for her, when it is decided months hence? Therefore let us spare her now. You feel that too, as a woman, don't you? There are no affairs of state that make it necessary for my marriage to take place in such a hurry." "Yet papa wishes you to marry as soon as possible. He wants a grandson...." He made no reply; a look of suffering passed over his face. The queen perceived it: "But you're right," she replied, giving way. "It would be too cruel. Valérie, I may tell you, is bearing up wonderfully. That's how a future Empress of Liparia ought to be...." He still made no reply and walked silently beside her; her arm lay in his; she felt his arm tremble: "Come," she said, gently, "let us go in; walking up and down like this is fatiguing...." 6 Ducardi, Dutri, Leoni and Thesbia arrived at Altseeborgen; they were to accompany Othomar on his official journey through Europe. It was one of the last days, in the morning, when Othomar was walking with Herman towards the woods. The sun was shining, the woods were fragrant, the foot slid over the smooth pine-needles. The princes sat down on the ground, near a great pool of water; around them rose the straight pine-trunks, with their knotty peaks of side-branches; the sky faded into the distance with blue chinks showing between the projecting foliage of needles. Herman leant against a tree-trunk; Othomar stretched himself flat on his back, with his hands beneath his head: "It will soon be over now," he said, softly. Herman made no reply, but mechanically swept the pine-needles together with his hand. Nor did Othomar speak again; he swallowed his last moments of relaxation and repose in careful draughts, each draught a pure joy that would never return. In the woods a stillness reigned as of death, as though the earth were uninhabited; the melancholy of things that are coming to an end hung about the trees. Suddenly Othomar took Herman's hand and pressed it: "Thank you," he said. "What for?" asked Herman. "For the pleasure we have had together. Mamma was right: I did not know you, Herman...." "Nor I you, dear fellow." "It has been a pleasant time. How delightfully we travelled together, like two tourists! How grand and glorious India was, don't you think? And Japan, how curious! I never cared much for hunting; but, when I was with you, I understood it and felt the excitement of it: I shall never forget our tiger-hunt! The eyes of the brute, the danger facing you: it's invigorating. At a moment like that, you feel yourself becoming primitive, like the first man. The look of one of those tigers drives away a lot of your hesitation. That's another danger, which mamma is always so afraid of: oh, how enervating it is; it eats up all your energy!... And the nights on the Indian Ocean, on board our _Viking_. That great wide circle around you, all those stars over your head. How often we sat looking at them, with our legs on the bulwarks!... Perhaps it's a mistake to sit dreaming so long, but it rests one so, it rests one so! I shall never forget it, never...." "Well, old chap, we must do it again." "No, one never does anything again. What's done is done. Nothing returns, not a single moment of our lives. Later on it is always different...." He looked round about him, as though some one might be listening; then he whispered: "Herman, I have something to tell you." "What is it?" "Something to confide to you. But first tell me: that time with the tiger, you didn't think me a great coward, did you?" "No, certainly not!" "Well, I'm a coward for all that. I'm frightened, always frightened. The doctors don't know it, because I never tell them. But I always am...." "But of what, my dear chap?" "Of something inside myself. Look here, Herman, I'm so afraid ... that I shall not be able to stick it out. That at a given moment of my life I shall be too weak. That suddenly I shall not be able to act and then, then ..." He shuddered; they look at each other. "It won't do," he continued, mechanically, as though strengthened by Herman's glance. "I shall fight against it, against that dread of mine.... Do you believe in presentiments?" "Yes, inversely: mine always turn out the opposite!" "Then I hope that my presentiment won't come true either." "But what is it?" "That within the year ... one of us ... at Lipara ... will be dead." Herman stared at him fixedly. For all his manliness and his muscular strength, there lay deep down within him a certain heritage of the superstition that comes murmuring from the sea as with voices of distant prophecy, a superstition lulled by the beautiful legends of their Gothlandic sea, which, syren-like, sings strange, mystic fairy-tales. Perhaps he had never until this moment felt that some of it flowed in his rich blood; and he tried to shake it off as nonsense: "But Othomar, do be rational!" he said. "I can do nothing to prevent it, Herman. I don't think about it, but I feel little sharp stings, like thoughts suddenly springing up. And lately ... oh, lately, it has been worse; it has become a dream, a nightmare! I was walking through the shopping-streets of Lipara and from all the shops came black people and they measured out bales of black crape, with yard-measures, till the streets were filled with it and the crape lay in the town as though in clouds and surged over the town like a mass of black muslin. It made everything dark: the sun could not shine through it and everything lay in shadow. The people did not seem to recognize me and, when I asked what all that crape was for, they whispered in my ears, 'Hush, hush, it's ... it's for the Imperial!' ... O Herman, then I woke and I was damp with perspiration and it was as though I still heard it echoing after me: 'For the Imperial, it's for the Imperial!'" Herman got up; he was a little nervous: "Come," said he, "shall we go?... Dreams: don't pay any attention to dreams, Othomar!" Othomar also rose: "No, I oughtn't to pay attention to them," he repeated, in a strange tone. "I never used to." "Othomar," Herman began, decidedly, as though he wished to say something. "Don't talk to me for a minute; let me be for a moment," Othomar interrupted, quickly, anxiously. They walked through the woods in silence. Othomar looked about him, strangely, looked at the ground. Herman compressed his lips tightly and puckered up his forehead: he was annoyed. But he said nothing. In a few minutes Othomar's strange glances grew calmer and quieted down into their usual gentle melancholy. Then he gave a little sigh, as if he were catching his breath: "Don't be angry," he said, putting his arm through Herman's. His voice had resumed its usual tone. "Perhaps it's as well that I have told you; now perhaps it will leave me. So don't be angry, Herman.... I promise you I shan't talk like that again and I shall do my best also not to think like that any more. But, when I have anything on my mind, I must tell it to somebody. And surely that's much better than for ever keeping silent about it! And then, you see, soon I shall have no more time to think of such things: to-morrow we shall be at Copenhagen and then life will resume its normal course. How can I have talked so queerly? How did I take it into my head? Even I can't remember. It seems very silly now, even to myself." He gave a little laugh and then, earnestly: "After all, I'm glad that we have had a talk by ourselves, that I have been able to thank you. We're friends now, aren't we?" "Yes, of course we're friends," replied Herman, laughing in the midst of his annoyance. "But all the same I shall never know you thoroughly!" "Don't say that just because of a single presentiment, which I think foolish myself. What else is there in me that's puzzling?..." "No, there's nothing else!" Herman assented. "You're a good chap. I don't know how it has come about, but I like you very much...." They left the woods; the sea lay before them. Like life itself, it lay before them, with all the mystery of its depths, wherein a multiple soul seemed to move, rounding wave upon wave. Nameless and innumerable were its changes of colour, its moods of incessant movement; and it spewed a foam of passion on its fiercely towering crests. But this passion was merely its superficial manifestation, the exuberance of its endless vitality: from its depths there murmured, in the inimitable melodies of its millions of voices, the mystery of its soul, as it were a glory which the sky above alone knew. 7 "TO HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF XARA, "OSBORNE HOUSE, ISLE OF WIGHT. "IMPERIAL, "LIPARA, "--_September_, 18--. "DEAR SON, "It was a great pleasure to receive your letter, telling us of the cordial welcome which you met with first at Copenhagen and now in England. We must however express our surprise at what Aunt Olga wrote to us and our regret that you did not act according to our wishes; the Emperor of Austria and the Archduke Albrecht express the same regret in their letters to us. We presume that we did not express ourselves definitely enough in our letter to Aunt Olga: otherwise we cannot imagine why she did not urge you more strongly to ask the Archduchess Valérie for an interview and to speak to her of the important matter which we all at this moment have so much at heart. You would then have been able to announce your engagement _sous cachet_ at the courts which you are now visiting; and the betrothal could have been celebrated, at the conclusion of journey, at Sigismundingen. Whereas now you have probably placed yourself in a false position towards our friends Their Majesties of Denmark and of England, as all the newspapers are speaking of a possible betrothal to the Archduchess Valérie and the press is already so kind as to discuss the _pros_ and _cons_ of this alliance in a loud voice. Your journey, however, would have had to take place _in any case_, as it had already been so long announced--your illness intervened to postpone it--and as it is therefore nothing more than an act of courtesy towards our friends. "Once again, your neglect to act in accordance with our wishes causes us great regret. We perceive in you, Othomar, a certain tendency towards _bourgeois_ hypersensitiveness, which we hope you will learn to master with all the strength you possess. Few of us have in this life escaped a sorrow such as Prince von Lohe-Obkowitz has caused your future bride, but it remains an entirely personal and subordinate feeling and should not be allowed to interfere _in the least_ with affairs of such great political importance as the marriage of a future emperor of Liparia. The archduchess will doubtless, when she is older, learn to look at this in the same light; and we hope that she will very soon realize that her affection for Prince Lohe could never have brought her happiness, as it would have caused a rupture with his imperial majesty her uncle and with all her relations. "Master yourself, Othomar, we ask and urge. You sometimes have ideas and entertain proposals which are not those of a ruler. We have noticed this more than once or twice: among other occasions, when you visited Zanti at Vaza. We did not like to reproach you with this at the time, as we were otherwise very well pleased with you. Your dearest wish will no doubt be that we shall always remain so. "We hope therefore to see you three weeks hence at Sigismundingen, where the Archduchess Valérie will by then have returned from Altseeborgen to meet you and where we shall also meet the Emperor of Austria. "It is our fervent hope that the long voyage with Herman will have done you much good and that your wedding will take place at Altara _as soon as possible_. This glad prospect affords us a pleasant diversion from our difficulties with the army bill, which is encountering such stubborn opposition in the house of deputies, though we hope for all that to succeed in carrying it, as it is essential that our army should be increased. "We cordially embrace you. "OSCAR." CHAPTER V 1 It was after the state banquet in the castle at Sigismundingen, where the imperial families of Liparia and Austria were assembled to celebrate the betrothal of the Duke of Xara and the Archduchess Valérie. It was in September: the day had been sultry and in the evening the oppressive heat still hung brooding in the air. Dinner was just over and the imperial procession returned through a long corridor to the reception-rooms. All the balcony-windows of the brightly-lighted gallery stood open; beneath, as in an abyss of river landscape, flowed the Danube, rolling against the rocks, while above it towered the castle with its innumerable little pointed turrets. The mountain-tops were defined in a sombre, violet amphitheatre against the paler sky, which was incessantly lit with electric flashes, as of noiseless lightning. The wood stood gloomy and black, shadowy, sloping up with the peaked tops of its fir-trees against the mountains; in the distance lay small houses, huddled in the dusk of the evening, like some straggling hamlet, with here and there a yellow light. The Emperor of Liparia gave his arm to the mother of the bride, the Archduchess Eudoxie; then followed the Emperor of Austria with the Empress of Liparia, the Archduke Albrecht with the Empress of Austria, Othomar with Valérie.... Valérie, lightly pressing Othomar's arm, withdrew with him from the procession: "It was so warm in the dining-room; you will excuse me," she said to Othomar's sister, the Archduchess of Carinthia, who was following with one of her Austrian cousins. Valérie's smile requested the archduchess to go on. The others followed: the august guests, the equerries, the ladies-in-waiting; they smiled to the betrothed imperial couple, who stood in one of the open window-recesses to let them pass. They remained alone in the gallery, before the open window: "I need air," said Valérie, with a sigh. He made no reply. They stood together in silence, gazing at the evening landscape. He was wearing the uhlan uniform of the Austrian regiment which he commanded; and a new order glittered amongst the others on his breast: the Golden Fleece of Austria. She seemed to have grown older than she was at Altseeborgen, in her pink-silk evening-dress, with wide, puffed sleeves of very pale-green velvet, a tight-curled border of white ostrich-feathers edging the low-cut bodice and the train. "Shall I leave you alone for a little, Valérie?" he asked, gently. She shook her head, smiling sadly. Her bosom seemed to heave with uncontrollable emotion. "Why, Othomar?" she asked. "I am lonely enough at nights, with my thoughts. Leave me alone with them as little as you can...." She suddenly held out her hand to him: "Will you forgive your future empress her broken heart?" she asked, suddenly, with a great sob. And her pale, shrunken face turned full towards him, with two eyes like those of a stricken doe. An irrepressible feeling of pity caused something to well up unexpectedly in his soul; he squeezed her hand and turned away, so as not to weep. He looked out of the window. Some of the pointed towers, visible from here, rose with an air of sombre romance against the sky, which was luminous with electricity. Below them, romantically, murmured the Danube. The mountains were like the landscape in a ballad. But no ballad, no romance echoed between their two hearts. The prose of the inevitable necessity was the only harmony that united them. But this harmony also united them in reality, brought them together, made them understand each other, feel and live at one with each other. They were now for a minute alone and their eyes frankly sought the depths of each other's souls. There was no need for pretence between these two: each saw the other's sorrow lying shivering and naked in the other's heart. It was not the riotous passion of despair that they beheld. They saw a gentle, tremulous sadness; they looked at it with wide, staring eyes of anguish, as children look who think they see a ghost. For them that ghost issued from life itself: life itself became for them a ghostly existence. They themselves were spectres, though they know that they were tangible, with bodies. What were they? Dream-beings, with crowns; they lived and bowed and acted and smiled as in a dream, because of their crowns. They did not exist: a vagueness did indeed suggest in their dream-brains that something might exist, in other laws of nature than those of their sphere, but in their sphere they did not exist.... His hand was toying mechanically with some papers that lay near him, on the mirror-bracket between two of the window-recesses; they were illustrated periodicals, doubtless left there by some chamberlain. He took one up, to while their sad silence, and opened it. The first thing that he saw was their own portraits: "Look," he said. He showed them to her. They now turned over the pages together, saw the portraits also of their parents, a drawing of the castle, a corner of Sigismundingen Park. Then together they read the announcement of their engagement. They were first each described separately: he, an accomplished prince, doing a great deal of good, very popular in his own country and cordially loved by the Emperor of Austria; she, every inch a princess, born to be the empress of a great empire, with likewise her special accomplishments. The eyes of all Europe were fixed upon them at the moment. For their marriage would not only be an imperial alliance of great political importance, but would also tie a knot of real harmony: their marriage was a love-match. There had been attempts to make it seem otherwise, but this was not correct. In Gothland, in the home circle at Altseeborgen, the young couple had learnt to know each other well; their love had sprung like an idyll from the sea and the Duke of Xara had once even saved the archduchess' life, when she had ventured out too far, in stormy weather, in a rowing-boat. Their love was like a novel with a happy ending. The Emperor Oscar would rather have seen the Grand-duchess Xenia crown-princess of Liparia and attached great value to an alliance with Russia, but he had yielded before his son's love.... And the article ended by saying that the wedding would take place in October in the old palace at Altara. They read it together, with their mournful faces, their wide, fixed eyes, which still smarted with staring into each other's souls. Not a single remark came from their lips after reading the article; they only just smiled their two heartrending smiles; then they laid the paper down again. And she asked, with that strange calm with which this betrothed pair were trying to get to know each other: "Othomar ... do you care for nobody?" A flush suffused his cheeks. Did she know of Alexa? "I did once think that I ... that I was in love," he confessed; "but I do not believe that it was really love. I now believe that I do not possess the capacity to concentrate my whole soul upon a feeling for one other soul alone; I should not know how to find it, that one soul, and I should fear to make a mistake, or to deceive myself.... No, I do not believe that I shall ever know that exclusive feeling. I rather feel within me a great, wide, general love, an immense compassion, for our people. It is strange of me perhaps...." He said it almost shyly, as though it were something abnormal, that general love, of which he ought to be ashamed before her. "A great love," he explained once more, when she continued to look at him in silence; and he made an embracing gesture with his arms, "for our people...." "Do you really feel that?" she asked, in surprise. "Yes...." A sort of vista opened out before her, as though an horizon of light were dawning right at the end of her dark melancholy; but that horizon was so far, so very far away.... "But, Othomar," she said, "that is very good. It is very beautiful to feel like that!" He shrugged his shoulders: "Beautiful? How do you mean? I cannot but feel it when I see all the misery that exists ... among our people, the lower orders, the very lowest especially. If they were all happy and enjoying abundance, there would be no need for me to feel it. So what is there beautiful about it?" She gave a little laugh: "I can't argue against that, it's too deep for me. I can't say that I have ever thought over those social questions; they have always existed as they are and ... and I have not thought about them. But I can feel, with my feminine instinct, that it is beautiful of you to feel like that, Othomar." She took his hand and pressed it; her face lit up with a smile. Then she looked, pensively, into the dark landscape beneath them and she shivered. "It's turning chilly," he said. "We had better go in, Valérie; you'll catch cold here." She just felt at her bare neck: "Presently," she said. They glanced down, at the murmuring Danube. A mist began to rise from the river and filled the valley as it were with light strips of muslin. "Come," he urged. "Look," she said. "How deep that is, is it not?" He looked down: "Yes," he replied. "Don't you feel giddy?" she asked. He looked at her anxiously: "No, not giddy; at least, not at once...." "Othomar," she said, in a whisper, "I once sat here for a whole evening. I kept on looking down; it was darker than now and I saw nothing but blackness and it kept on roaring through those black depths. It was the evening after our engagement was decided. I felt such pain, I suffered so! I thought that I had won a victory over myself, but they left me no peace and the only use of my victory was to give me strength to do battle again. The news that I was to be your wife came as unexpectedly ... as my great sorrow came! Then I felt so weak because it overwhelmed me so, because they left me no peace. Oh, they were so cruel, they did not leave me a moment to recover my breath! I had to go on again, on! Then I felt weak. I thought that I should never overcome my weakness. I sat here for hours, looking at the Danube. It made me giddy.... At last I thought that I had made up my mind ... to throw myself down.... I already saw myself floating away, there, there, down there, right round the castle.... Why did I not do it? I believe because of ... of him, Othomar. I loved him, I love him _now_, though I ought to have more pride. I would not punish him by committing suicide. He is so weak. I know him: it would have haunted him all his life long!... Then ... then, Othomar, I ran away and I prayed! I no longer knew what to do!" She hid her face full of anguish in her hands, with a great sob. His eyes had filled with tears; he saw how she trembled. He threw a terrified side-glance at the deep stream below, which roared as though calling.... "Valérie," he stammered, in alarm; "for God's sake let us go in. It's too cold here and ... and...." She looked at him anxiously too, with haggard eyes: "Yes, let us go, Othomar!" she whispered. "I am getting frightened here: we have that in our family; there is still so much romance flowing in our veins...." She took his arm; they went indoors together. But, before entering the suite of anterooms that led to the reception-rooms, she detained him for yet a moment: "I don't know whether we shall see each other alone again before you return to Lipara. And I still wanted to thank you for something...." "For what?" he asked. "For ... something that Aunt Olga told me. For ... sparing me at Altseeborgen. Thank you, Othomar, thank you...." She put her arm around his neck and gave him a kiss. He kissed her in return. And they exchanged their first caress. 2 The next day the imperial family of Liparia travelled back from Sigismundingen to Lipara. The reception at the central station was most hearty; the town was covered with bunting; in the evening there were popular rejoicings. The officers of the various army-corps gave the crown-prince banquets in honour of his betrothal. The Archduchess Valérie's portraits were exposed in the windows of all the picture-shops; the papers contained long articles full of jubilation. It was a few hours before the dinner given by the officers of the throne-guards to their imperial colonel when Othomar was, as it were suddenly, overcome by a strange sensation. He was in his writing-room, felt rather giddy and had to sit down. The giddiness was slight, but lasted a long time; for a long time the room seemed to be slowly trying to turn round him and not to succeed; and this gave a painful impression of resistance on the part of its lifeless furniture. One of Othomar's hands rested on his thigh, the other on the ruff of the collie which had laid its head upon his knee. He remained sitting, bending forward. When the giddiness had passed, he retained a strange lightness in his head, as though something had been taken out of it. He leant back cautiously; the collie, half-asleep, dreamily opened its eyes and then dozed off again, its head upon Othomar's knee, under his hand. An irresistible fatigue crept up Othomar's limbs, as though they were sinking in soft mud. It surprised him greatly, this feeling; and, looking sideways at the clock, without moving his head, lest he should bring on the giddiness again, he calculated that he had an hour and a half before dinner. This prospective interval relieved him and he remained sitting, as though calculating his fatigue: whether it would pass, whether it would leave his body. It lasted a long time, so long indeed that he doubted whether he would be able to go. When three-quarters of an hour had passed, he pressed the bell which stood near him on the table. Andro entered. "Andro...." he began, without continuing. "Does your highness wish to dress? Everything is put out...." Othomar just patted the dog's head, as it still lay dozing motionless against his knee. "Is your highness unwell?" "A little giddy, Andro; it is passing off already." "But is your highness right in going? Had I not better send for Prince Dutri?" Othomar shook his head decidedly and rose: "No, I'm late as it is, Andro. Come, help me with my things...." And he entered his dressing-room. He appeared at the dinner, but made excuses to the officers for his evident languor. He just joined in the toasts by raising his glass, with a smile. It struck them all that he looked very ill, emaciated, hollow-eyed and white as chalk in his white-and-gold uniform. Immediately after dinner he returned to the Imperial, without accompanying them to the Imperial Jockey Club, the club of the _jeunesse dorée_. He slept heavily; a misty dream hovered through his night. The man who had tried to murder him at Zanti's grinned at him with clenched fists; then the scene changed to the Gothlandic sea and he rowed Valérie along, but, however hard he rowed, the three towers of the castle always drew farther away, unapproachable.... When he awoke, it was already past eight. He reflected that it was too late for his usual morning ride and remained lying where he was. He rang for Andro: "Why didn't you wake me at seven o'clock?" "Your highness was sleeping so soundly, I dared not; your highness was not well yesterday...." "And so you just let me sleep? Very well.... Send word to her majesty ... that I am not well." The man looked at him anxiously: "What is the matter with your highness?" "I don't know, Andro ... I am a little tired. Where's Djalo?" "Here, highness...." The collie ran in noisily, put its great paws on the camp-bed, wriggled its haunches wildly to and fro as it wagged its tail.... Then, suddenly, it lay down quietly beside the bed. The empress sent back to say that she would come at once; she was not yet dressed.... With calm, open eyes Othomar lay waiting for her. She entered at last, a little agitated with anxiety. She questioned him, but learnt nothing from his vague, smiling replies. She laid her hand on his forehead, felt his pulse and could not make up her mind whether he had any fever. There was typhoid about: she was afraid of it.... The physicians-in-ordinary were called and relieved her mind: there was no fever. The prince seemed generally tired; he had doubtless over-exerted himself lately. He must rest.... The emperor was astonished: the prince had just been resting and had stayed on for weeks at Altseeborgen. What had been the use of it then! The rumour ran through the palace, the town, the country, through Europe, that the Duke of Xara was keeping his room because of a slight indisposition. The physicians issued a simple and very reassuring bulletin. However, in the afternoon Othomar got up and even dressed himself, but not in uniform. He had had some lunch in his bedroom and now went to Princess Thera's apartments. She sat drawing; with her was a lady-in-waiting, the young Marchioness of Ezzera. The princess was surprised to see her brother: "What! Is that you? I thought you were in bed!..." "No, I'm a little better...." He bowed to the marchioness, who had risen and curtseyed. "Won't you go on with the portrait?" asked Othomar. Thera looked at him: "You're looking so pale, poor boy. Perhaps I'd better not. It tires you so, that sitting, doesn't it?" "Yes, sometimes, a little...." They were now standing before the portrait; the marchioness had retired, as she always did when the brother and sister were together. The painting was half-covered with a silk cloth, which Thera pulled aside: it was already a young head full of expression, in which life began to gleam behind the black, melancholy eyes, and painted with broad, firm brushwork, with much reflection of outside light, which fell upon one side of the face and brought it into relief, throwing it forward out of the shadow in the background. "Is it almost finished?" asked Othomar. "Yes, but you've kept me waiting awfully long for the final touches: just think, you've been away for four months. I haven't been able to work at it all that time. But, you know ... you've changed. If only I shan't have to leave it like this. It's no longer like you...." "It'll begin to be like me again, when I'm looking a little better!" answered Othomar. But the princess became rather nervous; she suddenly drew the silk cloth over it again.... Othomar did not appear at dinner; he went to bed early. The next day the doctors found him very listless. He was up but not dressed; he lay in his dressing-gown on the sofa in his room, with the collie at his feet. He complained to the empress that he had such a queer feeling in his head, as though it were about to open and pour out all its contents. For days this condition remained unchanged: a total listlessness, a total loss of appetite, a visible exhaustion.... The empress sat by his side as he lay on his sofa staring through the open windows into the green depths of the park of plane-trees. The birds chirped outside; sometimes Berengar's small, shrill voice sounded among them, as he played with a couple of his little friends. The empress read aloud, but it tired Othomar, it made his head ache.... After a long conversation between the three doctors and the emperor and empress, Professor Barzia was summoned from Altara for a consultation: the professor was a nerve-specialist of European fame. In the emperor's room the emperor, the empress and Count Myxila sat waiting for the result of the examination and the subsequent consultation. It lasted long. They did not speak while they waited: the empress sat staring before her with her quiet expression of acquiescence; the emperor walked irritably to and fro. The old chancellor, with his stern, proud face and bald head, stood pensively near the window. Then the doctors were announced. They appeared, Professor Barzia leading the way, the others following. The empress fancied that she read the worst on the professor's pale, rigid features; one of the physicians, however, nodded his big, kind head compassionately from behind his colleague, to reassure her. "Well?" asked the emperor. "We have carefully examined his imperial highness, sir," the professor began. "The prince is quite free from organic disease, though his constitution is generally delicate." "What's wrong with him then?" asked Oscar. "The prince's nervous system seems to us, sir, to have undergone an alarming strain." "His nerves? But he's never nervous, he's always calm," exclaimed the emperor, stubbornly. "All the more reason, sir, to appreciate the prince's self-restraint. His highness has evidently kept himself going for a long time; and the effort has been too much for him at last. He is calm now, as your majesty says. But his calmness does not alter the fact that his nerves are completely run down. His highness has clearly been overtaxing his strength." "And in what way?" asked the emperor, haughtily. "That, sir, would no doubt be better known to those at court than to me, who come fresh from my study and my hospitals. Your majesty will be able to answer that question yourself. I can only give you a few indications. His highness told me that he remembered sometimes feeling those fits of giddiness and exhaustion even before the great floods in the north. That was in March. It is now September. I imagine that his highness has been leading a very active life in the meantime?" The emperor made movements with his eyebrows as if he could not understand: tremulous motions of his powerful head, with its fleece of silvering hair. "The journey to the north may in fact have affected his highness, professor," the empress began. She was sitting haughtily upright, in her plain dark dress. Her face was expressionless, her eyes were cold. She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, as though she were not a mother. "His highness is very sensitive to impressions," she continued, "and he received a good many at Altara that were likely to shock him." The professor made a slight movement of the head: "I remember, ma'am, seeing his highness at the identification of the corpses in the fields," he said. "His highness _was_ very much affected...." "But to what does all this tend?" asked the emperor, still recalcitrant. "It tends to this, sir, that his highness has presumably allowed himself no rest since that time...." "His highness has allowed himself months of rest!" exclaimed the emperor. "Will your majesty permit us to cast our eyes backwards for a moment? After the very fatiguing journey in the north, the prince returned straight to conditions of political excitement--Lipara was then under martial law--and afterwards came the bustle of a festival time, when the King and Queen of Syria were here...." The emperor shrugged his shoulders. "After that, the prince, acting on the advice of my respected colleagues, went on a sea-voyage to restore his health. No doubt his highness then enjoyed some days of rest; but the great hunting-trips in which he took part with Prince Herman were beyond a doubt too much for his highness' strength. Now, quite recently, his highness has been betrothed: this may have caused him some excitement. I am casually mentioning a few of the main facts, sir. I know nothing of the prince's inner life: if I knew something of that, it would certainly make many things much easier for me. But this is certain: his highness has from day to day led a too highly agitated existence, whatever the agitations may have been, great or small. That his highness did not collapse earlier is no doubt due to an uncommon power of self-control, of which I believe the prince himself to be unconscious, and an uncommon sense of duty, which is also quite spontaneous in his highness. These are high qualities, sir, in a future ruler...." A faint flush dyed the empress' cheeks; a milder expression suffused the coldness of her features. "And what is your advice, professor?" she asked. "That his highness should take an indefinite rest, ma'am." "His highness' marriage was fixed for next month," remarked the empress, in an enquiring tone. Professor Barzia's face became quite white and rigid. "It would be simply inexcusable, if his highness' marriage were to take place next month," he said, with his even, oracular voice. "Postponed, then?" asked the emperor, with suppressed rage. "Without doubt, sir," replied the professor, with cool determination. "My dear professor," the emperor growled between his teeth, with a pretence of geniality, "you speak of rest and of rest and of rest. Good God, I tell you, the prince has _had_ rest, months and months of it!... Do I ever rest so long? Life is movement; and government is movement. We can't allow ourselves to rest. Why should a young man like the prince be always resting? I never remember resting like that, when I was crown-prince! He may not be as strong as I am, but yet he is of our race! Excitement, you say! Good God, what excitement? Political excitement? That fell to _my_ share, not the prince's! And I had no need of rest after it. And has a prince to go and rest when he gets engaged to be married? Really, professor, this is carrying hygiene beyond all limits!" "Sir, your majesty has done me the honour to ask my opinion of the prince's condition. I have given that opinion to the best of my knowledge." "It's rest, then?" "Undoubtedly, sir." "But how long do you want him to rest?" "I am not able to fix a date, sir." "How long do you want his marriage postponed?" "Indefinitely, sir." The emperor paced the room; something unusual passed over his powerful features, a look of anguish.... "That's impossible," he muttered, curtly. All were silent. "It's impossible," he, repeated, dully. "Then his highness will marry, sir," said Barzia. The emperor stood still: "What do you mean?" he asked, gruffly. "That nothing can prevail with your majesty in this most important matter ... except your own sense of what is right and reasonable." The emperor's breath came in short gasps between his full, sensual lips; his veins swelled thick on his low, Roman forehead; his strong fists were clenched. No one had ever seen Oscar like this before; nor had any one ever dared so to address him.... "Explain yourself more clearly," he thundered into the professor's rigid face. Barzia did not move a muscle: "If his highness is married next month ... it means his death." The empress remained sitting stiff and upright, but she turned very pale, shuddered and closed her eyes as though she felt giddy. "His death?" echoed the emperor, in consternation. "Or worse," rejoined Barzia. "Worse?" "The extinction of your majesty's posterity." The emperor rapped out a furious oath and struck his fist on the huge writing-table. The bronze ornaments on it rang. Myxila drew a step nearer: "Sir," he said, "there is nothing lost. If I understand Professor Barzia, his highness' illness is only temporary and is curable." "Certainly, excellency," replied Barzia. "So long as it is not forced to become incurable and chronic." Oscar bit his lips convulsively. His glittering eyes stood out small and cruel. It struck Myxila how much, at this moment, he resembled a portrait of Wenceslas the Cruel. "Professor," he hissed, "we thank you. Stay at Lipara till to-morrow, so as to observe his highness once more." "I will obey your majesty's commands," said Barzia. He bowed, the physicians bowed; they withdrew. Left alone with the empress and the imperial chancellor, Oscar no longer restrained his rage. Like a beast foaming at the mouth, he walked fiercely up and down with heavy steps, gurgling as though the breath refused to come through his constricted throat: "Oh!" he gnashed between his teeth, bursting out at last. "That boy, that boy!... He's not even fit to get married! His duchess: he was able to get married to her! And that boy, oh, that boy is to succeed me, _me!_..." A furious laugh of contempt grated from between his large, white teeth, with biting irony. The empress rose: "Count Myxila," she said, trembling, "may I beg your excellency to come with me?" She turned to leave the room. Myxila, hesitating, was already following her to the door. "What for?" roared the emperor. "What's the reason of that? I have something more to say to Myxila." The empress gave the emperor a look as cold as ice: "It is my express wish, sir, that Count Myxila should go with me," she said, in the same trembling voice. "I think your majesty needs solitude. Your majesty is saying things which a father must not even think and which a sovereign must certainly not say in the presence of a subject, not even in that of one of his highest subjects...." The emperor tried to interrupt her. "Your majesty," continued the empress, with a haughty tremor, cutting the words from him with her icy-cold, trembling voice as though with a knife, "is saying these things of the future Emperor of Lipara ... and I wish _no_ subject, not even Count Myxila, to hear such things; and, moreover, your majesty is saying these things of _my son_: therefore I do not wish to hear them myself, sir! Excellency, I request you once more to come with me." "Go then!" shouted the emperor, like a madman. "Go, both of you: yes, leave me alone, leave me alone!" He walked furiously up and down, flung the chairs one against the other, roared like an angry caged lion. He took a bronze statue from a bracket in front of a tall mirror that rose to the ceiling in gilt arabesques: "There then!" he lashed out, while his passion seemed to seethe mistily in his bewildered brain, to shoot red lightning-flashes from his bloodshot eyes, to drive him mad because of his impotence against the senseless fate and logic of circumstance. Like an athlete he brandished the heavy statue through the air; like a child he hurled it at the great mirror, which fell clattering in a flicker of shreds. The empress and Myxila had left the room. 3 The ordinary court-life continued; the empress' first drawing-room took place. The reception-rooms leading to the great presence-chamber were lit up, though it was day-time; the ladies entered, handed their cards to the grand chamberlain, signed their names and waited until their titles were called out by the masters of ceremonies. They stood in low-necked dresses; the long white veils fell in misty folds of gauze from the feathers and jewelled tiaras. It was the first display of the new costumes of the season, the fashion which had sprung into life and now moved and had its being; but the crowded rooms seemed but the antechambers of that display and the upgathered trains gave an impression of preparation for the solemn second, the momentary appearance before her majesty. The Duchess of Yemena was waiting, her train also thrown over her arm, with the two marchionesses her stepdaughters, whom she was about to present to the empress, when she saw Dutri, bowing, apologizing, twisting through the expectant ladies, to make way for himself through the crowded room: "Dutri," she beckoned, as he did not seem to perceive her. He reached her after some difficulty, bowed, paid his compliments to the little marchionesses. They stood with stiff little faces, frightened, round eyes and tight-closed mouths; and the lines of their girlish figures displayed the shyness of novices. With an awkward grace, they kept arranging their heavy court-trains over their arms. They just smiled at Dutri's words; then they looked stiff again, compared the other ladies' dresses with their own. "Dutri," whispered the duchess, "how is the prince?" "Just the same," the equerry whispered in reply. "Terribly melancholy...." "Dutri," she murmured, sinking her voice still lower, "would there be no chance for me to see him?" Dutri started in dismay: "How do you mean, Alexa? When?" "Presently, after the drawing-room...." "But that is impossible, Alexa! The prince sees no one but their majesties and the princess; he talks to nobody, not even to his chamberlains, not even to us...." "Dutri," she insisted, with her hand on his arm, "do your best. Help me. Ask for an interview for me. If you help me ... I will help you too...." He looked at her expectantly. "What do you think of Hélène?" she asked. "I think Eleonore prettier," he smiled. "Well, come to us oftener, to my special days; we never see anything of you. I will prepare the duke...." She dangled the rich match before his eyes: he blinked them, as he continued to look at her and smile. "But then you must help me!" she continued, with a gentle threat. "I will do my best, Alexa, but I can promise nothing," he just had time to reply. "Wait for me after the drawing-room, in one of the other rooms," he whispered, accompanying her for a few steps. All this time the titles were being cried, ceremoniously, slowly; the ladies moved on, dropped their trains, blossomed out. "Her excellency the Duchess of Yemena, Countess of Vaza; their excellencies the Marchionesses of Yemena...." The duchess moved on, the girls followed her, crimson, with beating hearts. They passed through a long gallery, dropping their trains; at the door of the presence-room, before they entered, stood flunkeys who spread out the heavy court-mantles. "Her excellency the Duchess of ..." The titles rang out for the second time, this time through the presence-chamber and with a sound of greater reverence, because they echoed in the listening ears of welcoming majesty. The duchess and the marchionesses entered. Between the wide hangings of dark-blue velvet, on which glittered the cross of St. Ladislas, and under the canopy supported by gilt pillars, sat the empress, like an idol, glittering in the shadow in her watered-silver brocade, the ermine imperial mantle falling in heavy folds to her feet, a small diadem sparkling upon her head. To the right of the throne, on a low stool, sat the Princess Thera, on the left stood the mistress of the robes, the Countess of Threma; round about, on either side, a crowd of ladies-in-waiting, court-officials, equerries, maids of honour, grooms of the bed-chamber.... The duchess made her curtsey, approached the throne and with great reverence, as though with diffident lips, touched the jewelled finger-tips, which the empress held out like a live relic. Then the duchess took two steps backwards; the marchionesses, one after the other, followed her example, surprising everybody by the attractive freshness of their first court-movements, in which the touch of awkwardness became a charm. Then the bows, in a long ritual of withdrawal, backwards. They disappeared through other doors, found themselves in a long gallery, entered other reception-rooms, where people stood waiting for their carriages. And the two girls looked at each other, seeking each other's impressions, still crimson with the excitement in their vain little hearts and strangely surprised at the incomprehensible briefness of this first and all-important moment of their lives as grown-up people, as ladies accompanying their mamma to the Imperial, where they would thenceforth lead their existence. For how many months beforehand they had thought and dreamed of this moment; now, suddenly, with surprising quickness, it was over.... The duchess chucked Hélène under the chin, put Eleonore's veil straight, said that they had curtseyed beautifully, that she had herself even noticed how pleased the Countess of Threma had been with them. Then she chatted busily with the other ladies, introduced the little marchionesses, promised visits. Then she turned to a flunkey: "Go and see where my carriage is and tell it to leave the rank and drive up last. Here...." She gave him a gold coin; the flunkey disappeared. A nervous impatience seized the duchess; she looked out anxiously for Dutri. At last her eyes caught sight of him; he came up with his fatuous fussiness: "Alexa, it's impossible...." "Have you asked the prince?" "No, not yet; there's the question, to begin with, whether he'll see _me_. But then ... how am I to take you to him? There are always servants hanging about in the doorways, to say nothing of the guards and halberdiers; in the anterooms you run up against a chamberlain at any moment. Really, it is impossible." She grew angry: "Begin by asking him. We'll see later how we're to get to him." Dutri made graceful gestures of despair: "But, Alexa, can't you really understand ... that it is impossible?..." She made no reply, not wishing to reflect, her head filled with her stubborn fixed idea to see the prince, to insist on seeing him. And, suddenly, turning to him: "Very well, if you don't care to do anything for me, you needn't think I shall help you in _any_ way." Her nervous, angry voice sounded louder than her first whispered words: the two girls heard her. "Alexa," he besought her, gently. "No, no," she resisted, curtly. He thought of his debts and of Eleonore: "I'll try," he whispered, in despair. She promptly rewarded him with a smile; he went, hurried away again, with his eternal air of fussy importance, because of his young imperial master, who was so sadly ill. In the anteroom he found the chamberlain on duty: "Would the prince be willing to see me?" The chamberlain shrugged his shoulders: "I'll ask," he said. He speedily returned: the prince had sent word that Dutri could come in. Dutri entered. Othomar lay on a couch covered with tiger-skins, in front of his writing-table. He had grown thinner; his eyes were hollow, his complexion was wan; his neck protruded frail and wasted from the loose turn-down collar of his silk shirt, over which he wore a velvet jacket. In his hand he held an open book. Djalo, the collie, lay on the floor. Dutri the voluble began to press his request in rapid sentences following close upon one another's heels.... "The duchess?" repeated Othomar, faintly. "No, no...." Dutri galloped on, simulated melancholy, employed words of gentle, insinuating sadness. Othomar's face assumed an expression which was strange to it and quite new: it was as though the melancholy of his features were crystallizing into a stubborn obstinacy, a silent doggedness. "No," he said once more, while his voice, too, sounded dogged and obstinate. "Make my apologies to the duchess, Dutri. And where ... where would she wish to see me?" "I did not fail to point out this difficulty to her excellency; but perhaps, if your highness would be so gracious ... one might nevertheless...." Othomar closed his eyes and threw his head back; his hand fell loosely upon the collie's head. He made no further reply and his lips were tightly compressed. Dutri still hesitated: what could he do, what should he tell Alexa?... But the door opened and the empress entered. The drawing-room was over; she had put off her robes and the crown, but she still wore her stiff, heavy dress of silver brocade. She looked coldly at Dutri and bowed her head slightly, as a sign for him to go: the equerry beat a confused retreat, without his usual tact. Othomar half-rose from his couch: "Mamma!..." She sat down beside him, stroked his forehead with her hand: "How do you feel?" He smiled and blinked with his eyes, without replying. "What was Dutri doing here?" "He wanted ... Oh, mamma, never mind, don't ask me!... How beautiful you look! May I, too, kiss your hand?" Winningly, jestingly he took her hand and kissed it. She took his book from his fingers, read the treasonable title: "Are you reading again, Othomar?... You know you mustn't read so much. And why all these strange books?..." On the table lay Lassalle, Marx, works by Russian nihilists, a pamphlet by Bakounine, pamphlets by Zanti.... The little work which he was reading was by a well-known Liparian anarchist and entitled, _Injustice by the Grace of God;_ it overthrew everything: religion and the state; it addressed itself directly to the crowned tyrants in power; it addressed itself directly to Oscar. "Is it to get back your health, Othomar, that you read this sort of thing?" she asked, in a tone of pained reproach. "But, mamma, I must see what it is that they want...." "And what do they want?" He looked pensively before him: "I don't know what they want, I can't understand them. They employ very long sentences, the same sentences over and over again, with the same words over and over again. I can just make out that they disapprove of everything that exists and want something different. But yet sometimes...." "Sometimes what?" "Sometimes they say terrible things, terrible because they sound so true, mamma. When they speak of God and prove that He does not exist, when they describe our whole system of government as a monstrosity and reject all authority, including our own.... They sometimes speak like children who have suddenly learnt to talk and to judge; and then sometimes they suddenly speak clearly; and then very primitive thoughts arise in me: if God exists, why is there any injustice and misery; and our authority: on what right is that founded? O God, mamma, what right have we to reign over others, over millions? Tell me--but argue from the beginning: don't argue backwards; don't begin with us: begin with our first rulers, our usurpers--what right had they? And does ours merely spring from theirs? Oh, these problems, these simple problems: who can solve them, my God, who can solve them?..." Elizabeth suddenly turned pale. She stared at him as though he had gone mad: "Who gives you these books?" she asked, harshly, hoarsely, anxiously. "Dutri, Leoni; Andro has also fetched me some." "They're mad!" exclaimed the empress, rising. "Why do you ask for them?" "I want to know, mamma...." "Othomar," she cried, "will you do what I ask?" "Yes, mamma," he replied, gently, "but sit down again and ... and don't be angry. And ... and don't say 'Othomar.' And ... and go and change your dress: oh, I can't see you in that dress; you are so far from me; your voice doesn't reach me and I daren't kiss you: you are not my mother, you are the empress! Mamma, O mamma!..." His voice appealed to her. A powerful emotion awoke in her. "O my boy!" she cried, with a half-sob breaking in her throat. "Yes, yes, call me that.... Mamma, let's be quick and find each other again, let us not lose each other. What is your request?" "Give me all those books." "I will give them to you; they make me no happier, when all is said!" "But then why are you unhappy, my boy, my boy?" "Mamma, look at the world, look at our people, see how they suffer, see how they are oppressed! What shall I ever be able to do for them! I shall always be powerless, in spite of all our power! Oh, it grows so dark in front of me, I can see nothing more, I have no hope; only Utopians have any hope left, but I ... I no longer hope, for I can do nothing, nothing!... O my God, mamma, the whole country is falling upon me and crushing me and I can do nothing, nothing!... I shall have to reign and I shall not be able to, mamma. What am I? A poor sickly boy: how can I become emperor? I don't know why it is, mamma, nor what it comes from, but I don't feel like a future emperor, I feel like a feeble child! I feel like your child, your boy, and nothing more...." He seemed about to throw himself into her arms, but on the contrary he flung himself backwards, as though he were frightened by her brilliant attire; his head dropped nervelessly on his chest, his arms fell loosely down. She saw his movement: her first feeling was one of regret that she had come to him in court-dress, longing as she did to see him, not allowing herself the time to change. But this regret passed through her as a transient emotion, for it was followed by an intense dizziness, as though a yawning abyss opened at her feet, as though the earth retreated and black nothingness gaped before her. A despair as of utter impotence enveloped her soul. Vaguely she stretched out her arms and threw them round his neck, as though she were groping in the dark, with wandering eyes: "My boy, don't talk like that any more, because ... when you talk like that, you take away my strength too!" she whispered, in alarm. "For how can it be helped? You must, we all must...." "Forgive me, mamma, but I ... I shall not be able to. Oh, I see it clearly now! I am not excited, I am calm. I see it, I prophesy it, it can never be...." "But papa is still so young and so strong, my boy; and, when you grow older...." "The older I grow, the more impossible it will be, mamma. I was always frightened of it as a child, but I never realized it so desperately as now. No, mamma, it cannot be. Now that I am ill, I have plenty of time to reflect; and I now see before me what the end of all our trouble is bound to be...." His eyes gazed at the floor in despair; she still half-clung to him, helplessly; a menacing shiver seemed to float through the room. "Mamma...." She made no response. "I must tell you of my resolve...." "What resolve?..." "Will you tell it to papa?" "What, what, Othomar ... my boy?" "That I can't marry ... Valérie, because...." "Later, later: you needn't marry yet...." "No, mamma, I never can, because I...." She looked at him beseechingly, enquiringly. "Because I want to abdicate ... my rights ... in favour of ... Berengar...." She made no reply; feebly she drooped against him, not knowing how to console and cheer him, and softly and plaintively began to sob. It was as though her soul was being flooded with anguish, slowly but persistently, until it brimmed over. She reproached herself with it all. He was her child: the future Emperor of Liparia had derived this weakness from her. And the manifestation of this agonizing mystery of heredity before her despairing eyes deprived her of all her strength, of all her courage, of all her power of acquiescence and resignation. "Mamma," he repeated. She sobbed on. "Don't be so disconsolate.... Berengar will be better than I.... You'll tell papa, won't you?... Or no, never mind, if it costs you too great an effort: I'll tell him myself...." She started up nervously from her despair: "O my God, no! Othomar, no! Don't talk to him about it: he is so passionate, he would ... he would murder you! Promise me that you will not talk to him about it! _I_ will tell him--O my God!--_I_ will tell him...." But a tremor of hope revived within her. "But, Othomar, I ask you, why do you do this? You are ill now, but you will get better and then ... then you will think differently!" He gazed out before him: his presentiment quivered through him; he saw his dream again: the streets of Lipara filled with crape, right up to the sky, where it veiled the sunlight. And over his features there passed again that new air of hardness, of dogged obstinacy which made him unrecognizable; he shook his head slowly from side to side, from side to side: "No, mamma, I shall never think differently. Believe me, it will be better so." When she saw him like that, her new hope collapsed again and she sobbed once more. Sobbing, she rose; amid her sorrow yawned a void; she was losing something: her son. "Are you going?" he asked. She nodded yes, sobbing. "Do you forgive me?" She nodded yes again. Then she gave him a smile, a smile full of despair; lacking the strength to kiss him, she went out, still sobbing. He remained alone and rose from his couch. He stood in the middle of the room; his eyes stared at the collie: "Why need I give her pain!" he thought. Everything in his soul hurt him. "Why did I go on that voyage with Herman?" he asked himself again. "It was in those first days of rest that I began to think so much. And yet Professor Barzia says, 'Rest!' ... What does he know about me? What does one person know about another?... Djalo!" he cried. The collie ran up, wriggling, joyfully. "Djalo, what is right? How ought the world to be? Must there be kings and emperors, Djalo, or had we better all disappear?" The dog looked at him, wagging its tail violently; suddenly it jumped up and licked his face. "And why, Djalo, need one man always make the other unhappy? Why need princes make their people unhappy? Will life always remain the same, for ages and ages?..." Othomar sank into a heap on the couch; his hand fell on the dog, which licked it passionately. "Oh!" he sobbed. "My people, my people!..." * * * * * At this moment the last carriages were driving away in the fore-court of the Imperial; the staring crowd, behind the grenadiers, peeped curiously at the pretty ladies glistening through the glass of the state-coaches. The Duchess of Yemena's carriage came last of all. 4 A spirit of gloom seemed to haunt the ringing marble halls of the Imperial, a dim melancholy to stifle the cadences of the voices and their echoes and to hang from the tall ceilings as it had been a heavy web of atmosphere. It was autumn; the first parties were to take place; the first court-ball was given. But it seemed to be given because there was no help for it: it was a slow, official, tedious function. The more intimate circles of the Imperial, those of the Duchess of Yemena and the diplomatic body, regretted the more select assemblies in the smaller rooms of the empress. They looked upon those great balls as necessary inflictions. The empress' smaller dances, however, were always favoured as most charming entertainments. But the empress had decided that they should not take place, because of the illness of the crown-prince. At this first great ball their majesties appeared only for a brief moment, to take part in the imperial quadrille.... Grey ashes fell over the glittering mood of imperial festivity which so short a time ago had been the usual atmosphere of the palace. The dinners, once the glories of day after day, were shortened; only the most necessary invitations were given. The emperor himself maintained a constant mood of sullenness: the army bill for the augmentation of the active forces was still attacked in principle in the house of deputies; and the emperor was resolved at all costs to uphold his minister of war. Moreover, thanks to the dash of childishness that showed through all his energy, he had not recovered from his disappointment at the postponement of the Duke of Xara's marriage. He seemed in a continual state of irritation because his Liparian world would not go as he wanted it to go. Neither the empress nor the prince himself thought it a favourable moment to communicate the mournful resolution to the emperor. But for this very reason the empress began silently to cherish fresh hope. Nothing had been said yet: the humiliating secret existed only between her son and herself. Humiliating, because what public reason could he allege for resigning the succession? What pretext would sound plausible enough to conceal the true motive of weakness and impotence? And yet he was her child and Oscar's! It seemed to the empress unfeasible to communicate Othomar's wish to his father and to tell the emperor that his own son had no capacity for government. Oh, what sacrifice would she not be prepared to make, if only she could spare her child this humiliation! But was he really so powerless to master himself and to draw himself up, proudly, under the weight of what was as yet no more than a prince's coronet? Had she but known how to counteract his discouragement; but she had merely sobbed, merely given way before his despair; in vain had she sought in his soul the secret spring that should cause him to rise from the impotence into which the languor of his reflections had made him sink.... And yet she felt that there must be a secret spring, because she instinctively divined its presence in the souls of all her equals: it was the mystery of their sovereignty, the reason why they were sovereigns, the reason of their prerogative. She possessed the adorable, child-like faith that in them, the crowned heads, there exists a common essence of distinction which raises them above the crowd: that single drop of sacred blood in their veins, that single atom of inherited divinity, which sheds lustre through their souls. She believed in their high exclusive right of majesty. Because she believed in that even as she believed in her sinfulness as a human being and in the absolution of her confessor, the Archbishop of Lipara, she could never for one instant doubt their right divine as rulers. Whatever people might think, or write, or want different, theirs was the right: of this she was certain, as certain as of the Trinity. That Othomar had doubted the existence of God had struck her as impious, but it had not shattered her so much as his disbelief in their right. Was he alone then lacking in that essence of distinction, that sacred golden drop of blood, that divine atom? And, if he lacked it, if he, the crown-prince, lacked majesty, was this monstrous lack her fault, the fault of the mother who bore him? The suspicion of this guilt crushed her; and before she even dared to speak to Othomar she humbled herself before the archbishop. The prelate, alarmed at these portents in the mysterious melancholy of the Imperial, had scarcely known how to comfort her. After that, she remained prostrate for hours before her crucifix. She prayed with all her soul, prayed for light for herself and for her son, prayed for strength and that the spark might descend upon Othomar. When she had prayed thus, so long and with such conviction, there came over her, like an afflatus of the Holy Ghost, a sense of peace. She became herself again, she awaited events, regained her credulous fatalism, her conviction that nothing happens but what must happen and is right. What was wrong did not happen. If it were fated that Othomar must receive that spark, that would be right; if it were fated that he must abdicate, that would be right too, O God, right with a strange, inscrutable rightness!... Because the days had passed without her having yet spoken to the emperor, she hoped anew; she hoped that Othomar would be his old self again and no longer seek his own degradation. But it was as though she hoped in spite of everything; for, each time that she now saw Othomar, she found him duller and more exhausted, more helpless beneath the certainty of his weakness. Professor Barzia, who treated the prince personally and twice a day gave him his cold-water douche in the palace, seemed to be least uneasy about Othomar's physical weakness. The prince was not robust, but the professor divined in his delicate constitution the presence of the element that had sprung from the first rough, sensual strength of the Czyrkiski race: the Slavonic element, which had become enervated through its Latin admixtures, but had lingered on; a secret toughness, an indestructible factor of unsuspected firmness, which lay deep down, like a foundation, and upon which much seemed to be built that was very slender and fragile. What had once been rude strength the professor believed he had discovered in a certain toughness; what had been cruelty and lust, in a certain enervation, which had hitherto been held in check by self-restraint and a spontaneous sense of duty, but which now suddenly revealed itself in this excessive lassitude. Barzia distinctly perceived in Othomar the scion of his ancestors; and he considered that, though the rich physical vigour of the original sovereign blood had become refined, as if it were now flowing more thinly through feebler veins, yet that blood was not so impoverished that the delicacy of this future emperor need be ascribed to racial exhaustion. Possibly Barzia's sudden affection for the prince tinged this physiological diagnosis with excessive optimism; at any rate, the professor had not the least fear of this fragility, or even of this nervous weakness. What he did fear was lest those mental qualities which had so suddenly endeared the prince to him should not be able to maintain themselves during this period of fatigue and exhaustion. Spontaneous, unreflected, uncalculated he knew those virtues to be in the prince, as it were a treasure unknown to himself: would they be lost, now, in these mournful days, or would they remain, perhaps develop, become more and more refined, make up to Othomar in moral strength for what he lacked in physical strength and in this way cure him? For the professor knew it: these qualities alone could effect a cure.... Othomar himself thought neither of his virtues nor of his blood: he thought of his future and thought of it with an hourly-increasing dread. When the empress asked Barzia whether this rest would be good for the prince and whether distraction would not be better, the professor declared that the prince had had plenty of distraction lately. He must first get over his fatigue, get over it entirely; it mattered less with what the prince kept his brain occupied for the moment.... But Barzia did not mean this altogether and would doubtless have been very far from meaning it at all, had he known of what the prince was thinking, or been fully able to judge his utter lack of mental elasticity. And the days passed by. Othomar did not mention his resolution to the empress again, desiring to give her as little pain as possible; neither did the empress allude to it: she hoped on. But in Othomar's meditations it revolved incessantly, like a wheel: he was able to do nothing for his people and yet he loved them; he did not know how to govern them, he would abdicate his rights and his title of crown-prince: Berengar should become Duke of Xara.... The small prince came and paid his brother a short visit every morning; he always wore his little uniform, looking like a sturdy little general in miniature, and Othomar watched him with a smile. Was there no wish to rule in the boy's medieval little brain, was there no jealousy in his passionate little heart? Othomar remembered the history of Liparia, in the cruel times of their early middle-ages, that terrible drama--they still showed at St. Ladislas the chamber where it had been enacted--that second son stabbing his elder brother in his lust for the crown and hurling the corpse from an oriel window into the Zanthos, which flowed beneath the fortress. What had the boy inherited of this rivalry? And, though this rivalry had been wholly refined into less salient feelings, would not an immense happiness enter Berengar's small princely soul if he were to learn that he might be crown-prince now and that one day he would be ... emperor? But what would the boy think of him, Othomar, for giving away all this magnificence of his own free will? Would he despise him, while yet feeling grateful to him, or would he cherish mistrust, suspecting a lurking mystery behind all this greatness, which Othomar cast from him?... At such times Othomar would draw the little fellow to him with silent compassion, but would take pleasure in feeling the firm muscles of his sturdy little arms and listening to his short, crisp little speeches. Then Berengar rode away and Djalo was allowed to run with him through the park: in an hour he would bring the dog back to Othomar and talk with great importance of his lessons, which were just beginning. And, when Berengar had gone, Othomar lay thinking about him in his long hours of reverie, already looked upon his brother as actually crown-prince, erased his own name from the list of future sovereigns, thought of what he would do when he was cured and had shaken off the last remnant of his purple, remembered his uncle Xaverius, who was the abbot of a monastery, and pictured himself studying, compiling works on history and sociology.... 5 These were autumn days. The sunny blue of the sky was often clouded with grey; in the morning the winds blew from the north, blew over the sea till it became the colour of steel; then the sun broke through and shone very warmly for a couple of hours, with an occasional cold blast, suddenly and treacherously rushing round the corners of the streets; then, at four or half-past four o'clock, the sun was extinguished and the pale sky was left exhaling its icy chillness on the open harbour, between the white palaces, in the streets and squares. It was a treacherous time of year: the empress and Berengar had caught cold driving in an open carriage; they both kept their rooms and Othomar in his turn went to visit them; the empress was coughing, the little prince had a temperature; there was never so much illness about as now, the doctors declared. And a melancholy continued to brood through the halls of the Imperial, through the whole town, where the imperial family were no longer seen at the opera and at parties. Never had the daily dinners at the Imperial been so short, with so few guests; and it made an insurmountably sad impression not to see the empress seated next to the emperor, delicate, distinguished, august, but in her stead the Princess Thera, who seemed quite incapable of bringing a smile to Oscar's grim and peevish features. Othomar did not even know that those about the empress were anxious on her behalf: she always received him with all the cheerfulness that she could muster, in spite of the pain on her chest; the doctors told him nothing, no one gave him the bulletins, every one tried to spare him; and besides there was really less anxiety in the Imperial than in the town and throughout the country. But the little prince received Othomar with less meekness than did the empress; and every day there were silent rages, sulking displays against the doctors for keeping him in bed. Once, when the crown-prince came to see Berengar, the doctors were with him; the fever had increased, but the little prince wanted to get out of bed; he was naughty, used ugly names, had even struck the good-natured, big-headed doctor and pummelled him with his little clenched fist. "As soon as you're better, Berengar," said Othomar, after first reproving him, "I shall make you a present." "What of?" asked the boy, eagerly. "But I am better now!" "No, no, you must do what the doctors tell you and not vex them." "And what will you give me then?" Othomar looked at him long and firmly. "What shall I have then?" repeated the child. "I mustn't tell you yet, Berengar; it's really rather big for you still." "What is it then? A horse?" "No, it's not as big as a horse, but heavier. Don't ask any more about it and also don't try and guess what it is, but be obedient: then you'll get better and then you shall have it." "Heavier than a horse and not so big!..." Berengar pondered, with glowing cheeks. With his head bowed on his breast, dragging his footsteps, Othomar returned to his room. He stayed there for hours, sitting silently, gloomily, in the same attitude; as usual, he did not appear at dinner and hardly ate what Andro brought him. Then he went to lie down on his couch, took up a book to read, but put it down again and raised himself up, as though with a sudden impulse: "Why not now?" he thought. "Why keep on postponing it?..." Night fell, but the upper corridors of the palace were not yet lighted; dragging his fatigue through this dusky shadow, Othomar went to the emperor's anterooms. The chamberlain announced him. Oscar sat at his writing-table, pen in hand. "Am I disturbing you, papa? Or can I speak to you?" "No, you're not disturbing me.... Have you been to see mamma?" "Yes, this afternoon; she was pretty well, but Berengar's temperature was higher." The emperor glanced up at him: "Worse than this morning?" "I don't know: he was rather feverish." The emperor rose: "Do you want to talk to me?" "Yes, papa." "Wait a moment, then. I've not been to Berengar yet to-day." He went out, leaving the door ajar. Othomar remained alone. He sat down. He looked round the great work-room, which he knew so well from their morning consultations with the chancellor. Lately, however, he had not attended these. He thought over what he should say; meanwhile his eyes wandered around; they fell upon the great mirror with its gilt arabesques; something seemed strange to him. Then he rose and walked up to the glass: "I was under the impression there was a flaw near the top of it," he thought. "I can't well be mistaken. Has it been renewed?" He was still standing by the looking-glass, when Oscar returned: "Berengar is not at all well; the fever is increasing," he said; and the tone of his voice hesitated. "Mamma is with him...." Absorbed as he was in his own meditations, it did not strike Othomar that the little prince must have become worse for the empress, who was herself ill, to go to him. "And about what did you want to speak to me?" asked the emperor, as the prince remained silent. "About Berengar, papa." "About Berengar?" "About Berengar and myself. I have been contrasting myself with him, papa. We are brothers, we are both your sons. Which of us, do you think, takes most after you ... and ... our ancestors?" "What are you driving at, Othomar?" "At what is right, papa: right and just. Nature is sometimes unjust and blind; she ought to have let Berengar be born first and me next ... or even left me out altogether." "Once more, what are you driving at, Othomar?" "Can't you see, papa? I will tell you. Is Berengar not more of a monarch than I am? Is that not why he's your favourite? And ought I to deprive him of his natural rights for the sake of my traditional rights? I want to abdicate in his favour, papa. I want to abdicate everything, all my rights." "The boy's mad," muttered Oscar. "All my rights," repeated Othomar, dreamily, as though he foresaw the future: his little brother crowned. "Othomar, are you raving?" asked the emperor. "Papa, I am not raving. What I am now telling you I have thought over for days, perhaps weeks; I don't know: time passes so quickly.... What I am telling you I have discussed with mamma: it made her cry, but she did not oppose me. She looks at it as I do.... And what I tell you holds good; I have made up my mind and nothing can make me change it.... I am fond of Berengar; I am glad to give up everything to him; and I shall pray that he may become happy through my gift. I am convinced--and so are you--that Berengar will make a better emperor than I. What talent do I possess for ruling?..." He shrugged his shoulders in helplessness, with a nervous shudder that jolted them: "None," he answered himself. "I have no talent, I can do nothing. I do not know how to decide--as now--nor how to act; I shall always be a dreamer. Why then should I be emperor and he nothing more than the commander-in-chief of my army or my fleet? Surely that can't be right; that can't have been what nature intended.... Papa, I give it him, my birthright, and I ... I shall know how to live, if I must...." The emperor had listened to him with his elbows on the table and his hands under his chin and now sat staring at him with his small, pinched eyes: "Do you mean all this?" he asked. "Yes, papa." "You're not delirious?" "No, papa, I'm not delirious." "Then you're mad." The emperor rose: "Then you're mad, I tell you. Othomar, realize that you're mad and return to your senses; don't become quite insane." "Why do you call me insane, papa? _Can't_ you agree with me that Berengar would be better than I?" His father's cruel glances stabbed Othomar through and through: "No, you're not insane in that; you're right there...." "And why, then, am I insane because I wish, for that reason, to abdicate in his favour?" "Because it's impossible, Othomar." "What law prevents me?" "My will, Othomar." The prince drew himself up proudly: "Your will?" he cried. "Your will? You acknowledge that I am nothing of a prince except by birth? You acknowledge that Berengar does possess your capacity for ruling and you will not, you _will_ not have me abdicate? And you think that I shall fall in with that will?..." He uttered a hoarse laugh: "No, papa, I shall pay no heed to that will. You can carry through your will in everything, but not in this. Though you called out your whole army, you could not prevail against me here. There is a limit to the power of human will, papa, and nothing, nothing, nothing can prevent me from considering myself unfit to reign and from _refusing_ to wear a crown!" The emperor seized Othomar's wrists; his hot breath hissed in Othomar's face: "You damned cub!" he snarled between his large, white teeth. "You wretched nincompoop! You're right: there's nothing of the emperor in you; there never will be. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were the son of a footman. You're right, you're incompetent. You're nothing: our crown doesn't fit you. And yet, though I had to lock you up in a prison, so that no one might hear of your baseness, you shall _not_ abdicate your rights. My will extends farther than you can see. Do you hear? You shan't do it, you shan't resign, though from this moment onwards I have to hide you, as a disgrace, from the world. Your slack brain can't understand that, can it? You can't understand that I'm fonder of Berengar than of a poltroon like you and that nevertheless I won't have him as my successor in your stead? Then I shall have to tell you. I won't have it, so as not to let the world see the degeneration of our race. I will not have the world know how pitiably we have deteriorated in you; and I would rather ... I would rather murder you than allow you to abdicate!" Fiercely Oscar took the prince by his shoulders, pushed him backwards on a couch, on which Othomar sank in a huddled attitude, while his father continued to hold him like a prey in the grip of his strong hands: "But I tell you," continued the emperor, "I tell you, you are _not_ the son of a footman, you are my son; and I shall not murder you, because I am your father. I will only say this to you, Othomar: you might have spared me this. I believe you have a high opinion of your own delicacy of feeling, but you have not the very least feeling. You do not even feel that you have been contemplating a villainy, the villainy of a proletarian, a slave, a pariah, a wretch. You have not felt even for an instant the pain you would cause me by such an infamy. You saw that I was fonder of your brother; you thought that I should approve of your cowardly proposal. Not for a moment did the thought occur to you that, with that cowardice of yours, you would give _me_ the greatest pain that I could ever experience!..." Othomar, utterly crushed, had fallen back upon the couch. He was no longer able to distinguish what was just and what was true; he no longer knew himself at that minute; his father's words lashed his soul like whips. And he felt no strength within him to resist them: the insulting reproaches kept him down, as though he had been thrashed. Infamy and disgrace, insanity and degeneration: he collapsed beneath them; he gulped down the mud of them, till he felt like suffocating. And that he did not suffocate and continued to breathe, continued to live, that the light was bright around him, that things remained unchanged, that the outside world knew nothing: all this was despair to him. For a moment he thought of his mother. But he wished for darkness, for death, to hide himself, himself and his shame, his degeneration, the leprosy of his pariah-temperament.... It flashed through him in the second after that last lash of reproach, flashed across his despondent soul. He knew that Oscar always kept a loaded revolver in an open pigeon-hole of his writing-table. His brain grew tense in the effort of thinking how to reach it. He rose, approached the pigeon-hole; suddenly he sprang towards it, stretched out his hand and seized the pistol.... Did Oscar believe that his son had been driven mad by his last words and now wanted his father's life? Did he perceive this ecstasy of suicide in his offspring, was his quivering brain penetrated by the horrible thought that self-destruction would be the pariah's last refuge? Be this as it might, he rushed at Othomar. But the prince lightly leapt out of his reach, pointed the revolver, with wild eyes, with distorted features, in senseless despair, upon himself, upon his own forehead, on which the veins swelled blue.... "Othomar!" roared the emperor. At this moment hurried footsteps were heard outside, confused words sounded in the anteroom and the Marquis of Xardi, the emperor's aide-de-camp, alarmed and flurried, threw the door wide open.... "Sir!" he exclaimed. "The empress asks if your majesty will come to Prince Berengar this instant...." The shot had gone off, into the wall. Blood dripped from Othomar's ear. The emperor had caught hold of the crown-prince and torn the revolver, still loaded in five chambers, from him; a second shot went off in that brief moment of struggle, into the ceiling, Othomar remained standing vacantly. "Marquis!" the emperor hissed out at Xardi. "I don't know what you think, but I tell you this: you've seen nothing, you think nothing. What happened here before you came in ... did not happen." He pointed his finger, threateningly at Xardi: "Should you ever forget, marquis, that it did not happen, then I shall forget who you are, though your pedigree dates back farther than ours!" Xardi stood deathly pale before his emperor: "My God, sir!..." "What do you mean by entering your sovereign's room in this unmannerly fashion? Even the Duke of Xara has himself announced, marquis!" "Sir...." "What? Speak up!..." "Her majesty...." "Well, her majesty?" "Prince Berengar ... the fever has increased ... he is delirious, sir, and the doctors ..." The emperor turned pale: "Is he dead?" he asked, fiercely. "Tell me at once." "Not dead, sir, but...." "But what?" "But the doctors ... have no hope...." With an oath of anguish the emperor pushed the aide aside and darted out of the room. The prince remained standing. Life returned to him: a reality full of anguish, born of nightmare. His eyes swam with tears: "Xardi," he implored, "Xardi ... your house has always been loyal to our house; swear to me that you will be silent." The marquis looked at the crown-prince in consternation: "Highness...." "Swear to me, Xardi." "I swear to you, highness," said the aide, subdued; and he stretched out his fingers to the crucifix hanging on the wall. Othomar pressed his hand: "Did Prince Berengar...." He could scarcely speak. "Did Prince Berengar become so ill suddenly?..." "The fever is increasing every moment, highness, and he is delirious...." "I will go to him," said Othomar. He wiped the blood from his ear with his handkerchief and held the cambric, which was at once soaked through, against it. In the last anteroom he passed the chamberlain and looked at him askance. Xardi stopped for a moment: "The Duke of Xara has hurt himself slightly," he said. "He was examining the emperor's revolver when I went in and he started: two shots went off." "I heard them," whispered the chamberlain, pale as death. "There might have been an accident...." They were silent for a moment; their glances were full of understanding; a shudder crept down their backs. The chill night seemed to be descending over the palace as with clouds of evil omen. "And ... the little prince?..." asked the chamberlain, shivering. Xardi shrugged his shoulders; his eyes grew moist, through innate, immemorial love for his sovereigns: "Dying," he answered, faintly. 6 The crown-prince passed through the anteroom: one of the doctors stood dipping poultices into a basin of ice; a valet was bringing in a pail of fresh ice. The door of the bedroom was open and Othomar remained standing at the door. The little prince lay on his camp-bed, talking in a low, sing-song tone; the empress, pale, suffering, bearing up in spite of everything, sat beside him with Princess Thera. The emperor exchanged brief words with the two other doctors, whose features were overcast with a stark hopelessness; a mordant anguish distorted Oscar's face, which became furrowed with deep wrinkles: "My God, he doesn't know me, he doesn't know me!" Othomar heard the emperor complain. "Nor me," murmured the empress. "What can it be? What, what, what can it be?" sang the little prince; and his usually shrill little voice sounded soft as a bird's melody: it was as though he were playing by himself. "I'm to have a present from my brother, from my brother, something nice!" he sang on. The empress could distinguish his words, but she did not understand; and when he went on to sing the name of the crown-prince, with his title: "Othomar, O Othomar of Xara, of Xara!..." she turned to the door and gently implored: "Othomar, he's calling your name; come, perhaps he will know you!" Othomar approached; he went past the emperor and knelt down by the bed; a smile lit up Berengar's little face. "He is becoming calmer," said the kind doctor, whose tears were running down his cheeks, to Oscar. "Does your majesty see? The prince recognizes his highness the duke...." A note of gladness sounded in his voice. But a violent jealousy distorted the emperor's features: "No, no," he said. "Certainly, sir, only look," the doctor insisted, his hope reviving. "O Othomar, O Othomar of Xara!" sang the little prince: he had recognized his brother, but did not see him in the flesh, saw him only in his waking dream, through the mist of his fever. "What do you bring me that's nice? Smaller than a horse, but heavier? Heavier? Oh, how heavy it is, how heavy, heavy, heavy!..." His little voice came as though with an effort, as though he were lifting something; his convulsive, small, broad hands made a gesture of laborious lifting. "Berengar," said the crown-prince; and his voice broke, his heart sank within him.... "Othomar," replied the child. A cry of anguish escaped the emperor. "Yes, you're always so good to me," continued the little prince in his sing-song. "You always give me such nice things. You know, those lovely guns on my last birthday? And that pistol? But mamma's afraid of that!... Are you dying, Othomar? Look, there's blood on your ear.... But when people bleed they die! Are you dying, Othomar? Look, blood on your coat...." The empress remained sitting straight upright; she glared from Berengar at the bleeding wound of her eldest son.... "Blood, blood, blood!" sang Berengar. "Othomar is dying! Yes, he always gives me so many nice things, does Othomar. I have so many already, many more than all the other children of Liparia put together! And what am I to have now?... Still more?... That nice thing: what is it? I can feel it: it's so heavy; but I can't see it...." The doctor had come from the anteroom and approached with the poultices. "I can't see it!... I can't see it!..." the boy sang out, painfully and faintly. When the doctor applied the poultices, Berengar struggled, began to cry, as though a great sorrow was springing up in his little heart: "I can't see it!" he sobbed. "I shall never see it!..." A violent paroxysm succeeded the sobbing: he struck out wildly with his arms, pulled off the poultices, threw the ice off his head, stood up mad-eyed in his bed, flung away the sheets.... Othomar rose, the empress also. The emperor sat in a chair, his face covered with his hands, and sobbed by Princess Thera's side. The doctors approached the bed, endeavoured to calm Berengar, but he struck them: the fever mounted into his little brain in madness. At this moment Professor Barzia entered: he was not staying in the palace; he had been sent for at his hotel. "What is your highness doing here?" he said, point-blank, to Othomar. The crown-prince made no reply. "Your highness will retire to your own rooms at once," the professor commanded. "Save my boy!" exclaimed the emperor, broken, sobbing. "I am saving the crown-prince first, sir: he is killing himself here!" "Very well, but next save _him!_" shouted Oscar, fiercely. The other doctors had given orders: a tub was brought in, filled with lukewarm water, regulated by a thermometer.... But Othomar saw no more: he rushed away, driven out by Barzia's stern glances. He rushed along the corridors, through a group of officers and chamberlains, who stood anxiously whispering and made way for him. He plunged into his own room, which was not lighted. In the dark, he thought he was flinging himself upon a couch, but bumped upon the ground. There he remained lying. Then, as though crushed by the darkness, he began to croon, to moan, to sob aloud, with sharp, hysterical cries. Andro entered; his foot struck against the prince. He lit the gas, tried to lift his master. But Othomar lay heavy as lead; fierce and prolonged, his nervous cries came jolting from his throat. Andro rang, once, twice, three times; he went on ringing for a long time; at last a footman and a chamberlain appeared together, at different doors. "Call Professor Barzia!" cried Andro to the footman. "Excellency, will you help me lift his highness?" he begged the chamberlain. But, when the footman turned round, he ran against the professor, who could do nothing for the little prince and had followed the crown-prince. He saw Othomar lying on the floor, moaning, screaming.... "Leave me alone with his highness," he ordered, with a glance around him. The chamberlain, Andro, the footman obeyed his order. The professor was a tall old man, heavily-built and strong; he approached the prince and lifted him in his arms, notwithstanding the leaden heaviness of hysteria. Thus he held him, merely with his arms around him, upon the couch and looked deep into his eyes, with hypnotic glances. Suddenly Othomar ceased his cries; his voice was hushed. His head fell feebly upon Barzia's shoulder. The professor continued to hold him in his arms. The prince became calm, like a quieted child, without Barzia's having uttered a word. "May I request your highness to go to bed?" said the professor, with a gentle voice of command. He assisted Othomar to get up and himself lit the light in the bedroom and helped the prince off with his coat. "What has made your highness' ear bleed?" asked Barzia, whose fingers were soiled with clotted blood. "A revolver-shot," Othomar began, faintly; his closed and averted eyes told the rest. The professor said nothing more. As though Othomar were a child, he went on helping him, washed his ear, his neck, his hands, with a mother's gentleness. Then he made him lie down in bed, covered him over, tidying the room like a servant. Then he went and sat by the bed, where Othomar lay staring with strange, wide-open eyes: he took the prince's hand and sat thus for a long time, looking softly down upon him. The light behind, turned down low, threw Barzia's large head into the shadow and just glanced upon his bald cranium, from which a few grey locks hung down his neck. At last he said, gently: "Your highness wishes to get well, do you not?" "Yes," said Othomar, in spite of himself. "How does your highness propose to do so?" asked the professor. The prince did not answer. "Doesn't your highness know? Then you must think it over. But you must keep very calm, will you not, very calm...." And he stroked Othomar's hand with a gentle, regular motion, as though anointing it with balsam. "For your highness must never again give way to nervous attacks. Your highness must study how to prevent them. I am giving your highness much to think about," continued Barzia, with a smile. "I am doing this because I want to let your highness think of other things than of what you are thinking. I want to clear your brain for you. Are you tired and do you want to go to sleep, or shall I go on talking?" "Yes, go on," whispered the prince. "There are days of great grief in store for the Imperial," the doctor resumed, gently. "Your highness must think of those days without permitting yourself to be overcome by the grief of them.... The little prince will probably not recover, highness. Will you think of that ... and think of your parents, their poor majesties? There are days like these for a nation, or for a single family, in which grief seems to pile itself up. For does not this day, this night seem to mark the end of your race, my prince?... Lie still, lie still, don't move: let me talk on, like a garrulous old man.... Does your highness know that the emperor to-day, for the first time in his whole life, cried, sobbed? His younger son is dying. Between this boy and the father is a first-born son, who is very, very ill.... Is not all this the end?" "Yet, if God wills it so," whispered Othomar. "It is our duty to be resigned," said Barzia. "But does God will it so?" "Who can tell?..." "Ask yourself, but not now, highness: to-morrow, to-morrow.... After the saddest nights ... the mornings come again...." The professor rose and mixed a powder in a glass of water: "Drink this, highness...." Othomar drank. "And now lie quiet and close those wide eyes." "I shall not be able to sleep though...." "That is not necessary, only close those eyes...." Barzia stroked them with his hand; the prince kept them closed. His hand again lay in the hand of the professor. A hush descended upon the room. Outside, in the corridors and galleries, perplexed steps approached at times, from the distance, in futile haste; then they sounded away, far away, in despair. A world of sorrow seemed to fill the palace, there, outside that room, until it held every hall of it with its dark, tenebrous woe. But in this one room nothing stirred. The professor sat still and stared before him, absorbed in thought; the crown-prince had fallen asleep like a child. 7 Next morning the day rose upon an empire in mourning. Prince Berengar had passed away in the night. Othomar had slept long and woke late, as in a strange calm. When Professor Barzia told him of the young prince's end--the apathy of the last moments, after a raging fever--it seemed to him as if he already knew it. The great sorrow which he felt was singularly peaceful, without rebellion in his heart, and surprised himself. He remained lying calmly when the professor forbade him to get up. He pictured to himself without emotion the little prince, motionless, with his eyes closed, on his camp-bed. Mechanically he folded his hands and prayed for his brother's little soul. He was not allowed to leave his room that day and saw only the empress, who came to him for an instant. He was not at all surprised that she too was calm, dry-eyed: she had not yet shed tears. Even when he raised himself from his pillows and embraced her, she did not cry. Nor did he cry, but only his own calmness astonished him: not hers. She stayed for but a moment; then she went away, as though with mechanical steps, and he was left alone. He saw nobody else that day except Barzia: not even Andro entered his room. Outside the chamber, the prince, judging from certain steps in the corridors, certain sounds of voices--the little that penetrated to him--could divine the sorrow of the palace; he pictured sad tidings spreading through the land, through Europe and causing people to stand in consternation in the presence of death, which had taken them by surprise. Life was not secure: who could tell that he would be alive to-morrow! Vain were the plans of men: who could tell what the hour would bring forth! And he lay thinking of this calmly, in the singular peacefulness of his soul, in which he saw the futility of struggling against life or against death. Not till next day did Barzia give him leave to get up, late in the afternoon. After his shower-bath, he dressed calmly, in his lancer's uniform, with crape round the sleeve. When he saw himself in the glass, he was surprised at his resemblance to his mother, at seeing how he now walked with the same mechanical step. Barzia allowed him to go to the empress' sitting-room. He there found her, the emperor, Thera and the Archduke and Archduchess of Carinthia, who had arrived at Lipara the evening before. They sat close together, now and then softly exchanging a word. Othomar went up to the emperor and would have embraced him; Oscar, however, only pressed his hand. After that Othomar embraced his sisters and his brother-in-law. Then he sank down by the empress, took her hand in his and sat still. She looked attenuated and white as chalk in her black gown. She did not weep: only the two princesses sobbed, persistently, again and again. The family dined alone in the small dining-room, unattended by any of the suite. A depression had descended upon the palace, which seemed wholly silent at this hour, with but now and then the soft footsteps through the galleries of an aide-de-camp carrying a funeral-wreath, or a flunkey bringing a tray full of telegrams. After the short dinner, the family retired once more to the empress' drawing-room. The hours dragged on. Night had fallen. Then the Archbishop of Lipara was announced. The imperial family rose; they went through the galleries, unattended, to the great knights' hall. Halberdiers stood at the door, in mourning. They entered. The emperor gave his hand to the empress and led her to the throne, whose crown and draperies were covered with crape. On either side were seats for Othomar, the princesses, the archduke. In the middle of the hall, in front of the throne, rose the catafalque, under a canopy of black and ermine. On it lay the little prince in uniform. Over his feet hung a small blue knight's mantle with a great white cross; a boy's sword lay on his breast; and his little hands were folded over the jewelled hilt. By his little head, somewhat higher up, shone, on a cushion, a small marquis' coronet. Six gilt candelabra with many tall candles shone peacefully down upon the lad's corpse and left the great hall still deeper in shadow: only, outside, the moon rose in the distant blue, nocturnal sky; here and there it tinged with a white glamour the trophies and suits of armour that hung or stood like iron spectres in niches and against the walls. At the foot of the catafalque, on a table like an altar, with a white velvet cloth, a great gilt crucifix spread out its two arms, between two candelabra, in commiseration. With drawn swords, motionless as the armour on the walls, stood four blue-mantled knights of St. Ladislas, two at either side of the catafalque. A soft scent of flowers was wafted through the hall. All round the catafalque wreaths of every kind of white blossom were stacked in great heaps; the fragrance of violets outscented all the others. They sat down: the emperor, the empress and their four children. Slowly the archbishop entered with his priests and choir-boys. Then the imperial party knelt on cushions placed before their seats. The prelate read the prayers for the dead; and the chanted _Kyrie Eleison_ and _Agnus Dei_ besought mercy for Berengar's little soul amongst the souls in purgatory, quivered softly through the vast hall, were wafted with the scent of the flowers over the motionless, sleeping face of the imperial child.... The rite came to an end; the prelate sprinkled the holy water, went sprinkling around the catafalque. The princes left the hall, but Othomar stayed on: "I want to lay my wreath," he whispered to the empress. The priests also departed, slowly; the crown-prince expressed to the four knights, who were waiting to be relieved by others, his wish to be left alone for a moment. They too withdrew. Then he saw Thesbia appear at the door, with a large white wreath in his hand. He went to the aide-de-camp and took the wreath from him. Othomar remained alone. The hall stretched long and broad, with darkness at either end. The moon had risen higher, seemed whiter, cast a ghostly glamour over the suits of armour. In the centre, as though in sanctity, between the pious light of the tall candles, rose the catafalque, lay the prince. The crown-prince mounted two steps of the catafalque and placed his wreath. Then he looked at Berengar's face: no fever distorted it now; it lay peaceful-pale, as though sleeping. All sounds had died away in the hall; a deadly silence reigned. Here the world of sorrow which had filled the palace and the country seemed to have become sanctified in an ecstasy of calm. And Othomar saw himself alone with his soul. The uncertainty of life, the vanity of human intentions were again revealed to him, but more clearly; they were no longer black mystery, they became harmony. It was as though he saw the whole harmony of the past: in all Liparia's historic past, in the whole past of the world there sounded not one false note. All sorrow was sacred and harmonious, tending more closely to the lofty end, which would be in its turn a beginning and never anything but harmony. Resignation descended upon his mood like a spirit of holiness; his strange calmness became resignation. It was as though his nerves were relaxed in one great assuagement. And his resignation contained only the sadness that never again would he hear the high-pitched little commanding voice of the boy whom he had loved, that this little life had run its course, so soon and for ever. His resignation contained only the surprise that all this was ordered thus and not as he had imagined it. He himself would have to wear the crown which he had wished to relinquish to Berengar. And it now seemed to him as though he himself were receiving it back from the dead boy's hands. This no doubt was why he felt no touch of rebellion in his soul, why he felt this peace, this sense of harmony. His gift was returning to him as a legacy. Long he stood thus, thinking, staring at his motionless little brother; and his thoughts became simplified within him: he saw lying straight before him the road which he should follow.... Then he heard his name: "Othomar..." He looked up and saw the empress at the door. She approached: "Barzia was asking where you were," she whispered. "He was uneasy about you...." He smiled to her and shook his head to say no, that he was calm. She came close, climbed the steps of the catafalque and leant against his arm: "How peaceful his little face is!" she murmured. "Oh, Othomar, I have not yet given him my last kiss! And to-morrow he will no longer belong to me: all those people will then be filing past." "But now, mamma, he still belongs to us ... to you...." "Othomar ..." "Mamma ..." "Shall I not have ... to lose you also?" "No, mamma, not me.... I shall go on living ... for you...." He embraced her; she looked up at him, surprised at his voice. Then she looked again at her dead child. She released herself from her son's arms, raised herself still higher, bent over the little white face and kissed the forehead. But, when the stony coldness of the dead flesh met her lips, she drew back and stared stupidly at the corpse, as though she understood for the first time. Her arms grew stiff with cramp; she wrung her fingers; she fell straight back upon Othomar. And her eyes became moist with the first tears that she had shed for Berengar's death and she hid her head in Othomar's arms and sobbed and sobbed.... Then he led her carefully, slowly, down the steps of the catafalque, led her out of the hall. In the corridor they came across Barzia; the prince's calm and quiet face, as he supported his mother, eased the professor's mind.... So soon as the empress and crown-prince had left the knights' hall, four knights of St. Ladislas entered in their blue robes. They took up their positions on either side of the catafalque and stood motionless in the candle-light, staring before them, watching in the night of mourning over the little imperial corpse, on which the blue light of the moon now descended.... The priests too entered and prayed.... The palace was silent. When Othomar had consigned his mother, at the door of her apartments, to the care of Hélène of Thesbia, he went through the galleries to his own rooms. But, on turning a corridor, he started. The great state-staircase yawned, faintly lighted, at his feet, with beneath it the hollow space of the colossal entrance-hall. Upholsterers were occupied in draping the banisters of the staircase with crape gauze, for the time when the coffin should be carried downstairs. With wide arms they measured out the mists of black, threw black cloud upon cloud; the clouds of crape heaped themselves up with a dreary flimsiness, up and up and up, seeming to fill the whole staircase and to rise stair upon stair as though about to conquer the whole palace with their gloom.... The upholsterers did not see the crown-prince and worked on, silently, in the faint light. But a cold thrill passed through Othomar. In deathly pallor he stared at the men there, at his feet, measuring out the crape and sending clouds of it up to him. He recalled his dream: the streets of Lipara overflowing with crape till the very sun reeled.... His blood seemed to freeze in his veins.... Then he made the sign of the Cross: "O God, give me strength!" he prayed in consternation.... 8 Next day, through the guard of honour of the grenadiers, the people filed past the little prince's body. The following morning, it was removed to Altara and interred in the imperial vault in St. Ladislas' Cathedral. Princes Gunther and Herman of Gothland had come over for the ceremony, but the Duke of Xara was forbidden by Professor Barzia to take part in it: he remained at Lipara. The Gothlandic princes and their suite returned with the Emperor Oscar to the capital, where, at her sister's pressing request, Queen Olga had also come, with Princess Wanda. And, in the mourning stillness of the Imperial, the family drew together in a narrow circle of intimacy. After her first tears, the Empress Elizabeth had lost her unnatural calm and constantly gave way to violent fits of sorrow, which Queen Olga or Othomar had difficulty in allaying. The emperor was inconsolable, indulging his grief with childish vehemence. Nobody had ever seen him like that before, nobody recognized him. The fact that he had lost his favourite child aroused his soul to rebellion against God. In addition to this, he had very much taken to heart his last conversation with Othomar, in which the prince had spoken to him of abdicating. The emperor had not returned to the subject, but it was never out of his thoughts. He feared that he would have to discuss it with Othomar again. He was furious when he felt how powerless he was to prevent the crown-prince from taking this desperate resolution. And he pictured the legal results if the prince maintained his purpose: the Archduchess of Carinthia empress, the archduke prince-consort and the house of Czyrkiski no longer reigning in the male line on the throne of Liparia. The possibility of this contingency, taken in conjunction with his sorrow at Berengar's death, made the Emperor Oscar suffer with that very special suffering of a monarch in whose veins still flows all the hereditary attachment to the greatness of his ancestors and who hopes to see this endure for all time. And he was also inconsolable for the loss of the child whom he loved best, more profoundly but also more silently, in greater secrecy, since he did not speak of it; and this probably made him feel more bitterly the thought of the future which he saw imaged before him. He had not even mentioned it to the empress, because of a certain superstitious dread. And with this mental sorrow--that his robust soul, which had always retained a touch of childishness, was allowing itself to feel weak, as though it were the soul of any other mortal instead of his, a monarch's--there was mingled his substantial annoyance about the army bill. There would be three hundred millions needed: one hundred millions had already been voted for the increase of the infantry; the other two hundred, for the artillery, Count Marcella, the minister for war, had not yet succeeded in obtaining. The majority of the army committee was against this colossal arming of the frontier-forts; the minister already expected a violent opposition in the house of deputies and was fully prepared for his fall. None of the three--Oscar, Myxila or Marcella--was willing to make the least compromise. And Oscar moreover was prepared to support his minister to the point of impossibility. It was at this time that Othomar made General Ducardi teach him the question, thoroughly, that he studied the staff-charts and military statistics and reports of the committee, that he followed the parliamentary discussions from out of his solitude. He held long deliberations with the general. He had, however, not for months attended the morning conferences in his father's room. But one morning he dressed himself--as was now no longer his regular habit--in uniform and sent a chamberlain to ask Oscar whether the emperor would permit him to be present at Count Marcella's audience. The emperor shrugged his shoulders in surprise, but combated his antipathy and sent word to his son that he might come. So soon as the minister and the imperial chancellor were with the emperor, Othomar joined them. He had grown still more slender and the silver frogs of his lancer's uniform barely sufficed to lend a slight breadth to his slimness; he was pale and a little sunken in the cheeks; but the glance of his eyes had lost its former feverish restlessness and recovered its melancholy calm, together with a certain stiffness and haughtiness. He refrained at first from taking part in the discussion, let the emperor curse, the chancellor shrug his shoulders and rely on the impossible, the minister declared that he would never give in. Then, however, he asked Oscar for leave to interpose a word. He took a pencil; with a few short, decided lines of demonstration on the maps, with a few simple, accurate indications on the registers, with a few figures which he quoted, correctly, by heart, he showed that he was quite conversant with the subject. He expressed the opinion that, in so far as he could gather from the reports of the committee, from the mood of the house of deputies, it remained an undoubted fact that the two hundred millions would be refused ... and that the minister would fall. He repeated these last words with emphasis and then looked firmly first at his father and then at Count Marcella. Then, in his soft voice, which rose and fell in logical tones, with serene words of conviction, he asked why they should not submit to circumstances and make the best of them. Why not accept the one hundred millions for the infantry as so much gained and--for this after all would be possible without immediate danger--endeavour to distribute the other two hundred over a period of four or five years. He felt certain that an increase of twenty millions or so a year would not meet with such violent opposition. By this arrangement Count Marcella would be able to maintain himself in office and to be supported by the emperor.... When he had ceased, his words were succeeded by a pause. His advice, if not distinguished by genius, was at least practical and made the most of this critical situation. Count Myxila slowly nodded his head in approval. The emperor and Count Marcella could not at once adhere to Othomar's idea and were obstinate, as though they still hoped to force the army bill through, unchanged as conceived at first. But the chancellor took the same view as the crown-prince, proved still more clearly that an arrangement of this sort would be the only one by which his majesty would be able to retain Count Marcella's services. And the end of the matter was that the Duke of Xara's proposal should be taken into consideration. When Myxila and Marcella had gone, the emperor asked the prince to wait a moment longer: "Othomar," he said, "it gives me great pleasure to see you once more occupying yourself with the affairs of our country...." He hesitated an instant, almost anxiously: "What conclusion may I draw from this ... for the future?" he continued at last, slowly. The crown-prince understood him: "Papa," he said, gently, "I have had my moments of discouragement. I shall perhaps have them again. But forget ... what we were discussing just before Berengar's death. I have given up all thought of abdicating...." The emperor drew a deep breath. "I am religious, papa, and I have faith," continued the prince. "Perhaps an almost superstitious faith. I plainly see, in what has happened, the hand of God...." He passed his hand over his forehead, with a meditative gaze: "The hand of God," he repeated. "I had a presentiment that one of us would die within this year. I thought that I myself should be the one to die. That is perhaps why, papa, I did not see how monstrous it was of me to take the resolution which I did. I was not thinking of myself, who was bound to die in any event; I thought only of Berengar. But now he is dead and I am alive; and I shall now think of myself. For I feel that I do not belong to myself. And I feel that it is this that should support us through life: this feeling that we do belong not to ourselves but to others. I have always loved our people and I have wished to help them vaguely, in the abstract; I threw out my hands, without knowing why, and when I did not make good, it drove me to despair...." He suddenly stopped and looked timidly at his father, as though he had gone too far in delivering his thoughts. But Oscar sat calmly listening to him; and he continued: "And I now know that this despair is not right, because with this despair we keep ourselves for ourselves and cannot give ourselves to others. You see--" he rose and smiled--"I cannot manage to cure myself of my philosophy, but I hope now that it will tend to strengthen me instead of enervating me, as it now flows from quite a different principle." The emperor gave a little shrug of the shoulders: "Every one must work out his own theory of life, Othomar. I can only give you this advice: do not be carried away by enthusiasm and keep your point of view high. Do not analyse yourself out of all existence, for such abnegation does not last and inevitably harks back to the old rights. I do not reflect so much as you do; I am more spontaneous and impulsive. But I will not condemn you for being different: you can't help it. Perhaps you belong to this age more than I do. I only wish to look at the result of your reflections; and this result is that you're giving yourself back to ordinary life and to the interests of your country. And this rejoices me, Othomar. Nor do I wish to look too far into the future; I dare say that later too you will not have my ideas, I dare say that later you will reign with a brand-new constitution, with an elected upper house. I expect you will encounter much opposition from the authoritative party among the nobles.... But, as I say, I do not wish to go into that too far and I am content to rejoice at your moral convalescence. And I am very grateful to you for the advice you gave us just now. It was quite simple, but we should never have thought of it by ourselves. We are too conservative for that. I think now that what you propose will be the best thing to be done and that it can't be done otherwise...." He held out his hand; Othomar grasped it. "And," he continued with the great magnanimity which, for all his despotic haughtiness, lay at the very root of his soul, "do not bear any malice because of ... of the words I used to you, Othomar. I am violent and passionate, as you know. I was fonder of Berengar than of you. But you yourself loved the boy. Bear me no malice, for his sake.... You are my son too and I love you, if only because of the fact that you are my son and the last of my race.... Forgive my candour." Then he pressed Othomar in his arms. It struck him painfully to feel the frailty of the prince in his firm embrace, so immediately upon his words: "the last of my race...." A strange, bitter despair shot through his soul; yet he clearly divined the mystery of this frailty: an unknown moral spring, which he himself lacked, in the direct simplicity of his nature, but which, to his great surprise, he felt in his son. When the prince was gone and Oscar, left alone, thought of this and sought that spring in what he knew of his son, he did not find it, yet felt that, whatever it might be, it was something to be envied, a strength tougher than muscular strength. He looked about him; his eyes fell upon a portrait of the empress on his writing-table. How often had he not stared at it in irritation because of their successor, who was so wholly her son! But, as though a gleam of light passed before his eyes, he now looked at the delicate features without the old annoyance; and a grateful warmth began to glow within him. Whatever it were, Othomar had derived this mysterious strength from his mother. It saved him and spared him for his country, for his race. And--who knew?--perhaps this mystery was just the element which their race needed, a necessary constituent of its new lease of life.... He did not seek to penetrate any farther; the future--even though it was now emerging more clearly out of its first dimness--had no attraction for him. He loved the past, those iron centuries with their heroes of emperors. But he felt that everything was not lost. In his pious belief in the Almighty, he thought, as did his son, of the hand of God. If it must be so, it was right. God's will was inscrutable. And grateful to the empress, grateful for the light that shone before him, he bent his knees to the crucifix on the wall and prayed for his two sons. He prayed long for the son who was to bear his crown, but longer for the soul of the child of his own blood, whose loss would be the grief that would always be as wormwood in the depths of his soul, which was now outpoured in gratitude.... 9 _From the Diary of Alexa Duchess of Yemena, Countess of Vaza._ "--_November_, 18--. "The crown-prince has not come with the emperor. Professor Barzia forbade it, because he considered that the big hunting-parties with which the emperor wishes to divert his thoughts from his grief for our little prince would be too fatiguing for my sweet invalid. Still, I hear from Dutri that he is making distinct progress and has already resumed his daily morning rides. "It is all over with me. Poor sinful heart within me, die! For, after this last flower of passion that blossomed in you, I wish you to die to the world. For the sake of the purity of my imperial flower, I wish you now to die. Nothing after this, nothing but the new life which I see lifting before me.... "And yet I am still young; I look no older in my glass than I did a year ago. I have no need to abdicate my feminine powers unless I wish to. And that is how every one looks at it, for I know that they whisper of the Duke of Mena-Doni, as though he would be happy to replace my adored crown-prince in my affections. But it's not true, it's not true. And I'm so glad of it, that they do not realize me and do not know anything, that they do not understand that I want to let my imperial love fade away in purity and wish to cherish no earthly love after it. "Dear love of my heart, you have raised me to my new life! You were still a sin, but yet you purified me, because you yourself were purified by the contact of that sacred something which is in majesty. Oh, you were the last sin, but already you were purer than the one before! For I have been a great sinner: I have immolated up all my sinful woman's life to consuming passion; and it has left nothing but ashes in my heart! Great scorching love of my life for him who is now dead--may his soul rest in peace!--I will not deny you, because you have been my most intense earthly pleasure, because through you I first learnt to know that I possessed a soul and because you thus brought me nearer to what I now see before me; but yet, what were you but earthliness? And my chaster imperial love, what were you too but earthliness? Gentle sovereign of my soul, what will God have you be but earthly? An empire awaits you, a crown, a sceptre, an empress. God wills it and therefore it is good, that you are earthly, while your earthliness is at the same time consecrated by your pious faith. But I, I have been less than merely earthly: I was sinful. And now I wish that my heart should wholly die within me, because it is nothing than sin. Then shall my heart be born again, in new life.... "I have prayed. For hours I lay on the cold marble in the chapel, till my knees pained me and my limbs were stiff. I have confessed my sinful life to my sainted confessor, his lordship of Vaza. Oh, the sweetness of absolution and the ecstasy of prayer! Why do we not earlier feel the blessed consolation that lies in the performance of our religious duties! Oh, if I could lose myself utterly in that sweet mystery, in God; if I could go into a convent! But I have my two stepdaughters. I must bring them into society; it is my duty. And the bishop thinks that that is my penance and my punishment: never to be able to withdraw into a hallowed seclusion, but to continue breathing the sinful atmosphere of the world. "I will give my castle in Lycilia, where we never go--my own castle and estate--to our Holy Church for a convent for Ursulines of gentle birth. I went there with the bishop the other day. Oh, the great gloomy rooms, the shadowy frescoes, the sombre park! And the chapel, when the new windows are added, through which the light will fall in a mystic medley of colour! My dearest wish is to be allowed to grow old there, and to die far away from the world: but shall I ever be permitted? Holy Mother of God, shall I ever be permitted? * * * * * "Am I sincere? Who knows? What do I myself know? Do I truly feel this purification of my soul, or do I remain the woman I am? A dreadful doubt rises in me; it is Satan entering into me! I will pray: Blessed Virgin, pray for me! * * * * * "I have become calmer; prayer has strengthened me. Oh, full of anguish are the doubts which tear me from my conviction! Then Satan says that I am deluding myself into this conviction, to console myself in my destitution, and that I have become religious for want of occupation. At such times I see myself in the glass, young, a young woman. But, when I pray, the doubts retire from my sinful mood and I look back shuddering upon my wicked past. And then the new life of my future once more shines up before me.... "Beloved prince, sovereign of my soul, here in these pages which none shall ever read I take leave of you, because it was not vouchsafed me to bid you farewell at a moment of tangible reality. Oh, I shall often, perhaps from day to day, still see you in the crush of the world, in the ceremonial of palaces; but you will never again belong to me and so I take leave of you! Whatever I may be--a twofold sinner perhaps, longing only for Heaven because the earth has lost its charm for me--I have been true to you, as I always have been, in love. I have seen you bowed down, you so frail, beneath your heavy yoke of empire; and I have felt my heart brimming over with pity for you. I have tried to give you my poor sinful consolation as best I could. May Heaven forgive me! I met you at a moment when the tears were flowing from your dear eyes with bitterness because people hated you and had dared with sacrilegious hands to strike at your imperial body; and I tried to give you what I could of sweetness, so as to make you forget that bitterness. Ah, perhaps I was even then not quite sincere; perhaps I am even not so now! But that would be too terrible; that would make me despise myself as I cannot do! And I will at least retain this illusion, that I was sincere, that I did wish to comfort you, that, sinful though it was, I did comfort you, that I did, in very truth, love you, that I still love you now, that I shall no longer love you--because I must not--as your mistress, but that I shall do so as your subject. The blood in my veins loves yours, your golden blood! And, when I myself have found peace and no longer doubt and hesitate, my last days shall be spent only in prayer for you, that you also may receive peace and strength for your coming task of government. I feel no jealousy of her who will be my future empress. I know that she is beautiful and that she is younger than I. But I do not compare myself with her. I shall be her subject as I am yours. For I love you for yourself and I love everything that will be yours. You are my emperor; you are already my emperor, more than Oscar! Farewell, my prince, my crown-prince, my emperor! When I see you again, you will be nothing more to me than my emperor and my emperor alone! * * * * * "To HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF XARA, "LIPARA. "CASTEL VAZA, "--_November_, 18--. "MY BELOVED PRINCE, "Pardon me if I venture to send you the accompanying pages. I meant at first to send you a long letter, a letter of farewell. And I did write you many, but did not send them to you and destroyed them. Then I wrote to you only for myself, took leave of you for myself. But can I trace what goes on within me, what I think from one moment to the other? I did miss it so: my sweet farewell, which would still bind me in some intimate way to you! And so I could not refrain--at last, after much vacillation of mind--from sending you these pages, which I had written only for myself. At your feet I implore you graciously to accept them, graciously to read them. Then destroy them. Through them you will learn the last thoughts that I have dared to consecrate to the mystery that was our love.... "I press my lips to your adored hands. "ALEXA." CHAPTER VI 1 The Empress Elizabeth rode with Hélène of Thesbia in a victoria, preceded by an outrider, from St. Ladislas to the Old Palace, which, together with the cathedral and the Episcopal, formed one gigantic building. Here, at Altara, the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess Eudoxie, with the imperial bride, had taken up their abode on the previous day. From the tall fortress--a broad mass of granite with crenulated plateaus and squat towers, overlooking Altara--the road wandered downwards, indistinguishable beneath the old chestnut-trees, in tortuous zig-zags. The dust flew up under the wheels; on both sides lay villas, with terraces gay with vases and flowers and statues, sloping lower and lower towards the town. The villas blazed with bunting; the blue-and-white flags with the white crosses revelled in all their gaudy newness among the dusty foliage of the old trees and acacias. It was June, six months after the death of the little prince; but the mourning had been lightened because of the approaching nuptials of the Duke of Xara, which the emperor wished to see celebrated as early as possible. The empress, however, still wore heavy mourning, which she would not lay aside before the day of the wedding; Hélène was in grey; the liveries were grey. Many pedestrians, horsemen, carriages passed along the road and stopped respectfully; the empress bowed to left and right; she received cheers and salutations from the balconies of the villas. In this warm summer weather a mellow welcome, a soft gaiety reigned all along the road; the road, with its villas where the people sat in groups, emitted a friendliness which affected the empress pleasantly and made her heart swell in her breast with a gentle melancholy. Children ran about and played in white summer suits; they stopped suddenly and, like well-bred children, accustomed to seeing members of the imperial family pass daily, they bowed low, the boys awkwardly, the girls with new-learnt curtseys. Then they went on playing again.... And the empress smiled at a large family, old and young people together, who sat on a terrace, doubtless celebrating a birthday, and laughed and drank, with many glasses and decanters before them, the children with their mouths full of cake. So soon as they saw the outrider, they all stood up and waved, some with their glasses still in their hands, and the empress, laying aside her usual stiffness, bowed back with a winning smile. And it was as though she were driving through a huge, luxurious village; for a moment she forgot the light obsession that depressed her, forgot why she was this day going to Valérie and allowed herself to be lulled by her delight in the love that she divined all round her. It was the love of the old Liparian patrician families--noble or not noble--for their sovereigns. It was a caress which she never felt at Lipara. And she remembered Othomar's letter, at the time of last year's inundations: "Why are we not oftener at Altara?" She could not for a moment desist from bowing. But she was now approaching the town: the old houses shifted like the wings at a theatre; the whole town shifted nearer, gay with flags, which threw an air of youth over its old stonework. The streets were full: thousands of visitors, native and foreign, were at Altara; there was not a room to be had in the hotels. And the empress could scarcely speak a word to Hélène; she could do nothing but bow and bow, perpetually.... In the fore-court of the Old Palace, the infantry composing the guard of honour of the Austrian bride were drawn up and presented arms as the empress drove in. The Archduchess Eudoxie was awaiting the empress. "How is Valérie?" Elizabeth at once asked. "Better, calmer," replied the archduchess. "Much better than I dared hope. But she will receive no one...." "Do send to ask whether I can see her...." The archduchess' lady-in-waiting left the room: she returned with the message that her imperial highness was expecting the empress. Elizabeth found Valérie lying on a sofa, wearing a white lace tea-gown, looking very pale, with great, dark, dull eyes; she rose, however: "Forgive me, ma'am," she said, in apology. Elizabeth embraced her with great tenderness; the archduchess added: "I was not well, I felt so tired...." But then her eyes met Elizabeth's and she saw that the empress did not expect her to exhibit superhuman endurance. She nestled up against her and cried softly, as one cries who has already wept long and passionately and is now exhausted with weeping and has not the strength to weep except very, very softly. The empress made her sit down, sat down beside her and caressed her with a soothing movement of her hand. Neither of the two spoke; neither of the two found words in the difficult relation which at that moment they bore one to the other. Two days ago, the day before that fixed for the bride's journey to Altara, the news had arrived that Prince von Lohe-Obkowitz had shot himself in Paris. The actual reason of this suicide was not known. Some thought that the prince had taken much to heart the disfavour of the Emperor of Austria and the quarrel with his own family; others that he had lost a fortune at baccarat and that his ruin was completed by the bohemian extravagance of his wife, the notorious Estelle Desvaux, who herself had been ruined more than once in her life, but had always retrieved her position by means of a theatrical tour and the sale of a few diamonds. Others again maintained that Prince Lohe had never been able to forget his love for the future Duchess of Xara. But, whatever might be suggested in Viennese court-circles, nothing was known for certain. Valérie had by accident read the report, which they had tried to conceal from her, in the same newspaper in which, now almost a year ago, she had, also by accident, on the terrace at Altseeborgen, read the news of Prince Lohe's proposed marriage and surrender of his rights. Her soul, which had no tendency to mysticism, nevertheless, in the shock of despair that now passed through it, became almost superstitious because of this repetition of cruelty. But when, months ago, she had combated and worn out her sorrow, it had been followed by an indifference to any further suffering that she might yet have to experience in life. The death of her illusions was a final death; after her betrothal she had as it were found herself with a new soul, hardened and girt about with indifference. It was strange that in this indifference the only thing to which she continued sensible was that exquisiteness in Othomar's character: his delicacy in sparing her at Altseeborgen, against Oscar's desire; his wide feeling of universal love for his people; all his gentle nature and simple sense of duty.... But, however indifferent she might generally think herself to be, this second incident struck her cruelly, as though a refinement of fate had chosen the moment for it. The official journey from Sigismundingen to Altara had been a martyrdom. Valérie had endured like an automaton the receptions on the frontiers, the welcome at the Central Station at Altara, with the greeting of her imperial bridegroom, who had there kissed her, and the addresses of the authorities, the offering of bread and salt by the canons of the chapter of St. Ladislas. She had swallowed it, their bread and salt. And then the drive through the town, gay with bunting and with triumphal arches erected from street to street, to the Old Palace, in the open landau with the emperor and her bridegroom, amid the cheering of the populace which cut her ears and her overexcited nerves as though with sharp-edged knives! Then, at the palace, it had struck Othomar how like a hunted fawn she looked, with her frightened eyes. Prince Lohe's death was known at Altara; and, though the people had cheered, cheered from true affection for the future crown-princess, they had stared at her because of that tragedy, curious and eager to see an august anguish shuddering in the midst of their festivities, hunted through arches of green and bunting. They had seen nothing. Valérie had bowed, smiled, waved her hand to them from the balcony of the Old Palace, standing by Othomar's side! They had seen nothing, nothing, for all their tense expectation. But then Valérie's strength had come to an end. Her part was played: let the curtain fall. Othomar left her alone, with a pressure of the hand. For hours she sat lifelessly; then night came; she could not sleep, but she was able to sob. Now it was next day; she was lying down exhausted, but really she had shed her last tear, fought her last fight, recovered her indifference: no sorrows that were still in store for her could ever hurt her now! Yet the fond embrace of Othomar's mother softened her; and she again found her tears. They exchanged barely a few words and yet they felt a mutual sympathy passing between them. And through the midst of her sorrow Valérie could see her duty, which would at the same time be her strength: no bitter indifference, but an acquiescence in what her life might be. Oh, she had imagined it differently in her dreams as a young girl: she had pictured it to herself as more agreeable and smiling and as finding its expression more naturally, more spontaneously and without so much calculation! But she had awakened from her dreams; and where else should she seek her strength but in her duty?... And she conquered herself, whatever might be destroyed in her soul, by an unsuspected vitality--her real nature--even more than by her thoughts. She dried her eyes, mentioned that it was near the time when a deputation of young Liparian ladies was to come and offer her a wedding-present; and the empress left her alone, that she might dress. She appeared presently, in a white costume embroidered with dull gold, in the drawing-room where her parents sat with the empress and with Hélène of Thesbia and the Austrian ladies-in-waiting. Shortly after, Othomar came too, with his sisters and the Archduke of Carinthia. And, when the deputation of young ladies of rank was announced and appeared, with Eleonore of Yemena in its midst, Valérie listened with her usual smile to the address recited by the little marchioness, with a gracious gesture accepted from the hands of two other girls the great case which they caused to fly open, showing, upon light velvet, a triple necklace of great pearls. And she was able to find a few pretty phrases of thanks: she uttered them in a clear voice; and no one who heard her would have suspected that she had passed a sleepless night, bathed in tears, with before her eyes the lifeless body of a young man with shattered temples. The young ladies of the deputation were permitted to see the wedding-presents, which were displayed in a large room; Princess Thera and the ladies-in-waiting accompanied them. There, in that room, it was like a sudden gleam of brilliancy, flashing in the daylight from the long tables on which the presents stood surrounded by flowers: the heavily-gilt candelabra, gilt and crystal table- and tea-services, gilt and silver caskets from various towns, an Altara Cathedral in silver, silver ships with delicate, swelling sails from naval institutions and jewelled gifts from all the royal friends and relations in Europe. On a satin cushion lay, like a fairy trinket, a sparkling duchess' diadem of big sapphires and brilliants, one of the presents of the bride's future parents-in-law. And very striking was Princess Thera's present: the Duke of Xara's portrait, a work of art that had already been seen at exhibitions in both capitals. But it had little likeness to the original left and was therefore the despair of the princess. It was younger, more indecisive, feebler than the prince looked now: a little thinner than of old, but with a fuller moustache and a lightly curling beard on his cheeks. The melancholy eyes had acquired more of the Empress Elizabeth's cold glance; in other respects too Othomar resembled his mother more than before. But what was still noticeable in the young prince, in his nervous refinement, was the look of race, his trenchant distinction, his air of lawful haughtiness. He had lost much of his rigidity, his stiff tactlessness, and had gained something more resolute and assured; and, in spite of his colder look, this inspired more confidence in a crown-prince than his always winning but somewhat feeble presence of former days. The thoughts seemed to be more sharply outlined on his features, the words to come more pointedly from between his lips; he seemed to have more self-reliance, to care less for what others might think of him. It was, although not yet quite consciously, that unique princely feeling awakening within him: his simple, proud, innate confidence in the single drop of golden blood which ran through his veins and gave him his rights.... It was Professor Barzia especially who, attached as he was to Othomar and treating him personally every day, had aroused this self-confidence with his words, which were prompted both by his knowledge of mankind and by his love for the dynasty, as well as by a personal affection for the crown-prince. The cold-water douches had braced the prince up, but the suggestions of the professor, who had aroused Othomar's latent practical qualities as it were from their subconscious hiding-place, had probably been a still more efficacious remedy. The prince had learnt to govern himself and had become dearer to the professor than ever.... This devotion, born of a discovery of what others did not know to exist--high qualities of temperament--was enhanced by Barzia's fostering of those same qualities; and, when the prince's marriage could be fixed, the professor looked with as much pride as affection upon his patient, whom he declared to be physically cured and considered, in his own mind, to be morally cured as well.... 2 Two days later was the day of the imperial wedding. The town swarmed from early morning with the people who had streamed in from the environs and who noisily thronged the narrower streets. For already at an early hour the main thoroughfares had been closed by the infantry, from the fortress to the Old Palace and the cathedral. And Altara, usually grey, old, weather-beaten, was unrecognizable, gaudy with flags, fresh with festoons of greenery, decked with draperies and tapestries hanging from its balconies. A warm, southern May sun shed patches of light over the town; and the red and blue and white and green of the waiting uniforms, with the even flash of the bayonets above them, drew broad lines of colour through the city, with a gaiety almost floral, right up to the Castle of St. Ladislas. Through the streets, closed to public traffic, court-carriages drove to and fro, filled with glittering uniforms: royal guests who were being carried to St. Ladislas or the Old Palace. There were Russian, German, British, Austrian, Gothlandic uniforms; briskly, as though preparing for the ceremonial moment, they flashed through Altara, through its long, empty streets lined with soldiers. Beneath the chestnuts on the Castle Road the villas also teemed with spectators, sitting or moving in the gardens and terraces; and, in the sunbeams that filtered through the foliage of the trees, the ladies' light summer costumes and coloured sun-shades cast variegated patches: it was as though garden-parties were taking place from villa to villa, while people waited for the procession of the bridegroom, who, in accordance with Liparian etiquette, was to drive from St. Ladislas to fetch his bride from the Old Palace. * * * * * Eleven o'clock. From the Fort of St. Ladislas booms the first gun; other guns boom after it minute by minute. A buzz of excitement passes along the whole of the Castle Road. On the almost imperceptible incline appear trumpets and kettle-drums, preceding heralds on horseback. Behind them come the slashing throne-guards, round the gilt and crystal gala-carriages. The court chamberlain, the Count of Threma, in the first; in the second, with the imperial crown and the plumed team of eight greys caparisoned in scarlet--and the cheering from the villas rises higher and higher--the emperor with the Duke of Xara by his side; in the following coaches the assembled majesties and highnesses of Europe: the Empress of Liparia, the German Emperor and Empress, the King and Queen of Gothland, Russian grand-dukes, the Duke of Sparta and the Prince of Naples.... The imperial chancellor, the ministers, the robed members of the house of peers.... And the endless procession passes slowly amid the roar of the cannon down the Castle Road, through the main streets and into the heart of the city. There, in the Old Palace, the bride is waiting with all her Austrian relations: the emperor and empress, the Archduke Albrecht and the Archduchess Eudoxie.... It is here that the marriage-treaty is signed, on the gilt table, covered with gold brocade, upon which the emperors and empresses of Liparia have written their signatures since centuries, upon which, after the imperial bride and bridegroom, the august witnesses sign the contract.... Now the whole procession goes through gallery after gallery to the New Sacristy. It is a ceremonious parade of some minutes' duration: the trumpeters, the heralds, the masters of ceremonies; the blue-robed knights of St. Ladislas: the white-and-gold throne-guards; the Emperor Oscar with the Duke of Xara, the Emperor of Austria with the bride.... Slowly she walks by her uncle's side, her head a little bent, as though beneath the weight of her princess' coronet, from which the lace veil floats, lightly shading her bare neck, which is studded with drops of brilliants. Her gown is of stiff, heavy satin brocade, embroidered with silver-thread in front and smothered in emblematic patterns of pearls; great, white velvet puffed sleeves burgeon at her shoulders; the train of silver brocade and white velvet is so long that six maids-of-honour bear it after her, swaying from its silver loops. Behind the maids-of-honour follow the bridesmaids, dressed all alike, carrying similar bouquets: they are Princess Thera, Princess Wanda, German, English and Austrian princesses. And the majesties and highnesses follow; the procession flows into the New Sacristy; here the cardinal-archbishop, Primate of Liparia, with all his mitred clergy, receives the bridegroom and the bride.... In the cathedral waits the crowd of invited guests. Despite the beams of the summer sun, a mystic twilight of shadow hovers through the tall and stately arches of the cathedral and the daylight blossoms only on the motley windows of the side-chapels; in the vaultings it is even dark. But the high altar is one blaze of innumerable candles.... The imperial chancellor, the ministers, the ambassadors, the whole diplomatic body, the members of both houses of parliament, the judges of the high court have entered; they fill the tiers that have been erected to right and left. And the whole cathedral is filled: one great swarm of heavy, rustling silks--the low-necked dresses of the ladies, whose jewels twinkle and flash--and one blaze of gold on the glittering military and diplomatic uniforms, which like great sparks light up the twilight of the cathedral. Then the trumpets sound, the organ peals its jubilant tones in the solemn festival-march; the first procession enters through the sacristy: the German Emperor with the Empress Elizabeth of Liparia, the Archduchess Eudoxie and a long retinue.... Now the trumpets sound, the organ peals unceasingly; and the invited majesties with their suites and the representatives of the foreign powers enter in group after group. The canopied spaces to right and left of the choir begin to fill up. Soon the second procession follows: the dignitaries in front, with the insignia of state; the Emperor Oscar, leading the Duke of Xara: both wear over their golden uniforms the long draped blue robes of St. Ladislas, with the large white cross gleaming on the left arm; four crown-princes follow as the bridegroom's four witnesses: the Duke of Wendeholm, the Czarevitch, the Duke of Sparta and the Prince of Naples; the knights of St. Ladislas, the officers of the throne-guards, equerries and pages follow after.... And suddenly a choir of high voices vibrates crystal-clear and proclaims a blessing on the bride, who cometh in the name of the Lord.... The third procession has entered the cathedral: the Emperor of Austria and the Archduke Albrecht, leading the bride, with her maids of honour and her bridesmaids; and she seems to be one white wealth of illustrious maidenhood among her white and floral-fragrant retinue. And the anthem scatters its notes as with handfuls of silver lilies before her feet; her solemn advent arouses an emotion that quivers through all that whirl of splendour, through the whole cathedral. Now, at last, appears the fourth procession: the cardinal-archbishop, Primate of Liparia, with his bishops and canons and chaplains; the high ecclesiastics take their seats in the tall carved choir-stalls; the rite begins.... The sun seems to have waited till this moment to come shooting down, through the tall, party-coloured, pointed windows, in which the life of St. Ladislas glitters with its small, square, gem-like pictures, shooting down in a slanting sheaf of rays upon the choir, upon the priests, upon the canopies under which the majesties are sitting, upon the bride-groom and bride.... And all the colours--the old gold of the altar, the new gold of the uniforms, the brocades, the crown-jewels--flame up as though the sun were setting them ablaze: one fire of changing sparks which, together with the numberless candles on the altar, suddenly irradiates the church. The diadems of the princesses are like crowns of flame, the orders of the princes like a firmament of stars. The acolytes swing incense which is wafted misty blue, delicate, transparent in the sunshine; the sunshine filters through the blonde lace veil of the kneeling bride, lights a glowing fire over her white-and-silver train, illuminates her as with an apotheosis of light that reflects a maidenly pallor upon her. Her bridegroom kneels beside her, wholly enfolded in his blue robe, with on his arm the sheen of the white cross. Both now hold long tapers in their hands. And the primate, with his jewelled mitre and his stiff gold dalmatic covered with jewelled scrolls, raises his eyes, spreads his hands on high and stretches them in benediction above the bent imperial heads.... The chant swells high again: the _Te Deum laudamus_, as though the waves of the voices were rising upon the waves of the organ, higher and higher, up through the cathedral to the sky in one ecstasy of sacred music. The old, granite, giant fabric seems to quiver with emotion, as though the music became its soul, and sends forth over Altara from all its bells a swelling sea of sound, bronze in the depths and molten out of every metal into gold of crystal purity in the highest height of audible sound.... An hour later. On the closed Cathedral Square movement begins again, among the waiting gala-carriages. Now the procession returns to St. Ladislas, but behind the Emperor Oscar's carriage Othomar and Valérie now ride together. And the city cheers and shouts its hurrahs; the houses groan with the clamour among all the flags and trophies. The guards present arms; and amid this festive uproar it passes unperceived how yonder in the smaller streets fighting goes on, arrests are made, a well-known anarchist is almost murdered by the imperialistic populace.... With its costly pageant, now heightened by the white presence of the young Duchess of Xara and her own retinue, the endless and endless procession returns, through the town, up the Castle Road; and there too the villas now obtain a sight of Valérie and cheer and cheer and cheer.... It is in the white throne-room that Othomar and Valérie hold their court; one and all defile before them: the ministers and ambassadors, the members of both houses, of the courts of justice, corporations and deputations. After the court, the breakfast, at which the table glitters with the ceremonial gold and jewelled plate, used only at imperial weddings. After the breakfast, the last observance: in the gold hall--a vast low hall, Byzantine in architecture and decoration, ages old and unchanged--the torch-dance; the procession of the ministers, who carry long, lighted links in gilt handles, while Othomar and Valérie keep on inviting the highnesses according to rank, invite all the highnesses in turns and march round behind the ministers.... It is a monotonous ceremony, continually repeated: the ministers with the torches, Othomar with a princess and surrounded by the Knights of St. Ladislas, Valérie with a prince and all her white suite; and it is a relief when the function is finished and the newly-married couple have withdrawn to change their dress. Then they appear: Othomar as commanding officer of the Xara Cuirassiers, Valérie in her white cloth travelling-dress and hat with white feathers; and they make their adieus. An open landau awaits them; and with a compact escort of Xara Cuirassiers they drive anew through the town, drive in every direction, showing themselves everywhere, bowing to one and all, and at last drive out to the castle where they will spend the first days of the honeymoon: Castle Zanthos, quite near the town, on the broad river.... And the old weather-beaten capital, which remains full of majesties, which still flutters with pennants, which in the evening is one yellow flame and red glow of fireworks and illumination, seems all the same, without the newly-married couple, to have lost the attraction which turned it into a centre of festivity and splendour and imperial ceremony; and in the evening, despite the illuminations and fireworks and gala-performances, the Central Station is besieged by thousands who are leaving.... 3 It was months after the wedding of the Duke of Xara that the Emperor Oscar, entering his work-room very early in the morning and moving towards his writing-table, caught sight of a piece of cardboard, with large, black letters pasted on it, lying on the floor by the window. He did not pick it up; though he was alone, he did not turn pale, but on his low forehead the thick veins swelled with rage to feel that he was not safe from their treason even in his own room. He rang and asked for his valet, a trusted man: "Pick up that thing!" he commanded. And he roared, through the silence, "How did it get here?" The valet turned pale. He read the threatening words of abuse, with their big, fat letters, on the ground before stooping and taking the card in his trembling hand. "How did it get here?" repeated the emperor, stamping his foot. The valet swore that he did not know. In the morning no one was allowed to enter the room except himself; he had come half an hour ago to open the windows and then had seen nothing: "The only explanation, sir, is that some one must have stolen into the park and flung it through the window...." This doubtless was the only explanation, but it was an explanation that irritated the emperor greatly. It was not the first time that the emperor had found such notices in the intimacy of his writing-room. The result was the sudden arrest of servants, of soldiers belonging to the various guards in the Imperial; but arrests and enquiries had brought nothing to light and therefore made an all the more painful impression. The guards of the palaces, the guards at the gilt railings of the park, where this merged into the Elizabeth Parks--the public gardens of the capital--were already increased; the secret police, the emperor's own police, even kept a sharp watch on the guards themselves. The Emperor Oscar looked fixedly at the valet; for a moment the thought rose in him to have the man himself examined, but he at once realized the absurdity of any such suspicion: the man had been his personal servant for years and years, was entirely devoted to him and stood answering Oscar's long stare with calm, respectful eyes, evidently pondering the mystery of the strange riddle. "Burn that thing," commanded the emperor, "and don't talk about it." Subsequently Oscar had a long interview with the head of his secret police, with whom he had lately had every reason to be satisfied: secret printing-presses of anarchist papers, which were continually being distributed, had been ferreted out; a plot to wreck the imperial train on its way from Castel Xaveria, the summer-palace in Xara, to Lipara had been frustrated; suspicion of being connected with anarchist committees had fallen upon a clerk in one of the government-offices and even upon a young officer and it was proved that the suspicion was correct in both cases. Quite recently the police had discovered a workshop in which men were taught how to manufacture dynamite-bombs and infernal machines. But who the insolent miscreants were who succeeded in flinging their threatening letters into the emperor's own room: this they had not been able to discover. For a whole week the windows had been watched from the park and all that time nothing had been seen; it was now a couple of days since that secret watch had been given up. The head of the secret police felt convinced that the culprits were lurking in the Imperial itself and acquainted with the emperor's private habits. Sudden visits were paid to the rooms of any servants at the Imperial of whom there was the least doubt; and, when a groom was found to be in possession of an anarchist leaflet containing words of insult directed against the emperor, the man was banished to one of the convict sections of the eastern quick-silver-mines. This banishment was the introduction to numberless other banishments; they followed one another in quick succession; the victims were soldiers, sailors, many minor provincial officials: the press had even ceased to report all the banishments. The censorship was rendered more severe; newspapers were continually being suspended, their editors fined and imprisoned; the imperialist papers, Count Myxila's organs, almost despotically indicated the required tone. A socialist meeting was dispersed by hussars with drawn swords; serious disturbances followed in the capital and infected the other large towns, Thracyna, Xara, even Altara. A strike of dock-labourers filled Lipara for weeks with rising insubordination; policemen were cruelly murdered at the docks in broad daylight. The Duke of Mena-Doni was the Emperor Oscar's right hand during this period; and his rough displays of force kept the capital so far in subjection that no riot burst out, that the everyday life of sunny, laughing luxury went on, that the elegant carriages continued every afternoon at five o'clock to stream to the Elizabeth Parks, where the Empress or the Duchess of Xara still showed themselves daily for a moment. But thousands of protecting eyes were secretly supervising this apparent carelessness; the troops were confined to barracks; gleaming escorts of cuirassiers accompanied the imperial landaus. The empress also had asked Othomar to abandon his solitary morning rides and never to show himself unattended. The Duke and Duchess of Xara inhabited the Crown Palace, a comparatively new building on the quays, where they kept up an extensive court; and in this palace the emperor also caused domiciliary visits to be made and it appeared that there were anarchists lurking among the staff. This treason within their very palaces kept the empress in a constant shudder of terror: she lived in these days an unceasing life of dread whenever she was separated from the emperor. For she was least terrified when she showed herself by Oscar's side, at exhibitions, at public ceremonies, at the Opera; and this was strange: she did not at such times think of him, but, if they were not with her, thought rather of her children, as though the catastrophe could happen only at some place where she would not be present. The empress saw in Othomar so very much her own son that, in the intimacy of their morning conversations--for the crown-prince still paid his mother a short visit every morning--she was surprised not to find in him her own dread, but on the contrary all her own resignation, which was the reverse side of it. But since his marriage she had found him altogether changed, no longer, in these short moments of their private intercourse, complaining, hesitating, searching, but speaking calmly of what he must do, filled with an evident harmony that gave a restful assurance to his words, his gestures and even his actions. With this assurance he retained a quiet, dignified modesty: he did not put his views forward at all violently; he continued to possess that receptiveness for the views of others which had always been one of his most prominent and attractive qualities. He was undoubtedly old for his young years: any one who did not know better would have given him more than his twenty-three years, now that he was allowing his crisp beard to grow.... And yet, yet, especially in these troubled days, his old fears would often well up within him and he would remain sitting alone for minutes at a time, staring at a vague point in his room, listening to the murmurs of the future, as he had listened in that haunting night among his forefathers at Castel Vaza. He then felt that, suddenly, as with a garment, all his new resignation in life was slipping from him, falling from his shoulders. But he had learnt so to govern himself that nobody, not his father, not his mother, not even the crown-princess, noticed anything of this mental dizziness, which left him ice-cold in his short periods of solitude, doubting his right, full of strange, soft compassion for his people.... It was, actually, the old illness which thus, periodically, seethed in him again like an evil sap, flowing through his veins, enfeebling his nerves, crushing him internally, as though he would never be cured of it. But he grew accustomed to it, no longer felt despair because of it, even knew, during the few minutes that the malady lasted, that it would pass and afterwards regained that sense of harmony which above all constituted his resignation. It was in these days of silent fermentation that there was talk of a marriage between Princess Thera and the Prince of Naples; nothing was yet decided between the two families, but the young prince was invited to Lipara to attend the great autumn manoeuvres. Shoots were arranged; different festivities followed one upon the other. Othomar had in these days to combat those sudden weaknesses more than ever: a strange feeling, a shivering, a mysterious terror remained with him and no longer left him, a terror which he dared not analyse, for fear of discovering motives which would cause him to lose his calmness entirely. There revived within him the recollection of the fact that shortly after his marriage he had dreamt a dream more or less similar to his former dream: the sinister capital filling with crape. It happened while he was still residing with his young wife at Castel Zanthos and he had attached no importance to it, because he considered that this second dream was only a shadow of the former one, only the remembrance of what had already happened and nothing more. But now, in these days of busy celebrations in honour of the prince who was visiting their court, with the ferment of popular discontent like a turbid, gloomy element beneath the surface brilliancy of all their imperial display, the memory of it revived and the terrors and shudders became more and more plainly defined in his imagination and at one moment he felt his former nervous weakness come over him to such an extent that he found an excuse to summon Professor Barzia from Altara and had a long interview with the specialist of which he did not even speak to the Duchess of Xara. When the professor had gone, Othomar felt relieved and strengthened; only the thought lingered within him that it was not right for a future sovereign to be so much under the influence of a stronger mind as he was under that of Barzia; and he proposed next time not to call in the professor's power of suggestion, but to cure himself, in the privacy of his own soul. This plan, to rely on his own strength in future, made him find himself again for good and all.... The day after his interview with Barzia, he spent the whole morning and afternoon in the company of the Prince of Naples, with whom he visited different places and, in so doing, displayed a gaiety and liveliness which were rarely witnessed in the Duke of Xara. The members of their suite were astonished at this radiant cheerfulness of the crown-prince, in whom they had grown used to perceiving always a strain of melancholy. That evening there was a great state-banquet at the Imperial. After dinner, the imperial family were to accompany their guest to the Opera, where a gala-performance was to take place and a famous tenor was to sing. In these days, whenever the imperial family appeared in public, severe precautionary measures were taken under the guise of glittering display. A strong and close-packed escort of cuirassiers pranced round the carriages which drove that night to the great opera-house. The street at the side of the building containing the emperor's private entrance was closed off; a guard of honour lined the staircase; the secret police mingled with the expectant audience, which included all the smart society of the capital.... The imperial box, with its dark-violet draperies and gold tassels, was just over the stage of the colossal theatre. The first act was finished--they were playing _Aïda_--when the trumpet-blasts clanged out from the orchestra and the august personages appeared: the emperor, the empress, the Prince of Naples, the Duke and Duchess of Xara, Princess Thera. And their entry seemed to electrify the hitherto dull, waiting, nervously indifferent mood of the crowded house, as though, upon their appearance, the light in the lustres shone more brilliantly, the house blazed out with all the changeful flickerings of its jewels, all its flashing gilt, all the curiosity of the bright eyes that gazed at the imperial centre-group; as though the ladies' costumes suddenly blossomed out with one rustle of heavy silken fabrics, while the unfurled fans fluttered to and fro as though a breeze were blowing through many flowers in unstinted light.... Then the curtain rising on the second act, with all its melodrama of royal Egyptian state: the victory after the war and the consequent dances; the hero's love for the Ethiopian slave; and the Pharaoh's jealous daughter and the procession of the gods with the sackbuts: all sung, orchestrated, swelling symphonically in a square frame against a painted background; a stirring picture of royal Egyptian antiquity chanted before the eyes of modern royalty, of a modern audience, indifferent to the rest so long as they met wherever society decided that they should meet at the moment, under the eyes of the emperor and his family and his illustrious young guest.... The passions on the stage unbridling themselves in swelling bursts of music, a world of music, of love and despair, of war and triumph and priestly ambition in music, all music, as though life were music, music the soul and essence of the world.... And, beneath the glamour of this music and of this factitious life, the visible acting of the players, the glory of the famous tenor, with his too-modern head, his dress marked by unreal because unwarlike splendour, his bows and his smile aimed at the real world outside his small, framed world of make-believe, aimed at the audience that applauded after the emperor had deigned to clap his hands.... It was at this moment, this moment of ovation, this moment of lustrous triumph for the tenor, of applause led by the imperial hands. It was at this moment: the Emperor Oscar turning to his aide-de-camp, the Marquis of Xardi, behind him ... the aide listening respectfully to his majesty's command that he should summon the singer to the withdrawing-room of the imperial box ... the Empress Elizabeth and the Duchess of Xara, glittering in their gala, their jewels, in smiling conversation with the young foreign crown-prince who was their guest ... Othomar still with his gaiety of the afternoon, jesting with Thera and the ladies-in-waiting ... the whole house gazing, when the curtain had fallen for the last time, at all of them, in their blaze of luxury and light.... At this moment, in the topmost gallery a sudden tumult, a struggle of soldiers and police with one man.... A sudden rough scrimmage up there in the midst of the most mundane expansion of aristocratic pageantry. And all eyes no longer directed to the imperial box, but upwards.... Then, the man, struggling, releasing himself with superhuman strength from the grasp of his assailants, surging forwards, from out of their throng, like a black lightning-flash of fate: dark, curly head, eyes flashing hatred, fixed and fanatical, one arm suddenly outstretched towards the imperial grandeur below, as though at a target, with inexorable aim. The whole house one tumult, one shout, one shriek; wide gestures of helpless arms: all this very quick, lasting barely a second.... A shot ... and yet another shot.... * * * * * The emperor is hit in the breast; he falls against the empress, whose bare, jewelled bosom he suddenly soils with blood, which at once soaks his gold uniform through and through ... not golden blood: rich red blood.... But the empress throws up her arms in despair; her strident scream rings through the house. She falls back into the embrace of the Duchess of Xara. The emperor has sunk into the arms of Xardi and of Othomar; a furious oath forces its way through his tight-clenched teeth, while he tears open his gory uniform so fiercely that the buttons fly around him.... 4 Outside, the Opera Square, brightly lighted with many-armed, monumental lamp-posts, had at once become dark and swarming, filled with a vast mob; the whole town poured into it from every street; the alarm drew everybody thither, as though with a magnet. Detachments of hussars were already moving through the town, keeping order among the excited populace; the Duke of Mena-Doni was everywhere at once, trampling down the revolution with the military at his command in whatsoever corner it seemed to lift its head. The sky above was dark and frowning. It began to rain.... The rumour sped that the emperor had died. It was not true. Wrestling for breath, the sovereign lay in the crush-room of the opera-house, amidst the panic of his family, of his suite, of the hurrying doctors. He must not be moved, they said. He insisted. He refused to die here. He was set on returning to his Imperial. And, straining the springs of his energy, he commanded, he drew himself up, with the blood spurting from his throat; Othomar and the aides supported him.... Outside, in the square, the mob grew in numbers, the panic increased, riot seethed up from among those black clusters of people. Continual fights burst out between groups of men, dock-labourers, and the guard in front of the building, the police. The court-carriages returned empty, under escort, to the palace. Other carriages, cabs, tried here and there to force a way through the people; they were surrounded by cuirassiers, who protected them with drawn swords. Volumes of curses and abuse spattered up against them, against the vaguely transparent windows, behind which were patches of light colours, flashing sparks of jewels. Women's scared eyes peered out fixedly, askance, without moving. In the corridors, on the huge, monumental staircase of the opera-house, people hustled one another, fought to get through; then suddenly all eyes, staring wide, looked up above: the emperor was passing, bleeding, panting for breath, surrounded by his kin.... A feeling of awe stopped the crush for a moment; then they pressed on again.... Ladies fled till they found themselves behind the scenes, where they mingled their aristocracy with the bohemianism of the actors and actresses, all mixed up, confused, amidst the terrified, humming crowd of ballet-girls, priestesses of Isis. Gratuities were lavished: anything for a carriage, a cab.... The Duchess of Yemena stood there with her daughters; they were looking out for their carriage, which they had sent for at least ten times.... A stage-carpenter shrugged his shoulders indifferently: he did not know where to get a carriage from. "I won't wait any longer," said the duchess, shuddering. The girls clung to her, sobbing hysterically. She obtained a leather bag from an actress; she hastily took off her jewels, ordered the girls to do the same. They crammed them into the bag. She slipped a gold coin into a dresser's hand, asked her to pin up their trains, to pin them high, asked her to find them some black shoes. Other ladies, waiting and half-swooning with fright, looked at her, saw her thus, strangely practical. She succeeded in buying three long black cloaks and three black hats from a group of chorus-girls, flung one cloak over herself, flung the others over the sobbing little marchionesses. "I'm frightened, mamma!" sobbed Eleonore. The duchess was determined to get home somehow: "Come, come along!" she urged, driving the two girls before her. The other ladies, in alarm, watched them disappear through a back-door into a side-street.... The duchess pressed the bag with the jewels to her: "For God's sake, don't cry; keep your heads!" she ordered her daughters. "Walk on quietly and not too fast. Wrap your cloaks well round you." She walked on, tall and erect between the two little trembling marchionesses, in those chorus-girls' clothes; rain poured down. Clusters of people ran up against them; they mingled with them; for a moment she lost Hélène: "Wait a moment!" she said to Eleonore. And they remained standing amid the press of people; troops came jogging on; socialistic songs of triumph carolled up coarsely.... Then she went back with Eleonore, pushing, shoving, giving Hélène an opportunity to get back to her: "Now both give me an arm: here!..." They did as they were told; thus, seemingly calm, slowly, slowly, as though they were sight-seers who had also come to look, they reached the Opera Square, where the mob was swarming up against the guards. Carriages passed, at a walking-pace, escorted by soldiers. A wretched old hired growler, with a gaunt hack, pushed a muddy wheel right up against her, grazing her knees; a cuirassier of the escort raised his sword threateningly against her.... "My God!" she cried, awe-struck, clutching the children. She had first recognized the driver, in a dirty coat: a footman from the Imperial, whose face she remembered. Then, with a swift glance into the cab, she recognized--just close to a lamp-post with a number of ornamental branches--the emperor leaning against Othomar and her own stepson, Xardi. But the marquis did not recognize her, for, startled by the great light, he quickly turned his face away and bent, sombrely, protectingly, over the emperor and the crown-prince.... The girls had seen nothing; the duchess said nothing, afraid of betraying them.... She felt all her pluck and assurance forsake her; she shuddered from head to foot. She could not restrain her tears for her poor emperor, who was dying, who was returning to his palace in such a guise. A great, dark terror took possession of her. The rain trickled over her bosom.... "Keep your cloaks round you!" she again admonished her daughters. Then she went on, dragging herself along and the girls as well, beside her, stumbling on their feet... But a whirl of people swept across the Opera Square; there seemed to be a fight in progress: a heap of men, surrounding a group of police-constables and soldiers, in whose midst a madman wrestled with forcible gestures; a coarse clamour rose on high. At the lighted, open windows of the opera-house, above the perystile, still decked in its bright, festal illumination, face after face, appeared, actors still in costume looked on.... "Mamma, we shall never get through!" sobbed Eleonore, softly. The duchess thought in despair of the great Empress Avenue in which their town-house stood; it was so far away: how would they ever reach it, how would they ever get home?... "They're murdering him, they're murdering him, they shan't murder him!" bleated the people round them. Then the duchess understood, then she saw and the girls also saw: the mob, furious, foaming at the mouth--avengers now, though at first malcontents, perhaps even anarchists: such were the Liparians!--the mob pressing against the soldiers and constables, in the midst of whom the emperor's murderer still made fight with his large, frenzied gestures. And the avengers stormed this circle of protecting police; they dragged the man out.... They dragged him right under the eyes of the duchess, of her daughters.... "Ugh, ugh, ugh!" they roared brutally, men and women alike. They tore the clothes from his body, they beat him; and he howled back. They struck him to the ground with cudgels and trampled on him with coarse shoes; his blood flowed; his brains spattered from his crushed skull.... Then, at the sight of blood, they became like wild beasts; they grinned and smacked their lips with delight. Eleonore fell back fainting against the duchess, but Alexa shook her by the arm: "Keep up, keep up, for God's sake keep up, can't you?" she cried out aloud. "I can do nothing with you if you faint!" Her strong hands goaded the little marchioness back into life and again she dragged them on, staggering.... 5 The emperor, who refused to die, lived by sheer energy for two days longer, with his perforated lungs, panting for breath. And such were the Liparians: the man, the murderer, seized in the opera-house, despite the police and the guard, had been battered into a shapeless mass by the malcontents themselves.... And such is life: the emperor of a great country was shot dead by a fanatic in the midst of his kith and kin and life went on.... The country was as extensive as before: a rich, naturally beautiful, southern empire; tall, snow-clad mountains in the north; medieval and modern towns, lying in broad provinces; the residential capital itself, white in its golden autumn sunshine, with its Imperial, beneath a blue sky, close to the blue sea, round which circled the quays.... And such is the life of rulers: the emperor lay dead, killed by a simple pistol-shot; and the court chamberlain was very busy, the masters of ceremonies unable to agree; the pomp of an imperial funeral was prepared in all its intricacy; through all Europe sped the after-shudder of fright; every newspaper was filled with telegrams and long articles.... All this was because of one shot from a fanatic, a martyr for the people's rights. The Empress Elizabeth stared with wide-open eyes at the fate that had overtaken her. Not thus had she ever pictured to herself that it would come, thus, so rudely, in the midst of that festivity and in the presence of their royal guest; thus, glancing past her, striking only her husband and not crushing them all, at one blow, all their imperial pride! It had come to pass and ... she still feared, she still went on fearing, more now than before: for her son!... It seemed to her as if she were fearing for the first time.... It was the day before the funeral of the Emperor Oscar, when the Duchess of Xara, now the young empress, was seized with indisposition and the doctors declared that she was _enceinte_. The emperor's remains had already been removed in great pomp to Altara. At St. Ladislas the Altarians were to see him lying in state between thousands of flaming candles, with the brilliant insignia of the supreme power at his feet; after that he was to be removed to the imperial vault in the cathedral.... On that day too at Lipara, whose whiteness took tones of sombre twilight beneath mourning decorations and flags flown at half-mast, the salutes from Fort Wenceslas echoed over the town, thundering in dull tones their regular, heavy, monotonous bombardment of farewell. Lonely, majestically, in the town resounding with the salutes, stood the Imperial, empty, with its caryatids staring with gloomy, downcast eyes. The young emperor, Othomar XII., was at Altara, leading the solemn procession. The empress-mother was at the Crown Palace, with the young Empress Valérie.... Over their glamour, still shining, shone new glamours, in life which had continued, which was continuing still.... The two empresses sat side by side. Valérie held Elizabeth gently in her arms; at regular intervals the guns boomed from the fort, through the palace... Then Elizabeth drew herself up painfully from her daughter-in-law's arms and spoke in low, oracular tones: "If it's a son ... it will be a Duke of Xara.... He would so much have liked to see a Count of Lycilia...." The guns boomed; the two empresses, in deep mourning, wept and sobbed. And now for the first time after a long interval--as there had also been a long interval at Berengar's death--Elizabeth realized all her loss, her sorrow, her misery, her despair; and she felt that that emperor, to whom, as a very young princess, now four-and-twenty years ago, she had been given in marriage, without love, she had come to love in this quarter of a century of their life in common on his high pinnacle of sovereignty.... That evening Othomar returned and, alone with his wife, with his mother, he sobbed with them, the young emperor, whom no one had seen weeping in the cathedral at Altara. For the Empress Elizabeth had repeated yet once more: "If it's a son ... it will be a Duke of Xara...." And then the Emperor of Liparia had lost his self-restraint. In one lightning-flash, one zig-zag of terror, he saw again his life as crown-prince, he thought of his unborn son. What would become of this child of fate? Would it be a repetition of himself, of his hesitation, his melancholy and his despair? And then with irrepressible sobs, suddenly overwhelmed by the menace of the future, he sobbed out his grief for his father who had been and his son who was to be! He sobbed, with his head in the arms of his young empress, who, suddenly realizing that she must comfort him, had grown calm and looked calmly down upon him, taking their life of majesty upon her shoulders as though it were an oppressive, heavy mantle of purple and ermine and nothing more, taking it up so valiantly because there flowed in her veins as in his one single drop of sacred golden blood, common to all of their order, their might upon earth and their right before God.... 6 "To HER IMPERIAL AND ROYAL HIGHNESS EUDOXIE "ARCHDUCHESS OF AUSTRIA, "SIGISMUNDINGEN. "ST. LADISLAS, "ALTARA, "--_May_, 18--. "MY DEAR MOTHER, "I cannot tell you how your letter pained me. For God's sake, do not excite yourself so and say such terrible things. We too regretted intensely that you could not be present at our coronation and that your rheumatic fever obliged you to remain at Sigismundingen; but why need you, dear mother, look upon that fever as a punishment from God? And why need you look upon it as a punishment from God that you did not see your fondest illusion fulfilled and were not able to be present in our old cathedral when Othomar, after being crowned by the primate, with his own hands crowned me Empress of Liparia? You were not there, but yet it came about: your illusion is truth, after all. And I tell you this without the least, oh, believe me, without the _least_ bitterness!... A punishment for forcing me, against my will? You must be ill indeed, ill in body and mind, poor mother, to be able to write like that: it makes me smile a little, I no longer recognize you. And let my smile bear witness that I am not unhappy: oh, far from it! Our happiness is hardly ever what we ourselves intend it to be and what we regret that it is not.... "If you were to see me, you would see that I am not unhappy. It is May, the sun is shining, the oriel-windows are open. In the distance, when I look out, I can see the Zanthos winding away in a broad, gleaming expanse of water. Close by my writing-table stands your beautiful big silver cradle; and through the closed lace curtains I can see my little Duke of Xara slumbering.... I don't know how to write all this to you, I have no command of words in which to express it fully to you; but what I feel, with this wide river landscape before me and this precious little child by my side: oh, mamma, it is not unhappiness! It is a feeling which hides a great deal of melancholy, but which hides nothing more sombre than that. And really why should it, in spite of that melancholy, not be even happiness? I am young, I am empress and I see life before me! Round about me, I see my country, I see my people: I want it to become the people of my heart, of my soul, entirely. I don't yet know how, but I want to live for this people, I want to live together with Othomar. Oh, I grant you, how I am to do that I don't yet know, but I shall find a way, together with him! And, having a husband and a child and a people, an emperor, a crown-prince and an empire, have I then no aim in life? And, having an aim in life--and such a tremendous aim!--have I not then also happiness? Is happiness anything other than to have found a lofty, a noble aim in life? "I am so anxious to convince you. And, if you saw me here, at our quiet St. Ladislas, now that all the agitation of the coronation-festivities is past, you would believe me. Othomar loves St. Ladislas and proposes to come here every year for a month in the spring. It is considered a good omen that my child was born here, for you know the feeling of the Liparians, their wish to see the crown-prince of their country born at St. Ladislas, under the immediate protection of the patron saint. "Othomar, however, is not here at the moment: he has gone for a few days to Lipara--of course, you know this from the papers--and writes to me twice a day. I asked him to do this so that I might be fully informed as to his state of mind. The tragedy of his father's death, the Emperor Oscar's two days' death-agony affected Othomar so violently, so violently: my God, how can I find words to describe that terror to you! How can I still live in hope, after all that I have already suffered in my short life and seen around me in the way of terror! And yet, yet it is like that, for youth is so strong and I, I am strong, I _must_ be strong.... "I admired my young emperor, in those terrible days, for his outward calm, through which the storm-flood of all his emotions never burst loose before the eyes of the world. Directly after the funeral, the ceremony of signing the five sacred deeds; the immediate agitation of the accumulated affairs of state.... A month later, the new elections, the constitutional majority in the house of deputies, the resignation of the ministry.... All this you will have seen in the papers.... After that, the birth of our son and then our coronation, at the moment when Liparia seemed shaken to its foundations! And now Othomar is at Lipara, because of the new constitutional ministry.... Then Count Myxila, who does not agree with Othomar's modern ideas and who has even ventured to reproach him with some vehemence for abandoning all his father's views upon government so shortly after his violent death and who is now tendering his resignation.... Othomar will make an effort to keep him, though he himself realizes that it will not be possible.... And the revision of the constitution in the immediate future, with so many drastic changes, probably with the inauguration of the upper and lower chambers, while the house of peers will continue its outward existence, but will be actually nothing more than an honorary consulting body. These are concessions, if you will have it so, but then, you know, Othomar has quite different ideas from his father's and, when he makes these concessions, he undoubtedly makes them to the past and not to the future nor to himself.... "Life is cruel, cruel in its changes and cruel even in its renascences; and for us rulers all this is perhaps even more cruel; but the world belongs to the future.... "The Empress Elizabeth is still here: she has suddenly grown so old, so grey and very dull and depressed; and she does not know what to do: whether to remain with her household at the Imperial, to stay on here at St. Ladislas, or to retire to Castel Xaveria.... All the imperial palaces and castles are whirling through her poor head: her private properties and the crown domains; she does not know where she wants to go; we of course continue to urge her not to leave the Imperial: it is large enough to enable her to retain almost all her own military and civil household.... "Dearest mother, I will write to you again soon: my head is still too much in a whirl; I have touched on too many topics; my woman's brains are not capable of thinking that all out logically and coherently and writing it down.... And I have only been empress for such a short time and I am only twenty-two, though I no longer feel so young.... This letter is but a hurriedly-written reply to your doleful self-reproach, which I now beseech you in Heaven's name to put aside _entirely_. Now that I write this to you, the evening of my betrothal-dinner at Sigismundingen rises before my mind. We were such a strange engaged couple, Othomar and I! I asked him--smile at this, mamma, and don't cry about it--whether he loved anybody. He said no. He told me he loved his people and he stretched out his arms, as though he would have embraced them. His people! The dawn of a new idea--old no doubt to thousands and ages old, but new to me, as a new day is new--shone out before me, threw light over my gloomy sufferings, brightened a road before me.... "That road, mamma, I now see stretching before me clearer and clearer every day; and I mean to follow it with my husband and my child, with my emperor and my crown-prince ... my crown-prince, who is waking and crying for me! "May God grant me strength, mamma! "VALÉRIE." 
40155	----	AKBAR. AN EASTERN ROMANCE. By Dr. P. A. S. VAN LIMBURG-BROUWER. Translated from the Dutch by M. M. With notes and an introductory life of the Emperor Akbar, By Clements R. Markham. C.B., F.R.S. London: W. H. Allen & Co., 13 Waterloo Place. Publishers to the India Office. 1879. INTRODUCTORY LIFE OF AKBAR. The object of the Romance which is now presented to English readers, in a translated form, is to convey a generally accurate idea of the court of Akbar, the greatest and best native ruler that ever held sway over Hindustan. The author, Dr. Van Limburg-Brouwer, was an oriental scholar, who strove, by this means, to impart to others the knowledge he had himself acquired, through the study of contemporary writers, of the thoughts and habits of the great Emperor, and of the manners and civilization of those who surrounded him. If he has attained any measure of success in this attempt, his labours will certainly have been useful, and his work deserves translation. For on Englishmen, more than on any other people, is a knowledge of so important a period of Indian history incumbent. This romance of Akbar is, it is true, but a sketch, and is only intended to excite interest in the subject. But if it has that effect, and leads to further inquiry and research, it will secure the object with which it was written, and will have done useful service. "Akbar, an Eastern Romance," ("Akbar, een Oostersche Roman,") was first published in Dutch, at the Hague, in 1872, the year before the author's death. [1] A German translation appeared at Leipzig in 1877. [2] A native of Holland might not unnaturally undertake such a work, for the best European contemporary account of the reign of Akbar was written by a Dutchman, Pieter Van den Broeck. [3] Students of Indian history are looking forward to the publication of the Life of Akbar by Prince Frederick of Schleswig Holstein. A really good biography of so great a ruler will be a work of the highest importance, and the Prince's proved literary skill [4] and thoroughness in research justify the anticipation that his Life of Akbar will be worthy of the subject. The romance by Van Limburg-Brouwer, in its English dress, will answer its purpose if it gives rise to a desire for more full and complete information in a graver form, and thus serves as an avant courier to the life of Akbar by Prince Frederick. The epoch of Akbar is the one of greatest importance to English students of the history of India, for two reasons. It is the period when administration under native rule was best and most efficient, and it is, consequently, the one with which a comparison with British rule should be made. It is also the period of which the most detailed and exact accounts have been written and preserved; so that such a comparison will be reliable and useful. A brief introductory notice of the great Emperor's life may, perhaps, be acceptable to readers of Van Limburg-Brouwer's historical romance. Akbar was the third Indian sovereign of the House of Timur. Hindustan had been ruled by Afghans for two centuries and a half [5] when Baber crossed the Indus and founded the Mughal [6] Empire in 1525. Baber died in the Charbagh at Agra, on December 26th, 1530, and his son and successor, Humayun, was defeated and driven out of India by the able and determined Afghan chief, Shir Shah, in 1540. Shir Shah died on the throne, and was succeeded by a son and grandson, while Humayun took refuge with Tahmasp, the Shah of Persia. The restored Afghans kept their power for fifteen years. The story of Humayun's flight is told by his faithful ewer bearer, named Jauhar, who accompanied him in his exile. [7] Jauhar tells us that, in October 1542, a little party of seven or eight horsemen and a few camels was wearily journeying over the sandy wastes of Sind, worn out with fatigue, and famished with thirst. The fugitive Prince Humayun, his wife the youthful Hamida, [8] the ewer bearer Jauhar, an officer named Rushen Beg, and a few others, formed the party. Extreme misery had destroyed alike the differences of rank and the power of concealing the true character. When Rushen's horse was worn out, he insisted upon taking one which he had lent to the Queen, a young girl of fifteen within a few days of her confinement. Humayun gave his own horse to his wife, walked some distance, and then got on a baggage camel. A few hours afterwards the forlorn wanderers entered the fort of Amarkot, near Tatta, which is surrounded by a dreary waste of sand-hills. Here, under the shade of an arka tree, [9] young Hamida gave birth to a prince, who afterwards became the most enlightened thinker, and the ablest administrator of his age. Akbar was born on the 14th of October 1542. Jauhar, by Humayun's order, brought a pod of musk, which the fugitive king broke and distributed among his followers, saying, "This is all the present I can afford to make you on the birth of my son, whose fame, I trust, will one day be expanded all over the world, as the perfume of the musk now fills this room." The fugitives then fled up the Bolan Pass, and the little Akbar remained for some time in the hands of his turbulent uncles at Kandahar and Kabul, while his parents took refuge at the court of Persia. Then the wheel of fortune turned. Assisted by Bairam Khan, a very able general and a native of Badakshan, Humayun fought his way back into military possession of Lahore and Delhi, and died in 1556, leaving his inheritance, such as it was, to his young son. At the time of his father's death, Akbar was only in his fifteenth year. He was then in the Punjab, with Bairam Khan, putting down the last efforts of the Afghan faction. Bairam Khan became Regent, and remained in power until 1560, when the young King assumed the sovereignty. In order to appreciate the full extent of Akbar's achievements, it must be considered that he had to conquer his dominions first, before he could even think of those great administrative improvements which signalized the latter part of his life and immortalized his name. In his first year he possessed the Punjab, and the country round Delhi and Agra; in the third year he acquired Ajmir; in the fourth, Gwalior and Oudh; and in 1572 he conquered Gujrat, Bengal, and Bihar; but it took several years before order could be established in those countries. Orissa was annexed to Akbar's empire in 1578, by Todar Mall, who made a revenue survey of the province in 1582. In 1581 Kabul submitted, and was placed under the rule of Akbar's brother, Mirza Hakim. Kashmir was annexed in 1586, [10] Sind in 1592, and in 1594 Kandahar was recovered from the Persians. In 1595 Akbar commenced a long war with the Muhammadan Kings of the Dakhin, ending in the acquisition of Berar. These wars, which were spread over nearly the whole of Akbar's reign, need not further engage our attention. But in contemplating the reforms of this admirable prince, it must be borne in mind that their merit is enhanced by the fact that most of them were effected during troublous times, and at periods when there must have been great pressure on his finances. He was a renowned warrior, skilled in all warlike exercises, and an able and successful general. But it is not these qualities which raise Akbar so far above the common herd of rulers. His greatness consists in his enlightened toleration, in his love of learning, in his justice and magnanimity, and in the success with which he administered a vast empire. The excellence of his instruments is one striking proof of his capacity and genius. The commencement of Akbar's intellectual revolution dates from the introduction to him of Faizi and Abú-l Fazl, the illustrious sons of Mubarak. Their father, Shaikh Mubarak, traced his descent from an Arabian dervish, of Yemen, who settled in Sind. The Shaikh was a man of genius and great learning, and, having established himself at Agra, gave his two sons excellent educations. Faizi, the eldest, was born in 1545. He first went to court in 1568, at the age of twenty-three, and soon became the Emperor's constant companion and friend. In 1589 he was made Poet Laureate, and he was employed on several diplomatic missions. He was a man of profound learning and original genius. He was loved by the Emperor, who was thrown into the deepest grief at his death, which took place at the age of fifty, on October 5th, 1595. "Shaikh Jío," he exclaimed, "I have brought Hakim Ali with me, will you not speak to me?" Getting no answer, in his grief he threw his turban on the ground, and wept aloud. Shaikh Abú-l Fazl, called Allami, the younger son of Mubarak, was born on January 14th, 1551, at Agra. He zealously studied under the care of his father; and in his seventeenth year, towards the end of 1574, he was presented to the Emperor Akbar by his brother Faizi. Owing to the birth of his eldest surviving son Salim, at Sikri, in 1570, Akbar had made that place a royal abode. He built a palace and other splendid edifices there, and it became one of his favourite places of residence. It was called Fathpúr Sikri. Thither Akbar went after his campaign in Bihar in 1574, and there his intimacy with Abú-l Fazl commenced. It was at this time that the memorable Thursday evening discussions began. Akbar's resolution was to rule with even hand men of all creeds in his dominions, and he was annoyed by the intolerance and casuistry of the Ulamas or learned men of the predominant religion. He himself said, "I have seen that God bestows the blessings of His gracious providence upon all His creatures without distinction. Ill should I discharge the duties of my station were I to withhold my indulgence from any of those committed to my charge." But he invited the opinions of others on religious points, and hence these discussions arose. Akbar caused a building to be erected in the royal garden of Fathpúr Sikri for the learned men, consisting of four halls, called aiwán, where he passed one night in the week in their company. The western hall was set apart for Seyyids, the south for Ulamas, the north for Shaikhs, and the east for nobles and others whose tastes were in unison with those of the Emperor. The building was called Ibadat-Khana, and here discussions were carried on, upon all kinds of instructive and useful topics. Besides Faizi and Abú-l Fazl, there were many learned men in constant attendance on the Emperor. Their father, Shaikh Mubarak, was a poet, and a profound scholar. Mulla Abdul Kadir, called El Badauni, was born at Badaun, in 1540, and studied music, astronomy, and history. He was employed to translate Arabic and Sanscrit works into Persian; but he was a fanatical Muhammadan, and in his "Tarikh-i Badauni," a history brought down to 1595, he always speaks of Faizi and Abú-l Fazl as heretics, and all references to the speculations of Akbar and his friends are couched in bitter and sarcastic terms. He, however, temporized, and did not allow his religion to interfere with his worldly interests. His history contains much original matter. He also translated the great Hindu epic "Mahabharata" in 1582, and the "Ramayana" between 1583 and 1591. Of the former poem he says, "At its puerile absurdities the eighteen thousand creations may well be amazed. But such is my fate, to be employed on such works! Nevertheless, I console myself with the reflection that what is predestined must come to pass." The Khwaja Nizamu-d din Ahmad was another historian of Akbar's court. He also was a good, but not a bitter Musalman. His "Tabakat-i Akbari" is a history of the Muhammadan Kings of Hindustan from Mahmud of Ghazni to the year 1594, which was that of his own death. Other historians of the reign were Shaikh Illahdad Faizi Sirhindi, whose "Akbar-nama" comes down to 1602; Maulana Ahmad, of Tatta, who compiled the "Tarikh-i Alfi," under the Emperor's own superintendence, and Asad Beg, who related the murder of Abú-l Fazl and the death of Akbar, bringing his narrative down to 1608. The greatest settlement officer and financier of Akbar's court was Todar Mall. There were also poets, musicians, and authors of commentaries who were encouraged by the liberality of the Emperor. Professors of all creeds were invited to the court of this enlightened sovereign, and cordially welcomed. Among these were Maulana Muhammad, of Yazd, a learned Shiah; Nuruddin Tarkhan, of Jam, in Khurasan, a mathematician and astronomer; Sufi philosophers, fire-worshippers from Gujrat, Brahmans, and the Christian missionaries Aquaviva, Monserrato, and Henriquez. The Thursday evening meetings at the Ibadat Khana, near the tank called Anúptalao, in the gardens of Fathpúr Sikri, were commenced in 1574. Akbar was at first annoyed by the intolerance of the Muhammadan Ulamas, and encouraged the telling of stories against them. Quarrels were the consequence. On one occasion Akbar said to Badauni, "In future report to me any one of the assembly whom you find speaking improperly, and I will have him turned out." Badauni said quietly to his neighbour, Asaf Khan, "According to this a good many would be expelled." His Majesty asked what had been said, and when Badauni told him, he was much amused, and repeated it to those who were near him. Decorum was, however, enforced after this, and the more bigoted Muhammadans had to curb their violence. But their feelings were very bitter when they saw their sovereign gradually adopting opinions which they looked upon as more and more heretical, and at last embracing a new religion. El Badauni says that Akbar, encouraged by his friends Faizi and Abú-l Fazl, gradually lost faith, and that in a few years not a trace of Muhammadan feeling was left in his heart. He was led into free thinking by the large number of learned men of all denominations and sects that came from various countries to his court. Night and day people did nothing but inquire and investigate. Profound points of science, the subtleties of revelation, the curiosities of history, the wonders of nature, were incessantly discussed. His Majesty collected the opinions of every one, retaining whatever he approved, and rejecting what was against his disposition, or ran counter to his wishes. Thus a faith, based on some elementary principles, fixed itself in his heart; and, as the result of all the influences that were brought to bear on him, the conviction gradually established itself in his mind that there were truths in all religions. If some true knowledge was everywhere to be found, why, he thought, should truth be confined to one religion? Thus his speculations became bolder. "Not a day passed," exclaims El Badauni, "but a new fruit of this loathsome tree ripened into existence." At length Akbar established a new religion, which combined the principal features of Hinduism with the sun-worship of the Parsís. [11] The good parts of all religions were recognized, and perfect toleration was established. The new faith was called Tauhid-i Ilahi, divine monotheism. A document was prepared and signed by the Ulamas, the draft of which was in the handwriting of Shaikh Mubarak. The Emperor, as Imam-i Adil (just leader) and Mujtahid, was declared to be infallible, and superior to all doctors in matters of faith. [12] Abú-l Fazl was the chief expounder of the new creed. Had Akbar, as a private individual, avowed the opinions which he formed as an Emperor, his life would not have been worth a day's purchase; but in his exalted station he was enabled to practise as a ruler the doctrines which he held as a philosopher. Or, as Abú-l Fazl puts it: "When a person in private station unravels the warp and woof of the veil of deception, and discovers the beautiful countenance of consistency and truth, he keeps silence from the dread of savage beasts in human form, who would brand him with the epithets of infidel and blasphemer, and probably deprive him of life. But when the season arrives for the revelation of truth, a person is endowed with this degree of knowledge upon whom God bestows the robes of royalty, such as is the Emperor of our time." The disputations came to an end in 1579, and Akbar held the new creed to the end of his life. Meanwhile Akbar's learned men were engaged in compilations and translations from Arabic and Sanscrit into Persian. The history called "Tarikh-i Alfi" was to be a narrative of the thousand years of Islam from the Hijrah to 1592 A.D. Akbar held that Islam would cease to exist in the latter year, having done its work. The "Tarikh-i Alfi" was intended to be its epitaph. It was chiefly written by Maulava Ahmad, of Tatta, but Abú-l Fazl and others assisted. Faizi translated the Sanscrit mathematical work called "Lilawati"; and, as has already been said, Badauni, with the aid of others, prepared translated versions of the two great Hindu epics. But the most famous literary work of Akbar's reign was the history written by Abú-l Fazl, in three volumes, called the "Akbar-namah." The first volume contains a history of the House of Timur down to the death of Humayun; the second is a record of the reign of Akbar, from 1556 to 1602; and the third is the "Ain-i Akbari," the great Administration Report of Akbar's Empire. The first book of the "Ain-i Akbari" treats of the Emperor, and of his household and court. Here we are introduced to the royal stables, to the wardrobe, and kitchens, and to the hunting establishment. We are initiated into all the arrangements connected with the treasury and the mint, the armoury, [13] and the travelling equipage. In this book, too, we learn the rules of court etiquette, and also the ceremonies instituted by Akbar as the spiritual guide of his people. The second book gives the details of army administration, the regulations respecting the feasts, marriage rites, education, and amusements. This book ends with a list of the Grandees of the Empire. [14] Their rank is shown by their military commands, as mansabdars or captains of cavalry. All commands above five thousand belonged to the Shah-zadahs or Emperor's sons. The total number of mansabs or military commands was sixty-six. Most of the higher officers were Persians or Afghans, not Hindustani Muhammadans, and out of the four hundred and fifteen mansabdars there were fifty-one Hindus, a large percentage. It was to the policy of Hindu generals that Akbar owed the permanent annexation of Orissa. [15] The third book is devoted to regulations for the judicial and executive departments, the survey and assessment, and the rent-roll of the great finance minister. The fourth book treats of the social condition and literary activity of the Hindus; and the fifth contains the moral and epigrammatic sentences of the Emperor. It is to the third book, containing the details of the revenue system, that the modern administrator will turn with the deepest interest. Early in his reign Akbar remitted or reduced a number of vexatious taxes. [16] His able revenue officers then proceeded to introduce a reformed settlement based on the indigenous scheme, as matured by Shir Shah. The greatest among Akbar's fiscal statesmen was Todar Mall, who settled Gujrat, Bengal, and Bihar, and introduced the system of keeping revenue accounts in Persian. Next to him was Nizam Ahmad, the author of the "Tabakat-i Akbari," who spent his life in the Emperor's service. From time immemorial a share in the produce of land has been the property of the State in all eastern countries. From this source the main part of the revenue has been raised, and the land tax has always formed the most just, the most reliable, and the most popular means of providing for the expenditure of the government. In Muhammadan countries this land tax is called khiraj, and is of two kinds, the one mukasimah, when a share of the actual produce was taken, and the other wazifa, which was due from the land whether there was any produce or not. In Hindu times, and before the reign of Akbar, the khiraj in India was mukasimah. The Emperor's officers adopted the system of wazifa for good land, and carried the settlement into effect with great precision and accuracy in each province of his dominions. Bengal and part of Bihar, Berar, and part of Gujrat, however, appear to have been assessed according to the value of the crops, the surveys of the land not being complete. Akbar took one-third of the estimated value, and he left the option of payment in kind to the farmers, except in the case of sugar-cane and other expensive crops. The lands were divided into four classes, with different revenue to be paid by each, namely:-- 1. Land cultivated every harvest, and never fallow. 2. Land lying fallow at intervals. 3. Land lying fallow for four years together. 4. Land not cultivated for five years and upwards. The principle of wazifa was only applied to the two first of these classes of land, and to the second only when actually under cultivation. The lands of these two classes were divided into good, middling, and bad. The produce of a bigah (5/8 of an acre) of each sort was added together, and a third of that was considered to be the average produce. One-third was the share of the State, as settled by Akbar's assessment. Large remissions were allowed on the two inferior classes of land. The settlements were for ten years. In about 1596 the land revenue derived from the fifteen subahs or provinces of Akbar's empire was as follows:-- Rupees. [17] 1. Allahabad 53.10.677 2. Agra 1.36.56.257 3. Oudh 50.43.954 4. Ajmír 71.53.449 5. Gujrat 1.09.20.057 6. Bihar 55.47.985 7. Bengal 1.49.61.482 8. Delhi 1.50.40.388 9. Kabul 80.71.024 10. Lahor 1.39.86.460 11. Multán 96.00.764 12. Malwah 60.17.376 13. Berar 1.73.76.117 14. Khandeish 75.63.237 15. Tattah 16.56.284 ------------ 14.19.05.511 A later return, referred to by Mr. Thomas, gives Akbar's land revenue at £16,582,440. Under his grandson, Shah Jahan, it increased to £22,000,000, and Aurangzib's land revenue, in 1707, was upwards of £30,000,000. [18] On an average about a twentieth is deducted for jaghírs, or rent-free lands, and sayurghals or assignments for charitable purposes. The "Ain-i Akbari" of Abú-l Fazl is rendered valuable not only by the varied information it contains, but also by the trustworthiness of the author. Mr. Blochmann says that Abú-l Fazl has been too often accused by European writers of flattery, and of wilful concealment of facts damaging to the reputation of his master. He bears witness that a study of the "Akbar-namah" has convinced him that the charge is absolutely unfounded. Abú-l Fazl's love of truth, and his correctness of information are apparent on every page of his great work. The last years of the reign of Akbar were clouded with sorrow. His eldest son, Salim, was dissipated, ungrateful, and rebellious, and bore special hatred against his father's noble minister. The two younger sons died early from the effects of drink. "Alas," exclaimed Abú-l Fazl, "that wine should be burdened with suffering, and that its sweet nectar should be a deadly poison!" [19] In 1597 Abú-l Fazl left the court, and went for the first time on active service in the Dakhin. He had been absent for more than four years, when the rebellious conduct of Salim, the heir apparent, induced Akbar to recall his trusty minister. His presence was urgently needed. Abú-l Fazl hurriedly set out for Agra, only accompanied by a few men. Salim thought this an excellent opportunity of getting rid of his father's faithful friend, and bribed Rajah Bir Singh, a Bundela chief of Urchah, through whose territory he would have to pass, to waylay him. On the 12th of August 1602, at a distance of a few miles from Narwar, Bir Singh's men came in sight. The minister thought it a disgrace to fly, which he might easily have done. He defended himself bravely, but, pierced by the lance of a trooper, he fell dead on the ground. The assassin sent the head of Abú-l Fazl to his employer; and Akbar, with all the diligence of his officers and troops, was never able to secure and punish the murderer. His own son was the greater criminal of the two, and in his memoirs Salim confesses his guilt with unblushing effrontery. [20] Mr. Blochmann thus sums up the career of Abú-l Fazl. "As a writer he is unrivalled. Everywhere in India he is known as the great Munshi. His letters are studied in all Madrasahs, and are perfect models. His influence on his age was immense. He led his sovereign to a true appreciation of his duties, and from the moment that he entered court the problem of successfully ruling over mixed races was carefully considered, and the policy of toleration was the result." The great Emperor did not long survive his beloved and faithful minister. Akbar died on November 10th, 1605, in his sixty-third year, and was buried in the magnificent tomb at Sikundra, near Agra. There his bones still rest, and his tomb is treated with all honour and respect by the present rulers of the land. A new cloth to cover the actual tomb was presented by the Earl of Northbrook, after his visit to Sikundra in November 1873, when he was Viceroy of India. Akbar's wives were Sultana Rajmihal Begum, a daughter of his uncle Hindal, by whom he had no children; Sultana Sulimah Begum, a daughter of a daughter of Baber, who was a poetess; Nur Jahan; and the Rajput Princess Jodh Bai, the mother of Salim. His children were Hasan and Husain, who died in infancy; Salim, his successor; Murad and Danyal, who died of drink in the lifetime of their father, and three daughters. Akbar is described by his son Salim as a very tall man, with the strength of a lion, which was indicated by the great breadth of his chest. His complexion was rather fair (color de trigo is the description of a Spanish missionary who knew him), his eyes and eyebrows dark, his countenance handsome. His beard was close-shaved. His bearing was majestic, and "the qualities of his mind seemed to raise him above the denizens of this lower world." [21] The Emperor Akbar combined the thoughtful philosophy of Marcus Aurelius, the toleration of Julian, the enterprise and daring of his own grandsire Baber, with the administrative genius of a Monro or a Thomason. We might search through the dynasties of the East and West for many centuries back, and fail to discover so grand and noble a character as that of Akbar. No sovereign has come nearer to the ideal of a father of his people. [22] Akbar was the contemporary of Queen Elizabeth. He began to reign two years before her, and outlived her for two years, but he was nine years younger than the great Queen. He was succeeded by his son Salim, under the name of Jahangir, who reigned from 1605 to 1627. The native sources whence the story of Akbar's glorious reign are derived, have already been indicated. To a considerable extent they are accessible in an English form. The translation of the "Ain-i Akbari," by Gladwin, was published in 1800, and that of the historian Ferishta, by General Briggs, in 1829. Elphinstone gives a brief account of Akbar's reign in his history of India. In 1873 Blochmann's admirable translation of the two first books of the "Ain-i Akbari" was printed at Calcutta, for the Asiatic Society of Bengal. The work also contains many extracts from El Badauni and the "Akbar-namah," and a perfect mine of accurate and well arranged information from other sources. In Volumes V. and VI. of the great work edited by Professor Dowson, [23] the history of Akbar's reign is very fully supplied by extracts from the "Tabakat-i Akbari," the "Akbar-namah," the "Tarikh-i Badauni," the "Tarikh-i Alfi," the work of Shaikh Nurul Hakk, and that of Asad Beg. Mr. Edward Thomas, F.R.S., has published a most valuable little book on the revenue system of Akbar and his three immediate successors. [24] The slight notices of Akbar by contemporary or nearly contemporary Europeans are derived from reports of the Jesuit missionaries, from those of the Dutch at Surat, and from Hakluyt's Voyages. As early as 1578 the Emperor had received a Christian missionary named Antonio Cabral, at Fathpúr Sikri, had heard him argue with the Mullas, and had been induced to write to Goa, requesting that two members of the Society of Jesus might be sent to him with Christian books. In 1579 Rudolf Aquaviva [25] and Antonio Monserrat were accordingly despatched, with Francisco Henriquez as interpreter. They were well received, and again in 1591 three brethren visited Akbar's court at Lahore. Finally a detachment of missionaries was sent to Lahore, at Akbar's request, in 1594, consisting of Geronimo Xavier (a nephew of St. Francis), Emanuel Pineiro, a Portuguese, mentioned by Captain Hawkins, [26] and Benedek Goes, [27] the famous traveller, who went with Akbar on his summer trip to Kashmir. Xavier and Goes also accompanied the Emperor in his Dakhin campaign; and when Goes set out on his perilous overland journey to China, that liberal monarch praised his zeal and contributed to his expenses. This was in 1602. Xavier celebrated Christmas with great solemnity at Lahore, and wrote a life of Christ in Persian, which Akbar read with much interest. Accounts of the visits of these missionaries to Akbar's court, and of their journeys, are to be found in the Jesuit Histories. [28] But the most valuable European account of the reign of Akbar was written by Pieter van den Broek, the chief of the Dutch factory at Surat in 1620. It was published, in Latin, by Johan de Laet, and forms the tenth chapter of his "De Imperio Magni Mogolis" (Leyden, 1631). De Laet calls it "a fragment of Indian history which we have received from some of our countrymen, and translated from Dutch into Latin." [29] Mr. Lethbridge has supplied an English version in the "Calcutta Review" for July 1873. [30] Ralph Fitch is the only English traveller who has written an account of a visit to the court of Akbar. [31] Accompanied by Mr. John Newbery, a jeweller named William Leedes, and James Story, a painter, he reached the court at Agra with a letter of introduction from Queen Elizabeth, in the year 1585. Thence Newbery started to return overland. Leedes entered the service of Akbar, settling at Fathpúr; and Fitch went on to Bengal, eventually returning home. Abú-l Fazl tells us, casually, that, through the negligence of the local officers, some of the cities and marts of Gujrat were frequented by Europeans. Two centuries and a half after his master's death, these intruders held undisputed sovereignty not only over the whole of Akbar's empire, but over all India, a vast dominion which had never before been united under one rule. They approached from the sea, the base of their operations is their ships, and not, as in the case of Akbar's grandsire, the mountains of the north-west frontier. If the balance of administrative merit is in favour of the English, and this is not established, it in no way detracts from the glory of the great Emperor. Yet we may claim that the islanders who now occupy the place of Akbar are not unworthy to succeed him. The work that is before us is more prosaic than was the duty of the puissant sovereign. The charm of one central glory, round which all that was great and good in India could congregate; the fascination of one ruling spirit, combining irresistible power with virtue and beneficence; the pomp and circumstance of a brilliant court--all these are gone for ever. We have instead the united thought and energy of many sound heads and brave hearts, working without ostentation, and achieving objects of a magnitude and endurance such as no single brain of any despot, how great soever, could even conceive. "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils Himself in many ways." BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE OF THE AUTHOR. The author of the romance of Akbar, Dr. P. A. S. van Limburg-Brouwer, was the son of the Professor of Greek at Groningen. He was born at Liege in 1832, and was a Doctor of Law, residing chiefly at the Hague, and devoting himself to eastern and other studies. He held an appointment in the office of the Royal Archives, and was for a short time a member of the States General for the district of Trenthe. With reference to his eastern studies, we find them bearing fruit in the periodical literature of Holland during the last ten years of his life. In 1863 Van Limburg-Brouwer contributed an essay on the Ramayana, to the "Gids," a magazine published at Amsterdam. [32] In 1866 a historical sketch from his pen, entitled the "Java Reformers," appeared in the same periodical. [33] In 1867 he contributed three articles, entitled, "The Adventures of an Indian Nobleman"; "The Book of Kings: an Essay of Indian History"; and "The Vedanta: an Essay on Indian Orthodoxy." [34] In 1868 he published articles entitled "Eastern Atheism," and "A Cure for Beauty." [35] His metaphysical drama, "The Moon of Knowledge," saw the light in 1869. [36] In the following year he seems to have given his attention to Arabian lore, and published two articles entitled "Poetry of the Desert," and the "Kabbala." [37] Towards the end of his life Van Limburg-Brouwer commenced the study of Chinese, and among the results of his labours in this field of research was his article on "The Sage of the Celestial Empire, and his School." [38] He was a man of extensive and varied learning, endowed with a rich and fertile imagination, and with great powers of expression. In his romance of Akbar, his most carefully drawn character, and that on which he seems to have bestowed most thought, is the Hindu girl Iravati. In her he endeavoured to portray his conception of the class of devoted loving women of whom Damayanti is the type; and Siddha Rama is evidently intended to be the Nala of a later age. But he has bestowed equal care on his treatment of the more difficult part of his subject, and has brought considerable ability and much study and research to the task of presenting to his readers a vivid and at the same time a life-like picture of that remarkable prince round whom the action of the story centres, and of the two brothers who were his devoted friends. Akbar is the work on which Van Limburg-Brouwer's literary fame will mainly rest. It was only published in 1872, the year before the author's death. He died at the Hague, in his forty-first year, on the 13th of February 1873. [39] THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE. The grand figure of the Emperor Akbar, the ruler of India during the last half of the sixteenth century (1556-1605), for many reasons appeared to me to be of such importance that I could not resist the temptation of making him the chief person in a romantic sketch which I now venture to offer to public notice. Some readers may desire to be able to distinguish accurately between what is, and what is not historical. For their benefit I give the following explanation. To real history, besides Akbar himself, belong his son Salim, the Wazir Abú-l Fazl, and his brother Faizi, Abdul Kadir Badaoni, Rudolf Aquaviva the Jesuit, and a few others of less note. Parviz belongs to history, but he bore another name. Nandigupta is not a historical personage, but rather the type of a character often met with in the history of India, and especially of Kashmir. Gorakh and his Thugs are also types. Iravati was not a real person, but the image of a Hindu woman as she is often met with in the ancient dramas and legends of India. Many of the sayings and speeches placed in the mouths of the characters in the romance are historical. For reasons which may be easily understood, the events in the narrative are made to deviate slightly from historical truth. In the days of Akbar, for instance, Kashmir was no longer ruled by Hindu Princes, although the people were entirely Indian. Again; the attempt of Salim, concerning which many particulars are given, was not made during an expedition against Kashmir, but against the Dakhin. Faizi was older than Abú-l Fazl, and died before his brother's murder. Fathpúr lies at a greater distance from Agra than would appear in the following pages. In the characters and acts of the people there are also some slight and unimportant deviations from historical fact. The attempt has been made to follow the oriental forms, especially in the conversations, so far as was possible without slavish imitation. The poems, which are here and there woven into the narrative, have been translated by me from the originals. It is scarcely necessary to give here an exact list of the sources which have aided in the composition of this work; nor is there much to impart, on this subject, that would be new to the historian. He knows well that the principal authorities for the life of Akbar, for his institutions and ideas, are the writings of Abú-l Fazl and Abdul Kadir, whence eastern as well as western writers have drawn their information. The reports of the Jesuits of that period, though often prejudiced, yet in many points supplement and illustrate the works of native historians. It is also necessary to add that various modern histories and books of travel have been used. For what is purely Indian in this romance, Sanscrit literature, with its many legends, dramas, and romances, has been made use of. For the philosophical ideas of Akbar the best authority is his principal opponent, Abdul Kadir. The Vedas, from which the Emperor borrowed many of his ideas, have also been consulted. One source of information merits special mention, as it is but little known. That is, the reports on the country and people made by merchants of our East India Company, who, shortly after Akbar's reign, were established at Surat and Agra. Their letters are still preserved in our colonial archives. How accurate soever one may strive to be, yet in an attempt of this kind there must always be the possibility of errors, especially in the descriptions of places. If here and there mistakes have crept into the text, the writer asks pardon in anticipation, and will be grateful for any corrections. The Hague, October, 1872. CONTENTS. Page Introductory Life of Akbar v Biographical Notice of the Author xxxix The Author's Preface xliii Chapter I.--The Hermit 1 Chapter II.--Iravati 22 Chapter III.--Agra 45 Chapter IV.--Akbar 70 Chapter V.--A New and an Old Acquaintance 95 Chapter VI.--Salim 116 Chapter VII.--Secret Meetings 139 Chapter VIII.--A Tempter 161 Chapter IX.--The Weighing of the Emperor 187 Chapter X.--Surprises 209 Chapter XI.--"Tauhid-i-Ilahi" 230 Chapter XII.--Assassination 250 Chapter XIII.--Parting 265 Chapter XIV.--The Discovery 286 Chapter XV.--Amendment 305 Chapter XVI.--Faizi's Curse 322 Chapter XVII.--The Tomb 337 AKBAR. CHAPTER I. THE HERMIT. The last rays of the setting sun shot through the sky in crimson light, and were reflected back by the snows of Badari-natha [40] and the sharp peaks of the Himálaya, while a soft south wind wafted to the mountain tops the perfume of trees and flowers which all day had hung over the valleys. For centuries and centuries had the rays of the same sun lit up the same heights, and the perfume of flowers had risen to the mountains, with no change and no disturbance; while far in the distance men fought and struggled, mighty kingdoms rose and fell, and thoughtful minds vainly sought the aim and reason of the existence of the universe. Towards the end of the sixteenth century of our era, when Jelalu-dín-Muhammad, surnamed Akbar the Great, had raised the empire of the Moghuls to the highest point of power and glory, the lofty Himálaya, once the scarcely accessible abode of the Devas, [41] still remained wild and inhospitable. These solitudes were scarcely ever trodden by human foot, and seldom even did the cry of some passing bird of prey, or the hum of dancing insects, break the intense and almost audible silence. Still the place was not so entirely deserted as a careless observer might imagine. Nearly hidden in the long grass a tiger lay stretched out, his coat flecked with black, dreaming in philosophical rest, sometimes gazing upwards at the snow-crowned peaks, and then half closing his eyes before the still vivid light. He looked down on the lovely green valleys far below, stretching away until they met other mountains rising into the clear sky, losing themselves and seeming to melt and blend into the brilliant colours of the horizon. Of what did he think? sometimes gazing upwards, sometimes looking down into the depths below, perhaps in misty remembrance of the times when, in another form, he reigned--a mighty rajah over luxurious Kashmir, with vassals bowing before him and lovely women vieing with one another for the honour of his notice. Or was, indeed, the royal beast nothing more than a gigantic cat? a monster of the jungle? and not the lost soul of some former proud and haughty ruler. He was now, in truth, the king of the wilderness, where no rival dared to challenge his rights. That he well knew his power, could be seen in the proud glance he cast around him. But, suddenly waking from these day-dreams, he sprang to his feet and listened. A noise, the sound of men's voices, had fallen on his quick ear. Though still at some little distance, a group of riders was descending by the only accessible path in the mountains towards the valley. A young and handsome man, whose proud carriage and rich clothing showed that he was of noble birth, accompanied by another, older in years and more gravely clad, and followed by two servants, formed the party. The youth was mounted on a white Arab, small but powerfully built, and of great speed. The older man rode a larger horse of dark colour, while the servants bestrode rough but strong mountain ponies. The youth wore a blue silk jacket ornamented with golden buttons, wide trousers and red shoes, and a light cap with a long feather fastened by a diamond. A short sabre hung at his side, and a jewelled dagger was stuck into his richly ornamented girdle. In his right hand he held a long spear. He was tall and well formed, and his complexion was fair, being scarcely tanned by the sun's rays. His eyes and hair were dark, and a brown moustache betokened, unmistakeably, that he sprang from the Aryan race. His companion was a powerful, broad-shouldered man of dark complexion, yet showing by his finely cut features that Aryan blood also flowed through his veins. A thick curling beard nearly hid his face, which was shaded by a white turban. His person was enveloped in a long robe of dark but fine material, which reached nearly to his feet, and was secured round his waist by a golden belt. He, also, was armed with sabre and spear, and from his shoulder hung a small round shield. The only clothing of the servants was a cloak thrown round their dusky limbs, and many bright copper rings on their wrists and ancles clanked against each other as they rode along. Short spears and small shields were their only weapons. It was easy to discover from their conversation who these travellers were, whence they came, and the reason of their journey. The young nobleman, Siddha [42] Rama [43], was the son of the First Minister of Kashmir, entrusted by his father with important letters to the court of the Emperor Akbar at Agra, where he was to take command of a division of Rajput cavalry belonging to the imperial army. He was accompanied by Kulluka, [44] his tutor, a Brahman of high descent, a man of learning and a warrior, one who knew as well how to instruct his pupil in the arts of war and martial exercises, as in the sacred language with its classic and holy writings. But before reaching Agra they had to visit a hermit in the mountains, and then to make their way to Allahabad, where Siddha's uncle, in the Emperor's name, commanded the fort at the junction of the Ganges and Jamuna. There too was Iravati, his daughter, and the betrothed of Siddha, counting the days to their coming and the meeting with her future husband. "But, honoured Kulluka," said Siddha, after having ridden for a time silently by the side of his tutor, "you, who know the way, tell me that we are close to the abode of Gurupada. [45] It may be so, but I can see nothing that is at all like a cell. Is it possible that the holy man has departed?" "A little more patience," answered the Brahman, "and we shall soon come to the turning, whence you will see the little wood in the valley where Gurupada has built his solitary dwelling. But it seems to me you might speak with more respect of one so venerable. You will, however, learn that when you meet him." "I intended no harm and no disrespect," rejoined Siddha. "But what is that?" cried he, suddenly pointing with his spear towards the tall grass on the mountain side, which was waving gently, though unstirred by the wind. Before his calmer companion could restrain him, the impatient hunter had turned his horse into the long grass, and was hurrying towards the spot where the movement had been seen. But before either Kulluka or the servants could hasten after him, they saw him draw rein and remain motionless, gazing before him. All movement in the grass had ceased, not one blade stirred, and not a sound was to be heard. Then again the grass moved and bent, but much farther off, betraying the presence of a large glossy tiger bounding away. Siddha put spurs to his horse, and the next moment lay full length on the ground. A hole, thickly covered with vegetation, had thrown horse and rider. But both instantly recovered their footing. "It is nothing, Vatsa," [46] he said to his servant, who had flung himself from his pony and hurried to his master. "I have fallen softly enough; nor, it is to be hoped, has any harm come to my horse." On examination they found that the noble grey was as uninjured as his headlong rider; but no sign of the tiger was any longer visible. There was nothing left to be done but to spring into the saddle and continue the interrupted journey. Siddha rode silently by the side of his guru, not a little ashamed of his foolish adventure, but the latter broke the silence by saying, "That was but a childish trick, dear lad." "Yes," replied Siddha, in a shamefaced tone, "I must have indeed appeared ridiculous, rolling over in such a way." "But," continued Kulluka, "that you could not help." "No one can see concealed holes." "What I mean is something quite different." "What then?" "That you will soon learn, if what I suspect is the case." The smile that played round Kulluka's mouth at these words only increased Siddha's curiosity; but his questions were interrupted by their reaching a turn in the road where, spread out before them, bathed in golden sunshine, lay another part of the valley. "See there," said Kulluka, pointing with his lance to a thick clump of trees below them, near which, like a silver thread, flowed a little stream; "there lives Gurupada!" And, without more words, the riders descended a steep declivity, following a path partly formed by nature and partly by the labour of men, that led towards the plain. Under the dense shade of trees stood a low building roofed with reeds, and built with slight bamboos overgrown with creepers, more like some resort of pleasure than the poor cell of a holy man passing his life in penance. Behind was the dark jungle, in front an emerald lake, reflecting back a hundred different tints, and bordered by blue and white lotus flowers. The clear silver stream entered at one end and, flowing out at the other side, continued its course to the lower valleys just seen in the haze of the distance. Far away the ranges of mountains rose like rocky giants to the heavens, their summits never trodden by the foot of man. For a moment our travellers remained still, lost in admiration of a view at once so magnificent and so lovely. But quickly remembering that they had reached the end of their journey, they dismounted and entrusted the horses to their servants, while Kulluka advanced to the dwelling, meaning to give notice of their arrival. But he might have saved himself the trouble, for he had scarcely reached the door when the hermit appeared in the threshold, followed by a servant who, at a sign from his master, took charge of the visitors' horses. Extraordinary was the impression which the sight of this recluse made on Siddha. In his own country, among his mountains and forests, he had seen penitents, self-denying holy men, wandering mendicants, in numbers and of all kinds--some in foul and sordid rags, with long bamboo staves in their hands and rosaries at their sides, some with a cloth made of the bark of trees, others with no clothing, shaven, and covered with ashes, their foreheads and breasts smeared with white chalk: all supported by the strength of a boundless fanaticism. No wonder that the young man, used to the most polished civilisation, should have looked with the deepest contempt on such people; and in spite of his respect for his tutor, who had always named the hermit of Badrinath with veneration, he had expected but little from the man who now stood ready at his door to receive them. All the greater was the impression now made upon him by the tall and stately figure advancing to them, with dignity but at the same time with an air of friendly welcome. He was an old man, in a dazzling white garment, with a few fine locks on the otherwise bald head, and a heavy silvery beard, but not in the least bent by the weight of years. His friendly though proud expression showed plainly that he had been accustomed to give, rather than to receive and obey, commands. "You are welcome friends," he said, taking his two visitors by the hand, who bent respectfully before him. "Welcome to my solitude. It is indeed a pleasure to hear again of"--here he seemed to hesitate, but proceeded in a firm voice, "of you and my country and people." Before either Kulluka and Siddha could reply, their attention was drawn to a low growl close to them, and in another instant, from behind the building, a magnificent tiger appeared with slow and stately tread, and drew near the three men, waving its heavy tail from side to side. Instantly Siddha drew back a step, and laid his hand on the dagger in his belt. "Leave that plaything in its place," said Gurupada, laughing. "Do not injure Hara." [47] Then, turning to the tiger, he called him in a commanding tone, and instantly the powerful animal laid himself down at his master's feet. "Did I not tell you?" said Kulluka to Siddha, pointing to the tiger. "Do you now understand why it was a foolish trick you played?" "Pardon, honoured lord, pardon!" said Siddha, turning with clasped hands to Gurupada, understanding that it was the tiger of the hermit that he had given chase to. "Indeed I did not know." "I understand," interrupted Gurupada, "you have been hunting Hara. That has happened before, but has not always ended so well for the hunter as for my four-footed friend here. For he can become angry, though he has never harmed those who leave him alone. I have had him, as Kulluka knows, ever since he was a small cub, and we are now well accustomed to each other. Is it not so, Hara?" he said, bending towards the tiger, that, half raising itself up, rubbed its broad head against its master's hand. "And my friends," continued he, "are also his. See now!" And Siddha, drawing near, laid his hand gently on its shoulder, on which the tiger, looking alternately at both, laid down at Siddha's feet, and leant its head against his hand. This time the young man did not step back, but stroked the animal's head; nor was he startled when, yawning, it opened its mighty jaws, showing rows of white sharp teeth. "That is right," said Gurupada, as Hara returned to him. "I have seen many older than you who would not have remained so calm. But now let us think of other things. Travellers, after so long a journey through a wilderness where there is not much to be found, must need refreshment. Follow me." And, going before them, the hermit entered his dwelling. The interior contained nothing beyond necessaries, but all in most perfect order, and arranged with elegance. After the guests had rested themselves with him, on fine mats spread on the floor, the servant, who had taken charge of the horses, brought in some dishes of food. The simple and easy tone in which the otherwise dignified hermit spoke, showed that he was a man of the world, and soon gave confidence to the Minister's son. Siddha answered Gurupada's questions respecting his father, his betrothed Iravati, and his life in Kashmir, with frankness mingled with respect. To his astonishment the hermit appeared to know all that had happened in earlier days in Kashmir, and showed himself acquainted with circumstances that must have been a secret to all excepting those who had access to the most private parts of the royal palace. Without doubt, in earlier years, Gurupada must have been a trusted councillor of one of the princes. But Siddha dared venture no indiscreet questions touching the hermit's former rank. He remarked that Gurupada's conversation was cheerful, and that he appeared perfectly content with his present station. Yet at times, in talking over political events in the north, a dark cloud momentarily crossed his noble countenance, as though the strong will of the philosopher could not hinder a passing emotion from being visible. It had become late, and night was drawing on, the moon throwing her silvery light over the landscape which was visible through the open bamboos. "Now," said Gurupada, rising, "pardon me, noble Siddha, if with your tutor and my friend I withdraw from the pleasure of your company. I have much to say to him which for the present must be a secret, and in which you probably would have but little interest. If you wish to refresh yourself there is the lake, and to a bath in the open air you are doubtless well accustomed." The two elder men left the room together, and for long after Siddha saw them arm-in-arm, walking up and down, deep in earnest converse. When they returned it was time to go to rest, and the travellers were well pleased to stretch their weary limbs on the sleeping-places prepared for them. Early the next morning, after a fresh bath and hearty breakfast, our travellers were ready to continue their journey. While the horses were being saddled, Gurupada drew Siddha on one side, out of hearing of Kulluka, and said-- "Holy hermits, when young men visit them, are not accustomed to let them depart without some instruction and advice. You expect, perhaps, the same from me; but you are mistaken. I can add nothing to what Kulluka, your wise and learned guru has doubtless already taught you. The world you are going to seek, and life itself, must teach you what remains. Still, one word, to which I will add a request. Do not fear, when you enter the luxurious and magnificent court at Agra, to take your part in all lawful diversions and amusements; and thus you will learn to distinguish the real from the unreal. Think always of what doubtless your tutor has often taught you, keep your conscience pure, and take good care that no deed of yours shall ever give cause of shame either to others or to yourself. But should it happen that, in spite of your earnest striving to keep these precepts, the repose of your conscience should be disturbed, and you wish for some friend to whom you could open your heart, think then of an old friend of your father and your tutor, and come to the Hermit of Badrinath. Will you promise me this?" "I promise it," answered Siddha, simply, but with manly earnestness, as he folded his arms respectfully on his breast. With greater friendliness than before, Gurupada took him by both hands, and pressed them heartily. The horses were soon brought forward, and the riders, after taking leave of the hermit, sprang into their saddles, and, followed by the servants, took their way from the jungle to the mountain path. More than once Siddha looked back, casting a glance to where the figure of the wise man was still visible between the trunks of the tall trees, standing at the threshold of his dwelling, with the tiger by his side, and then rode silently by his companion, buried in thought. Suddenly, as though waking from a day-dream, he drew in his horse with such force as almost to throw it upon its haunches. "Kulluka," he exclaimed, "I never saw such a man as Gurupada." But at the same time he coloured to the ears, thinking, but too late, that this exclamation might not be very pleasing to his friend and teacher. But he had needlessly alarmed himself. Kulluka's countenance expressed unfeigned pleasure at the admiration of his pupil for his old friend. "Indeed," he said, "it gives me great pleasure that you should so think of him, and it speaks well for you." "But," Siddha said, after a moment of silence, "who then is Gurupada?" "Well," was the answer, "that you have seen for yourself--a hermit of the Himálaya." "Yes," replied Siddha, impatiently, "that I know well; but what was he first, before he came here and tamed tigers?" "He attempted to tame men," answered Kulluka, "but in that he did not always succeed. But why did you not ask him yourself who he was?" "Would that have been discreet,--should you have approved of that?" "Certainly not, and you acted rightly in not violating the rights of hospitality by indiscreet curiosity, even if it arose from real interest and for that you deserve that your curiosity should be set at rest. Gurupada gave me permission to recount his former life and tell you his name. So listen! "He was once a king." "How now," said Siddha, a little disturbed, "are you going to tell me a tale from Somadeva, [48] like those I heard so often from you when I was a little boy?" "Listen or not, as you will, to my tale," answered Kulluka, calmly. "He was, I say, once a king, who, supported by good councillors, governed his kingdom with wisdom and prudence. He had no children, only a younger brother, a young man of great ability, to whom he was warmly attached, and whom he had chosen as his successor when death should take him, or when the weight of affairs of state should become too heavy for him to bear. But the brother was ambitious, and, in spite of some good qualities, he had not patience to wait his time. He allowed himself to be led away by parties in the state inimical to the existing government. First he intrigued secretly, and in the end he took up arms against his brother and lawful prince. But he and his followers were defeated, and brought prisoners to the capital. However, this did not put an end to the insurrection. Disturbances still continued, and the only means that remained to the king to suppress them was by the death of his ambitious and dangerous brother, however dearly he loved him, and by subjecting his followers to the same fate. But by so doing his throne would be founded on the blood of his brother and others; which might call endless feuds into life, to which there could be no other end but the utter exhaustion of the kingdom. Yet hardly anyone doubted that the king would, in the end, have recourse to this now unavoidable measure. Suddenly, a rumour spread that he had disappeared from the palace, and in all probability, though not certainly, had fallen a victim to treachery. Since that time he has never been heard of, and his brother, released from prison, ascended the throne as the lawful heir, and has reigned ever since, wisely retaining his brother's councillors at his side. Though not ruling with equal wisdom, yet his reign has been fortunate, and peace has been restored to his country." Here, for a moment, Kulluka broke off his tale to look at his companion and pupil, but his countenance showed neither astonishment nor special interest. "What you tell me," he said, "is simply the history of our present king and his predecessor and elder brother Nandigupta, [49] which is known to all, to me as well as to every other Kashmiri." "Certainly," replied Kulluka, "the history of which I remind you is well known. What is not known to every one, only to a few, is that King Nandigupta did not fall through treachery, is not dead, nor was he driven away. Of his own accord, and without the knowledge of his brother, nor of any but a few most trusty friends, he took refuge in a distant retreat, where by spreading a report that he had been slain, he saved his brother from a shameful death and his country from probable destruction." "And so Nandigupta still lives," cried Siddha, "and he is----" "As you doubtless have already guessed," answered Kulluka, "the hermit we have just left; but you must hold his secret sacred. The secret of his kingdom and his race is entrusted to your honour. The son of his most faithful servant and friend should know it, and will know well how to guard it." "Why," asked Siddha, half dissatisfied, "did you not tell me this while we were still there? I might then have thanked the prince for all the benefits which, in the days of his greatness, my father and all our race received at his hands. But, it is true, you had no right to speak as long as he himself did not do so. But I still have an opportunity; for Gurupada, if he will be so called, made me promise to seek him if ever I should find myself in circumstances of difficulty and need good advice." "And you have done well in giving your promise," said Kulluka. "Keep your word. Gurupada is better and wiser than any of us." But Siddha scarcely heard. He was again immersed in thought. The meeting with the hermit, and the discovery of his secret, made a deep impression on him: that in the beginning of his journey he should have met with a princely philosopher, who, possessing almost unlimited power, and living in luxury, had willingly sacrificed all for love of his brother and his country; and who, happy in the consciousness of having done well, showed himself cheerful and contented with his simple life in the wilderness, with no other companions than a faithful servant and a beast of prey. Now he was on his road to the court of the fortunate and far-famed ruler of a great empire, who ruled his people more by wisdom than by the power of the sword; who had at his disposal enormous revenues; and who might call himself the ally of mighty princes in most distant countries, and protector of all known religions in the world. The good Siddha, who had been accustomed to pride himself somewhat on his nobility and consequence, suddenly felt how small he was in comparison with two such men. It was indeed difficult to decide which was the greater of the two, and he wisely determined to suspend his judgment until he should have seen the Emperor Akbar himself. This decision brought him back to the next goal of their journey, a visit to Allahabad, where his dearly loved bride--the beautiful Iravati--awaited his coming. His countenance, which for some minutes had been grave and earnest, brightened up, and striking spurs into his horse, as a long flat piece of country stretched out before them, he cried, joyfully, "Come, now for a gallop!" and darting forward, Kulluka saw brandishing his light spear, and shouting the name that carried off the victory in his thoughts--"Iravati!" "Forward! forward, then!" muttered the Brahman to himself, setting his horse to a gallop, "until the end is reached; for me it is almost done, but for him the journey of life is only beginning. Oh that he may always find it smooth as this! but he also must meet with rocks and slippery precipices, and perhaps also--abysses. But may they only," he added, smiling to himself, as he thought of the adventure of the preceding evening, "be harmless precipices." CHAPTER II. IRAVATI. A young girl was seated on a balcony, all overgrown with trees and plants, in the great castle of Allahabad--palace and fortress in one. Her head rested on her hand as, musing, she gazed on the landscape stretched out before her on both sides of the two rivers that met here, and were now glittering in the light of an unclouded morning sun. To the left the rocky heights and sandy shores of the Jamuna; to the right the valley of the Granges; everywhere thick masses of mango-trees, in which numberless parrots and other bright-plumaged birds made their homes. Here and there small islands raised themselves above the surface of the water, and in the background there were rocky hills crowned with pagodas. Judging only by her dress, it would not have been supposed that the girl, sunk in a day-dream, was of exalted rank. She wore a simple white robe, with a narrow border of dark red, clasped by a golden girdle; a golden band held back her thick black locks, in which a single flower formed her only ornament, and that was all. But what need had the slight graceful figure, the fine-cut face, with its great dark eyes shaded by long silken lashes, for other ornament than that given by nature, and by Rama the god of love? And assuredly no offshoot of degenerate stem, no daughter of low degree, could have arrayed herself with so much elegance, and at the same time with such simplicity. But the longing eyes did not, as of yore, rest with delight on the magnificent scene around. To-day, as yesterday and many days before, she gazed on the far-off mountains, in the direction from which the long-expected one must come; but long had she watched in vain. Where did he tarry? What could keep him? And did he think of her, or was it only occasionally that his thoughts wandered to her, who for days and months had devoted every thought to him and to him alone? Then a heavy step was heard behind, in the room which opened on the verandah, and, preceded by a servant who flung back the curtain hanging before the door, a short, thick-set man of middle age approached, in a close-fitting garment that came down to his feet. A short sword with a richly ornamented hilt, stuck in his belt, was the only token of his rank. "Noble lady," said the servant, respectfully waking his mistress from her day-dream, "Salhana the governor, your father, comes to visit you." "He is welcome," answered the girl, accustomed from infancy to be addressed with respect; and rising, she advanced to meet her father. "Iravati," [50] said he, looking at her with his black, penetrating eyes, which gave the only expression to his pale countenance, "some time ago I told you that I expected Siddha Rama, from Kashmir, your cousin and betrothed, with Kulluka his tutor. They have just arrived, and are now in the neighbouring gallery. We will go there to receive them." On hearing these tidings, for one moment Iravati seemed to forget all the calm reserve to which she had schooled herself, and would have hurried past her father to welcome him whom she had so long waited for; but Salhana delayed her by a slight motion of his hand. "First one word," he said. "It is known to me that the professors of Islam, under whom we live, disapprove most highly of free intercourse between unmarried youths and young girls, and that many of our Hindus have adapted themselves to the opinions of our governors; but for my part, as you know, I am a follower of our old customs, however much I wish to see observed all fitting forms, and so I give you permission, as in early days in our own country, freely to speak with your cousin and bridegroom, but only allow our most trusted friends to know it, otherwise my influence here, where I govern, and your good name, may suffer. Now come." And going before her, he led the way to the open verandah looking down on the river, where their two visitors stood awaiting their appearance. "You are welcome, my lords and friends," said Salhana, with dignity; "and I thank you for granting my request, and coming straight to my dwelling, instead of taking up your abode in the town, as many do." These words sounded cordial, though the tone in which they were pronounced was as expressionless as his stiff countenance. Some might have remarked this, but not Siddha, who, barely greeting his stately uncle or giving Kulluka time to receive the reverent greeting of Iravati, flung himself on his knees before her, and pressed a burning kiss on the hand she held out to him. "Welcome," she said, signing to him to rise, (and how sweet sounded that gentle voice!) "welcome, friend. How long we have watched for your approach, looking towards yonder mountains, and almost doubting if you would ever come!" "You did not believe, beloved," cried Siddha, almost indignantly, "that I would have delayed my arrival in Allahabad for one moment longer than was necessary. If I could have leapt over rivers and mountains to have been sooner with you, and had my horse had more wings than Vishnu's Garuda, [51] I should not, indeed, have spared him." "I believe you willingly," said Iravati, with a friendly smile, "and indeed I meant no reproach to you or to our trusty friend Kulluka, and we must rejoice all the more at being together, as I hear from my father that it is only for a very short time." "Indeed," said Salhana, after a few words with Kulluka, interrupting the conversation of the two lovers, "our friends must leave us early to-morrow; but I did not expect otherwise. Yet, noble Siddha, I must shorten by a few minutes your interview with your bride, as I wish to speak a few words with you, and at once, for my time is precious, and before our mid-day meal I have many things to do. Will it please you to follow me?" This request was not to be refused, and unwillingly and with many a longing look towards Iravati, Siddha followed his courteous but imperious uncle to the garden on the other side of the palace. There, under the thick shade of trees, Salhana seated himself on a carpet, signing to his nephew to take a place by his side. "And so you are going," he began, "to seek your fortune in the immediate service of the great Emperor. In truth you may hold yourself fortunate that you have a father who knows how to give you so favourable an opportunity, and also, if I may add it without presumption, an uncle who, by the accident of his position, may be able to afford you help in case of need." "For that I am very grateful," answered Siddha, "and I hope never to forget that you, perhaps more than my father, have aided to make easy to me the first step on the ladder, not only because it may be that I shall have opportunities of distinguishing myself, but that I shall be able to achieve more here than in our own beautiful but far-away country; and at the same time I shall see the Emperor living in all the splendour of his court, of which I have heard so much at home." "Certainly," said Salhana, "but a word of counsel; beware of exaggerated expectations, not as regards the magnificence of palaces and courts, of which in the north we can hardly form an idea, but of the Emperor himself; it is better to begin without highly wrought expectations." "How," asked Siddha, in astonishment; "in truth does not Akbar deserve his name? is he not, as my father and my tutor have always represented him, a great man as well as a mighty prince?" "That I did not say," was the answer; "but our great men can have their faults, which may threaten to become dangerous for others. Listen," continued the governor, looking round to see there was no one within earshot, and sinking his voice to a whisper: "whenever a man attains such power as Akbar, through his own courage and prudence, then is the longing to attain more not easily satisfied. The Emperor, who has subdued states and people to his rule, can hardly bear that your and my fatherland should remain so entirely independent. You know, moreover, do you not, how every now and then, although it was kept secret from most, divisions have broken out in Kashmir between our king and his two sons, in the same way as in earlier days between him and his brother Nandigupta?" "No, I did not know it," said Siddha; "this is the first time it has come to my ears." "Well," rejoined the other, "you should inquire about it when the opportunity offers. I can tell you somewhat of it at once, but do not speak of it to Kulluka; for that, I think, might not be well. The divisions between the king and his two sons were stirred up--you understand by whom. If open feuds once broke out, and the country was divided into parties, then a pretence for declaring war on us would easily be found, and the Emperor would invade our country with a strong army, guided through the mountain passes by his spies, and so our country would be incorporated in his empire. This does not prevent my acknowledging with admiration his wonderful conquests, but the same ambition which has made his people great may be the cause of the destruction of our independence." "But how," asked Siddha, after a moment's thought,--"if this is so, how can you remain the servant of a man who has sworn the destruction of our country?" "And why not?" said Salhana, in his turn surprised. "Is it not well that one of us, without harming the Emperor, but, on the contrary, serving him in many important affairs, should keep an eye on his plans and actions. It is well that you yourself, under my recommendation and protection, should come still more closely in contact with our ruler. Certainly you will be less suspicious than I, but still in this respect you can be of great service." "But," asked Siddha, doubtfully, after a moment's thought, "is that honourable?" "Young man," answered Salhana, in a dignified tone, although his countenance expressed no anger, "let me remark to you that a man of my age and experience should know well what is honourable and what is not; and you, only just commencing your part in life, should not attempt to give counsel on such a subject." "Forgive me, uncle," answered Siddha, "you know that I am still so little acquainted with the principles of state affairs, that I cannot understand them at once; and, also, Kulluka, my guru, [52] has always impressed on me to follow the right path, and never to act ambiguously towards anyone, and----" "Kulluka, my best friend," interrupted the other, "is an excellent man, for whom I have the greatest respect; but he is a man of learning, not of facts; a man of theory, not of what is practical. See, now, your country and people, who are dear to you, are threatened by a prince whom you look upon with admiration, and would willingly serve in all but that one thing. You should hold it as a duty to work against him in this, as far as possible. The opportunity is now opened to you, not entirely, but in a certain measure. Should you now spurn this opportunity, because of an exaggerated idea of political honour? And does he himself act with honour in accepting your services and mine while at the same time he has designs on our king and country? and if not, what claim has he on such special loyalty on our side? Moreover, go, if you will, to Akbar, and say to his face, if you dare, that you see through his plans and will oppose them; and before the day is over, my good friend, you will be fettered in a dungeon, or on your way banished to the furthest bounds of the Dakhin or Bengal, if worse does not befall you. Such opposition would be of no service to us; far otherwise would it be to make good use of favourable opportunities. By doing so, there would be no harm done to the prince, while, on the other hand, we may perchance save our fatherland from destruction." Not convinced, but still not knowing how to refute such reasoning, Siddha vainly sought for an answer, and remained silent, waiting for what his uncle might have further to say. But he appeared to consider the interview at an end, and made a movement to rise, when, in the path leading to the place where they were seated, a figure appeared, just such a one as would attract Siddha's attention and draw his thoughts from the preceding conversation. He was tall, brown, and closely shaven all but a single long lock of hair; his right arm and breast were naked excepting for the sacred cord of the Brahmans; a narrow white garment was thrown round his emaciated limbs. His sunken dull eyes and hollow cheeks spoke of long fasts and severe penances. Although not easily alarmed by man or beast, and accustomed to strange appearances, yet for a moment Siddha started back. Many a tiger had he slain in the jungle, and without fear killed many a deadly snake, yet he could not overcome a feeling of horror at this sudden appearance. "Gorakh [53] the Yogi," [54] explained Salhana, "priest of the Durga [55] temple, yonder on the hills. Meet him with respect; he deserves it, and has more to impart to you than you suspect." Gliding rather than walking, the priest approached the two men who had stood up to receive him, and, raising his clasped hands to his forehead, he said, in a slow, drawling voice, "Om, Om! [56] You, the favoured of the Lord of the World, and of Durga his glorious consort. Om!" "I greet you well, most honoured Gorakh," answered Salhana to this curious salutation; "you see here my nephew Siddha Rama, from Kashmir, of whom I have already spoken to you." "He is welcome," was Gorakh's reply; "and may he, above the strife of disunion, know how to lay the foundation that leads to the endless blessings of union, wherein you, my friend, begin more and more to recognise the true part of salvation. Yet," continued he, after a moment of dignified silence, "the experience of life must teach him the way, as it has done for you and me. We must allow the time needed for the scholar. In truth, I know him, and know that he will belong to us." And here he turned to Siddha: "It is but lately that I met you." "Pardon me, honoured lord," was the reply; "that I cannot recall." "You could not," was the answer, "for at that moment I was invisible to human eye." Too well acquainted with the extraordinary claims to the power of rendering themselves invisible asserted by the Yogis, Siddha contented himself with listening in silence to the priest, who, to his astonishment, continued:-- "It was on that evening when you gave chase to the hermit's tiger;--but we will speak to each other later. Now the noble Salhana wishes to converse with me, so for the present farewell, and may Durga's mighty consort bless you." And murmuring in a low tone his "Om, Om!" the priest of Durga and Salhana left him in the garden, his uncle crying to him, "We shall meet again soon." The last communication of the Yogi was well calculated to excite Siddha's astonishment. How could the man know what had happened to him yonder in the mountains, where, excepting his own companion, he had seen no human being? But here the sight of his servant at a little distance, wandering through the trees, brought to his mind the way by which the riddle might be unravelled. "Vatsa," said he, beckoning to the man, "have either you or Kulluka's servant just spoken with a priest?" "No, my lord," answered Vatsa, "we have not even seen one." "No!" said Siddha, now really astonished. "Good; you can go." And turning away, he murmured to himself, half disturbed and half alarmed, "I will speak to Kulluka about this." But how could a priest or anyone else occupy his thoughts when, having gone but a little way, he caught sight of the white robe and slight figure of Iravati, seated under the thick shade of a mango, close to a pool of lotuses, while the air was filled with the sweet music of a sparkling fountain, and cooled by its falling waters. Flowers lay scattered around, and in her hand was a half-finished wreath. Hearing footsteps approaching, and catching sight of Siddha, she flung the wreath away, and hastened to meet her lover, raising her clasped hands to her forehead. Siddha seized them in his own, and, leading her back, flung himself on the moss at her side. "What a cruel man your father is," said he, "to part us so soon, when we had scarcely exchanged two words!" "Well," answered Iravati, "you must thank him for allowing us to talk together, since it is long since this was allowed to those who are betrothed to each other." "From my heart I will be grateful to him," said Siddha, "and more highly prize the happy moments spent with you. But you do not seem quite to share in my joy; tell me the reason." "Ah!" sighed Iravati; "how can our meeting be unclouded happiness, when we are to part again so soon? Perhaps, and even probably, these are the only short moments in which, for a long time, we shall speak freely one to another; and to-morrow you depart for the luxurious, turbulent city, where a simple girl like me may easily be forgotten." "Forgotten!" cried Siddha; "have I deserved such suspicion from you? and what is the absence of a few months! Returns not"--asked he, in the words of Amaru, as, taking her hand in his, he drew her nearer to him--"Returns not he who departs? Why, then, beloved, art thou sad? Do not my heart and word remain yours, even though we part?" [57] "Ah," answered Iravati, "if poets could comfort us! But tell me, Siddha, have you never made any verses on me?" "I wish that I could," was the modest reply; "and indeed I have tried, but what I wrote was never worthy of you. Still, there is another art in which I am more accomplished than in poetry, and my attempt in that line you shall see." And drawing from his girdle a small locket, set with jewels, he showed a miniature, in which she recognised her own image. "Siddha!" she exclaimed, joyfully; "but I am not so beautiful as that." "Not so beautiful!" repeated he. "No; but a hundred times more beautiful than my pencil or that of any other could represent." And he was right, for according to Indian taste he had exaggerated the eyes and mouth, when their regularity was one of the beauties of Iravati's face. "But why," said he, as she suddenly drew herself up and quickly escaped from his arms, "why are you now going to leave me?" "Wait a moment," she replied; "in an instant I will be back." With the swiftness of a gazelle he saw her taking her way through the trees to the palace, ascending the broad marble steps as though she scarcely touched them, and in a few moments return, holding in her hand an object which, in the distance, he could not distinguish, but as she drew nearer, and, with a blush, held it out to him, with an exclamation of admiration, he recognised his own portrait. But this, in truth, was an idealized likeness. "My dearest!" he said, in ecstasy; and before she could draw back he had thrown his arms round her, and pressed a burning kiss on her lips. "See," said she, gently disengaging herself; "my father should be well pleased with us, for we have done just like the princes and princesses in our old national legends, and have drawn each other's portraits." "Not exactly so," added Siddha, "for they drew their own likenesses, and then exchanged with one another. But I think our way is much the best; theirs appears to me extravagant vanity, in our way of looking at it, or utterly aimless." "Fie!" said Iravati, reproachfully; "do you make such remarks on the writings of the ancients? Who knows if you will not next criticise our holy books!" "And why not," asked he, "if they here or there make mistakes, or show a want of taste, or----" "But you are not, I hope, an unbeliever?" "An unbeliever in what?" "In the law of the Holy Veda, for example." "Come, dear one," interrupted Siddha, laughing, "do not let us employ the few moments allowed us as many of our countrymen do, who can hardly meet each other without at once discussing theological and philosophical questions." "You are right," she answered, "and I know of a game that is far prettier, and one that you also know." And bending over the brink of the tank, she gathered a dark-blue lotus, and picking up a long leaf that lay on the ground, and weaving it into a kind of boat, she placed the lotus in it and let it float on the surface of the water, which was gently stirred by the falling fountain. "The lotus is my Siddha," said she, half to herself; "let us see if he will remain faithful to me." "No," said Siddha, in his turn reproachfully, "that is a foolish game, and one that you should not play." Iravati hardly listened to him, but watched with breathless attention the waving leaf that was dancing on the rippling water. "Faithful, faithful!" she cried; but then a sigh from the south wind caught the frail vessel. It turned over and floated bottom upwards, while the lotus disappeared. "Alas!" cried Iravati, as she let her head sink in her breast; "my forebodings, then, have not deceived me." "Fie! I say now in my turn," said Siddha; "a noble, well educated lady to hold to such follies, that are only to be excused in ignorant peasant girls. And so you place more faith in the leaf of a tree than in the word of honour of a nobleman who has pledged you his troth, as you have to him?" "Ah! Siddha," sighed Iravati, "you must forgive me if I do seem rather childish; and does not my uneasiness show you how much I love you? However great my faith in your word is, I cannot help thinking with anxiety of the city to which you go; and who knows what temptation awaits you there? But I confess that I was wrong, and," continued she, leaning her head on his shoulder, "I know that Siddha is mine, now and always, and no other woman lives who can rob me of his heart." Putting his arm around her, Siddha gazed at her in silence; but his look said more than the warmest assurance could have done. A jingling of bangles made them look up, and Iravati said, "Our interview, my friend, is ended; there comes Nipunika, my servant, to warn us." And a moment after, the servant appeared, her brown ancles and arms clasped with golden bangles, and announced to her mistress that the Governor requested her to return to her apartments, and begged his nephew to join him and Kulluka at their meal. Giving him her hand for a moment, Iravati, accompanied by Nipunika, returned to the palace. Siddha followed to seek his uncle and his travelling companion. The meal was not wanting in magnificence and luxury, and was served in one of the smaller apartments, from the open verandah of which there was a magnificent view of the country around. There were cushions of silk with richly embroidered borders, on which the guests took their places; gold and silver vessels; choice meats and wines; numbers of servants of all nations, and in every costume; in a word, everything that was conformable to the rank of Salhana, governor of the fortress, and, for the moment, the man of the highest rank of all the inhabitants of the royal palace. But merriment was wanting to the courtly feast, and confidential intercourse was not possible. All was formal, stately, and stiff, and the conversation meaningless and polite, and only sustained by the three men because silence would have been uncourteous. How different, thought Siddha, was their simple meal with the hermit of the mountain; and it seemed that Kulluka was of the same opinion, for, stealing a glance at his guru, he saw a smile on his face, unobserved by Salhana. At last their repast came to an end, but the remainder of the day brought no pleasure to Siddha. He wandered for some time under the balcony of the apartments which Nipunika, whom he met, pointed out as those of her mistress. But Iravati did not show herself, and when, towards evening, she appeared in the presence of her father and his guests, it was only to take leave of him with the same formality that had attended their meeting in the morning. At dawn next morning they were to recommence their journey, to avoid the heat of mid-day, and the travellers withdrew early to their apartments. Needful as rest was, the younger man was not inclined at once to seek it. Taking off his arms, instead of throwing himself on his bed, he stood for some time at the open window, from which there was a view of the whole fortress, and all the thickets of trees, half-hidden in the dimness of night. Behind them rose hills, with here and there temples and other sacred buildings. His mind was not alone occupied with Iravati's image, but also with the conversation with his uncle, and the strange meeting with the mysterious priest, who, by some artifice or accident, had become acquainted with his adventure with the tiger, though how, he could not guess. But to what did all this tend? What did the man want? And Salhana the governor; could he trust him? and were his instructions to be followed, and all that had happened this morning kept secret from Kulluka? or would it not be better to consult him about it? An unexpected appearance made Siddha for an instant lose the thread of his thoughts, though they were at once brought back to him. On the nearest wall, where the low breastwork stood sharply out against the light that still lingered in the sky, two figures suddenly showed themselves above the parapet, who, though he could not distinguish their features, he recognised as his uncle the governor, and Gorakh the priest of Durga. Again the two were together, and at so late an hour. But the most wonderful part of this apparition was the entirely changed bearing of both. There was no trace of their former stiffness and stateliness, and one gesticulated more violently than the other, carried away by their engrossing conversation, as they walked up and down, now towards the castle, and now towards the hills. This continued until they were suddenly disturbed by the appearance of other figures, which, one by one, moved along the outer wall, their emaciated forms entirely naked with the exception of a white cord round their necks, which here in the half light was visible in contrast with their dark skins. On their approach Salhana disappeared, probably through some stairs leading to the palace, invisible from where Siddha was. The priest, immediately regaining his dignity, and pointing with his right hand towards one of the temples, placed himself at the head of the band, and led the way along the wall to the dark wood lying at the foot of the rocks. A long row of figures followed him, and Siddha had long ceased to count them ere the last disappeared in the jungle. In spite of himself a slight feeling of horror had seized on him as he saw their strange forms pass by, and associated them with the name of the goddess to whose service Gorakh was dedicated, and to whose temple they appeared bound. Could it be true that the sect still existed, of which he had so often heard, but believed to be either rooted out or to have died out--that mysterious league of demons in human form that had so long been the plague and terror of Hindustan, the most terrible product that religious fanaticism had ever brought to life? And with the leader of such a band was it possible that his uncle, the servant of the Emperor, should be allied! It was indeed not to be believed, and laughing at his foolish fancies, Siddha left the window, and hastily throwing off his clothes, flung himself on the bed prepared for him. But it was long before he could sleep, for the conflicting images of Iravati, Salhana, Gorakh, and his naked followers, kept passing through his head; and before he fell asleep he had come to the determination not to speak to Kulluka of what he had that day seen and heard. That his uncle was mixed up with secret affairs was clear to him; still for a statesman that was not unnatural, and there was nothing to make him suspect they were criminal, though their discovery might be injurious to Salhana, and perhaps to his nearest relatives. He would not, he felt, be justified in betraying what confidential conversation and a pure accident had made him acquainted with. Kulluka himself would certainly condemn such a course of action. CHAPTER III. AGRA. The call of trumpets sounding gaily awoke Siddha from his morning sleep, and, on springing up and looking out of the window, he saw the great court before the castle filled with horsemen, half of whom were occupied in unsaddling their horses, while the others were mounting and forming in line. These, with whom our travellers were to continue their journey, were on the point of starting for Agra, to relieve the soldiers just arrived; and amongst them Siddha saw his servant waiting with his grey charger. It took him but a few minutes to finish his preparations for the journey, and he was in the saddle some moments before Kulluka and the Governor appeared. But in the meantime, before the cavalcade moved off, Siddha found an opportunity to ride round the corner of the bastion to the balcony towards which, the day before, he had so often and so vainly looked. This time it was not in vain, for between the plants that covered the balcony he caught sight of a well-known figure, dressed in white, who at his approach waved a handkerchief in the gentle breeze; and as he drew nearer, she let it slowly fall; but he, quickly turning his horse, caught it on the point of his lance. It was one of the brightly coloured tissues of Kashmir, fine as a spider's web, well calculated to be the despair of all the weavers in the world, and as easily drawn through a finger-ring as bound into a turban. He quickly pressed to his lips this parting gift so precious to him; then, binding it to the hilt of his sabre, he waved a farewell, and in a few bounds had rejoined his travelling companions. Salhana accompanied his guests for a short distance, and then took leave, telling his nephew that he hoped before long to see him again, as in a few days he thought of visiting Agra himself. Our travellers continued their way, in company with the commanding officer of the detachment. The journey lasted for more than one day, generally by or near the banks of the Jamuna, and led through sandy plains, where stones were more frequently met with than trees, though sometimes they came to lovely hills clad in green. At length the evening of their last halt came, at a short distance from Agra, and on the following morning a short ride took them to the city of the Emperor, the view of which more than repaid them for the weariness of their journey. In a semicircle on the opposite shore of the river, lay, between garden and fortification, the long row of palaces and mosques, which made, at this time and for long after, Agra, or Akbarabad, one of the most beautiful as well as one of the most magnificent cities in the world. In the middle, standing above all, as brooking no rivalry, stood the palace of the Emperor. [58] The central building, which from the delicate joining of its red, smooth-polished sandstones, seemed hewn from a cloud of granite glittering in the sunshine, was surrounded on all sides by small pleasure-houses and thick clumps of trees. This building, from its colossal size, with its numerous cupolas, and slight towers, with their delicate tracery visible against the blue sky, could not fail to strike the beholder with wonder and admiration. Around the central palace were the pleasure-houses of the great courtiers, of rich noblemen and prosperous citizens, and mosques with their cupolas and minarets, while here and there a few solitary temples were the only witnesses of a civilisation whose ascendancy belonged to the past. The beauty of the view made the travellers draw rein, and gaze on it with delight. One man alone, a mighty conqueror and deep-thinking reformer, had, as though by magic, called this splendour and beauty to life, as it were, from the barren plain. A feeling of anxiety crept over Siddha as he thought how soon he would meet him, and perhaps exchange a few words, formal though they might be. On reaching the other side of the river, they took leave of the officer who had been their travelling companion, and, with their servant, made their way to a house that had been hired for them by a friend of Kulluka. It was simply but tastefully and comfortably arranged, with cheerful views of the gardens around, and of the river that lay glittering in the morning sun. "Come, this will do," said Kulluka, as he entered; "and I see the camels with our baggage have arrived. We must not be idle, but dress ourselves, and at once go to wait on Abú-l Fazl the Minister. Now for a bath, and meantime Vatsa can unpack." Half an hour later both were ready for the visit, Siddha in a dress of cloth-of-gold, reaching to the knees, and opening a little at the throat, showing a pearl necklace. On his head was a turban ornamented with a feather. Kulluka was also dressed with elegance and with less severe simplicity than hitherto. They were armed with sabre and dagger, but more for show than use. It was not far to the palace of the Minister, and passing through the courtyard, they gave their names to a servant, who immediately showed them into one of the inner apartments, to await the coming of the Wazir; but their patience was not put to proof. The curtain that separated their apartment from others was soon drawn aside, and Abú-l Fazl entered. He was a man of middle height, rather inclined to corpulence, and about fifty years of age. He was dressed in a costly garment of yellow flowered silk, wore no beard, and his smooth countenance, in spite of a look of weariness, expressed manly strength and a strong resolute will, though this was tempered by kindly dark eyes. [59] "It gives me great pleasure to see you here so soon," said he, after the usual greetings, which on the part of Kulluka and Siddha were full of respect. "Our young friend shows himself no laggard in entering the Emperor's service--thanks, I suppose, to your inciting, O wise Kulluka." "It would indeed have been a bad beginning," was the reply, "if he had delayed a moment longer than was necessary in assuming the position which your favour and the Emperor's had assigned him." "No favour, my friend," interrupted Abú-l Fazl, "but a wise choice, I hope. We do not consider it needful to give all appointments to our own noblemen, but hold them out also as prizes to the native nobility of countries that are allied with us. And you know that our Rajputs would see with displeasure their commanders chosen from any but their own countrymen. And what could give me greater pleasure than to call the son of an old and tried friend to a post that his father wished to see him fill!" "Nevertheless, my lord," said Siddha, as the Minister finished, "allow me to look upon it as a favour, and to thank you most heartily both for my father and for myself, and I hope to prove myself not unworthy of your goodness." "Above all, be faithful," said Abú-l Fazl, gravely. "Perhaps this recommendation appears needless to you; but when you have been here longer you will discover that treachery lurks in every corner, and even the best may sometimes be led away and become faithless. To-morrow, meantime, your commander will give you the necessary instructions for your service, and he will warn you to be careful with your Rajputs, for you know that many of them, although their position is lowly, are noble as you yourself, and you cannot treat them as though they were common soldiers. Now, doubtless, you wish to see more of the city than you have yet done, and I will not keep you. But wait a moment," he continued, as Siddha rose to take his leave; "a guide would be welcome to you, and I think I can give you a good one." Clapping his hands, he asked the servant who appeared, "Is my nephew Parviz in the house?" "I have just seen him in the courtyard," answered the servant. "Say that I wish to see him." In a few minutes a young man appeared, of about Siddha's age, richly dressed, and with ornaments of pearls and jewels. His face was pleasing, but, in spite of a black moustache, somewhat feminine. "Parviz," said Abú-l Fazl, "you see here our two visitors from Kashmir, of whose coming I spoke to you; the noble Siddha I hope you will soon call your friend; and now will you serve him as guide, for this is his first visit to our city?" "Willingly, uncle," answered Parviz, as he greeted Siddha with friendliness; "it will be as much a pleasure as an honour." "Then go," said the Minister; "Kulluka will perhaps remain a little longer with me, to talk over the affairs of Kashmir. But, gentlemen," said he, more to Siddha than to the Brahman, "do not forget to visit my brother Faizi to-day; he might take it amiss if you put off doing so until to-morrow, although he would not grudge me the preference." And making them a friendly sign of farewell, the two young men left the palace together. "Come," said Parviz, "luckily it is not so very hot, and we can go at once to see--what to our visitors to Agra is the greatest of all the sights--the Palace of the Emperor--that is if the walk is not too far for you, after your long ride of this morning." "Oh," answered Siddha, quickly becoming familiar with his new friend, "I care as little for heat as for cold--we are well accustomed to both amongst our mountains; nor do we think much of fatigue. But I am sorry to give you the trouble of showing me what you must often have seen before." "Though not so indifferent to weather," said Parviz, jestingly, "as you who come from wild mountains and forests, still I can manage a short walk, and, even if it is hot, all inconvenience will be forgotten in the pleasure of your companionship." They soon became more familiar, and confided to each other their various affairs and concerns. Parviz, among other things, told Siddha that he had no taste for military service, and that his uncle thought him unfitted for it, and therefore destined him for some civil employment. Thus talking they came to a fine broad street that formed one of the principal approaches to the royal palace. This street ended in a gateway in the form of a triumphal arch. Passing through it they entered a large maidan overshadowed with plane-trees. Six other streets equally broad opened on this space, under similar arches; in the middle stood a colossal stone elephant, the trunk of which formed a fountain, throwing up jets of water. Three sides of the place were shut in by marble colonnades, behind which arose gradually the different stories of the building. Though this view was not so striking or picturesque as that from the river, yet the extraordinary extent of palace, with its various buildings and fortifications, was more apparent. "You understand," said Parviz, "that it is impossible to visit all we see at once; even if we were proof against fatigue, we should not have the time. But let us take a glance around, so that you may be able to form an idea of the whole, and later you will become acquainted with it all." As they entered one of the verandahs Parviz spoke to the guard, who at once called a servant to guide them to those apartments that were accessible to visitors of their rank. Following him, they passed through long rows of rooms, each furnished with more splendour than the last, and all built in the light Moorish style, with charming views of the gardens around, with their fountains and luxuriant growth of flowers of all kinds. Here were marble walls, inlaid with flowers in delicate Mosaics; there, from all corners, tiny fountains filled the air with coolness; everywhere curtains and hangings of silk, embroidered with gold and silver; and heavy carpets, and soft silken cushions. "In the other wing," said Parviz, "are things still more beautiful; but they are not shown, for there are the women's apartments. I have had just a glance at one or two before they were finished, and while they were uninhabited. The great audience hall, is it open?" he said, turning to the guide. "No, my lord," was the answer; "but in a few days." "It does not signify," interrupted Parviz. "Soon," continued he to Siddha, "there will be a public audience given, and we can then see it. As to the apartments of the Emperor, in all probability you will soon become well acquainted with them." They then took their way through high, broad galleries, filled with servants and soldiers, and then through the pleasure-grounds, while Parviz pointed out to his companion the various halls and buildings, telling him to what purposes they were destined. Here was the imperial library, with its richly bound manuscripts; yonder the work-room of the goldsmith and jeweller, and laboratories of the perfumers, the store-houses and kitchens, and also the arsenal of the fortress, and stables for the horses, elephants, and camels, kept for the use of the Emperor. Siddha had considered himself well acquainted with palaces, but the conviction now crept over him that, until this moment, he had never seen one. The extent of the stables struck him with astonishment, appearing like a village from the compound round which they were built. "What a number of noble animals there must be there!" he remarked. "Yes," answered Parviz, "there are at least a hundred elephants here; and I scarcely know how many are kept for the Emperor in other places, but according to report he has as many again, and equal numbers of horses and hunting-leopards." "But," asked Siddha, "what can any one, even though he be the great Akbar, do with such profusion?" "Not much for himself," was the answer. "Less perhaps than you imagine. Born in a wilderness, while his father wandered in banishment, and brought up in a camp, he places no value on all this excessive luxury; but he is convinced, I believe, that a prince like him, in these countries and among such people as he governs, has as great need of a striking magnificence as of a fine army and experienced statesmen. We all--Persians, Mughals, Arabs, or Hindus, your people as well as ours--are accustomed to feel greater respect for a monarch the more outward show he makes. But you must not think that with all this show there is also great prodigality. On the contrary, I can assure you nothing is lost or wasted, and in the smallest affairs of this great court there is the same strict order as in the different departments of government, which can perhaps everywhere in the kingdom of the Great Mughal be held up as an example of what intelligent administration should be. My uncle Abú-l Fazl is busied in describing all this exactly in his great work on the institutions and the government of the Emperor, [60] in which he allows me to help him occasionally. But there are some things in which Akbar may be called prodigal, especially in aiding those who are in trouble and difficulties, and who have some claim on his liberality; and also in the advancement of science and art. As regards these, his treasurer has some trouble in keeping him within bounds. But now," continued Parviz, after a moment's silence, "it is about time to be returning; the sun commences to burn, and I must confess to a little fatigue. If we loiter here longer I shall be inclined to repose on one of these seats, and await the coolness of the evening; but in this way we should lose our meal." "So let us turn back," answered Siddha; "and I thank you heartily for your company." Taking a by-path on the other side of the garden and building, Parviz guided his friend back to his lodging, and there taking leave, he said, "To-morrow probably you will be too busy with your appointment to see more of our town; but the day after, or later, I shall gladly be at your orders, only let me know if I am to come for you." The two young men took leave of each other, and Siddha sought, in a cool apartment, the mid-day rest, which he found far from unwelcome. When evening fell, he, with his elder friend, took their way to Faizi, brother of the Minister. A comfortable and tastefully built bungalow, surrounded by thickly growing trees, was the habitation of Abú-l Fazl's younger brother. They were immediately admitted, and presently a servant appeared, to lead them to Faizi's own apartment. There, close to a verandah that ran round the greater part of the building, sat a man, in the prime of life, bending over a table covered with papers. Around him, on the ground, were scattered many others. He rose to meet his visitors without any formality, and holding out his hand with a simple welcome, signed to them to seat themselves with him on the cushions before the verandah. [61] What principally distinguished Faizi from his elder brother was the frank, joyous expression of his smoothly shaven countenance, and a peculiar easiness of manner, mixed with the courtly forms of a man of the world. His calm and tranquil look was more characteristic of a quiet thinker than of a man of warlike experience, although as a warrior he had not failed in many a brave deed, and as ambassador had aided in setting at rest many an intricate question. "I knew well," he said, as a servant offered wine and refreshments, "that you would not let the day pass, worthy Kulluka, without giving me, as well as my brother, the pleasure of seeing you and making acquaintance with your young friend, who, before long, I hope to call mine. And what do you think of our new city?" he asked Siddha. "You must already have seen something of it." "Your nephew Parviz, noble lord," answered Siddha, "was so kind as to show me a part of the palace this morning; but to tell the truth, I cannot at this moment form an opinion of it. I am now simply overcome with astonishment at so much magnificence and such a profusion of splendid works of art. I had imagined much, but my imagination fell far short of the reality." "That I can easily believe," rejoined Faizi: "it happens to everyone on their first arrival here. However much one may have heard or read of Akbar's palace beforehand, one is overcome with astonishment on really seeing it. But tell me, Kulluka, how things go in the north; I am anxious to hear news of your Kashmir." Kulluka willingly replied, keeping to general affairs, and without then alluding to the divisions that were beginning to arise; and soon Siddha also took a lively share in the conversation. Never before had he found himself so quickly at his ease with a stranger as he did with the celebrated Faizi, the great Emperor's friend and councillor, and of whose learning and knowledge he had heard so much. The conversation soon passed from the subjects of the day to various topics, especially those relating to literature. "You admire our palaces," said Faizi, turning to Siddha, "and say they far out-do your expectations; but it was quite the contrary with me when I first made acquaintance with your simple, classical, and sacred literature. Our faithful were not very learned; Mullahs had assured me they were nothing but a confused and tasteless collection of monstrosities, as pernicious to our civilisation as dangerous to our belief in Allah and His Prophet. I say nothing about this last accusation; but as to what concerns the cultivation of taste and knowledge, I find far more aid in your poets and thinkers than in ours. How splendid is your heroic poetry, how fine your lyrics, and sparkling your dramas! what noble, elevated feelings, yet, at the same time, what purity and humanity, and what a breadth and depth of thought was there in your philosophers of old! But why should I remind you of all this, which you naturally know and understand far better than I do, who with great difficulty have learnt to understand your language, which is so entirely different from our Persian or Arabic." "After all," said Siddha, "Sanscrit does not come so naturally to us Hindus, who generally speak Hindustani. Ask Kulluka if he did not find difficulties in teaching it to me." "Even," remarked Kulluka, "even if in the beginning Faizi found the same difficulties in learning Sanscrit that others have done, his translation of our Kashmiri chronicles, and his rendering of Nala and Damayanti, [62] can well make us forget that the language is not his native one." "What splendid poetry, is it not?" continued Faizi, who did not let the conversation easily drop when it once touched on Hindu literature; "and how far short any translation must fall when compared with the original, so simple and yet so exalted, with its unsurpassed women! Think of the noble, pure Damayanti, proof against all the trials and slights of her unworthy husband! My translations have been undertaken to please Akbar, who naturally cannot find time to learn a strange language, and yet is desirous of reading everything. Now he has given me the task of translating the Evangelists." "Of what?" asked Kulluka. "Of the holy books used by the people of the West, who are called Christians, after the founder of their religion, of whom you must have heard. There is much worth reading in those books, and I find many exalted and profound ideas in them, mixed with matter of less consequence, as is also the case with your philosophies; but on the whole there is not much that is new to those who are acquainted with your philosophical writings. But what always strikes me particularly," he continued, again turning the conversation to the praise of ancient India, "are your proverbs. How insipid ours appear when compared with them! Even if I had only learnt this one of you, it would have been enough to give me fresh courage for working at my manuscript,-- "The treasure that never fades is never robbed, but grows The more it is expended; that treasure is called knowledge." "Is that right?" said he, turning to Siddha; "or have I made some fault in the pronunciation?" For a moment Siddha hesitated, but glancing at Kulluka, who smiled and nodded to him, he replied, with confidence, "Not quite right, my lord; but the mistake is a very slight one." And repeating the word in fault, he showed how it should be pronounced. "Now I am fortunate," cried Faizi, joyfully; "but do repeat one of the sayings from Bhartrihari; [63] no doubt you know many." Siddha thought for a moment, and then recited:-- "Every one who lives was born, but only those are truly born Who, dying, leave a name to their descendants." "Oh," laughed Faizi, "in your Kashmir you have learnt other things than Sanscrit,--you are also learned in the art of flattery, my friend." "Flattery?" asked Siddha. "Should not your name and that of your brother Abú-l Fazl--that have penetrated from Persia to the furthest districts of Hindustan--should not your names be preserved by coming generations?" "My brother's name," he answered; "yes, that will not lightly be forgotten: preserved, perhaps, not so much through his deeds as through his immortal work, the 'Akbar Nama,' [64] in which he describes the history of our great Emperor's reign. That is indeed a book, my friend, in comparison with which all my writings sink to nothing. But I have remarked to him that he raises Akbar too much to the clouds; for after all, he, as a man, has his faults, like others, and perhaps in the future he may be accused of flattery of princes and of prejudice. But he would not listen to me, nor in the least diminish his praise of the Emperor. 'If I,' he answered me, 'may not say all that I in truth think of the man, who is more than my prince--he is my benefactor and truest friend,--rather than not say what I think, I would throw my book away.' As you can understand, against all that there was no reasoning; and one can see also that to Akbar, although he says nothing, the praise of a friend whose opinion he prizes so highly is very welcome." "Noble Faizi," said Siddha, interrupting a short silence, "may I ask you a question?" "Certainly," was the reply; "and I hope to be able to answer it frankly." "Well, then, when we spoke of Abú-l Fazl, a warning he gave me this morning crossed my mind. He warned me against treachery that here surrounds the Emperor. Do you, whose opinion is of such great weight, believe that there can be people here so foolish and so criminal as to league themselves against so great and beneficent a prince as Akbar; can it really be?" "Oh!" cried Faizi; "my brother sees treachery everywhere; but after all, that is but natural to a Minister, and still more to the first, the great Wazir. However, you may make yourself easy; people here are not so base, nor are they so foolish, as to engage in a game in which their heads are the stakes, and the chances ten to one against them." "Faizi," said Kulluka, gravely and half reproachfully, "your hopeful views prove your good heart; but do you not think that they may be sometimes dangerous to young people, and lead them, as for example might be the case with our inexperienced friend here, into imprudence?" "I do not see that he is inclined to want of caution," was the reply; "and I only mean that it is better that he should not begin with his head full of imaginations of court and state intrigues, but enter life with confidence and courage. We all began so, and dangers never harmed us. If he begins with too much suspicion, he will end by trusting no one, not even my brother or myself." "That could never be," cried Siddha, quickly, as he looked confidently into Faizi's friendly face. "As little as I could ever suspect secret enmity from you, so little could you expect faithlessness and treachery from one who prizes your friendship and good opinion as highly as I do." "Remember what you have said," Kulluka remarked, gravely; "and think, too, that no one has the power of foreseeing all the events and circumstances that may end in influencing him, short-sighted as he is, to give up his free will." "See," said Faizi, in his usual joyous tone, "here we are again in philosophy. You know well it is my favourite subject, although I have not made so much progress in it as Kulluka maintains. Let us call for lights--night begins to close in--and we will have some discussion touching Sankhya and Vedanta, [65] in which he is so strong. What a pity that we cannot ask Akbar to join us! he finds more pleasure in the driest philosophical discussion than in the most sparkling banquets." "Nothing should I like better, honoured Faizi," answered Kulluka, "than to pass an hour with you deep in such subjects, as in past days; but now I am afraid we must go, Siddha must take over his command early to-morrow morning, and I have much to settle to-night in readiness for my departure, which is fixed for the day after to-morrow. Will you, then, excuse us if we take our leave, and thank you for your reception--as kind and friendly as ever it was in days gone by?" "Indeed I will excuse you, my worthy friend," answered Faizi, as he called to a servant to show them out. "Siddha," he said, as he took leave, "we were speaking of imprudences; be on your guard against them. But a young man like you may happen to fall into them as well at your court as at ours; and if you ever find yourself in any difficulty, come straight to Faizi, who may be able to keep you out of the fire." And without waiting for either answer or thanks, he turned back to his own apartments. Who could have asked for more, on his entry into life, than was given to Siddha! Neither councillors nor support failed him. For important affairs there was the hermit of the mountain; for more trifling difficulties the wise and influential Faizi. The favour of the First Minister had already been granted him, and that of the Emperor himself was promised him. CHAPTER IV. AKBAR. Early next morning, on the great maidan of the fortress, our young soldier took over the command of his detachment from the chief mansabdar [66] of the Rajputs. The officer above him exacted a strict observance of discipline; but to that Kulluka's pupil was well accustomed, and he himself saw the necessity for it. This mansabdar, too,--who presented him with the white feather and other symbols of his rank,--in spite of the severity of his disposition, was a man of cultivation and courteous, friendly manners. Siddha was equally pleased with the appearance of his men, clad in the same splendid array as their leaders. They were splendid riders, with soldier-like bearing, and countenances sparkling with life and courage. At the request of the commander, Siddha put his troopers through some evolutions, which gave him the opportunity of showing off his own admirable riding and the training of his horse. Had Kulluka been present at these exercises he would have seen with satisfaction the approbation with which his pupil was regarded by his superiors. After some evolutions with all the troops assembled, the bugle signalled that the exercises for the day were over, and commanded the retreat. Siddha, giving his horse to Vatsa, who was in waiting, turned his footsteps towards one of the gardens of the palace, to which officers of his rank had access. But before he had reached the court he saw a young woman approaching him by one of the side-paths, who, from her attire, appeared to be a servant belonging to some great house. As she drew near she hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Are you not, my lord, the noble Siddha, just arrived from Kashmir?" "You are right," he answered; "you seem to know me." "Not personally," said the servant; "but the noble lady who sent me gave me your description. She requests a few minutes' conversation with you, if you will have the kindness to grant them to her." "But," asked Siddha, "who is your mistress?" "Excuse me, my lord," was the answer, "if I withhold her name for the present; doubtless she will herself enlighten you, if you honour her with a visit, and, if you will, she expects you this evening. Come at about ten, by that mosque." And she pointed to a beautiful building on a height, whose gilded cupolas and marble minarets were sparkling in the sunshine. Siddha hesitated and sought for an answer. An adventure--and he thought of Iravati. A plot--and he remembered the warning of Abú-l Fazl. "Well?" asked the maid, mockingly. "A soldier like you, and not know what to do when an illustrious lady asks for a short conversation! You are not afraid, I hope." "Afraid!" cried Siddha, while a flush of anger mounted to his face. "What gives you the right--but," continued he, restraining himself, "my irresolution may appear strange, but the reasons are no concern of yours. Meet me at the appointed time at the mosque." "It is well," replied the woman; and greeting him, she returned the way she had come. For a moment Siddha thought of attempting to follow her unseen, and so to discover with whom he had to do; but a moment's consideration convinced him she certainly would be on her guard. Dissatisfied with the whole affair, and with himself, he continued his walk, and soon reached the garden. Rich and magnificent as it was, there was more to fatigue than satisfy the eye. Straight paths, one resembling another, paved with smooth polished stones, were shaded by trees; and there were tanks bordered with marble, from the centres of which fountains of various forms arose. The groups of trees in all directions threw thick, cool shade, inviting the passers-by to repose. After having wandered for some time without meeting any one, Siddha saw a middle-aged and powerfully-built man seated under the shade of one of these trees. There was something in the man's appearance that immediately excited his attention, though he could scarcely have given a reason. The stranger was distinguished from the courtiers he had met, by something that words can hardly convey. The expression of his face, closely shaven, like others, was calm and frank; neither handsome nor the contrary, his attire was rich yet simple; and excepting the elaborately worked hilt of his sword, his only ornament was a diamond of extraordinary size that glittered in the folds of his turban. But what neither ornaments nor beauty of feature could give, was the peculiar expression and bearing that Siddha had remarked in Gurupada the hermit, but which was still more marked in this man, and bespoke him a ruler. Still, in the unknown he did not suspect more than a courtier or a great warrior attached to some prince who was in attendance at Akbar's court. With a silent greeting he was about to pass by, when the stranger addressed him by name, and without rising or further introduction, asked if he had made acquaintance with his Rajputs. Somewhat surprised that everyone should know who he was, Siddha replied in the affirmative, and the other proceeded in explanation. "By the heron's feathers I recognised your rank, and knowing all your fellow-officers personally, and knowing also that you were expected to take up your appointment, I had no difficulty in guessing who you were. And how do you like your appointment? Sit down by me." "I should indeed be ungrateful," said Siddha, accepting the invitation, which sounded more like a command, and scarcely noticing that the stranger treated him as an inferior,--"I should indeed be ungrateful to my benefactor and the Emperor if I did not highly prize the noble occupation in which they have placed me." "The Emperor!" repeated the other; "well, yes. But tell me, do you come to serve him, or simply to enjoy the privileges that your rank gives you at his court?" "A hard question, noble lord," answered Siddha, frankly, "and one I have never put to myself; but still I can answer without difficulty, that, above all, I should desire faithfully to serve the Emperor, as far as honour and duty allow. My having entered into his service of my own free will testifies to this." "Prudently answered," remarked the stranger; "but now the question is, what do you understand by honour and duty?--those are difficult words to explain." "For some," replied Siddha; "but I do not find them so. I take them in their strongest meaning. Honour and duty would forbid me to undertake anything against my country, even if Akbar himself should give the orders; and in that case to give up all the privileges secured to me by his favour." "And you would do well," replied the other, approvingly; "but what reasons have you for imagining that the Emperor would ever require from you what would be to the prejudice of yourself and your countrymen?" For a moment Siddha hesitated, as the conversation with his uncle crossed his mind. But quickly recovering himself, and looking in the stranger's open face, he asked, with no further introduction, "Is not Akbar ambitious?" "Young man," exclaimed the stranger, in a tone and with a look that made Siddha involuntarily shrink from his side, "until now you have contented yourself with prudent remarks; but, at the court of Akbar himself, so to express yourself to a perfect stranger appears to me rather rash." "It may appear so," answered Siddha, without embarrassment. "I do not know you, that is true; but to know your name or rank is indifferent to me. I see you and hear your voice, and know that it would be impossible for you to betray or harm a young and inexperienced man, who has trusted you and spoken frankly." These simple words caused a look of pleasure to cross the stranger's countenance, not of flattered vanity, but a nobler and purer feeling of satisfaction. Flattery was not strange to him, nor was he insensible to it. But these were words from the heart, spoken in ignorance of who he was, and praising in him that which he prized above everything. He said, laying his hand on Siddha's shoulder, while his voice sounded gentler, "What you have said is true. You trust me, you say, though you do not know me; do the same when the time comes that you know me well. But now for Akbar. He is ambitious: in that you are right. I know him, and all is not so well as I could wish, and I agree that he is ambitious; but then, in what way? Do you really believe that his only desire is to add more and more kingdoms and peoples to his empire, which already is far too extended? Should he not be content with what he already has? I think the small kingdom of Agra and Delhi were his sole inheritance. Little if anything else was left him by Humayun, [67] his unfortunate and sorely tried father; and at present his dominions extend from the borders of Persia to the furthest extremes of Bengal, and to the districts of the Dakhin and Golkonda. Then why do you imagine to yourself new conquests, and especially that of your far-distant Kashmir, which would not repay the many sacrifices that would be necessary to attain it. Still, reasons might arise which would force a prince no longer to respect the independence of neighbouring states; that is, if they should threaten to become dangerous for the peace and prosperity of his own people. And in such a case he must act, although he would gladly leave his sword in the scabbard; and although the peace and liberty of surrounding nations are as dear to him as those of his own dominions. Still all this does not prevent the descendant of Baber and Timur [68] from being ambitious; and from his earliest manhood his ambition has been not only to found a great and mighty empire, but, above all, to ensure the happiness, prosperity, and cultivation of the people that the great Power has entrusted to him. He has striven to improve their condition, and to calm the jealousies and divisions of the different races, to put an end to religious disputes, and to bridle the tyranny and oppression of the powerful and selfish nobles. He has tried to benefit the industrious classes of Bengal, and striven to increase prosperity everywhere, to encourage science and art, and to raise his subjects to a state of cultivation and enlightenment for which many have shown great aptitude. Say, if you will, frankly, that this is too much for one mortal to accomplish, and I shall not contradict you; but the striving after an ideal should not be condemned even if it is unattainable. And, in truth, Akbar's own ideal will never be fulfilled. How many years of thought and toil has he devoted to this goal; and how far, alas! is he now from attaining it!" With respect and awe Siddha listened, as, carried away with his subject, the stranger rose to his feet, lifting his hand toward heaven; but as he finished, dejectedly he sank back, bending his head on that breast which contained a warm and noble heart. For a moment Siddha felt inclined to rise to his feet, not doubting but that he saw before him the Emperor himself; but then the idea that so great a man should so confide in a young, unknown stranger appeared too absurd to be reality. As he was about to attempt, by roundabout questions, to find out with whom he was speaking, approaching footsteps interrupted the conversation, and presently a man appeared, short and bent, clad in grave garments, and with what was rare at court, a thick black beard. "Abdul Kadir," [69] said the stranger, more to himself than to Siddha, while a dark cloud crossed his countenance. Notwithstanding, he greeted the new comer with courtesy, at the same time making him a sign that he wished to remain unknown. With a defiant glance Abdul Kadir looked at Siddha, who had stepped on one side, from head to foot, and then turned his back on him, without saying a word. That the blood rose to the cheeks of our Indian nobleman at such treatment was not surprising; but as he was about to demand an explanation of the insult, the stranger restrained him, and said, "Do not, noble Siddha, allow the treatment of my friend here to arouse your anger. It is not personally meant, of that I am sure; but he cannot bear the sight of you Hindus, as he imagines that you damage his faith. Is it not so?" he asked, turning to Abdul Kadir. "You are right," he answered. "I have, indeed, no personal enmity to you, young man," he continued, turning to Siddha. "I do not know you, but to fight and strive against you, root and branch, is to me a holy duty; and I do strive against you, and hate you with an irreconcilable hatred. Still, as men, there are many among you whom I respect and honour. You injure our faith, and even make the Emperor himself averse to it. You deny Allah and mock His Prophet, and seek to drive us, the faithful, away, and to become masters of offices and employments, that you may put your false gods and false doctrines in the place of the God without whom there is no god, and of those who, in truth, acknowledge Him. Therefore, and for that reason alone, I hate you and yours, and will strive against you and yours till the death. You are either atheists or idolaters; in either case you lead the people astray, and tempt the prince. Enough that you are nothing but unbelieving----" A severe, penetrating glance from the stranger held back on the lips of the speaker the word that was about to follow. Had it been spoken, Siddha, in spite of all his endeavours, would scarcely have been able to restrain his anger. "Unbelieving, then," continued Abdul Kadir; "and that for a true son of the Prophet is more than enough. But what can it concern you, if I, who here have nothing to say, nor am of the slightest importance, am not one with your race? The favour of the Emperor is assured to you, who can and does do anything as it best pleases him. He has freed you from the burthen justly laid on you by the true believers for your denial of the true faith. He calls you to all employments, places you at the head of his armies, chooses amongst you his councillors and friends. What would you have more? Leave me, then, leave us, our just wrath. We cannot harm you; but it may be that the anger of heaven will one day fall on your heads, and perhaps on his, also, who showered favours on you, instead of chastising you with the rod and the sword, which for this purpose Allah himself placed in his hand." "It appears to me," coldly said the stranger, after this hot outbreak, "it appears to me that our conversation so carried on is neither profitable nor agreeable. Doubtless, friend Siddha, you have more to say in reply to Abdul Kadir, and I myself am far from agreeing with him. But if I do not mistake, this time he sought us not for the sake of a fruitless dispute, but to talk over an important affair, and on this I will willingly listen to him. Excuse me, therefore, if for the present I say farewell, hoping that we may meet again before long. Abdul Kadir," he said, as with a respectful greeting Siddha took his leave, "what do you want with me?" "Sire," was the answer,--for it was indeed Akbar himself with whom Siddha had been conversing,--"my duty as a subject as well as a friend, though one of little importance, obliges me to seek your Majesty." "I know it," interrupted Akbar; "you are not self-seeking, you care not for protection or favours. And yet I would that you did; then, perhaps, I might be able to content you, in which now I seldom or never succeed. But I suspect that it is on religious subjects you wish to speak to me. The exaggerated words you have just used have told me what was coming; at any rate, be so good as to use a little moderation." "In truth," answered Abdul Kadir, "the faith, the one pure, true faith, is what now leads me here. For that I request a few minutes' conversation,--and," continued he, with a stern look, "earnest and grave conversation." "I will do my best," replied Akbar, courteously; "and will promise not to laugh, if you will keep within bounds." "That will depend on your opinion," remarked the other; "but I will do my best to treat the subject calmly. To warn you, and most earnestly to warn you, is imperative on all who mean well to Shah Akbar, and yet know what has come to my ears. As you well know, there has long been deep discontent among us true Muhammadans, caused by state offices being placed in the hands of men lukewarm like Abú-l Fazl, or atheist like Faizi. But what you do not know is that a party has arisen in the midst of your kingdom, and in the neighbourhood even of your court, which has irrevocably sworn to work for your fall and destruction, because you have refused to give ear to the claims which they, as the representatives of the ancient and only true friends of the House of Timur, have a just right to demand. Lately I had the opportunity of being present at an assembly of our Mullahs, and what I there heard was enough to make me shudder when I thought what such influential men among the Muhammadan population might accomplish, even against Akbar, if supported by ambitious nobles and discontented generals, of whom many may be found in the court of Agra, as well as throughout Hindustan." "But," asked Akbar, impatiently, "what do your Mullahs and their followers want? Have they not the fullest liberty to think and speak as they will, and to make as many proselytes as they can? Have I ever laid as much as a straw in their path?" "Certainly not," replied his companion; "but does not that also call to heaven? Of what value to them is the liberty which is shared by unbelievers? Here, in your court, in the army, and in every kind of employment, are they offended by the defiling presence of the kafirs. And where is the vindication of the true faith, to which, above all men on earth, the Emperor is called, as the representative of Allah?" "Yes," cried Akbar; "here is again the old story, your people alone are entrusted with the truth, and before that all must give way, even I; and he who will not bend must break. But why should you alone be in possession of the truth?" "Because the Prophet, blessed be his name, "has himself declared it to us, and because----" "Because," interrupted Akbar, "because he, and no one else, is good. Yes; we have the Padres, who come from the West, from the land of the Franks: brave, honourable men, as yourselves. They also have a Prophet, who, if I mistake not, they honour as their God. I do not clearly understand it; but, in any case, their faith is older than that of Muhammad. Then there are the Jews, who are not content with this or that, but hold by Moses alone; and then what do you say to our Brahmans? They have ancient books which merit the greatest reverence,--so venerable that they themselves can scarcely understand them; so ancient, that Moses with his Thora, Christ with his Evangelist, and Muhammad with his Koran are all new in comparison. And now I ask you, from your conscience, how can I, a simple man, who has heard somewhat of all this, but not a hundredth part of the whole,--how can I make myself judge amongst these various faiths, and decide, for example, whether that of Christ or Muhammad is the true one?" "But you were brought up in the teaching of Islam." "No very satisfactory foundation for any one's faith. A sure foundation should rest on conviction brought about by one's own inquiries, and should hardly depend on the will of one's father. But the question now is not what I personally believe--that concerns no one--but how I, as prince and ruler over the kingdom of the Mughals, should conduct myself towards the professors of the various religious sects who alike are subject to my rule, and who alike have a claim to my protection. And this question, best of friends, believe me, you will never answer as long as you only look at it from one side and not the other." "But, then, the dangers that threaten your kingdom and throne?" "I have others to think of," replied the Emperor, with a contemptuous smile, "than those with which the anger of your religious fanatics threaten me." "Others!" said Abdul Kadir, looking earnestly at the Prince. "Just so; you mean the kind of dangers caused by strangers. But what of those dangers, at present secret, but which may become open, and may find support in your own house, encouraged by those of your own race? If your son----" "My son Salim!" exclaimed Akbar; "and yet," he continued, "that is not impossible. Among the reigning houses around us, how many, through family feuds, have been subjected to our rule? And so you mean that Salim himself is ready to join these malcontents against me? for that appears to me what your words point to." "It is so, Sire," answered Abdul Kadir; "at least, I mean that his religious zeal might induce him to do so; but I do not say that this is the case already." "One thing is certain," rejoined Akbar, "if this should ever take place, religious zeal will not be Salim's inducement. He cares far more for fine wines and beautiful women than for the Koran and the Prophet. But that is no reason that I should not thank you for the warning. If you had begun with it at first, many useless words might have been spared. If in the future you should have any more such communications to make, we will thank you for them. We must be a little on our guard, and keep a look-out on our people here. But, for the present, farewell." And, with a somewhat ironical smile on his lips, the Emperor left Abdul Kadir to think over the impression that his words might have made. "By Allah," muttered the follower of the Prophet between his teeth, "I have done a fine thing by naming Salim. I had only intended to disturb him, and so to render him more pliant to our will; instead of which I have simply warned him, and instead of helping, we shall now find him still harder to deal with. Now he knows or suspects that some of us league ourselves together with his son against him. You are looked upon as a wise man, Abdul Kadir, and yet you have acted like a fool. Ah! if the zeal that fills my soul for our holy faith would but preserve to me the calm that seldom or never forsakes Akbar! What an advantage that gives him over us!" That the composure Akbar showed was as real as the other believed might well have been doubted by any one who had seen him returning to the palace, buried in thought, and with his eyes fixed on the ground. In one of his private apartments a man awaited him, whose presence, if Abdul Kadir had but known it, would have given him fresh grounds for a violent outbreak. This was Kulluka the Brahman. He sat in thought, not noticing the splendour around him, nor the lovely view over the smiling gardens. Still, this was not the first time he had seen it. Presently one of the Imperial Guard came to arouse him from his thoughts, and to conduct him to the Emperor. "It is indeed a pleasure to see you here again," said Akbar, affectionately returning the Brahman's greeting, "and I hope you bring me good news from Kashmir." "Alas, Sire," answered Kulluka, "I wish that I did, or that I could hide from your Majesty, as from others, all the causes of uneasiness. But the confidence you have placed in me, as well as the good of my country, oblige me to keep nothing hidden that I know." "I understand," said Akbar; "the old story over again. Party feuds and disputes: sons against their fathers; brothers intriguing against each other, as in old days." "But too true," replied Kulluka. "After Nandigupta, the lawful king, had disappeared from the stage, leaving all in his brother's hands, we believed that order would be established, and for some time it was so; and the people were content with the government, although not enthusiastic for it. At any rate, there was no thought of further changes, but now that is no longer the case. The spirit of faction begins to stir up discontent, and fresh revolutions appear ready to break out. The worst of all is that we cannot discover where this plot has its origin. The king's sons, who sooner or later threaten to rise against him, certainly do not act from their own inspiration; but whence, then, does it come? That is what we cannot discover." "That may be as it will," said the Emperor, decisively. "Whether or not they act independently, the old game seems about to begin again. And what, if it cannot be stopped in time, will be the unavoidable consequence? That, as before, the different parties will take arms, and civil war will destroy your country. On all sides bands will be formed, who, the less they find within the boundaries of Kashmir, so much the more will they carry fire and sword among my people to repay themselves for what they have lost at home. And now I say, without circumlocution, and once for all, that I will not tolerate it. My kingdom and my people shall be respected; and if force is required, whatever trouble or treasure it may cost, I will again assemble my armies and march to the north to re-establish the peace that is necessary to the prosperity of my subjects. Better to tear down and destroy the whole robber's nest than allow it to remain, to the injury of my people." In spite of his respect for the Emperor, these proud, defiant words could not but excite Kulluka's anger, and, though he gave no reply, the dark colour mounted to his bronzed cheek. "Forgive me, worthy Kulluka," said Akbar, "if what I have said angers you. But you should know, as well as I myself, that in so speaking I do not mean the good men among your people, such as yourself, your present prince, and his ministers, but the miserable intriguers that will draw down upon you the greatest misfortune, while they threaten us with the consequences of their turbulence. To guard against this is my duty, and I well know how to fulfil it. Do all you can to make my intervention unnecessary, and you may rest assured that I shall be the last to wish to force it on you." "I place the fullest confidence in your words," said Kulluka, "and if I could not suppress a feeling of anger, it was certainly caused as much by the accursed plots laid for our country and prince as by the threats, for which, I must confess, there is some occasion. But does treachery alone seek a home in Kashmir? Is it so impossible that it should also be present at your court, and that among your own courtiers and relations there may be found those who conspire against us and against your rule?" "How now, what do you mean by that?" "I went, perhaps, too far, and spoke rashly; still, I have my suspicions, and though I trust they may prove idle, yet I cannot put them from me. Salim----" "What, again Salim? Is he also involved in this?" "With what else he is concerned I do not know; but some slight indications have caused me to warn your Majesty. If they are groundless, so much the better, but to be on one's guard can in no case do harm." "And that I shall be. For the present, however, all rests on supposition and assumed possibility. We must neither judge nor act rashly; but be assured that nothing you have told me shall escape my closest inquiry. When we meet again the hour for action may have come. But before you go, I must tell you something that will be personally interesting to you--I have just seen and spoken with your pupil." "How, Siddha?" exclaimed Kulluka, with astonishment. "And who presented him to you?" "No one," answered Akbar; "I met him in the park, and guessing who he was, spoke to him. You know, occasionally I like thus to converse." "And did he not know that he spoke with the mighty Emperor?" "Naturally not; nor did he guess it. Do not tell him; I will myself enlighten him one day. You want to know what I think of him? Well, then, I am content with him. He is a fine, honourable young man, in whom I can trust. Perhaps somewhat imprudent in what----" "He has not said what was not fitting to the Emperor?" "Well," said Akbar, laughing, "if he had known to whom he was talking. But do not be disturbed. When I made him see that he spoke a little too freely he blamed himself in a manner that I could not but accept. Enough: I have said he pleased me, and you know that I am not wont to decide so favourably respecting those I see for the first time. Let him only take care that the first good impression continues. But now other affairs call me, and I will not detain you." With a respectful greeting, Kulluka left the apartment. Akbar looked after him with affection. A man so far separated by rank and station, religion and nationality, was yet bound to him both by respect and friendship, and by a faith that could not fail where he had once given his word. "On him, at least, I can reckon," said the Emperor to himself; "in him is no deceit." And he was right; but how many stood far nearer to him, and of whom he could not say the same! CHAPTER V. A NEW AND AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. Siddha reached the Mosque at the appointed time, and had not waited long before he saw the servant approach and sign to him to follow her. She led him through different side-paths until they reached a high garden wall, in which there was a small door. She opened this, and carefully shut it again, after they had entered. A path thickly bordered with cactuses and other plants led him to a kind of terrace with orange-trees and fountains, on which the back part of a small but tasteful house opened; the rest of it being hidden by thickly growing trees. Siddha's guide led him up a flight of marble steps and through a gallery to an apartment open to the fresh air, and having left him she disappeared behind the hangings. On a divan was carelessly stretched a young woman richly clad in the Persian style. No sooner did she become aware of her visitor's presence than she arose and came forward to meet and welcome him. At the first moment Siddha could hardly have told whether she was beautiful or not. Her features were not regular; but her soft blue eyes, overshadowed with silken lashes, had an indescribably sweet and friendly expression; and though she was not tall, her figure, which her closely-fitting robe showed to perfection, was most perfectly proportioned. But what particularly struck Siddha was the whiteness of her neck and bosom, round which a pearl necklace hung; and the rosy tint of her cheeks, which he had never seen in other women. "Noble lord," she said,--and if the impression she had already made on Siddha had been unfavourable, the sweetness of her voice would at once have won him to her,--"I thank you for so speedily fulfilling my request. Perhaps it seems a little indiscreet; but when you hear the reasons, I trust you will not think harshly of me." "To refuse such an invitation," answered Siddha, "would indeed have been uncourteous; though I confess I did not await the time with the impatience I should have done, noble lady, had I known whom I should meet." Acknowledging this compliment with a slight inclination of her head, she continued,--"My excuse is, that no personal reason made me take this step, but the affairs of another, of a friend of mine, whom I love with all my heart. Some time ago she was forced to fly from Agra to escape the snares laid for her by powerful persons here, and sought a refuge in your country, in Kashmir. Now I have a communication to make to her which may be of great importance; but until now I could think of no means of sending safely to her, as I do not trust any of the messengers at my disposal. Then I heard accidentally, it does not signify how, that you with your former tutor had arrived in Agra, and that the guru would shortly return. I at once saw that I could not do better than trust in the honour of a nobleman whose name was well known to me, and so determined on begging you to ask your friend to undertake the delivery of my letter, in which I inform my friend of many things that are only of importance to her; and I trust my request will not inconvenience you or the worthy Kulluka." At these words, Siddha's first feeling was one of relief. So, then, the whole affair merely consisted in taking charge of an apparently innocent letter, and which, at any rate, did not concern him. But with his satisfaction was mingled a certain degree of disappointment, and that there should be no shadow of an adventure in this affair was not flattering to his vanity. He hastened to assure her he would gladly charge his tutor with the letter, who would willingly undertake to convey it. At a sign from the lady the servant appeared, bringing her a paper folded in the form of a letter, and fastened with a silken cord, bearing a seal. "The direction, as you see," she said, as the servant left the room, "is not to my friend, but to some one whom perhaps you know." "Certainly," answered Siddha, "we have often hunted together." "He will deliver the letter, and so your friend Kulluka will not know who the real recipient is; for I think it is better that as few as possible should share the secret. I hope," she continued, after a moment's silence, "that my friend will profit by what I tell her. Indeed I pity her greatly in her banishment, though at times I almost envy her the opportunity she enjoys of visiting your beautiful country, of which I have read such glowing descriptions. But tell me frankly, are not these descriptions a little exaggerated--at least, they are rather poetical?" "Indeed," answered Siddha, "though my tutor has always warned me against exaggeration as outstepping the bounds of reality and good taste, still I must say the descriptions you mention fall far beneath the truth. Here nature has her beauties. Charming are the borders of your Jamuna, and with the magnificence and luxury of your palaces there is nothing in our northern land that can be compared; but the beauty of our mountains, woods, and valleys, can hardly be imagined by you, accustomed to less-favoured lands." And led away by recollections of his native land, and by the interest shown by his new and really beautiful listener, our Siddha lost himself in descriptions of Hindustan's world-famed paradise. His eloquence, as well as his good looks, increased the admiration with which his hearer regarded the handsome and powerful youth. "But I detain you too long," she said, at last rising, "and am taking advantage of your kindness. Still, one more request: let our interview, for the sake of my friend, remain a secret between you and me. This short meeting can be of no importance." "For you, certainly not," said Siddha; "but for me more than you seem to think." "I see," she replied, laughing, "that you Hindus are as well versed as our people in the art of paying compliments. But let us leave that. There still remains something that I should say. I should show myself indeed unworthy of your confidence, if, knowing who you are, I should myself remain unknown; and, under the promise of secrecy, I see no reason for withholding my name and rank, lowly as it is. My name is Rezia; my father, an Armenian, came here for commerce, and early married me to a merchant of this town, who was already far advanced in years. Some time ago he went to Persia on his affairs, and perhaps further; but it is long since I have heard anything of him. In the meantime I live here, as you see, solitary and quiet, enjoying the pleasure of a peaceful life. So now you know who you have had the trouble of visiting, although we may never meet again." "And why, noble Rezia, should that not be?" asked Siddha. "I see no reason against it, and possibly I may have things to tell you of the country where your friend now is, that might interest you." "Well," answered Rezia, "I will not refuse your friendship; and if some evening you should have an idle hour, I would gladly hear tidings of my letter, and that its charge occasioned no trouble. At any rate, I am sure it has a good chance. No doubt you will meet my servant, and have only to tell her when you will visit me in my solitary dwelling." "For the opportunity of seeing you again, I shall indeed be grateful," said Siddha, as he carefully placed the letter entrusted to him in his girdle, and prepared for the moment to say farewell. When he reached his home he stood for some time in the verandah, busied with thought, gazing on the river that flowed softly below him. Those were the same waters that would bathe the walls of Allahabad fortress, and reflect back the lovely features of Iravati; true, might it not be that the waves would take a greeting to his loving betrothed, and whisper words of love and faith? And he snatched Iravati's portrait from the wall, and pressing his lips to her image, he seated himself in the gallery; and as he gazed on her, lovelier than ever seemed the features of the noble and beautiful Hindu girl. But as his eyes wandered over the palace and gardens bordering the river, another's figure appeared before him--the graceful form, the blue eyes, and sweet voice of Rezia the Armenian. What was she to him? Nothing, certainly; but what harm was there even if he found her charming? He had never promised Iravati that for her sake every other woman should appear to him both ugly and unpleasing. "Hallo!" was heard next morning in the courtyard of Siddha's dwelling. "Is your master awake? Go and see if a visit from me will disturb him." Before Vatsa could obey the command, Siddha, who was preparing to go out, recognised the cheerful voice of Parviz, Abú-l Fazl's nephew; and hastened to meet and beg him to come in. "Are you on service now?" he asked. "Not for a couple of days." "That is well. Then perhaps you will come with me for an expedition?" "Very willingly. Where shall we go?" "To Fathpúr Sikri, [70] the country residence of the Emperor, the place everyone visits when they first make an expedition in the neighbourhood." "I submit myself entirely to your friendly guidance," answered Siddha; "but excuse me if I leave you for a few moments to say farewell to Kulluka, who is on the point of starting." He found his tutor in all the hurry of departure, and, as he said farewell, entrusted him with the letter, which Kulluka took without any questions. And before long Siddha and Parviz were mounted and, followed by their servants, on their way out of the town. Their journey was nothing but a pleasant ride, their road lying as it did through an avenue overshadowed with fine trees, with beautiful views on each side, over fields and shady groves. "See," said Parviz, after they had ridden for some time; "such avenues the Emperor has had planted almost everywhere; and in places where formerly no green leaf was to be seen, and men died of heat, now these shady roads are to be found. Is not this a great and useful work? Certainly every traveller has good cause of gratitude to Akbar." "Yes, indeed, the Emperor does great things," answered Siddha--and his thoughts turned to the extraordinary man with whom, yesterday, he had talked of Akbar. And he described to Parviz his strange meeting, and asked if he knew who the person he described could be? "No, I know him not," said Parviz, with difficulty suppressing a smile; "but perhaps you will meet him again." "Very likely," answered Siddha, "But, tell me, how is it that here there are so many people without beards? I always supposed that your Muhammadans thought a great deal of their beards." "So they do; but Akbar thinks quite differently. A little moustache, like yours and mine, he can put up with, but would rather see nothing at all on one's face. The wisest men have their whims, and this may be one. Or he may do it with intention to vex the faithful, and to show them how little he thinks of their opinions and customs. But, whatever the reason, so it is; and, unimportant and childish as it seems, this has given rise to much talk and much that is disagreeable. Now we are approaching the dwelling of one of the chiefs of the village of this district, who I know very well, through my uncle the Minister. Shall we rest with him for a few moments while our horses are watered? My bay is much in want of it, for he was waiting saddled long before I was ready." Agreeing to this proposal they dismounted in the inner court of a farmhouse built of stone and wood, and surrounded by tamarinds and acacias. The proprietor himself soon appeared--a middle-aged, respectable-looking Hindu, with a magisterial air. After the usual greetings, and while fresh fruit and ice-cold water was brought for their refreshment, the conversation naturally turned to agriculture and the great prosperity of the district, although but lately brought under cultivation. "Partly, of course," said the chief of the village, "we owe the fortunate condition in which we find ourselves to our own labour and exertion; but we owe great thanks to the Emperor, whose wise and beneficent system of ruling first gave us the opportunity of using our own strength." "I have heard of his system," remarked Siddha; "still, to tell you the truth, I am scarcely master of it." "Yet it is very simple," replied the Hindu, "and, to one like you, very easy to comprehend. The system rests principally on a wise division of the land, and a just settlement of the taxes on land, and, above all, on the certainty of law and justice, possessed equally by proprietor and tenant. Everything used to depend on arbitrary decisions, and no one knew what he might keep or what he would be obliged to pay; and we chiefs of the villages had to decide what the yearly taxation of the fields should be. Now that is all changed: the fields are correctly measured, their boundaries fixed, and the taxation regulated with reference to their productiveness, according to which they are placed in classes, and rented for a certain number of years. [71] And what, perhaps, is the most important of all, the taxes are payable either in money or in kind; and no Government officer can decide as he will, when disputes arise, but by the law alone. The consequence of all this is, that the cultivator, proprietor, or farmer can tell beforehand what land will cost, what he will have to pay, and what will remain his own property. Is it any wonder, then, that he now, understanding his affairs, applies all his energies to them, and becomes prosperous, whereas before he was content if he could but earn his daily rice. You see the fruits of the system around you, and can form your own opinion; but you could do so far better if you had known the former condition of the country as I do." "The same system in any country would lead to the same results," answered Siddha. "What a blessing for a state to possess a prince like Akbar!" "We must also be grateful to his councillors," said the magistrate, "particularly to Todar Mal, [72] the treasurer, who worked out the system; and to Abú-l Fazl, the great Wazir, who put the last touch to the work, and repressed with severity the extortions of the Government officers. If in the beginning these measures appeared to diminish the revenues of the state, in the long run it has been quite the contrary; but had the revenues been lessened, still they would have been far more productive, because the payments are certain and punctual." "But, worthy sir," asked Siddha, "is there not danger of these excellent regulations falling to the ground if a less wise prince should ascend the throne?" "I do not believe it," was the reply. "No despot could easily take from our community such rights when it had once obtained them. You know that our people almost entirely govern themselves by their magistrates, and are thus, to a certain extent, independent of the sovereign. If he attempted to deprive them of their rights he would find that he must wage war against a dozen small states, and would not find soldiers enough to reduce them all to obedience. Even should he succeed in doing so, the villages would be almost entirely deserted, and the population would seek refuge in impenetrable jungles and wildernesses. On the other hand, our villagers leave the prince free to act as he will. He can carry on war against other kingdoms as much as he pleases, and as long as the state of his treasury admits; and they never concern themselves with court intrigues and disputes." "What a happy condition of things," said Siddha, "for both parties." "But the union of state and people is not much advanced by it," remarked Parviz, joining in the conversation. "No, that is true," answered the magistrate. "But do you believe it possible that there can be real unity in a State such as our present Hindustan, where so many and such different races and people are brought together under one rule?" "I acknowledge that it may be difficult; still, it is worth trying for." The conversation, which was very interesting to Siddha, continued for some time, and then the two friends, taking leave, mounted their horses and continued their journey. A brisk but rather long ride, which obliged them more than once to halt and rest, brought them in sight of the heights on which the palace of Fathpúr was built. However striking had been the first view of the palaces of Agra, this was not less so. The buildings rising one above another, as though built on terraces, stood out proud and stately against the sky, with their tall towers, and sharply cut battlements. Broad marble steps glittered in the sunshine, here and there overshadowed by the thick green of tamarinds and other trees. As Siddha and his companion, leaving their horses to the charge of their servants, entered the precincts of the palace itself, the former, though less astonished, was far more delighted than he had been with his first view of Agra. The gardens pleased him more, and were more satisfying to the eye, for here no wrong was done to nature; the paths, instead of being laid out with uniform regularity, followed the unevenness of the ground, and were thickly overshadowed by luxuriant vegetation. And what a magnificent and refreshing view over the neighbouring hills and fields, rich and golden with corn, and over the silver shining river! For some time the two wandered about, sometimes through solitary groves, and then through galleries filled with guards and servants. At last Parviz proposed they should go to the lower town to seek their lodgings, and to obtain better refreshment than had been possible on the road. This proposal was willingly agreed to; and after the two friends had enjoyed the needful repose, they again sallied out to visit what was to be seen in the town. "Excuse me," said Parviz, "if I leave you for a few minutes. I have to give some papers from my uncle to one of his officers here, and to speak to him about some affairs which will not interest you. He lives close by, and I shall be back immediately. In the meantime you can visit that old temple yonder, surrounded with acacias; or, if you like it better, pay your devotions there." "Very much obliged," he answered, laughing; "I scarcely care to do that, but I will willingly visit the temple, and will await you close by." Siddha had hardly entered the vaulted, dimly-lit building before he recognised it as a temple of Siva by the numerous emblematic ornaments on the pillars, and, advancing a few steps, he saw at the furthest end a kind of hall lighted from above, where was placed a colossal image of the god, seated cross-legged on a lotus, his arms and ancles ornamented with numberless rings, the symbol of the trinity on his forehead, and a necklace of skulls around his neck. Siva was the immortal ruler of the world, creating to destroy, and destroying to create afresh, endless in his manifestation and transformation of being, from whence all takes origin, and to which everything must return. Well as our young Indian understood the idea represented by these images and their symbols, the mis-shapen, monstrous figures struck him with the same feeling of repulsion as they had done when he first beheld them. The temple itself was not wanting in beauty, though disfigured by the grotesque representations on the walls. He had not been long alone before he heard a voice behind him, although the silence was unbroken by any sound of footsteps. "Om," sounded through the stillness; "Om, the unworthy servant of Siva's holy consort greets thee, O Moral Force." Turning to the spot from whence came the voice, Siddha recognised the Durga priest Gorakh, whom he had seen in company with his uncle at Allahabad. "I greet you, holy man," he said, and awaited what the other should say. "So, then, we have not forgotten each other since our last meeting," replied the priest. "In truth I have not lost sight of you since I saw you in the neighbourhood of Badrinath." "Let that be as it will," answered Siddha, half impatiently; "but I scarcely comprehend, honoured lord, why you should concern yourself about me." "Should not," asked the other, "the nephew of my old friend and pupil have claim to the interest I feel in him? and for that reason I feel obliged to give you a warning, if you will take it from me. You know who Gurupada the hermit is, do you not?" "Gurupada?" asked Siddha. "Certainly; he is a hermit living in the mountains." "Yes; but I mean who he was before he assumed his present name." "Of that I know nothing--he never alluded to it." "But your guru, Kulluka, must have told you." "I never asked him; it was nothing to me." Gorakh turned a penetrating look towards the speaker; but he would have been no true Indian had his countenance displayed ought but utter indifference. However, irritated by the persistence of his questioner, he proceeded, with less caution, to say, "Even if I knew who and what Gurupada had been, can you not understand that I would not tell you?" "Ha!" cried the Yogi, "you mean you do not trust me. You mean to defy me. Do you remember that I am a friend of the Governor of Allahabad?" "Yes, I know that," said Siddha, expressing vexation. "What do you know?" "I know what I know, and that is enough." The priest regarded Siddha with anger, not unmingled with disquietude. What was the meaning of this tone, and what could he really know? Still for the moment the wisest course seemed to be to break off the conversation. "Enough, then," said Gorakh, "both for you and for me; but bethink yourself, my young friend--though you are so little desirous of my friendship, and I will not force it on you,--think that the mighty goddess, to whose service all my feeble strength is devoted, not only protects but destroys also, and that there is no hope of mercy or chance of salvation for him whom, through her priests, she has chosen out for her service and who has turned from it." So saying, he disappeared down a side aisle, without waiting for any answer to his mysterious menace. Siddha looked after him with an involuntary feeling of anxiety; and though in reality the Durga priest was alone, yet he almost fancied he could see him followed by a long train of naked bronze figures, with white cords round their necks, just as he had seen him in the dimness of night passing along the wall of Allahabad fortress and vanishing in the jungle. And that night, as he went to rest, he thought it would be as well to question his faithful servant who awaited his orders. "Vatsa," he said, "at Allahabad you assured me that neither you nor Kulluka's servant had spoken to any priest or penitent; but can you not remember some other unknown person to whom you might have talked of our journey through the mountains, and recounted to him some of its incidents?" "I should never have thought of it again, Sir, if you had not brought it to my mind," replied Vatsa; "but now I remember that near the stable a half-naked, bronze-coloured man once talked with us, and told us much about the town and fortress, and then asked us about our journey." "And you told him of my adventure with Gurupada's tiger?" "I believe we did." "And did you say anything of the hermit and his appearance?" "Certainly," answered Vatsa. "His venerable and princely bearing had so struck us that we were full of it, and not thinking there was any harm in speaking of it we made no secret of our meeting with him to the stranger." "Did you describe Gurupada's appearance exactly?" "I cannot distinctly remember all we said; but I believe we did speak of it." "There is danger," murmured Siddha to himself, "and more than danger. The priest naturally learnt enough from his spy about our journey to put me out of countenance. His suspicions seem to be aroused as regards Gurupada; and it is clear he tried to find out more from me. But what can he have to do with Gurupada or Nandigupta? And my uncle Salhana--is he also mixed up in this?" "I hope we have done no harm by our talk with the stranger," said Vatsa, disquieted by seeing his young master sunk in thought. "No, no," he replied; "and even had you done so, it was done unintentionally, and you are not to blame. We ought to have been more cautious, and to have warned you beforehand. But in future, Vatsa, do not speak to any one of the hermit, whoever it may be that asks you; do you understand?" "Perfectly, my lord," was the answer; "and in future I have never seen the hermit, or even if I have done so, I have entirely forgotten what he was like." "Nevertheless," thought Siddha, "it might be as well to warn Kulluka, and even Nandigupta himself. I will try and find a safe opportunity, whether Salhana has anything to do with it, or not." CHAPTER VI. SALIM. "Form quickly," said the commandant of the Rajpúts, as he stood in the court of the fortress, while the cavalry fell into rank; "and then march for the field where the Emperor reviews the troops to-day." This order was obeyed without delay, and, when outside the fortification, they broke into a trot, until they reached a plain, at some little distance from the town, where the review was to be held. A splendid sight lay stretched out before Siddha, as, at the head of his detachment, he ascended a small hill. On the right was a whole town, as it were, of tents; long, broad streets, laid out with the utmost regularity. In the middle stood the imperial tent, made of red cloth, with a gilded dome-shaped roof,--if one might call a palace of cloth and wood a tent; and on the left, brilliant with many colours, were drawn up the different army corps--some horsemen in armour and some without, some armed with lances and some with guns; and there stood the artillery and war elephants; and further off, other elephants with luxurious hauda, on whose cushions were seated ladies, most of them veiled, who had come to see the spectacle. Soon after the arrival of the Rajpúts the troops moved forward, and, preceded by their bands, defiled before the Emperor and his staff. Siddha did not hesitate long before deciding which was the Emperor among that brilliant group of officers, their arms and horse-trappings glittering with gold and jewels. Unmistakable was his whole bearing--a robust man on a splendid white horse, with the commander's staff in his hand, standing a few steps in advance of the others, his standard and umbrella bearer behind him. Instantly Siddha recognised in the mighty ruler the man with whom he had spoken in the gardens of the palace, a suspicion of whose real rank had for a moment crossed his mind. When his turn came to pass before the Emperor with his men, he bent his head and pointed his lance to the ground, as he had seen others do; and stealing a glance at the Emperor, saw a smile pass over his stern features, from which he gathered that Akbar had not taken ill his bold words, and he remembered that excepting a passing outburst of anger, his interlocutor had maintained during the whole interview a frank and friendly tone. He came to the conclusion that he had no cause to dread his presentation to the Emperor, which Faizi had warned him would most likely take place after the review. This expectation was soon fulfilled. No sooner had the halt been sounded, a sign that the troops might for a time repose, than Siddha saw Faizi beckon, and on joining him he was guided through tents, the magnificence of which rivalled that of the palace itself; and a few minutes later he found himself in presence of the Emperor. Faizi was not a little surprised at seeing Akbar, without waiting for the official presentation, step forward to meet Siddha, replying to his reverential greeting with a gracious movement of his hand, and say, "Well, I saw you at the head of your troop, and it seems to me that you will turn out a good officer. Take care that my expectations are fulfilled. I have already made acquaintance with your friend," he continued, turning to Faizi; "we met a few days ago, although at the time he had no idea who I was." "Even had I known it, Sire," said Siddha, respectfully, "I could not have regarded your Majesty with more reverence than I did the unknown stranger." "But perhaps spoken a little less freely," said Akbar, smiling. "However, there is no harm done, and I had far rather hear what men think of me than guess what they say behind my back. Our former meeting induces me to command, or rather to request, for what I wish cannot be forced, that now you know me, you will trust me as you did when I was a stranger. You see to-day that your confidence was not misplaced. Turn to me, and not to others, when you think that you have cause of complaint against me or mine. I never refuse to hear grievances: if they are groundless I try to refute them; if real, to redress them. Boldness and free speaking, my friend Faizi here can bear witness, never arouse my anger, however much dissimulation and falsehood may do so." After some questions and replies regarding the particulars of Siddha's service, the Emperor signified that the audience was at an end, and they took their leave, Faizi not a little bewildered about this first meeting, a full account of which his young companion soon gave him. "You are indeed a child of fortune," said Faizi; "such things do not happen to every one, however easy of access Akbar is, and however willingly he enters into conversation. You seem to have made a favourable impression on him, and that rejoices me from my heart. But do I not see Parviz approaching? Yes, indeed; but what can he be doing here? Well," continued he to his nephew, "what is my lord the future councillor doing here among warriors in their tents?" "As much as my worthy uncle the philosopher," answered Parviz; "but I willingly confess that I can rival him as little in statecraft and learning as in deeds of arms." "No compliments, my nephew," answered the other, laughing; "they are not fitting between us. But shall I tell you my suspicions? That you have come to have a glance at those beautifully decorated elephants yonder: the lovely daughter of Todar Mal is perhaps not unaccustomed to your appearance, although you are supposed never to have seen her." "Uncle, now in my turn I say, no betrayal of my secrets! However," added Parviz, good-naturedly, "I have none from my friend Siddha, and all the more, that I am sure of his sympathy whenever he thinks of his no less dearly loved betrothed, though I am less fortunate than he; and even if I hope to find favour in the eyes of the daughter, I am not so sure of doing so in those of the father." "That will all come right in time," remarked Faizi, good-naturedly; "but enough at present of our confidences. See, here come others, for whose ears they are not intended." "Who is that?" asked Siddha, as he saw a group of horsemen approach, in the centre of which rode a young man but a few years older than himself, and whose appearance for more than one reason attracted his attention. He was dressed with the most luxurious splendour: over his coat of gold cloth he wore no less than four necklaces of pearls of unwonted size; his turban was ornamented by a heron's feather and three jewels of priceless worth. On his arms, up to the elbows, were clasped numerous bracelets, all set with precious stones; and on each finger was a ring; while his weapons and horse-trappings were a mass of pearls and diamonds. But in strange contrast to all this splendour was the wearied white face, its sallowness still more marked by the jet-black eyes and finely pencilled moustache and eyebrows. Originally the features must have been noble and beautiful, but they were ruined and aged before their time, and bore signs of many a night spent in dissipation and riot. "What, do you not know him?" answered Faizi; "that is Salim, the Emperor's son and heir." With a silent greeting the Prince was about to ride by, but a sudden thought striking him, he drew in his horse by Faizi, and said, "Sirs, I am glad to meet you here; I expect some friends this evening in my palace to a feast, will you also give me the pleasure of your presence?" "The invitation," answered Faizi, "would be to me a command, if a still higher one did not prevent me from obeying: the Emperor has invited me for this evening." "And so you will give my father another lesson from your unbelieving philosophers; is it not so?" said Salim, with a half-contemptuous smile, not quite pleased with the refusal. "What I myself may do," was the answer, "can depend on the will of your Highness; but what the Emperor may think good to do is, it appears to me, above your opinion and above mine. Also there may be a question as to which evening will be most profitably spent." "Now do not be angry, noble Faizi," said Salim, good-naturedly. "I mean no harm; and if I leave your evening alone, let me have mine. And you, Parviz," said he, turning to him, "have you also some important business to prevent your enjoying some innocent amusement?" "Certainly not," answered Parviz, "and even if I had, I would desire nothing better than to thrust it on one side before the pleasure of a feast in Salim's palace. But allow me, if it is not indiscreet, to present to your Highness a new friend of mine." And signing to Siddha to approach, he announced his name and rank. "Oh yes," said Salim, "I remember hearing of his arrival; and if you," he continued, turning to Siddha, "will accompany your friend this evening, it will give me pleasure." "It will be both honour and pleasure to me," said Siddha, bowing respectfully. "There is not much honour in it," said Salim, "I am of no consequence at this court; still I hope that our meeting may give you pleasure. Till this evening, then." And turning his horse the Prince rode off, followed by his retinue. "And allow me also, honoured friend," said Siddha, "to take my leave; it is time that I should return to my troop." "If you will," said Parviz, "come and fetch me this evening; my dwelling is on the way, and we can go together." "With pleasure," answered the other, as he turned away to return to his post. Though Siddha had anticipated that Salim's palace would be one of great splendour, yet his expectations were far outstripped by the unheard-of luxury which surrounded him on all sides, as he passed through different ante-rooms and rows of servants, before reaching the brilliantly lighted hall where the Prince welcomed his friends. In spite of the richness of the imperial palace, there was something grave and sober about it; but here, on the contrary, in the midst of Moorish architecture and sparkling decoration, all breathed of luxury and the search after boundless enjoyment. Many coloured hangings of silk and gold hung from the finely cut arches, and the marble walls were partly covered with variegated mosaic work and gilding; thick masses of flowers spread fragrance around; broad mirrors reflected back the light, while the foot sank deep in soft carpets of fantastic designs; luxurious divans wooed the passer-by to repose; and there at his hand were drinking-cups of open-worked gold and crystal, and porphyry and marble coolers of every form. On one side of the hall was a kind of stage, lighted with coloured lamps, where dancers and players were to perform. All this formed a picture that at first sight would strike the beholder with surprise, however accustomed he might be to the palaces of India. Salim quickly caught sight of the new comers among the other guests, who stood talking in groups, while others reclined on divans, and advancing towards them, he said, "You are right welcome to my humble dwelling, and I hope that this evening will afford you enjoyment; but let me tell you that etiquette has nothing to do with pleasure, and here we are all friends." The Prince turned away, and at the same moment Siddha saw approach a well-known but unexpected figure--that of Salhana, Governor of Allahabad. "Well, nephew," he said, giving him his hand, "I am very glad to meet you here; I have just arrived, and found an invitation from the Prince awaiting me." "And how goes all yonder?" asked Siddha; "and how is----" "Iravati," interrupted Salhana. "Very well; she sends her greetings. But see, there comes a man whose acquaintance you must make; he is not much seen at court, but, for all that, is a man well worth knowing." No introduction was necessary, for the man was no other than Abdul Kadir, Badaoni, the Islam fanatic, whom Siddha had already met in the imperial park with Akbar. To his astonishment this man greeted his uncle with courtesy, although he was an unbeliever like himself; and even to his share fell a recognition which could not be considered uncourteous. "I have already met your nephew accidentally," said Abdul Kadir, as Salhana was about to introduce him; "and I hope," he continued to Siddha, "that you regard the words I then spoke in the sense I gave them, for you see now that persons are not hated by me, however much I combat the false doctrines they hold." "I honour your feelings, noble Sir," said Siddha, "although I regret that you are not one with us; perhaps----" "Perhaps what?" began Abdul Kadir, angrily. "No, no, my friends," interposed Salhana; "no disputes, I pray, over your different beliefs. Think rather of the grave dangers which threaten us all, we Hindus as well as you true sons of the Prophet, should the plans be carried out in true earnest that the higher powers now think of." Some others, apparently trusted acquaintances of Salhana and the Muhammadan, had joined the speakers, forming a thick ring around them, while Parviz and some young friends had gone to the other end of the hall. "Let us consider," continued Salhana, in a low but audible voice, "how we should bear ourselves should our otherwise honoured Emperor attempt, as is probable, to force upon us a religion alike abhorrent to our feelings, customs, and morals. Will you Muhammadans, the present rulers of the land, deny Allah, and kneel in adoration before the sun and stars, and perhaps----" "By the beard of the Prophet," began Abdul Kadir, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword, "we should----" "Let that be as it may," interrupted the other; "there are still worse things. Consider the words 'Alláhu Akbar' [73] we now find on our coins and firmans; they are innocent enough if you understand them as 'God is great,' but far different if you read them in the sense of 'Akbar is God.'" "That goes indeed too far," broke out Abdul Kadir, in bitter anger. But Salhana again interposed. "Let us be calm," he said; "we have at present only to do with suppositions, which may, as I hope, turn out to be groundless. But should it be so, could you, and would you, submit?" This question was addressed as much to those standing around as to Abdul Kadir, and made a deep impression on Siddha. That Akbar had thought of founding a new religion had already come to his ears; but could it be that he thought of using force as an aid to conversion; was this possible? "Therefore," concluded Salhana, "let there be no division between us; let us consider together, and by unanimity and the use of legitimate measures we may ward off the dangers that threaten us, through the excited imagination of an otherwise excellent sovereign being worked on by fanatics and intriguers. But I believe that the Prince already signs to us that the feast is about to begin. Let us for the moment break off our conversation; I shall remain at your command, my lords. Perhaps I am in error; from my heart I wish that it may turn out so." As the guests were taking their places on the divans, Siddha heard, in passing one of the groups of talkers, a few words that attracted his attention--"And Kashmir," asked one of the speakers; "is she informed?" "Thoroughly," was the reply; "the mine is almost ready to be sprung." "And the letter?" "Is in the best of hands." Other guests divided Siddha from the two whose conversation he had accidentally heard, and he was soon seated, not far from Salhana, but divided from him by several young people, with whom he was soon in conversation; while servants carried round various refreshments, and rich wines flowed in the golden drinking-cups. Now and then the words he had heard crossed his mind, but their meaning was dark. Could they refer to secret divisions in his native land, which, according to Salhana were stirred up by Akbar. And the letter! Involuntarily his thoughts turned to Rezia's letter that he had entrusted to Kulluka; but what could that have to do with state affairs? His attention was soon engrossed by the dancers who, accompanied by musicians, appeared on the stage at the end of the hall. Their bronze-coloured arms and necks were bare, while a long robe fell to their feet. To the music of stringed instruments and cymbals, they commenced one of those dances so dear to both Indians and Muhammadans, and which they can watch unwearied for hours. Now and then, for a change, their places were taken by singers, who treated their audience with extracts from the Persian poets, which Salim and his friends listened to with great pleasure, but which to Siddha appeared a little monotonous. "Where is Rembha," at last asked the Prince, "that she does not come and sing a few translated passages from an old Indian poem, that you, Siddha, doubtless know well--I mean the Gita Govinda?" "Oh yes," answered Siddha; "the pastoral of Jayadeva, which describes the adventures of the god Krishna with the shepherdesses, and his reconciliation with the beautiful Radha. I have myself attempted a translation." [74] "Let us listen," said Salim; "here comes Rembha." And on the stage appeared a dark but beautiful young woman, in rich and luxurious costume; and, accompanied by soft music, she began half to sing, half to recite, the following: "In this love-tide of spring, when the amorous breeze Has kiss'd itself sweet on the beautiful trees, And the humming of numberless bees, as they throng To the blossoming shrubs, swells the Kokila's song,-- In the love-tide of spring, when the spirit is glad, And the parted--yes, only the parted--are sad, Thy lover, thy Krishna, is dancing in glee, With troops of young maidens, forgetful of thee. "The season is come when the desolate bride Would woo with laments her dear lord to her side; When the rich-laden stems of the Vakul bend low, 'Neath the clustering flowers in the pride of their glow; In this love-tide of spring, when the spirit is glad, And the parted--yes, only the parted--are sad, Thy lover, thy Krishna, is dancing in glee With troops of young maidens, forgetful of thee. "Dispensing rich odours, the sweet Madhavi, With its lover-like wreathings encircle the tree; And oh! e'en a hermit must yield to the power, The ravishing scent of the Mallika [75] flower. In this love-tide of spring, when the spirit is glad, And the parted--and none but the parted--are sad, Thine own, thy dear Krishna, is dancing in glee; He loves his fair partners, and thinks not of thee." [76] "The poetry and the meaning," said Salim, as the singer paused, "leave nothing to be desired; but what, noble Siddha, do you think of the translation?" "Not bad," he answered; "the imagery and spirit are well and freely given, even if here and there the word are not exactly followed; but that, I believe, in the poetry of the present day, would be difficult if not impossible. Is not the name of the translator known?" "It is Faizi, with whom I saw you talking this morning," said the Prince, smiling at the confusion painted on Siddha's cheeks at hearing these words and thinking of the rather magisterial opinion he had just expressed. "Do not be disturbed," continued he; "Faizi will not take it ill that you do not consider his work faultless; but, on the contrary, will be grateful for any corrections. Now, Rembha, let us hear one piece more, and then for this evening we will not trouble you again." "This," said the singer, "is the complaint of the forsaken Radha to her friend: "Ah, my beloved! taken with those glances; Ah, my beloved! dancing those rash dances; Ah, minstrel! playing wrongful strains so well; Ah, Krishna, Krishna, with the honeyed lip! Ah, wanderer into foolish fellowship! My dancer, my delight! I love thee still. "O dancer! strip thy peacock crown away; Rise! thou whose forehead is the star of day, With beauty for its silver halo set; Come! thou whose greatness gleams beneath its shroud, Like Indra's rainbow shining through the cloud-- Come, for I love thee, my beloved! yet." [77] For a short moment Rembha paused, and then continued in a slightly altered measure, and with a softer and sadder tone in her sweet voice, as though she from her heart threw herself into the rôle of the loving Radha. "Go to him--win him hither--whisper low How he may find me if he searches well; Say, if he will, joys past his hope to know Await him here; go now to him and tell Where Radha is, and that henceforth she charms His spirit to her arms. "Yes, go! say if he will that he may come-- May come, my love, my longing, my desire; May come, forgiven, shriven, to me, his home, And make his happy peace; nay, and aspire To uplift Radha's veil, and learn at length What love is in its strength." [78] Universal applause greeted the singer as she concluded: the beauty of the words, so fully expressed by her voice and bearing, came home to them all. "Then follows the reconciliation of Krishna and Radha, does it not?" said Salim, "but that we will have another time. Tell me, worthy Abdul Kadir," he continued, perhaps not without intention, "does the Hindu poetry give you as much pleasure as our own, or, like others of the Faithful, have you a horror of the false ideas proclaimed by these Hindus?" "With poets," answered Abdul Kadir, with difficulty suppressing his anger, "I have not much to do; and our Holy Prophet, blessed be his name, cursed with good reason the impious Amru-l Kais, [79] however highly his Mullakat was famed by others. But that the Hindus, not content with writing the wanton poetry we have just heard, should dare to hold up such beings as Krishna and Radha as objects of worship, appears to me too gross." Just as Siddha was about to attempt to show the fanatic that there was a difference between mythology and true worship, between poetry and faith, Salim hindered further discussion by saying--"No theology, gentlemen, I beg; let us leave that to my honoured father, who is, at this moment, I believe, occupied with the learned Faizi, and, it may be, with other philosophers also; but we younger ones have met together to pass a merry evening. Ho! you singers and players! A drinking song, and a gay one too, that may bring back the right tone amongst us; and let wine flow to rejoice our hearts. That no anger may linger in your mind, noble Abdul Kadir, think that even a poet, whom our great Prophet did not curse, and who is honoured amongst us,--think that Tarafa [80] sang: "Wouldst thou spend the livelong day In the tavern bright and gay, I with song would mirthfully Bear thee joyous company. "Ready on the board we'll find, When the morrow breaks again, Foaming goblet--rosy wine-- Which with joy once more we'll drain. And why should we not follow the good advice?" The sullen Muhammadan muttered behind his beard, but dared say nothing, for he had need of Salim, as the latter well knew, as an ally in the troubles that might arise from Akbar's forsaking the faith. He was silent, therefore, and ended with consoling himself for his wrongs by drinking as deeply as any, in spite of what the Prophet might have said. The other guests made good use of their time, and the drinking-cups were no sooner emptied than they were refilled. Then the singers and bayadires, at a sign from Salim, mingled in the gay company, and took their places on the divans amongst them. The beautiful Rembha seated herself by Siddha, and before long they were in conversation. He discovered her not only to be accomplished but good-hearted, from the compassionate manner in which she spoke of the unfortunate dancers, who, though not slaves in reality, were sold in their earliest years by their parents to the highest bidders, and then passed from one to another like so much merchandise, leading a life but little better than real slavery. "And though," she said, frankly, "in the beginning mine was the same fate, fortunately I had a talent for music. My patron gave me a thorough education in it; and now I can support myself by means of my art. And when," she continued, smiling, "I become old and ugly, then----" "Then what?" cried Siddha, who had listened with sympathy to all she said. "Oh no," answered Rembha, "I know what you mean, and you forget yourself. When I become old and ugly, I need not descend to a life of adventure; being a Hindu of high caste, there will be no difficulty in finding employment in one of the temples to superintend the dancers and singers kept by the priests for their ceremonials." Here the words were interrupted by a wilder and louder burst of music, and when it ceased other guests and women joined in the talk. But now the conversation became less guarded, and many an expression met Siddha's ear that until now was unknown to him, but the meaning of which he soon caught. By degrees he also began to lose his sense of decorum. Here and there lay a reveller, still clasping his empty goblet, and quite unconscious of all around. And there on the divan were groups whose bearing showed no recollection of the high presence in which they found themselves. But the Prince had long ceased to take much notice of what went on around him; he had thrown himself carelessly back between two dancers, one of whom played with the hilt of his dagger, while the other examined the many bracelets on his arms. One of these he unclasped and flung at her, tossing at the same time two costly pearls, he had torn from his coat, to her companion; then filling high his goblet, he drained it to the last drop, and sank back senseless on his cushion. And now, as the conversation became more confused, so also it became louder and louder, while the music played, and the wine flowed in streams; and our Siddha, overcome by the noise, and heavy perfume of flowers, and still more perhaps by the wine, by degrees remarked less and less all that went on around him. But a heavy hand laid suddenly on his shoulder aroused him from his stupefaction. It was Salhana, who had approached him unnoticed. "Come," he said, "it is time we departed; on occasions like these who can tell what quarrels or disputes may break out?" "Yes," answered Siddha, with hesitating speech; "but can we go before the Prince gives the sign for leave-taking?" "The Prince!" answered Salhana, contemptuously: "look! and judge whether he is likely to know or care whether we go or remain." He glanced towards Salim, who reclined on a divan with closed eyes, his arm hanging over the cushion, while a few paces from him lay his newly-filled goblet that had fallen from his hand and rolled on the carpet. Though Siddha did his best, he could not see Salim; or, if he did, it appeared to him there were two Salims; and without resisting he let his uncle lead him from the hall, and assist him into a palanquin which awaited them at the door; and after giving directions to the bearers, Salhana, who had certainly not drunk less than his nephew, turned, with a firm and steady tread, towards his dwelling. As he passed through one of the narrow streets he saw under the shadow of a house a tall thin figure, which, after looking cautiously around, left its hiding-place and approached him--it was Gorakh the Yogi. "Does all go well?" he asked. "Nothing could be better," was the reply. "Our cause prospers; I cannot yet give particulars, but when I know more, and certainly in case we have need of you and your followers, you shall be warned at once." "And our young simpleton? keep your eye upon him, for I believe he has suspicions of our understanding. When he is once with us that will not signify. But tell me, is the bird in the trap?" "Not yet," answered Salhana; "but it will not be long before he is." Gorakh laughed, and the men parted, each going his own way. CHAPTER VII. SECRET MEETINGS. Faizi's excuse for refusing the Prince's invitation was no feigned one, for at the moment when Salim's guests were assembling he was awaiting very different company in the private apartments of the Emperor. Preceded by a servant a man entered, by whose garb any one from the West would at once have recognised a Catholic Priest. It was the Padre Rudolf Aquaviva, head of the Jesuit Mission, and deputed to the court of Agra by the Father Provincial. [81] "You are welcome, worthy Father," said Akbar, returning his greeting; "welcome in the name of the Great Being whom we both worship, although in different ways. I hope," he continued, "that the journey has not wearied you." "I am grateful to your Majesty for the interest you take in me," answered Aquaviva. "Our journey, fortunately, has been accomplished without accident, although my health is feeble; but it is fitting that insignificant man should bear, without murmuring, what the Lord appoints." "In that I agree with you," said Akbar; "but I have to thank you for the books that in your absence you were so good as to send me--your evangelists' and other writings. My friend Faizi here, who doubtless you remember, has translated the greater part of them for me, and I assure you that we have carefully read them, together with Abú-l Fazl." "And," asked the Padre, gazing earnestly into the Emperor's face, "may we hope that the seed is fallen in good soil?" "I believe that I can answer yes," said Akbar. "Some of your holy books I prize very highly, now that I have made closer acquaintance with them. What beautiful, elevated truth they contain, and noble ideas, almost beyond our grasp (which, however, are not entirely wanting in the teaching of Islam). What a noble, pure conception of self-denial and self-sacrifice, and, above all, what a pure idea of love and charity! and this is entirely wanting in the Koran. After this I can hardly tell you how far above Muhammadanism I place Christianity." "The Lord be praised!" said the Jesuit, clasping his hands, and casting his eyes up to heaven. "That is the right way; first error recognised by comparison with truth, then is the soul steadfast. And how should it be possible that a man like Akbar, who is not only a powerful prince but a wise and learned scholar, should not be able to distinguish truth from lies?" "I am flattered by your good opinion," said Akbar; "but am afraid I shall fall in it when you hear what I have to add to the words I have already spoken. Still I must say it, for I wish to act openly and fairly with you. Though I expressed my warm admiration of much that is to be found in your holy books, yet that does not prevent me from being ready to welcome all that is good and beautiful in other creeds: for example, some of the original Vedic ideas that are still extant." "What!" cried Aquaviva, with irrepressible agitation,--"the terrible idolaters?" "I acknowledge," replied Akbar, calmly, "that there are many amongst them to whom the name is appropriate; but that is not the case with all. Am I not right, Faizi?" "Most certainly," was the answer; "and no one knows that better than my Emperor himself. He, as well as I, worthy Father, can testify to you that in these religions there is more than one passage, touching the points already mentioned, which are not inferior to your Christianity." "It is impossible," said Aquaviva, firmly. "And why impossible?" asked Faizi, smiling. "Are you intimately acquainted with all the religious systems?" "All I know of them," said the Padre, "is what I have seen here and there; but I neither wish nor need a closer acquaintance with them; what purpose could it serve? And can there be more than one truth?" "That speaks for itself," said Akbar; "but the question is, what is truth, and where is it to be found? Is it only to be found in one religious system, or scattered through many? You naturally will answer that you alone are in possession of truth; but then, I ask, what are your grounds for saying so?" "The truth," replied Aquaviva, "has been declared to us by Jesus Christ, the Son of God." "So you say," was the answer; "but my friend Abdul Kadir says that the truth was revealed to him through Muhammad the great Prophet; and if your Christ is really the Son of God, it would be well you should prove it, before calling upon him as such." "And," added Faizi, "our Vishnuvites here say that truth was declared to them, not only by wise and holy men, but also through different incarnations of the Deity." "The authority of the one true Church rests on the Bible, the Word of God," said Aquaviva. "That again," answered Akbar, "resembles the authority of the Koran, the Khalifas and Ulamahs, and the authority of the canonical books, and the teachings of the Vishnuvites, of whom Faizi spoke just now." "But surely the faith that stands firmly is of importance?" "So are also all of like strength." "There is no doubt but that Christianity is far older than the teaching of Islam." "Yes, but not quite so ancient as the Vedas, on whose authority is founded the religious teaching of which we have just spoken. Buddhism is also far more ancient than Christianity; and while that, and I believe other religions, agree with yours in the teaching of true humanity, and also, to a wonderful degree, with the ceremonials of your church service, they go far beyond it in tolerance." "In this manner we shall make no progress," remarked the Padre, angrily, in spite of his respect for the Emperor, in whose presence he was. "No; I agree with you there, worthy Father," said Akbar, with a slight smile; "but perhaps all would be better if you would study our different faiths, and give yourself the same trouble that we have not spared ourselves in making acquaintance with the religion of our country. We could then at least compare the different teachings, and so in the end decide on their comparative worth." "It was not for that purpose I came here," answered the apostle of the heathen; "I was sent to preach the gospel, and save souls from destruction." "And in that," said Akbar, in his usual calm tone, "I wish you all success; but I doubt whether you will achieve much if you simply seek to force on others what you yourself hold for truth, without inquiring what they on their side may consider true." "I believe," said Aquaviva, not alarmed at the difficulties in his way, "in the irresistible power of conviction possessed by our faith alone, which in the end can soften the most obdurate hearts, be they those of atheists or idolators." "You mean by the teachings of your belief, do you not?" "Certainly." "Well, however much this teaching differs from that of the other religions we have mentioned, I am but little inclined to share the implicit faith you place in it. I respect all; and on those points where you find other creeds to agree with your own there can be no strife, and your work of conversion will be unnecessary. What do you think, friend Faizi, is it not so? You are a man of calm judgment, not an idealist as I or even our worthy Aquaviva, therefore your opinion is for us of great weight." Whether the worthy Aquaviva agreed in this is very doubtful; however, he could not refuse to listen to Faizi, who thus began:-- "I do not think, Sire, that your Majesty requires any confirmation of your words from me. Still, I must assure the Padre, although in doing so I take from him his dearest illusions, that even though he may here and there make a convert, yet his teaching will never take root, neither among the Muhammadans nor among those it pleases him to call heathen. Those who cling alone to the dogma of the unity of God can never agree with what he inculcates about the Trinity, three persons in one God. There are others to whom this dogma will be less unacceptable, as they already worship the Great Being under more forms than one; but they will find other points which they also will never receive. For example, worthy Father, they will never allow it to be possible that God created man to let him fall, and that He offers Himself or His Son as a sacrifice, to save man; or that He created man as if He did not know that man would fall; and that by such extraordinary means of redemption alone could Divine justice and Divine love be again brought into harmony. They would, excuse me for saying so, consider such representations as utterly senseless, and feel no inclination for their sake to say farewell to the faith handed down to them by their fathers, which they find simpler and more rational. On the other hand, if you were content only to inculcate your doctrine of sin and reconciliation, and much of the same kind of teaching that I will not now allude to, and to declare nothing but your Christian morality, your ideas of humanity, of self-denial, and of love of man, to which all should gladly be sacrificed--when you have taught all this, it is nothing new here; and to say the least, your preaching is superfluous." "But," said Aquaviva, "we hold fast by the truth we declare--the one truth that can save lost man and doomed souls from the eternal punishment of hell; and for this we are ready, here and everywhere, to take up our cross and suffer reproach for the sake of Jesus Christ, even should it be to the same martyr's death that He and so many of His saints after Him have suffered." "But of that," said Akbar, laying his hand on the arm of the angry and enthusiastic fanatic, "there can be no question as long as I reign over Hindustan; nor, do I think, have you met with scorn anywhere under my government. On the contrary, honour has been shown you, an honour so high that many are jealous of it; and you enjoy the fullest liberty to declare your faith when and where you will. But we spoke, if I do not deceive myself, of the chances of your doctrines prevailing over those already professed in this country, and these, I must confess with Faizi, appear to me but slight." "Still," Aquaviva ventured to remark, "if your Majesty would set the example." "But I must first be convinced," said Akbar; "or do you wish that I should declare with my mouth what my heart denies?" "Certainly I do," the other answered, "wild and absurd as the wish may appear; however, I do not urge it. But I had so hoped, so believed that the reading of the holy writings would have rendered the noble soul of Hindustan's wise ruler steadfast in the one true faith that alone can save his soul and ours from eternal perdition. And now I see my most cherished hopes lie shattered. Is it not, then, to be excused if I have expressed myself too strongly?" "There is no need of excuse, my worthy friend," said Akbar; "I can quite understand your feelings. But I never said that I would not listen to you; on the contrary, I will willingly give you the opportunity of convincing me, if you can. For the present our conversation must cease; but let us regard this evening as the forerunner of others to come. This time we have touched on too many topics; on our next meeting we will keep to one distinct point, and who knows to what your learning and eloquence may bring me?" If irony was mixed with the Emperor's grave words, neither his voice nor bearing betrayed it. All that the Jesuit remarked was that the audience was over, and thanking the Emperor for the honour he had done him in listening to his words, he respectfully took his leave. "All are the same," said Akbar to Faizi, when they were alone; "if we listen to Abdul Kadir or Aquaviva, it is always authority, faith, revelation, never one word of reason or judgment, or of reasons founded on knowledge or experience. Still I always converse gladly with these zealots. From books we can learn the various theories of man's connection with the infinite; but the living words of the professors of the various persuasions teach us far more." "Certainly," replied Faizi; "but as to this constant reference to authority and revelation, is it not natural and unavoidable in those who, not content with the lessons of experience and reason, seek the solution of the enigma of life in their own imaginations? If they are shown the groundlessness or senselessness of their propositions, what remains to them but to take refuge in the authority of a revelation declared and handed down to them by their forefathers? But it is singular that contradiction so seldom leads to the study and criticism of their own doctrines; were it to do so, they would soon become aware of the vanity of their theories. Proudly and defiantly the towers and pinnacles of their temple rise into the clouds, but examination would show them that the foundations are laid in the shifting sands of phantasy." For some moments after Faizi ceased to speak Akbar was silent; on resuming the conversation, he said-- "I believe you are right, Faizi; still I have a sympathy with the people you reproach. And it may be that in some moment of enthusiasm and poetical imagination we may be carried away to the discovery of truth that we shall afterwards find to be supported by reason and knowledge. But for the present no more of this; we have other things to attend to, and presently I expect Abú-l Fazl, who has some important communication to make." On a subsequent evening another interview took place at Agra, which had nothing in common with that just described, except that it also was hidden from indiscreet eyes and ears. After his first interview with Rezia, Siddha had more than once sought for the servant who had guided him to her dwelling. At last he met her in the neighbourhood of the imperial gardens, and received anew from her an invitation to visit her mistress, which he hastened to accept. Since then the visits had been repeated, following one upon another, until at last the day that passed without Siddha sitting beside Rezia in the verandah appeared to him empty and void. All that Agra had to offer him of beauty and pleasure; however great the delight he took in the favour of Abú-l Fazl, and, later, in that of the Emperor himself; or the pleasure of conversation with Faizi, whose house was always open to him, and who treated him as a trusted friend; or the amusement he found in the society of Parviz and that of his joyous comrades; all sank to nothing in comparison with the quiet dwelling of the lonely Armenian. That the image of Iravati retired more and more into the background was not strange, nor that Rezia speedily became to him more than a pleasant, entertaining acquaintance; nor was she herself entirely insensible to the unconcealed homage of the young chief. A feeling of terror had overcome him when he first made the discovery that, instead of loving her as a dear friend, his feelings for her had in them a depth and passion that until that moment he had never known; but he had soon become accustomed to this thought, and from that moment only one desire was master of his soul, that of calling her his, and knowing that his love was returned. On a certain evening Siddha was again seated on a divan beside his fascinating hostess; before them was a low table decked with fresh fruits and sparkling wine in golden drinking-cups. She seemed lovelier than ever to him, deeper than ever the expression of her soft blue eyes, that now full of tenderness, and now with an indescribable fire, gazed up at him, and then again were hidden under the shadow of long, silken eyelashes. The scent of roses and jasmine filled the air, and moonlight, almost as bright as day, fell on the verandah, and silvered the groups of trees and fountains in the garden. "Siddha," said Rezia, with sudden gravity, interrupting their gay, laughing conversation, "you once did me a great service in undertaking that my letter should safely reach Kashmir; can I now ask of you a second, which, I tell you beforehand, may be of more consequence to yourself?" "Command, and I obey," said Siddha, without hesitation; "whatever you may desire, do not doubt but that I will endeavour to fulfil it." "Prudence, my friend," said Rezia, playfully lifting up her finger; "you are committing yourself before you know what I require; and you do this because, from your high rank and assured position at court, you think you can look down on what a simple woman like me can wish, and assume that the question is only how some one of my whims may be gratified; but in this you may be mistaken." "I swear to you," was the impetuous answer, "no such thought crossed my mind. Now, then, demand what you will, and I obey your commands." "Well," said Rezia, approaching her worshipper a little nearer, "you are perhaps more concerned in what I wish than I am myself. You imagine, perhaps, that I, leading this solitary life, know nothing of what goes on in the palaces of Agra and the Emperor's council. Accidental relations with people of high station give me the opportunity of knowing more than you perhaps suspect--more than you know of your own concerns, and of what should be known to your country and your people." "I believe," said Siddha, "that I know what you mean; you allude to plans that may be formed to destroy the independence of Kashmir, as the many party divisions there give hopes that such plans may succeed." "You are right," was the answer; "but what you do not seem to know is, that these plans are already ripe, that the imperial army is ready for the invasion, and that you yourself are destined to serve against your country and people; for your influence among the faithful Rajpúts, and your well-known name, will be important, should you remain blindly obedient to the commands of Akbar." "But, dear Rezia," said Siddha, making a faint attempt to conceal under a cheerful voice the uneasiness that was mastering him, "even if this should be so, what is it to you? and what moves you to speak to me of it?" "My own interests; but also the interest I take in you, my friend. I told you, as you will remember, of a friend who was exposed here to certain persecution. But now I will confess; I deceived you--it was not a friend, it was myself. The husband to whom my father's cruel command gave me, and whose tyranny I detest, will soon return, and my own desire is to fly from him, to be free, and some day perhaps in safety to be able to give myself to the one I choose; and to attain this I sought Kashmir as my place of refuge, and opened a communication with some of my friends there. But should this country also become subject to Akbar, my hope vanishes and I know not where to turn. Quickly you will again see me in the power of this man, who has my fate in his hands; our happy meetings will be at an end; and Rezia will cease to exist for you, as you," she added, with a slight sigh, "will for her." "Never!" cried Siddha, passionately; "that shall never happen. But what would you have? what means do you know of? what do you ask of me?" "Only this," replied Rezia, calmly, "that you should not allow yourself to be used as a tool against your own country, against yourself, against me. Remain by your own brave followers; but when the decisive day comes, do not lead them against us; but know how to go over to those of us, who, in spite of outward show of subjection to the Emperor, have a secret understanding. Then a powerful party in Kashmir will side with you, support you by their influence, and raise you to the greatest honour; and in the end, though that is of less importance, you will find a resting-place in my arms, who will ever be grateful to you for your protection." "But," said Siddha, following, among all other plans and proposals, the thread of his own thought, "that would be treachery of the worst kind against the Emperor who has trusted me." "Certainly, treachery," answered Rezia, with a contemptuous laugh. "As the Emperor has shown you some favour, he naturally has a full right to use you as a tool against your country and people, but you have not the right to repay him in the same coin. Now be subject--or slave! However, act as you please. Your assurances that you would do all I asked were nothing but the vain promises men are wont to make to simple women. But enough! Let our interview come to an end; not that I wish it, but it is better with firm resolution to part from one another, than to continue our intercourse only to see it inevitably broken off a few days later against our will." "Never!" said Siddha, as Rezia turned from him, as though to hide her grief. "Nothing shall part us, and if for a moment I hesitated, I did not deceive you when I promised to do whatever you might ask. I repeat it, command and I obey." "Your word." "My word as a Rajpút. But why do you ask it? you know well that I can do nothing but what you wish. Why should I keep silence respecting that which you must long have known? At last let me say freely, that you are dear to me, above everything, dearer than life or even honour. I love you with a passion and devotion that until now I should never have thought possible; I believed I knew what love was, but what I took for it was only a childish liking. You have taught me differently; teach me more; teach me what it is when love like mine is returned. No slave can be more submissive to the will of his master than I to you; no slave of Akbar's or of any one but yourself. Whatever I may gain in the future, rank, esteem, riches, belong to you alone. And the power you have over me you may use or misuse as you will. But be mine, Rezia, mine as long as life lasts!" "No, Siddha," said she, softly withdrawing her hand from him, "it is not fitting that I should hear such language, nor that you should use it. Remember that I am not yet free, and you yourself have other ties." "Other ties!" cried Siddha, passionately; "I break them, or rather I broke them long ago; and could I not do so, I should curse the day when they were laid on me. And you, if you are not free, I will soon make you so. We will fly to Kashmir, to that far-away, beautiful country in the north, where, as you say, Siddha Rama's name and influence is well known, and where none will dare to injure you whom I protect, your hated husband least of all." "And will that protection avail against Akbar and his favourites?" asked Rezia. "Against him and his, as against all others," was the proud reply; "and against him we shall know well how to defend the liberty of Kashmir, if it were only for a place of refuge for you and for me." "But I cannot be yours," interrupted Rezia; "and it grieves me, in truth, that you have so spoken this evening. You might have spared us all this, and then our friendly intercourse might have continued, and led perhaps later to another and a closer tie. Now all must cease, however deeply it grieves me. Go now, say farewell, and forget me, it is better for you and--for me, whom you say you love." "In truth," said Siddha, as he rose, and, with his head sank on his breast, drew back a few steps, "to part at once is perhaps the wisest course. I see but too plainly that my love is despised. It is true that for me, without you, there is no life, no happiness possible. Still the continued martyrdom of meeting you, day by day, loving you more dearly, and yet knowing that you belong to that hated, cursed stranger, is more than I can bear. Fresh disturbances have broken out in the south, in the Dakhin, and the Emperor has ordered part of the army on service there. I will implore him to let me join them; and there in battle with the wild mountain races I may soon find, not forgetfulness, that is impossible, but an early and longed-for death." "Ah, Siddha," said sadly the sweet, loved voice, "why such violence because a weak woman (who finds the strife against herself and her own heart too much for her) seeks for a moment's strength to withstand you? It is, as you said, better that we should part, and yet--I cannot let you go; remain, it is but a short pause; seat yourself again by my side, and let me enjoy, even though it may be for the last time, that quiet conversation, undisturbed by passion, that until now we have found so much pleasure in." And before Siddha was quite aware of what he did, he was again seated by the side of her who had so mastered his whole mind and understanding. At her desire he seized the lute that lay beside them, and tried to bring back to his recollection one of the songs of his native land, for which, in the winning way peculiar to her, she had begged; but vainly he tried, sometimes beginning and then breaking off, his memory failed him, and dejectedly he laid down the useless lute. "I know no more," he said. "I can neither think nor remember." "How now, my singer," said Rezia, laughing; "must I set you the example? But let us first drink to one another." And lifting a golden goblet to her lips, she made Siddha empty his, and then began, in soft, melting tones, a Persian love song that soon brought Siddha back to himself. "Now, then," cried he, as Rezia finished, and he began the description of a lover's reception from Kalidasa's "Seasons," [82] "The Bride represented by the Return of Summer." The singer ceased, and she who listened to him had drawn nearer, gazing at him with her fascinating eyes, that now shone with an unwonted glow. Suddenly he seized both her hands, and drew her to him with irresistible force. "Rezia," he said, "Rezia, be to me as Kalidasa's bride--now and always mine!" She softly murmured Siddha's name and flung her arms around his neck. More than once since that evening a manly figure might have been seen in the darkness of night carefully looking around him, and then following the cactus road that led to the dwelling of the Armenian. Iravati's lotus flower had struck against the frail vessel on which he had embarked, and had been wrecked by a sultry wind. CHAPTER VIII. A TEMPTER. Once more the lovely lady of Allahabad sat on the balcony looking out towards the far-away mountains, from whence, now long ago, had approached the eagerly awaited one. Nothing had changed since that time: the same calm, silver waters and thick shade of trees, and far beyond the mountain tops, while the same cloudless sunshine lighted up the whole landscape. Ah! if only he were as unchanged--he that now took part in all the dissipation of the court and the many pleasures of the great city. Did he still think of her, and daily regard her likeness as she did his? These doubts, that had involuntarily arisen in her mind, appeared to Iravati an injury to the man whom she esteemed as highly as she loved him, and who at their last interview had so fervently pledged his word to her, and had repeated the same promises in his letters. But these had now for some time ceased. And why did he not return to her? Could he remain so long parted without making any effort to see her again, even if it were but for a day? Without doubt his duty prevented him, and he was not yet able to obtain leave of absence. But oh! how long was the time, and how the days and hours appeared to creep, as she waited and watched alone! As on that morning long ago, her musings were interrupted by the appearance of her father the Governor. "Iravati," he said, in his usual measured tones, "a guest has arrived." He had come, then; he already awaited her; and her whole heart was filled with impatient joy, but of which she showed no trace. "A guest," continued Salhana, "that for you to receive will be as great an honour as a pleasure. It is Salim the Prince, who, in obedience to his father's wishes, comes to pass some time at Allahabad." With a great effort Iravati concealed her bitter disappointment; but to speak was to her impossible. "Well," asked Salhana, "is not the news welcome to you? There are many who would give all they possess to enjoy the honour that awaits you. Naturally I do not wish that any of the Prince's followers should see you, but the future emperor is different; and it may be of importance both to me and to Siddha that you should gain his favour. Follow me." As Iravati and her father entered the gallery where Salim was, he advanced to meet and greet her with his usual light-hearted courtesy. But suddenly all his boldness deserted him, and he stood still and silent. Such a noble bearing, mingled with so much modesty, beauty so grave, with an expression so winning and lovely, he never remembered to have seen in any other woman; and, contrary to his custom, he waited until Salhana had presented his daughter before greeting her. "Noble lady," he said, "I am indeed grateful to you for the trouble you have given yourself in coming to welcome your guest. I have heard of you more than once, and--" but the courteous phrase that trembled on his lips appeared too insipid and meaningless, and he continued--at the moment not being able to find any better speech--"It is indeed a pleasure to make your personal acquaintance." "The honour shown by your Highness to my father and to me, I prize highly," answered Iravati; "and I trust you will not find our quiet town at Allahabad too dull in comparison with the capital, with its many pleasures and diversions." "If," returned Salim, "the noble daughter of the Governor will sometimes give me the pleasure of her company, I need not fear that my sojourn in Allahabad will be tedious. But you speak of the capital; you know it, I hope?" "I have never been in Agra," was the answer. "Never?" said Salim; "it is indeed time, my worthy Salhana, that your talented daughter should see more of the world than is possible in this remote fortress." "The time will come," answered the Governor, "when my daughter is under the protection of her intended husband, my future son-in-law, whom your Highness has received with so much kindness." Whether this recollection did not please the Prince it was difficult to discover, but he at once became silent and knitted his dark eyebrows; and when he spoke again it was on quite another subject. The conversation continued for some time longer, and then Salhana gave his daughter leave to return to her own apartment, and with a deep reverence, Iravati took her leave, rejoicing that the interview was over. The only impression left on her mind by the Emperor's son was the magnificence of his attire, although Salim himself only regarded it as a simple travelling costume. A few minutes later, Salim, the Governor, and a third person were seated in one of the inner apartments of the fortress, well secured from all intruders or listeners, engaged, apparently, in consulting over more important questions than how time should best be spent at Allahabad. The third person was Gorakh, the priest of Durga. "The good for which we strive, my friends," began the Prince, "seems nearer; and it appears to me that it would be wise to consider the present state of affairs, and then to think what further preparations had better be made. You, Salhana, are, I believe, the best informed of us three; as for me, at the court much is suspected, and I come here in obedience to the wish, or rather the command, of my father. Abú-l Fazl--may Alla curse him!--is, I know, at the bottom of this; but I hope one day to have the opportunity of repaying him. And now for you, Salhana." "I must say," he began, "that all now goes according to our wishes. In Agra, Delhi, Lahore, and other places, are the true Muhammadan Umaras and other nobles embittered to the utmost against the Emperor, through the contempt he shows for their religion and by reason of the loss of many privileges of which he has deprived them. Nothing will be more welcome than a revolution, and many will join it; including more than one of the principal mansabdars. Abdul Kadir has been of great use in all this, but we must not count much on him; he wishes to act openly, and every now and then misgivings come over him of what he calls treachery." "And your nephew?" asked Salim. "Is entirely one of us. How he has been won over matters not; it is enough that so it is. I had at first destined him as a spy on Akbar, but soon saw that he would be worthless as such; he is too simple, and too strictly brought up according to Kulluka's ideas, to be of any avail for such a rôle; and then, too, Akbar entirely won him over, in his usual manner, at their first meeting. But in another way he will do us better service: he has obtained the rank of mansabdar, and will soon have the chance of further advancement; so when the time fixed on comes, he will be in command of an important body of Rajpúts; and in Kashmir his name has great influence. Then, when our plan is carried out, his co-operation will be of no slight importance. At the chosen moment he will turn his troops against the Imperialists, and doubtless his example will be followed by the greater part of the Rajpúts and Patans." "But now the plan itself, as it concerns Kashmir?" asked Salim again. "It appears to me that nothing could be better," was the answer. "The interior strifes, for the most part fomented by us, have come to a crisis; both parties have had recourse to arms, robbers desolate the land; and, what is of greater importance, the adjacent countries which form part of Akbar's kingdom are also convulsed. This gives him a pretext of marching his army to the north, and attempting to re-establish a lasting peace by the conquest of Kashmir. His army is ready, and, if I do not deceive myself, his intention is to place himself at the head of it, after the annual celebration of his birthday has taken place. When the war begins, then suddenly our Siddha and other followers will fall from him, and join the army of Kashmir; and Akbar will have enough to do in making good his retreat. In the meantime our party in Agra will have proclaimed Salim emperor, and taken possession of the fortress and treasure. So if Akbar succeeds in his retreat, he will find more fighting awaiting him, and the end must, I suppose, be his abdication in favour of the Prince Royal." "All," said Salim, "is well calculated, and quite in accordance with our original plan, which I see, with pleasure, is now almost ripe. One question, however; is there no danger of any part of our plan becoming known? is all arranged with caution? That letter, for example, that was sent to Kashmir,--supposing it should have got into wrong hands?" "That letter," answered Salhana, "has safely reached its destination; and who do you think carried it? No one less than Kulluka himself." "What unpardonable rashness!" cried Salim. "Not in the least so," was the calm reply. "The good man had no idea of what he was undertaking, and the letter was given to him by Siddha himself, who equally had no idea of its contents. He was trapped into charging himself with its safe delivery; and had he, at the worst, glanced at it he could have given no information, and no suspicion could have fallen on us, who were naturally not named." "Well done," said Salim, approvingly, and laughing heartily. "We thank you, Salhana, for your information. But has not our worthy Gorakh his share for us?" "Indeed, yes," answered the Yogi, who had hitherto listened in silence; "I have not been idle; as I told you, but you thought it improbable, I have made my way not to the palace alone, but to the private apartment of the Emperor. You know how anxious he is to study the various religious systems and philosophies that are found within his realm; and so he desired to become acquainted with the ancient Yogi teaching, of which, although he had heard much, he knew little or nothing, and on which neither the learning of Faizi nor of Kulluka could throw much light. Then I found means, through some confidential friends, of letting come to his ears my great knowledge of the Yogi mysteries. Not long afterwards I was invited to court, and Akbar received privately from me the first indications of the teaching of Concentration, [83] whereby mortal man comes more and more into relations with the immortal Being, resolving all his thoughts in the absolute, and participating in the infinite existence, so that he attains to the power of being able at will to transport himself to the greatest distance, while apparently he remains in the same spot, and of assuming any form he pleases, or of making himself invisible or lighter than air. To support this, and not to rest on assurances alone, I brought one of my people before him, who is a great adept in magic or trickery, and made him perform a feat, at which, not without reason, the Emperor was much astonished. The man seated himself on a low wooden stool, to which was attached a bamboo, with a crooked handle like a walking-stick. Then a white cloth was spread before him, so that he was entirely concealed; and when it was again removed, he was found seated in the air, about two feet above the stool, supporting himself by resting his out-stretched hand on the crook of the bamboo. A most wonderful feat, and one that you must some day see when we have time. [84] But enough: Akbar was not only astonished, but still more desirous of being admitted to our mysteries. As you understand, I took good care to tell him no more than was necessary, still more to excite his curiosity; and now I have always the opportunity of being admitted to his presence, a privilege of which I make but a sparing use, but, as you may be assured, a good one. Through my people I hear all that is of importance for our affairs. Akbar's palace and private apartments are filled with people who seek out all that happens, although in them he suspects nothing more than the followers of a religious fanatic or ascetic. By these means I can give you, Salim, and our friend Salhana information on many matters, that would not otherwise have been easily obtained." "In truth," said Salim, "we must confess that you are almost a magician. But what do you demand as recompense for the services that you render us? Salhana, we know, wishes, when our power is established, to be named Viceroy of Kashmir; and if all goes well his wish shall be fulfilled. Nothing for nothing I say with him; but you, what are your wishes? It is best that all conditions should be settled beforehand." "Mighty Prince, allow me to call you so by anticipation," answered Gorakh; "if I ask you nothing, simply nothing, that astonishes you, does it not? But I will try to make it simple. In my turn I ask, what do you want for yourself? You have already, one would think, everything the heart of man can desire; you have treasures, palaces, lovely women to serve you, joyous friends and companions, the most splendid wines, and only stand next to the Emperor in this powerful and flourishing kingdom, and are certain of succeeding him. And yet you have recourse to our help and that of others, your inferiors, to carry out your dark, difficult, and even dangerous plans. Why? Because you wish to govern at once, and cannot wait until the death of your father leaves the throne vacant for you. See, then, what you ask for yourself is what I ask for myself--to govern. And while you, to-day, may be said to be ruler over nothing, I reign already, though I ever strive for a more extensive power. Hundreds who, if need were, would become an army against the great of the earth, obey unconditionally my slightest sign without question or hesitation. I, the poor, unknown priest, despised by many, possess a power that you, in all your greatness, cannot rival. And by what might are they thus subject to me? Through that which nothing can resist, by which reason is silenced and the will destroyed, so that man is nothing more than a living, moving corpse--the power of religious fanaticism. Just a sign of my finger towards whom I will, towards you or some other, is enough to show more than one of my followers what new offering will be the most welcome to the never-satiated Durga; and the higher the rank, the more welcome is the victim. Even should the doomed one be warned beforehand, let him take what precaution he will, let him surround himself with servants and guards, yet nothing less than a miracle can save him. Close to him, amidst his followers, are my trusted ones; and when the right moment has struck, in the stillness of night, with no sound to awake suspicion, suddenly the cord is round his neck, and with no time for cry or groan, the long list of victims is swelled by another name. It is true that occasionally, but seldom, the intruder is seized; but he who tries to hold him grasps a body slippery as a snake, that glides from his hands, and disappears as suddenly and silently as it came. But suppose it came to the worst, and one of my Thugs was really taken, what matters it? he dies with the certainty of participating in endless bliss; and hundreds are ready to attempt to carry out what he failed in, and sooner or later success will be theirs." The Yogi was silent for a moment, but neither of his listeners spoke. Salhana, who was well acquainted with these strange confidences, had listened with calm indifference, but saw no room for speaking; while Salim, although not wanting in personal courage, turned pale at the priest's words, and remained lost in thought, gazing before him. "So," continued Gorakh, "I also govern in my fashion. Those who withstand me, I sweep unsuspected from my path, and those who know my power fear me; and be they of high or low rank, they do my bidding. And do you not think that power so exercised has not equal pleasures with yours? Can you imagine no feeling of pride at seeing yourself looked down upon and treated by men with slight respect, and then to know that their actions, their life and death, are to be disposed of according to your will? And I am not the only one who so thinks. I know there are others, and in far and distant lands, who, in silence and darkness, strive to govern those who are looked on as the greatest rulers in the eyes of the world. More than once in Agra, and in other places, I have spoken with men from the far West, who have come hither to try and win converts to their teaching, and, under the pretence of lending a willing ear to their preaching, I have gradually become acquainted with their aims; and from what I have learnt from them respecting the institution and working of their order, I discover that they, or at least their chiefs, seek the same God as I, though by another path. Their means, I say, are different, though scarcely more humane: we strangle men, they burn them alive. But though often they are resisted and persecuted, yet they know how, in the name of the so-called faith, to rule over not worldly sovereigns alone, but also over the spiritual head of their own Church, while they flatter him by unconditional submission and obedience to his will. And so you see, however strange it may at first appear, that the existence and enjoyment of power does not lie in its outward display, nor in its acknowledgment by others." Still Salim remained silent as Gorakh finished; but the look which he cast towards him said more than words. The priest laughed. "I understand," said he, slowly, "what thoughts at this moment occupy your Highness. An ally such as I may become dangerous, and the question is whether it might not be wise to get rid of him at once. But I am not simple enough to venture into the tiger's den without the certainty of returning from it in safety. My followers await me in yonder temple on the mountain; if by the morning I do not rejoin them, they know well who the goddess requires as an expiatory sacrifice for the death of her chosen priest." "Arranged with your usual prudence," said Salim. "But, worthy Gorakh, your prudence was superfluous; we have need of your help in many cases, and should I, without reason, deprive myself of it? But we have, I think, rather wandered from the subject of our consultation. About one thing I am rather uneasy. What are we to expect, Salhana, from your brother the Minister of Kashmir? Will he choose our side? And if not, has he the power of injuring us?" "I fear greatly that he has," answered the Governor. "He will not forsake the cause of the present king; and should he fall, would rather turn to Akbar than to us, from whom he expects nothing but mischief to his country and people." "In that case, hand him over to me," said Gorakh. "What do you mean?" "No questions. I say, hand him over to me, and he shall not long stand in your way. There is another point of far greater importance: I have reason to believe that a certain important person of Kashmir, who has long been considered dead, but who, should he return to his native land, would overturn all our plans, is still alive." "How! what!" asked Salim, much disquieted. "You don't mean----" "I mean he whom you have already guessed--Nandigupta." "Nandigupta! it is impossible." "And why so? Was there ever any certainty about his death? All we know is that he suddenly disappeared and has never more been heard of, that is all. Some little time ago I discovered that among the Himálayas, near Badari-natha, a hermit now lives, whose description answers to that of the former king, and whom Kulluka, with Siddha Rama, visited on their journey here." "That, indeed, seems dangerous," said Salim. "In the meantime," continued Gorakh, "I have set some of mine on the track to discover the truth; and should my suspicions turn out to be just"--here he made a sign that both his hearers understood--"then he certainly will be amongst those that Durga will welcome. It is now time for me to return to my followers, and your Highness will excuse me if I take my leave." Salim nodded his assent, wishing no doubt that it were possible that the priest should never more set his foot outside the fortress; and so for the present the three separated. Evening after evening since that first day the sound of feasting and revelry from the lighted walls of the fortress had fallen on Iravati's ears, as she wandered alone through the park. There feasted the future emperor of Hindustan with his boon companions and dancers, seeking thus to repay himself for the weariness of the day, and to forget for a while the cares that his own ambition had brought on him. At times the faithful Nipunika, who mingled with the other servants, and often looked in at these feasts, told her mistress particulars of them, which made the blood rise to her innocent cheeks, while she enjoined silence on her servant. Could it be possible that Siddha took part in such festivals at Agra? And Salim, the future governor of so mighty a kingdom, and undisputed ruler over so many peoples, how had he sunk! in spite of the high position to which fortune had raised him. And yet Iravati found no reason to despise the Prince when she met him, as often was the case, in company with her father. His manner, when he conversed with her, was that of a polished nobleman; and far from allowing himself the slightest freedom, the respect and reverence with which he treated her was such that the greatest princess could have found no fault with it. There was no trace of flattery or empty politeness in the words he addressed to her, but all was simple, unconstrained and natural; while his conversation was amusing, and bore witness to an unusual cultivation and extended knowledge. "Oh, if," she often thought to herself, "he would but make a better use of his many gifts, and would consider that to follow the great example set him by his noble father is his holiest duty and task!" One evening, as, lost in thought, Iravati seated herself on one of the benches in the park, she became aware, to her astonishment, that the silence that reigned around her was unbroken by any joyous sound of revelry from the castle, and that no lights showed themselves from the windows and galleries. Only a warm wind murmured through the leaves, gently moving the branches of the trees, and every now and then a sound of flutes or bells from distant villages told of some peasant fête. Suddenly a sound of footsteps broke on the silence, and through the evening twilight a man's figure became visible, approaching the spot where the daughter of Salhana was seated. With a feeling of terror, she rose to her feet, but, to her great astonishment, recognised in the intruder the Prince himself, who, drawing nearer, greeted her with his usual respect. "Forgive me, noble lady," he said, "if, unaware of your presence here, I unwillingly have disturbed you; receive my evening greeting, and I will not trouble you longer." "The disturbance," said Iravati, courteously, "cannot be otherwise than agreeable to me; still I must confess that I was a little surprised. I believed your Highness was wont to pass your evenings in another and more mirthful manner than by quiet, solitary walks." "It was so," answered Salim; "and you have a right to reproach me. I should have treated with more respect the roof that sheltered you. But let bygones be bygones. In future no unfitting noise of carousal shall disturb you in your palace, and break the silence of the night." Iravati listened to him with astonishment. Why should he make this declaration? and what was the cause of so sudden a change? "A change has come over me," continued Salim, "and I believe no slight one, although the time has been short. Until to-day I was--listen to me and do not draw back, I will confess all to you--I cared only for pleasure; I was dissipated and even a drunkard; I conceal nothing. But I have ceased to be all that; I have broken with my former life, and the Salim of to-day is a very different man from him of yesterday. From this hour I will live for duty and honour alone, and for the weal of the people that may some day be confided to my care. I will say farewell to all ambitious and unlawful projects, and above all to those debasing, worthless diversions, in which, until to-day, I sought distraction but never true enjoyment. I will do all this if one wish may be granted, a wish on which my happiness and my future depend, and also to a great extent that of my kingdom; and the granting of this wish depends on you." "I do not understand you, my lord," said Iravati, who, alarmed as she was, would have been no woman had she not guessed to what the words of the Prince tended. "You will soon understand me," he replied, "when I tell you what has caused this sudden change in my whole being. But should I not rather leave it to you to guess, if you have not already learned from my words that it can be no one but yourself? And so it is," he continued, with ever-increasing enthusiasm, though never out-stepping the bounds of reverence. "From the first moment I saw you, I knew, or rather felt, that you had an influence, a serious one, over my fate; I who never before had cast my eyes down before any one, did so at once before you, and in your presence felt myself small and nothing; and so whenever I saw you and spoke to you, and came to know you better, I felt still more clearly that my future lay in your hands. I began to feel a horror of myself, my manner of life, and so-called friends who aided me in passing evenings, and often nights, in so unworthy a manner; yet I would not at once resolve to break with it all; and I confess that when our feasts were in progress your image often faded away from my mind, as wine obscured my senses; but then when morning broke, with what shame and anger I regarded myself! To-day my resolve is taken, and, as you see, is carried out. All is quiet, there is no sound of revelry, my dancers are dismissed, and most of my guests have already taken their departure from Allahabad, or will do so to-morrow. All that is your work, and may it be carried out still further! For that one thing is indispensable, we must no longer remain acquaintances, meeting occasionally; a closer bond must unite us. Iravati, is it possible to say more clearly what I feel for you? Well, then, I----" "Ah! no, no, my lord!" cried Iravati, clasping her hands supplicatingly; "do not say the words that are hardly on your lips, for I may not hear them." "May not," repeated Salim, "or will not? When a request is made to you by me, it seems there should be no question whether you may hear it." "Both then," replied Iravati, firmly, "both may not and will not; may not, because my word and faith bind me to another; and will not and cannot grant your wish because my whole heart and life are given to that other." It was fortunate for her that the increasing darkness hid the fierce expression that these frank, imprudent words called forth on the Prince's face; had she seen it she would have shuddered at the thought of what might befall that other from such a rival. "Consider well," said Salim, after a moment's silence; "think what you recklessly fling from you for the sake of a young man once dear to you, and who for the moment still appears to be so, but who, even should he remain true to you, can never offer what the future ruler of the empire of the Mughals can give. I do not speak of the treasures that should be yours, or of the luxury that would surround you, seated by my side, and ruling over the kingdoms and princes of Hindustan, for I know how little temptation there is in all that for a soul noble and elevated such as yours. Still it is not to be despised. You think you know what riches and luxury are, but what you have hitherto seen is but tinsel in comparison with the splendour of the palaces and gardens of Agra and Delhi. But let that be. Think what a glittering future you throw from you in choosing to become the wife of a simple unknown nobleman, instead of ruling over the deeds of the mightiest monarchs, while all the great and noble bow before you, and the prosperity of millions depends on you. Even as I place my lot in your hands, so I swear from to-day to place also that of my future subjects. Your decisions shall be my laws, for I know well that you will command nothing but what is noble, good and wise, and no one in the whole kingdom oppressed justly or unjustly but will find protection in you." Vainly the future ruler awaited an answer. Iravati was silent, but it was a silence that gave no hope of consent. She had turned from him as if to hide her sorrow, and buried her face in her hands. Even this glorious future made no impression on her. "Iravati," said Salim, in a deeply moved voice, "do not at once deprive me of the peace with which your appearance filled my whole soul. Through you I had become quite a different man from what I was; do not let me fall back again. Have pity on me, and on the thousands that with you by my side would find a benefactor in me, but without you, in all probability, a tyrant. I am weak, I know, but I would be strong as a hero, if from your words and presence I might draw my strength. Why should it be refused me? It will only cost you one word, and the crown of India lies at your feet; and you have nothing to do but to stretch out your hand and place it on your head. But I see," he continued, passionately, "that my respect, my admiration, and my love are nothing to you; you despise the prince for a miserable adventurer, to whom you are bound by chains forged without thought; but think well what you do, what you venture, and what fate may await you and him also, if ever the love of one powerful as I is turned to rage and hate. But I am speaking wild and foolish words," he added sadly, letting his head sink on his breast. "What right have I to your love? However high my station, I am not worthy of you. I am old before my time; that other is young, beautiful, with a heart unspoiled by the world. Why should I then complain? what I am is my own doing, and that of an unhappy fate, which has placed me in a station for which I am unfitted. But ah! how different, how different might all have been, if fate had thrown you in my way earlier! Now it is too late, too late!" "My Prince," said Iravati, gently, "you do yourself wrong; you have reason for reproaching but not for despising yourself. And be assured, I do not despise or scorn you, even if I can never be yours; in truth, had I known you earlier, even as you are now, but before another had won my love and faith, I might have returned your affection. You cannot really wish me to break my pledged word; and if I did you would lose the respect for me on which your love is grounded. But even in that case, which now is impossible, your high rank would have been no temptation. The luxury and splendour in which you live could never have been my element; and the great responsibility you were ready to lay on my shoulders, I could never have borne. But why should we lose ourselves in thought of what might have been, but can never be? The unknown powers that rule our fates have willed otherwise, let us submit to their decision, which must be just and wise for you as well as I. And so leave me, my gracious prince and lord, in the lowly state which you found me; go and forget me, now and always; and if you do remember me, let your thoughts be of that moment when nobler and more elevated feelings made themselves master of your soul. As for me, my thoughts will follow you in your future, which will, I hope and trust, be rich in noble deeds, when you succeed to the throne of the great Emperor; and be certain that amongst your numberless subjects none will watch your path in life with deeper interest than she who now implores you to leave her, and to release her from the hard duty of disobedience to your wishes." Seeking for an answer both fitting and convincing, stood the despot who perhaps never before in his life had met with contradiction. Silently he stood before the young girl; now about to speak, and then restraining himself, seeking vainly for words to give expression to the conflicting feelings that thronged his brain. At last he approached Iravati, seized her hand and lifted it to his lips, then turned and disappeared in the darkness, without a single word. The next morning, greatly to Salhana's alarm, he heard that the Prince had left the Castle of Allahabad accompanied by a single servant, but whither he had gone no one knew. CHAPTER IX. THE WEIGHING OF THE EMPEROR. What a bustle was there in the thronged bazar as Siddha, in the morning, wandered through the busy rows of shops, on which were spread out in rich abundance everything that could tempt the eye and purse. And what a strange and wonderful mingling of various peoples and races, the different representatives of which jostled against and crossed each other's paths without betraying any surprise, so well accustomed were they to the sight. Here the natives of the land, Hindus of more or less pale complexions, their servants of various bronzed shades; there, too, the proud ruling races--Persians, Arabs, and Tatars, Armenians and Jews from the west, and also sons of the Celestial Kingdom, with their long tails and wide flowered robes; and there men who especially struck Siddha, as he had never before seen their like, men most strangely clad, with pointed, broad-brimmed hats decorated with feathers, short doublets, wide velvet trousers, and high boots, and with long, straight swords hanging from coloured shoulder-belts. They were in company of the spiritual Fathers, one of whom but a short time since, had been admitted to the presence of the Emperor. Among all this throng many had come to make their own purchases, others only to wander and contemplatingly watch the bustling crowd. Numbers of women, of many nations and classes, were also to be seen, some in the costume of the people, simple, but graceful and pleasing; others in coloured and gaudy Persian attire, and some closely veiled, according to the strict Muhammadan law, and showing nothing human excepting a pair of red-slippered feet, and a pair of dark eyes that glittered through round holes in the upper veil that enveloped everything. Some were busied with household purchases, others with the acquisition of useful knick-knacks. Just as Siddha was about to inquire from some of the passers-by who the strange men were, he saw his friend and benefactor Faizi approach, and addressed his question to him. "They are Franks," was the answer, "called Portuguese; they come from far-away countries in the West, for the sake of commerce; and those with them have come to try and convert us to what they say is the only religion which can save souls." "And those two," asked Siddha, "coming from the other side? do they belong to them? They wear nearly the same clothing, but their companions appear to me fairer, and how red their beards are!" "They are also Franks," answered Faizi, "though not quite the same as the others. They are English, [85] who seek to drive out the Portuguese, but with little success; however, they are well received by our Emperor and our great people." A few years later, Faizi would have been able to point out others among these visitors from the West, who, though also included under the name of Franks, yet were quite different. He could have pointed to the robust and somewhat plump figures and good-humoured faces of Hollander and Zeelander, who, under Pieter van der Broeche, [86] came to seek their own fortunes and those of their masters the Directors of the East India Company. For long years they were considered both by English and Portuguese as their most formidable rivals in the markets of Hindustan, and as men who knew how to sustain the fame of the flag of the Netherlands in the Indian waters against the Gijs, or "Gijsooms" as they mockingly, though not very grammatically, named their arch enemies. But their time was not then come. As the two Englishmen passed by, Siddha looked at them with a curiosity which, though perhaps natural, at first seeing such strangers, yet was far from courteous; but Siddha felt--although he had heard nothing of these people--very little respect for them, and even Faizi seemed to consider them hardly worthy of a glance. "Cursed proud Moors!" muttered one of these sons of Albion in his own tongue as he passed. Had these men, the haughty Indians and half-despised English, been able to cast one single look into the future, and could the former have guessed that the descendants of the latter would one day rule over their people and country, they would certainly have observed them with more attention. With still closer interest would they have gazed, if anyone had told them that these strangers sprang from the same race, and stood nearer to Siddha than many of his friends whose origin was from the Semitic race. "The visits of all these strangers," said Faizi, "do us no harm; on the contrary they give fresh impulse to our trade and various industries; and from them also we have many good painters and other artists. Then we have learnt much from them respecting their own countries. Still they must not attempt to play the master here, which appears to be rather according to their tastes." "Then surely we should show them the door," said Siddha. "That would soon happen, I can assure you. But now for another subject. Have you tried my bay that we spoke of the other day?" "Indeed I have," answered Siddha, "and with the greatest pleasure; it is a magnificent animal." And he broke out with praises of Faizi's horse. "You are pleased with him, then?" he answered. "I will send him to your stables; you can keep him if you will; and in the coming campaign he will be of use to you. Your grey is a beautiful horse and well broke, but scarcely strong enough; and the bay is uncommonly so. I ride him but seldom, for I must confess I have become rather lazy and prefer a quieter animal." "But," said Siddha, overcome at such goodness, "this is indeed a costly present, which I have not deserved. Your bay is a splendid thoroughbred Arab, such as I have never before ridden." "When I offer my friends anything it ought to be worth having," said Faizi. "Now I want to tell you of something else: about a meeting that took place yesterday evening at the palace, and at which I wish you had been present. In spite of state troubles that again overwhelm the Emperor, he found both time and inclination to hold one of his philosophical and theological gatherings, for which, just now, there is an opportunity, as the Christian missionaries from Goa are again here. Yesterday a number of Ulamas and Mullahs were assembled in one of the great halls of the palace. Among them naturally Abdul Kadir appeared; then there were the Jesuits, a Jew, and a Parsee, and your former tutor Kulluka, who has returned here, and whom doubtless you have already greeted; my brother Abú-l Fazl was also present, and I also had that honour, and took for my part in the course of the discussion your ancient atheistical philosophy of nature. Akbar himself inclined a little my way, while Kulluka defended the orthodox Brahmanical Vedanta, [87] and Abú-l Fazl the ordinary human ground. Kulluka detected him now and then in Buddhistic heresies, but let them pass, saying there was no Buddhist present to defend his creed. You know there are some here, but none fit to take part in these discussions. The Emperor scarcely took any part in what went on, but only listened; and perhaps the most remarkable part of these discourses was their conclusion. Nothing could be better ordered or more courteous than the beginning; our Mullahs, calm and grave, saying but little; nothing could be more gentle than the Padres, piping as sweetly as bird-catchers; the Jew, a follower of Maimonides, [88] was the same, but very silent, and not quite at his ease; the Parsee was poetical and not always very intelligible; and as for us, we every now and then threw in some problem or argument, gathered from the philosophers of old days, or that we had learnt from the Arabs or Persians, and which did not appear to be quite to the tastes of the disputants. By degrees they began to grow warm, and from arguments proceeded to assertions, and from assertions to hard words, especially between the Muhammadans and Jesuits, though on the whole we were not spared; and in the end there was shouting, cursing, and noise, in spite of the presence of the Emperor, enough to deafen us. In all this the Mullahs were foremost, who, as you understand, consider themselves as the most injured. Akbar sat watching this foolish scene, not without secret satisfaction, and glanced every now and then at me with a smile; but at last it became too much for him, and he saw that in his presence it was not fitting such a spectacle should continue. 'Faizi,' said he, signing to me, 'have the door opened to these people, as they no longer know how to conduct themselves. I gave them the fullest opportunity for defending their various religious theories against each other, in order that I might decide who had the best grounds for his opinions; and what have they done? Each has endeavoured to outdo his neighbour in shouting and cursing; nothing else. Let there be an end of it.' 'Sire,' I answered, 'we had better send them all away; if two only should remain, there will be no end to the strife.' Akbar laughed, but rising from the seat where he had calmly remained all through the storm, he said, in his powerful voice, which at once enforced silence on all around, 'We thank you, gentlemen, for the pleasant evening we have passed, due to your kindness and interesting discussions. We hope for another such interview before long, but the present one is closed,' and with a sign of his hand he dismissed them. The greater part withdrew, grumbling. Oh, Siddha, how foolish men are thus to curse and hate each other for the sake of abstract problems, of which they know nothing, and which, even if they did, would not advance them one single step in the practice of what honour and duty enjoin!" "I quite agree with you; and to follow the two last are often hard enough," answered Siddha, with a sigh, knowing far more of the difficulties of which he spoke than the other suspected. "But now tell me," said Faizi, "how it comes that you are here; I thought that you, with your men, were already on your way to join the camp." "We had started," said Siddha, "but received counter-orders on the road. We are to remain some days longer at Agra, to my great pleasure, as it gives me the opportunity of being present at the great festival of to-day, which celebrates the Emperor's birthday, of which I have heard so much." That there was another reason for rejoicing at a longer delay in Agra, Siddha did not think it necessary to add. "That reminds me," said Faizi, "it is time to go to the palace before the durbar. The Emperor receives, as you know, the foreign ambassadors to-day. Come with me, and you can take your place among the officers of your rank." Although Siddha had been more than once present at a durbar, yet as with Faizi he entered the great throne-hall, where the Emperor had already taken his place, the impression made upon him was almost as great as on the first occasion. He looked with admiration at the splendid white marble columns and walls inlaid with beautiful mosaics, delicate arches, with silk and velvet curtains falling in rich folds. He was much struck by the great assembly, which was larger and more splendid than any he had yet seen. At one end of the hall, lit by a softened light from above, was the Great Mughal, seated on a throne sparkling with precious stones; on both sides, standing in long ranks, were the Umara, [89] the ministers, generals, and nobles of high rank, and then ambassadors from neighbouring countries in their various costumes, among them the two Jesuits; and at the end the lesser officials and officers, amongst whom Siddha, according to his rank, had taken his place. The chief part of the ceremony was the exchange of presents. The ambassadors and others approached the Emperor in their turn. On reaching the throne they raised their right hands to their foreheads and bowed their heads before the Emperor, then placed their presents, consisting chiefly of costly objects of art, by the side of the step on which the throne was raised, and in their turn they received presents on behalf of the Emperor. Aquaviva also drew near the Mughal, bearing a splendidly bound Latin Bible, which, according to custom, he was about to lay down; but Akbar, rising from his throne, advanced a step or two, and took the book from the hands of the missionary. "We thank you, worthy Father," he said, "for this kindly thought, and trust that what we have to offer will not be less welcome to you," and taking from the hands of a Brahman standing by his side a voluminous and beautifully ornamented manuscript, he presented it to the Jesuit, saying, "This is a copy of the 'Atharva-Veda,' [90] one of the most ancient of our holy books of India; it is accompanied by a Persian translation." With deep respect Aquaviva received the imperial gift, though one might question whether in truth he was much pleased, and if he did not see in it some allusion to the meeting of the preceding evening; which was the more probable as the Emperor was always informed beforehand what presents were to be made him, that the return might be appropriate. But whatever the Padre thought, it was not difficult to guess what impression this affair made on the orthodox Brahmans. There was a frown on almost every forehead in their ranks, and Abdul Kadir could scarcely restrain his indignation. They could not read the meaning of the return present, and how by it Akbar wished to show that he took no part with the Christians. All they saw was the special honour shown to a Christian. Abú-l Fazl, who understood it better, nevertheless shook his head, vexed at the needless defiance and insult to the Muhammadans offered by the (in other respects) humane and wise Akbar; still he confessed that they almost deserved it for their unmanly conduct of the previous evening. After the ceremonial of the reception of presents was over, the Mughal was for some time occupied with giving audiences and appointments; among others our Siddha was called to him. "Siddha Rama," he said, "with good reason we are content with you, and, to prove it, we name you from to-day Mansabdar over a thousand; show yourself always worthy of our trust and favour." A deep colour mounted to Siddha's face, as silently, according to the usage, he bent his head before the Emperor, in token of his gratitude for this fresh favour. He worthy of Akbar's confidence! Could there be one in the army that deserved it less? Yet the Emperor had need of his interest and assistance in Kashmir, so that it was not generosity and kindness alone which led to this promotion. Akbar only saw in the confusion of the young warrior an easily explained and praiseworthy modesty at finding himself so openly laden with favours, and nodded to him kindly as he signed to him that he might withdraw. It was now almost time that the people's feast should begin, and for it was destined a field not far from the town. Towards it was now streaming from all the streets and along all the roads a brilliantly coloured throng, some on foot, some riding either on horses or richly caparisoned elephants; some, too, were on camels laden with eatables and refreshments of all kinds for the many that cared to take part in the rejoicings. Mingling in the merry crowd were Siddha and his friend Parviz, whom he had met on leaving the palace, and who had heartily congratulated him on his new command. "And you," said Siddha, "how go your affairs?" "You mean my own private ones, do you not?" answered the other, laughing. "On the whole they go on well. Lately I have several times seen her to whom my heart belongs; and, though of course it was in secret, yet I have reasons for suspecting her father, Todar Mal, [91] knew all about it, although he gave himself the airs of knowing nothing. I believe my uncle Faizi has something to do with this favourable change in affairs. 'May Allah bless him!' as the pious Abdul Kadir would say." And here the good Parviz wandered off into a stream of praises of the beauty and virtues of her he loved, which, deeply interesting to him, was not quite so much so for his hearer. However this might be, the one subject occupied the two friends until they reached the spot where the festival was to be held. Here the view was as full of life as that of the court had been, but far fuller of mirth and merriment. Endless numbers moved in lightly coloured groups over the great undulating plain where countless tents, great and small, were pitched. Above all, the elephants with their dark bodies, bright-coloured cloths, and richly ornamented haudas, contrasted picturesquely with the riders and those on foot. The imperial elephants were decorated with golden breast and head plates, set with large smaragds; and their gigantic bodies bore a treasure enough to make the fortune of any simple burgher. On one of these the Mughal himself was seated, and dismounting in a circle of his courtiers, and followed by them, repaired to the spot where the great ceremony of the day was to be celebrated. This ceremonial deserves attention, so strange and impressive was it. Many have endeavoured in different ways to explain what it betokened, but the true meaning has hitherto escaped all historians. [92] On a little height was erected a large and strong pair of scales, large enough easily to hold a man. One scale was heaped with gold, silver, and precious stones, while the other stood empty, high in the air. On this the Emperor now took his place, in sight of hundreds and thousands of his subjects, who crowded round from all sides; and the other scale was added to or taken from until it exactly balanced the illustrious person of the Great Mughal, who well held his own against the precious metal. It was a pity that other things could not be laid in the scale, such as duty, honour, faith, and enthusiasm for all that is good and beautiful; then surely Akbar would not have been found wanting in the balance. When the weighing was over he stept calmly from the scales, and the gold and silver were distributed amongst the crowd. Towards the end the Emperor mixed among those around him, throwing among the bystanders small golden objects in the form of flowers and fruits, addressing here and there kind and friendly words--confirming many afresh in their conviction that in Akbar the people had not only a great and powerful, but also a benevolent ruler, to whose heart the well-being of his subjects was dearer than his own greatness. After the grave ceremonies of the day were over, the real festivities began, and every kind of diversion occupied the numberless visitors. Here the jugglers and conjurors displayed their foolish art, and performed feats of strength; there dancers to the sound of monotonous music, and with slow movements, performed their dances; and further on, horsemen at full gallop lifted rings from the ground at the end of their long lances. On one spot was a wonderful and horrible exhibition of two of those beings peculiar to India, who think they combine a religious act with self-torture. They were suspended twenty feet above the ground by means of an iron hook driven into their backs and hung by a rope to a cross-beam. [93] Here, where such a sight was rare, it excited great attention, and Parviz stood gazing at it with interest, very different from Siddha's indifference, who was well accustomed to such spectacles. "What can possess the people?" said Parviz to his friend. "It is said they do this prompted by religious fervour; but if so, why do they choose a day of public rejoicing and festivity to exhibit themselves? It is not a pleasant sight, but I cannot understand how it is they appear so at their ease, and so free from pain." "Perhaps I can explain it to you," said Siddha. "You know that such tortures as we are now looking at are considered by our fanatics as meritorious actions, by which heaven may be gained; and those that gaze upon these martyrs, and give them money, participate in the merit; and the more superstitious the people are, so much the greater are the gains. But the secret of their art is not known with certainty, although I believe there are grounds for suspecting how it is done. If I am not deceived, they are always accompanied by women, although they are never seen with them, and these for about half a day before an exhibition pinch them between the shoulder-blades until the spot is without feeling, and the hook can be inserted without causing them any pain." "A wonderful kind of pleasantry," remarked Parviz. "Yes, and a wretched one, too. Whatever support it receives from superstition, by respectable Brahmans it is only looked upon with contempt. But did you not say there were to be elephant and wild beast fights?" "Certainly, and by yonder flag I see they are about to begin; let us make our way there and find a place." This was not difficult, for their rank gave them instant admission to the space railed off, and provided with seats, where the combats were to take place. In the midst the Emperor was seated surrounded by his courtiers. They had not waited long when from the opposite sides the fighting elephants entered the arena, each covered with a splendid cloth, and mounted by a brightly dressed mahout. Very little preparation was necessary. No sooner did the gigantic animals approach each other, than, rising on their hind legs with a snort, they seized each other with their trunks, each endeavouring to stab his foe with his long tusks, while their riders, now clinging by their knees behind the creatures' ears, and now holding by their hands to the girth of the cloth, still kept their places. For some time the fight continued with uncertain fortune; now one elephant was driven backwards, and now the other. At last one was overthrown. His mahout leaping nimbly to the ground alighted on his feet, and the rider of the victor struck his hook into the constantly kept open wound behind the ears, and forced him to draw back without injuring his fallen foe. The Emperor applauded loudly, his example being followed by the courtiers and spectators, and then they slowly left the tribunes. "Akbar seems to have a great liking for these combats," said Siddha to his friend, as they continued their walk. "Yes," was the answer; "Akbar likes everything that displays courage and dexterity, whether in man or beast. As you know, he is of unusual strength himself, and unsurpassed by any in the use of arms; and his personal courage in war and hunting is of that description that one might call recklessness. He seems to seek danger instead of avoiding it, and his generals and hunting comrades have at times enough to do with him when his blood is up. You must have heard of his adventures; certainly some are exaggerated, but you can trust to Faizi, who has been present at many, and who will tell you about them some day." Thus talking they wandered on, and at last having seen all they wished, turned towards the city. Suddenly Siddha stood still, struck with astonishment: his eye had accidentally fallen on the hauda of a magnificently caparisoned elephant, and the lady he there saw, with one or two others leaning back on the silken cushions, could be no other than Rezia! Her thin veil fastened with diamonds had been pushed on one side, there could be no mistake, and there by her side was the well-known servant. But what was she doing here, she who lived in solitude, carefully hidden from all eyes--just at this moment, too, when she believed that Siddha had marched with the army! Could she have deceived him? could she be other than she had told him? As calmly and indifferently as was possible, he asked his companion, pointing to Rezia, who had not seen him among the foot passengers--"Do you know that lady?" "She with the veil thrown back, and a servant holding a fan of peacock feathers?" asked Parviz. "Certainly I know her, and I wonder that you do not; however, of late she has shown herself but seldom. She is"--and here Parviz named a name which gave our friend such a shock as never before in his whole life he had experienced; and he felt as if, standing on the brink of a precipice amongst his northern mountains, he had been seized with a sudden dizziness and fallen into the abyss beneath. "She is," said Parviz, "a lady of whom, at any rate, you must have heard--Gulbadan, [94] Faizi's wife." CHAPTER X. SURPRISES. "How can the name of that woman affect you?" asked Parviz, astonished at Siddha's strange bearing. "You have not, I trust, fallen in love with Gulbadan at first sight? I would scarcely advise you to do so; although Faizi is goodness itself, he is not always quite gentle where his wife is concerned, with whom he is desperately in love." "It was a passing remembrance," replied Siddha, recovering himself as well as possible, "awakened by that name, but which has nothing to do with Faizi's wife." "So much the better," rejoined the other; and they silently proceeded on their way. To be alone, to escape from Parviz as soon as possible,--no other thought occupied his companion, and seeing one of his men walking up and down, "Excuse me," he said, "but I have to speak with that man, and, thanking you for your pleasant company, I must for the moment say farewell." And hastily greeting his friend, and beckoning to the horseman to approach, he was soon in conversation with him on subjects connected with the service, but as suddenly broke it off directly Parviz was out of sight. He then hurried on, not minding where his steps carried him, only on and on, thinking and dreaming, as though bewildered with drink. "Gulbadan, Faizi's wife!" Treachery again, then, though this time involuntary, yet of the worst description, against the man by whom when a stranger he had been received with the utmost kindness, and in whom he had always found the truest of friends, and to whom he owed privileges and favours that no one in his place could have obtained without such protection. Treachery, too, against the Emperor, who had laden him with unexpected and undeserved favours; treachery and shameless faithlessness against her to whom once he had given his heart and pledged his word; and all for the sake of one who had deceived him,--and whom he must despise,--and yet love above everything and for ever. What should he do? Honour and duty spoke loudly,--flight, instant flight, alone could save him. He knew and felt that delay would only again place him on the brink of a bottomless abyss. But to leave her so suddenly, without any preparation, any explanation--she, who, though weak, still loved him; and if she had led him astray, she, too, had sacrificed honour and duty;--would that be acting rightly? would it be fair? was it possible that he could do it? For a long time Siddha wandered on, not knowing where he went. At last he looked round, and found he was not far from the city, and near the habitation of Rezia--the Rezia of happy days now gone by--and which, as now he remembered, was situated close to Faizi's villa. Evening began to close in; it was the hour that he was wont to approach the garden wall, and, at a well known signal, to be admitted by the servant. A few moments later he again stood by the wall, gave the signal, and, as the door was opened, hurried in. Rezia, or rather Gulbadan, was reposing comfortably on a divan by the verandah, little thinking of Siddha, who she imagined was on his way to join the army, when suddenly the man she thought miles away rushed into her apartments. "How, Siddha!" she cried, starting in alarm to her feet. "I thought you were gone." "Rezia, Gulbadan!" said Siddha, with assumed calm, "I know you now; you have deceived me, and the man to whom I owe so much, if not everything. I come to bid you farewell; honour commands me to go, but without flight I know that I could not. To-morrow or to-day I leave Agra, never to see it again, nor you." In a second, and before Siddha had finished, Faizi's wife had comprehended all. She had, convinced that her lover had left in command of his detachment, seen no reason why she should not openly show herself at the great festival, nor for keeping herself veiled. Then he must have seen and recognised her, and have heard her real name; the affair was too plain to require any explanation, nor were questions and explanations among her tactics. She looked at him entreatingly with her soft blue eyes, raising her clasped hands towards him, then tottered, and without one word sank back on the divan, hiding her face in the cushions. For some time Siddha gazed silently at her; so beautiful, so irresistibly lovely had she never appeared to him as just in that moment when he had determined never again to see her; and he felt that this last look would be imprinted on his mind for ever. "Go, go at once," whispered a voice to him; "no words more, nor farewells, or it will be too late to escape the enchantment, that already begins to work." Then she slowly raised her head, thrusting back the luxurious locks that fell in waves around her, and passed her hand over her face, as one that awakes from a deep sleep or swoon. "Rezia," said Siddha, "let me call you so once more; I thought to leave you without one word of preparation would not have been honourable; but do not make this parting still harder to me. You, I trust, will agree that to part is unavoidable. Unknowingly, I have sinned against hospitality, and repaid the truest friendship with the grossest ingratitude. To continue doing so would be the worst of crimes." "You are right, my friend," said Rezia, gently. "To part, I feel, must to you appear unavoidable. I have long feared it, and for that reason dissembled my name; but hear me for a few moments before you leave me for ever, for I would not that you should remember me with contempt. Listen to what I have to say, not in defence, but in excuse of my conduct. I deceived you, it is true, and more than once. I began by deceiving you the first time we met. I had seen you shortly after your arrival at Agra, though you did not see me, and that first sight of you awoke an interest that was not diminished by what I heard in answer to my inquiries, and then rashly I determined to make your acquaintance, making use of that letter to Kashmir as my pretence. To what that acquaintance led, aided by my weakness and love, alas! you know too well; but then, indeed, I did not know that there was any bond of friendship between Faizi and you. And when later on, to my horror, I discovered it, I should have had the courage to break off all that we were to each other by confessing who I was. But, ah! I was weak, Siddha; weak as only a woman who loves can be, who loves the man of her choice with passionate fondness. I feared the parting that your sense of honour would pronounce to be necessary, and I was silent. Can you forgive me, Siddha, before we bid each other good-bye for ever?" And timidly, as though afraid of his anger, she stretched out her hand to him, and sank back, slowly and wearily, on the cushions, her eyes filled with tears. For a time he struggled with himself a bitter and terrible battle, but, alas! of too short duration. "Rezia," he cried, clasping in his arms the woman who not only ruled him but forced him to forget all that honour bade him to hold dear,--"Rezia, without you there is neither life nor existence, and with you no crime and no shame." He had indeed spoken the truth, and made use of no exaggeration when he told her that she was dearer to him than life, and dearer than honour. And so the evening passed on. Siddha was partly disturbed, partly overwhelmed with an indescribable happiness; sometimes despising himself, and then again rejoicing in his fatal passion. It was late before he passed down the well-known path, and was about to open the little door in the garden wall, when, to his astonishment, it opened, and the figure of a man passed through, who, without remarking him, attempted to close it after him. But a sudden exclamation from Siddha made him turn round. Who could it be? Faizi himself perhaps. Siddha could have bitten out his tongue for his foolish imprudence, but it was too late. "What, in the name of Shaitan, are you doing here?" cried the new comer; and Siddha at once recognised the voice of Prince Salim, whose figure was scarcely visible in the dimness of night. "With an equal or a better right, I might ask that of you," was the bold reply. The clatter of arms told Siddha that the Prince had laid his hand on his sword, and he on his side did the same. Salim approached a step or two, and recognising his opponent, let his sword fall back into its sheath. "Ha! my friend Siddha Rama," he cried, in no little astonishment, "so we catch you in one of your nightly adventures! Still, there is not much harm in that for a young man like you. Do not fear that I shall betray you, nor need you be jealous. You must know that the chosen one of your heart is, to a certain degree, mixed up in our plans, and I come occasionally to talk them over with her in secrecy and under cover of night; but perhaps at this moment she will be hardly inclined to discuss such dry subjects, and it will be as well for me to put off my visit." And Salim turned towards the doorway, and, having let Siddha through, carefully shut it. "I suppose you are now returning to your lodging? My path lies in the opposite direction," said he; "but," he added, to Siddha, who, not knowing what to say, stood silently listening to him, "let this meeting remain a secret between us, it will be our wisest course." And so saying, Salim disappeared in the darkness. "He has accidentally rendered me a great service," muttered the Prince to himself, as he hurried on; "he has put me in possession of a secret that can be of inestimable worth. In all this I recognise that snake." The next day one of Salim's most trusted men was wandering round the country house, and before long found an opportunity of talking with Gulbadan's servant. The bargain he proposed was quickly concluded, the servant betraying her mistress's secrets willingly, for the Prince, naturally, could pay more than she and Siddha together. On the evening of the same day the servant presented herself at the palace, and was received by Salim's confidant, to whom she gave two papers folded in the form of letters, and hurried back to her mistress's abode with the price she had received for them. The following day Salim was on his road back to Allahabad with a small escort. There sojourned one solitary and sad. For a long time Iravati had heard nothing of her betrothed. In the beginning, shortly after his arrival in Agra, he had, as she well remembered, written her two letters, as overflowing as his earlier ones had been with assurances of his love that could never be shaken; since then she had received no letter from him, though she heard from others that he was well and rising in favour with the Emperor. What, then, could be the reason of his continued silence? A terrible doubt began more and more to make itself master of her, but she strove against it, drawing fresh strength from her faith in the word and honour of her Siddha. Once as she sat lost in musings, idly turning over the leaves of a book that in earlier days she had read in Kashmir with her lover, she was disturbed by the appearance of the faithful Nipunika, who approached her with a troubled face, first hastily and then hesitatingly, as though she doubted whether to speak or keep silence. "What have you to tell me?" said Iravati. "You seem to be the bearer of bad news." "Alas!" answered the servant, "I would that my mouth were gagged; yet I cannot leave you in ignorance of what I have heard. It concerns you too nearly for me to dare to keep it from you." "Speak at once, without further preface," said Iravati. "I am ready to hear what you have to tell." Then she recounted her meeting with a soldier from Agra, and what he had told her of Siddha. At first she spoke guardedly, but ended in repeating all that Salim had discovered about Faizi's wife. The consequence of this tale was as Nipunika had feared. As though lifeless, Iravati sat there, gazing before her; and some minutes of silence ensued before she spoke. Then she sprang to her feet, asking, with a passion unwonted to her, "Who told you all this? Was it a soldier? Speak the truth, with no shifts or excuses." "Noble lady," answered Nipunika, "how should I dare to deceive you, and what reason could I have for doing so? The man from whom I heard what I have now repeated to you is a servant of the Prince." "Then the whole story is a lie!" cried Iravati. "I understand it all now. What a contemptible plot!" she added to herself; and then turning to her servant,--"It is well, my good Nipunika, and I thank you for your report, which you brought, I doubt not, prompted by the real interest you take in me. But now that I know where it comes from I care not for it. Leave me now for the moment, and in future do not have to do with the man who told you these tales." Still the arrow had been better aimed than Iravati would allow, either to herself or to her servant; and left alone, she sat for a long time, her head leaning on her hand, thinking over the possibilities and probabilities of what she had heard. But she felt her courage rise again when, some time after, leaving her apartment, she met Prince Salim in one of the galleries, whose return had not been announced to her. It was all plain to her. No one else had invented the whole slander in order to estrange her from Siddha; and she bent her head coolly and half contemptuously in acknowledgment of her visitor's respectful greeting. "Iravati," he said, "you would have reason for surprise at my return here after our last, and for me discouraging interview, if the explanation had not been given you by what has come to your ears through your servant, and which I could not personally tell you." "I understand well," said Iravati, without anger, but without circumlocution, "that you think scandal may aid you where persecution has failed; but this I had not expected, and, above all, from you." "Scandal!" repeated Salim; "that would indeed be a contemptible manner of attaining the goal of my passionate, and for you not injurious, wishes, and a very vain one. Of what avail would such tales and empty gossip be? But it is different when truth is supported by proofs." "How? Proofs! What do you mean?" "I mean the kind of proofs that the strictest judge cannot condemn. You know Siddha's handwriting, do you not?" "Certainly." "Well, look at these letters." And Salim handed to her two papers folded as letters, which Guldbadan's trusted servant had stolen from her mistress and sold to him. They were hastily and passionately written, full of every expression of love, and contained one or two verses, written by Siddha, in which the name of the adored Rezia was repeated several times. Iravati hastily read them through, and then read and re-read them, turning the letters round and round, looking at them from every side; then suddenly she let them fall from her hand, and would have sunk senseless to the ground if Salim had not supported her and placed her on a seat. However deeply Iravati loved, she was no weak, nervous girl. In her veins ran the blood of an ancient and heroic race; and quickly recovering herself, she stood before the Prince, looking him firmly in the eyes. "My fate," she said, "is decided; for I must confess that what I have heard is really true. Another has taken possession of the heart that until now was mine, and mine alone. But do not think, Prince, you who rule over everything except a woman's heart, that the way to it that was closed is now opened by your discovery; do not think that my promise is now vain because the word that was pledged to me in return is broken. As long as mine is not returned to me it is sacred." "How?" cried Salim in astonishment. "The lover whose faithlessness is known to you, forsakes and abandons you for another, and yet you are not free, and may not listen--I do not say at once, but some time hence, when other memories fade at last and disappear--to him who loves you above everything, and can lay at your feet power and honour, such as no one else can offer?" "Salim," answered Iravati, gently, as she strove to collect her thoughts; "you do not understand me, and perhaps you cannot do so. You do not understand us Hindu women, so different from those to whom you are accustomed. You think that the highest happiness for a woman is to be the favoured Sultana of some mighty ruler, and for many it does appear so; and you think it is enough to convince a Hindu woman of the faithlessness of her lover, to cause her to say farewell to all thoughts of the unworthy one." "And is it not so?" "Our women," was the answer, "know nothing of the temptations of greatness, where either duty or honour are concerned, and to their husband, or, which is the same thing, their betrothed, they remain faithful, even if their love is repaid by treachery. There are no bounds to the loyalty of a woman to her husband; and you know, though you may consider it only the consequence of superstition or exaggerated feeling, with what willing enthusiasm they will throw themselves on the burning pile that consumes the body of their dead husbands. You must have heard of our holy legends and heroic traditions, which describe the devotion of a wife to one unworthy of her. Doubtless the touching adventure of Damayanti must have come to your ears. Well, as far as in me lies, I will be another Damayanti. [95] Siddha has deserted me, but that is because the wicked Kali [96] has got possession of him, and tempted him to evil; not he himself that has brought this bitter sorrow to me. And when he awakes from this enchantment he will return, another Nala, and find me pure from any spot, and acknowledge that I knew better than he, how to watch over the honour of his name." "I willingly leave you," said Salim, after a moment's silence, "the happy hope of his return, however much it grieves me. But do not flatter yourself with such expectations. Believe me, I know the woman into whose snares he has fallen. I loved her till I saw you, and know that she is irresistible until a purer love conquers the passion one feels for her. Believe me, I know no more fascinating woman, as I know none purer or nobler than you." "Prince," said Iravati, in answer to this declaration, "I implore you to grant me a favour, although it may sound uncourteous. Leave me for the present. After all that has passed, I feel that it is necessary to be alone. A prince, a nobleman as you are, will not refuse me this." "I should be," replied Salim, "unworthy of the name, if for a moment longer I misused your goodness; also I feel but too well that further persistence is now not only useless but prejudicial to my cause, therefore I obey your request." And turning, he left the gallery with slow footsteps. No sooner was he gone than Iravati's courage and firmness forsook her, and, worn out, she sank on a seat near, and covering her face with her hands, wept bitterly. Her repose was but of short duration, the sound of approaching footsteps made her look up in alarm, and she saw Salhana before her. "My daughter," he said, in a gentler tone than she ever remembered to have heard from him, "I know what occupies your thoughts and bows your head with sorrow. I have long known what you to-day have heard. I discovered some time ago Siddha's faithlessness in Agra, but concealed it until the time should come when it would be necessary that you should know it. Now all is known to you, and I trust that you will recognise that the respect you owe, not to yourself alone, but to me and my house, should oblige you to banish all thought of the man who in so shameful a manner has flung from him the alliance with our race. No, listen to me," he continued, as Iravati was about to reply. "Believe that I feel the deepest sympathy with you in this fatal moment; still I must not neglect to remind you what a daughter of our noble race owes to her honour and good name. At the same time, I will tell you, though in confidence, what I have discovered, which, though it cannot heal the wound you have received at once, will in the end bring consolation. A splendid future awaits you, Iravati; that which every woman in the whole of Hindustan would look upon as the most enviable lot can be yours--Prince Salim. I suspected it some time ago, and when I gave him the opportunity, he acknowledged all to me. Prince Salim loves you, and asks you for his wife." "I know that," said Iravati. "You know it! and how?" "From the Prince himself, this very day." "And your answer?" "I refused his flattering offer." "What!" cried Salhana, in the greatest astonishment and anger. "Refused! Are you out of your mind?" "I believe not; but I am engaged to Siddha." "Well, what has that to do with it? you are still free to choose; you are not yet his wife." "No; but, what is to me the same thing, I have sworn faith to him, and he has not released me from my promise." "Let that be. Before, this might have had weight; but now he has himself broken faith, and so released you from your word." "So, perhaps, might others think, who have been brought up with different ideas. Mine forbid me to do as you wish. And if these opinions now stand in your way, you must blame yourself, Father, who have had me brought up in them. Above all--I will make no secret of it--I still love Siddha, in spite of all; and after him I can never love another." "There is no necessity for talking of love! It is enough that Salim loves you, and that you can make use of the influence you have over him. But this you do not choose to accept, simply from devotion to antiquated and exaggerated habits of thought, and from a silly passion for one unworthy of you. Think what you throw from you if you persevere in your foolish refusal. A kingdom is offered to you, to which the whole world can scarcely show a rival; and you throw it from you with contempt, for the sake of a dream--a whim!" "It may be that I am wrong," said Iravati, with forced calmness, while her father became more and more excited; "but your representations cannot convince me. I have already heard them, and still more forcibly put, from the Prince, without being shaken in my resolution." "Your resolution is, that you will resist your father. But it appears to me that hardly agrees with the principles to which you are so much devoted, and which teach that obedience from a child to a father is one of the first duties." "Certainly; but not when this duty comes into conflict with a still higher one. However much it grieves me not to obey you, in this case I may not, and I cannot." "Do you not know that a father has right over his daughter, and in cases of necessity forces her to obey?" "I know it well, but also know that here compulsion would avail nothing. If I let myself be forced into a marriage with Salim, I should lose all value in his eyes, and so my influence over him would be as nothing. That he himself knows; but he will not think of force. If he did, he would not need your intervention. Akbar's heir is powerful enough to crush both your will and mine, if he chose." Salhana clenched his hands, and impatiently bit his moustache. Beaten on all sides, and by whom? A simple girl, whom until now he had only known as the gentlest and most submissive of daughters. All his great plans and glittering prospects destroyed by this wilful and stubborn child. He who had dreamt not of a viceroyship alone, but to attain to the highest place next to the Emperor. He already saw himself in Agra, next to the throne as Grand Wazir, ruling Prince and land through his daughter; sovereign ruler over kingdoms and peoples--if not in name, at least in reality. "Well," he cried at last, as he placed himself in a threatening attitude opposite Iravati; "you will not listen to reason, and you do not fear compulsion; but there may be something that you fear--the curse of a father!" "The sorrow that is already laid upon me would be increased twofold," she answered; "but I would strive for courage to bear my burden without faltering. That must happen which is written by fate." "You are courageous," said Salhana, coldly and sarcastically; "or you try to be so. But are you so sure that your obstinacy will not injure this Siddha, whom you acknowledge that you still love, and that the Prince may not avenge your refusal on him?" The last blow seemed to reach its aim. Iravati, in despair, lifted her hands on high and then let them fall powerless at her side, while her head sank on her breast. With a hateful, triumphant smile, Salhana watched her. The victory at last was his, and the strength of the invincible one broken. But the proud girl raised her head again, and looking Salhana full in the face, she said, first in a faltering voice, which soon became steady: "What you have said, Father, is cruel, horribly cruel, and I can scarcely believe that you really mean it. But even should it be a threat in earnest, it has not the power to make me forsake the sacred duty that is laid upon me. If Siddha stood before us, and saw me hesitate, and violate my promise to save him from danger, he would despise me, and thrust me with good right from him. My life I will sacrifice for him, for it is his; but not my honour, that belongs also to him. His death will be mine; but what is fated we cannot avoid. Let vengeance strike the guiltless, but neither Salim nor you will gain anything by it. You will have lost a daughter and your brother a son, that would be all; and your ambition would in no way be advanced. But let us break off a conversation that may end in causing me to lose the respect I owe you. Think, my Father, that I am your daughter, and one of a noble and ancient race, who cannot but be alarmed where duty or honour are concerned,--or the man I love." For a moment Salhana stood silently looking at Iravati, standing proudly and almost defiantly before him. Their positions were changed; the hitherto submissive daughter now commanded, and forced the haughty father to subjection. Without a word, he turned and hurried away, with a fierce expression of foiled rage on his dark countenance. CHAPTER XI. "TAUHID-I-ILAHI." [97] As usual, when evening closed in, a gaily coloured crowd thronged round the shops and houses of one of the smaller bazars of Agra, situated on the river. Here and there dice-players sat in open verandahs round their boards; and there passed drunken [98] soldiers armed with various weapons; a little retired from the crowd reposed solitary opium-eaters, lost in blissful dreams; and there also were grave Muhammadans deep in earnest conversation, and deigning for once to take a turn amongst the despised Hindus engaged in their social pleasures. "Yes, Ali," said one of these to his companion, "with Akbar and his court things go from bad to worse. Evening after evening I know that these blasphemous meetings take place. Yesterday, about midnight, I passed by the palace, and what do you think I saw? All the Emperor's windows were brilliantly lit, sparkling with many lamps and wax tapers. But for what? For no feast such as a prince might celebrate. No; all was still as death, excepting a solemn song, or rather hymn. Akbar himself has, I have heard, composed several of them; and however well they sound, they have nothing to do with our religious service to the praise of the Great Prophet." "And what does this betoken?" said Ali. "What it really signified," was the answer, "I cannot exactly say; but there is no doubt but that the light and singing were in connection with the new teaching that Akbar is trying to introduce in the place of that of Islam, and into which he initiates his confidants--a kind of fire and sun worship, which in an evil hour he has taken from the ancient Parsees, and also from the unbelievers here. May Allah have mercy on them!" "What kind of religion is it?" asked Ali. "Though I have heard of it more than once, yet I do not exactly know what it is." "Nor do I very exactly," replied Yusuf; "but that it is very bad is proved by the opposition it meets with from all the faithful, especially from a man like Abdul Kadir, who is very learned and much esteemed by Akbar himself. From personal experience I have lately become acquainted with things still more disquieting than those of which I have already told you. Not long since I saw a man steal from the palace secretly, and as if afraid lest anyone should see him; a man whom you must know, but whom you cannot meet without a cold shudder of horror--Gorakh, the so-called Yogi. Now," continued he, sinking the whisper in which he spoke to a still lower tone, "do you know for what I hold that man? If not Shaitan himself, he is certainly his assistant; and with him Akbar has made a compact." Yusuf was silent, regarding his comrade with horror. "Protect us, Allah!" he suddenly cried, pointing to a figure approaching by the river-side; "there he is in person! May the waters of the Jamuna swallow him up!" And, in truth, there was the Durga priest, approaching a group of Hindus and Persians engaged in lively conversation. "What I say," said one of these last, "is that we ought not, and we cannot, bear longer the scorn and ridicule which is openly and continually shown to our holy religion by Faizi and Abú-l Fazl, not to mention a still higher name; and I cannot understand how you people--although yours may be a different religion--how you can calmly look on at the destruction and overthrow of what you, as well as we, must hold sacred." "But to that we have not yet come," said the Hindu. "It is well known that the Emperor and his followers do not think much of your Koran, and perhaps as much might be said of your religion. But so far I have heard nothing of destruction and overthrow; our temples are untouched, and no one interferes with our religious practices; while you Muhammadans in old days did nothing but torment and persecute us. "As you well deserved, you sons of----" "Come, men, no disputes," said a Persian soldier, interrupting them; "quarrels will not aid us." And he gave a sign to the angry Muhammadan. "Let it be so," he answered, turning his back on the Hindu, and, accompanied by two friends, passed on his way. Now Gorakh joined in the conversation: "It was well that you were present, Mubarak," said he; "open disputes may be dangerous. Most Hindus hold to the side of the Emperor; but if for the moment they are not to be won, when fortune changes they will come over to us. In the meantime what progress have you made?" "The greater part of our mansabdars are already won," answered Mubarak; "and they will openly declare on our side directly the signal is given. Those that go with the army will turn round at the right moment, and those that remain here at Agra will do the same, and they can depend on their troopers." This conversation had been listened to with eager interest by two men who had joined the group of speakers, and to whom, by the greeting they exchanged, they appeared to belong; but with still deeper interest they listened when Gorakh, in a low voice, replied: "These last days have brought some changes in our plans; we must not wait to strike the blow until Akbar has reached the north, for it is always possible that in spite of the desertion of part of his troops he may gain a victory. Such reports from Kashmir would spread a panic, and we should find that there was little or nothing we could do here; so we must somewhat hasten matters, and put our plans into execution when Akbar is on the road, but too far off to return to Agra in a few days' marches on hearing that Salim is declared Emperor and has strengthened himself in the fortress; then there is no doubt that the malcontents in the army will turn against Akbar. Take care, then, Mubarak, and you others, that our people are warned in time, and hold themselves in readiness to carry out our plans, although the time is advanced." After talking a little longer the conspirators separated, each going his own way, and leaving the last comers together. "This is weighty news," said one. "It is indeed," replied the other; "and if I am not mistaken it will make things easier for Akbar. How unfortunate that we cannot at once make our report to Abú-l Fazl; but we must wait till night, it may be dangerous to go to his palace before then; and also, I believe he is now with the Emperor, and we should not find him." "I think," said the first, "that it will be wiser for us now to separate; we shall meet at midnight at the house of the Wazir." And greeting his companion, he turned up a side street, while the other continued along the river-side. However fearful and profane the rites may have been that were supposed to have taken place in the private apartment of the Emperor--leading the pious Yusuf and his followers to believe that Akbar had concluded a compact with Shaitan--on that evening, at any rate, a right-thinking Mussulman would have seen nothing remarkable, though he might have taken fresh offence at the conversation if he had been able fully to understand and follow it. Faizi, Abú-l Fazl, and the Brahman Kulluka, who had but lately returned from the north, were with the Emperor. "No further report from your spies?" he asked his ministers. "Not since yesterday," answered Abú-l Fazl; "but I expect them at midnight, and understand that they have news for me." "Is it not sad," said Akbar, "that one must make use of such people? Oh! why are men thus forcing us to have recourse to such means?" "It is," replied the Minister, "a necessary consequence of our present form of government, which cannot be altered. Malcontents, whether they are so with justice or not, have no means of redressing their wrongs when all the power is vested in one, and that one pronounces their complaints to be groundless. The ambitious and fortune-seekers make use of them as tools to attain their own ends, and they easily allow themselves to be so employed." "But I never refuse to listen to the complaints of my subjects," said Akbar; "and if they are just, I redress them as far as lies in my power." "If they are just!" repeated Abú-l Fazl. "Yes; but who decides that? The Emperor and his councillors?" "But what would you have, then? We have heard of states and people in other parts of the world, where things are managed differently; but then, the condition of those people is very different from that of ours. How would it be possible among the many kingdoms and races subject to our rule to give any real share in the government to the people themselves, even if their character, their manners and customs, made it possible?" "That is quite true," said Abú-l Fazl; "and I have already said that I regard further changes as neither desirable nor possible. When I alluded to the present state of affairs, it was only to show how unavoidable is the use of means that we are forced to adopt in order to avoid what is still worse. So far as these men are concerned whom we contemptuously call spies, they are less to be despised than one supposes; at least, the two I have now in my mind are honourable men, respected by others, and devoted to us heart and soul. It is true that they are well paid, still that is not necessary, they would be faithful to us without that; and they have indeed rendered us good service. They discovered Salhana's plot, and, what is not of less importance, the secret intrigues of Gorakh the Yogi." "Yes," remarked Faizi, mischievously, "of that philosopher who for some time gloried in the favour of His Majesty, while he unfolded the mysteries of the Yogi teaching; but not much came of it, so far as I know." Akbar coloured as the remembrance was brought back to him how with all his wisdom he had almost, though but for a moment, been entirely taken in by the cunning deceiver. But at the right moment Kulluka interposed, and continued the conversation by saying: "It is indeed to be regretted, but it is wiser to have little to do with this Gorakh. My former pupil, Siddha, has communicated to me things about him which show that caution is necessary. And yet he knows more, perhaps by tradition, of the ancient and now almost forgotten teaching than we shall ever discover." "There you see," said Akbar, triumphantly, to Faizi, "that our friend Kulluka, who is so well acquainted with all the learning of the Brahmans, does not look upon the Yogi system as so utterly unimportant." "I will willingly allow that it contains much that is valuable," said Faizi, "if our wise friend says so, from whom we have learnt so much that is worth knowing. But excuse me, Kulluka, if I ask what it is you expect from this system of days gone by? So far as I know, it is nothing but a foolish mysticism, promising an impossible absorption of the individual in the supreme, brought about by charms and enchantment, or, to speak more plainly, by clever feats of jugglery." "I do not think so unfavourably of the system of Patanjali," [99] answered Kulluka; "although I do not for a moment believe it can boast the possession of absolute truth. The union with, and resolution of the mortal into the immortal, of human existence into the spiritual, according to the Yogi view, is in itself not so great a folly. But no doubt this teaching is erroneous when it seeks, through absorption or union, to solve the mystery of the existence of the mind of man, by which in a kind of ecstasy the mortal is absorbed into the immortal. If this absorption were possible, it would in truth be self-annihilation. I do not think that the fundamental idea is to be so entirely rejected, or at least a part of it, of which all this is the result. Is it not a truth that, just because men find themselves so weighed down and bound within narrow limits, their spirits know no higher exaltation than that to which they rise in those rare moments when they lose the sense of their personality in nobler or higher and more comprehensive ideas? Provided the ideas remain no empty abstraction, but take their being from strong human life, from knowledge, art, and the contemplation of the social existence of men, what, I ask, can you place higher than so to lose the finite and self-seeking I in the universal good? From the place whence the individual drew the true spirit of life, to that place it should return if it in truth accomplished its destiny." "These are words after my heart," said Akbar. "This same thought, that of self-denial, animates our own philosophical systems as well as the new doctrines that these missionaries from the West have come here to preach. But is there not another subject to which the thoughts of men should be directed, especially those of philosophers? However true and exalted this doctrine of self-abnegation is, what does it tell us of the eternal union of spirit and matter which pervades existence?" "Indeed," answered the Brahman; "he would be unworthy the name of philosopher who did not take as a chief subject of philosophical thought the contemplation of life and morals proceeding from it. But who will ever solve for us the enigma of life?" "No one, certainly," answered Faizi; "at least not at present. What future knowledge, in distant centuries may contribute to its solution we cannot even guess. But for the present should we not content ourselves with the conviction, shared by all wise men, both past and present, and expressed by many of them more or less clearly, that there is in the universe an eternal life without end and without beginning; a life and being through which everything is bound together or brought into union, of which the highest law is development--the development of the lower steps or forms of existence into those still higher. And what are we ourselves--we men? Always the same as that which surrounds us--a revelation of the universal being, each destined, in his own circle and according to his powers, to take his part in the general development. In proportion as we can clearly keep before our eyes the higher and more universal aims, so will narrow feelings of self-love retire to the background, making room for unselfish devotion to the good of our fellow-men, of society, and of the state." "Very well put, my worthy Faizi," said Akbar; "but true as all that may be, does it content you? Do you not long for something else, something more?" "Assuredly," was the answer. "That one idea, in its abstruse generalization, does not satisfy. We would understand it more clearly, and learn to apply it; we would strive after the knowledge of immortal life and of the original compact by observing their manifestations here; and to attain this knowledge all those strive who devote themselves to philosophy." "You do not quite understand me," said the Emperor; "but I will allow all that you have said. What I meant was: has the universal being, of which you speak, its origin in itself, or in another still higher intelligence?" "Intelligence and thought," was the answer, "are necessary attributes of this being, as well as that which we are accustomed to call matter or extension. [100] Both declare themselves in infinite manifestations; and how is it possible that that which is an attribute of a thing can at the same time be its cause?" For some moments a deep silence reigned. The Emperor sought for an answer, but shook his head and said nothing. "My brother," at last said Abú-l Fazl to Faizi, "your reasoning is perfectly logical, yet it contents me as little as it does our venerated Emperor. What have you, and what have we, to do with this conception of soul and matter? What can it give us?" "Well," answered Faizi, smiling, "it need give you nothing if it is true; and if it is true, you should own it, though it may neither content nor please you. I mean to show that my idea gives or possesses a value in life only in so far as it awakens in us devotion to all that we regard as good and true; and what can you ask for more than this?" "You are right," answered Abú-l Fazl; "but I spoke not so much for myself and for us, as for those of less cultivation and enlightenment, who cannot comprehend all this, and yet seek for something more and higher than daily experience brings them. Would it not be possible so to dress up these abstract ideas as to make them more acceptable to the multitude?" "Our friend Faizi," said Akbar, "now says what I myself have often thought. If it is not possible to discover new images or emblems for these conceptions or notions proclaimed by Faizi, can we not receive those of ancient days which were not peculiar to solitary and independent religious systems, but which sprang from the religious and poetical spirit of the people themselves?" "I understand your meaning," replied Faizi, as Akbar was silent; "you allude, if I am not mistaken, to the new doctrine or teaching which the Emperor wishes to introduce, and with which some of his trusted friends are already acquainted. Is it not so?" "In truth," answered Akbar, "you are not mistaken. But allow me to make use of this opportunity to say something further about it. To you Faizi, and you Kulluka, I am indebted for much elucidation, and the turn that our conversation has taken, which gives me the chance of expressing my meaning, is indeed welcome to me. Listen, then. For a long time I have sought for some form in which a rational religion might be expressed, and which would at the same time content philosophical thinkers and those of less enlightenment. At last in some measure I found what I sought in making acquaintance with the images of the ancient Persians, but above all, Kulluka, of those of your philosophical poets of old days. I mean those so well known to you--Sun and Fire. The contemplation of the most striking manifestations of light and warmth may at first appear empty and worthless; but more carefully regarded, they contain an exalted truth, which perchance the knowledge of coming centuries may, through its results, exalt to the highest place. See," continued Akbar, as he turned to the open gallery of the apartment, and pointed to the slowly-sinking sun, "there the glorious representation of all light and life in this world leaves us, to return to-morrow in sparkling glory. Earlier races regarded him as a god, and addressed prayers and adoration to him; while to the wise of old he was the exalted image of the principles of life, and the all-pervading force that is shown in endless manifestations. For are not light and warmth the givers of life, without which nothing could exist? In the light of the sun, moon, and stars, the flash of lightning, and the fire that we ourselves kindle on the hearth, we see the most common manifestations of this force--now beneficent, and now fearful and destructive. Everywhere is this force present--in the earth and planets, in man and animals, in light and water--though we may not always remark it. And if it is really thus, would it be considered as a mere poetical fancy if we chose this force as the emblem of the unity and the life of which, Faizi, you have just spoken? Our friend Abú-l Fazl is not only one with me in this, but is anxious that I should try my new teaching, or, if you will, the teaching I have borrowed from those of old days, among the people, and see if they would not accept it instead of the many superstitions that are now so general. A name was necessary to distinguish this teaching from others; and though a name cannot express the full meaning, that of Tauhid-i-Ilahi, 'the unity of the Deity,' did not appear inappropriate. Ceremonies and public services are entirely excluded, unless you can call public service a simple symbolical adoration of the sun during the day and in the morning, and of light during the night, by means of appropriate hymns. Touching this," concluded the Emperor, "I have already imparted to you somewhat, but I have never before fully declared it to you. The time has now arrived: tell me frankly, what is your opinion?" Neither of the friends appeared willing to comply with this request at once. At last Kulluka broke the silence. "Wise Prince, pardon us if we are not at once ready with our answer; your important communication requires a moment's thought. In the plan declared by you there is much that is tempting, and also, according to my humble opinion, much that is serious. The justness and grandeur of your images, borrowed for the greater part from our old poets and philosophers, I shall be the first to admit; but, may I ask, is there not great danger? These symbols once introduced amongst the people and accepted by them, would soon lose their original meaning, and in the end would sink to nothing but an outward and mechanical religious service. We must well consider that this same teaching, which you wish to proclaim, once actually belonged in truth to the faith of more than one people; and what did it become? Not only in these later days, but in ancient times, to which you refer, doubt arose respecting the object of worship, and then, as now, many a pious mind asked: 'He who gives life, He who gives strength; Whose command all the bright gods revere; Whose shadow is immortality, Whose shadow is death; who is the God to whom we shall offer our sacrifice?' [101] Even then, Surya, the sun, and Agni, the fire, did not satisfy men as emblems of the representation of life and force; and shall a happier future await the Tauhid-i-Ilahi than that of the sun and fire worship of old days?" Akbar gave no reply. "And you, Faizi," he asked, "what is your opinion?" "I have little or nothing," he answered, "to add to what my worthy friend has already said. The doubt to which he alluded, as prevailing in the days of old, has been still more clearly expressed than in the passage quoted by him from the Vedas. Another poet puts it still more forcibly: 'Who knows,' he says, 'who knows the secret, who proclaimed it here? Whence, whence this manifold creation sprang; The gods themselves came later into being; Who knows from whence this great creation sprang? He from whom all this great creation came, Whether His will created it or was mute? The most High Seer that is in highest heaven, He knows it, or perchance even He knows it not.' [102] So it seems that doubt is as ancient as religion itself. But let us leave that on one side, and also the hate and opposition that a reformer must always expect from his contemporaries, the appearance of which we may already remark here and there where the new teaching has already been made known to the people. This an Akbar will not fear. But there is another danger that Kulluka referred to, which cannot be put so lightly on one side: the danger that a name once given, whether it be Allah or another, may become a personality to the uncultured, and be regarded as a personal representation, distinct from the Immortal Being; and then, naturally, all is at an end with your object--the unity of the Deity. And what will you have introduced, and what perhaps will you have made?" "But, Faizi," asked Abú-l Fazl, "what would you do to make the people wiser and more reasonable? How would you bring about this reformation of ideas that the Emperor desires?" "The great philosophers," was Faizi's answer, "of China, and all great civilisers have long ceased to profess any religion; but they have made a real beginning as regards the cultivation and the enlightenment of the people, and one which we have too much lost sight of. This is, above all things, the education of the people. There is the only, but perfectly certain means. It is true that the results do not soon appear; but those who put their hands to a great work seldom see the end, which surely comes at last; while each announcement of a new teaching, whether supported by the authority of revelation or not, though for a time it may flourish, in the end is sure to degenerate." "There seems to be much truth in what you have said," was Akbar's answer; "and I will take it all into my most serious consideration. It may perhaps be best to restrict the new teaching to the circle of our own friends, in case we find its introduction among the people to be opposed by insurmountable difficulties. Still you will not expect that I should at once give up my favourite project. We will talk it over again. But enough for to-day; state affairs now call for our attention. I thank you, my friends, for all you have said: you, Abú-l Fazl, for the support you have lent me; and you, too, for your frank and well-meant opposition." After having taken leave of the Emperor, Abú-l Fazl returned to his palace, accompanied by his friends, to receive in their presence the report of the two spies. CHAPTER XII. ASSASSINATION. It was on a bright fresh morning when Siddha, accompanied by two horsemen, took his way to Fathpúr, charged with the delivery of some letters, too important to be trusted to the hands of an ordinary messenger. The sun shone brightly, but its beams did not burn. In the trees sang many coloured birds, and squirrels and small monkeys sprang from bough to bough. All nature seemed awake and full of joy; and even the peasants met with on the road had exchanged their usual heavy tread for a lighter one, as if they also shared in the joy that reigned around. But Siddha, once so full of mirth and hope, took no part in it. Sombre and lost in thought, he rode on silently, followed by his attendants. He seemed, indeed, another man from what he was when he first arrived in Agra and joked with Parviz and his friends, listening with sympathy to the confidence of the former about the noble daughter of the Treasurer. With surprise Parviz had remarked the change, though discretion withheld him from making any inquiries; and still more deeply did Siddha himself feel how different all with him now was. How different from the day when Kulluka had seen him spring forward gracefully on his steed, as though he would conquer the world, calling on the loved name of his future bride! How different when a single kiss from Iravati was bliss to him--before he had learned to long for the passionate embraces of a Rezia--when his conscience was pure, and he had no cause for shame in having made himself guilty of treachery, faithlessness, and ingratitude! Sombre indeed were his reflections, for now more than ever suspicion crossed his thoughts. Was Rezia really faithful to him, or did she only treat him as she did her husband, who, far more than he, deserved her love? In truth, did Salim only come to her for state reasons, or were there other motives for his visits? And then the conspiracy, in which Siddha had become more and more entangled. Now that he thought it over it began to assume quite another character; it was not entirely for the defence of his fatherland, but appeared to be directed to very different ends. And had not Rezia, on her own confession, deceived him more than once? and what reason had he now for believing that this time she indeed spoke the truth? Into what new entanglement had he now fallen? and for the perpetration of what crime did he allow himself to be used as a tool? An exclamation from one of his troopers awoke him from his reflections, and looking in the direction to which the soldier pointed with his lance, he saw in the distance a group of horsemen engaged in combat. "Forward!" cried Siddha, putting spurs to his horse; and followed by his companions at full gallop, he turned towards the combatants. As he approached, to his astonishment and alarm, he recognised Abú-l Fazl, and in the man who sought to cut him down with his sabre Nara Singh, a Raja whom he had met more than once with Prince Salim. Directly the Raja's followers caught sight of the new comers, a detachment rode to encounter them. Siddha attacked the leading man of the troop, who soon lay with his horse on the ground, pierced by Siddha's lance. He then drew his sword, and with one blow emptied another saddle. He had harder work with the third, who was an accomplished soldier, and well acquainted with the use of the sword; and while the two troopers were busy with their opponents, others came riding up to the assistance of their comrades. The affair began to look very critical for our three, when Siddha by a fortunate blow placed his enemy hors de combat, and was just ready to receive the new comer, when the retreat was sounded, and they at once turned bridle; but at the same moment that he had felled his opponent and seen the others hurrying up, Siddha beheld Abú-l Fazl throw up his arms into the air, letting his sabre fall, and then sink from his horse to the ground. The next moment Nara Singh had called off his soldiers and retreated at a gallop over the plain. Siddha's first impulse was to pursue the murderers; but on second thoughts he saw that he, with his two men, one of whom was wounded, could do little, while the Minister's four servants lay stretched out dead on the field, and Abú-l Fazl, above all, required his aid. Springing from his horse, and flinging the reins to one of his followers, he knelt by the side of the wounded man, and loosing his clothes, sought to staunch the blood that flowed from a deep wound in his chest. To his joy Abú-l Fazl opened his eyes, and recognised him; but his joy was of short duration. "Your help, my brave Siddha, comes too late," he said, in a faint voice; "my work for the Emperor and his kingdom is over. One last command I give you: if you suspect who the murderer is, keep his name from Akbar." "Nara Singh," answered Siddha, "was, I see clearly, only a hireling; the real murderer is--" and here he hesitated to say the name. "Salim," continued Abú-l Fazl; "I had already been warned against him." Exhausted, the dying man sank back in Siddha's arms; but shortly after, consciousness returned, and he found the strength, though his voice was scarcely audible, to send a last greeting to his imperial friend, whom he had so faithfully served all his life. "Say to Akbar that my last thought was of him, and tell him I die in the firm conviction of the truth of those principles of which we have so often spoken, and so lately as yesterday. The glory of the sun I shall hardly see more, though I feel that the light still lives in me, but that also will be soon extinguished. I do not complain; I believe that I have been in a position to do some good to my fellow-men, though less than I wished, and so I die content. Strive, my young friend, so to live, that you may one day say the same. And now farewell," whispered the Wazir, after a short pause, gently pressing Siddha's hand. His head sank on his breast, and Siddha soon felt that his arm only supported a corpse. [103] At about the same time, but far away from this spot, another drama was being played, which, though in some respects different from the tragedy of the Wazir, in others resembled it closely. Among the mountains of the Himálayas, especially near Badari-natha, a burning heat had for some time reigned. At evening, the beneficent heavenly time, dark rain-clouds appeared, promising drink to the thirsty earth, but they were again driven away by the evil Vritra, the dark demon; and the next day the burning rays of the sun returned to dry up and parch all vegetation. At last the mighty Indra, monarch of the heavens, rose up and prepared himself for the strife. Again at evening the clouds gathered, and again the demon strove to disperse them; then Indra seized his lightning, and flung it among the mountains with so mighty a blow that it re-echoed, rattling and thundering from all sides. Vritra felt the stroke, but would not at once abandon the combat, and only a few heavy rain-drops fell here and there on languishing nature. Again fell the mighty blow, while the mountain tops and valleys were lighted by one dazzling blaze; gigantic trees were cleft in two, and heavy masses of rock were flung down into the ravines. Then the rain fell heavily, and brooks and mountain streams began to swell and rush downwards to the valleys. At last the fearful battle was over, rain ceased to fall, lightning flickered through the twilight, and no sound broke the silence except the rushing of waters. Then Gurupada, the hermit, left his dwelling, to enjoy the fresh air laden with fragrance. He seated himself beneath his verandah, overgrown with roses and jasmine. He sat there enjoying the peace of nature and the new life which the refreshing rain had called forth; while he thought of the ancient epic of the clouds, with Indra the slayer of Vritra [104] as its hero, which floated before his mind, as if it had been a poem of yesterday. Then sombre and disquieting thoughts forced themselves upon him. The accounts that Kulluka had lately brought from Kashmir and Agra filled him with anxiety respecting the future of his dearly-loved country. "And so," said he to himself, "it must in the end come to what I have so long feared, and hoped to have averted by many years of self-inflicted banishment. A strange ruler is on the point of seizing on our unhappy country, and the road is smoothed to him by our own fatal disunion. He is right from his point of view: he must restore order in a neighbouring State when the anarchy continually causes disturbances in his own empire; and if this cannot be accomplished while the independence of that country is respected, then must it be forced to subjection. But is there in truth nothing that can be done? No, no," continued he. "Kulluka's proposal that I should return, and, perhaps supported by Akbar, take the government from the hands of my weak brother--no, that would not do. My return would only be a temporary remedy, even if it were that. And I have become too old and unpractised in the art of ruling again to reign, and, above all, there, where youth and energy are required. Life cannot last much longer; I am weary and long for rest; I have long sighed for union with the immortal Brahma, whence we take our short independent existence, and to which we shall return again." And Gurupada slowly closed his eyes as he stretched himself upon a soft bed of fresh moss. A flash of lightning, that for a moment lit up the valley and all around, awoke and called him back for a few moments to his reflections. "And perhaps it is as well that things should indeed go as they seem fated to do. A renewed party warfare, of which the end can never be foreseen, would impoverish our people, and bring our country to ruin. But should it be subjected to a wise and just government, its industries and commerce would revive, and its former prosperity return. Akbar is a prince who knows how to make his subjects happy; and to-day many people bless him who formerly resisted his rule. Yet it is hard for a country to see itself deprived of a liberty which has been its boast for centuries. Ah, that it might be spared me to see this happen to my own country!" So saying, he laid his head down again, with a sigh, and, half listening to the rushing of the brook, fell into a light slumber. All seemed in the deepest rest far and near; there was nothing to disturb the old man's sleep, except that every now and then he became aware of the humming of an insect, and felt it brush his cheek gently; and then a strange, unaccountable feeling crossed him that he was not alone. Again he looked up, but could see nothing, and even the insect seemed to be driven away by his sudden movement. In a short time it returned, then flew away, and again returned, until the sleeping man took no further notice of it, and gave himself up entirely to slumber. This was not so heavy but that the slightest cause would again awaken him. Suddenly he put one hand to his neck and seized a cord that had been flung round it; with the other he felt around him, and touched a cold, slippery body that had been rubbed with oil. Having freed himself from the cord, he seized his assailant with both hands, but in vain; he slipped through his fingers and appeared to escape. The stillness of night was broken by a sharp cry, answered by a growl, and close by Gurupada saw two fiery balls gleam. In another moment a flash of lightning showed him his tiger Hara, with its powerful claws fixed in the body of a man who lay stretched on the ground. At the sound of this cry the servant hurried from the house with a torch, the light of which showed Gurupada that his sight had not deceived him; and he at once understood what had happened. The man that lay there had attempted to strangle him; but, just in time, he had felt the cord; and the tiger, driven by some instinct, had followed the Thug as unobserved as he himself had approached the hermit. "Back! Hara," cried Gurupada, springing forward and seizing the tiger by the neck; "back, I say." At first the animal would not move, and then, slowly and unwillingly obeying the voice of its master, it drew out its claws, and retreated growling, for a few paces, and laid itself down. With the help of the servant, the hermit lifted the fallen man from the ground, where a blow from the tiger's paw had laid him; and finding that life still lingered, they placed him carefully on the moss. "I know this man," said Gurupada, after having closely examined him. "In the days of my power I showed him many favours and benefits. What could have driven him to this treacherous attack?" On hearing these words, the wounded man looked up, and gazed attentively and earnestly at the hermit; then murmured, with astonishment, "Nandigupta! is it possible!" "Nandigupta, in truth," was the answer. "What induced you to seek my life?" "My lord and prince," said the Thug, with a firm voice, "I swear to you by Siva and his holy consort that I knew not who you were, and had long thought you dead. Had I known it, I should never have had the strength or courage to fulfil the behest of Durga, however great the punishment of her anger might have been. But, happily, she herself did not desire your death, and sent this tiger to take my life in the place of yours. Blessed be her name!" Exhaustion prevented his saying more. With the servant's help, Gurupada washed and bound, as well as was possible, the terrible wound caused by the tiger's claws, and having given him drink, and seeing he began to recover a little, Gurupada asked further, "What drove you to this deed? and if you did not know who I was, who told you that Durga desired my death?" "Gorakh the Yogi," was the reply. "Ha! the villain!" murmured Gurupada; "then there must be more behind. So you have become a Thug," he continued. "I am sorry to see you so led away and blinded. Was I the only one pointed out to you by Gorakh as a chosen sacrifice?" Pain for a few minutes hindered the wounded man from replying, though his countenance betrayed nothing of what he was suffering. At last he answered and spoke very steadily, with pauses between his words, "The First Minister of Kashmir, Salhana's brother, is also chosen; but his death is entrusted to my brother, who is also well known to you. Should he fail, then I am to carry it out." "And has your brother started for Kashmir?" "He left me yesterday a little distance from here, and took his way towards the north." "On foot?" "Yes." "Are any others acquainted with these orders respecting the Minister and me?" "No one else knows. Only when it is known that we have failed will the task be entrusted to others." Gurupada signed to his servant, and went on one side with him. "Go," he said, "and saddle your horse at once. You must instantly set off on a journey." A low, suppressed groan called him back to the side of the wounded man. "My lord," he murmured, "I have only a few minutes to live; and I ask you to add one more favour to the many I have enjoyed at your hands: say that you forgive me." "I forgive you, unhappy man," answered Gurupada; "I know you were nothing but a tool in the hands of others." "Then I die happy, and with a foretaste of bliss enter into immortal life, assured of the grace of the goddess both to you and me, through the wonder she has worked in receiving me as a sacrifice in your place. Holy Trinity, holy Durga!" cried he, in a louder voice, and stretching out his arms as though animated with fresh strength; "receive me into the temple of your glory! I come!" With these words he fell back motionless, and the faithful follower of the Goddess of Destruction was no more. For some time the hermit remained gazing at the lifeless body, to which, in the wavering light, its emaciation, dark colour, and forehead marked with the red and white symbols of Siva, gave a ghostly aspect. "To what," he muttered, "cannot religion or fanaticism lead! it turns otherwise good and quiet people into criminals, murderers, and mad-men. Still this man is in no way to be pitied; he died as a martyr, in the full conviction of being received into endless happiness. But the hypocrites, the shameless villains, such as Gorakh, who make use of such simple souls as tools wherewith to execute their accursed plans, what of them? What do they deserve but a war of destruction? Yet no," he continued, shaking his head, "that would not be right. No mercy where a crime has been committed or attempted; but no persecution when it is only threatened. Who can place the limit where a religious sect becomes dangerous, and where it is not?" Here the return of the servant interrupted his thoughts. "Help me," he said, "to carry this man who lies here. He is dead, but I do not wish that Hara should devour him, which otherwise he certainly will do; and when we have finished, then to horse. Hasten you to Kashmir, to warn the Minister of what we have learnt; and endeavour to trace out the brother of this man, whom you well know. Seek to hinder him in his undertaking, and to prevent his communicating with any of his associates. If you can, also discover where Gorakh is; do not spare him for a moment: the wretch doubly deserves the cord he prepares for the necks of others." "But, honoured master," asked the servant, with hesitation, "must I leave you entirely alone here in the wilderness? It seems that your place of refuge is now discovered, and there may be fresh attempts on your life. Must I leave you, just at this moment when I might be of service?" "My best friend," answered Gurupada, smiling, "do not disturb yourself about me. What is my life in comparison with the greater interests that depend on the speedy execution of your mission? I am here as safe as with you for my guard, at least as long as Hara lives. You have seen how brave a guard he is. I would not advise any more of these marauders to show themselves in the neighbourhood. Hara now knows those kind of people, and is not inclined to allow them to come here in peace. Is your horse ready?" "Yes, lord." "Well, quickly away. First, help me with our work here." CHAPTER XIII. PARTING. The tidings of Abú-l Fazl's death had made an overwhelming impression on the Emperor. It seemed to him as if everything that had until now been his support was suddenly failing him. He who had been so strong, who had never known faint-heartedness when threatened by the fiercest storms, who had braved the greatest dangers, and had always come back victor from the strife, now felt his strength crippled, and as though he were almost powerless among the many disturbances that were again breaking out in his empire. All he was capable of in those first days was to order the arrest of Nara Singh, the murderer; but this order it was impossible to carry out, as the Raja had fled and found a safe refuge far away, to await the time when Salim should ascend the throne and load him with favours. However, it was not possible that a man of Akbar's character could remain bowed down under the burden of sorrow, however heavy it might be. For some days he shut himself up entirely, and admitted no one except Faizi and some of his most trusted friends; but with time courage returned to him to receive others who sought audience either respecting their own affairs or those of the state. Among these was Padre Aquaviva, who, before his departure, wished to take a personal leave of the Emperor. "So you are going to leave us again, worthy Father?" said Akbar, as the Jesuit was ushered into his presence. "I must do so, Sire," answered Aquaviva; "our Provincial summons me back to Goa. But I cannot depart without expressing to your Majesty my heartiest thanks for the honour and favours that have here been shown us, though I hesitated to ask an audience after your serious and bitter loss. A worthy man, a true friend, and a faithful servant was Abú-l Fazl, and the memory of such a man is certainly a comfort in the midst of the sorrow that his loss causes. But," added he, after a moment's pause, "this would not be to me a sufficient consolation." "Not enough!" repeated Akbar in surprise. "What more would you demand?" "I should wish for the certainty that he died with a purer soul, and with happier expectations than was possible." "Abú-l Fazl," answered the Emperor, in an earnest but calm voice,--"Abú-l Fazl was as pure of soul as any of yours can be, without saying more, and he died as I would wish to die." The Jesuit waited, expecting Akbar would add something more, but he was silent; and the tone of his reply clearly showed that to ask for further explanation would be imprudent. "Do you expect to return soon?" asked Akbar, after a few minutes silence. "That will depend on the orders I receive," answered Aquaviva. "So far as I am myself concerned, with sorrow I am compelled to confess that my mission here has been a failure." "How a failure? Have you not received here the fullest protection, and been shown all respect and fitting honour? and have you not enjoyed the most complete liberty to preach what you will, and to convert whom you can? Do you reckon that as nothing? Here, where a few years ago, under my predecessors, any preaching of your doctrines would have met with the punishment of death." "Sire," answered the Padre, "we should indeed be ungrateful did we reckon such important privileges as nothing. Yet I must repeat that our mission is a failure as respects its principal object. You know well with what glorious hopes we came to Agra; the reverent interest you took in our holy writings, and in the ceremonials of our Church, had filled us with hope that in the end the light of truth would sink into your noble heart and deep-thinking mind; we had hoped, and almost expected with certainty, that the Church of Christ would greet in Shah Akbar one of, if not the most famous of her sons. These hopes and expectations we cannot now flatter ourselves were anything but idle; so, cannot we say with truth that our mission has failed in its highest aim? Still, it may be that here and there in our teaching there are difficulties which your philosophers cannot now solve, which closer study and research will throw light upon. I think of the great benefits that the Church has showered upon the West, and which would not here be wanting did she possess like power." "With reason," said Akbar, "you now leave on one side the real dogmatical questions, for about them we shall never agree, and for the moment I feel no inclination for their discussion. You speak of benefits; I believe, willingly and with reason, that your Christian doctrines have done much for the world--more, perhaps, than any other religion--in the application of the principles of universal love of our fellow-men, and self-sacrifice; however, as we have already shown you, this is not exclusively taught by your doctrines, which, if they have done much good, have also done much that is evil. Have you not introduced the greatest intolerance that the world has ever known? Have not you, you priests, in the West exalted yourselves to tyrannize over the consciences of your fellow-men? Have you not doomed hundreds and thousands to the stake because they differed from you on some point of faith? And you call these benefits! Then, indeed, you have strange ideas of doing good; and your love for your fellow-men is of a strange kind. Tell me," he continued, turning a penetrating look on Aquaviva, "tell me, how would you treat me, Akbar, whom you now honour so highly, were I a Christian subject of one of the princes who obey your commands? Would you not thrust me into a dungeon, and, if I remained hardened in my unbelief, deliver me to a judge to be condemned to the fire and stake?" Perplexed, the Jesuit drew back. Such a question he had not expected; and what could he reply? Certainly it could not be denied that in all probability Akbar would be so treated were he in the situation he imagined. "Sire," at last he stammered, "that is not the case; and how can Akbar, the mighty Emperor of Hindustan, think of himself as the subject of one of our princes?" "Certainly it is not so, fortunately for me! but your answer shows that my hypothesis was well grounded. Now another question: what would you do with me, Emperor of Hindustan, as I am? You wish me to be as one of your princes, who are submissive to your orders, and to use me as a tool for the maintenance of your clerical tyranny. Naturally you are very anxious for my conversion. Well, I tell you, once for all, you will never see it; not even if I entirely accepted your Evangelists, and were really publicly or privately to embrace them. I could have nothing to do with your present Church, well knowing what fatal consequences to a State would follow on its monarch taking such a step." "Then," said Aquaviva, "nothing remains to us but to pray to our Lord that He by a miracle will bring about that which our zealous and feeble efforts have been unable to accomplish. And this prayer, I feel certain, will not remain unanswered. Reflect, O powerful ruler, that against Him the great of the earth are as nothing, and that He can punish those who withstand Him. He, and He alone, will triumph, and the gates of hell will avail nothing against the rock of Peter, while Christ and His Church will endure until the end of the world." "That may be your affair," cried Akbar, losing a little of his usual patience; "mine is to watch over the liberty and rights of my people, and to defend them against you, as against the mullahs or priests of any other creeds. Remain here, or go, as it best pleases you; preach as seems good to you, and build churches. You shall enjoy the same privileges as Muhammadans in their mosques and Hindus in their temples. There is, however, one warning which I must give you: the moment I find you attempt to introduce any persecution amongst your converts or others, as already has been the case on the coast of Malabar, that moment shall you be banished from my kingdom, never to set your foot within it again." With suppressed wrath Loyola's follower listened to these proud words; but what could he do, what could he say? He had no complaint to bring against this invariably tolerant prince, and to defy the formidable monarch would have been sheer madness. Nor would there have been a martyr's crown to gain by doing so. If he, a helpless missionary, were to use threatening and injurious language, the Emperor would not harm a hair of his head,--only send him and his to Surat, [105] and from thence in a ship to Goa, where he would be landed with the utmost courtesy. Perhaps he would not even take that trouble, but simply laugh, "I have the door, show it him." Miserable and ignominious situation for a member of that order elsewhere so powerful and so feared, before whom the people trembled, and princes and popes were forced to bow their heads in submission! Akbar interrupted the reflections of the disappointed and silent missionary. "Worthy Father," he said, in his usual friendly tone, "it indeed grieves me to be obliged to speak with so much frankness and harshness in maintaining my authority in the combat you have yourself invited; and I do not wish to see you depart in anger. I have learnt much from you and yours, the knowledge of which was very welcome to me, and for that I am grateful. If I cannot fulfil your wishes, believe that it grieves me; and if on some points we differ from each other, do not imagine that causes me to respect you less highly. If you will leave us, so be it; but let us part in friendship. Let our parting be in the spirit of the noble Founder of your religion, who said well, that He came not to bring peace but a sword, and yet strove to lay the foundation of a kingdom of peace and love amongst men." If Aquaviva a few moments before had bent his head before the might of the Emperor, another power now subdued him, that of Akbar's moral greatness. The religious fanatic, the passionate zealot, himself felt this, and it was with a trembling voice that the defiant, fearless apostle spoke a few words of farewell to him who stood there obdurate of heart, his eye blinded to the light of truth, and his ear deaf to the warnings of the one Holy Church. "Forgive us, noble prince," he said, moved in spite of himself, "if we have said what was displeasing to you, and seemed ungrateful for the many benefits we have received in your kingdom, or at your hands. Ascribe it to the fervour for our faith which animates us, and which is certainly not less strong than the enthusiasm which leads you to devote your life to the welfare of your people. Though you may yourself set no value on our prayers, yet be assured wherever we may go they will always be offered up for you." Silently Akbar returned the reverent greeting of the Padre, as he slowly left the room, his fingers moving nervously, as if he were telling his beads. In one of the passages of the palace, where a single lamp shed a dim, uncertain light, he suddenly stumbled against a man, who answered his excuses by a suppressed curse. "Cursed Christian dog," he muttered, as he hurried on. It was Abdul Kadir Badaoni, who was on his way to the Emperor, into whose presence he was ushered by servants, and who greeted him by saying, "You see I am always ready to speak with you. I made no difficulty about receiving you when this morning you requested an audience, although the sad circumstances in which I am placed have caused me to see but little of my friends in these last days." "Sire," began Abdul Kadir, with apparent respect, but in a tone of unmistakable anger, and without paying the least attention to the friendly manner in which the Emperor had received him, "I come to bid you farewell; the time of my departure draws near." "You also, my worthy friend?" asked Akbar. "And what obliges you to leave us so suddenly?" "Unwillingness," was the reply, "to remain here and witness what is to me a daily scandal, and grieves me to the soul; and unwillingness, also, to take part in the treachery and conspiracies with which I see you surrounded, and in which, against my own wishes, I must share were I to linger here. Akbar, your empire approaches its fall! I warned you, when yet there was time, to save yourself; now, perhaps, that time is passed. I know not what is decided on, and I do not wish to know. The resistance you have aroused by your foolish and criminal scorn of our holy religion is, I consider, too powerful to be turned aside. Think of the ambition of Salim your son, and the secret alliance of other and not less ambitious people, who know how to lead him away, so that they may become masters of the rank and appointments now withheld from them. Think of all this, and you will agree with me that the state of affairs is at best extremely threatening to the continuance of your reign; but, as I said," he continued, not remarking the slight smiles that his dark forebodings had called forth on the lips of the Emperor, "I will not remain to be a daily witness of what here occurs, and is talked of far and wide. The holy Koran you have scorned and trampled under foot; you deride the great Prophet; you indulge in godless practices, learned from impious fire-worshippers; you receive openly at court, and privately in your own apartments, our bitterest foes--the Jews and Christians--you treat them with honour and load them with favours--such a one I have just seen leaving your palace; you receive Indian charmers and magicians, and all such people as Shaitan himself has sent here. In truth, Jalalu-dín Muhammad, you do honour to your name! Jalalu-dín, the glory of faith! Bitter irony of destiny that gave you such a title, which you were destined to insult in so shameful a manner. And now, again, as if all that were not enough, as if you would fill up the full measure, see, see the exaggerated honours paid to the memory of this Abú-l Fazl, this arch enemy of the true faith! He, with his brother Faizi, the denier of God, tempted you to this injustice and to the desertion of our holy religion; and this is the man whom you publicly honour and exalt above all. If his life was no warning to you, then may his death be so before it is too late. You have been told, doubtless, all that was beautiful about his last moments; but believe me that the truth has been withheld from you. I, however much it may cost me, will draw back the veil, and tell you how Abú-l Fazl died. Hear, and shudder at the terrible account which is known to everyone excepting yourself. As long as speech was left to him, Abú-l Fazl did not cease to blaspheme his God in a manner to awaken horror in all who heard him; then he began to yelp or bark like a dog; his features were contorted and his lips blue, as though he already felt the first pangs of that eternal punishment that awaited him." "Those are lies, shameful lies!" cried Akbar, suddenly awakening from the composure with which, until now, he had listened to the fanatic's ravings. "Shameful scandal, of which you religious zealots are alone capable, when you leave reason in the lurch and seek to throw blemishes on a noble character. How Abú-l Fazl died, and what were his dying words, I know from one I can trust; therefore spare me your idle inventions. I will not hear them. I have listened patiently to the insolent words you have dared to use towards me; I have shown you an indulgence that perhaps no prince in my place would have done, and you have misused it, which I will not suffer. Attack me, insult my dearest convictions, revile me, Akbar your Emperor,--it is well; all that I will pardon. But do not calumniate my truest and treacherously murdered friend, or I will make use of my power to silence for ever the tongue that has attacked in so cowardly a manner a hated opponent who can no longer defend himself." "Take my head," said Abdul Kadir, as, undismayed, he looked the Emperor in the face. "You know that I have ever desired to give my life for you. If my death can do you no service, it may at least appease your unjust wrath. I have said what I believed to be the truth, whether you believe it or not. I did my duty, and you can do yours, or what you are pleased to consider as such." "Enough," said Akbar, recovering from his indignation; "I desire your life as little as your death. Go hence unharmed, but do not dare ever again to come into my presence." Without a word of greeting, Abdul Kadir turned round, and with a proud and defiant look strode towards the door; but as he laid his hand on the curtain that hung before it, the Emperor called him by his name, and the proud Muhammadan turned round in surprise. "Abdul Kadir," he said, "do not let us part so. We have known each other too long, and learnt to respect each other too highly, to part in such a manner. For I know, in spite of our difference, your respect and esteem are mine--even your vehemence proves it; and I, on my side, do not only look upon you as a learned and wise, but as a brave and honourable man, which in these days is of far greater value. I would not willingly see any one leave me in anger, and you least of all. Go; I understand that it is necessary you should do so, and that it cannot be otherwise; but do not go with wrath in your heart: think on the long years that we have passed together in peace and friendship, and forget the cause that makes our parting unavoidable." As Akbar began to speak, Abdul Kadir's countenance still retained its defiant expression; but by degrees this softened at the generous words of the forgiving prince, and though he said nothing, his whole bearing spoke, as Akbar held out his hand. He grasped it warmly, and a tear fell on it as he bent his head. Then he turned and went, never to return, for he also was one of those whom the Emperor would see no more. Akbar remained for some time gazing towards the curtain that had closed behind his friend of former years. At last, with faltering step he approached the open gallery, and gazed out on the gardens, with their softly falling fountains, lying in profound peace under the silvery moonlight. Then, wearied out, he sank on one of the marble seats, and covered his face with his hands. Thus, they all forsook him one after another: Abú-l Fazl cruelly torn from him, the Christian missionaries departing in anger, and now Abdul Kadir bade him farewell for ever; and all this happened in the moment when, above all, he needed the support of true friends--in the midst of dangers and difficulties, when even his own son rose against him, and strove to wrench from his hands the sceptre he had so long wielded for the prosperity and welfare of his subjects. And all this for the sake of religion! For that Salim took up arms in the name of the true faith was certain; and it was generally believed that Nara Singh had been a tool in the hands of religious fanatics. "Religion," said Akbar to himself, "what is it, then? Is it a blessing bringing peace and joy to the soul of man, showing him his utter nothingness, leading him to humility and adoration, and awakening in him the love of his fellow-man, and the desire to live for the good of others? Or is it a fatal thing, making man prouder, more overbearing to others, the deeper his convictions are rooted; a madness that at times masters the greatest and noblest, forcing them to hate and curse, and that brings crime, murder, and bloody strife amongst the people? Would it be fortunate, or unfortunate, should the human race with one consent cease to possess any religion? Unanswerable question! Full of the greatest contradiction, and yet to which every one would be ready to reply without thought. Without religious worship all are agreed that there can be no salvation for man, no order in society. But when the question of the choice of a religion arises, at once the flames of conflict break out; and each man cries 'Mine, and mine alone!' Swords leap from their scabbards, and steel and violence are to decide what is truth. Is it possible that some day a religious system may arise that will content all, and unite the human race in one bond of love? Were they idle and foolish dreams with which I flattered myself when I believed that I had found it? Alas! it is hard to lose friends, but harder to lose cherished illusions that are dearer still." A hand laid gently on his shoulder made Akbar look up. By his side stood Faizi, to whom was allowed the privilege of approaching the Emperor unannounced. "Akbar," said Faizi, "awaken from your sad and useless musing. Must I be the one to say to you, be a man!--I, who, in comparison with you, am so weak? But it is necessary that I should so speak. I do not feel less keenly the loss of my dear brother, than you the loss of a true councillor and a much-loved friend. It is necessary that we should both rouse ourselves, and not allow grief so to overwhelm us as to make us weak in the face of dangers that still threaten the kingdom; therefore I dare to say to you, show yourself again a man. To be so cast down is unworthy of you; and if Abú-l Fazl could know it, he might perchance acknowledge for the first time in his life that Akbar is not faultless." "My true and noble friend," said Akbar, "I thank you from my heart for your frank words. To exchange thought for action is indeed now necessary. However, you perhaps are mistaken as to the nature of the thoughts in which you found me sunk; the memory of your brother had only a share in them." And then Akbar recounted the farewells of Aquaviva and Abdul Kadir, and the reflections to which they had given rise. "In all that," said Faizi, after a moment's reflection, "I recognise my magnanimous Emperor, and my philosophical and idealistic friend. You know what are my feelings on the subject you have touched upon. I do not set much store by what men are wont to call religious worship, when by that they mean an unlimited mystical feeling devoid of all reality, and still less when it depends on unproved propositions and dogmas that take their rise in imagination. However right men may be when they call me atheist, they are not so when they deem me an unbeliever. On the contrary, I believe much; but my faith rests on firm ground, on that of experience itself. Among other things, I believe, as I have said more than once, in the law of gradual development, not in material life alone, but especially in the soul and mind of man. In this development I see the solution of the great problem that you, like all other reformers and founders of religions, most wish to discover. Think where we men began, and how far we have already progressed, and think at what point we may yet arrive! We were nothing better than animals, and after the lapse of some thousand years we are reasonable beings; and when thousands and thousands of years have rolled by, where shall we be? Shall we not--not only some of us, but all, perchance--have attained a clear insight into the immortal and necessary union of things (or union of spirit and matter) through continued search and through the development of knowledge. Then, content and resting on this knowledge, should we not dispense with the dreams that we now accept under the well-sounding name of religious worship, which, well-considered, is only a means to satisfy our self-love, by assuring us of salvation in a future state, which no mortal can put on one side." "Your spirit soars high," said Akbar, "and your eye sees far--to me it seems too far and too high. I think of the present; the future brings me but little consolation." "But," asked Faizi, "do I lose sight of the present? Does it not belong to the first maxim of my faith--or, if you prefer it, to my philosophy--that men should fulfil to the uttermost the duties laid upon them? Truly, contemplation and knowledge are idle when for their sake reality is thrust on one side. If philosophy did not teach us to devote our powers to the living present, then were it nothing but a phantasy and an idle delusion of the soul. To work with zeal and energy for the end we propose to ourselves, is a very different thing from wishing for impossibilities, and falling back discouraged at our want of success. And so it is with religion, or, in a more limited sense, with the religion of the people, or the conviction of the people respecting the invisible world. This does not develop suddenly at a sign from some inspired reformer, but slowly in the course of ages; and in all cases it must be preceded by an indispensable condition, that of the cultivation and enlightenment of the people, and this is not possible unless they possess the means--not possible without prosperity. And in that which concerns the first foundation of enlightenment and cultivation, has Akbar just cause for self-reproach and discouragement? Can he say that he has not done enough, or at least much, for the welfare of the people entrusted to his rule? Look back, my Emperor, on what you have accomplished, and, leaving your theological contemplations on one side, judge if the consequences of what you have done are not the best encouragement to continue with energy the work that is already begun." Faizi was right, it was no flattering speech of a courtier, when he praised the social reforms that the Emperor had introduced and continued with success. The experience of following centuries bear out his words. Of Akbar's religious dreams scarcely a trace was left after his death, but his land system has remained the foundation on which the successive rulers of Hindustan have built, and at one time it was proposed, by an able and intelligent Englishman, to introduce this system into our Dutch Indian possessions, where it would have borne good fruit. This, however, fell to the ground through the dulness and want of knowledge of our Governors." "You are right, Faizi," said the Emperor, rising to his feet and lifting up his head as though animated with new life; "we must work, not dream, work as long as the day remains, unwearied, and without pausing. You must stand by me now that I have lost my greatest support; and I think I may promise that you will be as content with Akbar as he with you. But now for one more emblem; averse to them as you are, this will find grace in your eyes. See yonder faltering, mighty apparition! in that I recognise the condition in which for days my soul has been bowed. But to-morrow the sun again rises, and I will once more show myself, not as I am, but as I should be. That is the duty of a prince. So long as the impulse does not come from the people, the prince, with his councillors, should be the fountain of light and life in the State. If at times I forget this,--then, Faizi, call, as Abú-l Fazl did, the holy duty of a prince before my spirit, and speak to me as you have done this night." CHAPTER XIV. THE DISCOVERY. The Emperor, at the head of his troops, had set out for the north, and all accounts reported that he was already at some distance from Agra. Siddha was still waiting for orders to join his detachment, which had marched among the first; what wonder, then, if he had sought to shorten the time of waiting by repeated visits to Rezia Gulbadan! One evening he turned his steps towards her dwelling, although he could not flatter himself it was with the same eagerness as formerly. He had begun more and more to distrust her; and these repeated visits were partly to obtain more knowledge of her secrets and of the conspiracy. He little suspected that that evening would disclose to him more than he cared to know. Arriving at the little gate in the wall, he found, to his astonishment, that it was not shut as usual, and, in all probability through carelessness, the key had been left in the lock. He could therefore enter without giving the usual signal. Carefully closing the door behind him, he ascended the path with rapid steps. As he drew near the verandah he found fresh reason for surprise. Just at that moment a man entered, whom, at first, he did not recognise, but, as he withdrew into the thick shadow of the many plants, the lamplight showed his uncle Salhana, who, scarcely greeting Gulbadan, cried in the utmost excitement, "We are betrayed, shamefully betrayed! The Emperor," he continued, as Gulbadan listened in terror, "is acquainted with all our plans. How, I know not, but it is too true. I have positive information from Gorakh, who, as you know, accompanies the army in disguise. Akbar not only knows of our undertaking from the beginning, but his spies have informed him of all the changes that have taken place in our plans. Cunning as he is, he let it come to our ears that he had seen through our first plan, without letting us know that he was also acquainted with the second; allowing us to think that he had fallen into the trap. Now he and his army have marched as though really for Kashmir. That is all very well, but he will suddenly turn round, and by forced marches surprise us here at Agra, when we believe ourselves to be in safety. I am only just warned in time to prevent Salim, on the settled day, from being proclaimed Emperor; but that will not avail us much. When Akbar knows all, he will not spare us, although he may not catch Salim in the act; and nothing now remains for us but to have recourse to the most extreme measures." "And what are they?" asked Gulbadan. "Gorakh and his followers," answered Salhana, "can aid us, and they must. Before the Emperor has time to reach Agra his life must be taken." At these words a shudder ran through Siddha, and he laid his hand on the hilt of his dagger, and was about to step forward, but restrained himself in time. "Salim must know nothing of this," continued Salhana; "nor must we tell him when the deed is accomplished. He may, indeed, have his suspicions, but he will conduct himself as though he knew nothing; nor will he hold us in less honour. To-morrow I go to the army to arrange all with Gorakh, who has told me how I may recognise him in his disguise; and in the meantime you must take care that Salim is warned. I myself will not visit him, for fear of rousing suspicions. Tell me, on what footing are you now with him?" "I have not seen him here for a long time," answered Gulbadan; "and the reasons for his continued absence are unknown to me. However, I am not uneasy: I know, cost what it may, he will have me for his Sultana; and that shall be when he is Emperor, not before." "And while waiting, you occupy your time with that nephew of mine I entrusted to your care, is it not so? A brave young man, and one in whom you seem to find pleasure." "For a time; but now he begins rather to weary me; and, well considered, he is not of much use. Without ceasing, one has to discuss with him over and over again all kinds of ideas of honour and duty. When he has served our turn, I shall show him the door, and all the more, as he may stand in the way of my plans with Salim." "What is that?" suddenly asked Salhana, turning towards the garden side of the verandah: "I think I hear a movement; is it possible that some uninvited guest may have found his way in?" "Impossible," answered Gulbadan; "the door in the garden wall is locked, is it not?"--Salhana had forgotten that in his haste he had left it open.--" And from the other side there is no danger, for Faizi started this morning to join the army. Go by this path, it will be more prudent, as you might meet Siddha in the neighbourhood of the garden wall." "All, then, is settled, is it not?" said Salhana. "You undertake Salim and those here in Agra, and I charge myself with Akbar; and if I am fortunate, we and his people will shortly be freed from his rule." With a slight greeting Salhana then disappeared behind a curtain, taking a side path unknown to Siddha, so that to follow him, according to his first impulse, was impossible. The best course now was to return at once, and ensure the failure of the plot by warning the Emperor before the conspirators suspected anything. But his longing to show Gulbadan that he had ceased to be her despised tool was too great to be resisted, and with one bound he was in the verandah and standing before her. "Cursed snake!" he cried, "you caused me to become a traitor; but do not flatter yourself that your accursed plot and that of yonder ruffian will succeed. I, who begin to weary you, will hinder it." "Ha! you have been listening, then," said Gulbadan, an expression of hate and malice crossing her hitherto gentle face, depriving it of all its beauty; "and now you intend to betray us,--but that shall never be." Before Siddha could guess her intention, she flew towards him, aiming a blow at his heart with a dagger. He half-mechanically sought to ward off the blow, but his arm fell helpless to his side at the sight of a figure that appeared to rise from the ground behind Gulbadan, and who seized the murderess' hand in an iron grasp. Gulbadan turned round hastily, and sank with a cry of horror to the earth. Behind her stood Faizi, and behind him two servants with drawn swords. "Mercy!" she implored, returning to her senses, while Siddha stood motionless, gazing at the scene before him. "Mercy, my lord and master!" And with her head bowed down so that her dark locks swept the ground, she crept on her knees towards Faizi, who stepped back as she strove to approach him more closely. "Back!" he cried; "do not touch me. Bind that woman," he said, turning to his followers, "and take her to my castle of Mathura. There let her be closely watched; and should she ever make an attempt, however slight, to enter into communication with the outer world, then carry out the sentence from which to-day I spare her. Never again will I see her, nor a single hair of her guilty head." Then he turned and spoke to the fallen one who knelt at his feet; but his words were not such as to lighten her punishment. "Hope gives life," he said; "and you, whose name will never more pass my lips, perhaps flatter yourself with a vain expectation. You think you can reckon on the protection of one more powerful than I, or who will one day be so. You think that Salim will stand by you, and release you from your imprisonment. This is a vain hope. He whom you have also deceived imparted to me your connection with yonder man; and this was Salim himself, whom you imagined safe in your toils." As he spoke, Gulbadan had raised her head, and listened with attention; but at his last words, with a cry she sank senseless to the ground, her arms stretched out in front of her. "Do your duty," said Faizi to his followers. And she was hastily conveyed from the apartment. "And now you," said he, approaching Siddha, as he drew his sword from the scabbard. "I have forfeited my life," replied Siddha. "Strike! I ask nothing better than death from your hands." "That I understand," said Faizi, thoughtfully, and letting the sword sink slowly back into its sheath; "and I am not inclined to fulfil your wishes. Others in the same case would think differently. A Musalman would lay your head before his feet; a Hindu would have you strangled; and a Frank, most foolish of all, would challenge you to fight. But I choose none of these. You may live, and depart unharmed from hence. Live, with the remembrance of the ill you have done, and of the manner in which you, who call yourself a nobleman, have repaid a true friendship. The remembrance of this shall never leave you, though you may become famous and rise high in rank; and however highly you may be honoured and respected, yet you will always cast down your eyes before any honourable man, remembering how in your youth you treated a friend. This is the punishment I lay upon you! Now go." Obeying an imperious sign from Faizi, and bowed down with shame, Siddha turned, and with faltering step took his way through the garden and still open door. For a time he wandered on unconscious of all around him. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he saw some labourers busy lading a boat; and as though it were his own affair, he stood narrowly watching their every movement, now wondering how they would manage to convey in safety some heavy bale over the plank that connected the vessel with the shore, and now shaking his head at their awkwardness. Then some soldiers attracted his attention, who sat drinking and playing dice by the wavering light of a torch, and he began to wish to join them in drinking and playing. But at that moment one thought drove out all others, the remembrance of the plot to murder the Emperor. Had Faizi heard all, so that he could warn Akbar? But these questions he was unable to answer. Then why not go himself, without a moment's further waste of time? Salhana was to start the following morning, and another starting at once could easily precede him. Siddha wasted no more time in thought, but hurried to the quarter of the city where his detachment was; and giving over the command to another officer, he turned to his own dwelling, and ordered Vatsa to saddle the bay--the bay given him by Faizi, and which, after discovering Rezia's true name, he had never dared either to ride or return, though now, in the service of the Emperor and empire, he mounted it. "Prepare to follow me to the army," he said to Vatsa, as he led the horse out, "but at some distance. Start in an hour's time, ride hard, and if necessary deliver the message with which I entrust you." He then imparted to him as much as was necessary touching the plot against the Emperor, and ordered him to seek Akbar at once if he should not find his master with the army. Having said this, he struck spurs to his horse, and set off at a gallop. A hurried journey, neither allowing himself nor his horse necessary repose, soon brought him to the army; and no sooner had he reached the camp than he sought an audience with the Emperor, which, after a short delay, was granted him. "What do you do here?" asked Akbar, in a stern voice. "Who has given you leave to desert your post in Agra? It may go hardly with you if you cannot answer to my satisfaction." "Sire," replied Siddha, "if I had nothing worse than this to answer for, I might call myself happy; but I come to accuse myself of the greatest crime a soldier can be guilty of against his prince--that of treason." "I suspected as much," said the Emperor, "and therefore gave you orders not to leave your post; and now you yourself come to assure me of your treachery. Good; speak further." As shortly as possible, without withholding anything, Siddha recounted how, led away by Gulbadan, he had deceived his friend and benefactor, and become a traitor to his Emperor. During this recital Akbar paced up and down with slow steps, his countenance expressing nothing of what his feelings might be; but as Siddha ceased, he stopped before him, and said, sternly, "Your crimes deserve death." "That I know well," was the answer; "and I come to receive my punishment at the hands of your Majesty," "Why did you not seek safety in flight, when you suspected that your treason was discovered?" "Crimes demand their penalty; and how can I go forth into the world while it remains unpaid, an object of contempt to myself and others?" "But how is it that you have come so suddenly to this determination? For this there must be some cause. I suspect you have not told me all; something is still wanting to your story." "You are right; but what I have still to tell could not be said until my doom was pronounced. Now I can proceed. The power which, in spite of myself, that woman so long had over me was suddenly broken. The bandage fell from my eyes, and at last I saw clearly what I was, of what I had been guilty, and what punishment I deserved." And now followed more in detail the description of the scene that had taken place on the last evening he had seen Gulbadan, and of the plot he had overheard. Still no expression was visible on the Emperor's countenance; but, as he again walked up and down, his step was more hurried. When the story was ended he remained for some time silent, and then said, "With reason you seem to have thought that your last communication might have some influence over the sentence that I had to pronounce on you. You have rendered a great service to me and to my kingdom, and you are mistaken if you imagine that the sentence I pronounced was an irrevocable one. To say that a crime deserves death, is not to say that no mercy can be shown to him who is guilty of it; and yours is a case in point. Without your further communication, I might have recalled what I said, and shown you mercy. You have sinned deeply, Siddha, against me, and certainly not less against my friend. You are not a criminal, you have been the victim of an overwhelming temptation, and I know myself what it is to be so tried. But your feeling of honour was not destroyed, and sprang again into life as soon as you awoke from your dream. I do not in the least palliate what you have done, nor consider your fault a light one; but I am of opinion that you do not belong to the class incapable of improvement, and who, for the sake of society, cannot be allowed to live. I believe that your future actions will wipe away the memory of your misdeeds, and your conduct of to-day assures me that you will never again be guilty of treachery towards me. I therefore give you your life, and leave you in possession of your rank. Do not let me be deceived in you a second time." For some moments Siddha found it impossible to reply, but knelt before the Emperor and kissed respectfully the hem of his robe. "I thank you, Sire," he said at last, as the Emperor signed to him to rise, "not for life, that was no longer of any value in my eyes, but for the opportunity granted me in some measure to make up for the ill I have done. And if I may ask another favour, it is that I may at once be allowed to take part in the war that is now being waged in the north against the robber bands." "This favour I will also grant," said the Emperor; "but first I will entrust you with another task. Some of the most faithful of my own life-guards shall be placed under your orders; go with them to meet Salhana, seize him, and bring him here in the greatest secresy, so that Gorakh may know nothing of his arrest." At a sign from the Emperor the audience was at an end; and no sooner had Siddha received the command of his troop of guards than he was again on the road. Sooner than he had expected, he met his uncle, who appeared to have travelled in great haste, and was accompanied by two followers. These were soon disarmed and prisoners. Salhana defended himself for some time, but was at last overpowered, and, to his anger, pinioned by order of his nephew, whom until that moment he had held in such contempt. A veil was flung around his head, so that no passers-by might recognise him, and he was hurried by his captors to the camp. In the Emperor's tent his bonds were loosened, and he was left alone with Akbar and Siddha. "Your treachery, Salhana," said the Emperor, "and your latest plans are known to me; your nephew has told me all. Prepare to die,--the executioners await you." Flinging a glance of rage and hatred towards Siddha, Salhana threw himself at Akbar's feet, touching the ground with his forehead. "Spare my life," he implored. "Punish me, gracious Prince, as you will; but let me live, and I will confess all, and tell all that I know." "Salhana," replied the Emperor, contemptuously, "I knew that you were a traitor and a villain; but I had still to learn that you were also a coward. As for your confessions, they are worthless; I already know all that you can tell me excepting one thing, where and how is Gorakh to be found?" "This I can tell you," cried Salhana, welcoming with joy this ray of hope; "I can tell you exactly how to find him, and then----" "I will grant you a shameful life; but should your information prove false, then, you understand, the sword awaits you." Salhana now eagerly gave all particulars by which Gorakh might be recognised in his disguise. "Have this man closely watched," commanded the Emperor, turning to Siddha; "and you yourself, with your men, go in search of Gorakh, and when you have found him, hang him on the nearest tree." This order was executed without delay. They were soon on the track of the Durga priest, and before long he was their prisoner. "Ha! my young friend," said he, with his hateful laugh, recognising Siddha; "and is this the way you repay the interest that I have shown in you? However, let it be; but show me one courtesy, that can cost you nothing. Tell me, who is my betrayer? It can only be Salhana; am I not right?" "You are," answered Siddha; and then, turning to his followers, he said, "Forward! take this man outside the camp, and carry out the sentence pronounced by the Emperor." "And what is the sentence?" asked Gorakh. "The halter," was the reply. "Good," he said; "that is in my line." It was needless to bind him, for, without the slightest attempt at escape, he calmly walked between two soldiers. For some time Siddha did not turn to look at him, nor did his guards observe his actions very closely. But as they left the camp, and Siddha turned to give some orders to his followers, he saw the Yogi busied in marking characters on a long leaf that he held in his left hand, and must either have picked up on the road, or have had concealed in his clothes. In another moment he held it high in the air, waving it as though it were a fan. "Come," cried Siddha, impatiently, "leave that juggling alone, it can help you no further, and throw that leaf away; we have had enough of your magic." Gorakh obeyed, but not before he had laughingly made two more signs in the air. He then threw it on the ground, and they proceeded on their way. A few moments later the lifeless body of the priest hung from the bough of a tree. In the meantime two men, from their appearance the servants of some nobleman, had witnessed the arrest, and, unnoticed, had followed at some little distance the troop that was conducting the doomed man to his place of punishment. As soon as the soldiers had passed the place where Gorakh had flung away the leaf, the two men sought eagerly in the sand, and soon found the object of their search. It was a dry leaf, on which were hastily written a few words with some sharp-pointed instrument. After reading it together, one concealed it carefully in his garment, and they hurried back to the camp. There, as soon as the news of Gorakh's death reached the Emperor, Salhana received the promise of his life; but was given in charge to some soldiers, who were to guard him closely. When the war was ended, then should it be decided what was to be done with him. Imprisonment in some fortress or other, he understood well, would be his lot so long as Akbar reigned. But when Salim ascended the throne, without doubt he would be set free; and then, perhaps, too, he would have an opportunity of wreaking his vengeance on Siddha. He was not so closely watched but that it was possible to approach him; and one evening it happened that the servant of a splendidly dressed person that passed by, slipt a rolled-up leaf into his hand. What could it be? A secret communication from one of his friends, from Gulbadan perhaps, pointing out some means of flight. "Salhana," ran the hastily written note, "the Emperor who has doomed me shall not die to serve you; Durga chooses for her victim you, who have betrayed me." With a cry of terror, Salhana's arms fell helpless to his side, and the leaf dropped to the ground. He knew but too well the meaning of those few words, and he knew that his sentence was irrevocable. The last order of the Durga priest would not be neglected; rather hundreds of his followers would be sacrificed than leave that command unfulfilled. Was there indeed no hope, no chance for him? In truth, as good as none. If he were but in Agra or in some fortress! where it might not be so easy to penetrate to him as here in the open field. But he was in the rear of the army, which only progressed slowly. He implored his guards to keep good watch by him, as his life was threatened by assassins; but they only laughed at him, and he heard them say to each other, "That would be no great loss." Then he prayed to be allowed to have a light at night, and this request was only met with ridicule at his cowardice. He had not another peaceful moment. During the march he imagined that behind every bush he saw some dark figure lurking, that watched and followed in his footsteps. When they halted to rest he remained on his guard, keeping his eyes on the jungle and trees around. And then the night--the long, frightful, endless night! He did his best to remain awake, listening to every sound, and feeling around him in the dark; but at times sleep overcame him, and he awoke with a start of terror, and felt his throat, thinking he could not breathe. Sometimes he fancied the cord was round his neck, and about to be drawn tight; then he had to convince himself, by feeling with his fingers, that it was only imagination; and at last to put his hand to his throat became quite an involuntary movement. Then the question rose before him, whether he should not take his own life, and so end his martyrdom; but he dared not, his courage was not sufficient to plunge a dagger into his own heart; and then there was still the hope, however slight, that he might arrive safely at Agra. But slowly and still more slowly marched the army. At last the Thugs took upon themselves the task Salhana dared not perform, and freed him from his suffering. Early one morning his guard found him lying dead in the tent that had been pitched for his shelter during the night. CHAPTER XV. AMENDMENT. In the meantime affairs at Agra followed the course which Akbar and his councillors had foreseen, especially after having received Siddha's communication. It had been feared that Salim might be warned in time of the return of the army, and would not be caught in the act, in which case great difficulty would have arisen in convicting the Prince of treason; but now that the message from Gorakh, the chief of the conspirators in the army, had been intercepted; and that Gulbadan had been deprived of the means of warning Salim, the chance had greatly improved. In truth, though reports did reach the ears of the conspirators of the return of the Emperor and his army, yet as they were not confirmed by any tidings from their accomplices, these reports were considered as an attempt on the part of Akbar's friends to prevent the conspiracy from being carried out. On the appointed day, Salim took possession of the imperial palace, and caused himself to be openly proclaimed Emperor. At the same time he dismissed many of the principal officers, appointing others in their places. Alarm and surprise became general throughout the town. Rich people closed their houses, and tradesmen their shops, and Agra, so populous and full of life, appeared a city of the dead. The reports of Akbar's return had found more belief among the people than among the conspirators, and they feared a terrible struggle when Salim, having strengthened himself in the fortress, should be able to offer a formidable opposition to his father. But when the Prince demanded admission to the fortress, to his no small astonishment the governor refused compliance, shut the gate, and directed his artillery on the town. The governor, faithful to Akbar, had, with his knowledge, chosen the side of Salim, so that the latter had thought himself certain of the fort. And now the reports of the movement of the army gained strength, and it was said that it was within an easy day's march. Placed, as it were, between two fires, and finding himself deserted by others who had aided his rebellion, Salim saw that his only hope was instant flight. But it was too late; the advanced troops had already closed all the entrances to the town, and as Salim attempted with a few followers to leave it, he was taken prisoner by a division of cavalry, and, though treated with respect, carried back to the palace where he had been proclaimed Emperor. A few days later he received an invitation to appear before Akbar, who had then returned to Agra--his prince, his father, and his judge! Salim was brave, still he felt his courage sink, being fully conscious of his guilt. He knew that Akbar could be generous, but still that he could be severe in inflicting punishment when it was necessary for the welfare of his kingdom. His well-grounded fear gave way to surprise, when, left alone with the Emperor, he found him stretched on a divan, supporting his head on his hand, the other hand hanging wearily over the side. He did not alter his position as the guilty one entered. "I have long delayed seeing you, Salim," began Akbar at last, throwing a hasty glance at his son, who stood covered with shame before him. "I dreaded this interview, and wished that it might be spared me." For a few moments he was silent, then half raising himself, and holding his arm up in the air, he burst into a passionate and bitter complaint. "My son, my son," he cried, "that I should have lived to see this! To what have false friends and a false ambition led you? You knew how dear you were to me, and how, when it was possible, I sought to forestall your slightest wishes, and how I loaded you with honours and treasure; you know, too, you have heard more than once, both from your mother and myself, how I, then childless, prayed for the gift of a son, and how, when the prayer was granted, I celebrated it by the foundation of Fathpúr, where I had so often offered my prayers to Allah. But had I known what awaited me at your hands, my prayers had not been so earnest, nor my joy so great when they were granted. Ah! was it impossible that for once you should place some restraint on yourself, and wait with patience for your father's death before you ascended your throne? was it impossible to return in the slightest degree the love that I had always cherished for you, and which had surrounded you with benefits?" Salim knew not how to reply, as his father for a moment ceased to speak. He felt this reception deeply, so different from what he had expected, and the loving though melancholy words addressed to him, in spite of his errors; for Salim was not bad, nor hard-hearted, but weak and easily led; and on him rested the curse of despotism that Akbar had escaped,--the curse of the despot, and of him who is to become one,--that of placing his own will in the way of right and duty. "But no," continued the Emperor, "you would not, or rather you could not. You have never possessed the power of restraining yourself in anything; how, then, should you in this? For a time I saw with joy that you had given up your drinking, but for how short a time did this improvement last! You, who in my place wish to rule over others, cannot rule yourself. Had you only better understood your position, then your own interest would have shown you the right path. You would have seen that the straightforward fulfilment of duty would gain the respect and love of your future subjects; while actions such as those you were guilty of, only rendered you contemptible in their eyes, and when you had gained your wish and were their ruler, their obedience would be due to fear or self-interest, so foolishly and blameably have you lost their respect, and covered yourself and me with shame. If I could but have prevented this! I attempted it, when, following the counsel of Faizi, who was always well inclined towards you, I sent you to Allahabad, not suspecting that Salhana was a false traitor and one of the most dangerous of the party that was seeking to mislead you. Enough; the attempt to save you from your evil companions failed, and things continued their course. Then it became necessary to prove publicly that neither craft nor force could avail against Akbar, and that the reins of government remained in the Emperor's hands. You have forced me to it, and on your head rests the blame of what has happened to-day. You have done yourself much injury, and grieved me deeply, more deeply than you can comprehend. May you never learn from experience what a father feels when, sword in hand, he is forced to meet his son as an enemy." This sad experience was not spared Salim, and in his old age the day came when the words of his father returned to his mind, and when Shah Jahan, his dearly-loved son, not only opposed him in the field, but defeated him more than once. When his father ceased speaking, his conscience awoke from its long sleep, and he recognised that crime to its fullest extent, which false councillors had palliated and made light of. Overcome by his feelings he flung himself on his knees before his father. "Rise up," said the Emperor, at last, after having for some time silently regarded his son; "and listen. That I possess full right to inflict punishment upon you, you less than anyone can dispute. But I require from you no further humiliation than that which you have already undergone. I do not wish it, because it would damage your future rule, shaking that respect which men will owe to you when you succeed me on the throne. If I punished you further publicly, I might as well declare you disinherited, and choose one of your brothers as my successor; but that I neither will nor can do. I hold you too dear to take such a course, so long as it can be avoided; nevertheless all depends on you. Tell me frankly, do you wish to work with me for the good of my kingdom, or do you feel no inclination and no strength for it? In the one case I will charge you with an honourable, though it may be laborious share; in the other, you can remain at my court, and there endeavour to learn as much of the art of government as is indispensable for your future. I leave the choice to you." "My father," replied Salim, "I feel that I deserve neither of the generous offers you make me, and I should not complain if my last deed excluded me from the succession to the throne; but if indeed you leave me the choice, then, without hesitation, I choose the first. However difficult and dangerous may be the task entrusted to me, I will strive my utmost to fulfil it. You have indeed laden me with favours and honours, perhaps too many; my time has been thrown away in idleness, while you spent every day, from morning to evening, labouring for the good of the State; and then miserable idleness led me away to listen to the temptation of traitors, who pictured to me the fame that would be mine when power was once in my hands. Now, give me some work, however lowly, and I may perhaps be able to make up for the evil I have done." "You judge yourself justly," said Akbar, "and to know oneself is the first step in the right path. I acknowledge that I am not myself free from blame for leaving you without employment, in the midst of luxury and self-indulgence. But enough of this. The rich and fruitful Bengal has not long been subject to my rule, and does not yet enjoy the privileges of a settled government. Go, and help me to carry out my principles of government there also. You shall reign under me, but almost as an independent king, until the day when, after having won the respect and love of your people, you shall in peace succeed to the empire of the whole of Hindustan." Tears of joy and gratitude sprang to Salim's eyes, as he respectfully kissed the Emperor's hand before leaving him, full of fresh courage and a new love of life. The reconciliation between father and son was sincere, and Akbar foresaw that the peace and friendship between them would never again be disturbed. Though joy reigned in Agra as the time passed by, in Allahabad there was sorrow, at least in Iravati's heart; for the new governor, in a few words, had imparted to her the news of her father's death, but withheld from her all particulars, while he begged that she would remain in the castle as long as she pleased. She had never been aware of the crime of which Salhana had been guilty; and though she had not loved her father very dearly, still she had always held him in the highest respect, and, forgetting his recent treatment, she mourned him truly. In the midst of her grief another event happened, which gave her a fresh shock. Not long after the tidings of Salhana'a death had reached her, Kulluka the Brahman was announced. His faithful servant had been his only companion on his perilous journey from the north. "Noble lady," he said, when admitted to Iravati's presence, "I accepted a sad task when I undertook to deliver a message, sad both for you and me. I bring you a token that you know well": and feeling in his girdle, he drew out a finely-woven veil, and laid it in her hands. It was the same she had thrown to Siddha when for the last time she had seen him beneath her balcony. "I understand all," she cried, turning deadly white; "he is no more." "When I left him," answered Kulluka, "he was still alive, but I fear the worst, and I doubt whether I shall ever more see my former pupil in life." "But say, what has happened?" asked Iravati. "See, I am quite composed, and can listen calmly to all you have to tell." Then Kulluka recounted all that he knew of Siddha's last encounter. The Emperor had granted his earnest wish, and allowed him to march with his Rajpúts against the rebels in the north. There for some time, among the mountains so well known to him, he carried on a war which was both successful and glorious; he sought rather than avoided dangers, and had been victor in many a daring adventure, from which even the bravest of his followers had shrunk. At last, however, the insurgent bands, as he was traversing a mountain pass, managed to cut him off from the main body of his troop. After a long and hard struggle, in which many of the enemy fell before his sword, covered with wounds, he sank from his horse to the earth, while most of his followers lay either wounded or dead around him. Vatsa, who had never left his side, instead of attempting useless revenge, let himself slip from his horse, and lay motionless as though dead. A few moments later the troop arrived and drove back the enemy, and Vatsa sprang to his feet and found to his joy that his master still lived. With the help of some of the soldiers the wounded man was laid on a rude, hastily constructed litter, and carried to a Buddhist cloister in the neighbourhood. "At that moment," continued Kulluka, "I was myself in the cloister, when the soldiers arrived with their sorely wounded leader. The good monks gladly afforded him all the help in their power. Among them was one learned in medicine, who assured me that neither skill nor care should be spared to bring him back to life. After a time Siddha regained consciousness, and seeing me, made a sign of recognition; but it was some minutes before he gained strength to speak. 'Friend,' he said, 'I am going to leave you, I feel that I cannot recover. Do me a service.' I looked inquiringly to the monk learned in healing, but he shook his head. He also seemed to have little or no hope. He strove to enjoin silence on Siddha, but Siddha heeded not. 'I must speak,' he said; 'Kulluka, take the veil that you will find there with my armour, take it as quickly as possible to Iravati, and tell her that she was never so dear to me as now that death is near. Go at once, and do not wait for my death; let me die knowing that she has received this token from your hands.' He then shut his eyes and spoke no more. I did not hesitate to fulfil his last wish; and taking the veil, and leaving Siddha to the faithful care of the monks and Vatsa, I at once set out." "I thank you," said Iravati, "for the service you have rendered us both. But Siddha still lived, he was not dead when you left him? Then I know what I have to do." "To do?" asked the Brahman. "What can you do?" "I shall go with you to Siddha," answered Iravati calmly. "You!" cried Kulluka in astonishment; "a weak, helpless woman attempt to pass through mountains and forests swarming with bands of insurgents and robbers, without a strong escort!" "You did not fear," was the answer, "to expose yourself to these dangers to fulfil Siddha's wishes, and I fear them as little. Do not be afraid that you will find me a hindrance; I am not so weak, and am well accustomed to mountains and forests. No," continued Iravati, as Kulluka made fresh objections, "do not attempt to shake my resolution, you will not succeed; and if you will not take me, then I will travel, accompanied by a servant. Do you think that I have come hastily to this determination, and that I shall draw back? I have more than once thought of the possibility of such an event as has now happened. I have often compared my life to that of Damayanti, and have determined that she should be my example. And what is my self-sacrifice to hers? Alone and despoiled of everything, she wandered through the wilderness, seeking her faithless consort. I, at least if you allow it, go under the protection of a man of tried courage, and where he can force his way I can follow." "His arm will never fail when you need his protection," cried Kulluka; "and though his arm may be stiff, it still has strength enough to wield a sword. I both honour and respect the resolution to which you have come. Now prepare for the journey, and you will find me ready to undertake it with you." Without delay Iravati gave orders to her servant to hasten all the necessary preparations for the journey, while in a few words she told her the reason for undertaking it. The faithful Nipunika was not a little shocked when she heard the recital, but as she made an attempt to dissuade her dearly loved mistress from the undertaking, Iravati insisted on silence. "Let me go with you," entreated she. "No," replied Iravati, "that is impossible; to protect one woman is enough for Kulluka and his servant. I have told you of my plan, which for the present must be a secret, in order that, in case I should not return, some one may know where I am, and what I am doing in Kashmir." "But would it not be better to ask the Governor for an escort?" "No, for a few armed men would awaken suspicion; and the Governor cannot spare a strong detachment. We three alone have a far better chance of accomplishing our journey in safety." It was not, however, possible to depart at once, for Kulluka's horses were so fatigued by the distance they had come, that rest was necessary until the following day. Iravati found the hours of waiting long and wearisome: she sat, still dreaming over the one subject that was master of all her thoughts. Suddenly, with a terror which she could not explain to herself, she looked up as she heard the step of some one approaching, and in the next moment the man whom of all others she least expected to see, stood before her--Salim. "You here!" she cried. "I am on my way to Bengal," answered the Prince, "and have arrived at a fortunate moment, to hinder you from carrying out a plan too wild and foolish ever to have found place in the mind of a sensible woman. Through love to you your servant has disobeyed your orders, and begged me to interfere, which I have promised to do." "Do not trouble yourself, my lord, with my plans, I entreat," said Iravati. "I am no longer a child that knows not what it does; and in any case, it is not your duty to watch over me." "But I shall do so, for the sake of your welfare, and also--why should I not say it frankly?--because I cannot bear to see you go to my hated rival, who is himself untrue to you. I cannot bear the idea of your showering caresses on this man, if you find him living, when you have rejected me; and therefore I shall make use of my power, and force you to remain here against your will." "You can do so, Salim," answered Iravati, "but you will not. You know well that instead of gaining by so cowardly an exercise of your power you would only lose; you would not win me, nor hasten Siddha's death by one moment; and this action would draw down upon you my deepest contempt instead of the respect which, until now, I have felt for you, although I could not give you my love. Do you desire this? And not my contempt alone, but also your own. Will you behave as a weak woman who is not master of her own heart, and give way to unreasonable passion? or do you wish to behave as a man who knows how to rule himself, and who, by so doing, shows me he is worthy to reign over others? Choose for yourself; I ask no favour." With hasty step Salim paced up and down, while within his breast there was a bitter struggle between duty and passion, honour and self-will. To allow her, whom he had vainly striven to win, to go to his accursed rival was hard, almost beyond his powers. Still she was right; the exercise of his might would avail him nothing, only cause him to lose her respect, which he prized above everything. And then her last words, recalling his noble, generous father's exhortation, which he had so deeply felt! Self-control, self-denial, the first duties and virtues indispensable to a prince--never before had he considered them seriously; and after his promises to lead a new life, should his first action be one which Iravati, with justice, called a cowardly exercise of power? "Iravati," he said, at last, "I submit, as I did before, to your will. What it costs me I need not say. Enough, I obey. Alas! as I said before, why did I not know you earlier? You would have made a different man of me; but this is all over, and I will endeavour to submit to the inevitable. Go, then; though I cannot but consider your resolution as rash, still I admit it to be courageous and noble. One thing more. It is not impossible that you may still find Siddha living, and then I understand only too well that you will be reconciled, and keep the faith you have sworn to him. I shall look upon this with envy, but neither seek vengeance on you nor on him whom you hold dear. Let it be said that the weak and selfish Salim controlled himself, and that the future ruler of Hindustan can rule his own heart. If, sooner or later, you or Siddha Rama have need of my protection, I give my princely word that it shall not fail you. Only one favour I ask of you, though you will receive none from me. Although it may be that we shall never meet again, do not refuse me your friendship, and do not think with anger and contempt of a man whose crimes towards you were caused by the deep love he felt for you." He awaited no answer, but hurried away. "My father!" he murmured, "for once at least you have cause to be content with your son." CHAPTER XVI. FAIZI'S CURSE. In a Buddhist monastery among the mountains, Siddha lay stretched on his sick bed, while Iravati watched by his side. Her joy had been great at finding him still alive when, after her long and dangerous journey, she at length arrived; but this joy had been tempered by the doctor's assurance that his state was a most critical one. When she was admitted to his room, she found him still senseless; and who could say whether he would ever regain consciousness, or recognise her before his death? After a long time of anxious watching, a slight improvement gave rise to hope, and Iravati was warned that if she would continue to tend the wounded man, she must allow herself more rest. Kulluka and the monks persuaded her to take short walks; and it was not without pleasure that she at times visited the little temple belonging to the monastery when the bell called the believers to prayer. With earnest attention she listened to the words of the chief priest when he spoke of the gradations of human life, and how sorrow fell on all, and how rare were the visits of happiness, and how the greatest bliss for man was to be freed from all human ties and to attain Nirvána. [106] In these teachings Kulluka found much with which he could not agree, and, in other circumstances, would perhaps have remarked to the priest that to live for the good of others was a nobler aim of life than to remain sunk in idle contemplation. But opposition was perhaps superfluous. The practice of these Buddhists was better than their teaching; for though they took no part in the turbulent life and sorrows of the world, still they did not spend their time in idleness. Unwearily they wandered amongst the mountains, visiting all the poor inhabitants, scattering their good deeds and consolation wherever misery was to be found, without respect of nationality, religion, or caste. One evening Iravati was seated by Siddha's couch, while the doctor watched him from the other side, when he slowly opened his eyes, and, throwing a hasty glance around him, seemed to recognise Iravati. He softly murmured her name, and again closed his eyes. The doctor made a sign to Iravati to withdraw, which she unwillingly obeyed, and hastened, with a heart full of joy, to seek Kulluka, and to impart to him the glad news. The next day the improvement still continued, and the patient could even speak. But Siddha made but little use of this power even when Iravati was with him; and though he knew her and his friend, he did not seem to remember any of the events that had happened,--a mist seemed to hang over his mind. Almost without consciousness he would sit, gazing before him, and only Iravati's voice could arouse him from this stupefaction. This still continued, even after his bodily strength returned and he was again able to take exercise. Once it happened, as he strolled with Iravati in the neighbourhood of the monastery, that some word of hers, or some object on which his eye fell--she herself could not tell which--seemed to awaken memory in him. Suddenly he stood still, gazing with wonder around him, and passed his hand over his face. Then shaking his head, he walked on, and then again stood still, gazing inquiringly at the high mountain tops, then at the blue sky, and at the valleys and woods that lay around. A deadly pallor crept over his face, and with a wild look he turned to Iravati. Memory had returned in its full strength, but how? and, perchance, was not forgetfulness both better and happier? "Go, go!" he cried, at last. "What are you doing here, unhappy one, with me? How can you bear that I should approach you--I, the faithless traitor, laden with the heaviest curse that was ever laid on man?" Iravati listened in breathless terror. She did not understand all, though more than enough. She attempted to speak, but her voice failed her, and overcome with sorrow, she sank at his feet. "The curse!" repeated Siddha, wildly; "the curse of Faizi--'Live with the memory of what you have done; and though you may attain all your heart desires, yet shall you always cast down your eyes before an honourable man.' And should I dare to raise them to you, pure and innocent, whom I betrayed as basely as I did my noble friend! Go, I say, far from here. A figure stands between you and me. It is that of Faizi. He stands there, threatening as when he spoke my doom." As Iravati raised her head, she saw him cover his face with his hands, as though he dared not look at her. "Come," she said, "let us go in; you have done too much, and so false visions torment you. Come, then." "Visions," answered Siddha, bitterly; "would that they were! But, no. I am now again myself; my strength has returned, and with it the recollection, the terrible recollection, more real than ever. I never yet felt the full meaning of Faizi's words; but now that I again see you, I comprehend them. Before the Emperor, and even before the meanest of my soldiers, have I cast down my eyes with shame; but never as now. Vainly I sought an honourable death. Iravati," he continued, "you do not know with whom you speak; you do not know my last crimes." "I do know," she answered, "though perhaps not exactly what happened between Faizi and yourself; but I have gathered sufficient from the words you have let fall." "And yet you still speak to me," cried Siddha. "You do not turn from me; you even come to tend my last days." "Did I not give you my word, Siddha? and was I not bound to keep it until you yourself gave it to me back? and that you have never done. Did you not send me by Kulluka the token that told your last thought was mine? and I felt that I had taken duties on me, although no marriage ties bound us." "Then I now release you from your promise," said Siddha. "It is true that no sooner did I awaken from that miserable blindness than my love for you returned with a strength that until then I did not know. You, you can be true to me, and fulfil all your duties. But you can love me no more." "I love you now, as I always did," replied Iravati. "You seek to convince yourself that you do, from an exaggerated feeling of honour; but it is not possible that you should do so, and the day would come when you would regret that you had not known yourself better. There can be no love where there is no respect. The woman must look up to the man, and unhappy is the union where he is the weaker. Go, and forget me; I am not even worthy of your remembrance." "Then you thrust me away?" "I have no right to thrust you away, nor to release you from your word. I only do so in order to give you rest, and to spare you any self-reproach that you might feel at leaving me of your own free will." "Listen to my prayer, Siddha," said she, entreatingly, and laying her hand on his arm. "I will not dispute what you say, I will not wish or require anything as my right. I only implore you to listen to the wish that is dearest to my heart. I do not ask any promise for the future. I give you the fullest liberty; but let me remain with you for the present, even if it is for a short time. It is impossible for me to part with you now." "No, and never!" answered Siddha, sternly. "No hesitation, no weakness; once for all, leave me and forget me." And pushing Iravati, who went on before him, he prepared to hurry away, so that he might never again see her whom until this moment he had never loved so tenderly. "Let it be so," said Iravati, rising up, with an injured feeling of self-respect, and speaking with a firm voice; "let it be so, you are perhaps right. You make yourself unworthy of my love. Once, in spite of your promises, you have been unfaithful to me, but that I had forgotten and forgiven; for I knew you had been led away by temptation unknown to me. But now you drive me from you, not because I have committed any fault, but because you are too proud to confess to your wife that you have once been weak and unable to withstand temptation. Leave me, then. Without you my life is without value; but a forced love no woman can seek, not even from the man she loves. And now, to the memory of the crime you have been guilty of against a friend, add the memory of a woman whom you loved, yet sacrificed to your selfish pride." Siddha hesitated. Should he go, or stay? The latter he would gladly do, but how could he reconcile it with honour? "Who shall decide?" he said, striking his forehead with his hand. "There is truth in what you say, though it is in conflict with what I consider right. Yet," continued he, "another, who is wiser than either of us, shall decide between us." "You mean Kulluka?" "No, not him. Highly as I prize his opinion, I know beforehand that he would only try to secure our happiness, and, to do so, would decide that you are right. He would not be impartial in his judgment. There is another; but do not ask me further. He alone can I trust to decide between us; and he will advise me. Listen, then, Iravati; let me depart hence as speedily as possible. Perhaps I shall return soon, perhaps never. Should I return, then my life shall henceforth be devoted to you. If not, then understand that you will never see me more, and that you are freed from all ties that bind you to me. Do not raise objections, but have patience with me, such as, till now, you have always shown." Before Iravati could reply to this new and unexpected proposal, Siddha had disappeared to seek his servant, and to order his horse to be saddled, so as to set out on their journey, his destination being unknown to her. Iravati hastened to Kulluka, and told him all that had passed, and Siddha's extraordinary determination; but the guru, seeing that it was better to let Siddha take his own way and not to oppose him, tried to console Iravati with the hope that she would soon see him again. In the meantime Siddha had taken leave of the Buddhist priest, giving him a rich present for the benefit of the monastery, and then, followed by Vatsa, had ridden away. Again the last rays of the setting sun fell on the slopes of the Himálayas, and again Siddha, accompanied by Vatsa, followed the path that led to the valley where the habitation of Gurupada was situated. He was received by the old servant, who quickly recognised him, and without delay led him to his master. The hermit welcomed his young friend with pleasure, but saw with concern the change that had taken place in his appearance. His face, once so full of joy and life, was now pale, and had assumed a sad and dark expression; and his whole bearing had lost its former elasticity. In but a short time the youth had become a man, and not one full of life and strength, but one bowed down under the weight of sorrow, which Gurupada's sharp sight told him was the heaviest that falls to the lot of man, that of self-reproach. "Most revered," said Siddha, after the first greetings; "or let me rather say, most gracious prince----" "No," interrupted the hermit; "continue to call me Gurupada, for I am nothing more." "I obey," said Siddha, "and I see with joy that you have not forgotten me. Perhaps you still remember the last words you said to me, when, after a short visit to your hospitable dwelling, we took our leave." "I made you promise," replied Gurupada, "to seek me again if it should ever chance in your life that you should need the counsel of a true friend; and I understand that this is the reason which now brings you here. If I may judge from your looks, the cause of your coming is a very bitter one." "You are right," said Siddha; "and when you have heard all, you will wonder that my appearance does not more clearly proclaim my feelings." "Come now," said Gurupada, "to the other side of the house; there we will seat ourselves, and talk quietly of all that has happened." Siddha gladly accepted the invitation, and after having, at the earnest request of the hermit, partaken of some refreshment, he began to recount all that had happened until the moment of his parting with Iravati in the cloister. Gurupada listened with the deepest attention and interest; and when the tale was finished he remained for some moments silent, sunk in thought; but at last, looking at Siddha, he said: "In truth you have laden yourself with a heavy burthen, but not so heavy as that a man cannot bear it. That you allowed yourself to be led away by Gulbadan is not to be defended, although it may be excusable; but that you did not part from her, after discovering who she was, was an inexcusable offence against your friendship with Faizi. Your original faithlessness towards the Emperor was partly the result of an error; but to remain in his service and to conspire against him was a crime. I do not judge your conduct more leniently than you do yourself; on the contrary, I judge it still more harshly. You believe that the tale of your faults was closed when you confessed your crimes to the Emperor. But you deceive yourself, you began to commit another, which may be just as unfortunate as those which preceded it, although you were led into it by an error. The greater part of mankind imagine with you that repentance is a virtue, and that by penance and self-punishment alone can sin be washed away. But few errors are so ruinous in their result as this, when penance consists in the penitent's withdrawal from the circle in which he can labour usefully, and when also he punishes others as well as himself. And this is what you would do. First, you sought death on the field of battle, which was the simplest place, as you would not lay violent hands on your own life. But what good would your death have produced, or how could it undo the ill you have done? Unable to find an honourable death, you declare your intention of living a solitary life in the jungle, devoted to prayer and penance; but for what? How could this serve yourself or others? And then Iravati, your bride! you desert her, not because she is faithless to you, but because you have cause to feel shame in her presence. Thus you punish her more than yourself. Do you call that duty and virtue? No, my friend, such a course would end in being worse than an error. You look at me with astonishment; but the course you propose would be one of pride and defiance, because you know that you have lowered yourself. Iravati was right; you were too proud to bind yourself to a woman who knew all your weaknesses, and who had nothing to reproach herself with; and it is indeed pride that prompts you to fly the world. You fear to meet some one acquainted with your former evil deeds. You dare not look a man in the face, for fear of what he may know of you. Is that, I ask, virtue and courage? is it not, rather, a cowardly weakness?" "But Faizi's last words," said Siddha. "I foresaw that objection," continued Gurupada; "and I do not deny that it has a certain weight. But let us beware of exaggeration. That Faizi should have acted and spoken as he did is easily to be understood in his place. You probably would have done the same; and he, were he in my place, and had to decide impartially, would doubtless say as I do. A man need not spend his life bowed down in humiliation because in an evil hour he has been guilty of a shameful deed, when his after life has been spent so as to gain the respect of his fellow-men. Now listen to the counsel you ask of me, which I willingly give. You have arrived at the full consciousness of the wickedness of your conduct, and you have accused yourself before the Emperor, before Iravati, and before me. That was well done; but the knowledge and clear insight of your evil-doing must not be the last step, but the first, in the right path. It should restrain you from all errors, not only those of the same class that have already led you astray, but also from others. It should teach you to keep better watch over yourself, your impressions, your passions. You should have greater dread of deeds which you could not confess to others without shame; and in the end you should attain to a state of mind which will make it impossible for you to act against duty or honour. But this cannot be if you seek to avoid temptation by flying from it. Resist temptation, and begin in the first place by conquering your own pride. Therefore take Iravati for your wife, and render yourself worthy of her. Go to the Emperor, and pray him to entrust you with some work by which you may serve your country; I doubt not but that he will willingly grant your request. I understand that you desire to avoid Faizi, and that is well; you owe it to him to spare him any meeting, and Hindustan is large enough to keep two men apart. In Kashmir, or in other places, you may render as good service as in Agra itself. Think over this, and, after reflection, let me know what your decision is.--No, no, do not answer me at once," said Gurupada, seeing Siddha ready with his reply; "take the repose of which I see you have need, and to-morrow, when you have thoroughly weighed all I have said, tell me if you still see difficulties in following the advice I have given." And with a friendly greeting the hermit left Siddha to his own thoughts. The next day Siddha was ready to take farewell of Gurupada, perhaps for the last time. For a long while the two men stood in earnest conversation, and as at last the traveller turned to mount his horse, he warmly pressed his host's hand, saying, with a trembling voice, but with a countenance cleared from all trouble, "I thank you, Gurupada, for the manly advice you have given me; I owe you a new life, and I hope to bear myself in it very differently from what I have done in the past, which I shall never forget. You have taught me what true repentance is; may I never give you reason to think that your good counsel has been given to one who is unworthy of it." CHAPTER XVII. THE TOMB. In the neighbourhood of the village of Sikandra rises that magnificent building, the tasteful splendour of which is the pride of Hindustan, while it awakens the admiration of all travellers, and is one of the last memorials of the departed greatness of the Mughals. A wall with many towers gave entrance, through a broad gateway of red marble, to a path lined with shady trees, above which rose a building of majestic height and of great circumference. This building excited admiration, not alone by the stern beauty of its outline, but also by the richly-wrought gateways, minarets, cupolas both high and low, and open galleries, by which it was surrounded, giving it more the appearance of a number of palaces and pleasure-houses than of a monument. However, it was not destined for the abode of the living, but to preserve the memory of the illustrious dead,--of Akbar himself. [107] A few years after the occurrences already narrated, a silent pair stood in this park: a powerful man, in rich attire, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword, while the right was thrown round a lovely woman who stood beside him, looking like the graceful ivy that clings to the oak. It was Siddha Rama, accompanied by Iravati. They stood lost in admiration before the tomb, and thought of the man of whom they had so often spoken with the greatest reverence. Much had happened in these few years. Akbar was no more, and in his place reigned his son Salim, who, in accordance with the wish of his father as he lay on his dying bed, had girded on the sword the Emperor had always worn, and who was now, under the name of Jahangir, the Emperor of Hindustan. [108] That he was not to be compared to Akbar was to be expected, still his reign was not bad; and it fell to the lot of his successors--to Shah Jahan [109] and Aurangzíb [110]--so to corrupt the formerly powerful empire, as that it fell an easy prey into the hands of British conquerors. Salim had not entirely laid aside his evil habits, and Sir Thomas Roe, the English ambassador, had an opportunity of seeing him in much the same situation as Siddha had done, at the banquet given in his palace. Still he was not the hopeless drunkard that he had appeared to be. [111] To Iravati he had kept his word, and in spite of his disappointment, found himself happy in his marriage with the wise and beautiful Mahal, whose influence over him was great, and always for good. That Kashmir must in the end submit, had long been foreseen; and after the failure of Salim's conspiracy, it cost Akbar but little trouble to penetrate through the ruined country and force it to come under his rule. The weak king died, his unworthy sons were banished, and Siddha's father was made Vice-King, Siddha receiving an important appointment, with the understanding that he should succeed to the Viceroyship; while Kulluka, faithful as ever, was always ready with counsel and advice. It was not long before the people began to appreciate the blessing and prosperity of a wise and settled rule. The hermit of Badari-Natha did not long survive the subjection of his country. Once, when Kulluka went to visit him, he found the servant alone. His master had become suddenly unwell. He died in a few days, and was buried on the heights overlooking Kashmir. Hara, the tiger, laid himself down on the grave, and growled fiercely when the servant sought to entice him back to the house. He refused the food and water brought to him, and in a few days was lying dead on the grave of his friend and master. Parviz knew nothing of the affair with Gulbadan, and Siddha occasionally received good news from him. He was happy in his marriage with the daughter of the Treasurer, and though in high office, was busy in arranging the literary and diplomatic papers of Abú-l Fazl, his deeply lamented uncle. Abdul Kadir held himself aloof from public life, and though wiser, was still an earnest enthusiast for the true faith. He sought consolation for his many disappointments in writing his history, [112] in which he complained bitterly of Akbar, and railed at Abú-l Fazl and Faizi, although they had never harmed him. Padre Aquaviva did not return to Agra, but others came to continue his work, with as little success. Though three centuries have passed, the conversion of Hindustan remains the dream of western zealots. Whether the faithful Vatsa espoused the talkative but good-hearted Nipunika, history says not; but it is very probable that they followed the example of their master and mistress. The happiness of these two was unbroken, though dark memories often arose in Siddha's mind. But by degrees he had learnt not to allow himself to be weighed down by them, and to hide his regrets from Iravati. He had remarked how deeply it grieved her when his countenance was clouded with gloomy thoughts of the past, the cause of which she well understood, for he had confessed all to her. Soon after their marriage she had given him a son, whom he loved nearly as much as herself. He understood how great a treasure he had won, when he heard of Salim's wishes, and what her answer had been; but when he expressed his admiration, she only replied that in her place every woman would have acted in the same manner. Siddha remained long lost in thought before Akbar's tomb, when his attention was roused by an approaching footstep. In dismay he stepped back as he recognised who drew near; and the exclamation which broke from him told Iravati what an unhappy meeting had chanced. "Faizi!" he cried. He who, lost in thought, was passing them, suddenly stood still, and then drew back, as he recognised the man who had so deeply injured him. But, changing his mind, he slowly advanced, and as he saw Siddha preparing hastily to withdraw, he said: "Remain, and listen to me. Here, by the tomb of the prince who ever more willingly forgave than punished his enemies, and who did not know what hate was, I should feel no anger. I have often striven to follow his noble example, and to forgive the wrong you have done me. I could not, I had not the strength; but now, on this holy spot, where accident has brought us together, I have found strength to do what Akbar in my place would have done. I forgive you, Siddha." Deeply touched, and with bowed head, Siddha stood before his noble enemy, while Iravati gazed with admiration on the man who in such a strife had been victor over himself. "Look up," continued Faizi; "no longer avoid the sight of your former friend. The words that I addressed to you in my anger were not undeserved, but to a man of your character they were a fearful and perhaps too severe a punishment; and I know from Kulluka what an influence they have had on you, and to what wild actions they nearly drove you. From our friend I learnt that in the first place you were not the tempter, nor in the beginning did you know who the tempter was. Her great influence and power I know well myself; but she is no longer to be feared. In her captivity she herself made an end to her guilty life. Enough of the past, especially in the presence of her whom I must greet as your noble consort. Let the past, then, be forgotten by us. What I have since heard of you, has made you again worthy of the respect and friendship of a man of honour. Take, then, my hand, as of old." It was Iravati who clasped it, while Siddha could scarcely conquer his emotion. "I thank you," she said, "from my heart, for your generosity. What you have said has lifted the dark cloud that overshadowed our married happiness, and the leaden weight is at last removed which for so long has weighed my Siddha down." "I seek for words," at last said Siddha; "but words to express what at this moment I feel are not to be found. Once I thought myself comforted and strengthened by the words of a wise man, and as though I were born to a new life; but now I feel the new birth for the first time. Your friendship, Faizi, was always most deeply prized by me, and all the bitterer was my self-reproach, and the harder my punishment, to lose it so shamefully, and through my own fault. The friendship that you give me back so nobly, I esteem as the highest gift I could receive." "Our present accidental meeting," replied Faizi, "must be of short duration, and in all probability it will be our last. That I have withdrawn from the service of the State is already known to you. Salim, or, as he likes better to be called by his proud title, Jahangir, never looked upon me or my brother with a favourable eye; besides, I should find it hard to serve him, for reasons which you need not that I should explain, and so I withdrew myself from public life, and lived retired at Agra. But now Shah Abbas, King of Persia, has invited me to his capital, and to occupy myself there with literary studies. [113] This invitation I have accepted. I start for Ispahan to-morrow, and I may remain there. But I could not leave this country without a farewell visit to the last resting-place of my princely friend--the friend who was everything to me, Siddha, more than life or happiness; and had you sinned against him, I do not believe that I could ever have pardoned it. But you have shown that you honoured and prized him, though you never had the opportunity of knowing him intimately, as but few did, both in his greatness and his weaknesses, which were still loveable." "It is true," rejoined Siddha, "I never learnt to know him closely, but I have known enough to awaken my deepest admiration and reverence. I knew another prince whose life has ended, to whom I owed a debt of gratitude, and his memory is dear to me; but if I was asked which was the greatest, I am now convinced that the secluded philosopher, who had said farewell to all worldly joys, was surpassed by the philosopher on his throne, who in the midst of the wildest divisions and disturbances knew how to preserve the same evenness of character and uprightness of mind. In truth Akbar deserves his name." "And that shall be said by all coming generations," replied Faizi, "both in the East and West. The title of 'the Great' has been given by favourites and flatterers to many a prince, but with little right. To be truly great means that a ruler knows how to govern himself as well as others, and to give up his life to sorrow and trouble for the welfare of his fellow-men; and it was in this that he who rests yonder was great. There have been princes, and there still may be more, whose names in the world's history will be better known than his; and it is possible that there may be those who will win still higher fame, but seldom in history can one point to the name of a ruler who, in the midst of his greatness, knew, like Akbar, how to remain a man in the most beautiful and noblest meaning of the word. And now," concluded Faizi, clasping the hands of Siddha and Iravati, "farewell. Think of me sometimes, when I am far from here. You can do so now without bitterness; and this also takes from me a burden which I have often found hard to bear." For some time after Faizi had left them, Siddha and Iravati remained in the park. At last they left the spot where they had come to render a last silent homage to the memory of the Great Emperor. "So they all pass away," said Siddha, musingly, as they turned towards home; "all we have learnt to know and reverence. He who has just left us, in all probability we shall see no more. But such men as Akbar, Faizi, and Abú-l Fazl do not die when death ends their lives here; they live in the memory they leave us, and in their works. The thought of them animates those who come after them; and is not that true immortality?" London: Printed by W. H. Allen & Co., 13 Waterloo Place. NOTES [1] "Akbar: een Oostersche Roman," door Mr. P. A. S. Van Limburg-Brouwer. 's Gravenhage: Martinus Nijhoff, 1872. 8vo. pp. 358. [2] "Akbar. Ein Indischer Roman. Deutsche autorisirte ausgabe aus dem Niederlandischen des Dr. V. Limburg Brouwer," von Lina Schneider (Wilhelm Berg). Leipzig: Heinrich Killinger, 1877. Small 8vo. pp. 346. [3] Published by J. de Laet in his "De Imperio Magni Mogolis." Leyden: 1631. [4] Prince Frederick has visited India three times. He made an extensive tour in 1863-64, and again in 1867-69. After his first visit he published a narrative of his travels, in three volumes, "Altes und Neues aus den Landern des Ostens, von Onomander." Hamburg: 1859. [5] Mahmud of Ghazni, the first Muhammadan invader of India, reigned from A.D. 997 to A.D. 1030. His dynasty lasted until 1183. The Ghori dynasty lasted from A.D. 1192 to 1289. The Khilzi dynasty, from 1289 to 1321. The dynasty founded by Tuglak Shah, from 1321 to 1393. Then followed the inroad of Timur and subsequent anarchy; and the Afghan Lodi dynasty lasted from 1450 to the invasion of Baber in 1526. [6] "Mogul" is the old form. Dowson and Thomas have "Mughal"; Blochmann and Hunter, "Mughul." [7] Jauhar wrote his "Tazkiratu-l Wákiat" thirty years after the death of Humayun. It was translated by Major Stewart, and printed for the Oriental Translation Fund in 1832. [8] Humayun met this young lady, when on a visit to his brother Hindal's mother. She was a daughter of a Seyyid, a native of Jami in Khurasan. [9] Calotropis gigantea (Asclepiadaceæ). It is a shrub from six to ten feet high, generally found in waste ground or among ruins. An acrid, milky juice flows from every part of the plant when wounded, which is used by native doctors for cutaneous diseases. The bark fibre is spun into fine thread. [10] Kashmir was ruled by Hindu princes until the beginning of the fourteenth century, when it was conquered by the Muhammadans. Owing to distractions in the reigning family, Akbar sent an army into Kashmir in 1586. The king then submitted, and was enrolled among the Delhi nobles. [11] Akbar was also much interested in the gospels as explained to him by Christian missionaries; and, as Colonel Yule says, he never lost a certain hankering after Christianity, or ceased to display an affectionate reverence for the Christian emblems which he had received from his Jesuit teachers.--See "Cathay and the Way thither," ii. p. 532, note. [12] This was in 1579. See "Blochmann," i. p. 185; "Elliot," v. p. 531. [13] For a plate of Indian arms and accoutrements in the time of Akbar see the very interesting work by the Hon. Wilbraham Egerton, M.P., published by order of the Secretary of State for India in Council, "A Handbook of Indian Arms," p. 23. (Wm. H. Allen & Co., 1879.) [14] Mr. Blochmann has supplemented this list with biographical notices of Akbar's nobles, of which there are four hundred and fifteen. These notices are chiefly taken from the "Tabakat-i Akbari," the work of El Badaoni, the "Akbar-namah," the "Tuzuk-i Jahangiri," and a manuscript called "Maásir ul Umará" in the collection of the Asiatic Society of Bengal.--Blochmann's "Ain-i Abkari," i. pp. 308 to 526. [15] See Hunter's "Orissa," ii. p. 5. [16] Namely the poll tax (jiziah), the port and ferry dues (mirbahri), the pilgrim tax (kar), the tax on cattle (gau shumari), tax on trees (sar darakhti), offerings on appointments (peshkash), trade licenses, fees to darogahs, tahsildars, treasurers, and landlords, fees on hiring or letting, for bags on cash payments, on the verification of coins, and market dues. [17] Akbar's returns are in dams, forty dams making one rupee. [18] In 1877 the whole land revenue of India, including the Madras Presidency and Burma, was £19,857,152. Of this sum £3,993,196 came from Madras, and £835,376 from Burma, which provinces were not included in the empire of Akbar; nor was a great part of Bombay (probably about half) under Akbar's revenue system. In Bombay land revenue (including Sind) in 1877 was £3,344,664; and half this sum £1,672,332. For a rough comparison these three sums (namely the amount of land revenue from Madras, Burma, and half Bombay) must be deducted from the land revenue of 1877, and £807,102 (the revenue of Kabul) from the land revenue of Akbar. This leaves £15,775,338 as Akbar's land revenue, and £13,356,248 as the land revenue obtained by our Government in 1877 from the same provinces. [19] Many Muhammadan princes died of delirium tremens before the introduction of tobacco, which took place towards the end of Akbar's reign. Asad Beg says that he first saw tobacco at Bijapur. He brought a pipe and a stock of tobacco to Agra, and presented it to the Emperor, who made a trial. The custom of smoking spread rapidly among the nobles, but Akbar never adopted it himself.--"Dowson," vi. 165. [20] "Memoirs of Jehanghir." [21] "Memoirs of Jehanghir," written by himself, and translated by Major David Price for the Oriental Translation Fund, 1829. When I was at Madrid Don Pascual de Gayangos gave me a copy of a very interesting Spanish manuscript by an anonymous missionary (probably Aquaviva) who describes the personal appearance and habits of Akbar. It was left at the Asiatic Society, before Mr. Vaux's time, and was mislaid. Don Pascual has also mislaid the original, so that the loss is irremediable. [22] Colonel Yule compares Kublai Khan with Akbar ("Marco Polo," i. p. 340), and Mr. Talboys Wheeler has drawn a parallel between Akbar and Asoka ("History of India," iv. p. 136). [23] "History of India, as told by its own Historians--the Muhammadan Period; being posthumous papers by Sir H. M. Elliot, K.C.B., edited and continued by Professor Dowson." [24] "The Revenue Resources of the Mughal Empire in India, A.D. 1593 to 1707," by Edward Thomas, F.R.S., pp. 54. Trübner: 1871. [25] Rudolf Aquaviva was born in 1551. He was a nephew of Claudio Aquaviva, the fourth General of the Jesuits, and a grandson of Giovanni Antonio Aquaviva, Duke of Atri, in Naples. The Dukes of Atri were as famous for their patronage of letters as for their deeds of arms. The missionary, Aquaviva, after his return from Agra, was sent to Salsette, where he was murdered by the natives in 1583, aged only thirty-two. Akbar, on hearing of his death, sent an embassy of condolence to the Portuguese Viceroy, and to the Jesuit Fathers at Goa. [26] See my "Hawkins' Voyages" (Hakluyt Society), pages 396 and 403. Pineiro wrote an account of his travels. [27] See Colonel Yule's "Cathay and the Way thither," ii. pp. 529-591, for the journey of Benedek Goes. The narrative is taken from a work entitled "De Christiana expeditione apud Sinas, suscepta ab Societate Jesu, ex P. Matthaei Ricii commentariis, auctore P. Nicolao Trigantio." 1615. [28] See the "Histoire de la Compagnie de Jésus composée sur les documents inédits et authentiques par J. Crétineau-Joly" (6 vols. 8vo. Paris: 1844), ii. p. 510-12; also "Ranke Histoire de la Papauté," iv. p. 159. Colonel Yule refers to the work of Jarric. [29] Johan de Laet was born at Antwerp in the end of the sixteenth century and died in 1649. He was a Director of the Dutch West India Company, had an extensive acquaintance with learned men, and had special opportunities of collecting geographical and historical information, of which he diligently availed himself. His chief work was the "Novus Orbis seu descriptionis Indiae Occidentalis" (folio 1633). He wrote works on England, France, Spain, Portugal, Holland, and Italy, which form part of the collection known under the name of "Les Petites Republiques," printed by the Elzevirs at Leyden. De Laet also had a learned controversy with Grotius on the origin of the American races. He edited Pliny and Vitruvius. [30] Fragments of Indian History, "Calcutta Review," July 1873, No. cxiii. pp. 170-200. De Laet is quoted by Blochmann, and also by Mr. Thomas and Dr. Hunter. [31] Fitch's interesting account of this visit to the court of Akbar was published by Hakluyt.--See "Hakluyt Voyages" (2nd ed.), ii. pp. 375-399. Besides the narrative of Fitch, there are letters from Newbery, and the letter from Queen Elizabeth to Akbar. [32] "Het Ramayana," Gids, 1863. [33] "Javas Hervormers: een Historische Schets," 1866. [34] "De Avantoren van een Indisch Edelman," Gids, 1867. "Het Boek der Koningen: eene proeve van Indische Geschiedenis," Gids, No. 6, 1867. "Vedanta: eene proeve van Indische regtzinnigheid," Gids, No. 12, 1867. [35] "Oostersch Atheisme," Gids, 1868. "Eene Schoonheidskuur," Gids, No. 8, 1868. [36] "De Maan der Kennis," Theologisch-Metaphysisch Drama, Gids, No. 70, 1869. [37] "Poesie der Woestijn," Gids, No. 21, 1870. "De Kabbala," Gids, No. 7, 1870. [38] "De Wijze van het Hemelsch Rijk en zijne school." [39] An obituary notice of Dr. van Limburg-Brouwer ("Ter Nagedachtenis van Mr. P. A. S. van Limburg-Brouwer") was written by Dr. H. Kern, the Professor of Sanscrit at Leyden, and published in the "Nederlandsche Spectator," 1873. [40] Badari-natha is a place sacred to Vishnu in the Himálayas. The Badari-natha peaks, in British Gurwhal, form a group of 6 summits from 22,000 to 23,400 feet above the sea. The town of Badari-natha is 55 miles N.E. of Srinagar, on the right bank of the Vishnu-ganga, a feeder of the Alakananda. The temple of Badari-natha is situated in the highest part of the town, and below it a tank, supplied from a sulphureous thermal spring, is frequented by thousands of pilgrims. The temple is 10,294 feet above the sea. [41] Deva, in Sanscrit, is a god, a divinity. [42] Siddha, in Sanscrit, means perfected, hence an adept. Siddhanta, a final conclusion, or any scientific work. The Siddhas are a class of semi-divine beings, who dwell in the regions of the sky. [43] Rama is a name in common use. Rama was the hero of the Ramayana epic, and the form taken by Vishnu in two of his Avataras. [44] Sanscrit name. Kulluka Bhatta was the famous commentator whose gloss was used by Sir W. Jones in making his translation of Manu. [45] Guru, a teacher. Pada, a word. [46] A common Sanscrit name. [47] Hara is the name of a branch of the Chuhan Rajpúts. It is also a name of Siva. [48] The most popular of the collections of old Hindu tales was the Kathâ-Sarit-Sâgara, or, "Ocean of the Streams of Narrative." It originated in the desire of a queen of Kashmir to provide amusement and instruction for her grandson. Somadeva, the Prime Minister, produced, in consequence, this collection of tales in verse. [49] Nandi is the bull of Siva usually placed in front of temples. Gupta is a concealed ascetic. The Guptas were a dynasty of kings reigning at Magadha. [50] Iravati is the Sanscrit name of the river Raví or Hydrastes. Iravat was a son of Arjuna. [51] Vishnu, the god, rides on a mythical bird called Garuda. [52] A spiritual teacher or guide. [53] Goraksh or Gorakh, a cow-herd. [54] Yogi, a follower of the Yoga philosophy. An ascetic. [55] Durga, a goddess, the wife of Siva, and destroyer of evil beings and oppressors. Also called Kali. [56] The mystic monosyllable to be uttered before any prayer. It is supposed to consist of three letters, a u m, combined, being types of the three Vedas, or of the three great divinities, Brahma, Vishnu, Siva. [57] From the hundred love sentences of the Amaru-Sataka, a poem written by a king named Amaru. [58] Akbar's palace, in the fort of Agra, is built entirely of red sandstone. It is a square building, 249 feet by 260 feet. In the centre is a courtyard, 71 feet by 72 feet, on either side of which are two halls facing one another. Every feature round this court is of pure Hindu architecture. There are no arches, but the horizontal style of construction everywhere. General Cunningham, as Mr. Fergusson thinks erroneously, ascribes this palace to Jahangir. He describes it in his "Reports," vol. iv. p. 124, and gives a plan (Plate xiii.). [59] Abú-l Fazl (called Allami) was a son of Shaikh Mubarak, son of Shaikh Khizr, who came from Sind. Mubarak was one of the most learned men of his day, and inclined to be a free-thinker. Abú-l Fazl, his second son, was born on January 14th, 1551. He was a devoted student, and his range of reading was very extensive. His elder brother, Faizi, had been invited to the court of Akbar in the twelfth year of that sovereign's reign, and by his means Abú-l Fazl was introduced in 1568, when in his seventeenth year. His abilities were immediately recognised, and every year he grew in favour and power. He was made Prime Minister and Mansabdar of four thousand, discharging his duties with distinguished abilities and success. Both brothers inherited the liberal opinions of their father, and carried them to greater extremes. Hence orthodox Muslims reviled them as apostates and free-thinkers. In them Akbar found congenial minds, with feelings and opinions similar to but more decided than his own. The murder of Abú-l Fazl on August 12th, 1602, is noted further on. He was the author of the "Akbar-namah" (2 vols.), a history of his master's reign down to 1602, and of the "A'ín-i-Akbari." [60] The "A'ín-i-Akbari." [61] Faizi was the elder brother of the minister Abú-l Fazl. He was the most popular poet of his time, and a great favourite and constant companion of Akbar, who gave him the title of the Prince of Poets. Our author, for the purposes of his story, makes Faizi, the younger brother. [62] The story of Nala and Damayanti is a beautiful episode in the "Mahabharata," which was translated into Persian by Faizi, and into English by Dean Milman. Nala, King of Nishadha, had been chosen by the lovely Princess Damayanti for her husband, but the vindictive demon Kali was the enemy of Nala, and was determined to effect his ruin. He perverted the king's mind by urging him to play at dice with his brother Pushkara. Nala lost his kingdom and all he had, but refused to play for his wife; and the royal pair wandered away destitute from the palace. Nala, still instigated by the demon, deserted his weary, sleeping wife, and left her exposed in the forest. She at length found a hospitable refuge. Nala engaged himself as a charioteer, and was eventually restored to his faithful wife. Freed from the power of Kali, and fortified with a preternatural amount of skill in gaming, he finally won back his kingdom. Our author, in writing the story of Siddha and Iravati, evidently had in his mind the classic tale of Nala and Damayanti. [63] A brother of King Vikramaditya. He wrote a Sanscrit poem called "Bhatti Kavya," relating the adventures of Rama, in twenty-two cantos.--See Colebrooke's "Miscellaneous Essays," ii. 115. [64] History of the reign of Akbar. [65] The Sankhya system of philosophy was founded by Kapila. Its aim was rest, or exemption from transmigration, to be attained by looking steadily at the whole united universe, and recognising that man, and all which is created, is transitory, but that beyond the transitory is the eternal. The doctrine of Kapila is taught in six Sutras or lectures. His main position is that absolute prevention of all three sorts of pain is the highest purpose of the soul. The three sorts of pain are evil proceeding from self, from eternal beings, and from divine causes. Deliverance from these evils is attainable by knowledge of the twenty-five true principles of existence. The Vedanta philosophy is intended to give the end and ultimate aim of the Vedas. [66] A military title and rank, regulated by the supposed number of horse the holder of the title could, if required, bring into the field, varying from ten to ten thousand. [67] Humayun succeeded his father Baber in 1530. He was driven out of India by the talented Afghan chief Shir Shah, and his son Akbar was born in Sind during the flight. Humayun passed fifteen years in exile in Persia. He recovered Delhi and Agra after the death of Shir Shah, and died six months afterwards in 1556. Akbar then ascended the throne. [68] Akbar was the grandson of Baber, who was born in 1482, and died 1530. Baber was the great-grandson of Timur. [69] Mulla Abdul Kadir Muluk Shah of Badaun was born at that place in 1540. He studied music, astronomy, and history, and owing to his beautiful voice he was appointed Court Imám for Wednesdays. He was introduced early in life to Akbar, and was employed to translate Arabic and Sanskrit works into Persian. He was a fanatical Muhammadan and looked upon Abú-l Fazl as a heretic, though he served under him. But all references to the minister, in the works of Badauni, are couched in bitter and sarcastic terms. He wrote a work called "Tarikh-i-Badauni," which is a history from the time of the Ghaznevides to 1595, the fortieth year of Akbar's reign. The prevalent tone, in writing of Akbar his benefactor, is one of censure and disparagement. El Badauni also translated the "Ramayana," part of the "Mahabharata," and a history of Kashmir into Persian. He died in 1615. [70] Fathpúr Sikri was the favourite residence of Akbar from 1570 to the end of his reign. The chief glory of the place is its mosque. Fathpúr Sikri is 12 miles from Agra. [71] Akbar's system is fully described by Abú-l Fazl in the "A'ín-i-Akbari." The lands were divided into four classes with different revenue to be paid by each, namely:-- 1. Pulaj, cultivated every harvest and never fallow. 2. Paranti, lying fallow at intervals. 3. Checher, fallow for four years together. 4. Bunjar, not cultivated for five years and upwards. The lands of the two first of these classes were divided into best, middling, and bad. The produce of a bígah of each sort was added together, and a third of that was considered to be the average produce. One third of this average was the share of the State, as settled by Akbar's assessment. Remissions were made on the two last classes of land. The Government demand might be paid either in money or kind. The settlement was made for ten years. In Akbar's reign the land revenue yielded £16,582,440, and the revenue from all sources was £32,000,000. Akbar also remitted many vexatious imposts, including the poll tax on unbelievers, the tax on pilgrims, ferry dues, and taxes on cattle, trees, trade licenses, and market dues on many articles. [72] See note further on. [73] Alláhu Akbar, jalla jaláluhu: was the inscription on one side of Akbar's rupee, and on the other the date. [74] Jayadeva wrote the "Gita-Govinda," a pastoral drama, in about the twelfth century of our era. It relates to the early life of Krishna, as Govinda the cowherd, and sings the loves of Krishna with Radha and other of the cowherd damsels. But a mystical interpretation has been put upon it. There are some translations in the "Asiatic Researches," by Sir W. Jones. Mr. Griffith has translated a few stanzas into English. He says, "the exquisite melody of the verse can only be appreciated by those who can enjoy the original." A translation of the "Gita-Govinda" of Jayadeva was also published by Mr. Edwin Arnold in 1875. [75] Jasminum undulatum. [76] From Griffith's "Specimens of old Indian Poetry," p. 98. [77] From Edwin Arnold's translation of the "Gita-Govinda," p. 24. [78] Edwin Arnold's translation of the "Gita-Govinda," p. 28. [79] Amru-l Kais, was an Arabian poet and King of Kindah, living shortly before the era of Muhammad. He was the author of one of the seven Mullakats, or poems, which were inscribed in letters of gold, and suspended in the temple of Mecca. Pocock and Casiri give an account of the Arabian poets before Muhammad, and the seven poems of the Caaba were published in English by Sir William Jones. [80] An Arabian poet who lived after Amru-l Kais.--See "Casiri," i. pp. 71, 72. Casiri calls him Tarpha. [81] Akbar received a Portuguese embassy in 1578 from Goa, at the head of which was Antonio Cabral. He afterwards wrote to Goa, requesting that Jesuits might be sent to him with Christian books. Rudolf Aquaviva, a man of good family, who was afterwards murdered at Salsette, Antonio Monserrat, and Enriques (as interpreter) were selected for this mission, and despatched to Agra. They were most honourably received by Akbar, and great hopes of his conversion were conceived. But there was no practical result. Some years afterwards, in 1590, Akbar again applied for instructors, and in 1591 three brethren came to Lahore. But after a while, seeing no hope of good, they returned to Goa. [82] Kalidasa is the most popular poet of India. His "Sakuntala" has been translated into English by Professor Monier Williams. His best known lyrical poems are the "Cloud Messenger" and the "Seasons." Portions of the latter have been translated into English by Mr. Griffith. [83] Yoga (concentration) is the name of the second division of the Sánkhya system of Hindu philosophy. It was first taught by Patanjali. He asserted that the soul was Iswara (God), and that man's liberation is to be obtained by concentrating his attention on Iswara. Yoga is, therefore, the union of man's mind with the Supreme Soul. When a man is perfect in profound meditations or "steadyings of the mind," he gains a knowledge of the past and future, he has the power of shrinking into the form of the minutest atom, and gains mastery over Nature's laws. [84] Professor Wilson records instances of a Brahman sitting in the air wholly unsupported for twelve minutes, and another for forty minutes.--"Wilson's Works," i. p. 209. [85] These Englishmen were John Newbery and Ralph Fitch, merchants, William Leedes, a jeweller, and James Story, a painter. They came to India by way of Aleppo and Ormuz, and were sent prisoners to Goa by the Portuguese Governor of Ormuz. At Goa they fell in with a priest named Thomas Stevens, who was an Englishman, a native of Wiltshire, and who afterwards wrote an account of his voyage. They also met the Dutch traveller Linschoten. This was in January 1584. Stevens interceded for them, and "stood them in much stead." In September 1585 they reached Agra, and also visited Fathpúr Sikri. Thence Newbery set out on his return journey through Persia. Fitch went to Bengal, whence he visited Pegu and Malacca, and eventually took ship for Cochin and Ormuz, in 1589. Leedes took service under Akbar, who gave him a house and suitable allowances. Newbery had a letter from Queen Elizabeth to "Zelabdim Echebar."--See "Hakluyt," ii. pp. 375 to 399, 2nd ed. [86] Pieter van der Broeche was the President of the Dutch factory at Surat. He had an intimate knowledge of the commerce and exchanges of the East, and of Akbar's revenue system; and was also a man of great learning. He supplied much valuable information to De Laet, which appears in the work entitled, "De Imperio Magni Mongolis, sive India vera. Joannes de Laet. Lugduni Batavorum. 1631." Indian events are brought down to 1628 in this work. [87] The Vedanta is the second great division of the Mimansa school of Hindu philosophy. The name is from the Sanscrit Veda and anta (end), meaning that it gives the end or ultimate aim of the Vedas, which is a knowledge of Brahma or the Supreme Spirit; and of the relations in which man's soul stands towards the Universal Soul. [88] Moses ben Maimon, or Maimonides, one of the most celebrated of the Jewish Rabbis, was born at Cordova in 1133. He studied philosophy and medicine under Averroes. He retired to Egypt, where he died at the age of seventy. His chief work is the "Moreh Nevochim" ("Teacher of the Perplexed") in which he explains difficult passages, types, and allegories in the Old Testament. He wrote several other treatises on the Jewish law, and founded a college at Alexandria for his countrymen. [89] Amír (corruptly Emir) is a Muhammadan nobleman of high rank. Umara (corruptly Omrah) is the nobility of a Muhammadan court collectively. [90] The "Atharva Veda," in the opinion of Professor Wilson, is of later date than the "Rig," "Yajar," and "Sama" Vedas. It contains many forms of imprecation for destruction of enemies, prayers for averting calamities, and hymns to the gods. [91] Raja Todar Mal, the celebrated financier and administrator, was a Khatri and native of Lahore. His father died when he was a child, leaving him no provision, and he entered life as a writer. He was employed by the talented Afghan ruler Shir Shah, who drove out Humayun, Akbar's father, and afterwards under Akbar himself. His revenue settlement of Gujrat was highly approved by the Emperor; and he was similarly employed in other provinces of India. Abú-l Fazl says of him, in the "Akbar-nama,"--"For honesty, rectitude, manliness, knowledge of business, and administrative ability, he was without a rival in Hindustan." Todar Mal died at Lahore on November 10th, 1589. [92] See Blochmann's "Ain-i-Akbari," i., p. 266, for an account of the ceremony of weighing the Emperor. [93] The Charak-puja. It is the swinging festival held on the sun entering Aries. As a religious observance it is confined to Bengal; but the swinging is practised in other parts of India as a feat of dexterity, for obtaining money. The swinger is suspended by hooks passed through the skin above each blade-bone, and connected by ropes with one end of a lever traversing an upright post with a circular motion. Charak means a wheel. [94] "Gulbadan" means rose-body. The Emperor had an aunt of that name, own sister of his uncle Askari, who married Khizr Khan, Governor of the Punjab. She made a pilgrimage to Mecca. [95] See note at p. 62. [96] A goddess, the wife of Siva, named Kali, from her black complexion. The same as Durga. [97] "The unity of God." The divine monotheism of Akbar. [98] Tobacco was introduced in the reign of Akbar. Before that time it was no uncommon thing for a Muhammadan prince to die of delirium tremens. [99] The founder of the Yoga philosophy. [100] Uitgebreidheid (D.); Ausbreitung (German). [101] Rig-Veda. [102] "Rig-Veda," x. 129.--H. S. Colebrooke. See also Max Muller, "Hist. Anc. Sansk. Lit.," p. 560. [103] Abú-l Fazl, in 1598, was sent by Akbar to the Dakhin. Salim broke out in rebellion; and the Emperor, in his trouble, sent for his trusty Minister. Abú-l Fazl hastened to rejoin his master. But Salim, who had always hated the Minister, instigated a Rajpút chief of Bandalkhand, named Bir Singh of Urchah, to waylay him. Abú-l Fazl was murdered near Narwar, on the 12th of August 1602, and Bir Singh fled from the wrath of Akbar, leading the life of an outlaw in the jungle until the death of the great Emperor. [104] A favourite allegory in the Rig-Veda, connected with Indra's power over the elements, is his war with the demon Vritra. "With his vast destroying thunderbolt Indra struck the darkling mutilated Vritra. As the trunks of the trees are felled by the axe, so lies Vritra prostrate on the earth. The waters carry off the nameless body of Vritra, tossed into the midst of the never-stopping, never-resting currents. The foe of Indra has slept a long darkness."--"Rig-Veda," Sukta xxxii. [105] Akbar came into possession of Surat in 1572. [106] There have been many discussions on the true meaning of Nirvána. The best essay on the subject will be found in the "Pali Dictionary" of Mr. Childers. [107] Akbar died in October 1605, aged sixty-three. There is grave suspicion that he was poisoned at the instigation of his son Salim, who ascended the throne under the name of Jahangir. He was buried at Sikandra, about four miles from Agra, and a splendid mausoleum was erected over his grave. The building was commenced by himself; and Mr. Fergusson says that it is quite unlike any other tomb built in India either before or since, and of a design borrowed from a Hindu or Buddhist model. It stands in an extensive garden, and is approached by one noble gateway. In the centre of the garden, on a raised platform, stands the tomb, of a pyramidal form. The lower storey measures 320 feet each way, exclusive of the angle towers. It is thirty feet high, and is pierced by ten great arches on each face, with a larger entrance in the centre. On this terrace stands another far more ornate, measuring 186 feet on each side, and fourteen feet nine inches in height. A third and fourth of similar design stand on this, all being of red sandstone. Within and above the last is a white marble enclosure, its outer wall entirely composed of marble trellis work of the most beautiful patterns. Inside is the tombstone, a splendid piece of arabesque tracery. But the mortal remains repose under a plainer stone in a vaulted chamber in the basement.--Fergusson's "Indian Architecture," p. 583. The Earl of Northbrook, when Viceroy of India, presented a rich carpet to the tomb at Sikandra, to be placed over the stone which covers the remains of the greatest ruler of India. [108] Salim, under the name of Jahangir, reigned from 1605 to 1627. His mother was a Rajpút. He was cruel, avaricious, and debauched. He suppressed the rebellion of his son Khusru with the most horrible cruelties. In 1608 Captain William Hawkins landed at Surat, and was received with great favour by Jahangir at Agra. But, after two years, he failed in securing trading privileges for the East India Company, and left Agra in 1611. The influence of Nur Mahal, his favourite wife, was paramount over Jahangir; but he had no children by her. Of his four sons, he kept the eldest, Khusru, in prison for rebellion. Parwiz, the second, was a drunkard. Khurram, afterwards known as Shah Jahan, succeeded his father. Shahryar was the youngest. In 1615 Sir Thomas Roe arrived at the court of Jahangir, as ambassador from James I., and remained until 1618. Jahangir died on October 12th, 1627, and was succeeded by his rebellious son as Shah Jahan. [109] Shah Jahan reigned from 1628 to 1658. [110] Aurangzíb reigned from 1658 to 1707. [111] It was Nur Mahal who induced Jahangir to be more moderate in his cups. [112] Best known as the "Tarikh-i-Badauni." [113] This invitation is, of course, not historical. Our author, as he tells us in his Introduction, has prolonged the life of Faizi for the purposes of his story. In reality, Faizi died before the murder of his brother Abú-l Fazl. 
48271	----	(http://www.freeliterature.org) from page images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/oldpeoplethingst00coup OLD PEOPLE AND THE THINGS THAT PASS by LOUIS COUPERUS Translated by Alexander Teixeira de Mattos New York Dodd, Mead and Company 1919 CHAPTER I Steyn's deep bass voice was heard in the passage: "Come, Jack, come along, dog! Are you coming with your master?" The terrier gave a loud, glad bark and came rushing madly down the stairs, till he seemed to be tumbling over his own paws. "Oh, that voice of Steyn's!" Ottilie hissed between her teeth angrily and turned a number of pages of her novel. Charles Pauws glanced at her quietly, with his little smile, his laugh at Mamma's ways. He was sitting with his mother after dinner, sipping his cup of coffee before going on to Elly. Steyn went out with Jack; the evening silence settled upon the little house and the gas hummed in the impersonal and unhomely sitting-room. Charles Pauws looked down at the tips of his boots and admired their fit. "Where has Steyn gone?" asked Mamma; and her voice grumbled uneasily. "Gone for a walk with Jack," said Charles Pauws. He was called Lot[1] at home; his voice sounded soft and soothing. "He's gone to his woman!" snarled Ottilie. Lot made a gesture of weariness: "Come, Mamma," he said, "be calm now and don't think about that scene. I'm going on to Elly presently; meantime I want to sit cosily with you for a bit. Steyn's your husband, after all. You mustn't always be bickering with him and saying and thinking such things. You were just like a little fury again. It brings wrinkles, you know, losing your temper like that." "I am an old woman." "But you've still got a very soft little skin." Ottilie smiled; and Lot stood up: "There," he said, "give me a kiss.... Won't you? Must I give you one? You angry little Mummy!... And what was it about? About nothing. At least, I can't remember what it was all about. I should never be able to analyse it. And that's always the way.... How do I come to be so unruffled with such a little fury of a Mamma?" "If you imagine that your father used to keep unruffled!" Lot laughed that little laugh of his and did not reply. Mrs. Steyn de Weert went on reading more peacefully; she sat in front of her book like a child. She was a woman of sixty, but her blue eyes were like a child's, full of a soft beauty, gentle and innocent; and her voice, a little high-toned, always sounded like a child's, had just sounded like the voice of a naughty child. Sitting, small and upright, in her chair, she read on, attentively, calming herself because Lot had spoken so calmly and kissed her so comfortingly. The gas hummed and Lot drank his coffee and, looking at his boots, wondered why he was going to be married. He did not think he was a marrying man. He was young still: thirty-eight; he really looked much younger; he made enough money with his articles to risk it, frugal-fashion, with what Elly would get from Grandpapa Takma; but all the same he did not think that he was of the marrying kind. His liberty, his independence, his selfish power to amuse himself as he pleased were what he loved best; and marrying meant giving one's self over, bound hand and foot, to a woman. He was not passionately in love with Elly: he thought her an intelligent, artistic little thing; and he was really not doing it for what she would inherit from Grandpapa Takma. Then why was he doing it, he asked himself, as he had asked himself day after day, during that week which had followed on his proposal. "Mamma, can you tell me? Why did I propose to Elly?" Ottilie looked up. She was accustomed to queer and humorous questions from Lot and she used to answer him in the same tone, as far as she was able; but this question made her feel a prick of jealousy, a prick that hurt very much, physically, like a thorn in the flesh. "Why you proposed to Elly? I don't know. We always do things without knowing why." Her voice sounded soft and melancholy, a little sulky after the naughty child's voice of just now. Had she not lost everything that she had ever possessed? Would she not lose Lot, have to part with him to Elly ... as she had had to part with everything and everybody?... "How seriously you answered, Mamma! That's not like you." "Mayn't I be serious too, once in a way?" "Why so sad and serious and tempersome lately? Is it because I am going to be married?" "Perhaps." "But you're fond of Elly ..." "Yes, she's very nice." "The best thing we can do is to go on living together; Elly's fond of you too. I've talked to Steyn about it." Lot called his step-father, his second step-father, Steyn, without anything else, after having called his first, when he was still a boy, "Mr." Trevelley. Ottilie had been married three times. "The house is too small," said Mamma, "especially if you go having a family soon." And yet she thought: "If we remain together, I sha'n't lose Lot entirely; but I shall never be able to get on with my daughter-in-law, especially if there are children." "A family?" he echoed. "Children." "Children?" "Well, married people have had children before now!" "Our family has lasted long enough. I shall be in no hurry about children." "And, when your wife hasn't you with her, what has she, if she hasn't any children? It's true, you're both so clever. I'm only a stupid woman; my children have often been a comfort to me...." "When you were able to spoil them." "It's not for you to reproach me with that!" "I'm not reproaching you." "As to living together, Lot," said Mamma, sadly, in a child's coaxing voice, casting up her blue child-eyes, "_I_ should be quite willing, if Elly is and if she promises to take things as she finds them. I shall feel very lonely without you. But, if there were any objections, I might go over to England. I have my two boys there. And Mary is coming home from India this year." Lot knitted his brows and put his hand up to his fair hair: it was very neat, with a parting. "Or else ... I might go and look up Ottilie at Nice." "No, Mamma, not that!" said Lot, almost angrily. "Why not?" exclaimed Mrs. Steyn de Weert, raising her voice. "She's my child, surely?" "Yes," Lot admitted, quickly recovering his composure. "But ..." "But what? Surely, my own child...?" "But it would be very silly of you to go to Ottilie." "Why, even if we have quarrelled at times ..." "It would never do; you can't get on with her. If you go to Ottilie, I won't get married. Besides, Steyn has something to say in the matter." "I'm so fond of Nice," said Mrs. Steyn de Weert; and her child-voice sounded almost plaintive. "The winters there are so delightful.... But perhaps it would be difficult for me ... to go there ... because Ottilie behaves so funnily. If it could be managed, I would rather live with you, Lot. If Elly is willing. Perhaps we could have a little larger house than this. Do you think we could afford it? Stay alone with Steyn I will _not_. That's settled. That's quite settled." "Mummy darling ..." Lot's voice sounded full of pity. After her last determined words, Mamma had big tears in her blue child-eyes, tears which did not fall but which gave a sorrowful gleam to the naughty look in her face. Then, with a sudden short sigh, she took up her book and was silent and pretended to read. There was something resigned about her attitude and, at the same time, something obstinate, the constant attitude of a naughty child, a spoilt child that persisted in doing, quietly and silently, what it wanted to. Lot, with his coffee-cup in his hand, his laugh about his mouth, studied Mamma; after his compassion, he just sat and studied her. Yes, she must have been very pretty; the uncles always said, a little doll. She was sixty now and no longer made any pretence to beauty; but she was still charming in a child-like and doll-like fashion. She had the wrinkles and the deeper furrows of an elderly woman; but the skin of her forehead and cheeks was still white and soft, without a blemish, tenderly veined at the temples. She had become very grey; but, as she had been very fair and her hair was soft and curly, it sometimes looked as if she had remained fair; and, simply though that hair appeared to be done, fastened up with one quick movement and pinned, there were still some almost childish little locks curling at the temples and in the neck. Her short, slim figure was almost that of a young woman; her hands were small and pretty; in fact, there was a prettiness about her whole person; and pretty above all were the young, blue eyes. Lot, who smiled as he looked at his mother, saw in her a woman over whom an emotional life, a life of love and hate, had passed without telling very much upon her. And yet Mamma had been through a good deal, with her three husbands, all three of whom she had loved, all three of whom, without exception, she now hated. A butterfly she had certainly been, but just an unthinking butterfly, simply because her nature was a butterfly's. She had loved much, but even a deep passion would not have made her life or her different; naturally and unconsciously she was in headstrong opposition to everything. She had never been economical; and yet her house was never comfortable, nor had she ever spent much on dress, unconsciously despising elegance and comfort and feeling that she attracted through herself and not through any artistic surroundings. Mamma's get-up was like nothing on earth, Lot thought; the only cosy room in the house was his. Mamma, mad on reading, read very modern French novels, which she did not always understand, despite a life of love and hatred, having remained innocent in many things and totally ignorant of the darker phases of passion. Then Lot would see, while she was reading, that she was surprised and did not understand; a simple, childish wonder would come into her eyes; she never dared ask Lot for an explanation.... Lot got up; he was going to Elly that evening. He kissed his mother, with his constant little laugh of silent amusement, his little laugh at Mamma. "You never used to go out every evening," said Mamma, reproachfully; and she felt the thorn in her heart's flesh. "I'm in love now," said Lot, calmly. "And engaged. And a fellow must go and see his girl, you know.... Will you think over my question, why I really proposed to Elly ... and will you manage without me this evening?" "I shall have to do that many evenings...." Mamma pretended to be absorbed in her French novel, but, as soon as Lot had left the room, she put down the book and looked round, vaguely, with a look of helplessness in her blue eyes. She did not move when the maid brought in the tea-tray and kettle; she sat staring before her, across her book. The water sang its bubbling song; outside the windows, after the last summer heat, the first cold wind blew with its wonted plaint. Ottilie felt herself abandoned: oh, how little of everything remained! There she was now, there she was, the old, grey-haired woman! What was there left of her life? And yet, strange to say, her three husbands were all three alive: Lot had been lately to Brussels with Elly, to see his father; Trevelley was spending a life of pleasure in London: when all was said, she had liked him the best. Her three English children lived in England, felt more English than Dutch; Ottilie was leading her curious, unconventional life at Nice: the whole family cried scandal about it; and Lot she was now about to lose. He had always stayed with her so nicely, though he went abroad pretty frequently; and he had hardly any friends at the Hague and never went to the Witte.[2] Now he was going to be married; he was no longer young, for a young man; he must be thirty-eight, surely? To occupy herself a little now, beside her lonely tea-tray and bubbling water, she began to count her children's ages on her tiny fingers. Ottilie, Lot's sister, her eldest, forty-one: heavens, how old she was growing! The English ones, as she always called them--"my three English children"--Mary, thirty-five; John, thirty-two; even her handsome Hugh was thirty: heavens above, how old they were growing! And, once she was busy calculating ages, to amuse herself, she reckoned out that old Mamma would now soon be--let's see--yes, she would be ninety-seven. Old Mr. Takma, Elly's grandpapa, was only a year or two younger; and, when she thought of him, Ottilie reflected that it was very strange that Mr. Takma had always been so nice to her, as though it were really true what people used to whisper, formerly, when people still interested themselves in the family. So curious, those two old people: they saw each other almost every day; for Papa Takma was hale and still went out often, always walking the short distance from the Mauritskade to the Nassaulaan and crossing the razor-back bridge with rare vigour. Yes ... and then Sister Thérèse, in Paris, eight years older than herself, must be sixty-eight; and the brothers: Daan, in India,[3] seventy; Harold, seventy-three; Anton, seventy-five; while Stefanie, the only child of Mamma's first marriage and the only De Laders, was getting on for seventy-seven. She, Ottilie, the youngest, felt that all those others were very old; and yet she was old too: she was sixty. It was all a matter of comparison, growing old, different ages; but she had always felt it so: that she, the youngest, was comparatively young and always remained younger than the others, than all the others. She had to laugh, secretly, when Stefanie kept on saying: "At our age ..." Why, Stefanie was seventy-seven! There was a difference--rather!--between sixty and seventy-seven. But she shrugged her shoulders: what did it matter? It was all over and so long ago. There she sat now, an old, grey-haired woman, and the aftermath of life dragged on and the loneliness increased daily, even though Steyn was here still: there he was, coming in. Where on earth did he go to every evening? She heard the fox-terrier barking in the passage and her husband's deep, bass voice: "Hush, Jack! Quiet, Jack!..." Oh, that voice, how she hated it! What had she, whom had she left? She had five children, but only Lot with her; and he went abroad so often and was now going to be married: oh, how jealous it made her! Ottilie she never saw nowadays; Ottilie didn't care for her mother; she sang at concerts and had made a name for herself: she had a glorious voice; but she certainly behaved very strangely: Stefanie spoke of her as "lost." Mary was married, in India,[4] and her two English boys were in London: oh, how she sometimes longed for Hugh! Which of her children was any use or comfort to her, except that dear Lot? And Lot was going to be married and he was asking her, his mother, who would miss him so, why he was going to be married, why! Of course, he was only joking, really; but perhaps it was also serious in part. Did people ever know anything?... Did they know why they did a thing ... in their impulsiveness. She had married three times.... Perhaps Ottilie was right after all? But no, there was the world, there were people, even though neither the world nor people had interested themselves in the family of late years; but still there they were; and you couldn't act as Ottilie did, without making yourself altogether impossible. That was why she, Mamma, had married, had married three times. Perhaps she ought never to have married at all: it would have been better for a heap of things, a heap of people.... The old life was all gone. It had vanished, as if it had never existed. And yet it had existed and, when it passed, had left much behind it, but nothing except melancholy ghosts and shadows. Yes, this evening she was in a serious mood and felt like thinking, a thing which otherwise she did as seldom as possible: what good did thinking do? When she had thought, in her life, she had never thought to any practical purpose. When she had yielded to impulse, things had been worse still. What was the good of wanting to live, when nevertheless your life was mapped out for you by things stronger than yourself that slumbered in your blood? Ottilie gave herself up to her French novel, for Steyn de Weert had entered the room, with Jack leaping in front of him. And any one who had seen Mamma a moment ago and saw her now would have noticed this phenomenon, that Mamma became much older as soon as her husband entered. The plump cheeks contracted nervously and the lines round the nose and mouth grew deeper. The little straight nose stuck out more sharply, the forehead frowned angrily. The fingers, which were tearing the pages of a novel anyhow with a hairpin, trembled; and the page was torn awry. The back became rounder, like that of a cat assuming the defensive. She said nothing, but poured out the tea. "Coosh!" she said to the dog. And, glad that the dog came to her, she patted him on the head with a half-caress; and the fox-terrier, giving a last sharp bark, spun round upon himself and, very suddenly, nestled down on Ottilie's skirt, with a deep sigh. Steyn de Weert, sitting opposite her, drank his tea. It appeared strange that they should be man and wife, for Mamma now certainly looked her age and Steyn seemed almost young. He was a tall fellow, broad-shouldered, not more than just fifty, with a handsome, fresh-coloured, healthy face, the face of a strong out-of-doors man, calm in glance and movement. The fact that, years ago, he had thrown away his life, from a sense of honour, upon a woman much older than himself had afterwards inspired him with an indifference that ceased to reckon what might still be in store for him. What was spoilt was spoilt, squandered for good, irretrievably. There was the open air, which was cool and fresh; there was shooting; there was a drink, when he wanted one; there were his old friends, dating back to the time when he was an officer in the dragoons. Beyond these there were the little house and this old woman: he accepted them into the bargain, because it couldn't be helped. In externals he did, as far as possible, what she wanted, because she could be so tempersome and was so obstinate; but his cool stubbornness was a silent match for hers. Lot was a capital fellow, a little weak and unexpected and effeminate; but he was very fond of Lot: he was glad that Lot lived with them; he had given Lot one of the best rooms in the house to work in. For the rest ... for the rest, there were other things; but they were no concern of anybody. Hang it all, he was a young man still, even though his thick hair was beginning to turn grey! His marriage had come about through a point of honour; but his wife was old, she was very old. The thing was really rather absurd. He would never make a hell of his life, as long as he still felt well and strong. With a good dose of indifference you can shake off everything. It was this indifference of his which irritated his wife, till she felt as nervous as a cat when he did no more than enter the room. He had not spoken a word, sat drinking his tea, reading the newspaper which he had brought with him. In the small living-room, where the gas hummed and the wind rattled the panes, the fox-terrier sometimes snorted in dreams that made him groan and moan on the trailing edge of his mistress' dress. "Coosh!" she said. And for the rest neither of them spoke, both sat reading, one her book, the other his evening-paper. And these two people, whose lives had been welded together by civil contract, because of the man's feelings of conventional honesty and his sense of not being able to act otherwise as a man of honour, these two had once, years ago, twenty years ago, longed passionately, the man for the woman and the woman for the man. When Steyn de Weert was a first lieutenant, a good-looking fellow, just turned thirty, he had met Mrs. Trevelley, without knowing her age. Besides, what did age matter when he set eyes upon a woman so ravishingly beautiful to his quick desire that he had at once, at the first moment that he saw her, felt the blood flaming in his veins and thought: "That woman I must have!..." At that time, though already forty, she was a woman so full of blossoming prettiness that she was still known as the beautiful Lietje. She was small, but perfect in shape and particularly charming in feature, charming in the still very young lines of throat and breast, creamy white, with a few pale-gold freckles; charming with blue eyes of innocence and very fair, soft, wavy hair; charmingly half-woman and half-child, moulded for love, who seemed to exist only that she might rouse glowing desires. When Steyn de Weert saw her thus for the first time, in some ultra-modern Hague drawing-room of the Dutch-Indian set, she was married to her second husband, that half-Englishman, Trevelley, who was supposed to have made money in India; and Steyn had seen her the mother of three biggish children: a girl of fifteen and two boys a little younger; but the enamoured dragoon had refused to believe that, by her first marriage, with Pauws, from whom she had been divorced because of Trevelley, she had a daughter at the Conservatoire at Liège and a son of eighteen at home! The beautiful Lietje? She had married very young, in India, and she was still the beautiful Lietje. Such big children? Was that woman forty? The young officer had perhaps hesitated a moment, tried, now that he knew so much, to view Mrs. Trevelley with other eyes; but, when he looked in hers and saw that she desired him as he did her, he forgot everything. Why not cull a moment of happiness? What was an instant of love with a still seductive and beautiful woman? A triumph for a week, a month, a couple of months; and then each would go a different way. That was how he had thought at the time; but now, now he was sitting here, because that bounder of a Trevelley, who wanted to get rid of Ottilie, had taken advantage of their relations to create a scandal and, after a pretence at a duel, to insist on a divorce; because all the Hague had talked about Ottilie, when she was left standing alone with a lover; and because he, Steyn, was an honest chap after all: that, that was why he was sitting here, with that old woman opposite him. Not a word was uttered between them; they drank their tea; the tray was removed; Jack dreamed and moaned; the wind howled. The pages followed in quick succession under Ottilie's fingers; and Steyn read the Manchurian war-news and the advertisements, the advertisements and the war-news. The room around them, married though they were, looked as it had always looked, impersonal and unhomely; the clock ticked on and on, under its glass shade. It looked like a waiting-room, that drawing-room: a waiting-room where, after many things that had passed, two people sat waiting. Sat waiting ... for what? For the end that was so slow in coming, for the final death. Steyn restrained himself and read through the advertisements once more. But his wife, suddenly shutting up her book, said, abruptly: "Frans!" "Eh?" "I was talking to Lot just now." "Yes ..." "Would you object if they stayed on with us, he and Elly?" "No, on the contrary." But it seemed as though Steyn's calm consent just irritated his wife, perhaps against her own will, into contradiction: "Yes, but it wouldn't be so easy!" she said. "Why not?" "The house is too small." "We can move." "A bigger house would be more expensive. Have you the money for it?" "I think that, with what Lot makes and with Elly's allowance ..." "No, a bigger house is too dear." "Well, then here...." "This is too small." "Then it can't be done." Ottilie rose, angrily: "No, of course not: nothing can ever be done. Because of that wretched money. But I'll tell you this: when Lot is married, I can't ... I c-can't ..." She stammered when she was angry. "Well, what can't you?" "I c-can't ... stay alone with you! I shall go to Nice, to Ottilie." "All right, go." He said it calmly, with great indifference, and took up his paper again. But it was enough to make Ottilie, who was highly strung, burst into sobs: "You don't care a bit about me any more!" Steyn shrugged his shoulders and went out of the room and upstairs; the dog sprang in front of him, barking. Ottilie remained alone; and her sobs ceased at once. She knew it herself--the years had taught her as much as that--she easily lost her temper and would always remain a child. But, in that case, why grow older, in ever-increasing loneliness? There she sat, there she sat now, an old, grey woman, in that unhomely room; and everything was past. Oh, if Lot only remained with her, her Lot, her Charlot, her boy! And she felt her jealousy of Lot and Elly, at first restrained, rising more and more violently. And that other jealousy: her jealousy of Steyn. He irritated her when he merely entered the room; but she still remained jealous of him, as she always had been of every man that loved her. Oh, to think that he no longer cared about her, because she had grown old! Oh, to think that he never uttered a word of affection now, never gave her a kiss on her forehead! She was jealous of Elly because of Lot, she was jealous of Lot because of Steyn, because Steyn really cared more for Lot, nowadays, than for her! How cruel the years were, slowly to take everything from her! The years were past, the dear, laughing love-years, full of caresses; all that was past! Even the dog had just gone off with Steyn: no living creature was nice to her; and why need Lot suddenly go getting married now? She felt so forlorn that, after the forced sobs, which she had stopped as soon as they were no longer necessary, she sank into a chair and wept softly, really weeping, this time, because no one loved her and because she was forlorn. Her still young and beautiful eyes, overflowing with tears, looked into the vanished past. Then--in the days when she was the beautiful Lietje--everything about her had been pleasant, nice, caressing, playful, jesting, almost adoring and entreating, because she was so pretty and gay and attractive and had an irresistible laugh and a temper full of the most delightful little whims. True, through all this there was always the sting of jealousy; but in those days so much of it had come her way: all the caressing homage which the world, the world of men, expends on a pretty woman! She laughed at it through her tears; and the memory meandered around her, bright as pretty little, distant clouds. Oh, what a wealth of adulation had surrounded her then! Now, all those men were old or dead; only her own three husbands were alive; and Steyn was still young. He was too young: if he had not been so young, she would have kept her charm for him longer and they would still be nice to each other, happy together as old people can be sometimes, even though the warmth of youth is past.... She heaved a deep sigh through her tears and sat in her chair like a helpless child that has been naughty and now does not know what to do. What was there for her to do now? Just to go quietly to bed, in her lonely room, an old woman's room, in her lonely bed, and to wake in the morning and drag one more old day after the old, old days! Ah, why could she not have died while she was young? She rang and told the maid to lock up; and these little habits had for her the disconsolateness of everyday repetition, because it all seemed unnecessary. Then she went upstairs. The little house was very tiny: a small suite of rooms on the ground-floor, above that a suite with a little dressing-room in addition to her room and Lot's, while Steyn had hoisted himself up to the attic floor, doubtless so as not to be too near his wife. And, as she undressed, she reflected that, if Elly would consent to make shift, it might just be possible: she would give up her present big room, with the three windows, to Lot and Elly; she, oh, she could sleep in what was now Lot's little room: what did she care? If only children did not come too quickly! Oh, if only she did not lose Lot altogether! He asked her why he had proposed to Elly! He asked it in his usual half-jesting way; but it was not nice of him to ask it: she was glad that she had answered quietly and not worked herself into a temper. Oh, the pain, the physical pain which she sometimes suffered from that thorn in her heart's flesh, because of love, affection, caresses even, that went out to another! And sadly, pitying herself, she got into bed. The room was empty around her and unhomely: the bedroom of a woman who does not care for all the trifles of comfort and the vanities of the toilet and whose great joy always was to long for the love and caresses of those whom she found attractive, because of the once--often secret--wave of passion that flowed between them and her. For this she had neglected the whole of the other life of a wife, of a mother, even of a woman of the world and even of a smart woman, not caring for it, despising auxiliaries, feeling sure of her fascinations and very little of a mother by nature. Oh, she was old now and alone! And she lay lonely in her chilly bed; and that evening she had not even the consolation that Lot would come from the room next to hers to give her a good-night kiss in bed as he knew how, pettingly, a long, fond kiss on her forehead. At such times he would sit for a moment on the edge of her bed, have a last chat with her; and then, sometimes, passing his delicate hand over her cheek, he would say: "Mamma, what a soft skin you have!" When he came home now, he would think that she was asleep and would go to bed. She sighed: she felt so lonely. Above Lot's room--you could hear everything in that house--she heard Steyn pounding about. The maid also was going to bed now; out of her own bed Ottilie listened to all those sounds: doors opening; shoes put outside; a basin emptied. It now became very still and she reflected what a good thing it was that she always chose old servants. She thought of it with a certain mischievous joy, glad that Steyn had no chance, with elderly servants. The house was now quiet for the night, though it was not yet eleven.... Had she been asleep? Why did she wake suddenly? What was that creaking on the stairs? Was it Lot coming home? Or was it Steyn sneaking out again? Was it Lot? Was it Steyn? Her heart thumped in her chest. And she got out of bed quickly and, before she knew what she was doing, opened the door and saw a match struck flickering in the hall.... "Is that you, Lot?" "No, it's I." "You, Frans?" "Yes, what's the matter?" His voice sounded irritated, because she had heard him. "What are you doing?" "I'm going out." "At this time of night?" "Yes. I can't sleep. I'm going for a walk." "You're going for a walk at this hour?" "Yes." "Frans, you're not faithful to me!" "Oh, rot! Not faithful to you! Go back to bed." "Frans, I _won't_ have you go out." "Look here!" "Do stay at home, Frans! Lot isn't back yet and I'm frightened, alone. Do, Frans!" Her voice sounded like that of a pleading child. "I want some air." "You want ..." She did not finish her sentence, suddenly choking with anger. On the top floor--she knew it--the old servant-maid was standing with her door ajar, laughing and grinning. She knew it. She felt stifled with rage, with nervous rage; she quivered all over her body, shivering in her night-dress. The hall-door had opened and shut. Steyn was outside; and she ... she was still standing on the stairs above. She clenched her fists, she panted; she could have run after him, in her night-dress; the big tears sprang from her child-eyes; but, ashamed because of the maid, she went back to her room. She cried, cried very softly, so as not to let the maid hear, so that the maid should not have that added enjoyment. Oh, that pain, that sting, here, in her heart, a physical pain, a physical pain! No one who did not feel it as she did could know the physical pain which it gave her, the sort of pain one describes to a doctor. Where could Steyn be going? He was still so young, he still looked so well-set-up. And yet he was her husband, her husband! Oh, why had he not remained nice to her, old though she was? She never even felt the touch of his hand now! And how at one time she had felt that touch tingle through all her being! Oh, never again, never even a kiss, a kind kiss, such as old people still exchange at times! She did not go to bed; she waited up. Would Steyn come back soon? Was that ... was that he coming now? No, it was Lot: it was his key she heard, his lighter footstep. And she opened the door: "Lot!" "Mummy, aren't you in bed yet?" "No, dear. Lot, Lot, come here!" He went into her room. "Lot, Steyn is out." "Out?" "Yes, he went to his room first ... and then I heard him go quietly down the stairs; then he went out of the hall-door, quietly." "He didn't want to wake you, Mummy." "Ah, but where has he gone to?" "For a walk. He often does. It's very hot and close." "Gone for a walk, Lot, gone for a walk? No, he's gone ..." She stood in front of him--he could see it by the candle-light--blazing with passion. Her little figure in the white night-dress was like that of a fury with the curly yellow hair, shot with grey, all shining; everything that was sweet in her seethed up into a raging temper, as though she were irritated to the utmost, and she felt an impulse suddenly to raise her hand and box Lot's ears with its small, quivering fingers for daring to defend Steyn. She controlled herself and controlled her wrath, but words of vulgar invective and burning reproach came foaming to her trembling lips. "Come, Mummy, Mummy! Come!" Lot tried to calm her. And he took her in his arms and patted her back, as one does to an excited child: "Come, Mummy, come!" She now burst into sobs. But he remonstrated with her gently, said that she was exaggerating, that she had been overwrought lately, that he absolutely refused to get married if she did not become calmer; and very prettily he flirted with her in this way and persuaded her to go to bed, tucked her in, shook up her pillows: "Come, Mummy, go to sleep now and don't be silly. Let Steyn go for his walk in peace, don't think of Steyn, don't think of anything...." She acquiesced, under the stroke of his delicate hand on her hair, her cheek. "Will you go to sleep now, you silly Mummy?... I say, Mummy, what a soft skin you have!..." [1] Pronounced "Lo," as in the French "Charlot." [2] The Witte and the Plaats are the two leading clubs at the Hague. [3] Dutch East Indies: Java. [4] British India. CHAPTER II Elly Takma was very happy and looked better than she had done for a long time. Well, thought Cousin Adèle, who had long kept house for Grandpapa Takma--she was a Takma too and unmarried--well, a first little love-romance which a girl experiences when not much over twenty and which makes her feel unhappy, an engagement broken off with a fellow who used to go and see his mistress after spending the evening with his betrothed: a romance of that sort does not influence a girl's life; and, though Elly had moped for a while, Lot Pauws was making her happy and making her look better, with a glad laugh on her lips and a bright colour in her cheeks. Cousin Adèle--Aunt Adèle, as Elly called her, Indian-fashion--buxom, full-figured, fresh and young-looking for her age, had nothing of a poor relation employed to do the housekeeping, but was altogether the capable mistress of the house, seeing to everything, caring for nothing but the details of her household and proud of her orderly home. She had never been in India and ruled Grandpapa's house with true Dutch conscientiousness, leaving Elly entirely to her hobby of the moment; for Elly had her hobbies, which she rode until she attained absolute perfection, after which she would take up a fresh one. At eighteen, she had been a famous tennis-player, winning medals in tournaments, well-known for her exquisite, powerful and graceful play, mentioned in all the sporting-papers. After achieving perfection in tennis, she had suddenly grown bored with it, hung up her racket, studded round with the medals, by a pink ribbon in her bedroom and begun to work zealously for the Charity Organization Society, doing much practical slumming and sick-visiting; they thought highly of her in the committee. One day, however, when a sick man showed her his leg with a hole in it, she fainted and considered that she had overstepped her philanthropic limits. She resigned the work; and, feeling a certain handiness quivering at the tips of her sensitive fingers, she started making her own hats and also modelling. She was successful in both pursuits: the hats were so pretty that she thought seriously of setting up as a milliner and working for her living. The modelling too was most charming: after the first few lessons, she was modelling from the life; and her head of _A Beggar Boy_ was accepted for exhibition. Then Elly had fallen in love and was very much in love; her engagement lasted three months; then it was broken off; and Elly, who did nothing by halves, for all her varying interests, had suffered a great deal and faded and pined and been dangerously ill, until one day she recovered, with a feeling of melancholy as her only remembrance. She was then twenty-three and had taken to writing. Under a pseudonym, she published her own engagement in the form of a short story: it was not a bad short story. Her new hobby brought her gradually into contact with Charles Pauws, who also wrote, mostly for the newspapers: articles, _causeries_. Elly was of opinion that she had soon reached her literary limits. After this short story, which had blossomed in her and blossomed out of her heart, she would never write anything more. She was twenty-three, she was old. She had lived her life, with different vicissitudes. Still there was something, there was Charles. Soft, weak, passably witty, with his mother's attractive eyes, with his fair hair carefully brushed, with his too pale blue ties, he was not the man of her dreams; and she still felt, sometimes very grievously, the sadness of her sorrow. But she was fond of him, she was very fond of him and she considered that he was wasting his talent on trivial work, on journalism, which he did with remarkable ease--after all, it was an art in itself, Charles would retort--whereas his two novels were so good; and he had attempted no serious work for the last ten years. And in this girl, with her thoroughness--within limits--there arose, on the now somewhat romantic ground of her melancholy and her sorrow, the mission to rouse Lot to work, to produce real work, fine work. She must work no longer for herself but for another, for Lot, who possessed so many good qualities, but did not cultivate them earnestly. She saw more and more of him; she had him to tea; they talked, talked at great length; Lot, though not physically in love with her, thought it really pleasant to be with Elly, allowed himself to be stimulated, began a novel, stuck in the middle. She created in his mind the suggestion that he wanted her. And he proposed to her. She was very happy and he too, though they were not passionately in love. They were attracted by the prospect of being together, talking together, living, working, travelling together, in the smiling sympathy of their two souls: his a rather small, vain, cynical, artistic soul, with above all much kindly indulgence for others and a tinge of laughing bitterness and one great dread, which utterly swayed his soul, the dread of growing old; hers, at this moment, full of the serious thought of remaining true to her mission and giving her life a noble object by wrapping it up in another's. Elly, that morning, was singing while the wind sent the early autumn leaves driving in a shower of golden sunlight along the window-panes. She was busy altering a winter hat, with a talent which she had not quite lost, when Cousin--Aunt--Adèle entered the room: "Grandpapa has had a bad night; I kept on hearing him moving." "Yes, then he's troubled with buzzings which are just like voices," said Elly. "Grandpapa is always hearing those voices, you know. Dr. Thielens looks upon them as a premonitory symptom of total deafness. Poor Grandad! I'll go to him at once ... I must just finish my hat first: I want to wear it to-day. We are going to old Mrs. Dercksz and to Aunt Stefanie.... Auntie, I am so happy. Lot is so nice. And he is so clever. I am certain that we shall be very happy. I want to travel a great deal. Lot loves travelling.... There is some talk of our living with Steyn and Ottilie. I don't know what to say. I would rather we were by ourselves. Still, I don't know. I'm very fond of Mamma; and she's Lot's mother after all. But I like harmony around me; and Steyn and she quarrel. I call him Steyn, simply. _Meneer_ is too stiff; and I can't call him Papa. Besides, Lot calls him Steyn too. It's difficult, that sort of household. Steyn himself would think it odd if I called him Papa.... Do you like the hat like this? I'll alter yours to-morrow. Look, it's an absolutely new hat!... I'll go to Grandpapa now. Poor Grandad, so he's had a bad night?..." She left the door open. Aunt Adèle looked round: the room was lumbered with hat-trimmings. The _Beggar Boy_ smiled in a corner; the medals were studded round the racket, on its pink ribbon; the writing-table was tesselated with squares of note-paper. "What a litter!" said Aunt Adèle. She dared not touch the papers, though she would have liked to tidy them: she could not bear to see such a heap of scattered papers and she had to restrain her itching fingers. But she cleared up the hat-trimmings, quickly, and put them away in cardboard boxes. Then she went downstairs, where the maids were turning out the dining-room. Elly, flitting up the stairs, heard the blows beating on an arm-chair, felt them almost on her own back, ran still quicker up the stairs, to the next floor, where Grandpapa's room was. She stopped outside his door, recovered her breath, knocked, opened the door and went in with a calm step: "How are you this morning, Grandad?" The old gentleman sat at a knee-hole table, looking in a drawer; he locked it quietly when Elly entered. She went up and kissed him: "I hear you did not sleep well?" "No, child, I don't think I slept at all. But Grandad can do without sleep." Grandpapa Takma was ninety-three: married late in life and his son married late made it possible for him to have a granddaughter of Elly's age. He looked younger, however, much younger, perhaps because he tactfully mingled a seeming indifference to his outward appearance with a really studied care. A thin garland of grey hair still fringed the ivory skull; the clean-shaven face was like a stained parchment, but the mouth, because of the artificial teeth, had retained its young and laughing outline and the eyes were a clear brown, bright and even keen behind his spectacles. His figure was small, slender and slight as a young man's; and a very short jacket hung over his slightly-arched and emaciated back: it was open in front and hung in folds behind. The hands, too large in proportion to the man's short stature, but delicately veined and neatly kept, trembled incessantly; and there was a jerk in the muscles of the neck that twitched the head at intervals. His tone was cheerful and lively, a little too genial not to be forced; and the words came slowly and well-weighed, however simple the things which they expressed. When he sat, he sat upright, on an ordinary chair, never huddled together, as though he were always on his guard; when he walked, he walked briskly, with very short steps of his stiff legs, so as not to betray their rheumatism. He had been an Indian civil servant, ending as a member of the Indian Council, and had been pensioned years ago; his conversation showed that he kept pace with politics, kept pace with colonial matters: he laughed at them, with mild irony. In his intercourse with others, who were always his juniors--for he had no contemporaries save old Mrs. Dercksz, _née_ Dillenhof, who was ninety-seven, and Dr. Roelofsz, eighty-eight--in his intercourse he was kindly and condescending, realizing that the world must seem other to people even of sixty and seventy than it did to him; but the geniality was too great, was sometimes too exuberant not to be assumed and not to make people feel that he never thought as he spoke. He gave the impression of being a diplomatist who, himself always on his guard, was sounding another to find out what he knew. Sometimes, in his bright eyes, a spark shone behind the spectacles, as though he had suddenly been struck by something, a very acute perception; and the jerk of the neck would throw his head on one side, as though he suddenly heard something. His mouth would then distort itself into a laugh and he would hurriedly agree with whomever he was addressing. What was most striking in him was that quick, tremulous lucidity in so very old a man. It was as though some strange capacity had sharpened his senses so that they remained sound and serviceable, for he still read a great deal, with glasses; he was sharp of hearing; he was particular in the matter of wine, with an unimpaired sense of smell; he could find things in the dark. Only, sometimes, in the midst of a conversation, it was as though an invincible drowsiness overcame him; and his eyes would suddenly stare glassily in front of him and he would fall asleep. They left him alone and had the civility not to let him know it; and, five minutes later, he would wake up, go on talking, oblivious of that momentary unconsciousness. The inward shock with which he had woke was visible to no one. Elly went to see her grandfather in the morning, always for a minute. "We are going to pay calls this afternoon," said Elly. "On the family. We have been nowhere yet." "Not even to Grandmamma." "We shall go to her first this afternoon. Grandad, we've been engaged three days. And you can't go troubling everybody with your happiness immediately." "And you _are_ happy, child," Grandpapa began, genially. "I think so...." "I'm sorry I can't keep you with me, you and Lot," he continued, lightly: he sometimes had an airy way of treating serious topics; and his thin voice then lacked emphasis. "But you see, I'm too old for that: a young household grafted on mine! Besides, to live by yourselves is more charming.... Baby, we never talk of money, you and I. As you know, Papa left nothing and he ran through your mother's money, lost it in different businesses in Java; they none of them succeeded. Your poor parents never had any luck. Well, Baby, I'm not a rich man, but I can live like this, on my Mauritskade, because an old man doesn't want much and Aunt Adèle manages things so cleverly. I've worked out that I can give you two hundred guilders a month. But that's all, child, that's all." "But, Grandad, it's really very handsome...." "Well, you can accept it from your grandfather. You're my heiress, after all, though you're not all alone; no, Grandfather has others: kind acquaintances, good friends.... It won't last very long now, child. You won't be rich, for my house is my only luxury. All the rest, as you know, is on an economical scale. But you will have enough, especially later on; and Lot appears to make a good bit. Oh, it's not money that matters to him, child: what matters to him is ... is ..." "What, Grandad?" A drowsiness suddenly overcame the old man. But, in a few minutes, he resumed: "There is some talk of your living with Steyn...." "Yes, but nothing's decided." "Ottilie is nice, but hot-tempered," said the old gentleman, sunk in thought: he seemed to be thinking of other things, of more important things especially. "If I do, it will be for Mamma's sake, Grandad, because she is so much attached to Lot. I would rather have my own little house. But we shall travel a good deal in any case. Lot says that he can travel cheaply." "You might be able to do it, child, with a little tact: live with the Steyns, I mean. Ottilie is certainly very much alone, poor thing. Who knows? Perhaps you would supply a little affection, a little sympathy...." His airy voice became softer, fuller, sounded more earnest. "We shall see, Grandpapa. Will you stay upstairs, or are you coming down to lunch?" "No, send me something up here. I've not much appetite, I've no appetite...." His voice sounded airy again, like the whisper of a breeze. "It's windy weather; and I think it's going to rain. Are you going out all the same, this afternoon?" "For a moment, I think.... To Mrs. Dercksz' ..." "To Grandmamma's...." "Yes, yes, better say Grandmamma. When you see her, call her Grandmamma at once. It's less stiff: she will like it ... even though you're not married to Lot yet...." His voice sank; he sighed, as though he were thinking of other things, of more important things; and, with the jerk in his neck, he started up and remained like that for a second, with his head on one side, as if he heard something, as if he were listening. Elly did not think Grandpapa looking well to-day. The drowsiness overcame him again; his head dropped and his eyes grew glassy. And he sat there, so frail and fragile, as if one could have blown the life out of him like a dancing feather. Elly, after a moment's hesitation, left him alone. The old gentleman gave a start, when he heard the door close gently, and recovered his full consciousness. He sat for a second or two without moving. Then he unlocked the drawer of his writing-table, with which he had been busy before, and took out the pieces of a letter that had already been torn up. He tore the pieces still smaller, as small as they possibly could be, and scattered them in his waste-paper-basket, in among other discarded papers. After that he tore up a second letter, after that a third, without reading them over. He scattered the tiny pieces in the basket and shook the basket, shook the basket. The tearing tired his stiff fingers; the shaking tired his arm. "A few more this afternoon," he muttered. "It's getting time, it's getting time...." CHAPTER III The old gentleman went out at about three o'clock, alone: he did not like to be accompanied when he went, though he was glad to be brought back home; but he would never ask for this service. Aunt Adèle looked out of the window and followed him with her eyes as he turned by the barracks and crossed the razor-back bridge. He was not going farther than just down the Nassaulaan, to Mrs. Dercksz'; and he managed the distance with a delicate, erect figure and straight legs: he did not even look so very old a man, in his overcoat buttoned up to the throat, even though each step was carefully considered and supported by his heavy, ivory-knobbed stick. In order above all not to let it be perceived that this short walk was his exercise and his relaxation, a great deal of exercise and relaxation for his now merely nervous strength, he had needs to consider every step; but he succeeded in walking as though without difficulty, stiff and upright, and he studied his reflection in the plate-glass of the ground-floor windows. In the street, he did not strike a passer-by as so very old. When he rang, old Anna hurried and the cat slipped crosswise through her petticoats, cat and maid making for the front-door at one run: "The old gentleman, I expect." Then she drove the cat back to the kitchen, afraid lest the old gentleman should stumble, and drew him in with little remarks about the weather and questions about his health; and to Takma it called for rare art to let his overcoat, which he took off in the hall, slip from his shoulders and arms into the maid's hands. He did it slowly and gradually, a little tired with the walk, but in the meanwhile he recovered breath sufficiently to go upstairs, one flight only, with the aid of the stick--"We may as well keep the stick, Anna," he would say--for Mrs. Dercksz nowadays never came down to the ground-floor rooms. She was expecting him. He came almost every day; and, when he was not coming, Aunt Adèle or Elly would call round to say so. So she sat, in her high-backed chair, waiting for him. She sat at the window, looking out at the gardens of the villas in the Sofialaan. He murmured heartily, though his salutation was indistinct: "Well, Ottilie?... It's blowing out of doors.... Yes, you've been coughing a bit lately.... You must take care of yourself, you know.... I'm all right, I'm all right, as you see...." With a few more words of genial heartiness, he sat down straight upright in the arm-chair at the other window, while Anna now for the first time relieved him of his hat, and rested his hands, still clad in the wide, creased gloves of _glacé_ kid, on his stick. "I haven't seen you since the great news," said Mrs. Dercksz. "The children are coming presently to pay their visit of inspection...." They were both silent, their eyes looking into each other's eyes, chary of words. And quietly for a while they sat opposite each other, each at a window of the narrow drawing-room. The old, old woman sat in a twilight of crimson-rep curtains and cream-coloured lace-and-canvas blinds, in addition to a crimson-plush valance, which kept out the draught and hung with a bend along the window-frame. She had only moved just to raise her thin hand, in its black mitten, for Takma to press. Now they both sat as though waiting for something and yet pleased to be waiting together.... The old lady was ninety-seven and she knew that what she was waiting for must come before her hundredth year had dawned.... In the twilight of that curtained corner, against the sombre wall-paper, her face seemed almost like a piece of white porcelain, with wrinkles for the crackle, in that shadow into which she still withdrew, continuing a former prudent habit of not showing too much of her impaired complexion; and her wig was glossy-black, surmounted with the little black-lace cap; the loose black dress fell in easy, thin lines around her almost brittle, lean figure, but hid her so entirely in those never-varying folds of supple cashmere that she could never be really seen or known, but only suggested in that dark drapery. Besides the face, nothing else seemed alive but the frail fingers trembling in her lap, like so many tapering, luminous wands in their black mittens; the wrists were encircled in close-fitting woollen cuffs. She sat upright on her high-backed chair, as on a throne, supported by a stiff, hard cushion; another cushion was under her feet, which she never showed, as they were slightly deformed by gout. Beside her, on a little table, was some crochet-work, untouched for years, and the newspapers, which were read to her by a companion, an elderly lady who withdrew as soon as Mr. Takma arrived. The room was neat and simple, with a few framed photographs here and there as the only ornament amid the highly-polished, black, shiny furniture, the crimson sofa and chairs, with a few pieces of china gleaming in a glass cabinet. The closed folding-doors led to the bedroom: these were the only two rooms inhabited by the old woman, who took her light meal in her chair. Golden-sunny was the late summer day; and the wind blew gaily, in a whirl of early yellow leaves, through the garden of the Sofialaan. "A nice view, that," said Mrs. Dercksz, as she had said so often before, with her mittened hand just hinting at an angular pointing gesture. The voice, long cracked, sounded softer than pure Dutch and was mellower, with its creole accent; and, now that she looked out of the window, the eyes also took on an eastern softness in the porcelain features and became darker. She did not clearly distinguish things outside; but yet the knowledge that there were flowers and trees over the way was dear to her dim eyes. "Fine asters in the garden opposite," said Takma. "Yes," Mrs. Dercksz assented, unable to see them, but now knowing about the asters. She understood him quite well; her general deafness she concealed by never asking what was said and by replying with a smile of her thin, closed lips or a movement of her head. After a pause, as each sat looking out of his own window, she said: "I saw Ottilie yesterday." The old gentleman felt bewildered for a moment: "Ottilie?" he asked. "Lietje ... my daughter...." "Oh, yes!... You saw Lietje yesterday.... I thought you were speaking of yourself." "She was crying." "Why?" "Because Lot is going to be married." "She'll be very lonely, poor Lietje; yet Steyn is a decent fellow.... It's a pity.... I like Steyn...." "We are all of us lonely," said Mrs. Dercksz; and the cracked voice sounded sad, as though she were regretting a past full of vanished shades. "Not all of us, Ottilie," said Takma. "You and I have each other. We have always had each other.... Our child, when Lot is married, will have no one, not even her own husband." "Ssh!" said the old woman; and the straight, lean figure gave a shiver of terror in the twilight. "There's no one here; we can speak at our ease." "No, there's no one...." "Did you think there was some one?" "No, not now.... Sometimes ..." "Yes?" "Sometimes ... you know ... I think there is." "There's no one." "No, there's no one." "Why are you afraid?" "Afraid? Am I afraid? What should I be afraid of? I am too old ... much too old ... to be afraid now.... Even though _he_ may stand over there." "Ottilie!" "Ssh!" "There's no one." "No." "Have you ... have you seen _him_ lately?" "No.... No.... Not for months, perhaps not ... for years, for years.... But I did see him for many, many years.... You never saw him?" "No." "But ... you used to _hear_ him?..." "Yes, _I_ ... I used to _hear_ him.... My hearing was very good and always keen.... It was hallucinations.... I often heard his voice.... Don't let us talk about it.... We are both so old, so old, Ottilie.... He _must_ have forgiven us by now. Else we should never have grown so old. Our life has passed peacefully for years: long, long, old years; nothing has ever disturbed us: he _must_ have forgiven us.... _Now_ we are both standing on the brink of our graves." "Yes, it will soon come. I feel it." But Takma brought his geniality into play: "You, Ottilie? You'll live to be a hundred!" His voice made an effort at bluff braggadocio and then broke into a shrill high note. "I shall never see a hundred," said the old woman. "No. I shall die this winter." "This winter?" "Yes. I foresee it. I am waiting. But I am frightened." "Of death?" "Not of death. But ... of _him!_" "Do you believe ... that you will see him again?" "Yes. I believe in God, in the communion of souls. In a life hereafter. In atonement." "I don't believe in an atonement hereafter, because we have both of us suffered so much in our lives, Ottilie!" The old man's tone was almost one of entreaty. "But there has been no punishment," said she. "Our suffering was a punishment." "Not enough. I believe that, when I am dead, he, _he_ will accuse me." "Ottilie, we have become so old, quietly, quietly. We have only had to suffer inwardly. But that has been enough, God will consider that punishment enough. Don't be afraid of death." "I should not be afraid if I had seen his face wearing a gentler expression, with something of forgiveness. He always stared at me.... Oh, those eyes!..." "Hush, Ottilie!..." "When I sat here, he would stand there, in the corner by the cabinet, and look at me. When I was in bed, he appeared in my mirror and gazed at me. For years and years.... Perhaps it was an hallucination.... But I grew old like that. I have no tears left. I no longer wring my hands. I never move except between this chair and my bed. I have had no uneasiness ... or terror ... for years: _nobody knows_. Of the _baboe_[1] ..." "Ma-Boeten?" "Yes ... I have had no news for years. She was the only one who knew. She's dead, I expect." "Roelofsz knows," said the old gentleman, very softly. "Yes ... he knows ... but ..." "Oh, he has always kept silent!..." "He is ... _almost_ ... an accomplice...." "Ottilie, you must think about it calmly.... We have grown so very old.... You must think about it calmly, as _I_ think about it.... You have always been too fanciful ..." His voice sounded in entreaty, very different from its usual airy geniality. "It was after that in particular that I became full of fancies. No, I have never been able to think about it calmly! At first I was afraid of people, then of myself: I thought I should go mad!... Now, now that it is approaching ... I am afraid of God!" "Ottilie!" "It has been a long, long, long martyrdom.... O God, can it be that this life is not enough?" "Ottilie, we should not have grown so very old--you ... and I ... and Roelofsz--if God ... and _he_ also had not forgiven us." "Then why did he so often ... come and stand there! Oh, he stood there so often! He just stared, pale, with dark, sunken eyes, eyes like two fiery daggers: like _that!..._" And she pointed the two slender, wand-like fore-fingers straight in front of her. "I ... I am calm, Ottilie. And, if we are punished afterwards, after our death, we must endure it. And, if we endure it ... we shall receive mercy." "I wish I were a Catholic. I thought for a long time of becoming a Catholic. Thérèse was quite right to become a Catholic.... Oh, why do I never see her now? Shall I ever see her again? I hope so. I hope so.... If I had been a Catholic, I should have confessed ..." "There is no absolution among Catholics for _that_." "Isn't there? I thought ... I thought that a priest could forgive anything ... and cleanse the soul before you died. The priest at any rate could have consoled me, could have given me hope! Our religion is so cold. I have never been able to speak of it to a clergyman...." "No, no, of course not!" "I could have spoken of it to a priest. He would have made me do penance all my life long; and it would have relieved me. Now, _that_ is always here, on my breast. And I am so old. I sit with it. I lie in bed with it. I cannot even walk about with it, roam about with it, forget myself in movement...." "Ottilie, why are you talking about it so much to-day? Sometimes we do not mention it for months, for years at a time. Then the months and years pass quietly.... Why are you suddenly talking so very much about it to-day?" "I began thinking, because Lot and Elly are getting married." "They will be happy." "But isn't it a crime, a crime against nature?" "No, Ottilie, do reflect ..." "They are ..." "They are cousins. They don't know it, but that isn't a crime against nature!" "True." "They are cousins." "Yes, they're cousins." "Ottilie is my daughter; her son is my grandson. Elly's father ..." "Well?" "Do reflect, Ottilie: Elly's father, my son, was Lietje's brother. Their children are first cousins." "Yes." "That's all they are." "But they don't know that they are cousins. Lietje has never been told that she is your daughter. She has never been told that she was your son's sister." "What difference does that make? Cousins are free to marry." "Yes, but it's not advisable.... It's not advisable because of the children that may come, because of the blood and because ... because of everything." "Of what, Ottilie?" "They inherit our past. They inherit that terror. They inherit our sin. They inherit the punishment for our offence." "You exaggerate, Ottilie. No, they don't inherit as much as that." "They inherit everything. One day perhaps they will see _him_ standing, perhaps they will hear him, in the new houses where they will live.... It would have been better if Elly and Lot had found their happiness apart from each other ... in other blood, in other souls.... They will never be able to find the ordinary happiness. Who knows, perhaps their children will be ..." "Hush, Ottilie, hush!" "Criminals...." "Ottilie, please be quiet! Oh, be quiet! Why do you speak like that? For years, it has been so peaceful. You see, Ottilie, we are _too_ old. We have been allowed to grow so old. We have had our punishment. Oh, don't let us speak about it again, never again! Let us wait calmly, calmly, and suffer the things that come after us, for we cannot alter them." "Yes, let us wait calmly." "Let us wait. It will come soon. It will come soon, for you and me." His voice had sounded imploringly; his eyes shone wet with terror. She sat stiff and upright in her chair; her fingers trembled violently in the deep, black folds of her lap. But a lethargy descended upon both of them; the strange lucidity and the anxious tension of their unaccustomed words seemed but for a moment to be able to galvanize their old souls, as though by a suggestion from without. Now they both grew lethargic and became very old indeed. For a long time they stared, each at his window, without words. Then there was a ring at the front-door. [1] Malay: nurse, _ayah_. CHAPTER IV It was Anton Dercksz, the old lady's eldest son by her second marriage; by her first she had only an unmarried daughter, Stefanie de Laders. Anton also had never married; he had made his career in Java; he was an ex-resident. He was seventy-five, taciturn, gloomy and self-centred, owing to his long, lonely life, full of lonely thoughts about himself, the heady thoughts of a sensualist who, in his old age, had lapsed into a sensualist in imagination.... It had been his nature, first instinctively, then in a more studied fashion, to hide himself, not to give himself; not to give of himself even that which would have won him the praise and esteem of his fellow-men. Endowed with intelligence above the ordinary, a student, a man of learning, he had fostered that intelligence only for himself and had never been more than an average official. His self-centred, gloomy soul had demanded and still demanded solitary enjoyments, even as his powerful body had craved for obscure pleasures. He entered in his overcoat, which he kept closely wrapped about him, feeling chilly, though it was still a sunny September and autumn had hardly given its first shiver. He came to see his mother once a week, from an old habit of respect and awe. Her children--elderly men and women, all of them--all called regularly, but first asked Anna, the maid, with the cat always among her skirts, who was upstairs with Mamma. If some member of the family were there already, they did not go up at once, anxious on no account to tire her with too great a gathering and too many voices. Then Anna would receive them in the downstairs morning-room, where she kept up a fire in the winter, and often the old servant would offer the visitor a brandy-cherry. If old Mr. Takma had only just arrived, Anna did not fail to say so; and the children or grandchildren would wait downstairs for a quarter of an hour and longer, because they knew that Mamma, that Grandmamma liked to be alone for a while with Takma, her old friend. If Takma had been there some time, Anna would reckon out whether she could let them go upstairs at once.... The companion was not there in the afternoons, except when mevrouw sent for her, as sometimes happened when the weather was bad and nobody called. Anton Dercksz entered, hesitating because of Takma, uncertain whether he was intruding. The old woman's children, however much advanced in years, continued to behave as children to the once stern and severe mother, whom they still saw in the authority of her motherhood. And Anton in particular always saw her like that, seated in that chair which was as an unyielding throne, strange in that very last and fragile life hanging from a brittle, invisible thread, which, in snapping, would have broken life's last string. At the window, because of a lingering ray of sunshine outside, the mother sat in a crimson twilight of curtains and valance, sat as if she would never move again until the moment came for the dark portals to open. For the "children" did not see her move, save with the single, angular gesture sometimes suggested by once active, but now gouty, slender, wand-like fingers. Anton Dercksz knew that--if the portals had not opened that day--his mother would move, round about eight o'clock, to be taken to bed by Anna and the companion. But he never saw this: what he saw was the well-nigh complete immobility of the brittle figure in the chair that was almost a throne, amid a twilight just touched with pink. Old man as he himself was, he was impressed by this. His mother sat there so strangely, so unreally: she sat waiting, waiting. Her eyes, already glazed, stared before her, sometimes as though she were afraid of something.... The lonely man had developed within himself an acute gift of observation, a quick talent for drawing inferences, which he never allowed any one to perceive. For years he had held the theory that his mother was always thinking of something, always thinking of _something_, an invariable something. What could it be?... Perhaps he was mistaken, perhaps he looked too far, perhaps his mother's expression was but the staring of almost sightless eyes. Or was she thinking of hidden things in her life, things sunk in her life as in a deep, deep pool? Had she her secrets, as he had his, the secrets of his sullen hedonism? He was not inquisitive: everybody had his secrets; perhaps Mother had hers. He would never strive to find out. People had always said that Takma and Mother had been lovers: she no doubt thought of those old things ... or was she not thinking, was she merely waiting and staring out of her window?... However this might be, his awe remained unchanged. "It is lovely weather, for September," he said, after the usual greetings. He was a big man, broad in his overcoat, with a massive florid face, in which deep folds hung beside the big nose and made dewlaps under the cheeks; the grey-yellow moustache bristled above a sensual mouth with thick, purple lips, which parted over the yellow teeth, crumbling, but still firm in their gums; the thick beard, however recently shaved, still left a black stubble on the cheeks; and a deep scar cleft the twice deeply-wrinkled forehead, which rose towards a thinning tuft of yellow-grey hair, with the head bald at the back of it. The skin of his neck was rough, above the low, stand-up collar, and grooved, though not quite so deeply, like that of an old labourer, with deep-ploughed furrows. His coarse-fisted hands lay like clods on his thick knees; and a watch-chain, with big trinkets, hung slackly over his great stomach, which had forced open a button of his worn and shiny waistcoat. His feet rested firmly on the carpet in their Wellington boots, whose tops showed round under the trouser-legs. This outward appearance betrayed only a rough, sensual, elderly man: it showed him neither in his intellect nor, above all, in his power of imagination. The great dream-actor that he was remained hidden from whoever saw him no otherwise than thus. Takma, so many years older, with his habit of gaiety and his sometimes shrill heartiness, which gave a birdlike sound to his old voice and a factitious glitter to his false teeth, Takma, in his short, loose jacket, had something delicate beside Anton Dercksz, something younger and more restless, together with a certain kindly, gentle, benevolent comprehension, as if he, the very old man, understood the whole life of the younger one. But this was just what always infuriated Anton with Takma, because he, Anton Dercksz, saw through it. It concealed something: Takma hid a secret, though he hid it in a different way from Anton Dercksz'. He hid a secret: when he started, with that jerk of his head, he was afraid that he had been seen through.... Well, Anton was not inquisitive. But this very old man, this former lover of his mother, of the woman who still filled Anton with awe when he saw her sitting erect, waiting, in her chair by the window: this old man annoyed him, irritated him, had always roused his dislike. He had never allowed it to show and Takma had never perceived it. The three old people sat without exchanging many words, in the narrow drawing-room. The old woman had now calmly mastered herself, because her son, her "child," was sitting there and she had always remained calm before the splenetic glance of his slightly prominent eyes. Straight up she sat, as though enthroned, as though she were a sovereign by reason of her age and her authority, dignified and blameless, but so frail and fragile, as though the aura of death would presently blow away her soul. Her few words sounded a note of appreciation that her son had come to see her, asking, as was his filial duty, once a week, after her health. She was pleased at this; and it was not difficult for her to calm herself, suddenly put in a placid mood by that feeling of satisfaction, even though but now, as in a suggestion from without, she had been obliged to speak of former things which she had seen pass before her eyes. And, when the bell rang again, she said: "That's the children, I expect...." They all three listened, in silence. Sharp-eared old Takma heard some one speaking to Anna in the hall: "They're asking if it won't be too much for you," said Takma. "Anton, call down the stairs to have them shown up," said the old lady; and her voice rang like a maternal command. Anton Dercksz rose, went to the door and called out: "You can come up. Grandmamma's expecting you." Lot and Elly came in and their entrance was as though they feared to dispel the atmosphere around the old woman with the too-great youthfulness approaching her. But the old woman made an angular movement of her arms, which lifted themselves in the black folds of the wide sleeves; and a hint of the gesture was given, gouty-stiff, in the crimson shade of the curtains, while she said: "So you're going to get married; that's right." The gesture brought the mittened hands to the level of Lot's head, which she held for a moment and kissed with a trembling mouth; she kissed Elly too; and the girl said, prettily: "Grandmamma...." "I am glad to see you both. Mamma has already told me the great news. Be happy, children, _happy_...." The words sounded like a short speech from out of the twilight of the throne-like chair, but they trembled, breaking with emotion: "Be happy, children, _happy_," Mamma had said. And Anton Dercksz seemed to see that his mother was thinking that there had not been many happy marriages in the family. He was conscious of the underlying thought in her words and was glad that he had never been married: it gave him a silent, pleasurable sense of satisfaction, as he looked at Lot and Elly. They were sitting there so youthful and unwrung, he thought; but he knew that this was only on the surface, that Lot, after all, was thirty-eight and that this was not Elly's first engagement. Yet how young those two lives were and how many vigorous years had they not before them! He became jealous at the thought and envious; and his eyes grew sullen when he reflected that vigorous years were no longer his. And, with the sly glance of a man secretly enjoying the sensual pleasures of the imagination, he asked himself whether Lot was really a fellow who ought to think of marrying. Lot was delicately built, was hardly a man of flesh and blood, was like his mother in appearance, with his pink face and his fair plastered hair, his short fair moustache above his cynical upper lip, and very spruce in his smooth-fitting jacket and the neat little butterfly tie beneath his double collar. And yet no fool, thought Anton Dercksz: his articles written from Italy, on Renascence subjects, were very good and Anton had read them with pleasure, without ever complimenting Lot upon them; and his two novels were excellent: one about the Hague, one about Java, with a keen insight into Dutch-Indian society. There was a great deal in the lad, more than one would think, for he looked not a man of flesh and blood, but a fair-haired, finikin doll, a fashion-plate. Elly was not pretty, had a pale but sensible little face: he did not believe that she was a woman of warm passion, or, if she was, it would not reveal itself till later. He did not expect that they would kiss each other very rapturously; and yet that was the most genuine consolation in this confounded life of ours, always had been so to him. Everything grew confused before his jaundiced eyes, in a regret for things that were lost; but nevertheless he listened to the conversation, which was carried on calmly and quietly, in order not to tire Grandmamma: when Lot and Elly meant to get married, where they would go for the honeymoon. "We shall be married in three months," said Lot. "There's nothing to wait for. We shall go to Paris and on to Italy. I know Italy well and can show Elly about...." Anton Dercksz rose and took his leave; and, when he went downstairs, he found his sister, Ottilie Steyn de Weert, and Roelofsz, the old doctor, in the morning-room: "The children are upstairs," he said. "Yes, I know," said Ottilie. "That's why I'm waiting; it would be too much for Mamma otherwise ..." "Well-well-well," muttered the old doctor. He sat huddled in a chair, a shapeless mass of dropsical obesity: his one stiff leg was stuck out straight in front of him and his paunch hung sideways over it in curving lines; his face, clean-shaven but bunched into wrinkles, was like the face of a very old monk; his thin grey hair looked as if it were moth-eaten and hung in frayed wisps from his skull, which was shaped like a globe, with a vein at one temple meandering in high relief; he lisped and muttered exclamation upon exclamation; his watery eyes swam behind gold spectacles. "Well-well-well, Ottilie, so your Lot is getting married at last!..." He was eighty-eight, the doctor, the last surviving contemporary of Grandmamma and Mr. Takma; he had brought Ottilie Steyn into the world, in Java, at a time when he was a young doctor, not long since arrived from Holland; and he called her either by her Christian name or "child." "At last?" cried Ottilie, in a vexed tone. "It's early enough for _me!_" "Yes-yes-yes, yes-yes, child; you'll miss him, you'll miss your boy, I daresay.... Still, they'll make a nice couple, he and Elly, well-well, yes-yes-yes, working together, artistic, yes, well.... That good old Anna hasn't started her fires yet! This room's warm, but upstairs, yes-yes, it's very chilly.... Takma's always blazing hot inside, eh-eh? Well-well! Mamma likes a cool room too; well-well, cool: cold, _I_ call it. I consider it warmer in here: ay-ay, it _is_ warmer down here. Well-well!... Mamma wasn't so well, child, yesterday...." "Come, doctor," said Anton Dercksz, "you'll make Mamma see a hundred yet!" And he buttoned up his coat and went away, satisfied at having performed his filial duty for that week. "Oh-oh-oh!" cried the doctor; but Anton was gone. "A hundred! A hundred! Oh-dear-no, oh-dear-no, tut-tut! No, _I_ can do nothing, _I_ can do nothing. I'm old myself, yes-yes, I'm old: eightee-eight years old, eightee-eight, Lietje!... Yes-yes, that counts, yes-yes.... No, _I_ can do nothing more, what do you say? And it's a good thing that Mamma's got Dr. Thielens: he's young, ay-ay, he's young.... Here come the children! Well-well!" the doctor continued, by way of greeting. "Best congratulations, ay-ay, very nice! Art, eh, art for art's sake?... Is Granny better to-day? Then I'll just go upstairs, yes-yes, well-well!..." "Where are you going now, children?" asked Mamma Ottilie. "To Aunt Stefanie's," said Elly. "And perhaps to Uncle Harold's afterwards." Anna let them out; and Ottilie, going upstairs behind Dr. Roelofsz, who hoisted himself up one step after the other, tried to understand what he was muttering, but understood nothing. He kept talking to himself: "Yes-yes, that Anton, all-very-well, make her see a hundred! A hundred! Well, _he'll_ see a hundred all right, ay-ay, yes-yes, though he _has_ been such a beast!... Yes-yes, yes-yes, a beast: don't I know him? Tut-tut! A beast, that's what he's been!... Yes-yes, perhaps he's still at it!" "What do you say, doctor?" "Nothing, child, nothing.... Make her see a hundred! I, _I_, who am old myself; eightee-eight ... eightee-eight!..." Puffing with the effort of climbing the stairs, he entered and greeted the two old people, his contemporaries, who nodded to him, each at a window: "Well-well, yes-yes, how-do, Ottilie? How-do, Takma?... Well-well, yes-yes.... Well, I don't call it warm in here!..." "Come," said Takma, "it's only September...." "Yes, you're always blazing hot inside!..." Ottilie walked behind him, like a little child, and kissed her mother, very gently and carefully; and, when she went up to Takma afterwards, he pulled her hand, so that she might give him a kiss too. CHAPTER V Papa Dercksz had not left much behind him, but Stefanie de Laders, the only child of the first marriage, was a rich woman; and the reason why old Mamma had only a little left of her first husband's fortune was because she had never practised economy. Stefanie, however, had saved and put by, never knowing why, from an inherited proclivity for adding money to money. She lived in a small house in the Javastraat and was known in philanthropic circles, devoting herself prudently and thriftily to good works. Lot and Elly found Aunt at home: she rose from her chair, amidst a twittering of little birds in little cages, and she herself had something of a larger-sized little old bird: short, lean, shrivelled, tripping with little bird-like steps, restless, in spite of her years, with her narrow little shoulders and her bony hands, she was a very ugly little old woman, a little witch. Never having been married, devoid of passions, devoid of the vital flame, she had grown old unscathed in her little egoisms, with only one great fear, which had clung to her all her life: the fear of encountering Hell's terrors after her death, which, after all, was drawing nearer. And so she was very religious, convinced that Calvin knew all about it, for everybody and for all subsequent ages; and, trusting blindly in her faith, she read anything of this tendency on which she could lay hands, from paper-covered tracts to theological works, though she did not understand the latter, while the former left her full of shuddering. "Quite a surprise, children!" Aunt Stefanie de Laders screamed, as though Lot and Elly were deaf. "And when are you getting married?" "In three months, Aunt." "In church?" "I don't think so, Aunt," said Lot. "I thought as much!" "Then you made a good guess." "But it's not the thing. Don't you want to get married in church either, Elly?" "No, Aunt, I agree with Lot.... May I say Aunt?" "Yes, certainly, child, say Aunt. No, it's not the thing. But you get that from the Derckszes: they never thought of what might be in store for them hereafter...." The birds twittered and Aunt's high-pitched voice sounded aggressive. "If Grandpapa could be at the wedding, I should do it perhaps, for his sake," said Elly. "But he's too old to come. Mamma Steyn doesn't make a point of it either." "No, of course not!" screamed Aunt Stefanie. "You see, Aunt, you're the only one in the family who _does_," said Lot. He did not see Aunt Stefanie often; but, when he saw her, it amused him to draw her out. "And there's no need to do it for _my_ sake," said Aunt, self-righteously; and she thought to herself, "They sha'n't come in for a cent, if they don't get married in church and do the proper thing. I had intended to leave them something: now I shall leave everything to Harold's grandchildren. They at least behave properly...." But, when Elly made as though to rise, Aunt, who was flattered at having visitors, said: "Well, stay a bit longer, come, Elly! I don't see Lot so often; and he's his aunt's own nephew after all.... It's not the thing, my boy.... You know, _I_ just speak out. I've done so from a child. I'm the eldest: with a family like ours, which has not always behaved properly, I have always had to speak out.... I've shown a great deal of tact, however. But for me, Uncle Anton would have been quite lost, though even now he isn't always proper. But leave him to his fate I will _not_. Uncle Daniel and especially Uncle Harold, with their children: how often haven't they needed me!..." "Aunt, you have always been invaluable," said Lot. "But you were not able to do much for Aunt Thérèse: she turned Catholic; and that wasn't due to your influence, surely!" "Thérèse is lost!" cried Aunt Stefanie, violently. "I've long since given up having anything to do with Thérèse.... But any one for whom I can do anything ... I sacrifice myself for. For Uncle Harold I do what I can, also for his children; to Ina I am a second mother, also to D'Herbourg: now there's a proper man for you; and Leo and Gus are good and proper boys...." "Not forgetting Lily," said Lot, "who didn't hesitate to call her first-born son after you, though I think Stefanus a queer sort of name!" "No, you'll never call your children after me," screamed Aunt, in between the birds, "not though you get a dozen girls! What do you want me to say, my boy? Uncle Harold's family has always shown me more affection than your mother's family has; I got most perhaps from the Trevelley children! And yet God alone knows what your mother owes to me: but for me, Lot, she would have been lost! I'm not saying it to be unpleasant, my boy; but she would have been lost, Lot, but for me! Yes, you can feel grateful to me! You can see for yourself, your dear Mamma, twice divorced, from her first two husbands: no, Lot, that was anything but proper." "My dear Aunt, Mamma has always been the black sheep of our virtuous family." "No, no, no!" said Aunt Stefanie, shaking her restless little bird-like head; and the birds around her agreed with her and twittered their assent. "The family's not so virtuous as that. Generally speaking, it has never been proper! I won't say a word against my mother, but this much is certain: she lost my father too early. You can't _compare_ Papa Dercksz with _him_." "Of course, there's no comparing a Dercksz with a De Laders," said Lot. "You're being sarcastic!" said Aunt; and the birds twittered their indignation in sympathy. "But there's many a true word spoken in jest. I'm not saying it because of your mother, who's a dear child, whom I'm fond of, but all the other Derckszes, with the exception of Uncle Harold, are ..." "Are what, Aunt Stefanie?" "Are a sinful, hysterical crew!" cried Aunt Stefanie, aggressively. "Uncle Anton, Uncle Daan, Aunt Thérèse and, my boy--though she's not a Dercksz, it's in her blood--your sister Ottilie as well! They're a sinful, hysterical, crew!" And she thought, "Your mother's one of them too, my boy, though I'm not saying so." "Then I'm once more glad," said Lot, "that _my_ Dercksz hysteria is steadied by a certain Pauws calmness and sedateness." And he thought, "Aunt's quite right, but it all comes from her own mother ... only it happened to pass over Aunt Stefanie." But Aunt went on, seconded by the birds: "I'm not saying it to say anything unpleasant about the family, my boy. I daresay I'm hard, but I speak out properly. Who speaks out properly in our family?" "You do, Aunt, you do!" "Yes, I do, I, I, I!" cried Aunt; and all the birds in all the cages twittered their agreement. "Don't go away just yet, stay a little longer, Elly. I think it's so nice of you to have come. Elly, just ring the bell, will you? Then Klaartje will bring a brandy-cherry: I make them after the recipe of Grandmamma's Anna; and she makes them properly." "Aunt, we must really be getting on." "Come, just one cherry!" Aunt insisted; and the birds joined in the invitation. "Otherwise Aunt will think that you're angry with her for speaking out...." The brandy-cherries were tasted; and this put Aunt in a good humour, even when Lot exclaimed, through the twittering of the birds: "Aunt ... have _you_ never been hysterical?" "I? Hysterical? No! Sinful, yes: I am sinful still, as we all are! But hysterical, thank God, I have never been! Hysterical, like Uncle Anton, Aunt Thérèse and ... your sister Ottilie, I have never been, never!" The birds could not but confirm this. "But you've been in love, Aunt! I hope you'll tell me the story of your romance one day; then I'll make it into a very fine book." "You've put too much about the family into your sinful books, as it is, for Aunt ever to tell you that, though she had been in love ten times over. For shame, boy! You ought to be ashamed of yourself! Write a moral book that's a comfort to read, but don't go digging up sinfulness for the sake of describing it, however fine the words you choose may be." "So at any rate you think my words fine?" "I think nothing fine that you write, it's accursed books that you write!... Are you really going now, Elly? Not because I don't admire Lot's books, I hope? No? Then just one more cherry. You should get the recipe from Anna, at Grandmamma's. Well, good-bye, children; and think over what sort of present you'd like from Aunt. You can choose your own, child, you can choose your own. Aunt'll give a present that's the proper thing." The birds agreed and, as Lot and Elly took their leave, twittered them lustily out of the room. CHAPTER VI "Oof!" said Lot, outside, putting two fingers in his ears, which had been deafened by the birds. "No more uncles and cousins for the present, Elly: I'm not going to Uncle Harold and the D'Herbourgs after this! A grandmamma, a future grandpapa, an uncle, an aunt and a very old family-doctor: that's enough antediluvianism for one day! I can't do with any more old people to-day, not even Uncle Harold, who is far from being the most repellent. So many old people, all in one day: it's too oppressive, it's stifling!... Let's walk a bit, if you're not tired. It's fine, the wind'll refresh us, it won't rain.... Come into the dunes with me. Here's the steam-tram coming: we'll take it as far as the Witte Brug[1] and then go into the dunes. Come along!" They went by tram to the Witte Brug and were soon in the dunes, where they went and sat in the sand, with a strong sea-breeze blowing over their heads. "I hope I shall never grow old," said Lot. "Elly, don't _you_ think it terrible to grow old, older every day?..." "Your pet aversion, Lot?" asked Elly. She smiled. He looked at her seriously, almost pale in the face, but, because he saw her smiling, he managed to speak lightly: "Worse than that. It's my nightmare. To see more and more wrinkles every day in your skin, more streaks of grey in your hair; to feel your memory going; to feel the edge of your emotions growing blunt; to feel an extra crease in your stomach which spoils the fit of your waistcoat; to feel your powers waning and your back bending under all the weight of the past which you drag along with you ... without being able to do a thing to prevent it!... When your suit gets old, you buy a new one: I'm speaking from the capitalist's point of view. But your body and soul you get once for all and you have to take them with you to the grave. If you economize with either of them, then you haven't lived, whereas, if you squander them, you have to pay for it.... And then that past, which you tow and trail along! Every day adds its inexorable quota. We are just mules, dragging along till we can go no farther and till we drop dead with the effort.... Oh, Elly, it's terrible! Think of those old people of to-day! Think of Grandpapa Takma and Grandmamma! I look upon them as something to shudder at.... There they sit, nearly every day, ninety-three and ninety-seven, each looking out of a window. What do they talk about? Not much, I expect: their little ailments, the weather; people as old as that don't talk, they are numbed. They don't remember things. Their past is heavy with years and crushes them, gives them only a semblance of life, of the aftermath of life: they've had their life.... Was it interesting or not? You know, I think it must have been interesting for those old people, else they wouldn't trouble to meet now. They must have lived through a good deal together." "They say that Grandpapa ..." "Yes, that he was Grandmamma's lover.... Those old people: to believe _that_, when you see them _now!_... To realize love ... passion ... in those old people!... They must have lived through a lot together. I don't know, but it has always seemed to me, when I see them together, as if there were something being wafted between them, something strange, to and fro: something of a tragedy which has become unravelled and of which the last threads, now almost loose, are hovering between the two of them.... And yet their souls must be numbed: I cannot believe that they talk much; but they look at each other or out of the window: the loose threads hover, but still bind their lives together.... Who knows, perhaps it was interesting, in which case it might be something for a novel...." "Have you no idea, at the moment?" "No, it's years since I had an idea for a novel. And I don't think that I shall write any more. You see, Elly, I'm getting ... too old to write for very young people; and who else reads novels?" "But you don't write only for the public; you have your own ideal of art!" "It's such a barren notion, that principle. All very fine when you're quite young: then it's delightful to swagger a bit with that ideal of art; you go in for it then as another goes in for sport or a cultivated palate.... Art really isn't everything. It's a very beautiful thing, but, properly speaking, it oughtn't to be an aim in life. Artists combine a great deal of pretentiousness with what is really a small aim." "But, Lot, the influence they exercise ..." "With a book, a painting, an opera? Even to the people who care about it, it's only an insignificant pleasure. Don't go thinking that artists wield great influence. All our arts are little ivory towers, with little doors for the initiate. They influence life hardly at all. All those silly definitions of art, of Art with a capital A, which your modern authors give you--art is this, art is that--are just one series of exaggerated sentences. Art is an entertainment; and a painter is an entertainer; so is a composer; so is a novelist." "Oh, no, Lot!" "I assure you it is so. You're still so precious in your conception of art, Elly, but it'll wear away, dear. It's an affectation. Artists are entertainers, of themselves and others. They have always been so, from the days of the first troubadours, in the finest sense of the word. Make the sense of it as fine as you please, but entertainers they remain. An artist is no demigod, as we picture him when we are twenty-three, like you, Elly. An entertainer is what he is; he entertains himself and others; usually he is vain, petty, envious, jealous, ungenerous to his fellow-entertainers, puffed up with his principles and his art, that noble aim in life; just as petty and jealous as any one else in any other profession. Then why shouldn't I speak of authors as entertainers? They entertain themselves with their own sorrows and emotions; and with a melancholy sonnet or a more or less nebulous novel they entertain the young people who read them. For people over thirty, who are not in the trade, no longer read novels or poems. I myself am too old to write for young people. When I write now, I have the _bourgeois_ ambition to be read by my contemporaries, by men getting on for forty. What interests them is actual life, seen psychologically, but expressed in concrete truths and not reflected in a mirage and poetized and dramatized through fictitious personages. That's why I'm a journalist and why I enjoy it. I like to grip my reader at once and to let him go again at once, because neither he nor I have any time to spare. Life goes on. But to-morrow I grip him again; and then again I don't want to charm him any longer than I grip him. In our ephemeral lives, this, journalism, is the ephemeral and the true art, for I want the form of it to be frail but chaste.... I don't say that I have got so far myself; but that is _my_ artistic ideal...." "Then will you never write any more novels?" "Who can say what he will or will not do again? Say it ... and you do something different all the same. Who knows what I shall be saying or doing in a year's time? If I knew Grandmamma's inner life, I should perhaps write a novel. It is almost history; and, even as I take an interest in the story of our own time, in the anticipation of our future, so history has a great charm for me, even though history depresses humanity and human beings and though our own old folk depress me. Grandmamma's life is almost history: emotions and events of another period...." "Lot, I wish you would begin to work seriously." "I shall start working as soon as we are in Italy. The best thing, Elly, is not to think of setting up house yet. Not with Mamma and also not by ourselves. Let us go on wandering. When we are very old it will be time enough to roost permanently. What draws me to Italy is her tremendous past. I try to reach antiquity through the Renascence, but I have never got so far and in the Forum I still think too much of Raphael and Leonardo." "So first to Paris ... and then Nice ..." "And on to Italy if you like. In Paris we shall look up another aunt." "Aunt Thérèse?" "Yes. That's the one who is more Catholic than the Pope. And at Nice Ottilie.... Elly, you know that Ottilie lives with an Italian, she's not married: will you be willing to see her all the same?" "I should think so," said Elly, with a gentle smile. "I am very anxious to see Ottilie again.... The last time was when I heard her sing at Brussels." "She has a heavenly voice ..." "And she's a very beautiful woman." "Yes, she is like Papa, she is tall, she doesn't take after Mamma a bit.... She could never get on with Mamma. And of course she spent more of her time with Papa.... She's no longer young, she's two years older than I.... It's two years since I saw her.... What will she be like? I wonder if she is still with her Italian.... Do you know how she met him? By accident, in the train. They travelled in the same compartment from Florence to Milan. He was an officer. They talked to each other ... and they've been together ever since. He resigned his commission, so as to go with her wherever she was singing.... At least, I believe they are still together.... 'Sinful and hysterical,' Aunt Stefanie would say!... Who knows? Perhaps Ottilie met a great happiness ... and did not hesitate to seize it.... Ah, most people hesitate ... and grope about!..." "We're different from Ottilie, Lot, and yet we don't grope ... or hesitate...." "Elly, are you quite sure that you love me?" She bent over him where he lay, stretched out in the sand, leaning on his two elbows. She felt her love inside her very intensely, as a glowing need to live for him, to eliminate herself entirely for his sake, to stimulate him to work, but to great, very great work.... That was the way in which her love had blossomed up, after her grief.... Under the wide sky, in which the clouds drifted like a great fleet of ships with white, bellying sails, a doubt rose in her mind for perhaps one moment, very vaguely and unconsciously, whether he would need her as she herself intended to give herself.... But this vague, unconscious feeling was dissipated in the breeze that blew over her temples; and her almost motherly love was so intense and glowing that she bent over him and kissed him and said, quite convinced and certain of herself, though not so certain of life and the future: "Yes, Lot, I am sure of it." Whatever doubt he may have entertained was scattered in smiles from his soul after this tender and simple affirmation that she loved him, as he felt, for himself alone, in a gentle, wondering bliss that already seemed to see happiness approaching.... [1] The White Bridge. CHAPTER VII Harold Dercksz, the second son, was seventy-three, two years younger than Anton. He was a widower and lived with his only daughter, Ina, who had married Jonkheer[1] d'Herbourg and had three children: Lily, a young, flaxen-haired little woman, married to Van Wely, an officer in the artillery, and two boys, Pol and Gus, who were at the university and the grammar-school respectively. It was sometimes very unpleasant for Ina d'Herbourg that her father's family, taken all round, did not display a correct respectability more in keeping with the set in which she moved. She was quite at one with Aunt Stefanie--with whom she curried favour for other reasons too--and she agreed with Aunt that Grandmamma had been ill-advised, after having married a De Laders, to get married again to one of the much less distinguished Derckszes: this though Ina herself was a Dercksz and though her very existence would have been problematical if Grandmamma had not remarried. Ina, however, did not think so far as this: she was merely sorry not to be a De Laders; and the best thing was to mention Papa's family as little as possible. For this reason she denied Uncle Anton, as far as her acquaintances were concerned, he being a discreditable old reprobate, about whom the queerest stories were rumoured. At the same time, he was a moneyed uncle; and so she caused him to be kept in view, especially by the young Van Wely couple, for Ina, in her very small soul, was both a good daughter to her father and a good mother to her children and would like to see Uncle Anton leave his money--how much would he have?--to her children. Then there was the Indian family of Uncle Daniel, who was Papa's partner in business in Java and who came over to Holland at regular intervals: well, Ina was glad when business went well--for that meant money in the home--and when Uncle Daniel and fat, Indian Aunt Floor were safe on board the outward mail again, for really they were both quite unpresentable, Uncle with his East-Indian ways and Aunt such a _nonna_[2] that Ina was positively ashamed of her! Well, then, in Paris you had Aunt Thérèse van der Staff, who, after leading a pretty loose life, had turned Catholic: there you were, that again was so eccentric! The De Laders had always been Walloons[3] and the D'Herbourgs also were always Walloons: really, Walloonism was more distinguished than Catholicism, at the Hague. The best thing was ... just never to mention Aunt Thérèse. Last but not least, there was Aunt Ottilie Steyn de Weert, living at the Hague, alas, three times married and twice divorced! And she had a daughter who was a singer and had gone to the bad and a son who had written two immoral novels: oh, that was a terrible thing for Ina d'Herbourg, you know; it was such bad form and so incorrect; and all their acquaintances knew about it, though she never mentioned Aunt Ottilie or her three husbands, who were all three alive! And, when Ina d'Herbourg thought of Aunt Steyn de Weert, she would cast up her weary, well-bred eyes with a helpless air and heave a deep sigh; and, with that glance and her despair, she looked an entire IJsselmonde. For she herself, she thought, inherited more of the aristocratic blood of her mother, a Freule[4] IJsselmonde, than of her father's Dercksz blood. An only daughter, she had been able, through the Aunts IJsselmonde, to mix in rather better circles than the all too East-Indian circle of her father's family, in so far as that circle existed, for the family was little known in society: an isolation seemed to reign around the Derckszes, who knew very few people; and even her mother, when she was still alive, had never been able to push Papa forward as something of a specialist in East-Indian affairs and make him aim at the colonial secretaryship, hard though she had tried to do so. No, Father was not to be dragged out of his innate, silent timidity; and, though he was quite gentle and amenable, though he joined in paying all the visits that were deemed essential, though he gave dinners and went out to dinner, he remained the man he was, a quiet, peaceful man of business, ailing in health and silently broken in soul, with pain and suffering in his eyes and around his mouth, but never complaining and always reticent. Harold Dercksz was now a tall, thin old man; and that intermittent suffering and eternal silence seemed to grow worse with the years of sorrow and pain, seemed no longer capable of concealment; yet he spoke of it to nobody but his doctor and not much to him. For the rest, he was silent, never talked about himself, not even to his brother Daan, who came at regular intervals to Holland on the business-matters in which they were both interested. Ina d'Herbourg was a good daughter: when her father was ill, she looked after him as she looked after everything in the house, correctly and not without affection. But she did sometimes ask herself whether her mother had not been disappointed in her marriage, for Papa had not much money, in spite of all the Indian business. Yes, Mamma had been disappointed financially; and financial disappointment was always facing Ina too. But, when Ina's husband, Leopold d'Herbourg--who, after taking his degree in law, had first thought of entering the diplomatic service, but who, in spite of his self-importance, had not felt himself sufficiently gifted for that career and was now a briefless barrister--when Ina's husband was also disappointed with the Indian money, then Ina, after a few domestic scenes, began to think that it would be her fate always to long for money and never to have any. Now, it was true, they lived in a big house and Papa was very generous and bore the whole expense of keeping Pol at Leiden; but yet things didn't go easily with Ina, the money trickled through her fingers and she would very much have liked to see more money about, a great deal more money. That was why she was pleasant to Aunt Stefanie de Laders and pleasant, furtively, to Uncle Anton. Her fate continued to persecute her: instead of Lily's waiting a little and making a good match, she had fallen so deeply in love, when hardly twenty, with Frits van Wely, a penniless subaltern, that Ina could do nothing, especially when Papa said: "Do let the children be happy!..." And he had given them an allowance, but it meant sheer poverty; and yet Frits and Lily were married and in less than no time there was a boy. Then the only thing that Ina could induce them to do was to call the baby after Aunt Stefanie. "Stefanus?" Lily exclaimed, in dismay. Well, anything for a quiet life! They would call the boy Stef, which sounded rather nice, for Aunt would never hear of Etienne. Ina would have liked Stefanus Anton best; but to this Frits and Lily would not consent. It was a principle of Ina d'Herbourg's never to talk about money and never about the family; but, because principles are very difficult to maintain, there was always talk about money in the D'Herbourgs' house and a great deal of talk about the family. Both were grateful subjects of conversation between Ina and her husband; and, now that Lot Pauws was engaged to Elly Takma, the talk flowed on of its own accord, one evening after dinner, while Harold Dercksz sat looking silently in front of him. "How much do you think they'll have, Papa?" asked Ina. The old gentleman made a vague gesture and went on staring. "Lot, of course, has nothing," said D'Herbourg. "His parents are both alive. I daresay he makes something by those articles of his, but it can't amount to much." "What does he get for an article?" asked Ina, eager to know at all costs. "_ I_ don't know, I haven't the remotest notion!" cried D'Herbourg. "Do you think he'll get anything from old Pauws? He lives in Brussels, doesn't he?" "Yes, but old Pauws has nothing either!" "Or from Aunt Ottilie? She has the money her father left her, you know. Steyn has nothing, has he, Father? Besides, why should Steyn give Lot anything?" "No," said D'Herbourg. "But old Mr. Takma has plenty: Elly's sure to get something from him." "I can't understand how they are going to live," said Ina. "They won't have less than Lily and Frits." "But I can't understand how those two are going to live either!" Ina retorted. "Then you should have found your daughter a rich husband!" "Please," said Ina, wearily closing the well-bred eyes, with the glance of the IJsselmondes, "don't let us talk about money. I'm sick and tired of it. And other people's money ... is _le moindre de mes soucis_. I don't care in the least how another person lives.... Still ... I believe that Grandmamma is better off than we think." "I know roughly how much she ought to have," said D'Herbourg. "Deelhof the solicitor was saying the other day ..." "How much?" asked Ina, eagerly; and the weary eyes brightened up. But, because he saw an expression of pain come over his father-in-law's face and wrinkle it and because he did not know whether the pain was physical or moral, arising from gastritis or from nerves, D'Herbourg evaded the question. It was difficult, however, to stop at once, even though Papa did look pained, and so he said: "Aunt Stefanie must be comfortably off." "Yes, but I should think," said Ina, "considering how Uncle Anton used to hoard while he was a resident, that he's much better off than Aunt Stefanie. As an unmarried man, he never entertained during his term of office: that I know for a fact. The resident's house was tumbling to pieces when he left it after eight years...." "But Uncle Anton is an old reprobate," said D'Herbourg, forcibly, "and _that_ cost him money." "_No!_" said Harold Dercksz. He said it as though in pain, waving his hand in a gesture of denial; but he had no sooner uttered this single word in defence of his brother than he regretted it, for Ina asked, eagerly: "No, Papa? But surely Uncle Anton's life won't bear investigation ..." And D'Herbourg asked: "Then how was he able to be such a beast, without paying for his pleasures?..." Harold Dercksz cast about for a word in palliation; he said: "The women were fond of Anton ..." "Women? Flappers, you mean!" "No, _no!_" Harold Dercksz protested, repudiating the suggestion with his lean old hand. "Ssh!" said Ina, looking round. The boys entered. "Why, Uncle Anton was had up thirty years ago!" D'Herbourg continued. "No, no," Harold Dercksz protested. Pol, the student, and Gus, the younger boy, entered; and there was no more talk about money and the family that evening; and, because of the boys, the after-dinner tea went off pleasantly. Truly, Ina was a good mother and had brought her boys up well: because of old Grandfather, they were gay without being noisy, which always gave Harold Dercksz an agreeable, homely feeling; and they were both very polite, to the great contentment of Ina, who was able to say that Pol and Gus did not get _that_ from the Derckszes: when Grandfather rose to go to his study upstairs, Gus flew to the door and held it open, with very great deference. The old man nodded kindly to his grandson, tapped him on the shoulder and went up the stairs, reflecting that Ina was a good daughter, though she had her faults. He liked living in her house. He would have felt very lonely by himself. He was fond of those two boys. They represented something young, something that was still on its way to maturity, merrily and gaily, those two young-boyish lives: they were not, like all the rest, something that passed, things that passed, slowly and threateningly, for years and years and years.... On reaching his study, Harold Dercksz turned up the gas and dropped into his chair and stared. Life sometimes veiled things, veiled them silently, those terrible, life-long things, and then they did not threaten so greatly and, until death came and wiped them away, they passed, passed always, however slowly they might pass. But they passed away very slowly, the things. He was an old man now, a man of seventy-three, and an infirm old man, dragging his old age to the grave for which he was yearning. How many sufferings had he not endured! He could not understand why he need grow so old, while the things passed so slowly, went silently by, but with such a trailing action, as though they, the things of the past, were ghosts trailing very long veils over very long paths and as though the veils rustled over the whirling leaves that fluttered upon the paths. All his long aftermath of life he had seen the things go past and he had often failed to understand how seeing them go past like that was not too much for a man's brain. But the things had dragged their veils and the leaves had just rustled: never had the threat been realized; no one had stepped from behind a tree; the path had remained desolate under his eyes; and the path wound on and on and the ghostly things went past.... Sometimes they looked round, with ghostly eyes; sometimes they went on again, with dragging slowness: they were never brought to a standstill. He had seen them pass silently through his childhood, through his boyhood, when he was the age of Pol and Gus; he had seen them pass through his very commonplace life as a coffee-planter in Java and a manufacturer afterwards and through his married life with a woman whose existence he had come to share by mistake, even as she had come by mistake to share his: he, doubtless, because he did nothing but see those things, the things that passed.... He now coughed, a hard, dry cough, which hurt his chest and stomach and sent jolts shooting through his shrunken legs.... Oh, how much longer would it last, his seeing the things?... They went past, they went past and loitered and loitered.... Oh, why did they not go faster?... From the time when he was a little fellow of thirteen, a merry, sportive little fellow playing barefoot in the river before the assistant-resident's house, rejoicing in the fruit, the birds, the animals, rejoicing in all the glad child-life of a boy in Java who can play in big grounds, beside running waters, and climb up tall, red-blossoming trees; from the moment--a sultry night, the dark sky first threatening and then shedding heavy, clattering torrents of rain--from the moment when he saw the things, the first things, the first terrible Thing: from that moment a confusion had crept over his tender brain like a monster which had not exactly crushed the child, but which had ever since possessed it, held it in its claws.... All the years of his life, he had seen the Thing rise up again, like a vision, the terrible Thing begotten and born in that night when, being no doubt a little feverish, he had been unable to sleep under the heavy, leaden night, which still held up the rain in powerful sails that could not burst and allowed no air through for him to breathe. The vision? No, the Thing, the actual Thing ... * * * * * A lonely _pasangrahan_[5] in the mountains: he is there alone with his two parents, he the darling of his father, who is taking his sick-leave. The other brothers and the sisters have been left behind in the town, in the assistant-resident's house. He cannot sleep and he calls: "_Baboe_, come here!..." She does not answer. Where is she? As a rule, she lies outside his door, on her little mat, and wakes at once. "_Baboe, baboe_, come here!" He becomes impatient; he is a big boy, but he is frightened, because he has a touch of fever too, like Papa, and because the night is so sultry, as though an earthquake were at hand. "_Baboe!_..." She is not there. He struggles up and gets entangled in the _klamboe_,[6] which he is unable to open in his feverish terror.... He now releases himself from the muslin folds and is again about to call out for his _baboe_ ... but he hears voices, whispering, in the back verandah.... The blood curdles in the boy's body: he thinks of thieves, of _ketjoes_,[7] and is horribly frightened.... No, they are not speaking Javanese: they are not _ketjoes_. They are speaking Dutch, with Malay in between; and he next recognizes Baboe's voice. And he tries to utter a scream of fright, but his fright prevents him.... What are they doing, what is happening? The boy is clammy, cold.... He has heard his mother's voice: he now recognizes the voice of Mr. Emile, Mr. Takma, the secretary, who is so often at the house in the town.... Oh, what are they doing out there in the dark?... He was frightened at first, but now he is cold rather and shivers and does not know why.... What can be happening? What are Mamma and Mr. Takma and Ma-Boeten doing out there in the night?... His curiosity overcomes his terrors. He keeps very quiet, only his teeth chatter; he opens the door of his room, very gently, to prevent its creaking. The middle verandah is dark, the back verandah is dark.... "Hush, _baboe_, hush, O my God, hush!... Quietly, quietly.... If the _sinjo_[8] should hear!..." "He's asleep, _kandjeng_[9]...." "If the _oppas_[10] should hear!..." "He's asleep, _kandjeng_...." "O my God, O my God, if he should wake!... Oh, _baboe, baboe,_ what are we to do?..." "Be quiet, Ottilie, be quiet!..." "Nothing else for it, _kandjeng_: in the river, in the river!..." "O my God, O my God, no, no, _not_ in the river!" "Do keep quiet, Ottilie!" "O my God, no, not in the river!" "It's the only way, Ottilie! Be quiet, be quiet! Hold your tongue, I say! Do you want to get us both taken up ... for murder?" "I? Did I murder him?" "_I_ couldn't help it! _I_ acted in self-defence! _You_ hated him, _I_ didn't, Ottilie. But you did it with me." "Oh, my God, no, no!" "Don't try to avoid your share of the blame!" "No, no, no!" "You hung on to him ..." "Yes, no ..." "When I snatched his kris from him!" "Yes ... yes." "Hush, _kandjeng_, hush!" "O my God, O my God, it's lightning!... Oh, what a clap, what a clap!" The mountains echo the rolling thunder, again and again and yet again. The torrent pours down, as though the rain-sails were tearing.... The boy hears his mother's scream. "Quiet, Ottilie, quiet!" "I can bear it no longer, I shall faint!" "Be quiet! Hold his leg. _Baboe_, you take the other leg!" "There's blood, on the floor...." "Wipe it up." "Presently, _kandjeng_, oh, presently!... First to the river...." "O my God, O my God!" The boy's teeth chatter and his eyes start from his head and his heart thumps, in his fever. He is mortally frightened, but he wants to see, too. He does not understand and, above all, he wants to see. His childish curiosity wants to see the terrible Thing which he does not yet understand. Silently, on his bare feet, he steals through the dark verandah. And, in the dim light of the night outside ... he sees! He sees the Thing! A flash of lightning, terrible; a clap of thunder, as if the mountains were falling ... and he has seen! He is now looking only at vagueness, the vague progress of something which they are carrying ... of somebody whom they are carrying, Mamma, Mr. Emile and Ma-Boeten. In his innocence, he does not realize _whom_. In his innocence, he thinks only of terrible things and people, of robbers and treasures, of creepy incidents in his story-books.... _Whom_ are they carrying through the garden? Can't Papa hear them? Won't he wake? Is he so fast asleep? Now he no longer hears their voices.... Now they have disappeared in the garden.... Doesn't the _oppas_ hear?... No, everything remains quiet; everything has disappeared in the darkness and the rain; he sees nothing but the rain pouring in torrents, pelting, pelting, furiously. The furious pelting prevents Father and Oppas from hearing.... The sky has burst and all the rain in the sky is pelting down.... He is shivering with cold and fever. And suddenly he feels his little bare foot stepping on something warm and soft.... It is blood, clotted blood.... He no longer dares to move forwards or backwards. He stands with his teeth chattering and all the clatter of the rain around him.... But he must wake his father, take refuge with him, hide himself in his arms and sob and sob with fright!... He gropes his way back to the middle verandah; he sees the door of Mamma's room standing open: a little lamp is flickering faintly. Again his foot feels the soft warmth and he shudders at the terrible mire, which is blood, clotted blood, and lies everywhere, on the matting. But he wants to get to the little lamp, to take it with him to Papa's room, so far away, near the front verandah. He goes to the lamp and takes it and sees Mamma's bed all tumbled, with the pillows on the floor.... And he now sees the red on the floor, already almost black, and he is terrified and feels icy cold and steps aside with the lamp, so as not to tread on a kris, a handsome presentation weapon, which Papa received from the Regent[11] yesterday! There it lies ... and the blade is red! Now everything is misty-red before his childish eyes, oh, terribly red in the verandah, with its dancing shadows, through which he, so small, goes with his little lamp, in his terror and fever: perhaps he is dreaming!... To Papa's room: "Papa, oh, Papa, oh, Papa!" He is stammering with fright, at his wits' end without Papa's protection. He opens Papa's door: "Papa, oh, Papa, oh, Papa!" He goes up to the bed with his little lamp in his hand. Papa has slept in the bed, but is not there now.... Where is Papa?... And of a sudden it stands revealed to his childish mind. He sees the terrible Thing, sees it as a dreadful, awful, blood-red haunting vision. What they carried away through the garden, through the pouring rain, to the river ... was Papa, was Papa! What Mamma and Mr. Emile and Ma-Boeten are carrying away outside ... is Papa!... He is all alone in the house ... Papa is dead and they are carrying him to the river.... He has seen the Thing.... He goes on seeing the Thing.... He will always see it.... He does not know why--he has suddenly grown years older--but he shuts Papa's door, goes back, puts Mamma's lamp where he found it and goes back to his own room. He trembles in the dark and his teeth chatter and his eyes start and stare out of his head. But he washes his feet, in the dark, and at once flings the towel into the linen-basket. He creeps into bed, pulls the _klamboe_ to, pulls the coverlet over his ears. And he lies shaking with fever. The iron bedstead underneath him trembles in unison. He is alone in the _pasangrahan_ and he has seen the terrible Thing: first the actual progress of it and then the revealing vision, in the glare of the lightning-flashes, under the roar of the mountain-cleaving thunder. He lies and shakes.... How long does it last? How long does it last?... Half an hour, three-quarters of an hour.... He hears Baboe coming back and Mamma moaning, sobbing, groaning and Ma-Boeten muttering: "Hush, _kadjeng_, hush!..." "They're sure to have seen us!..." "No, there was no one there.... Think of Sinjo Harold, _kandjeng_!..." Everything becomes still.... Deathly still.... The boy lies shaking with fever; and all night long his starting eyes stare and he sees the Thing.... He has seen it ever since; and he has grown to be an old man.... Next day, Papa's body is discovered among the great boulders in the river. There are suggestions of a _perkara_[12] with a woman, in the _kampong_,[13] of jealousy. But Dr. Roelofsz finds that the wound was caused by nothing more than a sharp rock, to which Dercksz tried to cling, when drowning.... No need to credit natives' gossip.... No question of a murder.... The controller draws up the report: Assistant-resident Dercksz--staying temporarily in the _pasangrahan_, unable to sleep because of his fever and the sultry weather--went out during the night, for the sake of air.... The _oppasser_ heard him ... and was rather surprised, for it was raining in torrents.... But it was not the first time that the _kandjeng_ had gone out into the jungle at night, because of his sleeplessness.... He missed his way; and the river was swollen.... It was impossible for him to swim, among the great rocks.... He was drowned in the stormy night.... His body was found by natives some distance below the _pasangrahan_, while Mrs. Dercksz, on waking in the morning, was very uneasy at not finding her husband in his room.... * * * * * Harold Dercksz sat and stared. In his silent, gloomy business-man's study, he saw the Thing pass, but with such a trailing movement and so slowly.... And he did not notice the door open and his daughter Ina enter. "Father ..." He did not answer. "Father! Father ..." He started. "I have come to say good-night.... What were you thinking of so hard, Father?" Harold Dercksz drew his hand over his forehead: "Nothing, dear ... things ... old things...." He saw them: there they went, trailing long spectral veils over rustling leaves ... and ... and was anything threatening behind the trees in that endless path?... "Old things?... Oh, Father, they are past by now!... _I_ never think of old things: the life of to-day is difficult enough for people without money...." She kissed him good-night.... No, the old things ... are not yet the things of the past.... They are passing, they are passing ... but so slowly! [1] A Dutch title of nobility, ranking below that of baron. [2] A half-caste. [3] The Walloon Protestants are a branch of the French Calvinists imported into the Netherlands at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. They differ from the general body of Dutch Calvinists only in the use of the French language and the Geneva Catechism. They are gradually dying out as a separate body. [4] The title borne by the unmarried daughters of Dutch noblemen. [5] Dak bungalow. [6] Mosquito-curtain. [7] Native robber-bands. [8] The young gentleman. [9] Mem-sahib. [10] From the Dutch _oppasser_: overseer, watchman. [11] A title of an independent native prince, equivalent to rajah. [12] Business, fuss, bother. [13] Compound. CHAPTER VIII Lot Pauws was sitting in his room, writing, when he heard the voices of his mother and of her husband, Steyn, below. Mamma Ottilie's voice sounded shrill, in steadily rising anger; and Steyn's calm, indifferent bass voice boomed with short, jerky sentences and egged on Mamma's words till she stuttered them out and almost choked in the panting effort. Lot put down his pen with a sigh and went downstairs. He saw the old servant-maid listening eagerly at the kitchen-door, but she disappeared when she heard Lot's footstep on the stair. Lot entered the room: "What's the matter?" "What's the matter? What's the matter? I'll tell you what's the matter: I was a fool when I married, I was a fool to bring my property into settlement. If I hadn't, I could have done as I pleased! Aren't they my children, my own children? If they want money, can't I send it to them? Must they starve, while he ... while he ..." She pointed to Steyn. "Well, what?" said Steyn, challenging her. "While he blows my money on women, his everlasting, low women ..." "I say, Mamma!" "Well, it's true!" "Hush, Mamma, for shame: don't talk like that! What's it all about, Steyn?" "Mamma has had a letter from London." "From the Trevelleys?" "From Hugh. He asks for money." "And can't I send my son money if I want to?" cried Mamma to Lot. "Isn't Hugh my child, isn't he my son? It's bad enough of you to object to my seeing much of them, but am I to break with them altogether? If Hugh is without an appointment for the moment, can't I send him some money? Isn't it my money? Steyn has _his_ money, his pension. I don't ask him for his money!" "Look here, Lot," said Steyn. "Mamma can do as she likes, of course. But there is hardly enough as you know, for our regular expenses. If Mamma goes and sends Hugh fifty pounds, I don't know how we shall manage. That's all; and for the rest I don't care what Mamma says." "You blew my money on low women, for you're low yourself and always have been!" "Mamma, stop that! And be quiet. I can't stand quarrelling and scolding. Be quiet. Be quiet, Mamma. Let me see Hugh's letter." "No, I sha'n't let you see it either! What do you imagine? I'm not accountable to my son! Are you also siding with that brute against your mother? You'd both of you like me to break with my own children, my own flesh and blood, my darlings, my _d-dar-lings_, because it suits your book! When do I see them? When? Tell me, when? Mary, John, Hugh: when do I see Hugh? Suppose I _was_ mistaken in their father, aren't they my own children, just as much as you and Ottilie? I can't let my boy starve!" "I know quite well that Hugh abuses your kindness, your weakness ... not to speak of the two others." "That's right, don't you speak of them! Just break with your brothers and sisters! Just think that there's nobody in the world but yourself and that your mother has no one but you; and go and get married and leave your mother alone with that fellow, that low fellow, who sneaks out at night to his women! Because he's still young! Because he's so young and his wife is old! But, if he has to go to his women and if you get married, I promise you I won't stay in the house alone and I swear I'll go to Hugh. My own dear boy, my _d-dar-ling:_ when do I see him? When do I see him? I haven't seen him for a year!" "Please, Mamma, keep calm and don't scream so. Talk quietly. You make me so dreadfully tired with that screaming and quarrelling and scolding: I can't stand it ... I won't ask you to show me Hugh's letter. But Steyn is right; and, from what I know of our present financial position, it would be folly to send six hundred guilders to Hugh, who never has more than some vague 'appointment' in the City. You can't do it." "Yes, I can, selfish brute that you are! What do you know about your mother's money? I always have money when I want it!" "Yes, I know: you lose it and then you find it again in your cupboard...." "And, though I don't find it in my cupboard this time and if Steyn keeps the money locked up, I shall just go to the bank and ask for it and they won't refuse me. And I'll have it sent by the bank. There, you see, I _can_ do it, grasping, selfish brutes that you both are! I'll put on my hat and go. I'll go at once, I'll go to the bank; and Hugh ... Hugh shall have his money to-morrow or next day, any day. I should do it for you, Lot, or for Ottilie; and I shall do it for Hugh. I am his mother and I shall do it: I shall, I shall, so _there!_" She stammered and choked with rage; and a prick of jealousy, because Lot had defended Steyn and because Steyn cared more for Lot than for her, drove into the flesh of her heart and caused her such suffering that she no longer knew what she was saying and felt like boxing Lot's ears and felt that ... that she could have murdered Steyn! And she flounced out of the room, pale with passion, knocking against the furniture, slamming the door, and rushed upstairs. She could have sobbed with that pricking pain.... Steyn and Lot heard her moving and stamping overhead, putting on her things and talking to herself and scolding, scolding, scolding. Steyn's hard features, rough but handsome under his beard, were suddenly twisted to softness by a spasm of despair. "Lot, my dear fellow," he said, "I've stood this for nearly twenty years." "Now then, Steyn!" "For nearly twenty years. Screaming, scolding, wrangling.... She's your mother. We won't say any more about it." "Steyn, she's my mother and I'm fond of her, in spite of everything; but you know I feel how you must suffer." "Suffer? I don't know. A chap gets dulled. But I do think sometimes that I've thrown away my life in a most wretched way. And who's benefited by it? Not even _she_." "Try to look upon her as a child, as a tempersome, spoilt child. Be nice to her, once in a way. A kind word, a caress: that's what she needs. She's a woman who lives on petting. Poor Mamma: I know nobody who needs it as she does. She leans up against me sometimes, while I stroke her. Then she's happy. If I give her a kiss, she's happy. If I tell her she's got a soft skin, she's happy. She is a child. Try to look upon her as that; and be nice to her, just once or twice." "I can't, any longer. I was mad on her, madly in love with her, at one time. If she hadn't always quarrelled and been so impossibly unreasonable, we could still be living together amicably. Though she is older than I, we could still have got on. But she's impossible. You see it as well as I do. There's no money; and, because she doesn't discover any in her cupboard this time, she simply goes and draws it from the bank to send to Hugh. It's those letters from the Trevelleys which cause scenes at regular intervals. They bleed her in turns; and the shabbiest part of it, you know, is that the father's at the back of it." "Is that quite certain?" "Yes. Trevelley's always at the back of it. He influences those children. We are getting into debt for Trevelley's sake.... Lot, I've often thought of getting a divorce. I wouldn't do it, because Mamma has been twice divorced already. But I sometimes ask myself, am I not throwing away my life for nothing? What good am I to her or she to me? We are staying together for nothing, for things that are past, for a passion that is past: one moment of mad, insensate blindness, of not knowing or caring, of just wanting.... For things that are past I have been throwing away my life, day after day, for twenty years on end. I am a simple enough chap, but I used to enjoy my life, I enjoyed the service ... and I have taken a dislike to everything and go on wasting my life day after day.... For something that is quite past I ..." "Steyn, you know I appreciate what you do. And you're doing it purely for Mamma's sake. But, you know, I have often said to you, go your own way. Barren sacrifices make no appeal to me. If you think you will still find something in life by leaving Mamma, then do so." But Steyn seemed to have recovered his indifference: "No, my boy, what's spoilt is spoilt. Twenty years wear out a man's energy to make something more of his life. I felt at the time that I oughtn't to desert Mamma, when she was left all alone, not wholly through my fault, perhaps, but still very much so. To leave her now, when she is an old woman, would be the act of a cad: I can't do it. I take that line not as a barren sacrifice, but because I can't help it. I don't allow my life to be made a hell of. I go my own way when I want to, though Mamma exaggerates when she pretends that I go to a woman at night." "Mamma is naturally jealous and she's still jealous of you." "And she's jealous of you. She's an unhappy woman; and the older she grows the unhappier she will be. She's one of those people who ought never to grow old.... Come along, Jack, we're going for a walk.... But, Lot, if Mamma goes on like this, we shall have to have her property administered for her. There's nothing else for it." Lot gave a start: he pictured Mamma with her property transferred to an administrator; and yet Steyn was right. He thought that he had better have a quiet talk with Mamma. For the moment, there was nothing to be done: Mamma was exasperated, was behaving like a lunatic and would send Hugh the fifty pounds. Lot went back to his room and tried to resume his work. He was writing an essay _On Art_, proving that art was entertainment and the artist an entertainer. He did not know whether he agreed with everything that he was saying, but that didn't matter and was of no importance. It was a subject to fill a few brilliant pages, written with all his talent for words; and it would catch the public, it would be read: it would rouse indignation on the one side and a smile on the other, because there really might be a good deal in it and because Charles Pauws might be right in what he said. He lovingly fashioned his sentences out of beautiful words, making them seem convincing through their brilliancy.... But in between the sentences he thought of poor Mamma and suddenly found that he could not go on writing. He pitied her. He felt for Steyn, but he pitied poor Mamma.... He rose and paced his room, which was full of spoils of Italy: a few bronzes, a number of photographs after the Italian masters. A good fellow, Steyn, to let him have this room next to Mamma's and to go up to the top floor himself. But he pitied his mother, who was such a child. She had always been a child: she could not help being and remaining a child. She had been so very pretty and so seductive: a little doll always; and he remembered, when he was already a boy of seventeen, how perfectly charming Mamma used to look: so young, so extraordinarily young, with that adorable little face, those blue childlike eyes and that perfect, plump figure. She was thirty-eight then, without a sign of age; she was a pretty woman in the full bloom of her attractiveness. He had no need to look at Mamma's photographs as she was in those days and earlier: he remembered her like that; he remembered her looking like a young girl in a low, creamy-white lace dress, which she did not even take the trouble to put on very neatly, looking above all things charming, so intensely charming; he remembered her in a brown-cloth frock trimmed with astrakhan, with a little astrakhan cap on her frizzy hair, skating with him on the ice, so lightly and gracefully that people believed her to be his sister.... Poor Mamma, growing old now! And yet she still looked very nice, but she was growing old; and she had nothing--he was sure of this--she had nothing but her faculty for love. She had five children, but she was not a mother: Lot laughed and shook his head at the thought. He had educated himself; Ottilie had very early become aware of her great talent and her beautiful voice and had also educated herself; the Trevelleys had run more wild.... No, Mamma was not a mother, was not a woman of domestic tastes, was not even a woman of the world: Mamma had nothing but her faculty for love. She needed love, probably no longer needed passion, but still needed love; and what she needed most, needed mortally, was petting, like a child. And nobody petted her more than he did, because he knew that Mamma was mad on petting. She had once said to him, pointing to a photograph of his half-brother Hugh Trevelley, a good-looking lad turned twenty: "Lot, it's eight months since I had a kiss from him!" And he had seen something in Mamma as though she were craving for Hugh's kiss, though he sometimes treated her so roughly and cavalierly. Of course, this was also a motherly feeling on Mamma's part, but it was perhaps even more a need to have this lad, who was her son, caress her, caress her sweetly.... And were they to put her under any kind of restraint? Perhaps it would have to come! It would be perfectly horrid: that dear Mummy! But she was so silly sometimes! So stupid! Such a child, for such an old woman!... Oh, it was terrible, that growing old and older and yet remaining what you were! How little life taught you! How little it formed you! It left you as you were and merely wore off your sharp and attractive irregularities!... Poor Mamma, her life was made up of nothing but things that were past ... and especially things of love!... Aunt Stefanie spoke of hysteria; and a great streak of sensual passion had run through the family; but it did not come from the Derckszes, as Aunt Stefanie pretended: it came from Grandmamma herself. He had always heard that, like his mother, she too had been a woman of passion. People talked of all sorts of adventures which she had had in India, until she met Takma. There was a kind of curse on their family, a curse of unhappy marriages. Both of Grandmamma's marriages had turned out unhappily: General de Laders appeared to have been a brute, however much Aunt Stefanie might defend her father. With Grandpapa Dercksz, so people said, Grandmamma was exceedingly unhappy: the adventures dated back to that time. Grandpapa Dercksz was drowned by falling at night into the swollen river behind a _pasangrahan_ in the Tegal mountains. Lot remembered how that had always been talked about, how the rumours had persisted for years. The story, which dated sixty years back, ran that Grandpapa Dercksz had shown kindness to a woman in the _kampong_ and that he was stabbed by a Javanese out of jealousy. It was mere gossip: Dr. Roelofsz said that it was mere gossip.... A curse of unhappy marriages.... Uncle Anton had never been married; but in him the streak of passion developed into a broad vein of hysteria.... Uncle Harold, human but inscrutable, had been unhappy with his _freule_, who was too Dutch for an Indian planter.... Uncle Daan, in India--they were on their way to Holland at this moment--was to outward appearances not unhappy with a far too Indian wife, Aunt Floor: they were now old and staid and sedate, but there was a time when the fatal streak had run through both of them, developing in Aunt--a Dillenhof, belonging to Grandmamma's family--into the vein, the broad vein. Well, that was all past: they were old people now.... Aunt Thérèse van der Staff had become a Catholic, after an unhappy marriage; they said that Theo, her son, was not the son of her husband.... And his own poor mother, thrice married and thrice unhappily! He had never looked at it like this before, throughout and down the generations, but, when he did, it was terrible: a sort of clinging to the social law--of marriage--which was suited to none of those temperaments. Why had they married? They were all old people now, but ... if they had been young now, with modern views, would they have married? Would they have married? Their blood, often heated to the point of hysteria, could never have endured that constraint. They had found the momentary counterparts of their passion, for not one of them--with the exception perhaps of Uncle Harold--had married for other than passionate reasons; but, as soon as the constraint of marriage oppressed them, they had felt their fate, the social law which they had always honoured, thoughtlessly and instinctively, and which did not suit them; they had felt their family curse of being married and unhappy.... And he himself, why was he getting married? He suddenly asked himself the question, seriously, as he had once asked his mother in jest. Why was he getting married? Was he a man for marriage? Did he not know himself only too well? Cynical towards himself, he saw himself as he was and was fully aware of his own egotism. He knew all his little vanities, of personal appearance, of a fine literary style.... He smiled: he was not a bad sort, there were worse than he; but, in Heaven's name, why was he getting married? Why had he proposed to Elly?... And yet he felt happy; and, now that he was seriously asking himself why he was getting married, he felt very seriously that he was fond of Elly, perhaps fonder than he himself knew. But--the thought was irrepressible--why get married? Would _he_ escape the family curse? Wasn't Ottilie at Nice really right, Ottilie who refused to marry and who lived unbound with her Italian officer--she herself had written to tell him so--until they should cease to love each other? Was the streak continued in her or ... was she right and he wrong? Was she, his sister, a woman, stronger in her views of life than he, a man?... Why, why get married? Couldn't he say to Elly, who was so sensible, that he preferred to live unbound with her?... No, it was not feasible: there remained, however little it might count with them, the question of social consideration; there was her grandfather; there were people and things, conventions, difficulties. No, he could not put it to Elly; and yet she would have understood it all right.... So there was nothing for it but to get married in the ordinary way and to hope--because they loved each other so thoroughly and not only out of passion--that the curse would not force its fate upon them, the yoke of an unhappy marriage.... Those people, those uncles and aunts, had been unhappy, in their marriages. They were now growing old; those things of other days were now all passing.... They were passing.... Would they come to him, who was still young? Must they come around him, now that he was growing older? Oh, to grow older, to grow old! Oh, the terrible nightmare of growing old, of seeing the wintry-grey vistas opening before him! To be humbled in his conceit with his appearance did not mean so very much; to be humbled in his conceit with his literary gifts hurt more; but to be humbled in his whole physical and moral existence: that was the horror, the nightmare! Not humbled all at once, but slowly undergoing the decay of his young and vigorous body, the withering of his intelligence and his soul.... Oh, to grow as old as Grandmamma and as Grandpapa Takma: how awful! And those were people who had _lived_ for their ninety years and more. An atom of emotion still seemed to be wafted between the two of them, an atom of memory. Who could tell? Perhaps they still talked ... about the past.... But to grow so old as that: ninety-seven! Oh, no, no, not so old as that: let him die before he decayed, before he withered! He felt himself turn cold with dread at the thought and he trembled, now that he realized so powerfully the possibility of growing as old as that: ninety-seven!... O God, O God, no, no!... Let him die young, let it be over, in his case, while he was still young! He was no pessimist, he loved life: life was beautiful, life was radiant; there were so many beautiful things in art, in Italy, in his own intellect: in his own soul even, at present, that emotion for Elly. But he loved young and vigorous life and did not want decay and withering. Oh, for vigour, vigour always, youth always! To die young, to die young! He implored it of That which he accepted as God, that Light, that Secret, which perhaps, however, would not listen from out of Its unfathomable depths of might to a prayer from him, so small, so selfish, so unmanly, so cowardly, so vain, so incredibly vain! Oh, did he not know himself? Did he pretend not to see himself as he was? Could he help seeing himself as he was? He paced his room and did not hear the door open. "And the fifty pounds is in the post!" He started. His mother stood before him, looking like a little fury: her blue eyes blazed like those of a little demon and her mouth was wide open like a naughty child's. "Oh!... Mamma!" "Lot!... What's the matter with you?" "With me?... Nothing...." "Oh, my boy, my boy, what's the matter with you?" He was shivering as in a fever. He was quite pale. He tried to master himself, to be manly, plucky and brave. A dark terror overwhelmed him. Everything went black before his eyes. "My dear, my dear ... what is it?" She had thrown her arm round him and now drew him to the sofa. "Oh, Mamma!... To grow old! To grow old!" "Hush, darling, be still!" She stroked his head as it lay on her shoulder. She knew him like that: it was his disease, his weakness; it returned periodically and he would lie against her thus, moaning at the thought of growing old, of growing old.... Ah, well, it was his disease, his weakness; she knew all about it; and she became very calm, as she would have done if he had been feverish. She fondled him, stroked his hair with regular strokes, trying not to disorder it. She kissed him repeatedly. She felt a glow of content because she was petting him; her motherly attitude was bound to calm him. "Hush, darling, be still!" He did keep still for a moment. "Do you really think it so terrible ... to grow old ... perhaps ... later on?" asked Ottilie, melancholy in spite of herself. "Yes...." "I didn't think it pleasant either. But you ... you are so young still!" He was already regaining his self-control and feeling ashamed of himself. He was a child, like his mother, an ailing, feeble, hysterical child at times. That was _his_ hysteria, that dread of old age. And he was looking for consolation to his mother, who was not a mother!... No, he regained his self-control, was ashamed of himself: "Oh, yes ... I'm young still!" he made an effort to say, indifferently. "And you're going to be married: your life is only just beginning ..." "Because I'm getting married?" "Yes, because you're getting married. If only you are happy, dear, and not ... not as your mother ..." He gave a little start, but smiled. He regained his self-control now and at the same time regained his control over his mother, to whom he had looked for a moment for consolation and who had always petted him. And he fondled her in his turn and gave her a fervent kiss: "Poor little creatures that we are!" he said. "We sometimes act and think so strangely! We _are_ very ill and very old ... even though we are still young.... Mamma, I must have a serious talk with you some day ... _serious_, you know. Not now, another time: I must get on now with my work. Leave me to myself now and be calm ... and good. Really, I'm all right again.... And don't _you_ go on behaving like a little fury!" She laughed inwardly, with mischievous delight: "I've sent off the fifty pounds for all that!" she said, from behind the open door. And she was gone. He shook his head: "I am sorry for her!" he thought, analysing his emotions. "And ... for myself! Even more for myself. We poor, poor creatures! We ought all to be placed under restraint ... but whose? Come, the best thing is to get to work and to keep working, strenuously, always...." CHAPTER IX Old Takma was just coming from the razor-back bridge by the barracks, stiff and erect in his tightly-buttoned overcoat, considering each step and leaning on his ivory-knobbed stick, when Ottilie Steyn de Weert, arriving from the other side, saw him and went up to him: "How do you do, Mr. Takma?" "Ah, Ottilie, how do you do?... Are you going to Mamma's too?" "Yes...." "It was raining this morning and I thought I shouldn't be able to go. Adèle was grumbling because I went out after all, but it's fine now, it's fine now...." "I think it'll rain again presently though, and you haven't even an umbrella, Mr. Takma." "Well, you see, child, I hate an umbrella: I never carry one.... Fancy walking with a roof over your head!" Ottilie smiled: she knew that the old man could not lean on his stick when holding up his umbrella. But she said: "Well, _if_ it rains, may I see you home?... That is, if you won't have a carriage?" "No, child, I think a carriage even more horrid than an umbrella." She knew that the jolting of a cab caused him great discomfort. "The only carriage in which I'm likely to drive will be the black coach. Very well, child, if it rains, you shall bring me home ... and hold your little roof over my head. Give me your arm: I'll accept that with pleasure." She gave him her arm; and, now that he was leaning on her, his stiff, straight step became irregular and he let himself go and hobbled along like a very old, old man.... "How quiet you are, child!" "I, Mr. Takma?" "Yes." "You notice everything." "I could hear at once by your voice that you were not in good spirits." "Well, perhaps I am worried.... Here we are." She rang at old Mrs. Dercksz': old Anna, inside, came hurrying at a great rate to open the door. "I'll just take breath, Anna," said the old gentleman, "just take breath ... keep on my coat, I think ... and take breath for a moment ... in the morning-room." "It's getting coldish," said old Anna. "We shall start fires soon in the morning-room. The mistress never comes downstairs, but there's often some one waiting; and Dr. Roelofsz is a very chilly gentleman...." "Don't start fires too soon, don't start fires too soon," said the old man, querulously. "Fires play the dickens with us old people...." He sat down, wearily, in the morning-room, with his two hands on the ivory knob of his stick. Anna left them to themselves. "Come, child, what is it? Worry?" "A little.... I shall be so lonely.... The wedding's to-morrow." "Yes, yes ... to-morrow is Lot and Elly's wedding. Well, they'll be very happy." "I hope so, I'm sure.... But I...." "Well?" "I shall be _un_happy." "Come, come!" "What have I left? Not one of my children with me. I sometimes think of going to England. I have John and Hugh there ... and Mary is coming home from India." "Yes, child, as we grow older, we are left all alone. Look at me. Now that Elly is marrying, I shall have no one but Adèle. It's lucky that I can still get out ... and that I sometimes see Mamma ... and ... and all of you ... and Dr. Roelofsz.... But, if I were helpless, what would there be for _me?_... You, you're young still." "I? Do you call _me_ young?..." "Yes, child, aren't you young?..." "But, Mr. Takma, I'm sixty!" "Are you sixty?... Are you _sixty?_... Child, do you mean to tell me you're sixty?" The old man cudgelled his brains, fighting against a sudden cloud in his memory that hazed around him like a mist. And he continued: "No, you must be mistaken. You _can't_ be sixty." "Yes, really, Mr. Takma, really: I'm sixty!" "Oh, Lietje, my child, are you really ... as old ... as that!" He cudgelled his brains ... and closed his eyes: "Sixty!" he muttered. "More than sixty ... more than sixty years ..." "No, sixty exactly." "Yes, yes, sixty! Oh, child, are you really sixty? I thought you were forty or fifty at most ... I was dreaming.... The old man was dreaming.... Sixty!... More than sixty years ago!..." His voice mumbled; she did not understand what he meant: "Were you a little confused?" "When?" he asked, with a start. "Just now." "Just now?..." "When you thought ... that I was forty." "What do you say?" "When you thought that I was _forty_." "Yes, yes ... I hear what you say.... I can still hear very well.... I have always heard very well ... too well ... too well ..." "He's wandering," thought Ottilie Steyn. "He's never done that before." "So you're sixty, child!" said the old man, more calmly, recovering his voice. "Yes, I suppose you must be.... You see, we old people, we very old people, think that you others always remain children ... well, not children, but young ... that you always remain young.... Ah ... and you grow old too!" "Oh, yes, _very_ old! And then there's so little left." Her voice sounded ever so sad. "Poor girl!" said old Takma. "But you oughtn't to quarrel so with Pauws ... I mean ... I mean, with Trevelley." "With Steyn, you mean." "Yes, I mean, with Steyn ... of course." "I can't stand him." "But you could, once!" "Ah ... when one's in love ... then...!" "Yes, yes, you were able to stand him at one time!" said the old man, obstinately. "And so the wedding is to-morrow?" "Yes, to-morrow." "I can't be there: I'm very sorry, but ..." "Yes, it would tire you too much.... They're coming to take leave of Grandmamma presently." "That's nice, that's nice of them." "It'll be a tame affair," said Ottilie. "They are so tame. There'll be nothing, no festivity. They refuse to be married in church." "Yes, those are their ideas," said the old man, in a tone of indifference. "I don't understand it, that 'not being married in church;' but they must know their own business." "Elly hasn't even a bridal dress; I think it so odd.... Elly is really _very_ serious for so young a girl. I shouldn't care to be married like that, when you're married for the first time. But, on the other hand, what's the use of all that fuss, as Lot says? The relations and friends don't really care. And it runs into money." "Elly could have had whatever she liked," said the old gentleman, "a dinner, a dance or anything.... But she refused." "Yes, they're both agreed." "Those are their ideas," said the old man, with indifference. "Mr. Takma ..." said Ottilie, hesitatingly. "Yes, child?" "I wanted to ask you something, but I dare not...." "What are you afraid of, child? Do you want something?" "No, not exactly, but ..." "But what, child?... Is it money?" Ottilie heaved a great sob: "I hate asking you!... I think it's horrid of me.... And you mustn't _ever_ tell Lot that I ask you sometimes.... But, you see, I'll tell you frankly, I've sent Hugh some money; and now ... and now I have nothing left for myself.... If you hadn't always been so immensely kind to me, I should never dare ask you. But you've always spoilt me, as you know.... Yes, you know: you've always had a soft place in your heart for me.... And, if you don't think it horrid of me to ask you and if you could ... let me have ..." "How much do you want, child?" Ottilie looked at the door, to see if any one was listening: "Only three hundred guilders...." "Why, of course, child, of course. Come round to-morrow, to-morrow evening ... after the wedding.... And, when you want anything, ask me, do you see? Ask me with an easy conscience.... You can ask me whenever you please...." "You _are_ so good to me!..." "I have always been very fond of you ... because I'm so very fond of your mother.... So ask me, child ... ask me whenever you please, only ... be sensible ... and don't do ..." "Don't do what, Mr. Takma?" The old man suddenly became very uncertain in his speech: "Don't do ... don't do anything rash....." "What do you mean?. "Sixty years ... sixty years ago ..." He began to mumble; and she saw him fall asleep, sitting erect, with his hands on the ivory knob of his stick. She was frightened and, stealing noiselessly to the door, she opened it and called: "Anna ... Anna...." "Yes, ma'am?" "Come here.... Look.... Mr. Takma has fallen asleep.... We'd better stay with him till he wakes up, hadn't we?" "Oh, the poor soul!" said the maid, compassionately. "He isn't...?" asked Ottilie, in the voice of a frightened child. But Anna shook her head reassuringly. The old man slept on, stiff and straight in his chair, with his hands resting on his stick. The two women sat down and watched. CHAPTER X There was a ring; and Ottilie whispered: "Do you think that's Mr. Lot and Miss Elly?..." "No," said Anna, looking out of the window, "it's Mr. Harold." And she went to the front-door. Ottilie came out to her brother in the passage. "How are you, Ottilie?" said Harold Dercksz. "Is there no one with Mamma?" "No. I met Mr. Takma just outside the door. Look, he's fallen asleep. I'm waiting here till he wakes." "Then I'll go up to Mamma meanwhile." "You're looking poorly, Harold." "Yes. I do not feel well. I'm in pain ..." "Where?" "Everywhere. Heart, liver: everything's wrong.... So to-morrow is the great day, Ottilie?" "Yes," said Ottilie, mournfully, "to-morrow.... They're so unenterprising. No reception and no religious marriage." "Lot asked me to be one of his witnesses." "Yes, you and Steyn, with Dr. Roelofsz and D'Herbourg for Elly.... Anton declined...." "Yes, Anton doesn't care for that sort of thing." He went upstairs slowly, knocked, opened the door. The companion was sitting with the old woman and reading something out of the paper in a monotonous voice. She rose from her chair: "Here's Mr. Harold, mevrouw." She left the room; and the son bent over his mother and gave her a very gentle kiss on the forehead. As it was dark, the lined porcelain of the old woman's face was hardly indicated in the crimson twilight of the curtains and the tall valance. She sat on the chair, in the cashmere folds of her wide dress, straight upright, as on a throne; and in her lap the frail fingers trembled like slender wands in the black mittens. A few words were exchanged between mother and son, he sitting on a chair beside her, for no one ever took the chair by the window, which was kept exclusively for Mr. Takma: words about health and weather and the wedding of Elly and Lot next day. Sometimes a look of pain came over Harold's parchment-coloured face; and his mouth was drawn as though with cramp. And, while he talked about Lot and about health and weather, he saw--as he always saw, when sitting here beside or opposite Mamma--the things that passed and dragged their ghostly veils over the path rustling with dead leaves: the things that passed so slowly, years and years to every yard, until it seemed as though they never would be past and as though he would always continue to see them, ever drawing out their pageant along the age-long path. While he talked about health and weather and Lot, he saw--as he always saw, when sitting beside or opposite Mamma--the one thing, the one terrible Thing, the Thing begotten in that night of clattering rain in the lonely _pasangrahan_ at Tegal; and he heard the hushed voices: Baboe's whispering voice; Takma's nervous-angry voice of terror; his mother's voice of sobbing despair; himself a mere child of thirteen. He knew; he had seen, he had heard. He was the only one who had heard, who had seen. All his life long--and he was an old, sick man now--he had seen the Thing slowly passing like that; and the others had heard nothing, seen nothing, known nothing.... Had they really not known, not seen, not heard? He often asked himself the question. Roelofsz must surely have seen the wound. And Roelofsz had never mentioned a wound; on the contrary, he had denied it.... Rumours had gone about, vague rumours, of a woman in the _kampong_, of a stab with a kris, of a trail of blood: how many rumours were there not going about! His father was drowned in the river, one sultry night, when he had gone into the garden for air and been caught in the pelting rain.... The Thing, the terrible Thing was passing, was a step farther, looked round at him with staring eyes. Why did they all live to be so old and why did the Thing pass so slowly?... _He knew_: he had known more ... because of rumours which he had heard; because of what he had guessed instinctively in later years, when he was no longer a child: his father hearing a sound ... a sound of voices in his wife's room.... Takma's voice, the intimate friend of the house.... His suspicions: was he right? Was it Takma? Yes, it was Takma.... Takma in his wife's room.... His rage, his jealousy; his eyes that saw red; his hand seeking for a weapon.... No weapon but the kris, the handsome ornamental kris, a present which Papa received only yesterday from the Regent.... He steals to his wife's room.... There ... _there_ ... he hears their voices.... They are laughing, they are laughing under their breath.... He flings himself against the door; the bamboo bolt gives way; he rushes in.... Two men face to face because of a woman.... Their contest, their passion, as in primeval days.... Takma has snatched the kris from Harold's father.... No longer human beings, no longer men, but male animals fighting over a female.... No other thoughts in their red brains and before their red gaze but their passion and their jealousy and their wrath.... His father mortally wounded!... But Harold Dercksz does not see his mother in all this: he does not see her, he does not know how she behaves, how she behaved during the struggle between these two animal men.... He does not see how the female behaved: that never rose up before his intuition, however often he may have stared after the Thing that passed, however often, for years and years, again and again he may have sat beside his mother, talking about health and weather. And to-day it is much stronger than his whole being; and he asks the very old woman: "Was your companion reading the paper to you?" "Yes." "Does she read nicely?" "Yes. She sometimes finds it difficult to know what to choose." "Politics don't interest you?" "The war does: it's terrible, all that loss of human life." "It's murder ... on a large scale...." "Yes, it's murder...." "Does she read you the serial story?" "No, no; I don't care for serials." "No more do I." "We are too old for that." "Yes, we old people have our own serial stories...." "Yes.... A quiet life's the best...." "Then you have nothing to reproach yourself with...." He sees the slender, wand-like fingers tremble. _Has_ she anything to reproach herself with, more than her infidelity to the man who was her husband? He has never seen it for himself; and yet the Thing has always and always dragged its ghostly veils rustling over dead leaves.... "Hasn't she been reading about that murder?" "What murder?" "In England, the woman who ..." "No, no, she never reads me that sort of thing...." Her words are almost an entreaty.... How old she is, how old she is!... The toothless mouth trembles and mumbles, the fingers shake violently. He is full of pity, he, the son, who knows and who suspects what he does not know, because he knows the soul of that mother, her soul now dulled and blunted in waiting for the body's death, but her soul also once a soul of passion, of temper, an amorous creole soul, capable at one moment of forgetting all the world and life itself for a single instant of rapture ... or perhaps of hate! He knows that she hated his father, after first adoring him; that she hated him because her own passion expired before him in a heap of ashes.... This had all been made clear to him, gradually, year after year, when he was no longer a child but grew into a man and was a man and understood and looked back and reflected and pieced together what he had understood and looked back upon.... He suspects, because he knows her soul. But how blunted that soul is now; and how old she is, how old she is! A pity softens his own soul, old, old, too, and full of melancholy for all the things of life gone by ... for his mother ... and for himself, an old man now.... How old she is, how old she is!... Hush, oh, hush: let her grow just a little older; and then it will be over and the Thing will have passed! The last fold of its spectral veil will have vanished; the last leaf on that endless, endless path will have rustled; and, though once a rumour, vaguely, with a dismal moaning, hovered through those trees, it never grew into a voice and an accusation and, from among those trees, no one ever stepped forward with threatening hand that stayed the Thing, the sombre, ghostly Thing, dragging itself along its long road, for years and years and years.... CHAPTER XI The front-door bell made old Takma wake with a start. And he knew that he had been to sleep, but he did not allude to it and quietly acted as though he had only been sitting and resting, with his hands leaning on his ivory-knobbed stick. And, when Dr. Roelofsz entered, he said, with his unvarying little joke: "Well, Roelofsz, you don't get any thinner as the years go by!" "Well-well," said the doctor, "d'you think so, Takma?" He came rolling in, enormous of paunch, which hung dropsically and askew towards his one stiff leg, which was shorter than the other; and, in his old, clean-shaven, monkish face, his bleared little eyes glittered behind the gold spectacles and were angry because Takma was always referring to his paunch and he didn't like it. "Harold is upstairs," said Ottilie Steyn. "Come, child," said Takma, rising with an effort, "we'd better go upstairs now; then we'll drive Harold away...." They went up slowly. But there was another ring at the front-door. "There's _such_ a bustle some days," said old Anna to the doctor. "But the mistress isn't neglected in her old age! We shall soon have to start fires in the morning-room, for there's often some one waiting here...." "Yes-yes-yes," said the doctor, rubbing his short, fat, fleshy hands with a shiver. "It's coldish, it's chilly, Anna. You may as well have a fire...." "Mr. Takma says fires are the dickens." "Yes, but he's always blazing hot inside," said Dr. Roelofsz, viciously. "Well-well-well, here are the children...." "Can we go up?" asked Elly, entering with Lot. "Yes, go upstairs, miss," said Anna. "Mr. Harold is just coming down; and there's no one upstairs but Mamma ... and Mr. Takma." "Grandmamma's holding a court," said Lot, jestingly. But his voice hesitated in joking, for a certain awe always oppressed him as soon as he entered his grandmother's house. It was because of that atmosphere of the past into which he sometimes felt too hyperimaginative to intrude, an atmosphere from which bygone memories and things constantly came floating. The old doctor, who had something of a monk and something of a Silenus in his appearance, was so very old and, though younger than Grandmamma, had known her as a young and seductive woman.... Here was Uncle Harold coming down the stairs: he was much younger, but a deep and mysterious melancholy furrowed his faded face, which moreover was wrung with physical pain. "Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, children," he said, gently, and went away after shaking hands with them. "Till to-morrow, till to-morrow, Roelofsz...." That voice, broken with melancholy, always made Lot shudder. He now followed Elly up the stairs, while the doctor remained below, talking to old Anna: "Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well!" The ejaculations pursued Lot as he mounted the stairs. Each time that he came to the house he became more conscious of finding himself on another plane, more sensitive to that atmosphere of former days, which seemed to drag with it something that rustled. A whole past lay hidden behind the joviality of the voluble doctor. Oh, to grow old, to grow old! He shivered at the thought on that first autumnal day.... They now entered the room: there they sat, Grandmamma, Grandpapa Takma and, in between them, so strangely, like a child, Lot's mother. And Lot, walking behind Elly, modulated his tread, his gestures, his voice; and Elly also was very careful, he thought, as though she feared to break that crystal, antique atmosphere with too great a display of youth. "So you're to be married to-morrow? That's right, that's right," said the old woman, contentedly. She raised her two hands with an angular gesture and, with careful and trembling lips, kissed first Elly and then Lot on the forehead. They were now all sitting in a circle; and a few words passed at intervals; and Lot felt as if he himself were a child, Elly quite a baby, his mother a young woman. She resembled Grandmamma, certainly; but what in Grandmamma had been an imposing creole beauty had been fined down in Mamma, had become the essence of fineness, was so still. Yes, she was like Grandmamma, but--it struck him again, as it had before--she had something, not a resemblance, but a similar gesture, with something about the eyes and something about the laugh, to Grandpapa Takma.... Could it be true after all, what people had whispered: that the youngest child, Ottilie, had been born too long after Dercksz' death for his paternity to be accepted, for the paternity to be attributed to any one but Takma? Were they really sitting there as father, mother and child? He, was he Takma's grandson? Was he a cousin of Elly's?... He didn't know it for certain, nothing was certain: there were--he had heard them very long ago--those vague rumours; and there was that likeness! But, if it was so, then they both knew it; then, if they were not quite dulled, they were thinking of it at this moment. They were not in their dotage, either of them, those old, old people. It seemed to Lot that some emotion had always continued to sharpen their wits; for it was wonderful how well Grandmamma, despite her age, understood all about everything, about his marriage now, about the family: "Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor are on their way from India," said Grandmamma. "I can't imagine what they are coming for ... with the winter so near. Aunt Floor won't like it, I know.... I only wish that _I_ had remained in India, instead of coming here.... Yes, I've been sitting here for years now, until ... until ..." She stammered and looked out of the window, waiting, waiting. At the other window sat Takma and waited, waited, nodding his head. Oh, it was awful, thought Lot, looking at his mother. She did not understand his look, had forgotten his moment of prostration and weakness, his dread of old age, because she always forgot when he did not complain; and she merely thought that he wanted to get up. She smiled, sadly, as was her custom in these days, nodded and was the first to rise: "Well, we'd better be going now, Mamma.... Mr. Takma, am I not to see you home?" "No, child, it's not raining; and I can manage by myself, I can manage...." Ottilie's voice sounded very sad and childish and old Takma's paternal, but fluttering and airy. Lot and Elly rose; and there were more careful kisses; and Mr. Takma kissed Ottilie also. When they were gone, the old doctor came rolling in. "Well, Roelofsz," said Grandmamma. "Well-well-well, yes-yes," mumbled the doctor, dropping into a chair. They sat like that, without words, the three old people. The light was waning outside; and a bleak autumnal wind drove the first yellow leaves through the gardens of the Sofialaan. "You're out too late, Takma," said the doctor. "No, no," said the old man. "It gets chilly early, at this season." "No, no, I'm not chilly." "Yes, you're always blazing hot inside." "Yes, just as you're always getting fatter." The doctor gave an explosive laugh, not viciously this time, because he had got his joke in first; and Takma also laughed, with a shrill, cracked note. The old woman did not speak, leant over slightly, looked out of the window. The dusk of evening was already gathering over the Nassaulaan. "Look," said the old woman, pointing with her trembling, slender, wand-like finger. "What?" asked the two men, looking out. "I thought ..." "What?" "I thought that there was something ... moving ... over there, under the trees...." "What was moving?" "I don't know: something ... somebody...." "She's wandering," thought the doctor to himself. "No, Ottilie," said Takma, "there's nothing moving." "Oh, is there nothing moving?" "No." "I thought that something was passing ... just hazily...." "Yes ... well ... that's the damp rising," said the doctor. "Yes," said Takma, "that's mist...." "You're out of doors much too late, Takma," said the doctor. "I've got my great-coat, a warm one...." "Well-well...." "The leaves are rustling," said the old woman. "And the wind's howling. It'll soon be winter." "Well ... yes-yes, winter's coming. One more of 'em...." "Yes," said the old woman. "The last ... the last winter...." "No-no-no-no!" boasted the old doctor. "The last! I promise you, you'll see a hundred yet, Ottilie!..." Old Takma nodded his head: "It's more than sixty years ..." "Wha-at?" exclaimed the doctor, in a startled voice. "Ago ..." "What are you saying?" cried the old woman, shrilly. "I'm saying," said Takma, "that Ottilie, that Lietje ... is turned sixty ..." "Oh, yes!" "And so it's more than sixty ... more than sixty years ago since ..." "Si-ince _what?_" exclaimed the doctor. "Since Dercksz ... was drowned," said Takma. And he nodded his head. "Oh!" moaned the old woman, lifting her hands to her face with an angular and painful movement. "Don't speak about that. What made you say that?" "No," said Takma, "I said nothing...." "No-no-no-no!" mumbled the doctor. "Don't talk about it, don't talk about it.... We never talk about it.... Yes ... aha ... Takma, what made you talk about it?... There-there-there-there ... it's nothing, but it makes Ottilie sad...." "No," said the old woman, calmly. "I'm never sad now.... I'm much too old for that.... I only sit and wait.... Look, isn't that something passing?..." "Where?" "In the street, opposite ... or down there, in the road ... something white...." "Where? Aha, oh, there?... No, Ottilie, that's mist." "The leaves ... the leaves are rustling." "Yes-yes-yes, autumn ... winter's coming...." "The last," said the old woman. The doctor mumbled a vague denial. Takma nodded his head. They sat very still, for a time. Yes, it was more than sixty years ago.... They all three saw it: the old man and the old woman saw it happening; and the doctor saw it as it had happened. He had understood and guessed, at once, and he had known, all those years long. Very many years ago he had been in love with Ottilie, he much younger than she, and there was a moment when he had called upon her to pay him the price of his knowledge.... He had buried all that in himself, but he saw it as it had happened.... It was more than sixty years ago. "Come," said Takma, "it's time I went.... Else ... else it'll be too late...." He rose with an effort and remembered that he had not torn up one letter to-day. That was not right, but the tearing tired his fingers. The doctor also arose and rang the bell twice, for the companion. "We're going, juffrouw." It was almost dark in the room. "Good-bye, Ottilie," said Takma, pressing the mittened hand, which was raised an inch or two. The doctor also pressed her hand: "Good-bye, Ottilie.... Yes-yes-yes: till to-morrow or next day." Mr. Takma found Ottilie Steyn de Weert waiting downstairs: "You here still, child?" "Yes, Mr. Takma. I'll just see you home. You've really stayed out too late to-day; Elly thought so too; and Adèle will be uneasy...." "Very well, child, do; see the old man home." He took her arm; and his now irregular step tottered as Anna let them out. "Juffrouw," said the old woman, upstairs, when the companion was about to light the lamp, "wait a moment and just look out of the window. Tell me: there, on the other side of the road, through those leaves falling ... isn't there something ... something white ... passing?" The companion looked through the window: "No, mevrouw, there's nothing. But there's a mist rising. Mr. Takma has stayed much too long again." She closed the shutters and lit the lamp. The old woman sat and took her soup; then the companion and old Anna put her to bed. CHAPTER XII Old Mr. Pauws came to meet them at the station, in the evening, at Brussels: "My dear boy, my _dear_ boy, how are you? And so this is your little wife! My dear child, I wish you joy with all my heart!" His arms, thrown wide, embraced first Lot and then Elly. "And I've taken a room for you at the Métropole, but I reckoned on it that you'd first come and have supper at my place. Then I shall have been at your wedding too. I don't expect you're tired, are you? No, it's nothing of a journey. Better send your trunks straight to the hotel. I've got a carriage: shall we go home at once? Do you think there's room for the three of us? Yes, yes, we'll fit in nicely." It was the second time that Elly had seen the old gentleman, a pink-and-white, well-preserved man of seventy: she had been with Lot to look him up during their engagement. There was something decided and authoritative about him, together with a cheerful gaiety, especially now, because he was seeing Lot again. He would receive them at his own place, at his rooms, for he lived in bachelor quarters. He opened the door with his latch-key; he had paid the cabman quickly, before Lot could; and he now hustled the young couple up the stairs. He himself lit a gas-jet in the passage: "I have no one to wait on me in the evening, as you see. A _femme-de-ménage_ comes in the morning. I take my meals at a restaurant. I thought of treating the two of you to supper at a restaurant; but I think this is pleasanter.... There!" And he now lit the gas in the sitting-room, with a quick movement, like a young man's. Elly smiled at him. The table was laid and there were flowers on it and a few pints of Heidsieck in a wine-cooler. "Welcome, my dear child!" said the old man, kissing Elly. He helped her take off her hat and cloak and carried them into his bedroom: "You'd better bring your coat in here too, Lot." "Your father is wonderful!" said Elly. The little sitting-room was cosy and comfortable; it was his own furniture. There were books about; photographs on the walls and prints of horses and dogs; arms on a rack; and, underneath--it impressed Elly, just as it had impressed her the first time--a portrait of Ottilie at twenty, in an old-fashioned bonnet which made her look exquisitely pretty, like a little heroine in a novel. Strange, thought Elly to herself, Steyn also had pictures of dogs and horses in his room; Steyn also was a hunting man, a man of out-door pursuits; Steyn also was good-looking. She smiled at her reflection that it was always the same sort of manliness that had attracted Ottilie; she smiled just as Lot sometimes smiled at his mother. "You two are very like each other," said Pauws, as they sat down to table. "Look, children, here's what I've got for you. Everything's ready, you see. Hors d'oeuvres. Do you like caviare, with these toasted rolls?" "I'm mad on caviare," said Lot. "I remembered that! After the hors d'oeuvres, a mayonnaise of fish: perhaps that's rather too much fish, but I had to think out a cold menu, for I've no cook and no kitchen. Then there's cold chicken and compote: a Dutch dish for you; they never eat the two together here or in France. Next, there's a _pâté-de-foie-gras_. And tartlets for you, Elly." "I'm fond of tartlets too," said Lot, attentively examining the dish. "All the better. A decent claret, Chateau-Yquem and Heidsieck. I got you some good fruit. Coffee, liqueurs, a cigar, a cigarette for you, Elly, and that's all. It's the best I could do." "But, Papa, it's delightful!" The old gentleman was uncorking the champagne, quickly and handily, with a twist of the wires: "Here goes, children!" The wine frothed up high. "Wait, Elly, wait, let me fill up your glass.... There, here's to you, children, and may you be happy!" "You take after Lot," said Elly. "I? In that case, Lot takes after me." "Yes, I meant that of course." "Ah, but it's quite a different thing!" "Yes, but Lot ... Lot is also like his mother." "Yes, I'm like Mamma," said Lot. He was short, slender, almost frail of build and fair; the old gentleman was solid in flesh and figure, with a fresh complexion and very thick grey hair, which still showed a few streaks of black. "Yes, but I think Lot also has that flippancy of yours, though he is like his mother." "Oh, so I'm flippant, am I?" said old Pauws, laughing. His hands, moving in sweeping gestures, were busy across the table, with the hors d'oeuvres, which he was now handing. "Would you ever believe that Papa was seventy?" said Lot. "Papa, I'm amazed every time I see you! What keeps you so young?" "I don't know, my boy; I'm built that way." "Were you never afraid of getting old?" "No, my dear fellow, I've never been afraid ... of getting old or of anything else." "Then whom do I get it from? Mamma hasn't that fear, not as I have it, although ..." "You're an artist; they have those queer ideas. I'm just ordinary." "Yes, I wish I were like you, tall and broad-shouldered. I'm always jealous when I look at you." "Come, Lot, you're very well as you are!" said Elly, defending him against himself. "If you were like me, you wouldn't have attracted your wife, what do you say, Elly?" "Well, there's no telling, Papa!" "How are things at home, my boy?" "Same as usual, just the same." "Is Mamma well?" "Physically, yes. Morally, she's depressed ... because I'm married." "How do she and Steyn get on?" "They quarrel." "Ah, that mother of yours!" said Pauws. "Elly, will you help the mayonnaise? No, Lot, give me the Yquem: I'll open it.... That mother of yours has always quarrelled. Pity she had that in her. Temper, violent words ... all about nothing: it was always like that in my time. And she was so nice otherwise ... and so sweetly pretty!" "Yes," said Lot, "and I'm like Mamma, an ugly edition." "He doesn't mean a word of it," said Elly. "No," said the old gentleman, "not a word of it, the conceited fellow!" "All the same, I'd rather be like you, Papa." "Lot, you're talking nonsense.... Some more mayonnaise, Elly? Sure? Then we'll see what the cold chicken's made of. No, give it here, Lot, I'll carve.... And your wedding was very quiet? No religious ceremony?" "No." "No reception?" "No, Elly has so few friends and I have so few, in Holland. We lead such a life of our own, at the Hague. I know more people in Italy than I do at the Hague. The whole family rather lives a life of its own. Except the D'Herbourgs there's really nobody." "That's true." "Those very old, old people are out of the question, of course." "Yes, Grandpapa, Grandmamma.... And the old doctor...." "Uncle Anton lives his own life." "H'm, h'm ... yes...." "Uncle Harold is old also." "Two years older than I." "But he's poorly." "Yes ... and queer. Always has been. Quiet and melancholy. Still, a very good sort." "We at home, with Steyn and Mamma: what's the use of our entertaining people?" "You forget Aunt Stefanie: she's an aunt with money to leave, just as Uncle Anton is an uncle with money to leave; but your aunt has plenty." "Oh, Lot is quite indifferent to what money he inherits!" said Elly. "Besides, you two won't be badly off," said old Pauws. "You're right: what's the use of wedding-festivities? As for acquaintances ..." "We none of us have many." "It's a funny thing. As a rule, there's such a lot of movement around Indian families. 'Swirl' we used to call it." "Oh, I don't know: there's no 'swirl' of acquaintances round us!" "No, we've had 'swirl' enough among ourselves: Mamma saw to that at least!" "It made Mamma lose her friends too." "Of course it did. Mamma's life has really been hardly decent ... with her three husbands!" "Well, of course.... I don't allow it to upset me.... But the family isn't thought much of." "No. Grandmamma was the first to begin it. She also did just what she pleased...." "I've heard a lot of vague rumours...." "Well, I've heard a lot of rumours too, but they weren't vague. Grandmamma was a _grande coquette_ in her day and inspired more than her share of the great passions in Java." "They say that Mamma ..." "I don't know, but it's quite possible. At least, you two are so like each other that you might be brother and sister." "Well, at the worst, we're cousins," said Elly. "Yes, Grandmamma began it.... There was a lot of talk.... Oh, those people are so old now! Their contemporaries are dead. And things pass. Who is there now to think and talk about things that are so long past?" "Grandmamma's lovers?" "Innumerable!" "The doctor?" "So they say. And Elly's grandpapa." "Those old people!" said Elly. "They were young once." "And we shall be old one day," said Lot. "We're growing old as it is." "Shut up, boy! There's time enough for that when you're seventy.... Yes, Grandmamma de Laders, Grandmamma Dercksz: I can remember her in India fifty years ago." "O my God, what a time to remember things!" said Lot, shuddering. "Take some more champagne, if it makes your flesh creep.... Fifty years ago, I was little more than a boy, I was twenty. Grandmamma was still a fine woman, well over forty. She became a widow quite young, on the death of her first husband. Well, let's see: when Dercksz was drowned, she was ... about ... thirty-six.... Then Mamma was born." "What a long, long time ago that was!" said Lot. "It makes one giddy to look back upon." "That's sixty, yes, sixty years ago now," said Pauws, dreamily. "I was a child then, ten years old. I still remember the incident. I was at Semarang; my father was in the paymaster's department. My people knew the Derckszes. The thing was talked about. I was a child, but it made an impression on me. It was very much talked about, it was talked about for years and years after. There was a question of exhuming the body. They decided that it was too late. At that time, he had been buried for months. They said that ..." "That a native ... with a kris ... because of a woman...?" "Yes; and they said more than that. They said that Takma had been to the _pasangrahan_ that evening and that Grandmamma.... But what's the use of talking about it? What can it matter to you? Elly's as white as a sheet--child, how pale you look!--and Lot is shivering all over his body, though it happened so long ago." "Should you say that those old people ... are hiding something?" "Probably," said Pauws. "Come, let's have some champagne and not talk about it any more. They themselves have forgotten it all by this time. When you get as old as that ..." "You become dulled," said Lot. "So you're going on to Paris to-morrow?" "Yes." "Shall you look up Aunt Thérèse?" "Yes, I expect so," said Elly. "We mustn't behave quite like savages." "And then?" "We shall go to Nice." "Oh, really?... And ... and will you see Ottilie there?" "Of course we shall," said Lot. "That's right, that's right.... Yes, how can you expect a family like ours to keep up a circle of decent acquaintances?... Ottilie writes to me now and again.... She's living with an Italian.... Why they don't get married is more than I can make out." "And why should they get married?" asked Lot. "But, Lot," said Elly, "you and I did!" "We are more conventional than Ottilie. I am more conventional than Ottilie ever was. I should never have dared to suggest to you _not_ to get married. Ottilie is more thorough than I." "She's a thorough fine girl ... and a devilish handsome woman," said Pauws. "Now _she's_ like you." "But a good-looking edition!" said the old gentleman, chaffingly. "Here, Elly, have some more _pâté_. But why they don't want to get married I can't and never shall make out. After all, we have all of us got married." "But _how?_" said Lot. "I must say you're not defending marriage very vigorously on your wedding-day!" "Ottilie has seen so many unhappy marriages all around her." "That's what she writes. But I don't consider that a reason. Hang it all, when a man falls in love, he goes and gets married! He gets married by the mayor and by the parson.... Yes, to tell you the truth, I think it was rather feeble of you two not to get married in church." "But, Papa, you surely don't attach importance to having your marriage blessed by a parson!" "No more I do, but still one does it. It's one of the things one does. We're not quite a law unto ourselves." "No, but all social laws are being changed." "Well, you can say what you please: I stick to it that you _have_ to get married. By the mayor and by the parson. You two have been married by the mayor; but Ottilie refuses to be married at all. And I'm expected to think it natural and enlightened and I don't know what. I can't do it. I'm sorry for her sake. It's all very well: she's a great artist and can behave differently from an ordinary woman; but, if one fine day she returns to our ordinary circles, she'll find that she's made herself impossible.... How would you have friends and acquaintances gather round such a family?" "They don't gather; and I'm glad of it. I have the most charming acquaintances in Italy, friends who ..." "Children, you may be right. Ottilie may be right not to get married at all; and you may be right to have been married only by the mayor." "At any rate," said Elly, "I never thought that, though there was no reception, we should have such a cosy little supper." "And such a nice one," said Lot. "Elly, these tarts are heavenly!" "Only we oughtn't to have sat rooting up past things," said the old gentleman. "It makes Lot's flesh creep. Look at the fellow eating tarts! It's just what your mother used to do. A baby, a regular baby!" "Yes, I'm a baby sometimes too, but not so much as Mamma." "And is she going to England now?" "She promised me not to. But her promise doesn't mean much. We shall be so long away; we shall be in Italy all through the winter. There's one thing makes me feel easier: Mamma has no money; and I went to the bank before I left and asked them, if Mamma came for money, to make up a story and persuade her that it couldn't be done, that there was no money...." "But she draws ... she always did." "The manager told me that he would help me, that he wouldn't let her have any money." "Then she'll get it just the same." "From whom?" "I don't know, but she'll get it. She always gets it, I don't know how...." "But, Papa!" "Yes, my boy, you can be as indignant as you please: I am speaking from experience. How often haven't I had questions about money with Mamma! First there was none; and then, all of a sudden, there it was!..." "Mamma is bad at figures and she is untidy. Then she finds some money in her cupboard." "Yes, I know all about it: in the old days she was always finding something in her cupboard. A good thing, that she goes on finding it. Still, we should never have parted because of money. If it hadn't been for that damned Trevelley, we might still.... But, when Mamma had once set her heart on anybody, then.... Don't let's talk about it.... Look here, you know this old photograph. It's charming, isn't it, Elly? Yes, that's how she used to look. I've never been able to forget her. I've never loved any one else. I'm an old fellow now, children, but ... but I believe that I'm still fond of her.... I sometimes think that it's past, that it's all past and done with; and yet, sometimes, old as I am, I still suffer from it and feel rotten.... I believe I'm still fond of her.... And, if Mamma had had a different character and a different temper and if she hadn't met Trevelley.... But there are so very many 'ifs' in the case.... And, if she hadn't met Trevelley, she would have met Steyn just the same.... She would always have met somebody.... Come, Elly, pour out the coffee. Will you have chartreuse or benedictine? And stay on and talk a bit, cosily. Not about old things: about young things, young things; about yourselves, your plans, Italy.... It's not late yet; it's barely half-past ten.... But, of course, you're only this moment married.... Well, I'll see you to your hotel.... Shall we walk? It's no distance.... Let your old father see you to your hotel and give you a good-night kiss at the door and wish you happiness, every happiness ... dear children!" CHAPTER XIII They had now been a few days in Paris; and Elly, who was seeing Paris for the first time, was enchanted. The Louvre, the Cluny, the life in the streets and the cafés, the theatres in the evenings almost drove Aunt Thérèse from her mind. "Oh, don't let's go to her!" said Lot, one morning, as they were walking along the boulevards. "Perhaps she doesn't even know who we are." Elly felt a twinge of conscience: "She wrote me a very nice letter on my engagement and she gave us a wedding-present. Yes, Lot, she knows quite well who we are." "But she doesn't know that we're in Paris. Don't let's go to her. Aunt Thérèse: I haven't seen her for years, but I remember her long ago ... at the time of Mamma's last marriage. I was a boy of eighteen then. Aunt Thérèse must have been forty-eight. A handsome woman. She was even more like Grandmamma than Mamma is: she had all that greatness and grandness and majesty which you see in the earlier portraits of Grandmamma and which she still has when she sits enthroned in her chair.... It always impresses me.... Very slender and handsome and elegant ... calm and restful, distinguished-looking, with a delightful smile." "The smile of _La Gioconda_...." "The smile of _La Gioconda_," Lot repeated, laughing because of his wife, who was enjoying herself so in Paris. "But by the way, Elly ... the Venus of Milo: I couldn't tell you so when we were standing there, because you were in such silent rapture, but ... after I hadn't seen her for years, I found her such a disappointment. Only imagine ..." "Well, what, Lot?" "I thought her grown old!" "But, Lot!..." "I assure you, I thought her grown old! Does everything grow old then, do even the immortals grow old? I remember her as she used to be: calm, serene, imposing, white as snow, in spite of her mutilation, against a brilliant background of dark-red velvet. This time I thought her no longer imposing, no longer white as snow; she seemed pathetically crippled; and the velvet background was no longer brilliant. Everything had grown old and dull and I had a shock and felt very sad.... Soberly speaking, I think now that they ought just to clean her down one morning and renew the velvet hanging; and then, on a sunny day, if I was in a good mood, I daresay I should think her serene and white as snow again. But, as she showed herself to me, I thought her grown old; and it gave me a shock. It upset me for quite an hour, but I didn't let you see it.... For that matter, I think Paris altogether has grown very old: so dirty, so old-fashioned, so provincial; a conglomeration of _quartiers_ and small towns huddled together; and so exactly the same as it was fifteen years ago, but older, grimier and more old-fashioned. Look! This papier-mâché chicken here"--they were in the Avenue de l'Opéra--"has been turning on that spit, as an advertisement, with the oily butter dripping from it: Elly, that chicken has been turning for fifteen years! And last night, at the Théâtre Français, I had a shock, just as I did to-day at the Venus of Milo. The Théâtre Français had grown so old, so old, with that dreadful ranting, that I asked myself, 'Was it always so old, or do I think it old because I am older myself?'..." "But Aunt Thérèse ..." "So you insist on going to her.... Really, we'd better not. She too has grown old; and what are we to her?... We are young still.... I also am young still, am I not?... You don't think me too old, your _blasé_ husband?... In Italy, we shall find real enjoyment...." "Why, everything will be still older there!" "Yes, but everything is not _growing_ older. That's all past, it's all _the_ past. It's the obvious past and therefore it's so restful. It's all dead." "But surely the country is alive?... Modern life goes on?..." "I don't care about that. All that I see is the past; and that is so beautifully, so restfully dead. That doesn't sadden me. What saddens me is the old people and the old things that are still alive and ever so old and have gradually, gradually gone past us; but things which are restfully dead and which are so exquisitely beautiful as in Italy, they don't sadden me: they calm me and rouse my admiration for everything that was once so beautifully alive and is still so beautiful in death. Paris saddens me, because the city is dying, as all France is; Rome exhilarates me: the city, what _I_ see of it, _is_ dead; and I feel myself young in it still and still alive; and that makes me glad, selfishly glad, while at the same time I admire the dead, calm beauty." "So that will be the subject of your next essay." "Now you're teasing! If I can't talk without being accused of essay-writing ... I'll hold my tongue." "Don't be so cross.... Now what about Aunt Thérèse?" "We won't go.... Well, talk of the devil! Goodness gracious, how small Paris is! A village!" "Why, what is it, Lot?" "There's Theo! Theo van der Staff!" "Theo, Aunt Thérèse's son?" "Yes. Hullo, Theo! How are you?... How funny that we should meet you!..." "I didn't know you were in Paris.... Are you on your honeymoon?" He was a fat little man of over forty, with a round face containing a pair of small, sparkling eyes: they leered at Elly with an almost irresistible curiosity to see the young wife, married but a few days since. A sensuality ever seeking physical enjoyment surrounded him as with a warm atmosphere, jovial and engaging, as though he would invite them presently to come and have a nice lunch with him in a good restaurant and to go on somewhere afterwards. His long residence abroad had imparted a something to his clothes, a something to his speech and gestures that lightened his native Dutch heaviness, rather comically, it is true, because he remained a little elephantine in his grace. Yet his ears pricked up like a satyr's; and his eyes sparkled; and his laughing lips swelled thickly, as though with Indian blood; and his small, well-kept teeth glistened in between. When a woman passed, his quick glance undressed her in a twinkling; and he seemed to reflect, for a second or two. "We were just speaking of your mother, Theo. Funny that we should meet you," Lot repeated. "I walk down the boulevards every morning, so it's very natural that we should meet. I'm glad to have the opportunity of congratulating you.... Mamma? She's all right, I believe." "Haven't you seen her lately?" "I haven't seen her for a week. Are you going to call on her? Then I may as well come too. Shall we have a good lunch somewhere afterwards, or shall I be in the way? If not, come and lunch with me. Not in one of your big restaurants, which everybody knows, but at a place where _I'll_ take you: quite a small place, but exquisite. They have a _homard à l'américaine_ that's simply heavenly!" And he kissed the tips of his fat fingers. "Do you want to go to Mamma's at once? Very well, we'll take a carriage, for she lives a long way off." He stopped a cab and gave the address: "_Cent-vingt-cinq_, Rue Madame." And he gallantly helped Elly in, then Lot, insisted upon himself taking the little back seat and sat like that, with one foot on the step of the carriage. He enquired conventionally and indifferently after the relations at the Hague, as after strangers whom he had seen once or twice. In the Rue Madame the driver pulled up outside a gate of tall railings, with a fence of boards behind it, so that no one could see in. "This is the convent where Mamma lives," said Theo. They stepped out and Theo rang. A sister opened the gate, said that Mme. van der Staff was at home and led the way across the courtyard. The convent belonged to the Sisters of the Immaculate Conception of Our Lady of Lourdes; and Aunt Thérèse boarded there, together with a few other pious old ladies. The sister showed them into a small parlour on the ground-floor and opened the shutters. On the mantelpiece stood a statue of the Blessed Virgin between two candelabra; there were a sofa and a few chairs in white loose covers. "Is Reverend Mother at home, sister?" asked Theo. "Yes, monsieur." "Would it be convenient for her to see me? Will you tell her that I have come to call on her?" "Yes, monsieur." The sister left the room. Theo gave a wink: "I ought to have done that long ago," he said. "I am seizing the opportunity. The reverend mother is a sensible woman, twice as sensible as Mamma." They waited. It was cold and shivery in the bare parlour. Lot shuddered and said: "I couldn't do it. No, I couldn't do it." "No more could I," said Theo. The reverend mother was the first to enter: a short woman, lost in the spacious folds of her habit. Two brown eyes gleamed from under the white band over her forehead. "M. van der Staff ..." "Madame ..." He pressed her hand: "I have long been wanting to come and see you, to tell you how grateful I am for the care which you bestow upon my mother." His French sentences sounded polite, gallant and courteous. "May I introduce my cousins, M. and Mme. Pauws?" "Newly married, I believe," said the reverend mother, bowing, with a little smile. Lot was surprised that she should know: "We have come to pay my aunt a visit ... and you too, madame la supérieure," he added, courteously. "Pray sit down. Madame will be here at once." "Is Mamma quite well?" asked Theo. "I haven't seen her ... for some time." "She's very well," said the reverend mother. "Because we look after her." "I know you do." "She won't look after herself. As you know, she goes to extremes. _Le bon Dieu_ doesn't expect us to go to such extremes as madame does. I don't pray a quarter as much as madame. Madame is _always_ praying. I shouldn't have time for it. _Le bon Dieu_ doesn't expect it. We have our work; I have my nursing-institute, which keeps us very busy. At this moment, nearly all the sisters are out nursing. Then I have my servants' registry-office. We _can't_ always be praying." "Mamma can," said Theo, with a laugh. "Madame prays _too much_," said the reverend mother. "Madame is an _enthousiaste_ ..." "Always was, in everything she did," said Theo, staring in front of him. "And she has remained so. She is an _enthousiaste_ in her new creed, in our religion. But she oughtn't to go to extremes ... or to fast unnecessarily.... The other day we found her fainting in the chapel.... And we have our little _trucs_: when it is not absolutely necessary to fast, we give her _bouillon_ in her _soupe-maigre_ or over her vegetables, without her noticing it.... Here is madame...." The door was opened by a sister; and Mrs. van der Staff, Aunt Thérèse, entered the room. And it seemed to Lot as though he saw Grandmamma herself walk in, younger, but still an old woman. Dressed in a smooth black gown, she was tall and majestic and very slender, with a striking grace in her movements. Grandmamma must have been just like that. A dream hovered over her dark eyes, which had remained the eyes of a creole, and it seemed as if she had a difficulty in seeing through the dream; but the mouth, old as it now was, had a natural smile, with ecstasy playing around it. She accepted Theo's kiss and said to Lot and Elly, in French: "It's very nice of you to look me up. I'm very grateful to you.... So this is Elly? I saw you years ago, in Holland, at Grandpapa Takma's. You were a little girl of fourteen then. It's very nice of you to come. Sit down. I never go to Holland now ... but I often think, I very often think ... of my relations...." The dream hovered over her eyes; ecstasy played around her smile. She folded her thin hands in her lap; and their fingers were slender and wand-like, like Grandmamma's. Her voice sounded like Grandmamma's. As she sat there, in her black gown, in the pale light of that convent-parlour, permeated with a chilliness that was likewise pale, the resemblance was terrifying: this daughter appeared to be one and the same as her mother, seemed to be that mother herself; and it was as though bygone years had returned in a wonderful, haunting, pale, white light. "And how are they all at the Hague?" asked Aunt Thérèse. A few words were exchanged about the members of the family. Soon the reverend mother rose discreetly, said good-bye, expressed her thanks for the visit. "How is Uncle Harold?... And how is Mamma, Charles? I very often think of her. I often pray for Mamma, Charles...." Her voice, long cracked, sounded softer than pure Dutch and was mellow with its creole accent; both Lot and Elly were touched by a certain tenderness in that cracked voice, while Theo stared painfully in front of him: he felt depressed and constrained in his mother's presence. "It is nice of you not to forget us," Lot ventured to say. "I shall never forget your mother," said Aunt Thérèse. "I never see her now and perhaps I shall never see her again. But I am very, very fond of her ... and I pray, I often pray for her. She needs it. We all need it. I pray for all of them ... for all the family. They all need it. And I also pray for Mamma, for Grandmamma. And, Elly, I pray for Grandpapa too.... I have been praying now for years, I have been praying for quite thirty years. God is sure to hear my prayers...." It was difficult to say anything; and Elly merely took Aunt's hand and pressed it. Aunt Thérèse lifted Elly's face a little by the chin, looked at it attentively, then looked at Lot. She was struck by a resemblance, but said nothing. She knew. Aunt Thérèse knew. She never went to Holland now and she expected that probably she would never again see her sister, whom she knew to be Takma's child, never again see Takma, never again her mother. But she prayed, especially for those old people, because she knew. She, who had once, like her mother, been a woman of society and a woman of passion, with a creole's heart that loved and hated fervently, had learnt from her mother's own lips, in violent attacks of fever, the Thing which she had since known. She had seen her mother see--though she herself had not seen--she had seen her mother see the spectre looming in the corner of the room. She had heard her mother beg for mercy and for an end to her punishment. She had not, as had Harold Dercksz, seen the Thing sixty years ago, but she had known it for thirty years. And the knowledge had given a permanent shock to her nervous and highly-strung soul; and, after being the creole, the woman of passionate love and hatred, the woman of adventures, the woman who loved and afterwards hated those whom she had loved, she had sunk herself in contemplation, had bathed in ecstasy, which shone down upon her from the celestial panes of the church-windows; and one day, in Paris, she had gone to a priest and said: "Father, I want to pray. I feel drawn towards your faith. I wish to become a Catholic. I have wished it for months." She had become a Catholic and now she prayed. She prayed for herself, but she prayed even more for her mother. All her highly-strung soul went up in prayer for that mother whom she would probably never see again, but through whom she suffered and whom she hoped to redeem from sin and save from too horrible a punishment hereafter; that mother who had prevented _him_, her father, from defending himself, by clinging to him until the other man had snatched the weapon from the clenched hand that was seeking revenge in blood-maddened rage.... She knew. Aunt Thérèse knew. And she prayed, she always prayed. Never could too many prayers rise to Heaven to implore mercy. "Mamma," said Theo, "the reverend mother told me that you have fainted in chapel. And that you don't eat." "Yes, I eat, I eat," said Aunt Thérèse, softly and slowly. "Don't make yourself uneasy, Theo." A contempt for her son embittered the smile on her old lips; her voice, in addressing her son, grew cold and hard, as though she, the woman of constant prayer, suddenly became once more towards her son the former woman, who had loved and afterwards hated that son's father, the father who was not her husband. "I eat," said Aunt Thérèse. "Indeed, I eat too much. Those good sisters! They sometimes forget when we have to fast; and they give me meat. Then I take it and give it to my poor.... Tell me more, children, tell me more about the Hague. I have a few moments left. Then I must go to the chapel. I say my prayers with the sisters." And she asked after everybody, all the brothers and sisters and their children: "I pray for all of them," she said. "I shall pray for you also, children." A restlessness overcame her and she listened for a sound in the passage. Theo winked at Lot and they rose to their feet. "No," Aunt Thérèse assured them, "I shall not forget you. Send me your photographs, won't you?" They promised. "Where is your sister, Charles?" "At Nice, Aunt." "Send me her photograph. I pray for her too. Good-bye, children, good-bye, dear children." She took leave of Lot and Elly and went away in a dream and forgot to notice Theo. He shrugged his shoulders. The chant of a litany came from the chapel, which occupied a larger room opposite the little parlour. They met the reverend mother in the passage; she was on her way to the chapel: "How did you find your aunt?" she whispered. "Going to extremes, I expect: yes, she does go to extremes. Look!..." And she made Elly, Lot and Theo peep through the door of the chapel. The sisters, kneeling on the praying-chairs, were chanting their prayers. On the floor, between the chairs, lay Aunt Thérèse, prostrate at full length, with her face hidden in her hands. "Look!" said the reverend mother, with a frown. "Even _we_ don't do that. It is unnecessary. It is not even _convenable_. I shall have to tell monsieur le directeur, so that he may speak to madame about it. I shall certainly tell him. _Au revoir, madame, au revoir, messieurs_...." She bowed, like a woman of the world, with a smile and an air of calm distinction. A sister saw them to the gate, let them out.... "Oof!" sighed Theo. "I've performed my filial duty once more for a few months." "I could not do it," muttered Lot. "I simply couldn't." Elly said nothing. Her eyes were wide-open and staring. She understood devotion and she understood vocation; though she understood differently, where she was concerned, yet she understood. "And now for the _homard à l'américaine_!" cried Theo. And, as he hailed a carriage, it was as though his fat body became relaxed, simply from breathing the fresh, free air. CHAPTER XIV In the night express, the young wife sat thinking. Lot lay asleep, with a rug over him, in one corner of the carriage, but the little bride could not sleep, for an autumnal wind was howling along the train; and so she just sat silently, in the other corner, thinking. She had now given her life to another and hoped for happiness. She hoped that she had a vocation and that she would have devotion to bestow. That was happiness; there was nothing else; and Aunt Thérèse was right, even though she, Elly, conceived devotion, happiness and vocation so very differently. She wanted more than the feeling, the thought; she wanted, above all, action. Even as she had always given herself to action, though it was only tennis at first--and sculpture later and in the end the pouring out of her own sorrow in words and the sending of it to an editor, to a publisher--so she now longed to devote herself to action, or at least to active collaboration. She looked wistfully at Lot and felt that she loved him, however differently it might be from the way in which she had loved the first time. She loved him less for her own sake, as when she had been in love before, and loved him more for his sake, to rouse him to great things. It was all very vague, but there was ambition in it and ambition, springing from love, for his sake. What a pity that he should fritter away his talent in witty little articles and hastily-written essays. That was like his conversation, light and amusing, unconvinced and unconvincing; and he could do better than that, much better. Perhaps writing a novel was also not the great thing; perhaps the great thing _was_ writing, but not a novel. What then? She sought and did not yet find, but knew for certain--or thought she knew--that she _would_ find and that she would rouse Lot.... Yes, they would be happy, they would continue happy.... Out there, in Italy, she would find it. She would find it in the past, in history, perhaps; in things that were past, in beautiful noble things that were dead, peacefully dead and still beautiful.... Then why did she feel so melancholy? Or was it only the melancholy which she had always felt, so vaguely, and which was as a malady underlying all her activity and which broke in the inflection of her quick, voluble voice: the melancholy because her youth, as a child without parents, brothers or sisters, had bloomed so quietly in the old man's big house. He had always been kind and full of fatherly care for her; but he was so old and she had felt the pressure of his old years. She had always had old people around her, for, as far back as she could remember anything, she remembered old Grandmamma Dercksz and Dr. Roelofsz: she knew them, old even then, from the time when she was a little child. Lot also, she thought--though the life of a man, who went about and travelled, was different from that of a girl, who stayed at home--Lot also had felt the pressure of all that old age around him; and that, no doubt, was the reason why his dread of growing old had developed into a sort of nervous obsession. Aunt Stefanie and the uncles at the Hague were old and their friends and acquaintances seemed to have died out and they moved about, without contemporaries, a little lonesomely in that town, along the streets where their houses were, to and fro, to and fro among one another.... It was so forlorn and so very lonely; and it engendered melancholy; and she had always felt that melancholy in her youth.... She had never been able to keep her girl-friends. She no longer saw the girls of the tennis-club; her fellow-pupils at the Academy she just greeted with a hurried nod when she passed them in the street. After her unfortunate engagement, she had withdrawn herself more than ever, except that she was always with Lot, walking with him, talking to him; he also was lonely at the Hague, with no friends: he was better off for friends, he said, in Italy.... How strange, that eternal loneliness and sense of extinction around both of them! No friends or acquaintances around them, as around most people, as around most families. It was doubtless because of the oppression of those two very old people; but she could not analyse beyond that and she felt that something escaped her which she did not know, but which was nevertheless there and pressed upon her and kept other people away: something gloomy, now past, which remained hovering around the old man and the old woman and which enveloped the others--the old woman's children, the old man's only grandchild--in a sort of haze, something indescribable but so definitely palpable that she could almost have taken hold of it by putting out her hand.... It was all very vague and misty to think about, it was not even possible to think about it; it was a perception of something chill, that passed, nothing more, no more than that; but it sometimes prevented her breathing freely, taking pleasure in her youth, walking fast, speaking loud: when she did that, she had to force herself with an effort. And she knew that Lot felt the same: she had understood it from two or three very vague words and more from the spirit of those words than from their sound; and it had given her a great soul-sympathy for Lot. He was a strange fellow, she thought, looking at him as he slept. Outwardly and in his little external qualities and habits, he was a very young boy, a child sometimes, she thought, with round his childishness a mood of disillusionment that sometimes uttered itself quite wittily but did not ring sincere; beneath the exterior lay a disposition to softness, a considerable streak of selfishness and a neurotic preoccupation where he was himself concerned, tempered by something that was almost strength of character in dealing with his mother, for he was the only one who could get on with Mamma. With this temperament he possessed natural gifts which he did not value, though it was really necessary for him to work. He presented a medley of contradictions, of seriousness and childishness, of feeling and indifference, of manliness and of very feeble weakness, such as she had never seen in any man. He was vainer of his fair hair than of his talent, though he was vain of this too; and a compliment on his tie gave him more pleasure than a word of praise for his finest essay. And this child, this boy, this man she loved: she considered it strange when she herself thought of it, but she loved him and was happy only when he was with her. He woke up, asked her why she was not sleeping and now took her head on his breast. Tired by the train and by her thoughts, she fell asleep; and he looked out at the grey dawn, which broke over the bleak and chilly fields after they had passed Lyons. He yearned for sea, for blue sky, for heat, for everything that was young and alive: the South of France, the Riviera and then Italy, with Elly. He had disposed of his life and he hoped for happiness, happiness in companionship of thought and being, because loneliness induces melancholy and makes us think the more intensely of our slow decay.... "She is very charming," he thought, as he looked down upon her where she slept on his breast; and he resisted the impulse to kiss her now that she had just fallen asleep. "She is very charming and she has a delicate artistic sense. I must tell her to start modelling again ... or to write something: she's good at both. That was a very fine little book of hers, even though it is so very subjective and a great deal too feminine. There is much that is good in life, even though life is nothing but a transition which can't signify much in a world that's rotten. There must be other lives and other worlds. A time must come when there will be no material suffering, at most a spiritual suffering. Then all our material anxieties will be gone.... And yet there is a great charm about this material life ... if we forget all wretchedness for a moment. A spell of charm comes to everybody: I believe that mine has come. If it would only remain like this; but it won't. Everything changes.... Better not think about it, but work instead: better do some work, even while travelling. Elly would like it. At Florence, the Medicis; in Rome, the whole papacy.... I don't know which I shall select: it must be one of the two. But there's such a lot of it, such a lot of it.... Could I write a fine history of civilization, I wonder?... I hate collecting notes: all those rubbishy odds and ends of paper.... If I can't see the whole thing before me, in one clear vision, it's no good. I can't study: I have to see, to feel, to admire or shudder. If I don't do that, I'm no good. An essay is what I'm best at. A word is a butterfly: you just catch it, lightly, by the wings ... and let it fly away again.... Serious books on history and art are like fat beetles, crawling along.... _Tiens!_ That's not a bad conceit. I must use it one day in an article: the butterfly wafted on the air ... and the heavy beetle...." They were approaching Marseilles; they would be at Nice by two o'clock in the afternoon.... CHAPTER XV Lot had ordered a bedroom in the Hôtel de Luxembourg and had written to his sister Ottilie. On arriving, they found a basket of red roses awaiting them in their room. It was October; the windows were open; and the sea shone with a dark metallic gleam in a violent flood of sunlight and rippled under the insolent forward thrusts of a gathering mistral. They had a bath, lunched in their bedroom, feeling a little tired after the journey; and the scent of the roses, the brightness of the sun, the deepening turquoise of the sky and the more and more foam-flecked steel of the sea intoxicated both of them. The salad of tomatoes and capsicums made a red-and-orange patch around the chicken on the table; and long pearls seemed to melt in their glasses of champagne. The wind rose in mighty gusts and with its arrogant, brutal, male caresses swept away any haze that still hung around. The glowing sun poured forth its flood as from a golden spout in the turquoise sky. They sat side by side, intoxicated with it all, and ate and drank but did not speak. A sense of peace permeated them, accompanied by a certain slackness, as though in surrender to the forces of life, which were so turbulent and so violent and so radiantly gold and insolently red. There was a knock; and a woman's head, crowned with a large black hat, appeared through the open door: "May I come in?" "Ottilie!" cried Lot, springing up. "Come in, come in!" She entered: "Welcome! Welcome to Nice! I haven't seen you for ages, Lot! Elly, my sister, welcome!... Yes, I sent the roses. I'm glad you wrote to me ... and that you are willing to see me and that your wife is too...." She sat down, accepted a glass of champagne; cordial greetings passed between Lot and his sister. Ottilie was a couple of years older than Lot; she was Mamma's eldest child and resembled both her father, Pauws, and Mamma, for she was tall, with her father's masterful ways, but had Mamma's features, her clear profile and delicate chin, though not her eyes. But her many years of public appearances had given her movements a graceful assurance, that of a talented and beautiful woman, accustomed to being looked at and applauded, something quite different from any sort of ordinary, domestic attractiveness: the harmonious, almost sculptural gestures, after being somewhat studied at first, had in course of time become natural.... "What a good-looking woman!" thought Elly; and she felt herself to be nobody, small, insignificant, in the simple wrap which she had put on hurriedly after her bath. Ottilie, who was forty-one, looked no more than thirty and had the youthfulness of an artist who keeps her body young by means of an art and science of beauty unknown to the ordinary woman. A white-cloth gown, which avoided the last extravagances of fashion, gave her figure the perfection of a statue and revealed the natural outlines of arms and bosom beneath the modern dress. The great black hat circled its black ostrich-feather around her copper-glowing fair hair, which was plaited in a heavy coil; a wide grey boa hung in a light cloud of ostrich-feathers around her; and, in those colourless tints--white, black and grey--she remained, notwithstanding her almost too great beauty, attractive at once as a well-bred woman and an artist. "Well, that's my sister, Elly!" said Lot, proudly. "What do you think of her?" "I've seen you before, Elly, at the Hague," said Ottilie. "I don't remember, Ottilie." "No, you were a little girl of eight, or nine perhaps; and you had a big playroom at Grandpapa Takma's and a lovely doll's-house...." "So I did." "I haven't been to the Hague since." "You went to the Conservatoire at Liège?" "Yes." "When did you sing last?" asked Lot. "In Paris not long ago." "We hear nothing of you. You never sing in Holland." "No, I don't ever go to Holland." "Why not, Ottilie?" asked Elly. "I have always felt depressed in Holland." "Because of the country or the people?" "Because of everything: the country, the people, the houses ... the family ... our circle...." "I quite understand," said Lot. "I couldn't breathe," said Ottilie. "It's not that I want to run the country down, or the people or the family. It all has its good side. But, just as the grey skies hindered me from breathing, so the houses hindered me from producing my voice properly; and there was something around me, I don't know what, that struck me as terrible." "Something that struck you as terrible?" said Elly. "Yes, an atmosphere of sorts. At home, I could never get on with Mamma, any more than Papa and Mamma could ever get on together. Mamma's impossible little babyish character, with her little fits of temper, used to drive me wild. Lot has a more accommodating nature than I!..." "You ought to have been a boy and I a girl," said Lot, almost bitterly. "_Mais je suis très femme, moi_," said Ottilie. Her eyes grew soft and filmy and happiness lurked in her smile. "_Mais je te crois_," replied Lot. "No," continued Ottilie, "I couldn't hit it off with Mamma. Besides, I felt that I must be free. After all, there was life. I felt my voice inside me. I studied hard and seriously, for years on end. And I made a success. All my life is given to singing...." "Why do you only sing at concerts, Ottilie? Don't you care about opera? You sing Wagner, I know." "Yes, but I can't lose myself in a part for more than a few moments, not for more than a single scene, not for a whole evening." "Yes, I can imagine that," said Lot. "Yes," said Elly, with quick understanding, "you're a sister of Lot's in that. He can't work either for longer than his essay or his article lasts." "A family weakness, Ottilie," said Lot. "Inherited." Ottilie reflected, with a smile: the Gioconda smile, Elly thought. "That may be true," said Ottilie. "It was a shrewd observation of your little Elly's." "Yes," said Lot, proudly. "She's very observant. Not one of our three natures is what you would call commonplace." "Ah," murmured Ottilie, "Holland ... those houses ... those people!... Mamma and 'Mr.' Trevelley at home: it was terrible. One scene after the other. Trevelley reproaching Mamma with Papa, Mamma reproaching Trevelley with a hundred infidelities! Mamma was jealousy incarnate. She used to keep her hat and cloak hanging in the hall. If 'Mr.' Trevelley went out, Mamma would say, 'Hugh, where are you going?' 'Doesn't matter to you,' said Trevelley. 'I'm coming with you,' said Mamma, putting on her hat all askew and flinging on her cloak; and go with him she did. Trevelley cursed and swore; there was a scene; but Mamma went with him: he walking along the street two yards in front of her, Mamma following, mad with rage.... She was very, very pretty in those days, a little doll, with a fair-haired Madonna face, but badly dressed.... Lot was always quiet, with calm, tired-looking eyes: how well I remember it all! He was never out of temper, always polite to 'Mr.' Trevelley...." "I have managed to get on with all my three papas." "When Mamma and Trevelley had had enough of each other and Mamma fell in love with Steyn, I cleared out. I went first to Papa and then to the Conservatoire. And I haven't been back in Holland since.... Oh, those houses!... Your house, Elly--Grandpapa Takma's house--everything very neatly kept by Aunt Adèle, but it seemed to me as if something stood waiting behind every door.... Grandmamma's house and Grandmamma's figure, as she sat at the window there staring ... and waiting, she too. Waiting what for? I don't know. But it did depress me so. I longed for air, for blue sky, for freedom; I had to expand my lungs." "I have felt like that too sometimes," said Lot, half to himself. Elly said nothing, but she thought of her childhood, spent with the old man, and of her doll's-house, which she ruled so very seriously, as if it had been a little world. "Yes, Lot," said Ottilie, "you felt it too: you went off to Italy to breathe again, to live, to live.... In our family, they _had_ lived. Mamma _still_ lived, but her own past clung to her.... I don't know, Elly; I don't think I'm very sensitive; and yet ... and yet I did feel it so: an oppression of things of the past all over one. I couldn't go on like that. I longed for my own life." "That's true," said Lot, "you released yourself altogether. More so than I did. I was never able to leave Mamma for good. I'm fond of her. I don't know why: she has not been much of a mother to me. Still I'm fond of her, I often feel sorry for her. She is a child, a spoilt child. She was overwhelmed, in her youth, with one long adoration. The men were mad on her. Now she is old and what has she left? Nothing and nobody. Steyn and she lead a cat-and-dog life. I pity Steyn, but I sometimes feel for Mamma. It's a dreadful thing to grow old, especially for the sort of woman that she was, a woman--one may as well speak plainly--who lived for her passions. Mamma has never had anything in her but love. She is an elementary woman; she needs love and caresses, so much so that she has not been able to observe the conventions. She respected them only to a certain point. When she fell in love, everything else went by the board." "But why did she marry? _I_ didn't marry! And I am in love too." "Ottilie, Mamma lived in a different social period. People used to marry then. They marry still, for the most part. Elly and I got married." "I have nothing to say against it, if you know that you have found each other for life. Did Mamma know that with any of her husbands? She was mad on all the three of them." "She now hates them all." "Therefore she ought not to have married." "No, but she lived in a different social period. And, as I say, Ottilie, people still get married." "You disapprove of my not marrying." "I don't disapprove. It's not my nature to disapprove of what other people think best in their own judgment." "Let us talk openly and frankly. You call Mamma a woman who lives for her passions. Perhaps you call me the same." "I don't know much about your life." "I have lived with men. If I had had Mamma's ideas, or rather her unconscious conventions, I should have married them. I loved and was loved. Twice I could have married, as Mamma did; but I didn't do it." "You were disheartened by what you had seen." "Yes; and I didn't know, I never knew. Perhaps now, Lot, perhaps now I feel certain for the first time." "Do you feel certain, Ottilie?" said Elly. She took Ottilie's hand. She thought Ottilie so beautiful, so very beautiful and so genuine that she was greatly affected by her. "Perhaps, Elly, I now know for certain that I shall never love any one else as I love Aldo.... He loves me ..." "And you will get married?" asked Lot. "No, we shall not get married." "Why not?..." "Is _he_ certain?" "But you say he's fond of you." "Yes, but is he _certain?_ No, he is not. We are happy together, ever so happy. He wants to marry me. But is he certain? No, he is not. He is not certain: I know for certain that he does not know for certain.... Why should we bind ourselves with legal ties? If I have a child by him, I shall be very happy and shall be a good mother to my child. But why those legal ties?... Aldo isn't _certain_, happy though he may be. He is two years older than I. Who knows what may be waiting for him to-morrow, what emotion, what passion, what love?... I myself know that I have found, but I know that he does _not_ know.... If he leaves me to-morrow, he is free. Then he can find another happiness, perhaps the lasting one.... What do we poor creatures know?... We seek and seek until suddenly we find certainty. _I_ have found it. But _he_ has not.... No, Lot, we shall not get married. I want Aldo to be free and to do as he pleases. I am no longer young and I want to leave him free. Our love, our bodies, our souls are free, absolutely free, in our happiness. And, if I am old to-morrow, an old woman, with no voice left ..." "Then you will pay the penalty, Ottilie," said Lot. "Then I shall pay no penalty, Lot. Then I shall have been happy. Then I shall have had my portion. I don't ask for eternity here below. I shall be satisfied and I shall grow old, quietly, quietly old...." "Oh, Ottilie, and _I_ ... I suffer from growing old, from growing older." "Lot, that's a disease. You're happy now, you have Elly, life is beautiful, there is sunshine, there is happiness. Take all that, enjoy it and be happy and don't think of what is to come." "Don't you then ever think of growing old and of the horror of it?" "I do think of growing old, but I don't see anything horrible in it." "If Aldo were to leave you to-morrow, you would be alone ... and you would grow old." "If Aldo left me to-morrow, for his own happiness, I should think it right and I should grow old, but I should not be alone, for I should have all my memories of his love and of our happiness, which is actual now and so real that there can be nothing else after it." She got up. "Are you going?" "I have to. Come and lunch with us to-morrow. Will you come, Elly?" "Thanks, Ottilie." Ottilie looked out of the window. The sun beamed as it died away, from behind mauve and rose clouds, and the wind had subsided on the waves: the sea just rocked it softly on her rolling, deep-blue bosom, like a gigantic lover who lay resting in her lap after his spell of blazing ardour. "How splendid those clouds are!" said Elly. "The wind has gone down." "Always does, at this time," said Ottilie. "Look, Lot, there he is!" "Who?" "Aldo. He's waiting for me." They saw a man sitting on the Promenade des Anglais--there were not many people about--and looking at the sea. "I can only see his back," said Lot. "You shall see him to-morrow. I'm delighted that you're coming." Her voice sounded grateful, as though she were touched. She kissed them both and went away. "Heavens, what a beautiful woman!" said Lot. "She is anything but young, but years don't count with a woman accustomed to appear in public and as handsome as she is...." Elly had gone out on the balcony: "Oh, Lot, what a glorious sunset!... It's like a fairy-picture in the sky. That's how I imagine the atmosphere of the Arabian Nights. Look, it's just like the tail of a gigantic phoenix vanishing behind the mountains in flames.... There's Ottilie, on the promenade; she's waving her handkerchief." "And there's Aldo, with her, bowing.... A fine good-looking fellow, that Italian officer of hers.... What a handsome couple!... Look, Elly, as they're walking together: what a handsome couple! I declare I'm jealous of him. I should like to be as tall as that, with such a pair of shoulders and such a figure." "But aren't you content that I like you as you are?" "Yes, I'm quite content. I'm more than content, Elly.... I believe that I have come to my divine moment, my moment of happiness...." "It will be more than a moment." "Are you certain of it?" "Yes, I feel it within me ... just as Ottilie felt it within her. And you?" He looked at her gravely and did not tell her that she was much younger than Ottilie, too young to know so much. And he merely answered: "I too believe that I know for certain. But we must not force the future.... Oh, what a wonderful evening! Look at those mountains beginning to turn violet.... The fairy-picture is changing every moment. The sea is rocking the wind in her lap and the phoenix is dying away in ashes. Let's stay here, let's stay and look. There are the first stars. It's as though the sea were becoming very calm and the wind sleeping peacefully on her blue breast. You can just feel its breath still, but it's asleep.... This is the land of life and love. We are too early for the season; but what do we care for smart people?... This is gorgeous, Elly, this wealth of life, of love, of living colour, fading away so purple in the darkness of the night. The cool breath of that mighty wind, which is now asleep: how very different from the howling wind of our north, which whistles so dismally! This mad merry wind here, now sleeping, like a giant, in the blue lap of that giantess, the sea! That's freedom, life, love and glory and pomp and gaiety. Oh, I'm not running down my country; but I do feel once more, after all these months, that I can breathe freely and that there's a glow in life ... and youth, youth, youth! It makes you feel drunk at first, but I'm already getting used to the intoxication...." They remained on the balcony. When the wind woke in the lap of the sea and got up again, with an unexpected leap of its giant gaiety, blowing the first stars clear of the last purple clouds with a single sweep, they went inside, with their arms around each other's waist. Over the joyously-quivering sea the fierce mistral came rushing. CHAPTER XVI The garden was reached from the flat by a little terrace and two or three steps. "You are too early to see it in its winter glory," said Ottilie. "You're much too early. Nature here sleeps all through the summer under the scorching sun." "That's one long, long love-sleep," said Lot, with his arm in his sister's. "Yes, one long love-sleep," Ottilie echoed. "At the beginning of the autumn, the heavy rains come. They may overcome us yet, suddenly. When they are past, then nature buds for the winter. That is so exquisite here. When, everywhere up in the north, there's not a leaf or flower to be seen, the ground here is dug up, grass is sown and the mimosa blossoms and the carnations and you get your violets. You're too early, but you can see one phase of the change. Look at my last summer roses, blooming in such mad, jolly disorder. And the heliotrope, delicious, eh? Yes, this one is still glorious. Look at my pears: did you ever see such big ones? How many are there? Three, four, five ... six. We'll pluck them; they're quite ripe: if they fall to the ground, the ants eat them in a moment.... Aldo! Aldo! Come here for a second.... Pluck a few pears, will you? I can't reach them, no more can Lot ... Elly, have you seen my grapes? Just look at my trellis-work of vines? It might be a pergola, mightn't it? And they're those raspberry-grapes, you know; you must taste them. Try this bunch: they're delicious.... We'll eat the pears presently, at lunch. They're like sweet, aromatic snow.... Here are figs for you: this is an old tree, but it still stands as a symbol of fruitfulness. Pick them for yourself, take as many as you like.... Here are my peaches.... How hot the sun is still! And everything's steaming: I love all that natural perfume. Those grapes sometimes drive me mad...." She thrust a white arm out of the sleeve of her white gown among the hazy-blue bunches and picked and picked, more and more. It was a feast of gluttony, an orgy of grapes. Aldo picked the finest for Elly. Well past forty, in the tranquil calmness of his graceful strength he was plainly a man of warm passion, a southern man of passion, a tranquil, smiling and yet passionate nature. As he drew himself up lissomely, in his loose-fitting grey-flannel suit, and stretched his hands towards the highest bunches, the harmonious lines of his statuesquely handsome figure appeared sinewy and supple; and there was this contradiction in him, that he suggested a piece of classic sculpture in the costume of to-day. The smiling serenity of his regular, large-boned face also reminded Lot of busts which he had seen in Italy: the _Hermes_ of the Vatican--no, Aldo was not so intelligent as that--the _Antinous_ of the Capitol, but a manlier brother; the _Wrestlers_ of the Braccio Nuovo, only not so young and more powerfully built.... Aldo's smile answered to Ottilie's smile and contained the tranquillity of a secure happiness, of an intense moment of perfect human bliss. That moment was there, even if it were passing. That secure happiness was as the pressed bunch of grapes.... Lot felt that he was living his own ecstatic moment, felt that he was happy in Elly, but yet he experienced a certain jealousy because of the physical happiness in that very good-looking couple: there was something so primitive in it, something almost classical in this southern autumnal nature, among this superabundance of bursting fruits; and he knew for certain that he would never approach such happiness, physically, because he felt the north in his soul, however eagerly his soul might try to escape that north; because he felt the dread of the years that were to come; because his love for Elly was so very much one of sympathy and temperament; because his nature was lacking in vigorous sensuality. And it made him feel the want of something; and because of that want he was jealous, with all the jealousy which he had inherited from his mother.... They too, Aldo and Ottilie, felt no morbid melancholy, no sickly dread; and yet their happiness, however superabundant, had the sere tint of autumn, like all the nature around them. The glowing-copper leaves of the plane-trees blew suddenly over the vine-trellis, scattered by the rough, brusque hands of the gaily-gathering wind. A shudder passed through the disordered rose-bushes; a heavy-ripe pear fell to the ground. It was autumn; and neither Aldo nor Ottilie was young, really young. And yet they had found this; and who could tell what they had found before, each on a different path! Oh, that untrammelled happiness, that moment!... Oh, how Lot felt his jealousy!... Oh, how he longed to be like Aldo, so tall, so vigorous, handsome as a classical statue, so natural, a classical soul!... To feel his blood rush madly through his veins!... Oh, that north, which froze something inside him; that powerlessness to seize the moment with a virile hand; and the dread, the dread of what was to come: that horror of old age, while after all he was still young!... He now looked at his wife; and suddenly his soul became quite peaceful. He loved her. Silent inward melancholy, dread: those were his portion; they couldn't be helped; they must be accepted with resignation. The headiness of rapture could overwhelm him for a moment: it was not the true sphere of his happiness. It would intoxicate him: his blood was not rich enough for it. He loved, in so far as he was able; he was happy, in so far as he could be. It was that, after all: he had found what he wanted, he wished to be grateful. A tenderness for Elly flowed through him so intensely: he felt that his soul was the sister-soul to hers. Superabundance was not for him; and the pressure of the things that passed had always weighed upon him and always hindered him from flinging his two arms riotously round life.... He threw away the stalk of his bunch of grapes and followed Aldo, who was calling to him, indoors. The Italian took his arm with a movement of sympathy: "Ottilie's going to sing," he said. "Your wife has asked her to." His French had the sensual softness of his too southern accent. Ottilie was already singing, to her own accompaniment, in the drawing-room. Her rich voice, schooled to the spaciousness of large halls, swelled to a pure stream of sound, made the air quiver even in the garden with notes heavy with happiness. It was an Italian song, by a composer whom Lot did not know; and it provided an illusion as though Ottilie were improvising the song at the moment. There was a single phrase, which opened softly, rippled with laughter and melted away swooning, like a nymph in a faun's arms. "Another time, perhaps I'll sing you something serious," said Ottilie. "This is only a single cry: a cry of life, nothing more...." They sat down to lunch. The sun, which had scorched them, the wind, which had covered them with rough kisses, had given them an appetite; and the saffron _bouillabaisse_ stimulated their palates lustily. On the side-board the fruit lay heaped in large, plain baskets and represented autumn's lavish abundance indoors as well. "Lot," said Elly, suddenly, "I don't know what it is, but I suddenly feel the south." "We poor northerners!" said Lot. "Ottilie and Aldo: _they_ feel the south." "But so do I!" said Elly. "Nice is a novitiate for you, Elly, before you get to Italy!" said Ottilie. "Do you actually feel the south here? In the air?" "Yes, in the air ... and in myself, in _myself_...." "Well, we have tropical blood in us," said Ottilie. "Why shouldn't we feel the south at once? Aldo could never feel the north: he went to Stockholm with me when I was singing there." "Didn't you feel the north, in the air?" asked Lot. "_Sicuro!_" said Aldo. "I found it cold and bleak, but then it was winter. I felt no more in it than that. You northerners feel things more sensitively. We feel perhaps ... more brutally and fully. We have redder blood. You have the gift of feeling _nuances_. We haven't. When I feel, I feel entirely. When Ottilie feels a thing now, she also feels it like that. But she was not always so." "Aldo is making a southerner of me!" said Ottilie. "He is wiping out all my _nuances!_" Outside, the mistral rose and raged in a whirl of glowing-copper plane-leaves. "That's autumn," said Ottilie. "Turning into winter," said Lot. "But winter here is life again, renewed. Life is renewed daily. Every day that comes is new life." "So no dying, but everlasting resurrection?" asked Lot, with a smile. "No dying, everlasting resurrection!" Her voice rang out defiantly. Oh, to embrace the moment ... with virile strength! It was not for him, thought Lot. But what there was was tender happiness. If only it remained so! If only he were not left behind, lonely, alone and old, now that he had known tender happiness!... He looked at his wife. The topaz-coloured wine sent a sparkle to her eyes and a flush over her usual pallor; she was joking with Aldo and Ottilie, was gayer than Lot had ever seen her; she became almost pretty and began boldly to talk Italian to Aldo, spinning out whole sentences which he corrected with his quiet laugh. "Who knows," thought Lot, "what she may yet feel? She is twenty-three. She is very fond of me; and, before she came to love me, she had known sorrow, because of another love. Who can tell what the years may bring? Oh, but this is a divine moment, these days are perhaps forming the most heavenly moment of my life! Let me never forget them.... I am happy, so far as I can be happy. And Elly must be feeling happy too.... She is breathing again.... It is as though an oppression had gone over her and as though she were breathing again. She lived too long with the old man. The past is an oppression in his house. It is an oppression at Grandmamma's. It is an oppression even with us, at home, because of Mamma.... Life does not renew itself there. It dies away, it passes; and the melancholy of it depresses even us, the young people.... Oh, Elly will not be really happy until she is in Italy!... This is only an intoxication, delicious, but too full and brutal for our senses; and there ... there, when we are working together, we shall find glad happiness: I know it! Glad happiness in a country not so sensual as Nice, but more intelligent and dusted exquisitely with the bloom of the dead past.... Yes, we shall be in harmony there and happy and we shall work together...." Aldo was opening the champagne; and Lot whispered: "Elly!" "What?" "You felt the south just now?" "Yes ... oh, Lot, beyond a doubt!" "Well, I ... _I_ feel happiness!" She squeezed his hand; a smile played around her lips. She also would never forget this moment of her life, whatever else those future years might bring: with her northern soul of sadness, she felt the south and her happiness ... and what passed they did not see.... CHAPTER XVII There was a cold wind, with whirling snowflakes, and Aunt Stefanie de Laders had not at first intended to go out: she had a cough and lately had not been feeling at all the thing; she feared that this winter would be her last. Not everybody lived to be so old as Mamma or Mr. Takma; and she, after all, was seventy-seven: wasn't that a fine age? But she did not want to die yet, for she had always been very much afraid of death, always carried a horrid vision of Hell before her eyes: you could never know what awaited you, however good and religious you might have been, serving God properly. Now she, thank God, had nothing to reproach herself with! Her life had gone on calmly, day after day, without a husband, or children, or mundane ties, but also without any great sorrow. Twice she had suffered the loss of a tom-cat to which she was attached; and she thought it very sad when the birds in the cages grew old and lost their feathers and sometimes gripped on to their perches with their long claws, for years together, until one fine morning she found their little bodies stiff. She thought it sad that the family had no religion--the De Laders had always had religion--and she felt very sad when Thérèse, in Paris, became a Catholic, for after all papistry was idolatry, that she knew for certain; and she also knew for certain that Calvin had had the root of the matter in him. She had always been able to save money and did not quite know how to dispose of it: she had executed a number of different wills, making bequests and then rescinding them; she would leave a good deal to charitable institutions. Her health for very long had been exceedingly good. Short, sprightly and withered, she had been very active, had for years run along the streets like a lapwing. Her witch-face became brown and tanned and wrinkled, small and wizened; and her little figure, with the shrunk breasts, bore no resemblance whatever to the even yet majestic old age of old, old Mamma. The barren field of her life, without emotion, love or passion, had grown drier and drier around her carping egoism, without arousing in her a sense of either melancholy or loss. On the contrary, she had felt glad that she was able to fear God, that she had had time to make her own soul and that she had not heard the sins of the body speak aloud, in between the murmured reading of her pious books and the shrill twittering of her birds. Lucky that she had never been hysterical, like those Derckszes, she thought contentedly, preferring with a certain filial reverence to put down that hysteria rather to the Derckszes' account than to that of her old mother, though nevertheless she shook her head over Mamma for thinking so little, at her age, of Heaven and Hell and for continuing to see old Takma, doubtless in memory of former sinfulness. Anton was a dirty old blackguard and, old as he was, had narrowly escaped most unpleasant consequences, a month ago, for allowing himself to take liberties with his laundress' little girl; and Aunt, who saw a great deal of Ina, knew that it was owing to D'Herbourg's influence and intervention--he being the only one of the family who had any connections--that the business had no ill results, that it was more or less hushed up. But Aunt Stefanie thought it so sinful and hysterical of Anton, looked upon Anton as so irretrievably sold to Satan that she would have preferred to have nothing more to do with him ... if it were not that he had some money and that she feared lest he should leave the money to sinful things and people ... whereas Ina could do with it so well. And she now, in spite of the weather, thought of sending for a cab and going out: then she could first pick up Anton, as arranged, and take him with her to the Van Welys, Lily and Frits, to see their godchildren, Stefje and Antoinetje. There were two babies now; and she and Anton had a godchild apiece. A tenderness flowed through her selfish old-maid's heart at the thought of those children, who belonged to her just a little--for she tyrannized over Anton's godchild too--and in whom, she reflected contentedly, she had not the least sinful share. For she considered the things of the flesh more or less sinful, even when hallowed by matrimony. The cab came; and Aunt Stefanie, in a very old fur cloak, hoisted herself in, sprightlily, climbed up the step and felt anything but well. Was it coming at last? Was she about to fall ill and die? Oh, if she could only be sure of going to Heaven! So long as she was not sure of it, she would rather go on living, rather grow as old as Mother and Takma, rather live to be a hundred. The cab was now pulling up in front of the ground-floor rooms in which Anton lived; and she thought, should she wait till he came out or should she get out herself for a minute? She resolved upon the latter course and, when the door was opened by the landlady, she clambered down the step of the cab again, refusing the driver's assistance, and, with a few snowflakes on her old-lady's cape and old fur cloak, went in to her brother, who was sitting beside a closed stove, with his book and his pipe. A thick haze of smoke filled the room, drifting heavily with slow, horizontal cloud-lines. "Well, Anton, you're expecting me, aren't you? It wouldn't be the thing if you weren't!" said Aunt Stefanie, in a tone of reproach. Trippingly and imperiously, she went up to him. Her voice sounded shrill and her little witch-face shook and shivered out of the worn fur collar of her cloak, because she felt cold. "Yes, all right," said Anton Dercksz, but without getting up. "You'll sit down first, won't you, Stefanie?" "But the cab's waiting, Anton; it means throwing money away for nothing!" "Well, that won't ruin you. Is it really necessary that we should go and look at those brats?" "You must see your godchild, surely. That's only proper. And then we're going on, with Ina and Lily, to Daan and Floor, at their hotel." "Yes, I know, they arrived yesterday.... Look here, Stefanie, I can't understand why you don't leave me here in peace. You always want to boss people. I'm comfortable here, reading...." The warmth of the stove gave old Stefanie de Laders a blissful feeling; she held her numbed feet--Anton possessed no foot-stove--voluptuously to the glow; but the smoke of the pipe made her cough. "Yes, yes, you're just sitting reading; I read too, but I read better books than you.... Let me see what you're reading, Anton. What is it? Latin?" "Yes, it's Latin." "I never knew that you read Latin." "You don't know everything about me yet." "No, thank God!" cried Stefanie, indignantly. "And what is that Latin book?" she asked, curiously and inquisitorially. "It's sinful," said Anton, teasingly. "I thought as much. What's it called?" "It's Suetonius: _The Lives of the Caesars_." "So you're absorbed in the lives of those brutes, who tortured the early Christians!" He grinned, with a broad grin. He sat there, big and heavy; and the folds and dewlaps of his full, yellow-red cheeks thrilled with pleasure at her outburst; the ends of his grey-yellow moustache stood straight up with merriment; and his eyes with their yellow irises gazed pensively at his sister, who had never been of the flesh. What hadn't she missed, thought Anton, in scoffing contempt, as he sat bending forwards. His coarse-fisted hands lay like clods on his thick knees; and the tops of his Wellington boots showed round under the trouser-legs. His waistcoat was undone; so were the two top buttons of his trousers; and Stefanie could just see his braces. "You know more about history than I thought," he grinned. She thought him repulsive and looked nervously round the room, which contained a number of open book-cases, with the curtains drawn back: "Have you read all those books?" she asked. "And read them over again. I do nothing else." Stefanie de Laders was coughing more and more. Her feet were warm by this time. She was proof against much, but she felt as if she would faint with the smoke. "Sha'n't we go now, Anton?" He was not in the least inclined to go. He was greatly interested in Suetonius at the moment; and she had disturbed him in his fantasy, which was intense in him. But she had such a way of nagging insistency; and he was really a weak man. "I must just wash my hands." "Yes, do, for you reek of that pipe of yours." He grinned, got up and, without hurrying himself, went to his bedroom. Nobody knew of his solitary fantasies, which became more intense as he grew older and more impotent in his sensuality; nobody knew of the lust of his imagination nor how, as he read Suetonius, he pictured how he had once, in a century long past, been Tiberius, how he had held the most furious orgies in gloomy solitude at Capri and committed murder in voluptuousness and sent the victims of his passions dashing into the sea from the rocks and surrounded himself with a bevy of children beautiful as Cupids. The hidden forces of his intellect and imagination, which he had always enjoyed secretly, with a certain shyness towards the outside world, had caused him to read and study deeply in his younger years; and he knew more than any one talking to him would ever have suspected. On his shelves, behind novels and statute-books, he concealed works on the Kabbala and Satanism, being especially attracted in his morbid fancies by the strange mysteries of antiquity and the middle ages and endowed with a powerful gift of thinking himself back into former times, into a former life, into historic souls to which he felt himself related, in which he incarnated himself. No one suspected it: people merely knew that he had been a mediocre official, that he read, that he smoked and that he had occasionally done shameful things. For the rest, his secret was his own; and that he often guessed at another's secret was a thing which not his mother nor Takma nor anybody would ever have suspected.... The moment he had gone to his bedroom, Aunt Stefanie rose, tripped to the bookshelves and let her eyes move swiftly along the titles. What a lot of books Anton had! Look at that whole shelf of Latin books: was Anton as learned as that? And behind them: what did he keep behind those Latin books? Great albums and portfolios: what was in them? Would she have time to look? She drew one from behind the Latin books and, with quick, bird-like glances at the bedroom, opened the album, which had _Pompeii_ on it.... What were those strange prints and photographs? Taken from statues, quite naked, from mural and ceiling frescoes; and such queer subjects, thought Aunt Stefanie. What was it all, what were those things and people and bodies and attitudes? Were they merely jokes which she did not understand?... Nevertheless they were enough to make her turn pale; and her wrinkled little witch-face grew longer and longer in dismay, while her mouth opened wide. She turned the pages of the album more and more swiftly, so as to be sure and miss nothing, and then went back to certain plates which struck her particularly. The world, so new to her, of classical perversion sped past her awe-struck eyes in undivined sinfulness, represented by man and beast and man-beast in contortions which her imagination, untutored in sensuality, could never have suspected. A devil's sabbath hypnotized her from out of those pages; and the book, weighing so heavy in her trembling old fingers, burnt her; but she simply could not slip it back into its hidden nook ... just because she had never known ... and because she was very inquisitive ... and because she had never suspected superlative sin.... Those were the portals of Hell; the people who had acted so and thought so would burn in Hell-fire for ever: she not, fortunately! "What are you doing?" Anton's voice startled her; she gave a little scream; the book slipped from her hands. "_Must_ you go prying about?" asked Anton, roughly. "Well, can't I look at a book?" stammered Aunt Stefanie. "I wasn't doing anything improper!" she said, defending herself. He picked up the album and shoved it back violently behind the Latin volumes. Then, becoming indifferent, he grinned, with eyes like slits: "And what have you seen?" "Nothing, nothing," stammered Stefanie. "You just came in ... and startled me so. I saw nothing, nothing.... Are you ready? Shall we go?" Buttoned up in his great-coat, he followed her tripping little steps; he grinned at her scornfully: how much she had missed! And, if she _had_ seen anything, how she must have been shocked! "He is the devil!" she thought, in her fright. "He is the devil! If it wasn't for that sinful money, which it would be such a pity for him not to leave to Ina, I should drop him altogether, I should never wish to see him again. For he is not all the thing...." CHAPTER XVIII Ina d'Herbourg was waiting for them in the little house of her son-in-law and daughter, Frits and Lily van Wely: Frits, a callow little officer; Lily, a laughing, fair-haired little mother, up again pluckily after her confinement. There were the two children, Stefanus a year and Antoinetje a fortnight old; the monthly nurse, fat and pompous; the maid-of-all-work busy with the little boy; the twelve-o'clock lunch not cleaned away yet; a bustle of youth and young life: one child crowing, the other screaming, the nurse hushing it and filling the whole house with her swelling figure. The maid let the milk catch, opened a window; there was a draught; and Ina cried: "Jansje, what a draught you're making! Shut the window, shut the window, here are Uncle and Aunt!..." And Jansje, who knew that Uncle Anton and Aunt Stefanie were godfather and godmother, flew to the door, leaving the milk to boil over, forgetting to close the window, with the result that the old people were received amidst a cold hurricane which made Aunt Stefanie, whose throat was already irritated by Anton's smoke, cough still more and mumble: "It's not the thing, a draught like this; _such_ a draught!" The fire which Jansje had lighted in the little drawing-room had gone out again; and Lily and Frits, wishing above all to make things pleasant for the old people, now brought them back again to the dining-room, where Jansje, in her eagerness to clear the table, dropped and broke a plate, whereupon exclamations from Jansje and reproaches from Lily and despairing glances of Ina at her son-in-law Frits. No, Lily did not get that slovenliness from her, for _she_ took after the IJsselmondes and they were correct; Lily got it from the Derckszes. But Frits now understood that he must be very civil to Uncle Anton, whom he detested, while Lily, whom Uncle Anton always kissed at very great length, loathed him, felt sick at the sight of him, for Lily also had to make up to Uncle Anton, that being Mamma's orders. She had married Frits without any money; but the young couple had very soon perceived that money was not to be despised; and the only two from whom there was a trifle to be expected were Aunt Stefanie and Uncle Anton. The old man, after being dragged there by his sister against his will, had recovered his good temper thanks to the lingering kiss which he had given Lily and, with his fists like clods upon his knees, sat chuckling and nodding in admiration when Nurse held up the yelling brat to him. And, though he was jealous of young, vigorous people, he found an emotion in his jealousy, found young, vigorous people pleasant to look at and considered that that virile little Frits, that callow, stiff little officer, might well make a good husband to his wife. He nodded at Lily and then at Frits, to convey that he understood them, and Lily and Frits smiled back vacuously. They did not understand him, but that didn't matter: he guessed that they were still very much in love, even though they had two brats; and he also guessed that they were keen on his bit of money. Well, they were quite right from their point of view; only he couldn't stand Ina, because, ever since D'Herbourg had helped him in his trouble with the little laundry-girl, she treated him with a kindly condescension, as the influential niece who had saved her imprudent uncle from that _soesah_.[1] He grinned, seeing through all that coaxing pretence and chuckling to himself that it was all wasted, because he had no intention of leaving them his bit of money. But he knew better than to let this out to Stefanie or any of them; on the contrary, amid all the pretty things that were said to him, he gloated over the gin-and-bitters which Frits so attentively set before him, after helping him off--he wasn't feeling cold now, was he?--with his great-coat. He thought the whole farce most diverting and laughed pleasantly and benevolently, with the air of a good, kind uncle who was so fond of the children, while he thought to himself: "They sha'n't get one cent!" And he chuckled so deliciously at the thought that he was quite pleased to give the fat monthly nurse a couple of guilders. They were all taken in--Aunt Stefanie, Ina and the young couple--when they saw Uncle behaving so good-naturedly and so generously; they looked upon him as hooked; and he left them in the illusion, which he so cleverly saw through. What the devil, he thought, in a dull, gathering rage, did he care about those young people? Hadn't they enough with their youth and their two vigorous bodies, that they must go coveting his few thousand guilders? And what did he care about that brat which they had christened Antoinette after him? He had a horror of new-born children, though he had sometimes thought children very nice when they were just a few years older. Things misted before his eyes, but he mastered himself in his dull rage and in his slimy thoughts and behaved benevolently and genially as the well-off uncle and godfather who was going to leave all his money to the brat. "And Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor arrived yesterday," said Ina d'Herbourg, with a suppressed sigh, for she looked upon the Indian relations as unpresentable. "We said we'd call on them together to-day, didn't we, Aunt Stefanie?" "That'll save her a cab-fare," thought Anton Dercksz. "Yes," said Lily, "we might as well be going on, don't you think so, Uncle?" "Certainly, dear." "Frits'll come on presently, won't you, after barracks? I'll just go and get on my things. I do think it so nice of you, Uncle Anton, to come and have a look at the baby. I had begun to despair of your ever coming, for you had promised me so long...." "You see Uncle always keeps his promises, dear...." He said it with the appearance of kindliness, put out his hand as she passed, drew her to him and, as though under the softening influence of the visit, gave her another long, lingering kiss. She shuddered and hurried away. In the passage she met her husband, buckling on his sword. "Don't let that filthy old scoundrel kiss you like that!" hissed Frits, furiously. "How can I help it? The brute makes me sick!..." He went out, slamming the front-door, thinking that his young happiness was already being defiled because they were hard up and had to besmirch themselves in consequence. Ina, Uncle and Aunt waited in the dining-room until Lily was ready. "Uncle Daan must be very comfortably off," said Ina, with glittering eyes. "Papa, who is bound to know, always refuses to talk about money and wouldn't say how much he thought Uncle Daan had...." "And how much would you say it was?" asked Aunt Stefanie. "Oh, Aunt," said Ina, with a well-bred glance of her weary eyes, "I _never_ speak or think about money and I really don't know how rich Uncle Daan is ... but still I believe he is worth seven hundred thousand guilders. What makes them come to Holland so suddenly, in the winter? Business, Papa said; and he ought to know. But, as you know, Papa never says much and never talks about business or money. But _I've_ been wondering to myself, could Uncle Daan have lost all his money? And mark my words: if so, Papa will have him on his hands." For Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor, who were unpresentably Indian, had children of their own; there were no expectations therefore from that quarter; and Ina hated them with a profound hatred and, jealous of their wealth, spoke as much ill of them as she dared. "Should you say so?" asked Aunt Stefanie. "They've always been in business together," said Ina, "so, _if_ Uncle Daan has lost his money, Papa is sure to have him on his hands." "But, if he's worth seven hundred thousand guilders?" asked Anton Dercksz. "Yes, in that case," said Ina, covetously. "But perhaps he hasn't seven hundred thousand. I don't know. I never talk about money; and what other people have is _le moindre de mes soucis_." Lily came down, looking the sweetest of little fair-haired women in her fur boa; and the four of them went to the cab, while Jansje created a fresh draught by opening the door too wide. And Ina insisted that Uncle Anton should sit in the front seat, beside Aunt Stefanie, and she and Lily with their backs to the horse, while Uncle Anton, with pretended gallantry, tried to resign the place of honour to her, though he was glad that she did not accept it. All that family was only a tie, which bound you without doing you the least good. There was that old bird of a Stefanie, who had dragged him from his reading, his warm room, his pipe, his Suetonius and his pleasant reverie, first to look at a brat to whom he wasn't going to leave a cent and next to call at an hotel on a brother who chose to come from India to Holland in December. All such unnecessary things; and what thousands of them you did in your life! There were times when you simply couldn't be your own master.... He indemnified himself by pressing his knees against Lily's and feeling the warmth of her fresh young body. His eyes grew misty. The cab stopped at the big _pension_ where Uncle Daan was accustomed to stay when he came home from India. They were at once shown in to Aunt Floor, who had seen them through the window; a _baboe_ was standing at the door of the room. "Come inn! Come insside!" cried Aunt Floor, in a bass voice and accentuating her consonants. "How d'ye do, Stefanie? How d'ye do, Anton? And how d'ye do, Ina ... and you, little Lily: _allah_,[2] two childr-r-ren alr-r-ready, that little thing!" Aunt Floor had not got up to receive them; she was lying on a sofa and a second _baboe_ was massaging her huge, fat legs. The girl's hands glided to and fro beneath her mistress' dressing-gown. "Caughtt cold!" said Aunt Floor, angrily, as though the others could help it, after renewed words of welcome on their part and enquiries after the voyage. "Caughtt cold in the train from Paris. I assur-r-re you, I'm as stiff as a boar-r-rd. What came over Dhaan, to want to come to Gholland at thiss time of year, I cannott make out...." "Why didn't you stay behind in India, Aunt?" asked Ina, well-bred and weary-eyed. "Not likely! I ssee myself letting Dhaan gho alone! No, dear, we're man and wife and where Uncle Dhaan ghoes _I_ gho. Old people like us belong to one another.... Dhaan is with Gharold now, in the other room: your Papa arrived a moment agho, Ina. Those two are talking bissiness of course. I asked Dhaan, 'Dhaan, what on ear-r-rth do you want to gho to Gholland for?' 'Bissiness!' says Dhaan. Nothing but bissiness, bissiness. I don't understand it: you can always wr-r-rite about bissiness. Year after year that confounded bissiness; and nothing ghoes r-r-right: we're as poor as r-r-rats.... There, Saripa, _soeda_,[3] that's enough: I'm as stiff as a boar-r-rd all the same." The two _baboes_ left the room; the anthracite-stove glowed like an oven, red behind its little mica doors. Aunt Floor had drawn herself up with a deep sigh and was now sitting: her fat, yellow face, with the Chinese slanting eyes, loomed like a full moon from out of the hair, still black, which went back, smooth and flat, to a large _kondé_;[4] and there was something of a mandarin about her as she sat, with her legs wide apart in the flannel dressing-gown and her fat, swollen little hands on her round knees, just as Anton Dercksz often used to sit. Her sunken breast hung like the bosom of a _tepèkong_[5] in two billows on her stomach's formidable curve; and those rounded lines gave her an idol-like dignity, as she now sat erect, with her stiff, angry mandarin-face. From the long lobes of her ears hung a pair of enormous brilliants, which gleamed round her with startling brightness and did not seem to belong to her attire--the loose flannel bag--so much as to her own being, like a jewel set in an idol. She was not more than sixty; she was the same age as Ottilie Steyn de Weert. "And is old Mamma well?... It's nice of you to have come," she said, remembering that she had not yet said anything amiable to her relations. Her gelatinous mass now shook more genially on the sofa, while around her sat Stefanie, with her wrinkled witch-face; Anton, who recollected Floor forty years ago, when she was still a strapping young _nonna_, a _nonna_ with Chinese blood in her veins, which gave her an exotic attraction for the men; Ina d'Herbourg, very Dutch and correct, blinking her eyes with a well-bred air; and the fair-haired little wife, Lily. "Why dhoesn't Dhaan come?" exclaimed Aunt Floor. "Lily, gho and see what's become of your gr-r-randpapa and your uncle." "I'll go, Aunt," said Ina d'Herbourg. "You stay here, dear. She mustn't walk about much yet, Aunt." And Ina, who was curious to see the rooms which Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor occupied, rose and went through Aunt's bedroom, with a quick glance at the trunks. One of the _baboes_ was busy hanging up dresses in a wardrobe. "Where are the gentlemen, _baboe_?" "In the study, _njonja_." The _baboe_ pointed the way to Ina through the conservatory. Well, they were handsome and no doubt expensive rooms. Ina knew that the _pension_ was not a cheap one; and Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor would hardly be poor as "r-r-rats." So Uncle had his own bedroom and a study besides. Papa was with him now and they were doubtless talking business, for they were jointly interested in various undertakings. At home Papa never talked about business, vouchsafed no information, to Ina's great despair.... She heard their voices. And she was thinking of creeping up quietly through the conservatory--who knew but that she might overhear some detail which would tell her of the state of Uncle Daan's fortune?--from sheer innocent curiosity, when she suddenly stopped with a start. For she had heard Uncle Daan's voice, which had not changed during the five years since she had seen Uncle, exclaim: "Harold, have you known it all this time?" "Ssh!" she heard, in her father's voice. And Uncle Daan repeated, in a whisper: "Have you known it all this time?" "Don't speak so loud," said Harold Dercksz, in a hushed tone. "I thought I heard somebody...." "No, it's the _baboe_ clearing up ... and she doesn't understand Dutch...." "Speak low for all that, Daan," said Harold Dercksz. "Yes, I've known it all this time!" "All the time?" "Yes, sixty years." "I never ... I never knew it." "Speak low, speak low! And is _she_ dead now?" "Yes, she's dead" "What did you say her name was?" "Ma-Boeten." "That's it: Ma-Boeten. I was a child of thirteen. She was Mamma's maid and used to look after me too." "It was her children who began to molest me. She told her son about it: he is a _mantri_[6] in the rent-office." "Yes." "He's a damned villain. I gave him money." "That was right.... But, you see, Daan, it's so long ago now." "Yes, it's a very long time ago." "Don't speak about it to Floor." "No, never, never. That's why it's just as well she came with me. If she had stayed at Tegal, that damned villain might have.... Yes, it's certainly a very long time ago." "And it's passing.... It's passing.... A little longer and ..." "Yes, then it will all be past.... But to think that you, Harold, should have known it all this time!" "Not so loud, not so loud! I hear something in the conservatory...." It was Ina's dress rustling. She had heard with a beating heart, tortured with curiosity. And she had not understood a word, but she remembered the name of the dead _baboe_, Ma-Boeten. She now deliberately rustled the silk of her skirt, pretended to have just come through the conservatory, threw open the doors, stood on the threshold: "Uncle Daan! Uncle Daan!" She saw the two old men sitting, her father and his brother. They were seventy-three and seventy. They had not yet been able to recover their ordinary expression and relax the tense dismay of their old faces, which had gazed with blinded eyes into the distant past. Ina thought them both looking ghastly. What had they been talking about? _What_ was it that they were hiding? _What_ had Papa known for sixty years? _What_ had Uncle Daan only known for such a short time?... And she felt a shiver going along her, as of something clammy that went trailing by. "I've come to look for you, Uncle Daan!" she exclaimed, with an affectation of cordiality. "Welcome to Holland, Uncle, welcome! You're not lucky with the weather: it's bleak and cold. You must have been very cold in the train. Poor Aunt Floor is as stiff as a board.... Uncle Anton is there too and Aunt Stefanie; and my Lily came along with us. I'm not interrupting you ... in your business?" Uncle Daan kissed her, answered her in bluff, genial words. He was short, lean, bent, tanned, Indian in his clothes; a thin grey tuft of hair and the cut of his profile gave him a look of a parrot; and, thanks to this bird-like aspect, he resembled his sister Stefanie. Like her, he had quick, beady eyes, which still trembled with consternation, because of what he had been discussing with his brother Harold. He clawed a few papers together, crammed them into a portfolio, to give the impression that he and Harold had been talking business, and said that they were coming. They went back with Ina to the sitting-room and greetings were exchanged between Uncle Daan and those who had come to welcome him. "Aunt Floor knows nothing," thought Ina, remembering how Aunt had just spoken about her coming to Holland. Why had they come? What was the matter? _What_ was it that Papa had known for sixty years and Uncle Daan for only such a short time? Was _that_ why he had come to Holland? Had it anything to do with money: a legacy to which they were entitled?... Yes, that was it, a legacy: perhaps they would still become very rich. Did Aunt Stefanie know about it? Uncle Anton? Aunt Ottilie? Grandmamma? Mr. Takma?... _What_ was it? And, if it was a legacy, how much?... She was burning with curiosity, while she remained correct, even more correct than she was by nature, in contrast with the Indian unconstraint of Uncle Daan--in his slippers--and the Chinese _tepèkong_ that was Aunt Floor, with her bosom billowing down upon her round stomach. She was burning with curiosity, while her eyes glanced wearily, while she made well-bred efforts to conceal her eager longing to find out. And stories were told that did not interest her. Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor talked about their children: Marinus, who was manager of a big sugar-factory and lived near Tegal, with a large family of his own; Jeanne--"Shaan," as Aunt called her--the wife of the resident of Cheribon; Dolf unmarried, a magistrate. She, Ina d'Herbourg, did not care a jot about the cousins, male or female, would rather never see them: they were such an Indian crew; and she just made herself pleasant, condescendingly, but not too much so, pretending to be interested in the stories of Clara, Marinus' daughter, who was lately married, and Emile, "Shaan's" son, who was so troublesome. "Yes," said Aunt Floor, "and here we are, in Gholland, in this r-r-rotten _pension_ ... for bissiness, nothing but bissiness ... and yes, _kassian_,[7] we're still as poor as r-r-rats! What am I to do here for five months? I shall never stand it, if this weather keeps on. Luckily, I've got Tien Deysselman and Door Perelkamp"--these were two old Indian ladies--"and they'll soon look me up. They wr-r-rote to me to bring them some Chinese cards and I've brought twenty packs with me: that'll help me get through the five months...." And Aunt Floor glared out of her angry old mandarin-face at her husband, "Dhaan." No, thought Ina, Aunt Floor did not know about the legacy. Perhaps it wasn't a legacy. But then what was it?... She and Lily went back in the cab that came for Harold; Stefanie drove Anton home in hers. Ina at once went in search of her husband: she must consult somebody and she knew of no one better. She found him in his office: "Leopold, can I speak to you?" she asked. "I have a consultation presently," he said, consequentially. She knew that he was lying, that he had nothing to do. She sat down quietly, without removing her cloak or hat. "Leopold ..." She frightened him. "What's the matter?" he asked. "We _must_ find out why Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor have come to Holland." "Goodness gracious!" he exclaimed. "Papa's affairs haven't gone wrong, have they?" "I don't know, I don't think so; but there's something that's brought Uncle Daan over." "Something? What?" "I don't know, but there's something: something that Papa has known for sixty years, ever since he was a child of thirteen. Uncle Daan has only known it a little while and apparently has come to Holland to consult Papa." "How do you know?" "I know: take it from me that I know. And I know more besides." "What is that?" "That Aunt Floor does _not_ know and that Uncle Daan does not mean to tell her. That Grandmamma's old _baboe_ was called Ma-Boeten and that she's dead. That her son is a _mantri_ at Tegal and that Uncle Daan has given him money. That's all I know." They looked at each other. Both of them were very pale. "What an incoherent story!" said Leopold d'Herbourg, barrister and solicitor, with a consequential shrug of the shoulders. Ina, well-bred as usual, cast up her eyes wearily: "It's very important. I don't know what it is, but it's important and I want to know. Could it have to do with a legacy?" "A legacy?" echoed D'Herbourg, failing to see. "Something that's due to us? Could that _mantri_ know things which, if Uncle Daan gave him money ..." "Perhaps," said D'Herbourg, "it has to do with money which Papa and Uncle Daan owe ..." This time, Ina turned very pale: "No," she exclaimed, "that would be ..." "You can never tell. The best thing is not to talk about it. Besides, Papa won't let anything out, in any case." But Ina's curiosity was too much for her. She nodded her head in her well-bred way, under the white bird of paradise in her hat: "I _must_ know," she said. "How will you find out?" "You might speak to Papa, ask him what's depressing him...." "What's depressing him? But I've never known him to be anything but depressed, during all the twenty-three years that we've been married. Papa never talks to me; he even employs another solicitor for his business, as you know." "Then _I_ will ask Papa." "That won't be any good." "I _must_ know," said Ina, rising. "I don't see a legacy in it, after what you've said. Oh dear, oh dear, who knows what it can be? Money perhaps which ..." "It's certainly money." "Which Papa and Uncle Daan ..." "May have to repay, if ..." "Do you think so?" "They do so much business in common. That leads to all sorts of complications. And it won't be the first time that men who do a great deal of business ..." "Yes, I understand." "Perhaps it's better not to mix yourself up in it at all. You would do wiser to be careful. You never know what hornets' nest you're bringing about your ears." "It happened sixty years ago. It dates sixty years back. What an immense time!" said Ina, hypnotized by the thought. "That's certainly very long ago. The whole thing is out of date!" said D'Herbourg, pretending to be indifferent, though inwardly alarmed. "No," said Ina, shaking the white bird of paradise, "it's something that is not yet past. It _can't_ be. But Papa hoped that, before very long ..." "What?" "It _would_ be past." They both looked very pale: "Ina, Ina, do be careful!" said D'Herbourg. "You don't know what you're meddling with!" "No!" she said, like a woman in a trance. She must know, she was determined to know. She resolved to speak to her father that evening. [1] Malay: bother, scrape, fuss. [2] Lord! [3] That will do. [4] The chignon or knot of hair at the back of the head. [5] A Javanese dancer or nautch-girl, often old and ugly. [6] Native clerk. [7] Oh dear! Poor things! CHAPTER XIX She wandered round the house, greatly agitated and uncertain what to do. She heard her son Pol, the undergraduate, in his room downstairs, next to the front-door. He was sitting there smoking with some friends; and as she passed she listened to the lads' noisy voices. There was a ring at the door: it was her younger boy, Gus, her favourite; and, glad to hear his merry and youthful chatter, she forgot for a moment the feverish curiosity that consumed her so fiercely. She now thought of going to her father in his study, but it was too near dinner-time, she feared, and Papa did not like being disturbed at this hour. She was restless, could not sit down, kept wandering about. Just imagine, if Papa was ruined, what should they do? Aunt Stefanie would perhaps leave something to Gus, she was fonder of him than of the others; but there were so many nephews and nieces. If only Aunt didn't fritter her little fortune away in legacies!... Her maternal feelings, always centring on the question of money, made her think of the future of her three children. Well, for Lily she was doing everything in her power, working on the feelings of both Aunt Stefanie and Uncle Anton. As for Pol, he must manage as best he could: if he had a million, he would still be hard up. The dinner-hour approached; and she waited, with D'Herbourg and the two boys, in the dining-room, for Papa to come down. When Harold Dercksz entered, it seemed to her that Father's long, lean figure, which was always bent, was now more bent than ever; a bilious yellow gave his hollow cheeks a deep metallic colour. Ina loved a formal but cheerful table; the simple meal was tastefully served; she kept up a certain style in her home, was a very _grande dame_ of a housekeeper. She had brought up her children with the utmost correctness and could not understand that Lily had so soon kicked over the traces, immediately after her marriage: what a scene of slovenliness you always found at Frits and Lily's! She was pleased with her boys as she thought of it, pleased with their manners at table: Pol talked gaily and pleasantly, though not too noisily, because of Grandpapa; Gus made a little joke from time to time; then Ina would laugh and stroke his head. Harold Dercksz hardly spoke at all, listened to the boys with a smile of pain on his lips. D'Herbourg carved. There was usually a separate dish for Grandpapa: he had to be very careful because of his digestion and his liver. As a matter of fact, he was always in pain. Sometimes his forehead puckered with physical agony. He never spoke of what he suffered, did what the doctor told him, was always taciturn and gentle, quietly dignified, broken in body through illness, broken in soul through the melancholy that shone in the gentle glance of his old eyes with their discoloured irises. Ina looked after her father, began by seeing to his special dish; she was attentive and liked to have everything quite right in her house and at her table. At dessert, however, her uncontrollable curiosity arose in her once more. Questions burnt upon her lips, but of course she would ask nothing during dinner ... and she again laughed at something that Gus said, stroked his curly head. She looked more motherly in her indoor dress; when she was with Gus, her weary eyes had not the same ultra-well-bred glance as under the waving white bird of paradise, when she sat cheek by jowl with fat Aunt Floor, who was so Indian. Papa got up at dessert and said, courteously: "Do you mind, Ina? My pain's rather bad this evening...." "Poor Father!" she said, kindly. The old man left the room: Pol had jumped up at once to open the door for him. The parents and the two boys sat on a little longer. Ina told the others about Uncle Daan and Aunt Floor; they were amused at the twenty packs of Chinese playing-cards. Gus, who was a good mimic, imitated the Indian accent of Aunt Floor, whom he remembered from her last visit, a couple of years ago; and Ina laughed merrily at her boy's wit. Thus encouraged, Gus mimicked Aunt Stefanie, made his face look like an elderly bird's, with a quivering, flexible neck, and D'Herbourg roared with delight; but Pol, the undergraduate, cried: "Don't forget, Gus, that you've got expectations from Aunt. You must never let her know you mimic her!" "It's not nice of you to say that," said Ina, in a mildly reproachful tone. "No, Pol, it's not nice of you. You know Mamma doesn't like allusions to expectations and so forth. No, Pol, it's not very good taste.... I can't understand how Papa can laugh at it." But the merriment continued because of Gus; and, when he imitated Uncle Anton, with his fists clenched on his knees, Ina allowed herself to be led on and they all three laughed, leagued against the Derckszes as in a family alliance of aristocratic Jonkheer d'Herbourgs against Indian uncles, aunts, granduncles and grandaunts. "Yes, Grandpapa is certainly the best of them," said Pol. "Grandpapa is always distinguished." "Well, Greatgranny"--as the children called the old lady--"Greatgranny, old as she is, is a very distinguished woman!" said Ina. "What tons of old people we have in the family!" said Gus, irreverently. Ina repressed him: no jokes about the old lady; for that matter, they all of them stood in awe of her, because she was so very old and remained so majestic. "Aunt Ottilie has turned sixty, hasn't she?" Ina asked, suddenly, hypnotized by the number sixty, which loomed fatefully large before her eyes. And the D'Herbourgs now ceased talking of money, but discussed the family instead. With the exception of Grandmamma and Papa--Greatgranny and Grandpapa to the boys--they pulled all the others to pieces and Gus mimicked them all: in addition to Uncle Anton, Aunt Stefanie and Aunt Floor, he mimicked Uncle Daan, mimicked the son who held a legal office out there, mimicked "Shaan," the resident's wife at Cheribon. He had seen them all in Holland, when they came home for anything from two to twelve months on leave; and they always provided food for discussion and jest in the D'Herbourg mansion. But Ina did not laugh any more and stood up, while her curiosity burnt her to the point of causing her physical pain. Harold Dercksz was sitting upstairs at his big writing-table. A lamp with a green shade made him appear still yellower; and the wrinkles were sharply furrowed in the old man's worn face. He sat huddled in his chair, screening his eyes with his hand. In front of him lay great sheets of figures, which he had to examine, as Daan had asked him to. He stared before him. Sixty years ago he had seen the Thing. It was slowly passing, but in passing it came back again to him so closely, so very closely. The sight of it had given his child-brain and child-nerves a shock for all his life; and that he had grown old quietly, very old, older than he need have, was due to his self-restraint.... The thing of the past, the terrible Thing, was a ghost and looked at him with eyes while it came nearer, dragging its veil of mist over rustling leaves, over a path lined with sombre trees from which the leaves fell everlastingly.... The Thing was a ghost and came nearer and nearer in passing, before it would vanish entirely in the past; but never had a single creature appeared from behind the trees to stretch out a forbidding hand and hold back the ghastly Thing that went trailing by.... Was a shadow loitering behind the trees, was some one really appearing, did he really see a hand motioning the thing, the ghastly Thing, to stop in its passage through the rustling leaves?... Oh, if it would only pass!... How slowly, how slowly it passed!... For sixty long years it had been passing, passing.... And the old man and the old woman, both in their respective houses or sitting together at the windows, were waiting until it should have passed.... But it would not pass, so long as they were still alive.... Harold Dercksz felt pity for the old man, for the old woman.... Oh, if it would but pass!... How long the years lasted!... How old _they_ had grown!... Why must they grow so old?... Was that their punishment, _their_ punishment, the punishment of both of them? For he now knew what part his mother had played in the crime, the terrible crime. Daan had told him; Ma-Boeten had told her son; the _mantri_ had told Daan. There were so many who knew it! And the old people believed that nobody ... that nobody knew it except ... except old Dr. Roelofsz!... Oh, so many knew it, knew the Thing that was buried and kept on raising its spectral form, the secret that was always rising up again in its clammy mist.... Oh, that he must needs grow so old, _so_ old that Daan now knew it too! If only Daan held his tongue and did not tell Floor! Would he hold his tongue? Would the _mantri_ go on holding his tongue? Money must be paid, at least until the old, the poor old people were dead ... and until the Thing was past for them and with them.... A gentle tap; and the door opened: he saw his daughter on the threshold. "Father dearest," she said, winningly. "What is it, dear?" Ina came nearer. "I'm not disturbing you, I hope? I came to see how you were. I thought you looked so bad at dinner...." She tended him, like a good daughter; and he appreciated it. His heart was sensitive and soft and he appreciated the companionship of the home: Ina's care, the boys' youth imparted a genial warmth to his poor chilled heart; and he put out his hand to her. She sat down beside his chair, giving a quick glance at the papers before him, interested in the sight of all those figures, which no doubt represented the state of Papa's fortune and Uncle Daan's. Then she asked: "Are you ill, Father dear?" "Yes," he said, moaning, "I'm in pain." And, moved by her affection, he added, "Better if it were over with me soon." "Don't say that: we could never do without you." He smiled, with a gesture of denial: "You would have a trouble the less." "Why, you know you're no trouble to me." It was true and she said it sincerely; the note of sincerity rang true in his child's motherly voice. "But you oughtn't to be always working like this," she went on. "I don't do much work." "What are all those figures?" She smiled invitingly. He knew her curiosity, had known it ever since her childhood, when he had caught her ferreting in his writing-desk. Since that time, he had locked everything up. "Business," he replied, "Indian business. I have to look into these figures for Uncle Daan, but it doesn't mean much work." "Is Uncle Daan satisfied with the business?" "Yes, he is. We shall be rich yet, dear." "Do you think so?" Her voice sounded greedy. "Yes. Have no fear. I'll leave you something yet." His voice sounded bitter. "Oh, Father, I really wasn't thinking of that. I do worry about money sometimes, because of Lily, who married on nothing: what have Frits and Lily to live on? And because of my boys. I don't care about money myself." It was almost true; it had become true as the years went on. Since she had grown older, she thought of money more for her children's sake; motherliness had developed in her soul, even though that soul remained material and small. "Yes," said Harold Dercksz, "I know." "You are so depressed, Father." "I am just the same as usual." "No, Uncle Daan has made you depressed. I can see it." He was silent and on his guard. "You never speak out, Father. Is there nothing I can do for you? What's depressing you?" "Nothing, dear." "Yes, there is; yes, there is. Tell me what's depressing you." He shook his head. "Won't you tell me?" "There's nothing." "Yes, there's something. Perhaps it's something terrible." He looked her in the eyes. "Father, is it a secret?" "No, dear." "Yes, it is; it's a secret. It's a secret, a secret that's depressing you ... since I don't know how long." He turned cold in his limbs and all his soul armed itself, as in a cuirass, and he remained like that, on his guard. "Child, you're fancying things," he said. "No, I'm not, but you won't speak. It hurts me to see you so sad." "I am unwell." "But you are depressed ... by that terrible thing ... that secret...." "There's nothing." "No, there must be something. Is it about money?" "No." "Is it about money which Uncle Daan ..." He looked at her. "Ina," he said, "Uncle Daan sometimes has different ideas about absolute honesty in business ... from those which I have. But he always ends by accepting my view. I am not depressed by any secret about money." "About what then?" "Nothing. There is no secret, dear. You're fancying things." "No, I'm not. I ... I ..." "You know?" he asked, loudly, with his eyes looking into hers. She started. "N-no," she stammered. "I ... I don't know anything ... but ... I _feel_ ..." "What?" "That there's a secret that's depressing you." "What about?" "About ... about something that's happened ..." "You know," he said. "No, I don't." "Nothing has happened, Ina," he said, coldly. "I am an old, sick man. You tire me. Leave me in peace. Leave me in peace." He rose from his chair, nervous, agitated. She drew up her weary eyes with her well-bred expression, with her mother's expression, the expression of the IJsselmondes, who were her source of pride. "I will not tire you, Papa," she said--and her voice, sharp but tuned to the correct social enunciation, sounded affected--"I will not tire you. I will leave you in peace. I came to you, I wanted to speak to you ... because I thought ... that you had some worry ... some sorrow. I wanted to share it. But I will not insist." She went on, slowly, with the offended haughtiness of a _grande dame_, as Harold Dercksz remembered seeing his mother leave the room after a conversation. A reproachful tenderness welled up in him; he had almost kept her back. But he restrained his emotion and let her go. She was a good daughter to him, but her soul, the soul of a small-minded woman, was all consumed with money needs, with foolish conceit about small, vain things--because her mother was a Freule IJsselmonde--and with a passionate curiosity. He let her go, he let her go; and his loneliness remained around him. He sank into his chair again, screened his eyes with his hand; and the lamplight under the green shade furrowed the wrinkles sharply in his worn face of anguish. He stared out before him. What did she know? What did she guess? What had she overheard perhaps ... in the conservatory, as she came to them?... He tried to remember the last words which he had exchanged with Daan. He could not remember. He decided that Ina knew nothing, but that she guessed, because of his increased depression.... Oh, if the Thing would only pass!... Oh, if the old people would only _die!_... Oh, that no one might be left to know!... It was enough, it was enough, there had been enough years of self-reproach and silent, inward punishment for people who were so old, so very old.... And he stared, as though he were looking the Thing in the eyes. He stared all the evening long; sitting in his chair, his face twisted with illness and pain, he fell asleep with the light sleep of old people, quick to come and quick to go, and he saw himself again, a child of thirteen, in the night in the _pasangrahan_ and heard his mother's voice: "O my God, O my God, no, no, _not_ in the river!" And he saw those three--but young still--his mother, Takma, Ma-Boeten; and between them his father's lifeless body, in the pelting rain of that fatal night.... CHAPTER XX Ina lay awake all night. Yes, curiosity was her passion, had been since her childhood. If she could only know now, now, now! Her husband would give her no assistance, was afraid of complications which might threaten, if they meddled with matters that did not concern them. She herself was curious to the point of imprudence. She now wanted to talk to Uncle Daan, whom she was sure to meet next day at Grandmamma's.... She went that afternoon to the Nassaulaan. Old Anna opened the door, glad that the old lady was not neglected: "Good-afternoon, ma'am.... Mr. Takma, Dr. Roelofsz and Mrs. Floor are upstairs.... Yes, you can go up presently.... Thank you, the old lady is very well indeed.... Yes, yes, she'll outlive us all yet.... Would you mind waiting a minute, in the morning-room? We're keeping up a nice fire here now, in the cold weather; for, though the mistress never comes downstairs, as you know, there's usually somebody of the family waiting...." Old Anna gave Ina a chair. The servant had turned the morning-room into a comfortable waiting-room. This secured that there was never too much fuss around the old lady, which would not have done at all. The closed stove burnt well. The chairs were arranged in a circle. And the old servant, from politeness, to keep Ina company, stood by her for a moment, talking, till Ina said: "Sit down, Anna." The old servant sat down respectfully on the edge of a chair. That was a habit which visitors had adopted with her, because she was so old. She asked politely after Mrs. Lily's little ones. "The first really fine day, Mrs. van Wely will bring the babies to see their great-great-grandmamma." "Yes, the mistress will love that," said the old servant; but she jumped up at the same time and exclaimed, "Well, I never! There's Miss Stefanie too! Well, they're certainly not neglecting the old lady!" She showed Aunt Stefanie de Laders in to Ina and withdrew to the kitchen. "Mr. Takma, the doctor and Aunt Floor are upstairs," said Ina. "We will wait a little, Aunt.... Tell me, Aunt, do you know why Uncle Daan has really come to Holland?" "Business?" said Stefanie, interrogatively. "I don't think so. I believe there's something the matter." "Something the matter?" said Stefanie, with rising interest. "What sort of thing? Something that's not quite proper?" "I can't tell what it is exactly. As you know, Papa never lets anything out." "Is Uncle Daan ruined?" "I thought he might be, but Papa says positively that there is no question of money. As to _what_ it is ..." "But what could it be?" "There's _something_." They looked into each other's eyes, both of them burning with curiosity. "How do you know it, Ina?" "Papa is very much depressed since he's seen Uncle Daan." "Yes, but _how_ do you know that there's something the matter?" The need to talk overcame Ina's prudence: "Aunt Stefanie," she whispered, "I really couldn't help it ... but yesterday, when I went to fetch Uncle Daan and Papa in Uncle's study, I heard ... in the conservatory ..." Aunt Stefanie, eager to learn, tremulously nodded her restless little bird's-head. "I heard ... Papa and Uncle Daan talking for a moment. Of course I didn't listen; and they stopped speaking when I went in. But still I heard Uncle Daan say to Papa, 'Have you known it all this time?' And then Papa said, 'Yes, sixty years.'" "Sixty years?" said Aunt Stefanie, in suspense. "That's ever since Ottilie was born. Perhaps it had to do with Ottilie. You know, Ina, Aunt Ottilie is ..." "Takma's daughter?" Aunt Stefanie nodded: "People used to talk a lot about it at one time. They've forgotten it now. It all happened so long ago. Mamma did not behave at all properly. Yes, she has been very sinful." "Could that be what they were talking about?" "No, I don't think so. Uncle Daan knew all about it. And Papa would not have said, 'I've known it for sixty years.'" "No," said Ina, lost in conjecture. And her usually weary eyes were bright and clear, in their effort to penetrate the vagueness of the Thing which she saw. "No," said Stefanie, "it can't be that." "What then?" "Something ... about Mamma." "About Grandmamma?" "Yes, it's sure to have been about Grandmamma.... Sixty years ago...." "What a long time!" said Ina. "I was a girl of ... seventeen," said Aunt Stefanie. "Yes, it was a long time ago." "And you were seventeen." "Yes.... That's when Papa Dercksz died." "Grandpapa?" "Yes. He was drowned, you know." "Yes, it dates back to that time." "Yes.... What _can_ it be?" "Do you remember Grandmamma's _baboe_?" "I do. She was called Ma-Boeten." "She's dead." "How do you know?" "I heard it." "In the conservatory?" "Yes, I heard it in the conservatory." "What else did you hear?" "Ma-Boeten's son is a _mantri_ in the Tegal rent-office." "Well...?" "Uncle Daan gives him money." "Money?" "Either to speak ... or to hold his tongue. I believe it's to hold his tongue." "Then can anything have happened?" "Sixty years ago? Auntie, _can't_ you remember?" "But, my dear, I was so young, I didn't notice things. I was a girl of seventeen. Yes, yes, Auntie herself was young once. I was seventeen.... I and the other children had remained in the town: a sister of Grandmamma's was taking charge of us. Papa had gone to the hills for his health. He and Mamma were staying at a _pasangrahan_ and--I remember _this_ now--they had taken Harold with them. Yes, I remember, Harold was not with us. They had taken him: Harold was Papa's favourite.... It was there that Papa was drowned. One night, in the _kali_.[1] He was restless, could not sleep, walked into the jungle, missed his way and slipped into the river. I remember all that." "And Papa was in the _pasangrahan_ with them?" "Yes, your father was with them. He was a little fellow of thirteen then." "And he has _known_, since then?" "Is that what he says?" "Then he must know something ... about the hills, about the _pasangrahan_...." "Ina, what _can_ it be?" "I have no idea, Aunt, but it must be something ... about Grandmamma...." "Yes," said Aunt Stefanie, with sudden caution; "but, whatever it is, dear ... it happened so long ago. If it's anything, it's probably something ... improper. Don't let's rake it up. It is so long ago now, sixty years ago. And Grandmamma is so old...." She stopped; and her beady bird's-eyes stared and blinked. It was as if she suddenly saw something looming, something that was coming nearer; and she did not want to talk any more. She did not even want to know. A shuddering anxiety, mingled with a mist of vaguest memories, swam in front of her blinking eyes. She would enjoin silence upon it. It was not wise to penetrate too deeply into the things of the past. Years passed, things passed: it was best to let them pass quietly, to let sin pass by.... The powers of Hell lurked in sinfulness. Hell lurked in curiosity. Hell lurked as a devil's sabbath in Anton's books and albums. It lurked in her mother's past. It lurked in Ina's devouring curiosity. She, Aunt Stefanie, was afraid of Hell: she wanted to go to Heaven. She no longer wanted to know what might have happened. And she shut her blinking eyes before the mist of remembrance and kept them closed: "No, dear," she repeated, "_don't_ let us rake it up." She would not say any more; and Ina was certain that Aunt knew, that Aunt at any rate remembered something. But she knew Aunt Stefanie: she would not speak now, any more than Papa would. Was she on her guard? Oh, what was it, what could it be? [1] River. CHAPTER XXI But Aunt Floor was just coming, shuffling down the stairs with her flopping bosom, and Uncle Daan was just ringing at the front-door. Old Anna was delighted. She loved that bustle of members of the family on the ground-floor and she received everybody with her pleased old face and her meek, civil remarks, while the fat cat under her petticoats arched its back and tail against her legs. Old Dr. Roelofsz came limping down the stairs behind Aunt Floor, hobbling on his one stiff leg; and his enormous paunch seemed to push Aunt Floor on, as she shuffled carefully, step by step. Aunt Stefanie was glad to get rid of Ina d'Herbourg and said: "Now _I'll_ go upstairs." She pushed past Roelofsz' stiff leg in the passage and forced her way to the stairs between Daan and Aunt Floor; and, in her nervous hurry, afraid of Ina, of sinfulness, of curiosity, afraid of Hell, she almost stumbled over the cat, which slipped just between her feet. "I thought I should find you here, Roelofsz," said Uncle Daan. "If I hadn't, I should have looked you up at once." "Aha, aha, well-well-well, so you're back once more, Dercksz!" said the old doctor. They shook hands; and Daan Dercksz nervously looked at Dr. Roelofsz, as if he wanted to say something. But he wavered and merely remarked, hesitatingly, to Ina: "Aren't you going upstairs, Ina?" "No, Uncle," answered Ina, with apparent politeness, glad to have a word with Dr. Roelofsz. "You go first. Honestly, you go first. I can easily wait a little longer. I'll wait down here." Dr. Roelofsz joined her in the morning-room, rubbing his cold hands, saying that it was warmer here than upstairs, where they only kept up a small fire: old Takma was never cold; he was always blazing hot inside. But Aunt Floor, who also came into the morning-room for a minute, puffed and put off her heavy fur cloak, Ina helping her: "A handsome cloak, Aunt." "Oh, I don't know, child!" said Aunt Floor, disparagingly. "Just an old fur. Had it thr-r-ree year-r-rs. But useful in Gholland: nice and war-r-r-m!" Inwardly proud of the cloak, she bit the last word into Ina's face, rolling her r's as she did so. They all three sat down and Anna thought it so pleasant of them that she brought in some brandy-cherries, three glasses on a tray: "Or would you rather have tea, Mrs. Ina?" "No, Anna, your cherries are delicious." The servant went away, glad, happy at the bustle on the ground-floor, to which the old lady no longer ever descended. That ground-floor was her kingdom, where not even the companion held sway, where she, Anna, alone held sway, receiving the family and offering refreshments. Ina tasted a cherry, was sorry that Aunt Floor had joined them in the morning-room. It was quite possible that the old doctor, a younger contemporary of Grandmamma's, knew something; but it was not certain. For Uncle Daan himself had only known it such a little while, though Papa had known it for sixty years. Sixty years! The length of that past hypnotized her. Sixty years ago, that old ailing doctor--who had given up practice and now merely kept Grandmamma and Mr. Takma going, with the aid of a younger colleague--was a young man of twenty-eight, newly-arrived in Java, one of Grandmamma's many adorers. She saw it before her and tried to see farther into it; her curiosity, like a powerful lens, burnt and revealed a vista in front of her, gleaming with new light, through the opaque denseness of the past. And she began: "Poor Papa is not at all well. I'm afraid he's going to be ill. He is so depressed mentally too. Yes, Aunt, he has been more depressed, mentally, since he saw Uncle Daan again than I have known him for years. What can it be? It can't be money-matters...." "No, my dear, it's not money-matters, though we're still as poor as r-r-rats." "Then what has brought Uncle Daan to Holland?" asked Ina, suddenly and quickly. Aunt Floor looked at her stupidly: "What's brought him?... Upon my word, child, I don't know. Blessed if I know. Uncle always ghoes r-r-regularly to Gholland ... on bissiness, bissiness, always bissiness. What they're scheming together now, your Papa and Uncle Daan, blessed if I know; but we sha'n't get rich on it." And she shook her head almost in Ina's face, reproachfully. "And it's year-r-rs that they've been messing about together." "Poor Papa!" said Ina, sighing. "Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well," exclaimed the doctor, sitting sideways, with his paunch dangling in front of him, "we're getting old, we're getting old ..." "Speak for yourself!" cried Aunt Floor, angrily. "I'm only ssixty." "Only sixty? Aha, aha!" mumbled the doctor. "Only sixty? I thought you were older." "I'm only ssixty, I tell you!" said Aunt Floor, wrathfully. "Yes-yes, then you're the same age ... as ... as Ottilie.... Well-well, well-well!..." "Yes," said Aunt Floor, "I'm just the same age as Ottilie Steyn." "Sixty years ... well-well!" mumbled the doctor. "You were a young man then, doctor," said Ina, with a little laugh. "Yes-yes, child, yes-yes ... a young man!" "There's a good many years between you and Grandmamma, isn't there?" "Yes-yes-yes!" said Dr. Roelofsz, confirming the statement vehemently. "Nine years' difference, nine years.... And with Takma ... five years ... aha, yes, five years ... that's the difference between him and me ..." "It's so nice that you and Grandmamma and Mr. Takma have always kept together," Ina continued, softly. "First in India ... and afterwards always here, at the Hague." "Yes-yes, we just kept together...." "Ssuch old fr-r-riends!" said Aunt Floor, with feeling. But she winked at Ina, to convey that Dr. Roelofsz, in spite of the difference of nine years, had nevertheless been a very intimate friend of Grandmamma's. "Doctor," said Ina, suddenly, "is it true that, sixty years ago...?" She stopped, not knowing what to say. She had begun her sentence like that, craftily, and now broke it off deliberately. The old doctor had a shock: his paunch flung itself from left to right and now hung over his sound leg. "_Wha-at?_" he almost screamed. His eyes rolled in his head as he looked at her. Terror distorted the wrinkled roundness of his enormous old head, with the monk's-face, clean-shaven, and the sunken mouth, which was now open, while slaver flowed between the crumbly teeth over the frightened lips. He clenched and raised his old hands, with the skin hanging in loose, untidy folds, and then dropped them on his knee. He _knew:_ Ina saw that at once. And she acted as though his scream was no more than an exclamation following upon a failure to hear, because of his deafness; she raised her voice politely and quietly and repeated in a little louder tone, articulating her words very clearly: "Is it true that, sixty years ago, Grandmamma--though she was thirty-seven then--was still a gloriously beautiful woman? Yes, those old people took more care of themselves than we do. I'm forty-five, but I'm an old woman...." "Come, come," said Aunt Floor, "an oldd womann!" And the doctor mumbled: "Yes-yes, aha, oh, is that what you were asking, Ina?... Yes, yes, certainly: Grandmamma ... Grandmamma was a splendid, a splendid woman ... even after she was past her first youth...." "And what about Ottilie? She was for-r-rty when Steyn fell in love with her." "Yes," said Ina. "It wasn't ... quite nice of Aunt Ottilie; but it was a wonderful testimony to her youth...." And she stared at the doctor with the hidden glance of her well-bred, wearily-blinking eyes. He sat huddled in his chair, an old, decayed, shapeless mass, a heaped-up ruin of a man and a human being, an old, old monk, but wearing a loose frockcoat and loose waistcoat, which draped his broad body. The terror in his rolling eyes had died away; and his glance drooped to the left, his head to the right. It was as though he were seized with inertia, after his fright, after his excessive emotion at Ina's question, at the ominous number of sixty. He nodded his enormous head sagaciously; and, in the wintry light from outside, the shiny top of his head became covered with bright patches. "Yes-yes-yes, well-well-well!" he mumbled, almost like an idiot. He rose laboriously, now that Daan Dercksz came downstairs, followed by Stefanie, followed by old Mr. Takma, who refused any assistance on the stairs, though Anna made a point of looking on anxiously, driving away the cat, fearing lest it should slip between the old gentleman's feet. "Grandmamma is tired," said Daan Dercksz. "Then I'd better not go up," said Ina. "No, Anna, I think I won't go up. I'll come back some other day soon. Grandmamma has had so many visitors to-day." Nevertheless she lingered a little and then went away, sick with unsatisfied curiosity, which filled her soul with ravenous hunger. Aunt Stefanie also took her leave, saying that Mamma was poorly to-day; and the last to go was old Takma, calculating his steps carefully, but walking straight and erect. Ina felt that he too must know. What was it, what could it be? Those old people knew, every one of them! "Come, let's go home, Dhaan," said Aunt Floor. "Our car-r-riage is waiting." "You go," said Daan Dercksz, hesitating. "I want to talk to Roelofsz first. I'm so glad to see him again...." "Eh, always talking!" said Aunt Floor, displeased when her husband left her side. "Then I'll send back the car-r-riage for you presently...." She said good-bye and shuffled away. "May I see you home, Mr. Takma?" Ina asked. Takma nodded his consent: "Do, child," he said, taking her arm. Though he held himself well and would never have a cab, he always thought it reassuring and pleasant if somebody went back with him, down the Nassaustraat, over the razor-back bridge, to his house on the Mauritskade. He never asked to be accompanied, but was glad to accept when any one offered. Ina, however, reflected that she would not dare to ask old Mr. Takma anything: imagine, suppose he knew and were also to get a shock, in the street! It would be enough to give him a stroke! No, she was too careful for that, but she was sick and famished with the hunger of curiosity in her soul. What could it be? And how _should_ she ever know? Daan Dercksz remained behind with the old doctor. His parrot-profile shook and his beady bird's-eyes--Aunt Stefanie's eyes--kept blinking as though with excitement, while all his lean figure seemed to shrivel still smaller beside the colossal bulk of the doctor, who towered before him with the figure of a deformed Templar, resting on one leg which was sound and one which was short and limping. "Well, Roelofsz," said Daan Dercksz, "I _am_ glad to see you again." "Yes-yes, aha, it's quite five years since you were in Holland last.... Well-well, that's a long time.... We're growing old, we're growing old.... You didn't expect to find your mother so fit.... Yes-yes, I'll make her see a hundred yet! You wait and see, you wait and see.... Perhaps she'll survive us all, Takma and me, yes-yes...." "Yes," said Daan Dercksz, "Mamma is very little altered." "She has a splendid constitution, yes-yes, always has had. Her mind's quite clear; her memory is good; well-well, yes-yes, that's a blessing, at her age...." "And Takma also ..." "Keeps well, keeps well, yes-yes.... Well-well, we're all growing old ... I too, yes-yes, I too...." But Daan Dercksz was greatly agitated. He had promised his brother Harold to be very careful and not to talk, but, during the two months that he had known, the secret and the horror of it burnt into his soul, the soul of a business-man who, old as he was, for the first time underwent a great emotion outside his business. And he could not hold himself in check. The house was silent. Anna had gone back to her kitchen; the old lady was sitting upstairs, alone with the companion. A small gas-jet was burning in the morning-room; another in the passage. Afternoon darkness and silence hovered in the atmosphere of the little house in which the old lady had lived so long, had so long sat waiting at her window upstairs, in her high chair. "Roelofsz," said Daan Dercksz. He was a head shorter than the doctor; he took hold of a button of the doctor's waistcoat. "Yes-yes," said Roelofsz. "What is it, Dercksz?" "Roelofsz ... I've heard about it." "_What?_" shouted the doctor, deaf. "I've heard everything ... in India." "_What?_" shouted the doctor, no longer deaf, but dismayed. "I've heard _everything_, heard it all ... in India." The doctor looked at him with rolling eyes; and his pendulous lips slavered in his clean-shaven monk's-face, while his breath panted, reeking between the crumbly teeth. And he, in his turn, caught hold of one of Daan Dercksz' buttons: "_What_ have you heard?" "I've heard _everything_," Daan Dercksz repeated. "Heard it all ... in India. I know ... I know everything." "You know ... everything? Oh? Oh? You know everything?... What ... what _do_ you know?" "About ... about Mamma.... About Takma.... About ..." They stood staring into each other's startled eyes. "About my father," said Daan Dercksz; and his frightened voice sank to a hesitating whisper. "About my father. What you know too. What you have always known. That Takma, that night, when he was with my mother, snatched my father's own weapon from him: a kris which the Regent had given him the day before...." "You know?" cried the doctor. "You know? Oh, my God! Do you know that? I ... I have never said a _word_. I am eightee-eight years of age ... but I've ... I've never said a _word_." "No, you never said anything ... but Mamma's _baboe_ ..." "Ma-Boeten?" "Yes, Ma-Boeten told her son, a _mantri_ at Tegal. Ma-Boeten is dead and the _mantri_ has started blackmailing me. He's been to me for money. I've given him money. I shall give him money every month." "So you know.... Yes-yes, O my God, yes-yes!... So you know, Dercksz, you _know?_" "Yes, I know." "What did the _mantri_ say? What had Ma-Boeten told him? "That my father tried to kill Takma, with a kris.... That Takma snatched the kris from him, while ..." "While what?... Yes-yes, while what?" "While Mamma ... while my mother ..." "Yes-yes?" "Flung her arms round my father, to prevent him ..." "O my God, yes, yes!" "To prevent him from defending himself ... and that Ma-Boeten, behind the door, heard her say ..." "Yes-yes ... yes-yes ... O my God!" "Heard her say, 'I _hate_ you, I _hate_ you: I've always hated you ...'" "Yes-yes ... O my God!" "'I've always hated you and ... and I love Emile!'" "Yes-yes ... and then?" "And then she called out to Takma, almost aloud, 'Emile, give him a stab: rather he than you!'" "O ... my ... God!" The doctor sank, in a heavy mass, upon a chair: "So you _know!_" he moaned. "It's sixty years ago, yes-yes, O my God, yes-yes! I've never spoken about it, _never!_ I was so fond of your mother. I ... I ... I held an inquest on the body next day!" "Yes, they let it drift down stream ... in the _kali_ ..." "I held an inquest on the body next day ... and I ... I _understood_.... I had understood it before, for I had seen your mother that morning and she was raving in her delirium ... and I ... I promised ... yes-yes, I promised that I wouldn't tell ... O my God, O my God ... if she ... if she would consent to love me! O my God, O my God, Dercksz, Dercksz, Daan, I have never ... I have never said a word!... And God knows what people, sixty years ago, yes-yes, sixty years ago, didn't think ... and say ... and gossip and gossip ... without knowing the truth ... until it was all forgotten ... until it was too late to hold a fresh inquest, after all those months.... I never, never said a _word_.... O my God, no-no, no-no!..." "When I knew, Roelofsz, I _couldn't_ stay in India. I felt that I must see Harold, see you, see Mamma, see Takma...." "_Why?_" "I don't know, I had to see you all. Oh, how they must have suffered. I am sorry for her, for Takma. I had to see you, to talk to you about it. I knew that you ..." "Did the _mantri_ know ... about _me?_" "Through Ma-Boeten." "Yes, she knew everything, the hag!" "She held her tongue for years. I did not even know that she was alive. And then she told her son. She thought Mamma was dead. The son knew some of the servants at our house. He got to know that Mamma was still alive...." "O my God, O my God, yes-yes!" "I give him so much a month." "Until Mamma dies?" "Yes ... until she dies!" "O my God, O my God, yes-yes!" "But Roelofsz, what you did _not_ know ..." "What.... What?... _What_ didn't I know?" "What you did not know is that Harold ..." "Harold? Your brother?" "_Knew!..._" "Harold _knew?_" "Yes!... Yes!..." "He knew? How did Harold know? O my God, O my God! _How_ did Harold know?" "Harold knew ... because he saw!" "He saw? Harold saw?" "He was with them there, in the hills; he was in the _pasangrahan_." "Harold?" "He was a boy of thirteen. He woke up! He saw Mamma, Takma and Ma-Boeten. He saw them carrying his father's body. He stepped in his father's blood, Roelofsz! He was thirteen years old! He was thirteen years old! He has never forgotten what he saw! And he has known it _always_, all his life, all his life long!" "O my God, O my God!... Oh, dear!... Is it true? Is it really _true?_" "It's true! He told me himself." "And he too ... did he never tell?" "No, he never told!" "He's a good fellow, yes-yes, one of the best of fellows. He does not want to bring disgrace ... oh, dear ... on his old mother's head!... Daan, Daan ... O my God!... Daan, don't you ever tell: don't _ever_ tell!" "No, I sha'n't tell. I have spoken to you and to Harold, because I discuss everything with him: business matters and ... and everything. He's often helped me.... He helped me in India, in a nasty affair which I had out there ... in my time ... yes ... O Lord ... in my time! I've always discussed _everything_ with Harold. I spoke to you because I knew that you knew...." "Well-well-well, yes-yes-yes.... But Daan, Dercksz, don't speak to any one else!" "No, no, I sha'n't speak to any one else." "Not to Stefanie, not to Anton, not to Ottilie ..." "_Their_ child!..." "Yes-yes, her child and his. Hush-hush, Daan, these are such _old_ things, they're all past!" "If only they were! But they are not past ... as long as Mamma ... and Takma ... are still alive!" "Yes-yes, yes-yes, you're right: as long as they're alive, those things are not past.... But, oh, they are so old, he and she! It won't last much longer. They're passing, they're passing, those things ... slowly, but they're passing.... Yes-yes, it's so very long ago.... And people no longer trouble about any of us.... In the old days, yes, in the old days they, people, used to talk ... about Mamma and Takma and the children, about Anton, about _you_ ... and that scandal in India ... about Ottilie: they talked a great deal about Ottilie.... That's all past now ... it's passing.... We are old ... yes-yes ... we are old...." He sank back in his chair; his shapeless bulk collapsed over his slanting paunch, as if it would fall to the floor. At that moment there came from upstairs a shrill scream, suppressed but penetrating, as though it issued from an old throat that was being strangled; and almost at the same time the door upstairs was flung back and the companion called: "Anna ... Anna, come quick!" Daan Dercksz was an old man, but a shiver ran down his back like ice-cold water. The doctor started, tottering on his legs, and at last drew up his shapeless bulk and cried: "What is it? What _is_ it?" And the two men hurried up the stairs as fast as they could, with Anna behind them. There were two lamps alight in the drawing-room; and the old lady was sitting straight up in her chair. Her eyes, enormously dilated, stared from her head in tense dismay; her mouth remained open, after the scream which she had uttered, and formed a dark cavity; and she held one arm uplifted, pointing with an outstretched finger to the corner of the room, near the china-cabinet. Thus she sat, as though petrified and rigid: rigid the staring expression and the open mouth, rigid all the old face, in extreme terror, petrified the gesture of the stiffly-held arm, as though she could never lower it again. And the companion and Anna, who now went up to her together excitedly, asked: "Mevrouw, mevrouw, what's the matter? Aren't you well? Aren't you well?" "_The-ere!_" stammered the old woman. "_There!... There!_" And she stared and kept on pointing. The two men had appeared in the doorway and instinctively they all turned their eyes to the corner, near the china-cabinet. There was nothing to be seen save by the eyes of the old lady, nothing save what she saw there--and she alone saw it--rising before her, nothing save what she saw rising in a paroxysm of the remorse that had overwhelmed her for years and years ... until suddenly she _saw_ again, saw for ten or twenty seconds, in which she became petrified and rigid, while the old blood froze in her veins. She now received a shock; her hand fell in her lap; she herself dropped back against the straight pillow of her high-backed chair and her eyes closed. "The mistress has been taken like this before," said old Anna, in a whisper. They all, all except Daan Dercksz, knew that she had been taken like that before. They crowded round her. She had not fainted. Soon she opened her eyes, knew the doctor, knew the two women, but did not know her son Daan. She glared at him and then gave a sudden shiver, as if she had been struck by a resemblance. "Mother! Mother!" cried Daan Dercksz. She still stared, but she now realized that he was not a materialization of what she had just seen, realized that he was a son who resembled his father, the man whom she had first loved and then hated. Her fixed look died away; but the wrinkles in her face, in the later paroxysm of shuddering, remained motionless in their deep grooves, as though etched and bitten in. Anna stroked her hand and wrist with the soft, regular movement of a light massage, to restore her consciousness entirely ... until the old blood melted and flowed again. "To bed," murmured the old lady. "To bed...." The two men went away, leaving her to the care of the women. At the bottom of the stairs, the dimly-lighted ground-floor shivered, full of shadow silent as the grave. Daan Dercksz took Roelofsz' arm, while the doctor hobbled laboriously down the stairs, from the bad leg on to the sound leg. "What was it she saw?" asked Daan Dercksz. "Ssh!" said the old doctor. "Yes-yes ... yes-yes...." "What did she see?" "She saw ... _Dercksz;_ she saw ... _your father!_..." In the kitchen the cat sat mewing with fright. CHAPTER XXII Aunt Adèle Takma, with her key-basket on her arm, came fussing quietly from the dining-room into the passage, for she had seen the postman and was hoping for a letter from Elly. Lot and Elly were at Florence, both of them working busily at the Laurentiana and the Archives, where Lot was collecting materials for an historical work on the Medicis. They had been as far as Naples and, on the homeward journey, tired of so much sightseeing--Italy was quite new to Elly--they had stopped at Florence, settled down in a _pension_ and were now working together. Elly seemed happy and wrote enthusiastic letters. Aunt Adèle looked in the letter-box. Yes, there was a letter from Elly, a letter for Grandpapa. Aunt Adèle always read the letters out to Grandpapa: that was so nice; and after all the letter was for her too. Yes, the children were sure to be away three months longer--it was the beginning of January now--and then the plan was that they would quietly take up their quarters with Steyn and Mamma, for a little while, to see if it answered; and, if it did not answer, they would quietly turn out again and go their own way: they were still keen on travelling and were not yet anxious for a settled home. Ottilie was in London, where she had her two boys, John and Hugh Trevelley: Mary was in India and married. Mamma had been quite unable to stand it by herself; and there was certainly no harm in her going to look up her two sons ... if only those two sons had not been such sharks. They were always wanting money: Aunt Adèle knew that from Elly and Lot. Aunt Adèle finished what she had to do downstairs, spoke to the cook, locked the store-cupboard, smoothed a tablecloth here, put a chair straight there, so that she need not come down again and might have time to read Elly's letter to the old gentleman at her ease. He always liked hearing Elly's letters, because she wrote in a clever and sprightly style; they always gave him a pleasant morning; and he often read them over and over again after Aunt Adèle had read them out to him. Aunt Adèle now went upstairs, glad at having the letter, and knocked at the door of the old gentleman's study. He did not answer and, thinking that he had gone to his bedroom, she moved on there. The door was open and she walked in. The door between the bedroom and the study was open and she walked in. The old man was sitting in his usual chair, in front of the writing-table. He was asleep. He sat limply in his chair; and it struck her how very small he looked, as though he had shrunk in his sleep. His eyes appeared to be closed and his hand lay on an open drawer of his desk. A waste-paper-basket stood beside him; other papers and letters lay scattered over the table. "He's asleep," she said to herself. And, so as not to wake him, she stole away on tiptoe through the open door. She did not wish to disturb his rest, if he did not wake of himself through the mere fact of her entering. He was so old, so very old.... She was sorry at having to wait before reading Elly's letter. She had nothing more to do, her housekeeping-duties were finished; the two servants were quietly doing their work. And Aunt Adèle sat down by the window in the dining-room, with her key-basket beside her, glad that everything was nicely tidied, and read the morning paper, which had just come: she would take it up to him presently. It was snowing outside. A still white peace slumbered through the room and through the house. The voice of one of the maids sounded for a moment and died away towards the kitchen. Aunt Adèle quietly read the four pages of the newspaper. Then she got up, took her basket, the letter and the paper and went upstairs once more. She knocked at the door of the study. But the old man did not reply. She now opened the door. He was still sitting in his chair, in the same attitude of sleep as just now. But he looked even more shrivelled--oh, so very small!--in his short jacket. Aunt started and came nearer to him. She saw that his eyes were not closed but staring glassily into distant space.... Aunt Adèle turned pale and trembled. When she was close to the old gentleman, she saw that he was dead. He was dead. Death had overtaken him and a slight touch had sufficed to make his blood stand still for good in his worn veins. He was dead and, as it would seem, had died without a struggle, merely because death had come and laid a chill finger on his heart and head. Aunt Adèle trembled and burst into sobs. She rang the bell and called out in fright for the maids, who came running up at once, the two of them. "The old gentleman is dead!" cried Aunt Adèle, sobbing. The two servants also began to cry; they were three women all alone. "What shall we do, miss?" "Keetje,"[1] said Aunt Adèle, "go straight to Dr. Thielens and then on to Mr. Steyn de Weert. I don't know of any one else. Your master had no relations. But Mr. Steyn de Weert is sure to help us. Take a cab and go at once. Bring Mr. Steyn straight back with you. Mrs. Steyn is in London. Go, Keetje, go, quick!" The maid went, crying. "He's dead," said Aunt Adèle. "The doctor can do nothing for him, but he must give a certificate. Door,[2] you and I will lay the master on his bed and undress him gently...." They lifted the old man out of the chair, Aunt Adèle taking his head, Door his feet: he weighed nothing in the women's hands. He was so light, he was so light! They laid him on the bed and began to undress him. The jacket, when they hung it over a chair, bulged out behind, retained the shape of the old man's back. Keetje had found Steyn de Weert at home; and he came back with her in the cab: they left word at Dr. Thielens' house; the doctor was out. Aunt Adèle met Steyn in the hall. A still, white peace dozed through the big house downstairs; outside, the snow fell thicker than ever. "I knew of no one but you, Steyn!" cried Aunt Adèle, sobbing. "And I also sent for you because I knew--the old gentleman told me so--that you're his executor. Yes, he's dead. He went out like a candle.... This morning, I brought him his breakfast, as usual. Then he went and sat at his table, looking through some papers. I got a letter from Elly and came upstairs and found him ... asleep, as I thought. I went away, so as not to wake him. But, when I came back, he was still sitting like that. He was dead. He is dead, Steyn.... He was close upon ninety-four." Steyn remained with Aunt Adèle until the doctor had been and signed the death-certificate; Steyn would see to everything that had to be done. He telegraphed to London to his wife: Aunt Adèle asked him to do this; he telegraphed to Florence to Lot and Elly: they certainly could not get back to the Hague in time for the funeral. And he went on at once to his brother-in-law Harold Dercksz, whom he found at home after lunch: "Harold," he asked, "what are we to do about Mamma? We can't tell her, can we?" Harold Dercksz had sunk back into his chair. It was one of his bad days, he was moaning with anguish and, though he did not complain, his face was wrung painfully and his breath came in dull jerks. "Is ... is the old man ... dead?" he asked. He said nothing more, sat moaning. "Do you feel so rotten?" asked Steyn. Harold Dercksz nodded. "Shall I send for Dr. Thielens to come and see you?" Harold Dercksz shook his head: "There's nothing he can do. Thank you, Frans. I know what to do for it: the great thing is to pay no attention to it...." He was silent again, sat staring in front of him, holding his hand before his eyes because the light outside, reflected by the snow, hurt his face. And he went on breathing with dull, irregular jerks.... The old man was dead.... The old man was dead.... At last.... The Thing, the terrible Thing was passing, was not yet past, was trailing, rustling, staring at him with its fixed, spectral eyes, which he had known ever since his childhood; but it was passing, passing.... Oh, how he had looked and looked for the old man's death! He had hated him, the murderer of his father, who had been dear to him when a child; but, first as a child, afterwards as a young man, he had been silent, for his mother's sake, had been silent for sixty years. Only now, quite lately, he had spoken to Daan, because Daan had come from India in dismay, knowing everything, knowing everything at this late date, after the death of the _baboe_, who had spoken to her son, the _mantri_.... He had hated him, in his secret self, hated his father's murderer. Then his hatred had cooled, he had come to understand the passion and the self-defence of the crime; then he had felt pity for the old man, who had to carry the burden of his remorse for all those years; then his pity had grown into compassion, deep, quivering compassion for both of them, for Takma and for his mother.... "Give him a stab; rather he than you!" Oh, that passion, oh, the hatred, of years ago, in the woman that she had then been, a still young and always attractive woman, she who was now dragging out the last years of her life: did she remember? Did she remember, as she sat in her straight-backed chair, in that red twilight of the window-curtains?... He, Harold Dercksz, had longed for the death of Takma, longed for the death of his mother ... so that for both of them, the old people, the thing, the terrible Thing might have passed entirely and plunged into the depths of what had been.... He had longed; and now ... now the old man was dead! Harold Dercksz breathed again: "No, Frans," he said, in his soft, dull voice, "we cannot tell Mother.... Remember how very old she is...." "So I thought. We must keep the old man's death from her at any rate.... It won't be possible to keep it from Dr. Roelofsz ... but it will be a blow to him." "Yes," said Harold Dercksz. "You've telegraphed to Ottilie?" "Adèle said I was to." "Yes," said Harold Dercksz. "She's ... she's his daughter." "Did she know it? We never spoke of it." "I never spoke of it to Mamma either. I believe Ottilie suspected it. You're the executor...." "So Adèle said." "Yes," said Harold Dercksz. "He'll have left most of his money ... to Elly ... and to Ottilie. When's the funeral?" "Monday." "Lot and Elly won't be here." "No. It won't be possible to wait for them." "Will the funeral procession go through the Nassaulaan?" "It's on the way to the cemetery." "You had better let it go round ... not past Mamma's house. She's always sitting at the window." "I'll arrange that." "How soon can Ottilie be here?" "She can take the night-boat this evening." "Yes, she's sure to do that. She suspects ... she suspects it all; she was very fond of the old man and he of her." "I must go, Harold. Would you mind telling Dr. Roelofsz?" "I'll do that certainly. If I can be of any further use ..." "No, thank you." "Let us meet at Mother's this afternoon. We must warn the family as far as possible not to drop the least hint before Mamma; we must keep it from her. The shock would kill her...." And Harold thought to himself that, if only she were dead, then the Thing would be past; but they had no right to murder her. When Steyn opened the door, he ran against Ina in the passage. She had been at the window and seen him come; and, curious to know what he wanted to talk about with her father, she had crept upstairs and listened casually. "Good-morning, Steyn," she said: she did not call him uncle because of the very slight difference between their ages. "Has anything happened?" She knew before she asked. "Old Mr. Takma is dead." "Ina," said her father, "be sure not to say a word to Grandmamma. We want to keep it from her. It is such a blow for the old lady that it might be the death of her...." "Yes," said Ina, "we won't say anything to Grandmamma. Mr. Takma was well off, wasn't he? I suppose Elly will get everything?..." "I don't know," said Steyn. "Probably." "Lot and Elly have become rich all of a sudden." "Remember, Ina, won't you?" said her father. He shook hands with Steyn and went straight off to Roelofsz'. "Did he die during the night?" asked Ina. Steyn gave the details. He let out that he had telegraphed to Lot and to his wife, Aunt Ottilie. "Why Aunt Ottilie?" "Because ..." said Steyn, hesitating, regretting his slip of the tongue. "It's better she should be there." Ina understood. Aunt Ottilie was old Takma's daughter: she was sure to get a legacy too. "How much do you think the old man will leave?... Haven't you any idea? Oh, not that it interests me to know: other people's money-matters are _le moindre de mes soucis!..._ Don't you think Papa very depressed, Steyn? He has been so depressed since he saw Uncle Daan again.... Steyn, don't _you_ know why Uncle Daan has come to Holland?" She was still yearning with curiosity and remained ever unsatisfied. She went about with her gnawing hunger for days and weeks on end; she did not know to whom to turn. The craving to know was constantly with her. It had spoilt her sleep lately. She had tried to start the subject once more with Aunt Stefanie, to get behind it at all costs; but Aunt Stefanie had told her firmly that she--whatever it might be--_refused_ to know, because she did not want to have anything to do with old sins and things that were not proper; even though they had to do with her mother, they did not concern _her_. It was Hell lying in wait for them; and, after Aunt Stefanie's penitential homily, Ina knew that she would get nothing out of her aunt, not even the hazy recollection that might have loomed for a moment before her aunt's eyes. What was it, what could it be that Papa had known for sixty years, that Uncle Daan had learnt quite lately and that had brought him to Holland? Oh, to whom, to whom was she to turn? No, Steyn knew nothing and was surprised at her question, thinking that Daan must have had business to discuss with Harold, as usual. And he went away, hurried off to Stefanie, to Anton, to Daan and Floor, to the Van Welys; and he impressed upon all of them that the old man's death must be kept from Mamma. They all promised, feeling one and the same need, as children, to keep from their mother the death of the man to whom she had remained so long attached, whom she had seen sitting opposite her, almost every day, on a chair by the window. And Steyn arranged with all of them merely to say that Mr. Takma was unwell and not allowed out ... and to keep it up, however difficult it might be in the long run. Then Steyn went to Aunt Adèle; and she asked: "Couldn't we tidy up those papers in the old gentleman's study, Steyn? It's such a litter. They're all lying just as he left them." "I'd rather wait till Lot and Elly are back," said Steyn. "All you have to do is to lock the door of the room. There's no need to seal anything up. I've spoken to the solicitor." He went away; and Aunt Adèle was left alone in the house of death, behind the closed shutters. The old lady, over in the Nassaulaan, so close by, never saw any one except her children and grandchildren: she would not be told. Monday was the funeral. Lot and Elly could not be expected home before Wednesday. It was hard on them, poor children, to be disturbed like that in Italy, in the midst of their work. But still Elly was--to the outside world--the old man's only relation; and she was his heiress.... Aunt Adèle was not grasping. The old man was sure to have left her a handsome legacy: she felt certain of that. What would upset her was to have to leave the big house: she had lived there so long, had looked after it so very long for the old gentleman. She was fond of it, was fond of every piece of furniture in it.... Or would Elly keep the house on? She thought not: Elly considered it gloomy; and it would be too big, thought Aunt Adèle, for Elly was no doubt sharing the money with Ottilie Steyn.... Of course, people would talk, though perhaps not so very much; the old gentleman had, so to speak, become dead to the outside world, with the exception of the Dercksz family; and, except Dr. Roelofsz, all his contemporaries were dead. The only survivors of his period were the old lady and the doctor.... Yes, she, Aunt Adèle, would certainly have to leave the house; and the thought brought tears to her eyes. How beautifully it was kept, for such an old place! What she regretted was that Steyn had not consented to tidy up the papers in the study. He had locked the door and given her the key. That was the only room, in all the tidy house, with litter and dust in it. Next to the study, in his bedroom, lay the old gentleman: he was to be put into his coffin that evening; Steyn and Dr. Thielens would be there then. The whole house was quiet and tidy around the dead man, except for the dust and litter in the study. The thought irritated Aunt Adèle. And, that afternoon, she took the key and went in. The room had remained as it was when they lifted the old gentleman out of his chair--so light, oh, so light!--and laid him on his bed and undressed him.... Aunt Adèle opened the windows: the cold wintry air entered and she drew her woollen cape closer over her shoulders. She stood at a loss for a moment, with her duster in her hand, not knowing where to begin. One of the drawers of the writing-table had been left open; there were papers on the table; a waste-paper-basket stood close by; papers lay on the ground. No, she couldn't leave things like that; instead of a crime, it was a kindness to the old man who lay waiting in the next room, lifeless, to put a little order into it all. She collected what she found on the table and tucked it into a letter-wallet. She dusted the desk, arranged everything neatly, pushed the open drawer to and locked it. She picked up what lay on the floor; and she gave a start, for she saw that it was a letter torn across the middle, a letter torn in two. The old gentleman had been tearing up letters: she could see that from the paper-basket, in which the little, torn pieces made white patches. This letter had evidently dropped from his hand at the last moment of all, when death came and tapped him on the heart and head. He had not had the strength to tear up into smaller pieces the letter already torn in two; the two halves had slipped from his fingers and he himself had slid out of life. It touched Aunt Adèle very much; tears came to her eyes. She remained staring irresolutely, with the two pieces in her hand. Should she tear them up? Should she put them away, in the wallet, for Steyn? Better tear them up: the old gentleman had intended to tear them up. And she tore the two pieces in four.... At that moment, an irresistible impulse forced her to glance at the uppermost piece. It was hardly curiosity, for she did not even think that she was holding in her hand anything more than a very innocent letter--the old gentleman kept so many--a letter, among a hundred others, which he had gradually come to the conclusion that he would do well to destroy. It was hardly curiosity: it was a pressure from without, an impulse from outside herself, a force compelling her against her honest conviction. She did not resist it: she read; and, as she read, the idea rose clearly within her to finish tearing up the letter and drop the pieces in the basket. Yet she did not do so: she read on. She turned pale. She was a simple-minded, placid woman, who had reached years of maturity calmly, with healthy, unstirred blood, foreign to all violent passion. Reading had left her soul untouched; and burning sentences, she thought, were invented by the authors for the sake of fine writing. The fact that words could be written down such as she now read, on paper yellow with age, in ink pale-red with age, struck her with consternation, as though a red flame had burst forth from smouldering ashes which she was raking. She never knew that such a thing could be. She did not know that those violent glowing words could be uttered just like that. They hypnotized her. She had sunk into the old man's chair and she read, unable to do anything but read. She read of burning things, of passion which she had never suspected, of a melting together of body and soul, a fusion of souls, a fusion of bodies, only to forget, at all costs to forget. She read, in a frenzy of words, of a purple madness exciting itself in order to plunge and annihilate two people in each other's soul and, with undiscovered kisses, to burn away and melt away in oblivion, in oblivion.... To melt into each other and never to be apart again.... To be together for ever.... To be inseparable for ever in unquenchable passion.... To remain so and to forget.... Especially to forget, O God, to forget ... that one night, that night!... And through the first passionate purple words there now began to flow the purple of blood.... Through the words of passionate love there now flowed words of passionate hatred.... The frenzied joy that this hatred had cooled after all.... The jubilant assurance that, if that night could ever recur, the hatred would cool a second time! The mad words deceived themselves, for, immediately after, they again writhed in despair and declared that nevertheless, in spite of satisfied passion, the memory was as a spectre, a bloody spectre, that never left you.... Oh, the hatred would always cool like that, for a third time, for a fourth time ... but yet the bloody spectre remained horrible!... It was maddening.... It was maddening.... And the letter ended with an entreaty that he would come, come speedily, to blend with her in soul and body and, in the rapture of it, to forget and no longer to behold the spectre. At the bottom of the letter were the words, "Tear this up at once," and the name: "OTTILIE." Aunt Adèle remained sitting motionless, with the four pieces in her hand. She had read the letter: it was irrevocable. She wished that she had not read it. But it was too late now. And she knew.... The letter was dated from Tegal, sixty years ago. Flames no longer flickered out of the words, now that Aunt Adèle had read them, but the scarlet quivered before her terrified eyes. She sat huddled and trembling and her eyes stared at that quivering scarlet. She felt her knees shake; they would not let her rise from her chair. And she _knew_. Through a welter of hatred, passion, jubilation, madness, passionate love and passionate remorse, the letter was clear and conjured up--as in an unconscious impulse to tell everything, to feel everything over again, to describe everything in crimson clearness--a night of years and years ago, a night in silent mountains, by a dark jungle, by a river in flood, a night in a lonely _pasangrahan_, a night of love, a night of hatred, of surprise, of self-defence, of not knowing how, of rising terror, of despair to the pitch of madness.... And the words conjured up a scene of struggle and bloodshed in a bedroom, conjured up a group of three people who carried a corpse towards that river in flood, not knowing what else to do, while the pouring rain streamed and clattered down.... All this the words conjured up, as though suggested by a force from the outside, an impulse irresistible, a mystic violence compelling the writer to say what, logically speaking, she should have kept hidden all her life long; to describe in black on white the thing that was a crime, until her letter became an accusation; to scream it all out and to paint in bright colours the thing which it would have been safest to keep buried in a remorseful soul and to erase, so that not a trace remained to betray it.... And the simple, placid woman, grown to mature years in calmness of blood, sat dismayed at what had been revealed to her. At first, her dismay had shone red in front of her, dismay at an evocation of hatred and passionate love; and now, suddenly, there rose before her eyes the drawing-room of an old woman and the woman herself sitting at a window, brittle with the lasting years, and, opposite her, Takma, both silently awaiting the passing. The old woman sat there still; yonder, in the next room, lay the old man and he too awaited the morrow and the last honours: for to-day everything was past.... O God, so _that_ was the secret of their two old lives! So vehemently had they loved, so violently hated, so tragic and ever-secret a crime had they committed in that lonely mountain night and such blood-red memories had they dragged with them, always and always, all their long, long lives! And now, suddenly, she alone knew what nobody knew!... She alone knew, she thought; and she shuddered with dread. What was she to do with that knowledge, what was she to do with those four pieces of yellow paper, covered with pale-red ink as though with faded letters of blood?... What was she to do, what was she to do with it all?... Her fingers refused to tear those four pieces into smaller pieces and to drop them into the paper-basket. It would make her seem an accomplice. And what was she to do with her knowledge, with what she alone knew?... That tragic knowledge would oppress her, the simple-minded woman, to stifling-point!... Now at last she rose, shivering. It was very cold in the aired room. She went to the window to close it and felt her feet tottering, her knees knocking together. Her eyes staring in dismay, she shook her head to and fro, to and fro. Mechanically, with her duster in her hand, she dusted here and there, absent-mindedly, constantly returning to the same place, dusting two and three times over. Mechanically she put the chairs straight; and her habit of neatness was such that, when she left the room, she was still trembling, but the room was tidy. She had locked up the torn letter. She could not destroy it. And suddenly she was seized with a fresh curiosity, a fresh impulse from without, a strange feeling that compelled her: she wanted to see the old man.... And she entered the death-chamber on the tips of her slippered toes. In the pale dim light, the old man's head lay white on the white pillow, on the bed with its white counterpane. The eyelids were closed; the face had fallen away on either side of the nose and mouth in loose wrinkles of discoloured parchment; there were a few scanty grey hairs near the ears, like a dull silver wreath. And Aunt Adèle looked down upon him, with eyes starting from their sockets, and shook her head to and fro in dismay. There he lay, dead. She had known him and looked after him for years. She had never suspected _that_. There he lay, dead; and in his dead relics lay all the past passionate love and hatred; surely too the past remorse and remembrance. Or was there a hereafter yet to come, with more struggling and more remorse and penitence ... and punishment perhaps?... Whatever he might have suffered within himself, he had not been fully punished here on earth. His life, outwardly, had flowed long and calmly. He had achieved consideration, almost riches. He had not had an ailing old age. On the contrary, his senses had remained unimpaired; and she remembered that he even used often to complain, laughing in his genial manner--which was too pronounced to be sincere--that he heard everything and was far from growing deaf with age, that in fact he heard voices which did not exist. What voices had he heard, what voice had he heard calling? What voice had called to him when the letter, half-destroyed and too long preserved, dropped from the hand that played him false?... No, in this world he had not been fully punished, unless indeed his whole life was a punishment.... A cold shiver passed through Aunt Adèle: that a person could live for years beside another and not know him and know nothing about him! How long was it? For twenty-three years, she, the poor relation, had lived with him like that!... And the old woman also lived like that.... Shaking her head in stupefaction, Aunt Adèle moved away. She clasped her hands together, gently, with an old maid's gesture. She saw the old woman in her imagination. The old woman was sitting, dignified and majestic, frail and thin, in her high-backed chair. She had once been the woman who was able to write that letter full of words red with passion and hatred and madness and the wish to forget, in a fusion of the senses with him, with him who lay there so insignificant, so small, so old, dead now, after years and years. She had once been able to write like that!... The words still burnt before the eyes of the stupefied elderly woman, placid in soul and blood. That such things were, that such things could be!... Her head kept shaking to and fro.... [1] Kate, Kittie. [2] Dora. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning, Ottilie Steyn de Weert arrived at the Hook of Holland. She was accompanied by a young fellow of nearly thirty, a good-looking, well-set-up young Englishman, clean-shaven, pink and white under his travelling-cap, broad-shouldered in his check jacket and knickerbockers. They took the train to the Hague. Ottilie Steyn was under the influence of emotion. She could be silent when she wished and so she had never spoken about it; but she suspected, she knew almost for certain that Takma was her father and she had loved him as a father. "He was always so good to me," she said, in English, to Hugh Trevelley, her son. "I shall miss him badly." "He was your father," said Hugh, coolly. "Not at all," Ottilie protested. "You know nothing about it, Hugh. People are always talking." "He gave you the money to come to England." Mamma Ottilie did not know why, but she was sometimes more sincere with Hugh than she was with Lot at home. She loved both these two sons, but she loved Lot because he was kind to her and she was really fonder of Hugh because he was so good-looking and broad-shouldered and because he reminded her of Trevelley, whom she had really loved the best. She had never told Lot that the old gentleman was very generous to her, but she had sometimes said so to Hugh. She was glad to be travelling with Hugh, to be sitting next to him; and yet she was not pleased that Hugh had come with her. He never came to the Hague; and it only meant complications with Steyn, she thought, especially now. "Hugh," she said, caressingly, taking his hand and holding it between hers, "Hugh, Mummy is so glad to be with you, my boy. I see you so seldom. I'm very glad.... But perhaps you would have done better not to come." "I daresay," said Hugh, coolly, withdrawing his hand. "Because of Steyn, you know." "I won't see the fellow. I sha'n't set foot in your house. I'll go to an hotel. Do you think I want to see that scoundrel? That cad ... for whom you left my father? Not I! But I've come to look after my interests. I sha'n't make any trouble. But I want to know. You're coming into money from that old man. He's your father, I know he is. You're sure to come into money. All I want is to know how things stand: whether he leaves you any money and how much. As soon as I know that, I shall go back. For the rest, I sha'n't trouble any one, not even you." Ottilie sat looking in front of her, like a child that has been rebuked. They were alone in the compartment; and she said, coaxingly: "Boy, dear boy, don't talk like that to your mother. I'm so glad to have you with me. I'm so very, very fond of you. You're so like your father and I loved your father, oh, more than Steyn, ever so much more than Steyn! Steyn has wrecked my life. I ought to have stayed with your father and all of you, with you and John and Mary. Don't speak so harshly, my boy. It hurts me so. Do be nice again to your mother. She has nothing, nothing left in her life: Lot is married; the old man is dead. She has nothing left. No one will ever be nice to her again, if you aren't. And in the old days ... in the old days everybody used to be so very nice to her; yes, in the old days ..." She began to cry. It came from her regret for the old man, from her anger about Lot, who was married, from her jealousy of Elly and her pity for herself. Her fingers, like a little child's, felt for Hugh's strong hand. He smiled with his handsome, clean-shaven mouth, thought her funny for such an old woman, but realized that she might have been very charming once. A certain kindness showed itself in him and, with bluff tenderness, putting his arm round her waist, he said: "Come, don't start crying; come here." And he drew her to him. She crept up against him like a child, nestled against his tweed jacket; he patted her hand; and, when he kissed her on the forehead, she was blissfully happy and lay like that, with a deep sigh, while he, smiling and shaking his head, looked down on his mother. "Which hotel are you going to?" she asked. "The Deux-Villes," he said. "Have you any more money for me?" "No, Hugh," she replied, "I gave it you all, for the tickets and ..." "All you had on you?" "Yes, boy, really, I haven't a cent in my purse. But I don't want it. You can keep what's left." He felt in his pocket: "It's not much," he said, rummaging among his change. "You can give me some more at the Hague. One of these days, when I'm well off, you can come and live with me and enjoy a happy old age." She laughed, pleased at his words, and stroked his cheeks and gave him a kiss, as she never did to Lot. She really doted on him; he was her favourite son. For one word of rough kindness from Hugh she would have walked miles; one kiss from him made her happy, positively happy, for an hour. To win him, her voice and her caress unconsciously regained something of their former youthful seductiveness. Hugh never saw her as a little fury, as Lot often did, Lot whom in the past she had sometimes struck, against whom she even now sometimes felt an impulse to raise her quick little hand. She never felt that impulse towards Hugh. His manliness, a son's manliness, mastered her; and she did whatever he wished. Where she loved manliness, she surrendered herself; she had always done so and she now did so to her son. On arriving at the Hague, she took leave of Hugh and promised to keep him informed, imploring him to be nice and not to do anything disagreeable. He promised and went his way. At home, she found her husband waiting for her. "How did the old man die?" she asked. He gave her a few brief details and said: "I'm the executor." "You?" she asked. "Why not Lot, as Elly's husband?" He shrugged his shoulders, thought it disingenuous in her to ask: "I don't know," he said, coldly. "The old man arranged it so. Besides, I shall do everything with Lot. He may be here in two days. The undertakers are coming to-night; the funeral will be to-morrow." "Can't it wait for Lot?" "Dr. Thielens thought it inadvisable." She did not tell him that Hugh had come with her and, after lunch, she went to the Mauritskade and embraced Adèle Takma, who was bearing up though the red letters still whirled before her stupefied eyes, like faded characters written in blood. Ottilie Steyn asked to see the old gentleman for the last time. She saw him, white in the pale, dim light, his old white face on the white pillow, with its scanty little wreath of hair, his eyelids closed, the lines on either side of his nose and mouth fallen away in slack wrinkles of discoloured parchment. She wrung her hands softly and wept. She _had_ been very fond of the old man and he had always been exceedingly kind to her. Like a father ... like a father ... she always remembered him like that. Papa Dercksz she had never known. _He_, he had been her father. He had petted her even as a child; and afterwards he had always helped her, when in any sort of money trouble. If ever he reproached her, it had always been gently ... because she played with her life so: that was his expression at the time of her first divorce, from Pauws; of her second divorce, from Trevelley. She remembered it all: in India and at the Hague. He had liked Pauws very much; Trevelley he disliked; Steyn he had ended by pronouncing to be a good fellow after all. Yes, he had never reproached her except gently, because she was unable to manage herself and her love-affairs; and he had always been so exceedingly kind to her.... She would miss him, in the morning-room at Mamma's, or on the days when she used to look him up in his study and he would give her a couple of banknotes, with a kiss, saying: "But don't talk about it." He had never said that he was her father; she had always called him Mr. Takma. But she had suspected; and she now felt it, knew it for certain. This affection, perhaps the last, was passing from her, had passed from her.... She went again in the evening, with Steyn, and Dr. Thielens came too, to be present when the body was put in the coffin. Aunt Adèle said, no, she was not afraid of being in the house with the corpse, nor the maids either: they had slept quite well the night before. Next day also, the day of the funeral, Aunt Adèle was composed. She received Dr. Roelofsz very quietly; the doctor panted and groaned and pressed his hands to his stomach, which hung crooked: he had intended to go to the cemetery with the rest, but did not feel equal to it; and so he stayed behind with Adèle. The Derckszes came: Anton and Harold and Daan; Steyn came; D'Herbourg came, with his son-in-law Frits van Wely; and the women came too: Ottilie Steyn, Aunt Stefanie, Aunt Floor, Ina and the fair-haired little bride, Lily; they all remained with Dr. Roelofsz and Aunt Adèle, who was quite composed. When the funeral procession was gone, the women said how sad it was for Grandmamma; and the old doctor began to cry. It was a pitiful sight, to see that old man, shapeless as a crumbling mass, huddled in a chair; to hear him exclaim, "Well-well ... yes-yes ... oh, yes!" to see him cry; but Adèle remained composed. Ottilie Steyn was not so; she wept bitterly; and they all saw that she was mourning the death of a father, though not any of them had uttered the word, not even quietly among themselves. Next morning, Steyn had an interview with the solicitor; and, when he came home, he said to his wife: "Adèle has a legacy of thirty thousand guilders; Elly and you get something over a hundred thousand each." Mamma Ottilie sobbed: "The dear good man!" she stammered through her sobs. "The dear good man!" "Only we thought, Ottilie, the solicitor and I thought, that it would be best, for Mamma's sake to speak of the inheritance as little as possible." "Does the old gentleman acknowledge me as his daughter?" "There is no question of acknowledging. He leaves you the half of his property; you and Elly share and share alike, after deducting Adèle's legacy. Only we thought, the solicitor and I, that, for Mamma's sake, it would be better not to talk about it to any one who needn't know." "Yes," said Ottilie, "very well." "You can be silent when you choose, you know." She looked at him: "I shall not talk about it. But why do you say that?" "Because I see from the old gentleman's books that he often used to give you money. At least there are entries: 'To O. S.'" She flushed up: "I wasn't obliged to tell you." "No, but you always used to say that you had found some money in your cupboard and make yourself out more careless than you were." "The old man himself asked me not to talk about that money...." "And you were quite right not to. I only say, you can be silent when you _choose_. So be silent now." "I don't want your advice, thank you!" she blazed out; but he had left the room. She clenched her fist: oh, she hated him, she hated him, especially for his voice! She could not stand his cold, bass voice, his deep, measured words. She hated him: she could have smacked his face, just to see if he would then still speak in cool, deliberate tones. She hated him more and more every day. She hated him so much that she longed for his death. She had wept beside the old man's body; she could have danced beside Steyn's! Oh, she didn't yet realize how she hated him! She pictured him dead, run over, or wounded to the death, with a knife in his heart or a bullet through his temple ... and she knew that she would then rejoice within herself. It was all because he spoke so coolly and deliberately and never said a kind word to her now and never caressed her!... "A hundred thousand guilders!" she thought. "It's a lot of money. Ah, I'd rather the dear good man were still alive! And that now and then, in that kind way of his, he gave me a couple of hundred guilders. That's what I shall miss so terribly. It's true, I have some money now; but I have nothing else left!" And she wrung her hands and sobbed again, for she felt very lonely: the old man was dead; Hugh at the Hague, but in his hotel; fortunately, Lot was coming home that evening.... CHAPTER XXIV They arrived in the evening, on the day after the funeral, Lot and Elly, tired from the journey and out of harmony amid their actual sorrow. Aunt Adèle--they were to stay in the Mauritskade--did not notice it at once; for she, after bearing up for the last two days, had thrown herself sobbing in Elly's arms, sobbing as Elly had never seen her; and, when the sobs gave themselves free scope, her nerves gave out and she fell in a faint. "The mistress has had such a busy, upsetting time," said Door; and Keetje confirmed it; and they and Elly brought Aunt Adèle round. "I'm better, dear, it's nothing. Come, let's go to the dining-room. I expect you two will be glad of something to eat." She was still sobbing, overwrought, but she steadied herself with an effort. When they were seated at dinner, she noticed Lot's and Elly's lack of harmony. "Was Grandpapa buried yesterday?" asked Elly. "Yes, dear. Dr. Thielens dared not wait any longer." "Then it was really superfluous for us to come home," said Lot, irritably. His lips trembled and there was a set hardness in his usually gentle, pink-and-white face. "We telegraphed to you to come," said Aunt Adèle, still crying, softly, "because Elly will have to go into business-matters at once ..." "Perhaps I might have come home by myself," said Elly, "for these matters of business...." "Steyn is the executor," said Aunt Adèle, gently, "and he thought ..." "Steyn?" asked Elly. "Why not Lot?" "The old man had settled it so, dear.... He's the husband of Mamma ... who comes into money too ... with you ..." "Mamma?" asked Lot. "Yes," said Aunt Adèle, a little embarrassed. They understood and asked no more questions, but it was obvious that they were out of harmony; their features looked both tired and hard. "Mamma is coming this evening to see you," said Aunt Adèle. Elly shook her head: "I'm dead-tired," she said. "I can't see Mamma this evening. I'm going up to bed, Auntie." "_I'll_ see Mamma," said Lot. Elly rose quickly and went upstairs. Aunt Adèle followed her; and Lot went to another room to change his things. On the stairs, Elly began to cry: "Poor old Grandpapa!" she sobbed; and her voice broke. They reached the bedroom. Aunt Adèle helped her undress. "Are you so tired, dear?" Elly nodded. "Dear, is anything the matter? You've something so hard about your face, something I've never seen there before.... Tell me, dear, you are happy, aren't you?" Elly gave a vague smile: "Not quite as happy perhaps as I expected, Auntie.... But, if I'm not, it's my own fault." Aunt Adèle asked nothing more. She thought of the elated letters which had always given the old man such pleasant moments and reflected how deceptive letters could be. Elly undressed and got into bed. "I'll leave you to yourself, dear...." But Elly took her hand, with a sudden tenderness for the woman who had been a mother to her: "Stay a little longer, Auntie ... until Mamma comes." "Dear," said Aunt Adèle, feeling her way, "you're not put out, are you, because Mamma inherits her share too. She's his daughter, you know...." "Yes, Auntie, I know that. No, Auntie, really I'm not put out at that. I'm only tired, very tired ... because everything that we set ourselves to do ... seems useless...." "Darling," said Aunt Adèle, only half hearing, "I also ... am tired, I am worn out. Oh, I wish I dared tell you!..." "What?" "No, dear, no, I daren't." "But what is it?" "No, dear, I daren't. Not yet, not yet, perhaps later.... Hark, there's the bell: that must be Mamma.... Yes, I hear Steyn's voice too.... I'd better go downstairs, dear...." She left Elly, but was so much upset that downstairs she once more burst into tears.... "Elly is so tired," she said to Ottilie, "she's gone to bed: I should leave her alone to-day, if I were you...." But she herself was quite unhinged. She felt that the terrible secret which she alone knew--so she thought--weighed too heavily on her simple soul, that she was being crushed by it, that she must tell it, that she must share it with another. And she said: "Steyn, Steyn.... While Lot is talking to his mother, don't you know, I'd like to speak to you ... if I may...." "Certainly," said Steyn. They left the room. "Upstairs?" asked Steyn. "Yes," said Aunt Adèle, "in the old gentleman's room." She took him there: it was cold, but she lit the gas. "Steyn," she said, "I'm sorry for what I've done. I tidied up those papers a bit, there was such a litter. And on the ground was a ... a letter, a torn letter: the last one ... which the old gentleman meant to tear up.... I don't know how it happened, Steyn ... but, without intending to or knowing it, I ... I read that letter.... I would give all the money in the world not to have done it. I _can't_ keep it to myself, all to myself. It's driving me crazy ... and slowly making me frightened ... and nervous.... See, here's the letter. I don't know if I'm doing right. Perhaps I'd have done better just to tear the letter up.... After all, that was the old man's wish...." She gave him the four pieces. "But then it will be best," said Steyn, "for me to tear up the letter ... and not read it...." And he made a movement as though to tear the letter. But she stopped him: "And leave _me_ ... to carry about with me ... all by myself ... something that I can't speak of! No, no, read it, in Heaven's name ... for _my_ sake, Steyn ... to share it with me.... Read it...." Steyn read the letter. Silence filled the room: a cold, lonely, wintry, silence, with not a sound but that of the flaring gas. From the faded characters of the frayed, yellow letter, torn in part, rose hatred, passion, mad jubilation, mad agony of love and remorse for a night of blood, an Indian mountain night, clattering with torrents of rain. With all of that these two had nothing to do; they were foreign to it; and yet the Thing that was passing brushed against their bodies, their souls, their lives. It made them start, reflect, look each other shudderingly in the eyes, strangers though they were to the Thing that was passing.... "It is terrible," said Steyn. "And no one knows it?..." "No," said Aunt Adèle, "no one knows it except you and me...." But Steyn was not satisfied: "We ought not to have read that letter," he said. "I don't know how I came to do it," said Aunt Adèle. "Something impelled me to, I don't know what. I'm not naturally inquisitive. I had the pieces in my hand to tear them up still smaller. I tore the two pieces into four...." Mechanically, Steyn tore the four pieces into eight. "What are you doing?" asked Aunt Adèle. "Destroying the letter," said Steyn. "Wouldn't you let Lot...?" "No, no," said Steyn, "what does Lot want with it? _There!_..." He tore up the letter and dropped the pieces, very small, into the paper-basket. Before his eyes shimmered pale-red the bygone passions that were strange to him; they loomed up before him; and yet he saw the room, wintry-cold and silently abandoned by the old man, with not a sound in it save the flaring gas. "Yes," said Aunt Adèle, "perhaps it's better that no one should know ... except ourselves.... Oh, Steyn, it _has_ relieved me ... that you should know, that you should know!... Oh, how dreadful life is, for such things to happen!" She wrung her hands, shook her head from side to side. "Come," said Steyn; and his great frame shuddered. "Come, let's go...." Aunt Adèle, trembling, turned out the gas. They went downstairs. The dark room remained wintry and silently abandoned. The letter lay in the basket, torn up very small.... CHAPTER XXV "Oh dear!" said old Anna, with a sigh. "We can't possibly keep it a secret from the mistress always!" She moaned and groaned and, raising her two arms in the air, drove the cat back to the kitchen, because the passage was full enough as it was: Ina d'Herbourg had arrived with her daughter Lily van Wely and two perambulators; one was pushed by the little mother and the other by the nurse; and Lily and the nurse now shoved the perambulators into the morning-room, where Anna had made up a good fire, to welcome the family; and, while Lily and the nurse were busy, Ina talked to old Anna about the old gentleman's death and Anna said that her mistress had not the least idea of it, but that, after all, that couldn't go on forever.... "Oh, what darlings, what sweet little dots!" said Anna, clasping her hands together. "And how pleased the mistress will be that Mrs. Lily has come to show her the babies! Yes, I'll let the old lady know...." "Lily," said Ina, "you go first with Stefje; I'll come up afterwards with little Netta." Lily took the baby out of the perambulator. The child whimpered a bit and crowed a bit; and the dear, flaxen-haired little mother, with her very young little motherly laugh, carried it up the stairs. Anna was holding the door open and the old lady was looking out. She was sitting upright in her high-backed chair, which was like a throne, with the pillow straight behind her back. In the light of the early winter afternoon, which filtered through the muslin blinds past the red curtains and over the plush valance, she seemed frailer than ever; and her face, brightened with a smile of expectation, was like a piece of lined white porcelain, but so vaguely seen under the even, hard-black, just-suggested line of the wig and the little lace cap that she did not seem to belong to the world of living things. The ample black dress fell in supple lines and hid her entirely in shadow-folds with streaks of brighter light; and, now that Lily entered with the baby, the old woman lifted from her deep lap her trembling, mittened hands, with fingers like slender wands, lifted them into a stiff and difficult gesture of caress and welcome. Long cracked sounded the voice, still round and mellow with its Indian accent: "Well, child, that's a nice idea of yours, to bring the little boy at last.... That's a nice idea.... That's a nice idea.... Yes, let me have a look at him.... Oh, what a sweet baby!" Lily, to let Great-great-grandmother see the baby well, had knelt down on a hassock and was holding up the baby, which shrank back, a little startled at the brittle, wrinkled face that made such an uncanny patch in the crimson dusk; but its little mother was able to hush it and it did not cry, only stared. "Yes, Greatgranny," said Lily, "this is your great-great-grandchild." "Yes, yes," said the old woman, with her hands still trembling in the air, in a vague gesture of hesitating caress, "I'm a great-great-grandmamma.... Yes, little boy, yes.... I'm your great-great-grandmother...." "And Netta's downstairs: I brought her too." "Oh, your little girl!... Is she here too?" "Yes, would you like to see her presently?" "Yes, I want to see them both.... Both together, together...." The little boy, hushed, looked with wondering earnestness at the wrinkled face, looked with a wavering glance of reflection and amazement, but did not cry; and, even when the slender, wand-like finger tickled him on his cheek, Lily was able to hush him and keep him from crying. It was a diversion too when Ina came upstairs with Netta on her arm: a bundle of white and a little pink patch for a face and two little drops of turquoise eyes, with a moist little munching mouth; and Lily was afraid that the little boy would start screaming and handed him to the nurse at the door: fortunately, for on the landing he opened his throat lustily, greatly perturbed in his baby brain by his first sight of great age. But the bundle of white and the little pink patch with the two little drops of turquoise munched away contentedly with the moist little mouth and was even better-behaved than Stefje had been, so well-behaved indeed that the old woman was allowed to take it for a moment in her deep lap, though Lily remained on her guard and kept her hands under it. "That's made me very happy, dear," said the old woman, "to have seen my great-great-grandchildren. Yes, Stefje is a fine little man ... and Netta is a darling, Netta is a darling...." It was time to say good-bye; and Lily carried off the pink-patched bundle of white, saying, in her laughing, young-motherly way, that the children must go home. Ina sat down. "It has really made me happy," the old woman repeated, "to have seen that young life. For I have been very sad lately, Ina. It must be quite ten days since I saw Mr. Takma." "No, Granny, it's not so long as that." "How long has he been ill then?" "Six days, seven perhaps." "I thought it was quite ten days. And Dr. Roelofsz comes so seldom too.... Yes, that chair by the window ... has been empty now a whole week.... I thought it was ten days.... It's cold, raw weather, isn't it?... I don't feel it in here.... But, oh, even if that gets better ... it will take a very long time ... and Mr. Takma won't come again this winter!..." Her dry old eyes did not weep, but her cracked voice wept. Ina could not find much more to say, but she did not want to go away yet. She had come with the children, in the hope of hearing something perhaps at Grandmamma's.... She still did not know. She still knew nothing; and there was so much to know. There was first the great Something, that which had happened sixty years ago: Grandmamma _must_ know about it, but she dared not broach the Something at Grandmamma's, afraid lest she should be touching upon the very Past. If it _was_ anything, then it might make the old woman ill, might cause her sudden death.... No, Ina looked forward in particular to seeing any one who might call that afternoon, to having talks in the morning-room downstairs, for there were more things to know: how much Elly had come into; and whether Aunt Ottilie had also come in for her share.... All this was hovering in vagueness: she could not get to the bottom of it; she _must_ manage to get to the bottom of it that afternoon.... So she sat on quietly; and the old lady, who did not like being alone, thought it pleasant when she made an occasional remark. But, when it lasted too long before any one else came, Ina got up, said good-bye, went downstairs, chatted a bit with Anna and even then did not go, but sat down in the morning-room and said: "Sit down too, Anna." And the old servant sat down respectfully on the edge of a chair; and they talked about the old man: "Mrs. Elly is well-off, now," said Ina. "Don't _you_ know how much the old gentleman left?" But Anna knew nothing, merely thought--and said so with a little wink--that Mrs. Ottilie would be sure to get something too. But there was a ring at the door; and it was Stefanie de Laders, tripping along very nervously: "Doesn't Mamma know yet?" she whispered, after Anna had returned to the kitchen. "No," said Ina, "Grandmamma doesn't know, but she sits looking so mournfully at Mr. Takma's empty chair." "Is there no one with her?" "No, only the companion." "I have a great piece of news," said Stefanie. Ina pricked up her ears; and her whole being was thrilled. "_What_, Aunt?" "Only think, I've had a letter from Thérèse ..." "From Aunt Thérèse in Paris?..." "Yes, from Aunt van der Staff. She's coming to the Hague. She writes that she felt something urging her, something impelling her, while she was saying her prayers--we know those Roman Catholic prayers!--something impelling her to come to the Hague and see Mamma. She hasn't seen Mamma for years. She hasn't been to the Hague for years, which wasn't at all the thing.... What does she want to come here for now, exciting Mamma perhaps, with her popery, in her old age!" It was a very great piece of news and Ina's usually weary, well-bred eyes glistened. "What! Is Aunt Thérèse coming here?" It was a most important piece of news. "Could _she_ know anything?" asked Ina. "What about?" "Well, about--you know--what we were talking of the other day: what Papa has known for sixty years ... and Uncle Daan...." Aunt Stefanie made repeated deprecatory gestures with her hand: "I don't know ... whether Aunt Thérèse knows anything about it. But what I do know, Ina, is that I mean to keep _my_ soul clear of any sins and improper things that may have happened in the past. It's difficult enough to guard one's soul in the present. No, dear, no, I won't hear any more about it." She closed her beady bird's-eyes and shook her nodding bird's-head until her little old-lady's toque jigged all askew on her scanty hair; and she almost stumbled over the cat before she hoisted herself upstairs, jolting and stamping, to go to her mother. Ina remained irresolute. She went into the kitchen. Anna said: "Oh, is that you, ma'am? Are you staying a little longer?" "Yes ... Mrs. Ottilie may come presently.... I want to speak to her." It was quite likely, thought Anna, that Mrs. Ottilie would come to-day. But, when there was a ring at the front-door, she looked out of the window and cried: "No, it's Mr. Daan...." Daan Dercksz stuck his parroty profile through the door of the morning-room, nervously, and, on seeing Ina, said: "I've brought bad news!" "Bad news!" cried Ina, pricking up her ears again. "What is it, Uncle?" "Dr. Roelofsz is dead." "Oh, no!" "Yes," said Uncle Daan to Ina, staring at him in dismay, and Anna, standing with the cat among her petticoats. "Dr. Roelofsz is dead. An apoplectic stroke.... They sent round to me first, because my _pension_ was nearest.... It seems he took Takma's death very much to heart." "It's dreadful," said Ina. "How is Grandmamma to be told? It will be such a blow to her. And she doesn't even know of Mr. Takma's death...." "Yes, it's very difficult.... I've sent word to your father and I expect him here any minute; then we can talk over what we are to do and say. Perhaps somebody else will come to-day...." "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" sighed Anna. She looked at the stove, which was burning rather low, and, reflecting that perhaps there would be a good many using the morning-room that day, she shook the cinder-drawer: the fire began to glow behind the mica panes. "Ah me!" cried Ina. "Grandmamma won't survive them long now.... Uncle, do you know that Aunt Thérèse is coming to the Hague? Aunt Stefanie has had a letter.... Oh, if only she arrives in time to see Grandmamma!... Oh, what a terrible winter!... And Papa is looking so depressed.... Uncle," she said--Anna had gone back to the kitchen, moaning and groaning and stumbling over the cat--"Uncle, tell me: _why_ has Papa been so depressed ... ever since you came back to Holland?" "Since I came back to Holland, dear?..." "Yes, Uncle. There's something that brought you back to Holland ... something that's made Papa so terribly depressed." "I don't know, dear, I don't know...." "Yes, you do.... I'm not asking out of curiosity, I'm asking for Papa's sake ... to help him ... to relieve him ... if he's in trouble.... It may be business-matters...." "No, dear, it's not business-matters...." "Well, then, what _is_ it?" "Why, dear, it's nothing, nothing at all." "No, Uncle Daan, there's _something_." "But then why not ask your father?" "Papa refuses to speak about it." "Then why should _I_ speak about it?" cried Daan Dercksz, put on his guard by Ina's slip of the tongue. "Why should _I_ speak about it, Ina? There may be something ... business-matters, as you say ... but it'll be all right. Yes, really, Ina, don't alarm yourself: it's all right." He took refuge in a feigned display of indignation, pretended to think her much too curious about those business-matters and scratched the back of his head. Ina's eyes assumed their well-bred, weary expression: "Uncle, other people's money-matters are _le moindre de mes soucis_.... I was only asking you for an explanation ... because of my love for my father." "You're a good daughter to your father, we all know that, all of us.... Ah, there he is: he's ringing!" And, before Anna had time to go to the door, he had let Harold Dercksz in. "Do you mean to say that Dr. Roelofsz is dead?" asked Harold. He had received Daan's note after Ina had gone out to take Lily's children to their great-great-grandmother. "Yes," said Daan, "he's dead." Harold Dercksz sank into a chair, his face twisted with pain. "Papa, are you ill?" cried Ina. "No, dear, it's only a little more pain ... than usual.... It's nothing, nothing at all.... Is Dr. Roelofsz dead?" He saw before his eyes that fatal night of pouring rain: saw himself, a little fellow of thirteen, saw that group of three carrying the body and heard his mother crying: "Oh, my God, no, not in the river!" The day after, Dr. Roelofsz had held an inquest on his father's body and certified death by drowning. "Is Dr. Roelofsz dead?" he repeated. "Does Mamma know?" "Not yet," said Daan Dercksz. "Harold, you had better tell her." "I?" said Harold Dercksz, with a start. "I? I can't do it.... It would mean killing my mother.... And I _can't_ kill my mother...." And he stared before him.... He saw the Thing.... It passed, spectral in trailing veils of mist, which gathered round its slowly, slowly moving form; the leaves rustled; and ghosts threatened to appear from behind the silent trees, to stop the Thing's progress.... For, once his mother was dead, the Thing would sink into the abyss.... "I _can't_ kill my mother!" Harold Dercksz repeated; and his martyred face became drawn with torturing pain. He clasped his hands convulsively.... "And yet some one will _have_ to tell her," Ina muttered to Anna, who stood beside her, mumbling, speaking to herself, utterly distraught. But there was a ring at the bell. She went to the door. It was Anton: this was the day when he came to pay his mother his weekly visit. "Is there any one with Mamma?" "Aunt Stefanie," said Ina. "What's happened?" he asked, seeing her consternation. "Dr. Roelofsz is dead." "Dead?" Daan Dercksz told him, in a few words. "We've all got to die," he muttered. "But it's a blow for Mamma." "We were just discussing, Uncle, who had better tell her," said Ina. "Would _you_ mind?" "I'd rather not," said Anton Dercksz, sullenly. No, they had better settle that among themselves: he was not the man to meddle in tiresome things that didn't concern him. What did it all matter to him! He called once a week, to see his mother: that was his filial duty. For the rest, he cared nothing for the whole pack of them!... As it was, Stefanie had been bothering him more than enough of late, trying to persuade him to leave his money to his godchild, the Van Welys' little Netta; and he had no mind to do anything of the sort: he would rather pitch his money into the gutter. With Harold and Daan, who did business in India together and were intimate for that reason, he had never had much to do: they were just like strangers to him. Ina he couldn't stand, especially since D'Herbourg had helped him out of a mess, in the matter of that little laundry-girl. He didn't care a hang for the whole crew. What he liked best was to sit at home smoking his pipe and reading and picturing to himself, in fantasies of sexual imagination, pleasant, exciting events which had happened in this or that remote past.... But this was something that no one knew about. Those were his secret gardens, in which he sat all alone, wreathed in the smoke that filled his room, enjoying and revelling in indescribable private luxuries. Since he had become so very old that he allowed himself to be tempted into futile imprudent acts, as with the laundry-girl, he preferred to keep quiet, in his clouds of smoke, and to evoke the lascivious gardens which he never disclosed and where no one was likely to look for him. And so he chuckled with secret contentment, brooding ever more and more in his thoughts as he grew older and older; but he merely said, repeating his words: "No, I'd rather not.... It's very sad.... Is no one upstairs except Stefanie? Then I may as well go up too, Anna...." He moved towards the stairs.... Could Uncle Anton know anything, Ina wondered, with fierce curiosity. He was so sullen always, so reserved; no doubt he kept what he knew to himself. Should she go and ask him? And, while her father, sitting on his chair in pain, was still discussing with Uncle Daan which of them had better tell the old lady that Dr. Roelofsz was dead, Ina hurried after her uncle in the passage--Anna had gone back to the kitchen--and whispered: "Tell me, Uncle. What was it that happened?" "Happened? When?" asked Anton. "Sixty years ago.... You were a boy of fifteen then.... Something happened then ... that ..." He looked at her in amazement: "What are you talking about?" he asked. "Something happened," she repeated. "You _must_ remember. Something that Papa and Uncle Daan know, something that Papa has always known, something that brought Uncle Daan to Holland." "Sixty years ago?" said Anton Dercksz. He looked her in the eyes. The suddenness of her question had given such a shock to his self-centred, brooding brain that he suddenly saw the past of sixty years ago and clearly remembered that he had always thought that there must be something between his mother and Takma, something that they kept concealed between themselves. He had always felt this when, full of awe, almost hesitatingly, he approached his mother, once a week, and found old Takma sitting opposite her, starting nervously with that muscular jerk of his neck and seeming to listen for something.... Sixty years ago?... Something must, something must have happened. And, in his momentary clearness of vision, he almost saw the Thing, divined its presence, unveiled his father's death, sixty years ago, was wafted almost unconsciously towards the truth, with the sensitive perspicacity--lasting but a second--of an old man who, however much depraved, had in his very depravity sharpened his cerebral powers and often read the past correctly. "Sixty years ago?" he repeated, looking at Ina with his bleared eyes. "And what sort of thing could it be?" "Can't you remember?" She was all agog with curiosity; her eyes flashed into his. He hardly knew her, with all her well-bred weariness of expression gone; and he couldn't endure her at any time and he hated D'Herbourg and he said: "Can't I remember? Well, yes, if I think hard, I may remember something.... You're right: I was a lad of fifteen then...." "Do you remember"--Ina turned and looked down the passage, looked at the open door of the morning-room, saw her father's back huddled into a despondent curve--"do you remember ... Grandmamma's _baboe_?" "Yes, certainly," said Anton Dercksz, "I remember her." "Ma-Boeten?" "I daresay that was her name." "Did she know anything?" "Did she know anything? Very likely, very likely.... Yes, I expect she knew...." "What _was_ it, Uncle? Papa is so depressed: I'm not asking out of curiosity...." He grinned. He did not know; he had only guessed something, for the space of a second, and had always suspected something between his mother and Takma, something that they hid together, while they waited and waited. But he grinned with pleasure because Ina wanted to know and because she was not going to know, at least not through him, however much she might imagine that he knew. He grinned and said: "My dear, there are things which it is better not to know. It doesn't do to know everything that happened ... sixty years ago...." And he left her, went slowly up the stairs, reflecting that Harold and Daan knew what the hidden Something was, the Something which Mamma and Takma had kept hidden between themselves for years and years.... The doctor had also known it, probably.... The doctor was dead, Takma was dead, but Mamma did not know that yet ... and Mamma now had the hidden Thing to herself.... But Harold knew where it lay and Daan also knew where it lay ... and Ina was looking for it.... He grinned on the landing upstairs before he went in to his mother; he could hear Stefanie's grating voice inside. "_I_," he said to himself, "don't care a hang for the whole crew. As long as they leave _me_ alone, with my pipe and my books, I don't care a hang for the whole pack of them ... even though I do come and see my mother once a week.... And what she is keeping to herself and what she did with Takma, sixty years ago, I don't care a curse about either; that's her business, _their_ business maybe ... but _my_ business it is _not_." He entered and, when he saw his mother, preternaturally old and frail in the red dusk of the curtains, he hesitated and went up to her, full of awe.... CHAPTER XXVI There was another ring; and Anna, profoundly moved by the death of Dr. Roelofsz and moaning, "Oh dear, oh dear!" opened the door to Ottilie Steyn de Weert and Adèle Takma. Ina came out to them in the passage. They did not know of the doctor's death; and, when they heard and saw Daan and Harold in the morning-room, there was a general outcry--subdued, because of Mamma upstairs--and cross-questioning, a melancholy dismay and confusion, a consulting one with another what had best be done: whether to tell Mamma or keep it from her.... "We can't keep it from her for ever," said Ottilie Steyn. "Mamma doesn't even know about Mr. Takma ... and now there's this on top of it! Oh, it's terrible, terrible! Adèle, are you going up?" "No," said Adèle Takma, shrinking, in this house, now that she knew. "No, Ottilie, I must go home, Mamma will have plenty of visitors without me." She shrank from seeing the old lady, now that she knew; and, though she had walked to the house and walked in with Ottilie Steyn, she would not go upstairs. "Ottilie," said Daan Dercksz to his sister, "_you_ had better tell her ... about Dr. Roelofsz." "I?" said Ottilie Steyn, with a start. But, at that moment, some one appeared in the street outside and looked in through the window. "There's Steyn," said Harold, dejectedly. Steyn rang and was shown in. No one had ever seen him in so great a rage. He vouchsafed no greetings and marched straight up to his wife: "I thought I should find you here," he growled at her, in his deep voice. "I've seen your son, who came over from London with you." Ottilie drew herself up: "Well?" "Why need the arrival of that young gentleman be kept as a surprise for me to come across in the street?" "Why should I tell you that Hugh came with me?" "And what has he come for?" "What has that to do with you? Ask him, if you want to know." "When he makes his appearance, it's for money." "Very well, then it's for money. Not your money, at any rate!..." They looked each other in the eyes, but Steyn did not want to go on discussing money, because Ottilie had inherited a part of Mr. Takma's. Hugh Trevelley scented money, whenever there was any about; and it was not that Steyn looked upon his wife's money as his own, but, as old Takma's executor, he thought it a shame that his wife's son should be after it so soon.... He ceased speaking and his eyes alone betrayed his hatred; but Harold took his hand and said: "Frans, Dr. Roelofsz is dead." "_Dead?_" echoed Steyn, aghast. Ina stared and pricked up her ears again. The afternoon had indeed been full of news. Even though she did not know about That, she was hearing other things: she had heard of the doctor's sudden death, heard that Aunt Thérèse was coming from Paris, heard that Hugh Trevelley was at the Hague. And now she had very nearly heard about the old gentleman's money. He must have left Aunt Ottilie something, but how much? Was it a big legacy?... Yes, the afternoon had really been crammed with news; and her eyes forgot to look weary and glistened like the glowing eyes of a basilisk.... But the brothers were consulting Steyn: what did he think? Tell Mamma of Dr. Roelofsz' death, or keep it from her?... They reflected in silence. Out of doors, it suddenly began to pour with rain, a numbing rain; the wind blew, the clouds lowered. Indoors, the red light of the stove, burning with a sound of gentle crackling behind the mica panes, gleamed through the falling dusk. Meanwhile the Thing passed ... and stared at Harold, stared into his eyes, which were almost closed with pain. The Thing! Harold had known it since his early boyhood; Daan had known it for a few months and had come home from India, to his brother, because of it; upstairs, because of the old woman, who knew it, Stefanie and Anton both guessed it, but both refused to know it, lest they should be disturbed in the pursuit of their own lives; but downstairs Adèle and Steyn also knew it, because of the letter torn into two, four, eight pieces, the letter which the old man had been unable to destroy. In Paris, Thérèse, who was coming to Holland, knew it; in India, the _mantri_ knew it.... But no one spoke of the Thing ... which was passing; and Harold and Daan did not know that Adèle and Steyn knew; and none of them knew that Thérèse in Paris knew; and Steyn and Adèle did not know that the _mantri_ in India knew, that Daan knew and that Harold had known so long.... But Ina knew about the _mantri_ and knew that there was something, though she knew nothing about Adèle and Steyn and never for a moment suspected that they knew.... No one spoke of the Thing and yet the shadow of the Thing was all around them, trailing its veil of mist.... But the one who knew nothing at all and guessed nothing was Ottilie Steyn, wholly and sorrowfully absorbed in the melancholy of her own passing life: a life of adulation and fond admiration and passion, the tribute of men. She had been the beautiful Lietje; now she was an old woman and hated her three husbands, but she hated Steyn most! And, perhaps because she was so much outside the Thing's sphere, Harold gently took her hand and, obeying an unconscious impulse, said: "Yes, Ottilie, you ... _you_ must tell Mamma that Dr. Roelofsz is dead. It will be a great blow to her, but we cannot, we must not keep it from her.... As for Takma's death, ah, Mamma will soon understand that, without any telling!..." His soft voice calmed the dismay and confusion; and Ottilie said: "If you think, Harold, that I can tell her, I will go upstairs and try ... I'll try and tell her.... But, if I can't do it, in the course of conversation, then I won't ... then I simply will not tell her...." She went upstairs, innocent as a child: she did not _know_. She did not know that her mother, more than sixty years ago, had taken part in a murder, which that old deaf doctor had helped her to hush up. She knew that Takma was her father, but not that _he_, together with her mother, had murdered the father of her brothers, the father of her sister Thérèse. She went upstairs; and, when she entered the drawing-room, Stefanie and Anton rose to go, so that Mamma might not have too many visitors at a time. For that matter, it did not tire the old woman to chat--or to sit with a visitor in cosy silence for a little while--so long as the "children" did not all come at once. She was still slightly elated with the young life which she had seen, with Lily van Wely's babies. She had talked about them to Stefanie and Anton, not knowing that the babies were their godchildren: no one had told her that; and she really thought that little Netta's name was Ottilitje and spoke of little Lietje: they knew whom she meant. Ottilie Steyn was left alone with her mother. She did not speak much, but sat beside her mother, who had taken her hand.... Ah, she herself felt touched! There, in that empty chair, at which the old woman kept staring, old Mr. Takma would never sit again.... Her father! She had loved him as a daughter loves her father! She was inheriting a hundred thousand guilders from him; but never again would he put a hundred-guilder note in her hand, in that kind way of his. It was as though the old woman guessed some of her daughter's thoughts, for she said, with a movement of her hand towards the chair: "Old Mr. Takma is ill." "Yes," said Ottilie Steyn. The old woman shook her head mournfully: "I don't expect I shall see him again this winter." "He will get well again...." "But even so he will not be allowed out...." "No," said Ottilie, feebly. "Perhaps not, Mamma...." She was holding the brittle, slender, wand-like old fingers in hers.... Downstairs, she knew, the brothers were waiting; Stefanie probably also; Ina too.... Adèle Takma had gone. "Mamma," she said, all of a sudden, "do you know that somebody else is ill?" "No, who?" "Dr. Roelofsz." "Roelofsz? Yes, I haven't seen him ... I haven't seen him for the last two days." "Mamma," said Ottilie Steyn, turning her sorrowful little face--it was still a pretty face, with blue, child-like eyes--to her mother, "it's very sad, but ..." No, she simply could not say it. She tried to withdraw her sentence, not to complete it; but the old woman had at once seized the meaning of those few words: "He's dead?" she asked, quickly. Her voice cut through Ottilie Steyn. She had not the strength to utter a denial: with a heartrending smile on her face she nodded yes. "A-ah!" sighed the old woman, overwhelmed. And she stared at Takma's chair. Her old, dried-up eyes did not weep; they merely stared, intensely. She remained sitting straight up in her chair. The past heaved up before her eyes; there was a great buzzing all around her. But she remained sitting upright and staring before her. "When did he die?" she asked, at last. Ottilie Steyn told her, in a very few words. She was crying, not her mother. The old, old woman saw herself as she was, more than sixty years ago. It was then that she had given herself to Roelofsz, so that he should not speak.... He had not spoken.... He had remained her friend, loyally, for all those long, long years, had shared the hideous burden of the past with her and Takma.... No, he had never spoken ... and they had grown so very old, without ... without anybody knowing.... Nobody knew it, not one of her children.... People had talked sometimes, in the old days, had whispered terrible things: that was past.... Everything passed, everything passed.... Nobody knew, except Takma himself, now that poor Roelofsz was dead. He had exacted a high price ... but he had always remained loyal.... Ottilie Steyn was crying, said nothing more, held her mother's hand.... It had grown very dark: the companion came in, to light the lamp.... The wind howled dismally; the rain dashed against the window-panes; a clammy dampness gave Ottilie an unpleasant sensation, as of something chilly passing over her in that room with its scanty fire, because the old woman could no longer bear a great heat. The hanging lamp above the table in the middle of the room cast down a circle of light; the rest of the room remained in shadow: the walls, the chair, the empty chair opposite. The companion had gone, when the old woman asked, suddenly: "And ... and Mr. Takma, Ottilie?" "Yes, Mamma?..." "Is ... is he ill, also?..." The daughter was startled by the expression on her mother's face; the dark eyes stared wide.... "Mamma, Mamma, what's the matter?" "Is he ill ... or is he ... also...." "Ill? Yes, he's ill too, Mamma...." She did not finish.... Her mother was staring in front of her, staring at the empty chair opposite, in the shadow against the wall. Ottilie grew frightened; for her mother, stiffly and laboriously, now lifted a trembling arm from her lap and pointed with a slender, wand-like finger.... "Mamma, Mamma, what _is_ it?..." The old woman stared and pointed, stared and pointed at the empty chair. "There ... _the-there!_" she stammered. "_There!_" And she continued to stare and point. She said nothing, but she saw. She did not speak, but she saw. Slowly she stood up, still staring, still pointing, and shrank back, slowly, very slowly.... Ottilie rang the bell, twice; the companion rushed into the room at once; from below came sounds of confusion, faint exclamations, Anna's "Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear!" and whispering voices. Ina, Daan and Stefanie came upstairs. But they did not enter the room; the companion made a sign that it was not necessary.... The old woman's stiff arm fell slowly to her side, as she stood.... But she was still staring and shrinking back, slowly.... She no longer seemed to see Ottilie in her horror at what she did see. And all that she said, with unseeing eyes, though the rest of her consciousness remained, was: "To bed!... To bed!..." She said it as though she were very, very tired. They put her to bed, Anna and the companion. She remained silent, with her thin lips pressed together and her eyes still staring. Her heart had seen and ... she knew. She knew that he, Takma, Emile--the man whom she had loved above everything, above everybody, in the dead, dead years--that he was dead, that he was dead.... CHAPTER XXVII "Come," said Lot, gently, one morning, sitting with Elly in the sitting-room where he came so often to chat and have tea with her in the old days before they were married, "come, let us talk sensibly. It put both of us out to be dragged back from Italy, from our work, while--very foolishly--we never thought that this might easily happen one day. Dear old Grandpapa was so very old! We thought that he would live for ever!... But now that we are here, Elly, and Steyn has told us that all the affairs are settled, we may as well come to a sensible decision. You don't want to stay in this house; and it is, no doubt, too big, too gloomy, too old.... To live with Mamma ... well, I did hint at it the other day, but Mamma talked of it so vaguely, as though she really didn't much care about it.... Now that Hugh is with her she's quite 'off' me: it's Hugh here and Hugh there. It was always like that: it was like that in 'Mr.' Trevelley's time, when I was a boy and Hugh a child. John and Mary didn't count for much either; and it's just the same now.... So we won't talk of setting up house together.... But what shall we do, Elly? Look out for a smaller house and settle down? Or go abroad again, go back to Italy?... You enjoyed it, after all, and we were working together so pleasantly.... We were very happy there, weren't we, Elly?" His voice sounded gentle, as it always did, but there was a note almost of entreaty in it now. His nature, his fair-haired person--was he not turning a little grey at the temples?--lacked physical vitality and concealed no passionate soul; but there was a great gentleness in him: under that touch of laughing bitterness and vanity and superficial cynicism he was kind and indulgent to others, with no violent longings for himself. Under his feminine soul lay the philosophy of an artist who contemplates everything around and within himself without bursting into vehemence and violence about anything whatever. He had asked Elly to be his wife, perhaps upon her own unspoken suggestion that she needed him in her work and in her life; and, often in jest and once in a way in earnest, he had asked himself why he was getting married, why he had got married and whether liberty and independence did not suit him better. But, since he had seen his sister's happiness with Aldo at Nice and had also felt his own, softer-tinted happiness, very fervent and very true in his wistfully-smiling, neutral-tinted soul, which withdrew itself almost in panic under his fear of old age; since he had been able to seize the moment, carefully, as he would have seized a precious butterfly: since then it had all remained like that, since then his still, soft happiness had remained with him as something very serious and very true, since then he had come to love Elly as he never thought that he could love any one. And it had been a joy to him to roam about Italy with Elly, to watch her delight in that beautiful past which lay so artistically dead and, on returning to Florence, to plunge at her instance into earnest studies of the Medici period. How they had rooted and ransacked together, taking notes as they worked; how he had written in the evenings, feeling so utterly, so fondly happy in their sitting-room at the _pension_ where they stayed! Two lamps, one beside Elly, one beside himself, shed a light over their papers and books; vases of fragrant flowers surrounded them; photographs pinned to the walls shadowed back the beauties of the museums in the gathering dusk. But, amid the beauties of that land and of that art, amid his happiness, amid the sunshine, an indolence had stolen over him; he often proposed a trip into the country, a drive, a walk to Fiesole, to Ema; he loved looking at the life of the people in the street, smiling at it with gladness: the Archives were cold and dusty; and he simply could not keep on working so regularly. And in the evening he would gaze across the Arno and sit blissfully smoking his cigarette at the window, until Elly also shut up her books and the Medicis drifted away in the changing lights of early evening outside and grew indistinct.... He had at first not noticed her disappointment. When he did, he was unwilling to pain her and he went back to his research. But he did it against the grain. That regular work did not suit him. It tired his brain; behind his forehead he plainly felt a reluctancy, a barrier that prevented something from entering ... just as he had felt when, at school, he had to do a sum and failed, twice and thrice over.... In addition, he was burning to write ephemeral essays: he had a superabundance of material, about the Medicis, about Benozzo Gozzoli's frescoes at the Palazzo Riccardi, for instance.... Oh, to write an essay like that from afar, all aglow, with azure jewels and gold! But he dared not write the article, because Elly had once said: "Don't go cutting up into articles all that we have discovered." As for Elly, she devoted herself earnestly and with masculine perseverance to her research and felt almost an inner inclination herself to write their book, a fine, serious historical study; but she understood that her art alone would not suffice for it. Whereas she thought that Lot had only to wish it and that they would then turn out something very good between them.... But Lot felt that indolence impairing his powers more and more, felt his reluctance, like an impeding, resisting barrier, drawn right across his forehead; and one morning he said, a little nervously, that it was impossible for him, that it was too difficult for him, that he couldn't do it. She had not insisted; but a great disappointment had come over her and yet she had remained gentle and kind and had answered lightly and not betrayed the depth of her disappointment.... The books now remained closed, the notes under the paper-weights; and there was no more question of the Medicis. It produced a void about them, but Lot nevertheless felt happy and remained true to that soft blissfulness which had come to him smilingly and which cast a soft gloss over both his worldly cynicism and the overhanging dread. But Elly's disappointment increased and became a great sorrow to her, greater even, she thought, than the sorrow which she had felt as a young girl at her broken engagement, at the loss of the man whom she had first loved. She was a woman to suffer more for another than for herself; and she suffered because she could not rouse Lot to great things. Her love for Lot, after her emotional passion for another, was very intellectual, more that of a cultured woman than of a woman all heart and senses. She did not see this so plainly herself; but her disappointment was very great that she could not lead Lot on to do great work; and the void around her widened, whereas he, in the beauty of the land that was dear to him, in his gentle happiness, just felt the void around himself shrinking into a perspective in which his eyes wandered dreamily.... Not a bitter word was spoken between them; but, when they sat together, Elly felt herself grow very aimless. She was not of a contemplative mind. That wandering through Italian cities, that pleasant rambling among the beauties of the museums did not satisfy her, to whom action was a real and positive need. Her fingers had a nervous tremor of aimlessness between the pages of her Baedeker. She could not be always admiring and musing and existing in that way. She must act. She must devote herself. And she longed for a child.... And yet a child, or perhaps several children, while not bringing unhappiness, would not bring happiness either; for she knew that, even if she had children, she would not find sufficient satisfaction for her activity in educating them and bringing them up: she would do it as a loving duty, but it would not fill her life. She felt that almost masculine call within her, to strive as far as she could. If her limit was reached, well, then she would go no farther. But to strive to that limit, to perform her task as far as her nature demanded!... And she spoke to Lot in this sense. He did not know how to answer her, did not understand her and felt that something was escaping him. It never came to bitter words, but on both sides there were little thrills and counterthrills, after the first harmonious soft billowing over them both.... This sudden journey home, though causing an abrupt distraction, had, because of its relative futility, intensified Elly's feeling that she was out of tune with things. She had loved the old man, as a father more than a grandfather, but she was too late to see him on his deathbed and the business-matters could have been arranged by power of attorney. "Yes, but we're here now," said Lot, "and we must have a talk like sensible people.... Shall we go back to Italy, Elly?" "No, Lot, I'm glad I saw the place, with you; why go back at once and try to repeat...?" "Settle down here at the Hague? Go and live in the country, when the winter is over?" She looked at him because she heard the note of entreaty in his voice: he was entreating her because he felt something escape him ... and she suddenly felt pity for him. She flung herself on his breast, threw her arms round him: "My dear, darling boy!" she said. "I am so absolutely devoted to you." "And I to you, Elly dearest.... I love you more than I thought I could love anybody. Oh, Elly, let us keep this feeling! Don't let us be irritable.... You see, there has never been an unkind word between us, but still I feel something in you, a dissatisfaction.... Is it because ..." "Because what, Lot?" "Because I can't do ... as much as you would like me to?... We were working together so pleasantly; and the work we did is not wasted ... that sort of work is never wasted.... But, you know, darling, to do it as you would have me do it ... is beyond me: I am not so thorough as that. I am a writer for the magazines, a dilettante, not an historian. Mine is an ephemeral talent and all that I create is ephemeral: it always was.... Take it like that...." "Yes, Lot, I do take it like that. I am no longer distressed ... about our poor Medicis." "You'll see, I shall make a series of articles out of our researches: really, something quite good. A series: they'll follow on one another...." "Yes, do it that way." "But then you must interest yourself in it." "That I certainly shall." "And now let us talk about what we shall do, where we shall live." "We'd better not settle down.... Stay here, until the house is sold, and then ..." "Very well, then we can see." "Yes." "We haven't seen Grandmamma yet. Shall we go this afternoon?" "I don't believe that she has been up since, but we can go and ask." She gave him an affectionate kiss. It was as an atonement after what had clashed and thrilled through them, without bitter words. She tried to recollect herself, to force herself, in the empty hunger of her soul. She loved Lot with all her heart; she would devote herself to him ... and perhaps later to his children.... That must be enough to fill a woman's life.... She would have her hobbies: she would take up her modelling again; after all, the _Beggar Boy_ was very good.... That would certainly give completeness to her life, so long as she was happy with her husband; and that she was sure she was. She began to talk in a livelier strain than at first: something seemed to recover itself in her dejection. She would lead an ordinary life, as a happy wife, a happy mother, and cease longing for great, faraway things.... She would give up striving for horizons difficult of approach, horizons that proved to be limits, so that she had to go back after all. She was gay at luncheon and Aunt Adèle brightened: the poor thing had been depressed lately and walked with a stoop, as though bending under a heavy load; she was sad also because she thought that Lot and Elly were not quite happy. Aunt Adèle now freshened up, glad because Elly was more cheerful and looked brighter and was once more talking with her restless volubility. CHAPTER XXVIII That afternoon, Lot and Elly went to Grandmamma's. Since the evening when Mamma Ottilie had told her of Dr. Roelofsz' death, the old woman had not left her bed. Dr. Thielens called every day, declaring that she was really remarkably well: she was not suffering from any complaint whatever; she was perhaps suffering from old age; her brain was perfectly clear; and he was amazed at that splendid constitution, the constitution of a strong woman who had possessed a great deal of blood and a magnificent vitality. When Anna opened the door in the Nassaulaan, just as Lot and Elly rang, they found her talking in the passage to Steyn. "I've come to see how Mamma is," he was saying. "Do come in, please!" said Anna. "There's a nice fire in the morning-room." The old servant shooed the cat to the kitchen. She did not care for chatting in the passage, but thought it pleasant in the morning-room, when the relations were waiting there or came to ask for news; and she at once brought out her brandy-cherries: "That's nice and comforting in this cold weather, Mr. Lot and Mrs. Elly.... Yes, the old lady has been in bed ever since.... Ah, who can tell if it's not the beginning of the end!... Still, Dr. Thielens is pretty satisfied.... And, you know, Mrs. Thérèse is here too!" she added in a whisper. "Oh?" said Lot. "When did she come?" "Yesterday.... And the mistress saw her at once ... and she's very nice, I must say ... but, you see ... she's on her knees all day by the mistress' bed, saying her prayers ... and whether that'll do the mistress any good, who was never very religious.... And then those Catholic prayers, they last so long, so long ... I wonder Mrs. Thérèse doesn't get stiff knees from it: I couldn't stand it, that I'm sure of.... Yes, yes, Mrs. Thérèse is here: she sleeps at an hotel, but she's here all day praying ... and I believe she would have liked to stay last night ... but the companion said that, if the mistress got worse, she'd ask the people next door to telephone at once: they have a telephone; the mistress would never have one.... So Mrs. Thérèse went away, but she was here by seven o'clock this morning, before I myself was up!... Mr. Daan called yesterday, so did Mrs. Ina; they saw Mrs. Thérèse; I don't think she's calling on any of the family: she says she hasn't the time--likely enough, with all that praying--and she thought she could see the family down here, where I always keep up a good fire.... Yes, I asked Dr. Thielens: 'Doctor,' I said, 'is it a good thing that Mrs. Thérèse keeps praying all day long by the mistress' bed?' But the doctor, who had seen the mistress, said, 'Well, it doesn't seem to excite her: on the contrary, she is very quiet and pleased to see Mrs. Thérèse again ... for the last time perhaps!'... Ah, Mrs. Elly and Mr. Lot, it's a sad home-coming for you!... And who do you think I saw as well? Your brother, Mr. Lot ..." "Hugh...?" "Well, I just call him Mr. Hugo: I can't manage that English name. He came with Mrs. Ottilie; and it's a pleasure to look at them.... Not that I think any the less of you, Mr. Lot, far from it; but Mr. Hugo is a handsome fellow, so broad-shouldered and such a jolly face, with his clean-shaven upper-lip, and _such_ nice eyes!... Yes, I can understand that Mrs. Ottilie dotes on him: she looked so pretty too, beside her son.... Yes, it's wonderful how young she looks, though she _is_ sixty: you'd never think it, to look at her.... You mustn't mind my speaking so freely of your wife, Mr. Frans ... nor about Mr. Hugo either, you mustn't be angry. I know you're not very fond of him; and he's a sly one, that I do believe; but he makes you like him and no mistake about it.... Well, you always got on with Mr. Lot, didn't you, Mr. Frans?... And now I'd better tell Mrs. Thérèse that you're here...." Old Anna tripped away and up the stairs and Steyn asked: "Haven't you decided yet what you're going to do?" "No," said Lot. "We shall stay in the Mauritskade till the house is sold," said Elly. "I'm glad I saw you to-day," said Steyn. "I'd have come to you otherwise: I wanted to speak to you, Lot.... Perhaps I can do so before any one comes...." "What is it, Steyn?" "I wanted to tell you of a step I've determined to take. You won't like it, but it's inevitable. I've spoken to Mamma, as much as it's possible to speak to her.... I sha'n't go on living with her, Lot." "Are you going to get divorced?" cried Lot. "That I don't mind: if Mamma wants to, I'm agreeable.... Lot, you were talking the other day of the needless sacrifice which I was making in living with your mother...." "I meant ..." "Yes, I know, you meant that I could just go away, without a divorce.... I shall certainly do that. I can't go on sacrificing myself, because ... well, there's no need for it now. Since you left to get married, the house is simply a hell. You brought a certain peace and quiet at times; you managed to ensure a little harmony at meals. But that's all gone now.... For you to come and live with us ... I shouldn't even wish it. It would mean a wretched life for Elly. Besides ... Mamma has money enough now to go where she likes ... and, now that she has money, Hugh remains with her.... I asked her to talk as little as she could about the legacy and I don't believe that she goes chattering about it either; but she has told Hugh everything...." "I know she has," said Lot. "I've seen Hugh; and he said, 'Mamma's had a good bit left her.'" "Exactly ... and he remains with her and she with him. Formerly I used to think, if I go leaving her, then I'm leaving her alone with you; and money was scarce on both sides: I could never bring myself to do it then; but now, Lot, I shall go my own way." "But, Steyn, you can't abandon Mamma to Hugh's mercies!" "Can't I?" cried Steyn, flaring up. "And what would you have me do? Look on? Look on while she squanders her money on that boy? What can I do to stop it? Nothing! I refuse to give the least impression that _I_ want to be economical with her money. _Let_ her throw it away on that boy! She's got a hundred thousand: it'll be finished in a year. What she'll do then, _I_ don't know. But I consider that I have suffered enough for what was once my fault. _Now_, now that she has money _and_ Hugh, my sacrifice becomes needless.... I'm going away: that's certain. If Mamma wants a divorce, I don't care; but I'm going. I shall leave the Hague. I shall go abroad. Perhaps I sha'n't see you for a long time. I can't say.... Lot, my dear fellow, I've stood it all for twenty years; and my only comfort in my home was yourself. I have learnt to be fond of you. We are two quite different natures, but I thank you for what you have been to me: a friend, a dear friend. If your gentle nature had not smoothed over all that could be smoothed over at home, I should never have stood it for all these twenty years. Now I'm going away, but with pleasant memories. You were eighteen years old when I married your mother. You and I have never had a single harsh word; and the merit of it is due to you entirely. I'm a rough chap and I have become very bitter. All the kindness in my life has come from your side. When you got married ... I really missed you more perhaps than Mamma did: don't be angry with me, Elly, for saying so.... There, perhaps we shall see each other again ... somewhere or other.... Don't cry, Lot, there's a good fellow!" He took Lot in his arms and kissed him as a father kisses his son. He held him in his embrace for a moment and then shook him firmly by the hand: "Come, Lot, my dear fellow ... be a man!..." "Poor Mamma!" said Lot. His eyes were full of tears; he was greatly moved. "When are you going?" he asked Steyn. "To-morrow." "At what time?" "Nine in the morning ... for Paris." "I'll come and see you off...." "So will I, Steyn," said Elly. She kissed him. He turned to go; but there was a ring and Anna came down the stairs: "I didn't dare disturb Mrs. Thérèse," she said. "She's so wrapped up in her prayers that ... Why, look, Mr. Lot: there's Mamma ... and your English brother!..." "Damn it!" said Steyn, between his teeth. "I _can't_ see her again...." "Steyn!" said Elly, in a voice of entreaty. She was sorry for Lot, who sat huddled in a chair and unable to restrain himself: he was crying, though he knew that it wasn't manly. Anna had opened the door and Ottilie and Hugh came in. They met Steyn in the passage. He and she looked each other in the eyes. Hugh's hand went to his cap, as in salutation to a stranger. They passed one another without a word; and Steyn walked out of the door. That was his leave-taking of his wife: he never saw her again; and with him there passed the last remnant of all her life of love. "I came to see how Mamma is," she said to Elly, to Anna. "And Hugh would so much like to see his grandmother. But Mamma is still in bed, isn't she, Anna?..." She entered the morning-room: "Ah, Lot!... Why, what's the matter, my boy?" "Nothing, Mummy, nothing...." "Why are you looking so sad? Have you been crying?" "No, Mummy, no.... Nerves a bit unstrung, that's all.... Hullo, Hugh! That's a thing you don't suffer from, slack nerves, eh, old chap? No, I don't expect you ever cry like an old woman, as I do...." Lot mastered himself, but his eyes were full of sorrow; they looked at his mother and his brother.... His mother did not care about dress; and he was struck by the fact that she had had a short tailor-made skirt built for her in London and a little simple, black-cloth coat that was moulded to her still young and slender figure, while her hat displayed a more youthful curve than he was accustomed to see on her pretty, grey-blond curly hair. She was sixty years of age! But she was all smiles; her smooth, round face, scored by scarce a wrinkle, was bright and cheerful; and--oh, he knew his mother so well!--he could see that she was happy. That was how she looked when she was happy, with that blue innocence in her eyes.... She was an old woman, she was sixty; but, when she now entered beside her English son, she was of no age, because of a happiness that owed nothing to real maternal feeling, a happiness due only to a little affection which her English son bestowed upon her in words of flattery and caresses. He said coaxing things to her, roughly; he fondled her, roughly; and she was happy, she brightened under a new happiness. Lot she did not miss: he no longer existed for her ... at the moment. She was simply radiant because she had Hugh by her side. And Lot, as he saw the two of them, felt a pang pierce his soul.... Poor Mamma! He had always been fond of his mother and he thought her so nice and such fun; and, thanks to his natural gentleness and tact, they had always got on well together. He knew that she was fond of him too, even though he was out of her mind for the moment. She had always loved Hugh best, of her five children. She had always loved Trevelley best, of her three husbands.... Poor, poor Mamma, thought Lot. She had her bit of money now: what _was_ a hundred thousand guilders, if it was not properly looked after? What was a hundred thousand ... to Hugh? And, when that hundred thousand was finished--in ... in a couple of years, perhaps--what would poor Mamma do then? For then his handsome English brother, with the bold eyes and the shaven upper-lip, would not stay with poor Mamma.... And what would her old age be like then? Poor, poor Mamma!... "You're extraordinarily like Mamma, Lot," said Hugh. Yes, he was like his mother: he too was short, had very nearly her eyes, had very nearly her pretty hair, had the moulding of her young face.... He had been vain sometimes of his appearance in his youth, when he knew that he was a good-looking, fair-haired little chap. But he was vain no longer; and, beside Hugh, he felt an old woman, a slack-nerved old woman.... To be so tall, so broad-shouldered, so bold-eyed, with such a smiling-selfish mouth, such a cold heart, such calm, steel muscles and especially nerves; to care for nothing but your own comfort and victorious progress; to be able to live quietly on your mother's money and, when that was finished, calmly and quietly to throw your mother overboard and go your own way: that was the real sign of a strong attitude towards life! That meant keeping the world and your emotions under your thumb! That meant having no fear of what was coming or of approaching old age! That meant knowing nothing of nervous dread and never blubbering like an old woman, a slack-nerved old woman! "Yes, Hugh, I'm like Mamma." "And Elly's ... like _you_," said Hugh. "And, in a very ugly edition, like Mamma: at least, so people say, Mummy," said Elly, softly. And she kissed her mother-in-law: she too was sad, thinking of the old man ... and of Steyn ... and of poor Lot.... The bell suddenly rang upstairs, twice: that was for the companion. "Is Aunt Thérèse upstairs?" asked Elly. "I haven't seen her yet," said Ottilie. "But what can it be?..." "Oh dear, oh dear!" cried Anna, coming from the kitchen and driving the cat away. "It must be the mistress again, behaving funnily: you know, she sees things...." But the companion came tearing down the stairs, with a pale face: "I believe she's dying!" she exclaimed, "I'm going next door ... to telephone for the doctor...." "Stay!" said Lot. "I'll go." He took his hat and went out. Dismay hovered over the house. Mamma, Ottilie, Elly, the companion and Anna went upstairs. "You wait here, Hugh," said Ottilie. He nodded. He remained alone in the morning-room, sat down, amused himself by flinging his cap to the ceiling and catching it each time it fell.... He thought that his mother would not inherit much from Grandmother.... There would be beastly little; and even then it would be divided among many. He lit a cigarette and, when Lot came back, opened the door to him, which Anna afterwards thought very nice of Hugh. Lot also went upstairs. In the bedroom--the folding-doors were open, for the sake of the air, making the bedroom of a piece with the drawing-room where the old woman usually sat--dismay hovered, but it was subdued. Only Mamma was unable to restrain her sobs. It was so unexpected, she considered. No, she would never have thought it.... Beside the bed stood Aunt Thérèse. And it seemed to Lot, when he entered, as though he were seeing Grandmother herself, but younger.... Aunt Thérèse's dark creole eyes gave Lot a melancholy greeting. Her hand made a gesture towards the bed, on which the old woman lay, quite conscious. Death was coming gradually, without a struggle, like a light guttering out. Only the breath came a little faster, panted with a certain difficulty.... She knew that her children were around her, but did not know which of them. They were children: so much she knew. And this one, she knew, was Thérèse, who had come; and she was grateful for that. Her hand moved over the coverlet; she moaned and said: "Thérèse ... Thérèse ..." "Yes, Mamma ..." "Thérèse ... Thérèse ... pray...." She herself folded her hands. Thérèse van der Staff knelt down beside the bed. She prayed. She prayed at great length. The old woman, with folded hands, lay dying, very slowly, but calmly.... Mamma Ottilie was sobbing in Lot's arms.... There was a ring at the door downstairs. "That dear Mr. Hugo!" whispered old Anna. "He's opening the door!" It was Dr. Thielens, but there was nothing for him to do. The old woman had hardly been ill: it was a light burning out. Since they had told her of Roelofsz' death, since she herself had seen Takma dead, she had not got up and had only still enjoyed, in gratitude, the one great happiness of seeing her daughter Thérèse appear so unexpectedly beside her bed. No one had spoken to her of Takma's death, but speaking was not necessary: she had seen and she knew.... She remembered quite well that Thérèse had become a Catholic and that she herself had sometimes longed for the peace of absolution and the consolation of prayer, which would be wafted by the saints to the throne of God and Mary. And she had asked Thérèse to pray, to pray for her old mother.... She, the mother, did not know that Thérèse knew: she had forgotten, entirely forgotten, the fever, many years ago, when she had been delirious in her daughter's arms.... And, now that she was dying, she reflected, gratefully, that God had been very good to her, notwithstanding her sinful soul, for no one, no one knew. No one, no one had ever known. Her children had never known.... She had suffered punishment, within herself, the punishment of remorse, borne for long old years. She had suffered punishment in the terror which "his" spectre had given her, rising all bloody in the corner of the room, a few times during those years, in the corner by the china-cabinet. Yes, she had suffered punishment!... But still God had been merciful: no one, no one had known; no one, no one knew or would ever know.... Now she was dying, with her hands folded together; and Thérèse, who knew how to pray, prayed.... Softly she sighed her breath away, the old woman; long, long she lay sighing away her breath.... The silence of the room was broken by Ottilie Steyn's sobs and by the sighing of the old woman's breath.... Out of doors, the thaw stole down the window-panes like a stream of tears. "Oh!" Anna wept. "How long the old lady takes dying!... Hark ... there's a ring!... That kind Mr. Hugo, the dear boy, he's a great help to me, Mrs. Ottilie: listen, he's opening the door again!..." Hugh did in fact open the door; and in quick succession there entered Harold, Daan and Floor, Stefanie and Anton, Ina, D'Herbourg and the Van Welys. Lot had telephoned to them from the neighbours' to come, because Grandmamma was dying. Aunt Adèle also arrived. She came upstairs, just for a minute, to take a last glance from behind the bed-curtain at the old woman, and then went down again. The last sighing breaths pursued her to the morning-room below. All that she had seen in that brief moment, was the peacefulness of the dying mother and, beside her bed, Thérèse, whom she had not seen for years, praying without looking up. Downstairs, Harold Dercksz had sunk into a chair: he was suffering unendurable pains, his face was twisted with torture and before his eyes he saw his own deathbed: it would not be long now, he had suffered too much lately; and it was only his strength of will that kept him going. Daan Dercksz stood in front of him and whispered in Harold's ear: "Harold ... Harold ... it is a good thing that Mamma is dying ... and she is dying peacefully ... so it seems...." Yes, she was dying, dying peacefully.... Beside her bed Thérèse knelt and prayed, Thérèse who did not know, so Harold thought: nobody ... nobody knew but himself and Daan.... The Thing ... the Thing was passing.... Listen, upstairs his mother was sighing away her last few breaths; and at each breath the Thing passed, passed farther, trailing its misty veil: leaves rustled, the thaw poured on as in a stream of tears, spectres loomed behind the trees, but the Thing ... the Thing was passing!... Oh, for years, for sixty long years he had seen the Thing dragging past, so slowly, so lingeringly, as if it would never pass, as if it would tarry for ever, too long for a human life yearning for the end! Sixty years long he had seen it thus, the Thing; sixty years long it had stared him in the eyes.... Listen, Mamma was moaning more loudly, more violently for a while; they could hear Ottilie sobbing more passionately.... The companion came downstairs. There stood or sat the children, elderly people all. "It is over," she said, softly. They wept, the old people; they embraced one another; Aunt Floor screamed: "Ah!... _Kassian!_... That poor-r-r, dhear-r-r Mamma!" Over the whole house hovered the emotion of death which had come and was going.... Harold Dercksz gazed before him.... His eyes of pain stared from his face, but he did not move in his chair. The Thing: he saw the terrible Thing! It was turning at the last bend of its long, long, endless path.... And it plunged headlong, into an abyss. It was gone. Only a mist, like the haze of its nebulous veil, drifted to and fro before Harold's eyes. "O my God!" cried Ina. "Papa's fainting!" She caught him in her arms.... The dark evening fell. One by one, the "children" went upstairs and looked at their old mother. She lay in the peacefulness of death; the lined porcelain face made a vague blur in the shadow against the white of her pillow, but it was now smooth, untroubled, at rest. And her hands were folded together: she had died like that. Thérèse knelt beside the bed.... CHAPTER XXIX The room was warmed by a moderate fire; the curtains were half-closed; and Lot had slept calmly, for the first time since the fever had passed its crisis. It was his own old room, in Mamma's house; and, when he woke, his fingers, after a deliciously lazy interval, felt for the letter which Elly had written him from St. Petersburg. He drew the letter from the envelope and read and read it again, glad that she had written so fully and that she seemed charged with courage and enthusiasm. Then his hand dropped, feeling the cold, and hid itself under the blankets. He lay in quiet content, after his first calm sleep, and looked round the room, the room which Steyn had given up to him years ago, so that he might work at his ease, with his books and knick-knacks around him. It was the only comfortable room in the house.... Well, he would not have it long. Steyn was gone; and Mamma intended to pay the final quarter's rent, sell the furniture and go back to England with Hugh.... Lot felt a little light-headed, but easy and with no fever, really a great deal better than he could remember having been for a long time past. He enjoyed the warmth of the bed, while outside--he had just noticed it--the rain came pattering down; but he, lying quietly in bed, did not mind the rain. On the table beside him was some water, a bottle of quinine capsules, a plate of hot-house grapes and his bell. He picked a couple of grapes, sucked them and rang. Ottilie entered, anxiously: "Are you awake, Lot?" "Yes, Mummy." "Have you had a sleep?" "Yes, I'm feeling rather well." "Oh, Lot, you were so bad yesterday and the day before!... You were delirious and kept calling out ... for your father ... and for Elly.... I didn't know what to do, my boy, and at last ..." "Well?" "Nothing. Your cough's bad still, Lot...." "Yes, I caught cold; we know that; it'll get better ... as soon as I'm out of this confounded country, as soon as I'm in Italy." "I shouldn't go thinking of Italy just yet." "As soon as I'm better, I'll first go and take the sun at Nice, with Ottilie and Aldo, and then on to Rome." "What do you want to do there, all by yourself?" "I have old friends there, fellows I know. And I shall do some writing.... Is Hugh at home?" "Yes, he's in his little room." "Has he got Steyn's room?" "Well, of course! What other room would you have me give him? Now that Steyn has gone ... abroad, surely I can have my own son with me!" "I should like to talk to Hugh. Would you ask him to come to me?" "Won't it tire you, Lot?" "No, Mummy. I've had a good sleep." "Do you want to talk to Hugh alone?" "Yes, please." "What about?" "About you." "And mayn't I be there?" "No. You mustn't listen outside the door either. Do you promise?" "What do you want to talk to Hugh about?" "I've told you: about you. There, ask him to come to me. And then leave us alone for a bit." "Are you sure there's no fever?" She felt his forehead. "Take my temperature, if you like...." "It's just over ninety-eight," she said, in a minute or two. "I told you so. I'm feeling very well." "Do you like your grapes?" "Yes...." She went at last, still hesitating.... She had meant to tell him that, two days ago, he had been so ill and had called out so eagerly for his father and Elly that she had sent Hugh to telegraph to Pauws; that Pauws had come from Brussels; that Pauws had seen him the night before last. Lot had not recognized his father.... But she found all this rather difficult to tell and she went away.... In a few moments Hugh came in, sturdy as usual, with his calves showing under the breeches of his check bicycling-suit, and asked: "Feeling better, Lot?" "Yes, a great deal better. I wanted to have a talk with you, Hugh. Will it bore you?" "Not at all, Lot." "We've always got on all right, haven't we, you and I?" "Of course we have." "It may have been because I was never much in your way; but in any case ..." "You were always a good chap." "Thank you." "Doesn't it tire you, talking?" "No, old fellow; in fact, I want to talk to you.... Hugh, there's something I want to ask you." "What's that, Lot?" "Mamma is going to London with you." "Yes, she thought she'd like to come with me this time. You see, John and I never see her; and Mary will soon be home from India." "Yes, I can understand ... that she sometimes wants to see her other children too. Hugh, all I wanted to ask you is: be kind to her." "But aren't I?" "Well, then, remain so. She's a big child, Hugh. She wants a lot of affection, wants it coming her way. You see, I've been with her most: thirty-eight years, with a few intervals. You've lived away from her for over ten years; and even before that you were more with your father than with her. So you don't know Mamma very well." "Oh, I know her well enough!" "Perhaps," said Lot, wearily. "Perhaps you know her well enough.... But try to be _nice_ to her, Hugh." "Of course I will, Lot." "That's a good chap." His voice fell, despondently; but his hand grasped his half-brother's hand. Oh, what was the use of insisting? What did that strong, cool lad, with his bold eyes and his laughing, clean-shaven mouth, feel, except that Mamma had money--a hundred thousand guilders--and was going with him to his country? In Hugh's firm hand Lot felt his own fingers as though they were nothing. So thin, so thin: had he wasted away so much in a week? "Hugh, I wish you'd just give me that hand-glass." Hugh gave him the mirror. "Draw the blind a little higher." Hugh did so; and Lot looked at himself. Yes, he had grown thin, but he also looked very bad because he was unshaved. "Hugh, if you're going out again, you might look in at Figaro's and tell him to come and shave me." "Right you are." Lot put down the looking-glass. "Have you heard from Elly, Lot?" "Yes, Hugh." "That's a fine thing she's doing." "Yes." "One'd think she was an Englishwoman!" said Hugh, almost in admiration. "Yes," said Lot, gently, "just so, an Englishwoman...." But an unaccustomed voice sounded from below; and Lot, listening, was greatly surprised, because he seemed to recognize the voice of his father, of Pauws, speaking to the servant. He sat up in bed: "Hugh!" he cried. "Hugh! Can it be ... _is_ that my father?" "I believe so," drawled Hugh, laconically. "Is that Papa? How does he come to be here, _in this house?_" "Ah," said Hugh, "you're no end of a swell to-day! But two days ago you were delirious, calling out for your governor. So Mother said, 'Wire.' I wired. He stood by your bedside for a moment, but you didn't know him...." "Have I been as ill as all that?" cried Lot. He felt things growing misty and unsteady, but yet he distinguished Pauws cautiously entering the room: "My boy!..." "Father!..." Pauws stepped briskly to the bed, took Lot's hand; then he remained quite still for at least an hour. Hugh had gone. For at least an hour Pauws sat without speaking. It seemed that Lot had fallen asleep. He woke after that long silence and said: "Mamma telegraphed to you ..." "Two days ago. I came at once. You didn't know me...." "Did you ... speak to Mamma?" "No." "Have you seen her?" "No. The servant told me the day before yesterday, when I went away, that they would let me know at the hotel if there was any change in you. Yesterday, when I called, you were asleep.... But where's Elly?" "Don't you know?..." "How should I know?" Lot had closed his eyes again and old Mr. Pauws sat silent, asking no more questions, with Lot's hand in his. Once more there was a long, throbbing silence. Old Pauws looked round the room, casting his quick glance here and there, breathing again because Lot was not going to die.... He had never been inside the house before. He had not seen Ottilie for years and years. Nor had she shown herself this time. Nevertheless he had heard her voice, hushed immediately, behind a door; and the sound of that voice, that voice of the old days, had moved him violently.... She had grown old, no doubt; but that voice behind the door was the same voice, the voice of Ottilie, his wife! Oh, what a sweet, pretty creature she was when he married her, a girl just turned twenty, and how happy they had been, in spite of an occasional angry word, in Java, with their two children: little Ottilie first and then Lot!... Only a few years; and then ... and then she had met that bounder Trevelley, the father of the boy whom he had just seen, with his damned English mug, a mug that was like his father's. And since then he had never seen her again! How long was that ago? He reckoned it out: it was thirty-four years! His little Ottilie was a girl of six then, Lot a little chap of four: two such loves of children, such dear, pretty children!... At the divorce, the custody of the children was awarded to him, not her; but Lot was so fond of his mother and he had consented, after some years, that they should stay on with their mother: she remained their mother, in spite of what she had done.... Little Ottilie had spent a very long time with him sometimes; Lot, on the other hand, would be longer with his mother: it was a constant going to and fro for the poor mites, who had no fixed home in which to live with their parents. Still, he had always gone on seeing his children and keeping in touch with them; and he admired little Ottilie, because she grew into big Ottilie and became very handsome; but he had always doted on Lot, though he was such a frail little fair-haired chap--perhaps for that very reason--and because he was really so ridiculously like his mother.... There the poor fellow lay. Where was his wife? Where was Elly? He had seen her neither yesterday nor the day before. What had happened?... He had now been sitting for over an hour by Lot's bed, with Lot's hand in his: the boy had closed his eyes again; yet a pressure of that small, thin, delicate hand told his father that he was not asleep, but only resting.... Pauws let his son lie quite still, wiped the sweat from Lot's forehead with a handkerchief.... Well, he was perspiring nicely, the skin felt relaxed.... Patience now, until Lot felt inclined to talk again; patience now, to find out about Elly! Thank God, the beggar wasn't going to die, as Pauws had feared for a moment; but the flesh he'd lost! And he had never had much to spare. How thin his face had grown! How young he looked for his age, even though his fair hair was beginning to turn grey!... Pauws had always been very fond of him, because of his calm and gentle character, so very different from his mother's. He had no doubt become so gentle and calm because he wasn't strong: when those violent scenes took place at home, Lot, as a child, used to go and sit quietly in his corner until the scene had ended.... But what could have happened with Elly? Lot opened his eyes at last, but the old man dared not yet ask after Elly. If it was anything sad, something that he couldn't imagine, then he mustn't ask Lot: it might make the poor boy go quite off his head again. So he merely wiped his son's forehead with some eau-de-Cologne which he saw standing there and asked: "Are you better, old chap?..." "Yes, Father ... a great deal better.... It seems so strange to me, to have you sitting here ... but I'm very glad of it.... Was I so ill that Mamma had to telegraph? I didn't know it myself.... I woke this morning and felt very weak ... but quiet.... It was a fever, you see, and I caught a bad cold into the bargain, in this beastly winter weather, here.... Bronchitis, but not at all serious, you know.... A touch of influenza as well: nothing out of the way.... I shall soon get right with a little nursing.... When I'm well, I shall go to the south, to Ottilie: she's still with her Aldo; yes, it can't be helped, they'll never get married.... And perhaps they're right.... And there you are, sitting by my bed.... Well, now that you're here, guv, you're just going to stay at the Hague until I'm better. If you've brought no luggage, you can buy a couple of shirts and a toothbrush.... No, I don't mean to let you go again. Mamma needn't see you, if you don't wish it. But, now that she's been mad enough to wire to you and frighten you out of your wits, she must put up with the worry of it, if it is a worry.... Besides, she won't stay very long herself...." "Don't talk too much, my boy...." "No, it doesn't tire me ... meandering on like this. Mamma won't stay long. You don't know anything: I'll tell you how things stand. Steyn has gone ... abroad; perhaps for good. Mamma has come into money from old Mr. Takma; yes, she came into a hundred thousand guilders.... And she is now going to England, with Hugh.... And she will stay there, with Hugh, I expect, as long as the hundred thousand lasts...." "Is that it? Oh, your poor mother!" "You needn't pity her, Father: not yet, at least. She is very, very happy at the moment. She dotes on her Hugh. I had to fall ill to make her remember that she had a Lot as well. But she was very nice to me: she nursed me, I think.... Really, she is _quite_ happy.... Perhaps in a year or two ... when the hundred thousand is gone ... she will come back to me...." "But what about you, old chap, what about you?" exclaimed the old man, unable to contain himself any longer. "I?... I shall go to Nice first, to take in the sun a bit ... and then to Italy, to write...." "But ..." "Oh yes, I remember: I've told you nothing yet!" He closed his eyes, but pressed his father's hand. There was a knock at the door; the servant put in her head and said: "If you please, sir, if you please, Mr. Lot, the barber has come. The mistress asked if it wouldn't be too tiring for you...." "No," said Lot, "let him come up." "Aren't you really too tired, Lot?" asked Pauws. "No. It causes me physical pain to look as I do now." The barber entered with a hesitating but cheerful step: he had a round, jovial face. "Come along, Figaro!" said Lot. "Well, sir, are you pulling round?... It's over a week since I saw you ... but I heard that you were ill." Pauws walked about the room impatiently, sat down petulantly by the window. "Shave me very nicely, won't you, Figaro?" said Lot. "For I look awful with this beard on me.... Yes, you'll find everything on the wash-hand-stand." "I've brought your own razor, sir." "That's right, Figaro.... I'm glad to see your face again. Is there no news?... Yes, it's a delight to feel your velvety blade gliding down my cheek.... As a matter of fact, it does one's skin a heap of good to go unshaved for a week or so.... But it's heavenly to feel one's face smooth again.... That gentleman, Figaro, sitting over there, is my father.... But he shaves himself, so don't reckon on him as a customer.... I say, Figaro, you might give me a clean suit of pyjamas: there, the second drawer from the top.... Yes, one of the silk ones, with the blue stripes.... I believe in silk pyjamas, when you're ill.... Yes, just valet me, now that you're here, Figaro.... Help me on ... that's right ... and now pitch the dirty ones into the clothes-basket.... Give me a clean handkerchief.... And now brush my hair: you'll find some eau-de-quinine over there.... And a wet towel for my hands, please.... Ah, I feel a king, even after this first, short clean-up!... Thank you, Figaro." "Come again to-morrow, sir?" "Yes, do ... or no, let's say the day after ... to spare my skin, you know. Day after to-morrow. Good-bye, Figaro...." The barber went away. Pauws said: "How can you be such a baby, Lot?" "Father, come and sit here now. Look, I'm a different creature. I feel ever so much revived with my soft skin and my silk pyjamas. Tuck me in at the back, will you?... Have a grape!..." "Lot ..." "Oh yes, you wanted to know!... I remember, you don't know anything yet. I'll tell you, Father. Elly is at St. Petersburg." "At St. Petersburg?" "Yes, Father." "What's she doing there?" "I'll tell you...." "Have you quarrelled, has she gone away, has Elly gone away?" "Do have patience. What an impatient old man you are! No, we haven't quarrelled.... Elly is going to the war." "The war?" "To Mukden.... She's joining the Red Cross at St. Petersburg." "Elly?" "Yes." "My God!" "Why, Father? It's her vocation. She feels that she must obey it; and it is fine of her to do so.... She and I discussed it at length. I did not think it my duty to oppose her. I went with her to the Russian minister. I helped her with all her preparations. She is very strong and very plucky; and she has become even pluckier than she used to be.... She used to nurse the sick poor once, you know.... Father, I saw her at Florence: a little boy of six was run over by a motor-car. She took him up in her arms, put him in a cab and drove with him to a doctor ... whereas _I_ almost fainted!... Whether she will stay with the Red Cross I can't tell; but I am convinced that, as long as she does, she will devote herself with all her might and main.... You see, she's like that, Father; it's the tendency, the line of her life.... Each of us has a different line. Getting married and trying to draw two lines into one by a legal foot-rule is all nonsense. Aldo and Ottilie are right.... But, though Elly and I are married according to the legal foot-rule ... she is free. Only, I ..." He paused and then went on: "I suffered, when she went away ... for who knows how long.... I am so intensely fond of her ... and I miss her, now that she has been mine." "The damned baggage!" cried Pauws. Lot took his father's hand: "Don't say that, Father...." "Those damned women!" cried Pauws. "They're all ... they're all ..." He could not find his words. "No, Father, they are not 'all.'... Each of them is different ... and so are we.... Don't talk like that, don't talk of 'men' and 'women.' We are all poor, seeking, straying human beings. Let her seek: that is her life. In seeking, she does fine things, good things ... finer and better things than I.... Here, read her letter: she has written to me from St. Petersburg." "No, Lot, I will not read her letter. Her place is with her husband, especially when he is ill...." "She doesn't know that I'm ill. Surely you wouldn't telegraph to her to come over from St. Petersburg, as you came from Brussels, because I've had a touch of fever. Father, don't condemn her...." "Yes, I do condemn her and I condemn you too, for your cowardice in letting her go, for not being a man and compelling her to stay with you." Lot clasped his hands: "Father," he said, gently, "don't speak like that. Don't speak like that. You pain me so.... And I have suffered so much pain as it is: not pain, but sorrow, sorrow!" A great sob shook his body and he burst into tears. "My boy, my poor, dear boy!" "Father, I am not plucky, but I will try to be. And calm. And quiet.... Don't leave me just yet. Mamma is going to England with Hugh. Listen: she will never see Steyn again. He has gone away for good.... Now that she has money, now that she has Hugh, the rest means nothing to her, even I am nothing to her.... Don't leave me. Come with me to Nice, come with me to Italy.... Don't abandon me to my sorrow; but don't let us talk about it either; and please don't condemn Elly again ... if you and I are to remain friends. She does as she is bound to do and she can't do otherwise." His voice sounded manlier; and old Pauws was surprised at the energy with which he uttered the last words.... Yes, he was surprised.... That was certainly another breed than his; and those were ideas, views, conditions which were totally beyond his reach! Not to get married in church; after a few months' marriage, to allow your wife to join the Red Cross; and to feel sorrow at her leaving you, but to consider that it couldn't be different and that she was doing what she had to: those, you know, were conditions, views, ideas so far removed from his own that, in his swelling indignation at what Elly had done, they all whirled before his eyes; and he felt that he belonged to another breed, to another period. He gave an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, but did not wish to express any more of his utterly different and doubtless old-fashioned feelings; and, when Lot repeated his request that he should stay with him, he merely answered: "Yes, my boy, _I'll_ stay with you!..." And the emphasis which he laid upon the words was the only comment that he allowed himself. Lot gave a deep sigh and left his hand in his father's. A few seconds later, the old man noticed that Lot had fallen asleep. He released his hand from his son's slack fingers and stole from the room on tiptoe, unperceived by Lot. Pauws remained standing on the landing.... Yes, it was all whirling before his eyes. That was not the way in which he had loved, with so much self-control and philosophy and understanding of another's soul: he had loved differently, more ardently, more passionately, with simple, fierce virility.... Now, after many years, he was in his wife's house and he felt that, though she was old, he still loved her ... that he had always loved her and that, gradually, his love for her, no longer fierce, passionate or ardent--for the old years were growing cold--had become abiding and fond.... He remained standing, irresolutely.... What should he do?... Something hesitated within him: whether to stay here, in the house, or rush out into the rain! He could not have stayed another minute in Lot's sick-room: the air oppressed him; and, active old man that he was, he felt a need, after what he had heard, to move about, to shake himself, to shake himself free of the whirl of those views and ideas which were so strange to him.... And yet!... Slowly he went down the stairs; and his heart thumped like a young man's.... Where would she be? There!... He heard her voice in the drawing-room, the voice which he had not heard for years, talking English with her son, with her son Hugh! They were laughing, they were laughing together: Hugh's voice sounded coaxing, roughly caressing; her voice sounded ... oh, it sounded as it had always sounded: so intensely sweet ... and bewitching!... Had she really grown older?... A fierce, rebellious jealousy boiled up within him because of that son who was not his son, that son whom he had seen for two seconds in Lot's room, that son who was like his father ... Trevelley! He clenched his fists. He felt inclined to dash open the door with those fists and to rush into the room and say furious words, do furious things.... But no ... no ... it was all past. Only think: years had gone by.... She was sixty: he could not imagine her that.... She was happy, so Lot had said; she would be happy, as long as her money lasted.... She was sixty years of age, but she remained a child; and not till later, when she was a very old woman--who could tell: perhaps ill and broken and miserable?--after that fellow had run through her money ... He pulled the latch of the front-door, went out into the street, into the rain. Very softly he closed the door after him. Oh, he could not, could not come back again and hear her voice once more behind that drawing-room door!... He would write to Lot from the hotel ... that he would certainly not leave him, that he would go abroad with him, but that he could not come back to Ottilie's house, now that Lot was mending, and that he would wait for him in Brussels ... to go south together.... CHAPTER XXX The sunny days had come, at the end of April, in Naples; and Lot, from his room, across the green-lacquered palms of the Villa Nazionale, saw the sea stretch blue, a calm, straight, azure expanse, hazing away, farther towards the horizon, in a pearly mist, from which, in dreamy unreality, Castellamare stood out with brighter, square white patches.... He looked out of his high window, feeling a little tired after his walk with Steyn, who had just gone, after sitting with him for a long time. He had been glad to see Steyn, feeling lonely at the departure of old Mr. Pauws, who had gone back to Brussels after spending two months with Lot. Yes, the old gentleman had been unable to stand it: the scorching April heat in Naples was too much for him, whereas it sent Lot into the seventh heaven. Lot was quite well again. That had been a pleasant time with Papa: they had gone for long excursions in the Campaigna and latterly in the environs of Naples; and this constant living in the open air, without fatiguing himself, had done Lot a world of good: he felt himself growing stronger daily. Then old Pauws left him: Lot himself had insisted upon Papa's going, dreading that the sun-swept, southern spring, in Naples of all places, would affect the old gentleman's health, hale and hearty though he might be. And so old Pauws went back, regretting that he had to leave Lot by himself, but pleased with the time which they had spent together and with the harmony that existed between him and his son, who was so very different from him. This was all because of Lot's character; he gave Lot full credit for it, for he himself was a brusque, somewhat rough, masterful man, but Lot, with his yielding gentleness and his not so very cynical laugh, smoothed away, with native ease, anything that might provoke a conflict or want of harmony between an old father and a son who was still young. Yes, Lot was glad that Steyn had broken his journey and put in a day or two at Naples. Though Lot had acquaintances at Naples and he saw them regularly, he had found in Steyn something to remind him of home and his country and his family. It happened fortunately that Steyn arrived after Lot's father had left, so that there was no possibility of a painful meeting between these two husbands of his mother. And yet they had nothing to reproach each other with: "Mr." Trevelley came in between them!... But Lot was very tired after his talk with Steyn. It all whirled before his mind, it swam before his eyes, which gazed out at the white fairy-city, at Castellamare in the pearly distance.... Steyn had said so much to him, revealed to him so much that he did not know, so much that Lot would probably never have known but for Steyn, things to which he was a stranger, which were strange to him, but which nevertheless made him seize and grasp and understand all sorts of things, suddenly, suddenly: sensations experienced as a child, in the little house in the Nassaulaan, Grandmamma's house.... Yes, Steyn, in the confidence arising from their association, after first lunching together, had told him of the letter which he had read, in the act of tearing it up, with Adèle Takma in the old gentleman's study; and Lot, in utter stupefaction, had heard everything: Lot now _knew_ ... and thought that he alone knew, together with Steyn and Aunt Adèle.... How terrible, those passions of former days, of hatred, of love, of murder! He now saw, in that narrow drawing-room, each at a window, those two very old people sitting and waiting ... waiting ... waiting.... Now, now it had come, what they had so long waited for.... Now, now they were both dead.... Oh, to grow so old, under so heavy a life's secret: he could never do it, he thought it too terrible!... And, gazing wearily into the pearly evening distance, which began to turn pink and purple in the reflection of the setting sun, he felt--he, the grandchild of those two murderers--felt dread descending upon him, gigantic, as a still invisible but already palpable, wide-winged shadow: the dread of old age. O God, O God, to grow so old, to wait so patiently, to see things pass so slowly!... It took away his breath; and he shivered, closed the window, looked out through the closed window.... Oh, he had not the passion that had filled those old people; his neutral-tinted soul would never let itself be tempted to any sort of passion; his disillusioned, nerveless, dilettante nature contemplated the violent things of this life with a slightly bitter little smile, thought them superfluous, asked itself, why?... So heavy a life's secret he would never have to bear, no; but there was so much else--so much melancholy, so much silent suffering and loneliness--that, feeling the shadowy dread sink down upon him, he asked: "O God, O my God, _can_ I ever grow so old? So old as those two old people were?... Is it possible that I shall slowly wither and fade, gradually dying and dragging myself along, always with that same gnawing at my heart, always with that same sorrow, a sorrow which I cannot yet utter to anybody, to anybody ... not even to Steyn ... because I will not judge, because I _can_ not judge ... because Elly is right from her point of view ... because she lives in what she is now doing and would pine if she always remained with me, by whose side she feels herself to be useless ... aimless ... aimless?..." O God, no, let him not grow old, let him die young, die young and not, year after year, feel the dread pressing more and more heavily on his small, vain soul, his soul so childishly terrified of what was to come!... Let him not, year after year, feel that dread gnawing more and more at his heart, like an animal eating his heart away, and let him not, for years and years on end, feel that silent sorrow weeping within him, never uttered or shown, not even to Elly, if she ever came back, because he would want to assure her with a smile that he understood her aspirations and respected them and approved and admired them! Loneliness was all around him now: his father was gone, Steyn was gone; Elly was so far from him, in a sphere to which, despite her letters, he was so little able to follow her in thought, a sphere of terror and horror so great that he kept on asking himself: "Can she do _that?_... Has she the strength to keep it up?... Those hospitals ... the din of the battlefield thundering in her ears ... the sufferings of the wounded ... their cries ... their blood: could she hear and see all that ... and devote herself ... and act?..." When he saw it looming up out of her hurried letters, it was so terrible a vision that he did not see Elly in it: she faded and passed into somebody else, he did not know her, hardly knew her even in the photograph which she had sent him and in which he vacantly looked for his wife among a number of other Red Cross nurses.... No, in this photograph she looked neither like him nor Mamma: she was herself this time, another, some one quite different.... The energy of her undreaming, harder eyes startled him: in this portrait he saw, in a sort of bewildered ecstasy, a willing, a striving perhaps to transcend the bounds which she already saw before her!... Oh, was it possible that she might soon return, worn out, and fall asleep in his arms? Had he the right to wish it, for himself ... and for her? Ought he not rather to hope that she would persevere and live according to the career which she herself had chosen? Perhaps so ... but to him it was such an unspeakable grief that she was not there, that she was not by his side, she whom he had come to love as he never thought that he could love!... And this made everything so lonely around him. What were a few pleasant, intelligent, artistic friends at Naples, with whom he chatted and dined now and again at a restaurant? And beyond that there was nothing, nothing; and that ... that perhaps was how he would have to grow old: ninety-three, ninety-seven years old! Oh, how that dread shuddered, that shadowing dread, which would always grow colder and colder still, as he grew older! O God, no, no, let him die young, while still in the flower of his youth, though his life was morbid; let him die young!... Even Mamma was not with him now! She was in London: there lay her last letter; and in her angry written words she complained that Hugh was such a man for girls, always out with girls, leaving her alone!... She saw John now and again, saw Mary now and again; but she suffered agonies because Hugh neglected her, though he always knew how to come to her when he wanted money! It was the first letter in which she expressed herself so angrily, unable to restrain herself, because she suffered so from the sting of jealousy in the flesh of her heart: jealousy because Hugh amused himself with other women, with girls, more than with his mother! And Lot pictured her, alone, spending a long, dreary evening in her room at the hotel, while Hugh was out, with his girls.... Poor Mamma!... Was it beginning so early? But, now that she had Hugh, whom she worshipped, it would last as long as she had any money left ... and only then, when it was all finished, would she come back to him, to Lot ... and, if Elly had returned by that time, then she would be jealous of Elly!... Yes, that would be the future, without a doubt.... Beyond a doubt, he had not seen Elly for the last time; beyond a doubt she would come back, wearied, and sleep, sleep off her weariness in his arms.... And he would see his mother again also: older, an older woman, worn out, penniless; and she would cry out her grief, cry out her grief in his arms.... And he, with a little laugh of disillusionment, would find a chaffing word of consolation ... and the days would drag by, the things would pass ... pass very, very slowly ... not full of red remorse and hatred, passion and murder, as they had passed for those two very old people ... but full of an inner canker, inner grief and inner, painful suffering, which he would never express and which would be his secret, his, his secret: an innocent secret, free from all crime and other scarlet things, but as torturing as a hidden, gnawing disease.... It was evening now. Well, he would not go out to look for his friends. He would stay indoors, sup off a couple of eggs.... It was late; and the best way to forget was to light the lamp cosily ... and to work, to work quietly, in his loneliness.... Come! He had made the room look homely; there were green plants and white plaster casts and warm-coloured pieces of drapery; there were fine brown photographs on the walls; and he had a big table to write at and the lamp was burning nicely now, after spluttering a little at first.... Come, to work: his dilettante work, the work which he could do best.... To recast and rewrite those articles on the Medicis--O sweet memories of Florence!--that was his work for this evening.... Come, every one must be the best judge of his destiny: Elly of hers, he of his; and that this was so was really not worth distressing yourself for all your life long. There were beautiful and interesting things left, especially in Italy; and spring in the south was such an undiluted joy.... Come, let him soak himself in it now, quietly and in solitude ... and work, work hard and forget.... There was nothing like work: it took your thoughts off yourself and all those dreadful things; and, though you withered and faded in working, still you withered and faded with no time for repining.... And yet it was terrible, terrible ... that one could become as old as Grandmamma had become ... as Mr. Takma had become!... Well, suppose he wrote a novel: a novel about two old people like that ... and about the murder in Java? He smiled and shook his head: "No," he thought, almost speaking aloud, "it would be too romantic for _me_.... And then there are so many novels nowadays: I'll keep to my two.... That is enough, more than enough. Better by far rewrite the Medici series...." And, as the chill of sunset was over and the starry night outside was growing sultry, he flung open the windows again, drew a deep breath and sat down to his big table, by his bright lamp.... His fair and delicate face bent low over his papers; and, so close to the lamp, it could be seen that he was growing very grey at the temples. 
40657	----	THE QUEST BY FREDERIK VAN EEDEN THE AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION FROM THE DUTCH OF DE KLEINE JOHANNES by LAURA WARD COLE MITCHELL KENNERLEY NEW YORK AND LONDON MCMXI PART I I I will tell you something about Little Johannes and his quest. My story is very like a fairy tale, but everything in it really happened. As soon as you lose faith in it, read no farther, for then it was not written for you. And, should you chance to meet Little Johannes, you must never speak to him about it, for that would grieve him and make me sorry I had told you all this. Johannes lived in an old house with a big garden. It was hard to find the way about them, for in the house were many dark halls, flights of stairs, chambers, and spacious garrets; and in the garden everywhere were fencings and hot-houses. To Johannes it was a whole world in itself. He could make far journeys in it, and he gave names to everything he discovered. For the house he chose names from the animal kingdom; the caterpillar loft, because there he fed the caterpillars and watched them change their state; the chicken room, because once he had found a hen there. This had not come of itself, but had been put there by Johannes' mother, to brood. For things in the garden, preferring those products of which he was most fond, he chose names from the vegetable kingdom, such as Raspberry Mountain, Gooseberry Woods, and Strawberry Valley. Behind all was a little spot he named Paradise; and there, of course, it was exceedingly delightful. A great sheet of water lay there--a pond where white water-lilies were floating, and where the reeds held long, whispered conversations with the wind. On the opposite side lay the dunes. Paradise itself was a little grass-plot on the near shore, encircled by shrubbery. From the midst of this shot up the tall nightingale-plant. There, in the thick grass, Johannes often lay gazing through the swaying stalks to the gentle hill-tops beyond the water. He used to go every warm summer evening and lie looking for hours, without ever growing weary of it. He thought about the still depths of the clear water before him--how cozy it must be down amid the water plants, in that strange half-light. And then again, he thought of the far-away, gloriously-tinted clouds which hovered above the dunes--wondering what might be behind them, and if it would not be fine to be able to fly thither. Just as the sun was sinking, the clouds piled up upon one another till they seemed to form the entrance to a grotto; and from the depths of that grotto glowed a soft, red light. Then Johannes would feel a longing to be there. Could I only fly into it! he thought. What would really be beyond? Shall I sometime--sometime be able to get there? But often as he made this wish, the grotto always fell apart in ashen, dusky flecks, and he never was able to get nearer to it. Then it would grow cold and damp by the pond, and again he would seek his dark little bedroom in the old house. He lived there not entirely alone. He had a father who took good care of him, a dog named Presto, and a cat named Simon. Of course, he thought most of his father, but he by no means considered Presto and Simon so very much beneath him, as a big man would have. He confided even more secrets to Presto than to his father, and for Simon he felt a devout respect. That was not strange, for Simon was a big cat with glossy, black fur, and a thick tail. By merely looking at him one could see that he was perfectly convinced of his own greatness and wisdom. He always remained dignified and proper, even when he condescended to play with a rolling spool, or while gnawing a waste herring-head behind a tree. At the extreme demonstrativeness of Presto he closed his green eyes disdainfully, and thought: "Well--dogs know no better!" Can you realize now, that Johannes had a great awe of him? He held much more intimate relations with the little brown dog. Presto was neither beautiful nor superior, but an unusually good and sagacious dog, never farther than two steps away from Johannes, and patiently listening to whatever his master told him. I do not need to tell you how much Johannes thought of Presto. But he still had room in his heart for other things. Does it seem strange that his little dark bedroom, with the diamond window-panes, held also a large place? He liked the wall-hangings, with the big flowers in which he saw faces--faces he had so often studied when he was ill, or while he lay awake mornings. He liked the one small picture that hung there. It represented stiff figures walking in a still stiffer garden beside a smooth lake, where sky-high fountains were spouting, and coquetting swans were swimming. He liked best, however, the hanging clock. He always wound it up carefully and seriously, and considered it a necessary courtesy to watch it while it was striking. At least that was the way unless he happened to be asleep. If, through neglect, the clock ran down, Johannes felt very guilty and begged its pardon a thousand times. You would have laughed, perhaps, if you had heard him in conversation with his room. But confess how often you talk to your own self. It does not appear to you in the least ridiculous. Besides, Johannes was convinced that his hearers understood him perfectly, and he had no need of an answer. Secretly, however, he expected an answer some day from the clock or the wall-paper. Johannes certainly had schoolmates, but they were not properly friends. He played with them, invented plots in school, and formed robber bands with them out-of-doors; but he only felt really at home when he was alone with Presto. Then he never longed for the boys, but felt himself at ease and secure. His father was a wise and serious man, who often took Johannes with him on long expeditions through the woods and over the dunes. They talked but little--and Johannes followed ten steps behind his father, greeting the flowers he met. And the old trees, which must always remain in the selfsame place, he stroked along their rough bark with his friendly little hand. Then the good-natured giants rustled their thanks. Sometimes his father wrote letters in the sand, one by one, and Johannes spelled the words which they formed. Again, the father stopped and taught Johannes the name of some plant or animal. And Johannes often asked questions, for he saw and heard many perplexing things. He often asked silly questions. He wanted to know why the world was just as it was, why plants and animals must die, and if miracles could take place. But Johannes' father was a wise man, and did not tell all he knew. That was well for Johannes. Evenings, before he went to sleep, Johannes always made a long prayer. His nurse had taught him. He prayed for his father and for Presto. Simon, he thought, did not need to be prayed for. He prayed a good while for himself, too, and almost always ended with the wish that some day there might be a miracle. And when he had said _Amen_, he peeped expectantly around the darkening room, at the faces on the wall-hangings, which looked still stranger in the faint twilight; and at the door-knob, and the clock, where the miracle ought now to begin. But the clock always kept on ticking in the very same way--the door-knob did not stir--it grew quite dark, and Johannes fell asleep without having seen the miracle. But some day it would happen. He knew it would. II It was warm by the pool and utterly still. The sun, flushed and tired with his daily work, seemed to rest a moment on the rim of the dunes, for a breathing spell before diving under. The smooth water reflected, almost perfectly, the flaming face of the sun. The leaves of the beech tree which hung over the pond took advantage of the stillness to look at themselves attentively, in the mirror-like water. The solitary heron, standing on one foot between the broad leaves of a water-lily, forgot that he had come out to catch frogs, and, deep in thought, was gazing along his nose. Then came Johannes to the grass plot, to see the cloud-grotto. Plump! plump! sprang the frogs from the bank. The mirror was all rippled, the image of the sun was broken up into broad bands, and the beech leaves rustled angrily, for they had not yet viewed themselves long enough. Fastened to the bare roots of a beech tree lay a little old boat. Johannes had been strictly forbidden to get into it; but, oh, how strong the temptation was this evening! The clouds had already taken the semblance of a wondrous portal, behind which the sun would soon sink to rest. Glittering ranks of clouds ranged themselves at the sides, like a golden-armored life-guard. The face of the water reflected the glow, and red rays darted through the reeds like arrows. Slowly, Johannes loosened the boat-rope from the roots. He would drift there, in the midst of the splendor. Presto had already sprung into the boat, and before his master intended it the reeds moved apart, and away they both drifted toward the evening sun. Johannes lay in the bow, and gazed into the depths of the light-grotto. Wings! thought he. Wings now, and away I would fly! The sun had disappeared, but the clouds were all aglow. In the east the sky was deep blue. A row of willows stood along the bank, their small, pale leaves thrust motionlessly out into the still air. They looked like exquisite, pale-green lace against the sombre background. Hark! What was that? It darted and whizzed like a gust of wind cutting a sharp furrow in the face of the water. It came from the dunes--from the grotto in the clouds! When Johannes looked round, a big, blue dragon-fly sat on the edge of the boat. He had never seen one so large. It rested there, but its wings kept quivering in a wide circle. It seemed to Johannes that the tips of its wings made a luminous ring. That must be a fire dragon-fly, he thought--a rare thing. The ring grew larger and larger, and the wings whirled so fast that Johannes could see nothing but a haze. And little by little, from out this haze, he saw the shining of two dark eyes; and a light, frail form in a garment of delicate blue sat in the place of the dragon-fly. A wreath of white wind-flowers rested upon the fair hair, and at the shoulders were gauzy wings which shimmered in a thousand hues, like a soap bubble. A thrill of happiness coursed through Johannes. _This_ was a miracle! "Will you be my friend?" he whispered. That was a queer way of speaking to a stranger. But this was not an every-day case, and he felt as if he had always known this little blue being. "Yes, Johannes," came the reply, and the voice sounded like the rustling of the reeds in the night wind, or the pattering of rain-drops on the forest leaves. "What is your name?" asked Johannes. "I was born in the cup of a wind-flower. Call me Windekind."[1] Windekind laughed, and looked in Johannes' eyes so merrily that his heart was blissfully cheered. "To-day is my birthday," said Windekind. "I was born not far away, of the first rays of the moon and the last rays of the sun. They say the sun is feminine.[2] It is not true. The sun is my father." Johannes determined forthwith to speak of the sun as masculine, the next morning, in school. "Look! There comes up the round, fair face of my mother. Good evening, Mother! Oh! oh! But she looks both good-natured and distressed!" He pointed to the eastern horizon. There, in the dusky heavens, behind the willow lace-work which looked black against the silver disk, rose the great shining moon. Her face wore a pained expression. "Come, come, Mother! Do not be troubled. Indeed, I can trust him!" The beautiful creature fluttered its gauzy wings frolicsomely and touched Johannes on the cheek with the Iris in its hand. "She does not like it that I am with you. You are the first one. But I trust you, Johannes. You must never, never speak my name nor talk about me to a human being. Do you promise?" "Yes, Windekind," said Johannes. It was still so strange to him. He felt inexpressibly happy, yet fearful of losing his happiness. Was he dreaming? Near him, Presto lay calmly sleeping on the seat. The warm breath of his dog put him at rest. The gnats swarmed over the face of the water, and danced in the sultry air, just as usual. Everything was quite clear and plain about him. It must be true! And all the time he felt resting upon him the trustful glance of Windekind. Then again he heard the sweet, quavering voice: "I have often seen you here, Johannes. Do you know where I was? Sometimes I sat on the sandy bottom of the pond, among the thick water plants, and looked up at you as you leaned over to drink, or to peep at the water beetles, or the newts. But you never saw me. And many times I peeped at you from the thick reeds. I am often there. When it is warm I sleep in an empty reed-bird's nest. And, oh! it is so soft!" Windekind rocked contentedly on the edge of the boat, and struck at the gnats with his flower. "I have come now to give you a little society. Your life will be too dreary, otherwise. We shall be good friends, and I will tell you many things--far better things than the school-master palms off upon you. He knows absolutely nothing about them. And when you do not believe me, I shall let you see and hear for yourself. I will take you with me." "Oh, Windekind! dear Windekind! Can you take me there?" cried Johannes, pointing to the sky, where the crimson light of the setting sun had just been streaming out of the golden cloud-gates. That glorious arch was already melting away in dull, grey mist, yet from the farthest depths a faint, rosy light was still shining. Windekind gazed at the light which was gilding his delicate features and his fair locks, and he gently shook his head. "Not yet, Johannes, not yet. You must not ask too much just now. Even I have not yet been at my father's home." "I am always with my father," said Johannes. "No! That is not your father. We are brothers, and my father is your father, too. But the earth is your mother, and for that reason we are very different. Besides, you were born in a house, with human beings, and I in a wind-flower. The latter is surely better. But it will be all the same to us." Then Windekind sprang lightly upon the side of the boat, which did not even stir beneath his weight, and kissed Johannes' forehead. That was a strange sensation for Johannes. Everything about him was changed. He saw everything now, he thought, much better and more exactly. The moon looked more friendly, too, and he saw that the water-lilies had faces, and were gazing at him pensively. Suddenly he understood why the gnats were all the time dancing so merrily around one another, back and forth and up and down, till their long legs touched the water. Once he had thought a good deal about it, but now he understood perfectly. He knew, also, what the reeds were whispering, and he heard the trees on the bank softly complaining because the sun had set. "Oh, Windekind, I thank you! This is delightful. Yes, indeed, we will have nice times together!" "Give me your hand," said Windekind, spreading his many-colored wings. Then he drew Johannes in the boat, over the water, through the lily leaves which were glistening in the moonlight. Here and there, a frog was sitting on a leaf. But now he did not jump into the water when Johannes came. He only made a little bow, and said: "Quack." Johannes returned the bow politely. Above everything, he did not wish to appear conceited. Then they came to the rushes. They were wide-spread, and the boat entirely disappeared in them without having touched the shore. But Johannes held fast to his guide, and they scrambled through the high stalks to land. Johannes thought he had become smaller and lighter, but perhaps that was imagination. Still, he could not remember ever having been able to climb up a grass stalk. "Now be ready," said Windekind, "you are going to see something funny." They walked on through the high grass, beneath the dark undergrowth which here and there let through a small, shining moonbeam. "Did you ever hear the crickets evenings in the dunes? It is just as if they were having a concert. Is it not? But you can never tell where the sound comes from. Now they never sing for the pleasure of it; but the sound comes from the cricket-school where hundreds of little crickets are learning their lessons by heart. Keep still, for we are close to them." Chirp! Chirp! The bushes became less dense, and when Windekind pushed apart the grass blades with his flower, Johannes saw a brightly lighted, open spot in the thin, spindling dune-grass, where the crickets were busily learning their lessons. Chirp! Chirp! A big fat cricket was teacher, and heard the lessons. One by one the pupils sprang up to him; always with one spring forward, and one spring back again, to their places. The one that made a bad spring was obliged to take his stand upon a toadstool. "Pay good attention, Johannes. Perhaps you too can learn something," said Windekind. Johannes understood very well what the little crickets answered. But it was not in the least like that which the teacher of his school taught. First came geography. They knew nothing of the parts of the world. They were only obliged to learn twenty-six dunes and two ponds. No one could know anything about what lay beyond, said the teacher, and whatever might be told about it was nothing but idle fancy. Then botany had its turn. They were all very clever at that, and there were many prizes distributed: selected grass blades of various lengths--tender and juicy. But the zoology astonished Johannes the most. There were springing, flying, and creeping creatures. The crickets could spring and fly, and therefore stood at the head. Then followed the frogs. The birds were mentioned, with every token of aversion, as most harmful and dangerous. Finally, human beings were discussed. They were great, useless, dangerous creatures that stood very low, since they could neither fly nor spring; but luckily they were very scarce. A wee little cricket who had never yet seen a human being got three hits with a wisp because he numbered human beings, by mistake, among the harmless animals. Johannes had never heard anything like this before. Suddenly, the teacher called out: "Silence. The springing exercise!" Instantly all the little crickets stopped studying their lessons and began to play leap-frog. They played with skill and zeal, and the fat teacher took the lead. It was such a merry sight that Johannes clapped his hands with joy. At the sound, the entire school rushed off in a twinkling to the dunes; and the little grass plot was as still as death. "See what you have done, Johannes!" cried Windekind. "You must not be so rude--one can very well see that you were born among human beings." "I am sorry. I will try my best to behave. But it was so funny!" "It is going to be funnier still," said Windekind. They cut across the grass plot and ascended the dunes on the other side. Ah, me! It was hard work in the deep sand, but Johannes caught hold of Windekind's light blue garment, and then he sped quickly and lightly up the slope. Half-way to the top was a rabbit-hole. The rabbit whose home it was lay with his head and forepaws out of the entrance. The sweet-briar was still in flower, and its faint, delicate fragrance mingled with that of the wild thyme which was growing near. Johannes had often seen rabbits disappear into their holes. He wondered what it was like inside them, and about how many could sit together there, and if it would not be very stifling. So he was very glad when he heard his companion ask the rabbit if they might take a peep inside. "Willingly, so far as I am concerned," said the rabbit, "but unfortunately, it just happens that I have resigned my dwelling this evening for the giving of a charity-festival. So, really, I am not master in my own house." "Ah, indeed! Has there been an accident?" "Alas, yes!" said the rabbit, sorrowfully. "A great calamity. We shall not recover from it in years. A thousand jumps from here a house for human beings has been built-a big, big house--and there those creatures with dogs have come to live. Fully seven members of my family have perished through their deeds, and three times as many more have been bereft of their homes. And matters are still worse with the Mouse and the Mole families. And the Toads have suffered heavily. So we have gotten up a festival for the benefit of the surviving relatives. Everybody does what he can. I gave my hole. One ought to have something to spare for his fellow-creatures." The compassionate rabbit sighed and, pulling a long ear over his head with his right forepaw, wiped a tear out of his eye. His ear was his handkerchief. Then something rustled in the grass, and a stout, clumsy figure came scrabbling up to the hole. "Look!" said Windekind. "Here comes Father Toad--hopping along." Then followed a pun at the toad's expense. But the toad paid no attention to the jest. His name furnished occasion for frequent jokes. Composedly he laid down by the entrance a full ear of corn, neatly folded in a dry leaf, and then he climbed dexterously over the back of the rabbit into the hole. "May we go in?" asked Johannes, who was full of curiosity. "I will give something, too!" He remembered that he still had a biscuit in his pocket-a little round biscuit of Huntley and Palmer's. As he pulled it out he noticed for the first time how small he had become. He could scarcely lift it with both hands, and could not understand how his pocket had contained it. "That is very rare and expensive," said the rabbit. "It is a costly gift." The entrance was respectfully made free to them both. It was dark in the cave, and Johannes let Windekind go in front. Soon, they saw a pale-green light approaching. It was a glow-worm, who obligingly offered to light the way for them. "It promises to be a very pleasant evening," said the glow-worm, as he led them on. "There are a great many guests. You are elves, I should say. Is it not so?" With these words, the glow-worm glanced at Johannes somewhat suspiciously. "You may announce us as elves," replied Windekind. "Do you know that your king is at the party?" continued the glow-worm. "Is Oberon here? That gives me a great deal of pleasure," exclaimed Windekind. "I know him personally." "Oh!" said the glow-worm. "I did not know I had the honor to...." and his light nearly went out from fright. "Yes, His Majesty much prefers the open air, but he is always ready to perform a charitable act. This is going to be a most brilliant affair!" It was indeed the case. The main room in the rabbit cave was splendidly decorated. The floor had been trodden smooth, and strewn with fragrant thyme. Directly in front of the entrance a bat was hanging, head downward. He called out the names of the guests, and served at the same time as a measure of economy for a curtain. The walls of the room were tastefully adorned with dry leaves, spider-webs and tiny, suspended bats. Innumerable glow-worms crept in and out of these, and all around the ceiling; and they made a most beautiful, ever-changing illumination. At the end of the chamber was a throne, built of bits of phosphorescent wood. It was a charming spectacle. There were many guests. Johannes felt himself rather out of place in the strange crowd, and drew close to Windekind. He saw queer things there. A mole was chatting with a field-mouse about the handsome decorations. In a corner sat two fat toads, nodding their heads at each other, and bewailing the continued dry weather. A frog, arm in arm with a lizard, attempted a promenade. Matters went badly with him, for he was timid and nervous, and every once in a while he jumped too far, thus doing damage to the wall decorations. On the throne sat Oberon, the elf-king, encircled by a little retinue of elves. These looked down rather disdainfully upon their surroundings. The king himself was most royal in his affability, and conversed in a friendly way with various guests. He had come from a journey in the Orient, and wore a strange garment of brightly colored flower-petals. Flowers like that do not grow here, thought Johannes. On his head rested a deep blue flower-cup, which was still as fragrant as though it had just been picked. In his hand was his sceptre--the stamen of a lotus-flower. All present were quietly lauding his goodness. He had praised the moonlight on the dunes, and had said that the glow-worms here were almost as beautiful as the fireflies of the Orient. He had pleasantly overlooked the wall decorations, and a mole, even, had noticed that he nodded approvingly. "Come with me," said Windekind. "I will present you." And they pressed forward to the place where the king sat. When Oberon recognized Windekind, he greeted him joyfully, and gave him a kiss. At that the guests whispered to one another, and the elves threw envious glances at the pair. The two plump toads in the corner mumbled together something about "fawning and flattering," and "not lasting long," and then nodded very significantly to each other. Windekind talked with Oberon for a long time in a strange language, and then beckoned to Johannes to come closer. "Give me your hand, Johannes," said the king. "Windekind's friends are mine also. Whenever I can I will help you, and I will give you a token of our alliance." Oberon released from the chain about his neck a little gold key, and gave it to Johannes who took it respectfully and held it shut close in his hand. "That little key may be your fortune," said the king. "It fits a golden chest which contains a precious treasure. Who holds that chest I cannot say, but you must search for it zealously. If you remain good friends with me and with Windekind--steadfast and true--you will surely succeed." With that, the elf-king inclined his beautiful head, cordially, while Johannes, overflowing with happiness, expressed his thanks. At this moment, three frogs, who were sitting together upon a little mound of damp moss, began to sing the introduction to a slow waltz, and partners were taken for the dance. Those who did not dance were lined along the side walls by the master of ceremonies--a lively, fussy little lizard--to the great vexation of the two toads who complained that they could not see. Then the dancing began. And it was so comical! Every one danced in his own way, and fancied, of course, that he danced better than any one else. The mice and frogs sprang high up on their hind feet, and an old rat whirled round so wildly that all the dancers retreated before him. A fat tree-slug took a turn with a mole, but soon gave it up, under pretense that she was taken with a stitch in the side. The real reason was that she could not dance very well. However, everything moved on seriously and ceremoniously. It was a matter of conscience with them, and all looked anxiously toward the king to find a sign of approval upon his countenance. But the king was afraid of causing discontent, and looked very sedate. His followers considered it beneath them to take part in the dancing. Johannes had contained himself well, through all this seriousness, but when he saw a tiny toad whirling around with a tall lizard, who now and then lifted the unhappy toad high up off the floor and described a half circle with her in the air, he burst out into a merry laugh. Then there was consternation. The music stopped and the king; looked round with a troubled air. The master of ceremonies flew in full speed up to the laugher, and urgently besought him to conduct himself with more decorum. "Dancing is a serious matter," said he, "and nothing at all to be laughed at. This is a dignified company, who are dancing not merely for the fun of it. Every one was doing his best, and no one wished to be laughed at. That was very rude. More than that, this is a mourning feast--a sorrowful occasion. One should conduct himself respectably here, and not behave as though he were among human beings." Johannes was frightened at that. Moreover, he saw hostile looks. His familiarity with the king had made him many enemies. Windekind led him to one side. "We would better go away," he whispered. "You have made a mess of it again. That is the way when one is brought up among human beings." Hastily, they slipped out under the bat-wing portiere, and entered the dim passage. The polite glow-worm was waiting for them. "Have you had a good time?" he asked. "Did King Oberon speak with you?" "Oh, yes. It was a jolly festival," said Johannes. "Do you have to stay here all the time, in this dark passage?" "That is my own choice," said the glow-worm, in a bitter, mournful voice. "I care no more for vanities." "Come," said Windekind, "you do not mean that!" "It is just as I say. Formerly--formerly there was a time when I, too, went to feasts, and danced, and kept up with such frivolities; but now I am purified through suffering, now...." And he became so agitated that his light went out again. Fortunately they were near the outlet, and the rabbit, hearing them coming, moved a little to one side, so that the moonlight shone in. As soon as they were outside by the rabbit, Johannes said: "Will you not tell us your history, Glow-worm?" "Alas!" sighed the glow-worm, "it is a sad and simple story. It will not amuse you." "Tell us! Tell us, all the same!" they cried. "Well, then, you know that we glow-worms are very peculiar beings. Yes, I believe no one would contradict that we glow-worms are the most highly gifted of all who live. "Why? I do not know that," said the rabbit. At this, the glow-worm asked disdainfully, "Can you give light?" "No, indeed, I cannot," the rabbit was obliged to confess. "Now _we_ give light--all of us. And we can make it shine or can extinguish it. Light is the best gift of Nature, and to make light is the highest achievement of any living being. Ought any one then to contest our precedence? Moreover, we little fellows have wings, and can fly for miles." "I cannot do that, either," humbly admitted the rabbit. "Through the divine gift of light which we have," continued the glow-worm, "other creatures stand in awe of us, and no bird will attack us. Only one animal--the human being--the basest of all, chases us, and carries us off. He is the most detestable monster in creation!" At this sally Johannes looked at Windekind as though he did not understand. But Windekind smiled, and motioned to him to be silent. "Once, I flew gaily around among the shrubs, like a bright will-o'-the-wisp. In a moist, lonely meadow on the bank of a ditch there lived one whose existence was inseparably linked with my own happiness. She sparkled beautifully in her light emerald-green as she crept about in the grass, and my young heart was enraptured. I circled about her, and did my best, by making my light play, to attract her attention. Gratefully, I saw that she had perceived me, and demurely extinguished her own light. Trembling with emotion, I was on the point of folding my wings and sinking down in rapture beside my radiant loved one, when the air was filled with an awful noise. Dark figures approached. They were human beings. In terror, I took flight. They chased me, and struck at me with big black things. But my wings went faster than their clumsy legs." "When I returned--" Here the narrator's voice failed him. After an instant of deep emotion, during which the three listeners maintained a respectful silence, he continued: "You may already have surmised it. My tender bride--the brightest, most glowing of all--she had disappeared; kidnapped by cruel human beings. The still, dewy grass-plot was trampled, and her favorite place by the ditch was dark and deserted. I was alone in the world." Here the impressionable rabbit once again pulled down an ear, and wiped a tear from his eye. "Since that time I have been a different creature. I have an aversion for all idle pleasures. I think only of her whom I have lost, and of the time when I shall see her again." "Really! Do you still hope to?" said the rabbit, rejoiced. "I more than hope--I am certain. In heaven I shall see my beloved again." "But--" the rabbit objected. "Bunnie," said the glow-worm, gravely, "I can understand that one who was obliged to grope about in the dark might doubt, but when one can see, with his own eyes! That puzzles me. There!" said the glow-worm, gazing reverently up at the star-dotted skies; "there I behold them--all my forefathers, all my friends, and her, too, more gloriously radiant than when here upon earth. Ah, when shall I be able to rise up out of this lower life, and fly to her who beckons me so winsomely? When, ah, when?" With a sigh, the glow-worm turned away from his listeners and crept back again into the dark passage. "Poor creature!" said the rabbit. "I hope he is right." "I hope so too," added Johannes. "I have my doubts," said Windekind, "but it was very touching." "Dear Windekind," began Johannes, "I am very tired and sleepy." "Then come close to me, and I will cover you with my mantle." Windekind took off his little blue mantle and spread it over Johannes and himself. So they lay down on the gentle slope, in the fragrant moss, with their arms about each other's neck. "Your heads lie rather low," said the rabbit. "Will you rest them against me?" They did so. "Good-night, Mother!" said Windekind to the moon. Then Johannes shut the little gold key tight in his hand, pressed his head against the downy coat of the good rabbit, and fell fast asleep. [1] Windekind = Child of the _Winde_ or Windflower. [2] In Dutch, the word sun is feminine. III Where is he, Presto?--Where is he? What a fright to wake up in the boat, among the reeds, all alone, the master gone and not a trace of him! It is something to be alarmed about. And how long you have been running, barking nervously, trying to find him, poor Presto! How could you sleep so soundly and not notice the little master get out of the boat? Otherwise, you would have wakened as soon as he made the least move. You could scarcely find the place where he landed, and here in the downs you are all confused. That nervous sniffing has not helped a bit. Oh, despair! The master gone--not a sign of him. Find him, Presto, find him! See! straight before you on the hillside. Is not that a little form lying there? Look! look! For an instant the little dog stood motionless, straining his gaze out into the distance. Then suddenly he stretched out his head, and raced--flew with all the might of his four little paws toward that dark spot on the hillside. And when it proved to be the grievously wanted little master, he could not find a way to fully express his joy and thankfulness. He wagged his tail, his entire little body quivering with joy--he jumped, yelped, barked, and then pushed his little cold nose against the face of his long-sought friend, and licked and sniffed all over it. "Cuddle down, Presto, in your basket," said Johannes, only half awake. How stupid of the master! There was no basket there, as any one could see. Very, very slowly the day began to break in the mind of the little sleeper. Presto's sniffings he was used to--every morning. But dream-figures of elves and moonshine still lingered in his soul as the morning mists cling to the landscape. He feared that the chill breath of the dawn might chase them away. "Eyes fast shut," thought he, "or I shall see the clock and the wall-paper, just as ever." But he was not lying right. He felt there was no covering over him. Slowly and cautiously he opened his eyelids a very little way. Bright light. Blue sky. Clouds. Then Johannes opened his eyes wide and said: "Is it really true?" Yes, he lay in the middle of the dunes. The cheerful sunshine warmed him, he breathed the fresh morning air, and in the distance a fine mist skirted the woods. He saw only the tall beech tree beside the pond, and the roof of his house rising above the foliage. Bees and beetles hummed about him; above him sang the ascending skylark; from far away came the sound of barkino-does, and the rumble of the distant town. It was all as plain as day. But what had he dreamed and what not? Where was Windekind? And where was the rabbit? He could see neither of them. Only Presto, who sat up against him as close as possible, watching him expectantly. "Could I have been sleep-walking?" murmured Johannes, softly. Beside him was a rabbit-hole. But there were a great many such in the dunes. He sat up straight, so as to give it a good look. What was it he felt in his tightly shut hand? A thrill ran through him from the crown of his head to his feet as he opened his hand. There lay a bright little gold key. For a time he sat speechless. "Presto," said he then, while the tears sprang to his eyes, "Presto, then it _is_ true!" Presto sprang up and tried, by barking, to make it clear to his master that he was hungry and wanted to go home. To the house? Johannes had not thought of that, and cared little to return. But soon he heard different voices calling his name. Then he began to realize that his behavior would be considered neither kind nor courteous; and that, for a long time to come, there would be no friendly words in store for him. For an instant, at the first trouble, his tears of joy were very nearly turned into those of fear and regret. But when he thought about Windekind, who now was his friend--his friend and confidant--of the elf-king's gift, and of the glorious, indisputable truth of all that had occurred, he took his way home, calm and prepared for anything. But the meeting was more difficult than he expected. He had not fully anticipated the fear and distress of the household over his absence. He was urged to promise solemnly that he never again would be so naughty and imprudent. "I cannot do so," said he, resolutely. They were surprised at that. He was interrogated, coaxed, threatened; but he thought of Windekind and remained stubborn. What could it matter if only he held Windekind's friendship--and what would he not be willing to suffer for Windekind's sake! He pressed the little key close to his breast, and shut his lips together, while he answered every question with a shrug of his shoulders. "I cannot promise," said he, again. But his father said: "It is a serious matter with him--we will let him be, now. Something unusual must have happened. Sometime, he will tell us about it." Johannes smiled, silently ate his bread and butter, and then slipped away to his little bedroom. There, he snipped oft a bit of the curtain cord, strung his precious key upon it, and hung it around his neck, on his bare breast. Then, comforted, he went to school. It went very badly that day at school. He knew none of his lessons, and paid absolutely no attention. His thoughts flew continually to the pond, and to the marvelous happenings of the evening before. He could scarcely believe that a friend of the elf-king could again be obliged to figure sums, and conjugate verbs. But it had all truly been, and not one of those around him knew anything about it. No one could believe or understand--not even the master--no matter how fierce he looked, nor how scornfully he called Johannes a lazy dog. He endured the angry comments with resignation and performed the tasks which his absent-mindedness brought upon him. "They have not the least idea of it. They may rail at me as much as they please. I shall remain Windekind's friend, and Windekind is worth more to me than all of them put together; yes, master and all." That was not respectful of Johannes. But after all the hard things he had heard about them the evening before, his esteem for his fellow-creatures had not been increased. More than that, he was not sensible enough to put his wisdom to the best use; or, rather, to keep silent. When his master stated that human beings only were gifted by God with reasoning powers, and were placed as rulers over all the other animals, he began to laugh. That cost him a bad mark, and a severe rebuke. And when his seat-mate read aloud from his exercise-book the following sentence: "The sun is very old--she is older than my cross old aunt," Johannes instantly cried out, "_He_ is older!" Everybody laughed at him, and the master, astonished at such amazing stupidity, as he called it, made Johannes remain after school to write out this sentence a hundred times: "The age of my aunt is very great, the age of the sun is greater; but the greatest thing of all is my amazing stupidity." His schoolmates had all disappeared, and Johannes sat alone writing in the great school-room. The sun shone gaily in, lighting up a thousand motes on the way, and forming on the white-washed walls great splashes of light which, with the passing hours, crept slowly forward. The teacher had gone away, and shut the door behind him with a bang. Johannes was already on the fifty-second "age of my aunt," when a nimble little mouse, with silky ears, and little black beads of eyes, came out of the farthest corner of the room and ran without a sound along by the wall. Johannes kept as still as death, not to frighten away the pretty creature. It was not afraid, and came up close to where he was sitting. Then, peering round a moment with its bright keen little eyes, it sprang lightly up--one jump to the bench, the second to the desk on which Johannes was writing. "Hey!" said he, half to himself, "but you are a plucky little mouse!" "I do not know whom I should be afraid of," said a mite of a voice; and the mouse showed his little teeth as if he were laughing. Johannes had already become used to many wonderful things, but this made him open his eyes wide. In the middle of the day, and in school! It was past all belief. "You need not be afraid of me," said he, softly--for fear of startling the mouse. "Have you come from Windekind?" "I came just to say to you that the teacher is quite right, and that you roundly deserved your punishment." "But Windekind said that the sun was our father." "Yes, but it was not necessary to let anybody else know it. What have human beings to do with it? You must never speak of such delicate matters to them--they are too coarse. A human being is an astonishingly cruel and clumsy creature, who would prefer to seize and trample to death whatever came within his reach. We mice have had experience of that." "But, Mousie, why do you stay in this neighborhood? Why do you not go far away--to the woods?" "Alas! we cannot do that now. We are too much accustomed to town food. Provided one is prudent and always takes care to avoid their traps and their heavy feet, it becomes possible to endure human beings. Fortunately, we still retain our nimbleness. The worst of it is that human beings help out their own clumsiness by covenanting with the cat. That is a great calamity, but in the woods there are owls and hawks, and we should all certainly perish there. Now, Johannes, remember my advice. There comes the teacher!" "Mousie, Mousie! Do not go away! Ask Windekind what I must do with my key. I have hung it around my neck, on my bare breast. But Saturday I have to take a bath, and I am so afraid somebody will see it. Tell me, Mousie dear, where I can safely hide it." "In the ground--always in the ground. Everything is safest there. Shall I take, and keep it?" "No, not here, at school!" "Bury it then, out in the dunes. I will tell my cousin, the field-mouse, that he must keep watch of it." "Thank you, Mousie." Tramp! tramp! The master was coming. In the time it took Johannes to dip his pen, the mouse had disappeared. The master himself, who was impatient to go home, excused Johannes from the forty-eight remaining lines. For two long days Johannes lived in constant fear. He was closely watched, and no opportunity was allowed him for escaping to the dunes. Friday came, and he was still carrying around that precious key. The following evening he must take his weekly bath; the key would be discovered and taken away from him. He grew stiff with fear at the thought of it. He dared not hide it in the house--nor in the garden--no place seemed to him safe enough. It was Friday afternoon and the twilight began to fall. Johannes sat before his bedroom window, looking wistfully out over the green shrubs of the garden to the distant dunes. "Windekind, Windekind, help me!" he whispered, anxiously. There was a gentle rustling of wings near him, then came the fragrance of lilies-of-the-valley, and suddenly he heard the sweet, familiar voice. Windekind sat near him on the window-seat, making the little lily-bells swing on their slender stalk. "At last! Have you come? I have longed for you so!" said Johannes. "Come with me, Johannes; we will go and bury your key." "I cannot," said Johannes, with a sigh. But Windekind took him by the hand, and, light as the feathery seed of a dandelion, he was drifting away through the still evening air. "Windekind," said Johannes as they went, "I think so much of you! I believe I would willingly give up every human being for you. Presto, even." "And Simon?" said Windekind. "Oh, it cannot make much difference to Simon whether I like him or not. He thinks such things childish, I believe. Simon cares only for the fishwoman; and not even for her, save when he is hungry. Do you believe, Windekind, that Simon is an ordinary cat?" "No! He has been a human being." Buz-z-z-z! Just then a big May-bug flew against Johannes. "Cannot you look out for yourself better than that?" grumbled the May-bug. "H'm! You elfin baggage! You fly as if you owned all the air there was. You have learned that from the do-nothings who only just fly round and round for their own pleasure. One who always does his duty, like me--who always seeks food, and eats as hard as he can, is put out by such actions." And away he flew, buzzing loudly. "Is he vexed because we are not eating anything?" asked Johannes. "Yes, that is May-bug fashion. Among the May-bugs it is considered the highest duty to eat a great deal. Shall I tell you the story of a young May-bug?" "Yes, do, Windekind." "He was a fine, young May-bug who had only just crept out of the sod. What a surprise it was! For four long years he had been under the dark ground, waiting for the first warm evening. When he got his head up out of the clods and saw all that foliage, and the waving grass, and the singing birds, he was greatly perplexed. He did not know what to do. He touched the near-by grass blades all over with his feelers, thrusting them out in fan shape. From this he perceived, Johannes, that he was a male. He was very handsome in his way--with shining black legs, a plump, powdered after-part, and a breastplate that gleamed like a mirror. Happily, he soon discovered, not far away, another May-bug--not quite so handsome, but who had flown out a full day earlier and thus was of age. Quite modestly, because he was still so young, he hailed this other one. "'What do you want, little friend?' said the second one condescendingly, observing that it was a novice: 'Do you want to inquire the way?' "'No, but you see,' said the younger, politely, 'I do not know what I ought to be doing here. What does one do when he is a May-bug?' "'Indeed,' said the other, 'do you not know that? Well, that is excusable. Once _I_ did not know. Listen, and I will tell you. The chief concern of a May-bug's life is to eat. Not far from this is a delicious linden hedge that was put there for us to eat from as busily as possible.' "'Who planted the linden hedge there?' asked the young beetle. "'Well, a great creature who means well by us. Every morning he comes along the hedge, picks out those that have eaten the most, and takes them with him to a splendid house where a bright light shines, and where all the May-bugs are very happy together. But those who keep flying about the whole night instead of eating are caught by the bat.' "'Who is that?' asked the novice. "'A fearful monster with sharp teeth, that all of a sudden comes flying after us, and crunches us up with a horrible crack.' As the beetle said this, they heard above them a shrill squeaking which pierced through to the marrow. 'Hey! There he is!' exclaimed the older one. 'Look out for him, my young friend. Be thankful that I have warned you in good time. You have a long night before you--make the best of it. The less you eat the greater the chance of your being devoured by the bat. Only those who choose a serious calling in life can enter the great house with the bright light. Bear that in mind! A serious calling!' "Then the beetle, who was a whole day the older, scrabbled away among the blades of grass, leaving the other behind, greatly impressed. Do you understand what a calling is, Johannes? No? Well, neither did the young beetle know. It had something to do with eating, he knew, but how was he to get to the linden hedge? "Close beside him stood a slim, strong grass-stem swaying gently in the evening wind. He grasped it, and hugged it tightly with his six little crooked feet. It seemed as tall as a giant viewed from below, and fearfully steep. But the May-bug was determined to reach the very tip of it. "'This is a calling,' he thought, and he began to climb, pluckily. It was slow work--he often slipped back; but still he made progress, and at last, when he had climbed to the tip-top and was swinging and swaying there, he felt content and happy. What a view! It seemed to him as if he overlooked the world. How blissful it was to be surrounded, on all sides, by the air! He breathed it in eagerly. How marvelously it cheered him up! He would go still higher! "In ecstasy he lifted up his shields, and made his filmy wings quiver. Higher he would go! Higher! Again he fluttered his wings--his feet let loose the grass-stem, and--oh, joy!--He was flying, free and clear, in the still, warm evening air!" "And then?" asked Johannes. "The continuation is not cheerful. I will tell it you a little later." They had flown away over the pond. A pair of belated white butterflies fluttered along with them. "Where are you going, elves?" they asked. "To the big wild-rose that blossoms on yonder hill." "We will go, too! We will go, too!" In the distance, the rose-bush with its many pale-yellow satiny flowers was already visible. The buds were red, and the open roses showed little stripes of the same color, in token of the time when they still were buds. In solitary calm, this sweet wild-rose bloomed, and filled the region with its marvelous fragrance. So delicious is this that the dune-elves live upon it alone. The butterflies fluttered up to it, and kissed flower after flower. "We come to entrust a treasure to you," said Windekind. "Will you take care of it for us?" "Why not? why not?" whispered the wild-rose. "Watching does not tire me, and I do not think to go away from here, if no one carries me off. And I have sharp thorns." Then came the field-mouse--the cousin of the mouse at the school. He dug a passage under the roots of the rose-bush, and pulled in the little key. "If you want it back again, you must call on me. And then the rose need not be harmed." The rose interlocked its thorny twigs close over the entrance, and took a solemn oath to guard the trust. The butterflies were witnesses. The next morning, Johannes woke up in his own little bed, with Presto, the clock, and the wall-hangings. The cord around his neck, and the little key upon it, had disappeared. IV "Oh, boys, boys! How dreadfully tedious it is in summer!" sighed one of the three big stoves which stood together, fretting, in a dark corner of the garret in the old house. "For weeks I have not seen a living soul nor heard a sensible word. And that emptiness within. It is horrible!" "I am full of spider-webs," said the other. "In winter that would not happen." "And I am so dusty that I shall be shamed to death next winter when the black man appears, as Van Alphen says." This bit of learning the third stove had gotten, of course, from Johannes, as he sat before the hearth winters, reciting verses. "You must not speak so disrespectfully of the Smith," said the first stove--which was the eldest. "It pains me." And a number of shovels and tongs also, which lay here and there on the floor, wrapped in paper to keep them from rusting, expressed freely their indignation at the frivolous remark. Suddenly, they all stopped talking; for the trap-door was lifted, a ray of light darted to the far corner, exposing the entire dusty company, to their surprise and confusion. It was Johannes whose coming had disturbed their talk. He had always enjoyed a visit to the garret; and now, after all the recent happenings, he often went there to find quiet and seclusion. There, too, closed with a shutter was a window, which looked out over the hillside. It was a keen delight to open that shutter suddenly, and after the mysterious gloom of the garret, to see before him all at once the wide-spread, clearly lighted landscape, framed by the gently undulating lines of the hills. Three weeks had passed away since that Friday evening, and Johannes had not seen nor heard anything of his friend. His little key was now gone, and there was nothing to prove to him that he had not been dreaming. Often, he could not reason away the fear that all had been only imagination. He kept his own counsel, and his father remarked with anxiety that Johannes, since that night in the dunes, had certainly been ill. Johannes, however, was only longing for Windekind. "Ought not he to care as much for me as I do for him?" he mused, while he leaned against the garret window and gazed out over the verdant, flowery garden. "And why does he not come oftener, and stay longer? If _I_ could!... But perhaps he has other friends, and cares more for them than for me? I have no other friend--not one. I care only for him--so much, oh, so much!" Then he saw defined against the deep blue sky a flock of six white doves which wheeled with flapping wings above the house. It seemed as if one thought impelled them, so swiftly and simultaneously, again and again, they altered their direction, as if to enjoy to the full the sea of sunlight in which they were circling. All at once they flew toward Johannes' little attic-window, and, with much fluttering and flapping of wings, alighted on the gutter. There they cooed, and bustled back and forth, with little, mincing steps. One of them had a little red feather in his wing. He tugged and pulled at it until he held it in his beak. Then he flew up to Johannes and gave it to him. Johannes had scarcely taken it when he felt that he had become as light and fleet as one of the doves. He stretched himself out, up flew the flock of doves, and Johannes soared in their midst, through the free, open air and the clear sunshine. Nothing was around him but the pure blue, and the bright gleaming of the white dove-wings. They flew over the garden toward the woods, whose tree-tops were waving in the distance like the swell of a green sea. Johannes looked down below, and saw his father sitting at the open window of the living-room. Simon sat on the window-sill, his forepaws folded, basking in the sunshine. "Can they see me?" he thought; but he did not dare call to them. Presto was tearing through the garden paths, sniffing about every shrub, behind every wall, and scratching against the door of every hot-house or out-building, trying to find his master. "Presto! Presto!" cried Johannes. The dog looked up, and began to wag his tail and whimper, plaintively. "I am coming back, Presto. Watch!" cried Johannes, but he was too far away. They swept over the woods, and the crows flew croaking out of the high tree-tops where their nests were. It was midsummer, and the odor of the blossoming lindens streamed up from the green woods below them. In an empty nest at the top of a tall linden tree sat Windekind with the wreath of wind-flowers upon his head. He nodded to Johannes. "Is that you? That is good," said he. "I sent for you. Now we can stay together a long while--if you would like to." "Indeed, I would like to," said Johannes. Then he thanked the kind doves who had brought him thither, and dropped down with Windekind into the woods. It was cool and shady there. The golden thrush was fluting his strain--nearly always the very same, but yet a little different. "Poor bird!" said Windekind. "He was once a bird-of-paradise. That you can still see by his strange, yellow feathers; but he was given another covering and expelled from Paradise. There is a word which can bring back again his former glorious covering, and restore him to Paradise, but he has forgotten it. Day after day he tries to find that word. He sings something like it, but it is not the right word." Countless flies were glistening like floating crystals in the sunbeams that fell through the dark foliage. Listening acutely, one could hear their buzzing like a great, monotonous concert, filling the entire forest. It was as if the sunbeams sang. Thick, dark-green moss covered the ground, and Johannes had become so small again that it appeared to him like a new-grown woods at the bottom of the great forest. What elegant little stems and how closely they grew! It was difficult to pass between them, and the moss-woods seemed dreadfully large. Then they came upon an ant-path. Hundreds of ants ran busily to and fro, some carrying bits of wood, little leaves, or blades of grass in their jaws. There was such a tumult that it almost made Johannes dizzy. They were all so busy it was a long time before one of the ants would stop to speak with them. At last they found an old ant who had been stationed to keep watch over the small plant-lice from which the ants draw their honey-dew. Since his small herd was quiet he could devote a little time to the strangers, and show them the great nest. It was situated at the foot of an old tree-trunk, was very large, and had hundreds of entrances and little chambers. The plant-louse herder gave explanations, and led the visitors around everywhere, till they came to the cells of the young, where the larvæ crept out of their white cocoons. Johannes was amazed and delighted. The old ant said that they were living under great stress on account of the military campaign which was about to be executed. They were going, with a huge force, to attack another ant colony not far away; to destroy the nest, and to steal or kill the larvæ. To accomplish this, they would need all the help possible, and thus they must first settle the most urgent affairs. "What is the reason for this military expedition?" asked Johannes. "It does not seem nice." "Indeed," said the herder, "it is a very fine and praiseworthy enterprise! You must know that it is the Fighting-Ants we are going to attack. We are going to extirpate their species, and that is a very good deed." "Are not you Fighting-Ants, then?" "Certainly not! What makes you think so? We are Peace-Ants." "Then what does that mean?" "Do you not know? I will explain. Once, all the ants were continually fighting--not a day passed without great slaughter. Then there came a good, wise ant who thought it would save a great deal of trouble if all the ants would agree to fight no more. "When he said that, they all found it very strange; and what did they do but begin to bite him into pieces. Later, came still other ants who were of the very same opinion. These also were bitten into mince-meat. But so many of them kept coming that the biting-up became too much work for the others. "Then they named themselves Peace-Ants, and all agreed that the first Peace-Ant was right. Whoever dissented was, in his turn, bitten up. Thus, nearly all the ants nowadays have become Peace-Ants, and the remnants of the first Peace-Ant have been preserved with great care and respect. We have the head--the authentic head. We have laid waste twelve other colonies, and have murdered the ants who pretended to have the genuine head. Now, there are only four such colonies left. They call themselves Peace-Ants, but they are really Fighting-Ants; because, you see, we have the true head, and the Peace-Ant had but one head. We are going, one of these days, to stamp out the thirteenth colony. You see now, that this is a good work." "Yes, indeed," said Johannes, "it is very ... remarkable." Really he had become a little afraid, and felt more comfortable when they had taken their leave of the obliging herder and, far away from the ant colony, were resting awhile on a swaying grass-blade, in the shadow of a graceful fern-leaf. "Whoo!" sighed Johannes, "that was a stupid, blood-thirsty set." Windekind laughed, and swung up and down on his grass-blade. "Oh," said he, "you must not call them stupid. Human beings go to the ants to learn wisdom from them." Thus Windekind showed Johannes all the wonders of the woods. They flew together to the birds in the tree-tops, and in the close hedges; went down into the clever little dwellings of the moles, and saw the bees' nest in the old tree-trunk. Finally, they came to an open place surrounded with undergrowth. The honeysuckle grew there in great abundance. It twined its wanton tendrils over all the shrubs, and its fragrant garlands adorned the luxuriant foliage. A flock of tomtits hopped and fluttered among the leaves, and chirped and chattered clamorously. "Let us stay a little longer," said Johannes. "It is delightful here." "Good," said Windekind. "Then you will see some more comical things." Little blue-bells were growing in the grass. Johannes went up to one of them, and began to chat about the bees and the butterflies. These were good friends of the blue-bell, and so the conversation flowed smoothly on. What was that? A great shadow passed over the grass, and something like a white cloud descended upon the blue-bell. Johannes scarcely had time to get out of the way. He flew to Windekind, who was sitting high up in a honeysuckle. From thence he saw that the white cloud was a handkerchief, and just then a portly woman sat down hard upon the handkerchief, and upon the poor little blue-bell that was under it. He had not time to lament, for the sound of voices and of cracking branches filled the open place, and a crowd of people approached. "Now we are going to have a laugh," said Windekind. There they came--human beings. The women with baskets and umbrellas in hand; the men with high, stiff black hats on. Almost all the men were very, very black. In the sunny, green forest, they looked like great, ugly ink spots on a splendid picture. Bushes were thrust rudely aside, and flowers were trampled under foot. Many more white handkerchiefs were spread over the meek grass; and the patient mosses, sighing, yielded to the weight that bore them down, and feared never to recover from the shock. The smoke of cigars curled up over the honeysuckle vines, spitefully driving away the delicate fragrance of their flowers; and loud voices scattered the merry tomtits, that, chirping their fright and indignation, sought refuge in the nearest trees. One man rose up from the crowd, and went to stand on a little mound. He had long, light hair, and a pale face. He said something, and then all the people opened their mouths frightfully wide and began to sing so hard that the crows flew up, croaking, from their high nests, and the inquisitive rabbits that had come to the edge of the glade, just to look on, took fright and started on a run, and kept it up a quarter of an hour after they were safe again in the dunes. Windekind laughed, and whisked away the cigar smoke with a fern-leaf. The tears came into Johannes' eyes, but not from the smoke. "Windekind," said he, "I want to go away--it is so ugly and horrid here." "No, we must stay a while longer. You will laugh; it is going to be still more comical." The singing was over, and the pale man began to speak. He shouted, so that all could hear, but what he said sounded very kind. He called the people brothers and sisters, and spoke of glorious nature, and the wonders of creation, of God's sunshine and of the dear birds and flowers.... "What is that?" asked Johannes. "Why does he speak of those things? Does he know you? Is he a friend of yours?" Windekind shook his garlanded head disdainfully. "He does not know me; still less the sun, the birds, the flowers. Everything he says is false." The people all listened very attentively. The fat woman who was sitting on the blue-bell began several times to cry, and wiped away her tears with her skirt, because she had not the use of her handkerchief. The pale man said that God had caused the sun to shine so brightly for the sake of their meeting. Then Windekind laughed and, out of the thick foliage, threw an acorn at his nose. "He shall find it otherwise," said he. "My father shine for him! How conceited!" But the pale man was too full of enthusiasm to mind the acorn, which appeared to have fallen out of the sky. He spoke a long time, and the longer the louder. At last he grew purple in the face, clenched his fists, and shouted so loud that the leaves trembled and the grasses waved hither and thither in astonishment. When at last he calmed down, they all began to sing again. "Fie!" said a blackbird, who had heard the uproar from the top of a high tree. "What a frightful racket! I would rather the cows came into the woods. Just hear that! For shame!" Now, the blackbird is a critic, and has fine taste. After the singing, the people brought all sorts of eatables from baskets, boxes, and bags. They spread out papers, and distributed rolls and oranges. Bottles and glasses, too, came to light. Then Windekind called his allies together, and the siege of the feasting company began. A gallant frog jumped into the lap of an old lady, close beside the bread she was just about to eat, and remained sitting there, astonished at his own daring. The lady gave a horrible shriek, and stared at the intruder in amazement, without daring to stir. This mettlesome example found imitators. Green caterpillars crept valiantly over hats, handkerchiefs, and rolls, awakening fright and dismay. Big, fat spiders let themselves down glistening threads into the beer glasses, and upon heads or necks, and a loud, continual screaming accompanied their attack. Innumerable small flies assailed the people straight in the face, offering their lives for the good of the cause by tumbling into the food and drink, and, with their bodies, making it unfit for use. Finally, came multitudes of ants, a hundred at a time, and nipped the enemy in the most unexpected places. Men and women sprang up hurriedly from the long-crushed moss and grass; and the blue-bell was liberated through the well-aimed attack of two ear-wigs upon the ankles of the plump woman. Desperation seized them all; dancing and jumping with the most comical gestures, the people tried to escape from their pursuers. The pale man stood his ground well, and struck out on all sides with a small black stick; till a pair of malicious tomtits, that considered no method of attack too mean, and a wasp, that gave him a sting through his black trousers on the calf of the leg, put him out of the fight. The jolly sun could no longer keep his countenance, and hid his face behind a cloud. Big rain-drops descended upon the struggling party. Suddenly, as though it had rained down, a forest of big black toadstools appeared. It was the outstretched umbrellas. The women drew their skirts over their heads, exposing white petticoats, white-stockinged ankles, and shoes without heels. Oh, what fun it was for Windekind! He laughed so hard he had to cling to the flower-stem. Faster and faster fell the rain, and a greyish, glistening veil began to envelop the woods. Water dripped from umbrellas, high hats, and black coats. The coats shone like the shells of the water beetle, while the shoes kissed and smacked on the saturated ground. Then the people gave it up--dropping silently away in little groups, leaving many papers, empty bottles, and orange peels for unsightly tokens of their visit. The little glade in the woods was again solitary, and soon nothing was heard but the monotonous patter of the rain. "Well, Johannes! Now we have seen human beings, also. Why do you not laugh at them, as well?" "Oh, Windekind! Are all human beings like that?" "Some of them are much worse and more ugly. At times they swear and tear and make havoc with everything that is beautiful or admirable. They cut down trees, and put horrid, square houses in their places. They wantonly trample the flowers, and kill, for the mere pleasure of it, every animal that comes within their reach. In their cities, where they swarm together, everything is dirty and black, and the air is dank and poisonous with stench and smoke. They are completely estranged from Nature and her fellow-creatures. That is why they make such a foolish and sorry figure when they return to them." "Oh, Windekind! Windekind!" "Why are you crying, Johannes? You must not cry because you were born among human beings. I love you all the same, and prefer you to everybody else. I have taught you the language of the birds and the butterflies, and how to understand the look of the flowers. The moon knows you, and good, kind Earth loves you as her dearest child. Why should you not be glad, since I am your friend?" "Oh, Windekind, I am, I am! But then, I have to cry about all those people." "Why? If it makes you sad, you need not remain with them. You can live here, and always keep me company. We will dwell in the depths of the woods, on the lonely, sunny dunes, or in the reeds by the pond. I will take you everywhere--down under the water among the water-plants, in the palaces of the elves, and in the haunts of the goblins. I will hover with you over fields and forests--over foreign lands and seas. I will have dainty garments spun for you, and wings given you like these I wear. We will live upon the sweetness of the flowers, and dance in the moonlight with the elves. When autumn comes, we will keep pace with the sun, to lands where the tall palms rise, where gorgeous flowers festoon the rocks, and the face of the deep blue sea lies smiling in the sun. And I will always tell you stories. Would you like that, Johannes?" "Shall I never live with human beings any more?" "Among human beings there await you endless sorrow, trouble, weariness, and care. Day after day must you toil and sigh under the burden of your life. They will stab and torture your sensitive soul with their roughness. They will rack and harass you to death. Do you love human beings more than you love me?" "No, no, Windekind! I will stay with you." Now he could show how much he cared for Windekind. Yes, for his sake he would leave and forget each and everything--his bedroom, Presto, and his father. Joyfully and resolutely he repeated his wish. The rain had ceased. From under grey clouds the sunlight streamed over the woods like a bright smile. It touched the wet, shining leaves, the rain-drops which sparkled on every twig and stem, and adorned the spider-webs, stretched over the oak-leaves. From the moist ground below the shrubbery a fine mist languidly rose, bearing with it a thousand sultry, dreamy odors. The blackbird flew to the top of the highest tree, and sang in broken, fervent strains to the sinking sun, as if he would show which song suited best, in this solemn evening calm, as an accompaniment to the falling drops. "Is not that finer than the noise of human beings, Johannes? Yes, the blackbird knows exactly the right tone to strike. Here everything is in harmony--such perfect harmony you will never find among human beings." "What is harmony, Windekind?" "It is the same as happiness. It is that for which all strive. Human beings also. Yet they are like children trying to catch a butterfly. They simply drive it away by their silly efforts." "Shall I find it here with you?" "Yes, Johannes; but then you must forget human beings. It is a bad beginning to have been born among human beings; but you are still young. You must put away from you all remembrance of your human life, else it would cause you to err and plunge you into conflicts, perplexities, and misery. It would be with you as with the young May-bug I told you about." "What else happened to him?" "He had seen the bright light which the older beetle had spoken of, and could think of nothing better to do than promptly to fly to it. Straight as a string, he flew into a room, and fell into human hands. For three long days he suffered martyrdom. He was put into cardboard boxes, threads were tied to his feet, and he was made to fly. Then he tore himself free, with the loss of a wing and a leg, and finally, creeping helplessly around on the carpet in a vain endeavor to reach the garden, he was crushed by a heavy foot. "All creatures, Johannes, that roam around in the night are as truly children of the sun as we are. And although they have never seen the shining face of their father, still a dim remembrance ever impels them to anything from which light streams. And thousands of poor creatures of the darkness find a pitiful death through that love for the sun from whom they were long ago cut off and estranged. Thus a mysterious, irresistible tendency brings human beings to destruction in the false phantom of that Great Light which gave them being, but which they no longer understand." Johannes looked up inquiringly into Windekind's eyes. But they were deep and mysterious--like the dark sky between the stars. "Do you mean God?" he asked shyly. "God?" The deep eyes laughed gently. "I know, Johannes, of what you think when you utter that name; of the chair before your bed beside which you make your long prayer every evening; of the green serge curtains of the church window at which you look so often Sunday mornings; of the capital letters of your little Bible; of the church-bag with the long handle; of the wretched singing and the musty atmosphere. What you mean by that name, Johannes, is a ridiculous phantom; instead of the sun, a great oil-lamp where hundreds of thousands of gnats are helplessly stuck fast." "But what then is the name of the Great Light, Windekind? And to whom must I pray?" "Johannes, it is the same as if a speck of mold turning round with the earth should ask me its bearer's name. If there were an answer to your question you would understand it no more than does the earth-worm the music of the spheres. Still, I will teach you how to pray." Then, with little Johannes, who was musing in silent wonder over his words, Windekind flew up out of the forest, so high that beyond the horizon a long streak of shining gold became visible. On they flew--the fantastically shadowed plain gliding beneath their glance. And the band of light grew broader and broader. The green of the dunes grew dun, the grass looked grey, and strange, pale-blue plants were growing there. Still another high range of hills, a long narrow stretch of sand, and then the wide, awful sea. That great expanse was blue as far as the horizon, but below the sun flashed a narrow streak of glittering, blinding red. A long, fleecy margin of white foam encircled the sea, like an ermine border upon blue velvet. And at the horizon, sky and water were separated by an exquisite, wonderful line. It seemed miraculous; straight, and yet curved, sharp, yet undefined--visible, yet inscrutable. It was like the sound of a harp that echoes long and dreamfully, seeming to die away and yet remaining. Then little Johannes sat down upon the top of the hill and gazed--gazed long, in motionless silence, until it seemed to him as if he were about to die--as if the great golden doors of the universe were majestically unfolding, and his little soul were drifting toward the first light of Infinity. And then the tears welled in his wide-open eyes till they shrouded the glory of the sun, and obscured the splendor of heaven and earth in a dim and misty twilight. "That is the way to pray," said Windekind. V Did you ever wander through the woods on a beautiful autumn day, when the sun was shining, calm and bright, upon the richly tinted foliage; when the boughs creaked, and the dry leaves rustled about your feet? The woods seem so weary. They can only meditate, and live in old remembrances. A blue haze, like a dream, surrounds them with a mysterious beauty, and glistening gossamer floats through the air in idle undulations--like futile, aimless meditations. Yet, suddenly and unaccountably, out of the damp ground, between moss and dry leaves, rise up the marvelous toadstools; some thick, deformed, and fleshy; others tall and slender with ringed stems and bright-colored hoods. Strange dream-figures of the woods are they! There may be seen also, on moldering tree-trunks, countless, small white growths with little black tops, as if they had been burnt. Some wise folk consider them a kind of fungus. But Johannes learned better. "They are little candles. They burn in still autumn nights, and the goblin mannikins sit beside them, and read in little books." Windekind taught him that, on such a still autumn day, while Johannes dreamily inhaled the faint odor of the forest soil. "What makes the leaves of the sycamore so spotted with black?" "Oh, the goblins do that, too," said Windekind. "When they have been writing nights, they throw out in the morning, over the leaves, what is left in their ink bottles. They do not like this tree. Crosses, and poles for contribution bags, are made out of sycamore wood." Johannes was inquisitive about the busy little goblins, and he made Windekind promise to take him to one of them. He had already been a long time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret over his promise to forget all he had left behind. There were no times of anxiety or of loneliness--times when remorse wakens. Windekind never left him, and with him he was at home in any place. He slept peacefully, in the rocking nest of the reed-bird that hung among the green stalks, although the bittern roared and the raven croaked so ominously. He felt no fear on account of pouring rains nor shrieking winds. At such times he took shelter in hollow trees or rabbit-holes, and crept close under Windekind's mantle, and listened to the voice which was telling him stories. And now he was going to see the goblins. It was a good day for the visit--so very still. Johannes fancied he could already hear their light little voices, and the tripping of their tiny feet, although it was yet midday. The birds were nearly all gone--the thrushes alone were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There it hung with outstretched wings, struggling until the tightly pinioned little foot was nearly severed. Johannes quickly released it, and with a joyful chirp the bird flew swiftly away. The toadstools were having a chatty time together. "Just look at me," said one fat devil-fungus. "Did you ever see anything like it? See how thick and white my stem is, and see how my hood shines! I am the biggest of all. And that in one night!" "Bah!" said the red fly-fungus. "You are very clumsy--so brown and rough. I sway on my slender stalk like a grass stem. I am splendidly red, like the thrush-berry and gorgeously speckled. I am handsomer than any of you." "Be still!" said Johannes, who had known them well in former days. "You are both poisonous." "That is a virtue," said the red fungus. "Do you happen to be a human being?" grumbled the big fellow, scornfully. "If so, I would like to have you eat me up!" Johannes did not do that, however. He took little dry twigs, and stuck them into his clumsy hood. That made him look silly, and all the others laughed--among them, a little group of tiny toadstools with small, brown heads, who in a couple of hours had sprung up together, and were jostling one another to get a peep at the world. The devil-fungus was blue with rage. That brought to light his poisonous nature. Puff-balls raised their round, inflated little heads on four-pointed pedestals. From time to time a cloud of brown powder, of the utmost fineness, flew out of the opening in the round head. Wherever on the moist ground that powder fell, tiny rootlets would interlace in the black earth, and the following year hundreds of new puff-balls would spring up. "What a beautiful existence!" said they to one another. "The very acme of attainment is to puff powder. What a joy to be able to puff, as long as one lives!" And with devout consecration they drove the small dust-clouds into the air. "Are they right, Windekind?" "Why not? For them, what can be higher? It is fortunate that they long for nothing more, when they can do nothing else." When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were intermingled in one general obscurity, that mysterious forest life did not cease. The branches cracked and snapped, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither over the grass and in the underwood, and Johannes felt the draft from inaudible wing-strokes, and was conscious of the presence of invisible beings. And now he heard, clearly, whispering voices and tripping footsteps. Look! There, in the dusky depths of the bushes, a tiny blue spark just twinkled, and then went out. Another one, and another! Hush! Listening attentively, he could hear a rustling in the leaves close beside him, by the dark tree-trunk. The blue lights appeared from behind this, and held still at the top. Everywhere, now, Johannes saw glimmering lights. They floated through the foliage, danced and skipped along the ground; and yonder was a great, glowing mass like a blue bonfire. "What kind of fire is that?" asked Johannes. "How splendidly it burns!" "That is a decayed tree-trunk," said Windekind. Then they went up to a bright little light, which was burning steadily. "Now I will introduce you to Wistik.[1] He is the oldest and wisest of the goblins." Having come up closer, Johannes saw him sitting beside his little candle. By the blue light of this, one could plainly distinguish the wrinkled, grey-bearded face. He was reading aloud, and his eyebrows were knit. On his head he wore a little acorn cap with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a spider--listening to the reading. Without lifting his head, the goblin glanced up from the book as the two approached, and raised his eyebrows. The spider crept away. "Good evening," said the goblin. "I am Wistik. Who are you?" "My name is Johannes. I am very happy to make your acquaintance. What are you reading?" "This is not intended for your ears," said Wistik. "It is only for spiders." "Let me have just a peep at it, dear Wistik!" said Johannes. "I must not. It is the Sacred Book of the spiders. It is in my keeping, and I must never let it out of my hands. I have the Sacred Book of the beetles and the butterflies and the hedgehogs and the moles, and of everything that lives here. They cannot all read, and when they wish to know anything, I read it aloud to them. That is a great honor for me--a position of trust, you know." The mannikin nodded very seriously a couple of times, and raised a tiny forefinger. "What were you reading just now?" "The history of Kribblegauw,[2] the great hero of the spiders, who lived a long while ago. He had a web that stretched over three trees, and that caught in it millions of flies in a day. Before Kribblegauw's time, spiders made no webs, and lived on grass and dead creatures; but Kribblegauw was a clever chap, and demonstrated that living things also were created for spider's food. And by difficult calculations, for he was a great mathematician, Kribblegauw invented the artful spider-web. And the spiders still make their webs, thread for thread, exactly as he taught them, only much smaller; for the spider family has sadly degenerated." "Kribblegauw caught large birds in his web, and murdered thousands of his own children. There was a spider for you! Finally, a mighty storm arose, and dragged Kribblegauw with his web, and the three trees to which it was fastened, away through the air to distant forests, where he is now everlastingly honored because of his nimbleness and blood-thirstiness." "Is that all true?" asked Johannes. "It is in this book," said Wistik. "Do you believe it?" The goblin shut one eye, and rested his forefinger along the side of his nose. "Whenever Kribblegauw is mentioned, in the Sacred Books of the other animals, he is called a despicable monster; but that is beyond me." "Is there a Book of the Goblins, too, Wistik?" Wistik glanced at Johannes somewhat suspiciously. "What kind of being are you, really, Johannes? There is something about you so--so human, I should say." "No, no! Rest assured, Wistik," said Windekind then. "We are elves; but Johannes has seen, formerly, many human beings. You can trust him, however. It will do him no harm." "Yes, yes, that is well and good; but I am called the wisest of the goblins, and I studied long and hard before I learned what I know. Now I must be prudent with my wisdom. If I tell too much, I shall lose my reputation." "But in what book, then, do you think the truth is told?" "I have read much, but I do not believe I have ever read that book. It is not the Book of the Elves, nor the Book of the Goblins. Still, there must be such a book." "The Book of Human Beings, perhaps?" "That I do not know, but I should hardly think so, for the Book of Truth ought to bring great peace and happiness. It should state exactly why everything is as it is, so that no one could ask or wish for anything more. Now, I do not believe human beings have got so far as that." "Oh, no! no!" laughed Windekind. "Is there really such a book?" asked Johannes, eagerly. "Yes!" whispered the goblin. "I know it from old, old stories. And hush! I know too, where it is, and who can find it." "Oh, Wistik, Wistik!" "Then why have you not yet got it?" asked Windekind. "Have patience. It will happen all right. Some of the particulars I do not yet know, but I shall soon find it. I have worked for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it, life will be an endless autumnal day--blue sky above and blue haze about--but no falling leaves will rustle, no bough will break, and no drops will patter. The shadows will not waver, and the gold on the tree-tops will not fade. What now seems to us light will be as darkness, and what now seems to us happiness will be as sorrow, to him who has read that book. Yes, I know this about it, and sometime I shall find it." The goblin raised his eyebrows very high, and laid his finger on his lips. "Wistik, if you could only teach me...." began Johannes, but before he could end he felt a heavy gust of wind, and saw, exactly above him, a huge black object which shot past, swiftly and inaudibly. When he looked round again for Wistik, he caught just a glimpse of a little foot disappearing in a tree-trunk. Zip!--The goblin had dashed into his hole, head first--book and all. The candles burned more and more feebly, and suddenly went out. They were very queer little candles. "What was that?" asked Johannes, in a fright, clinging fast to Windekind in the darkness. "A night-owl," said Windekind. They were both silent for a while. Then Johannes asked: "Do you believe what Wistik said?" "Wistik is not so wise as he thinks he is. He will never find such a book. Neither will you." "But does it exist?" "That book exists the same as your shadow exists, Johannes. However hard you run, however carefully you may reach for it, you will never overtake nor grasp it; and, in the end, you will discover that it is yourself you chase. Do not be foolish--forget the goblin's chatter. I will tell you a hundred finer stories. Come with me! We will go to the edge of the woods, and see how our good Father lifts the fleecy, white dew-blankets from the sleeping meadow-lands. Come!" Johannes went, but he had not understood Windekind's words and he did not follow his advice. And while he watched the dawn of the brilliant autumn day, he was brooding over the book wherein was stated why all is as it is, and softly repeating to himself, "Wistik!" [1] Wistik = Would that I knew. [2] Kribblegauw = Quarrel = quick. VI It seemed to him during the days that followed that it was no longer so merry and cheerful as it had been--in the woods and in the dunes--with Windekind. His thoughts were no longer wholly occupied with what Windekind told or showed him. Again and again he found himself musing over that _book_, but he dared not speak of it. Nothing he looked at now seemed beautiful or wonderful. The clouds were so black and heavy, he feared they might fall upon him. It pained him when the restless autumn winds shook and whipped the poor, tired trees until the pale under sides of the green leaves were upturned, and yellow foliage and dry branches flew up in the air. What Windekind related gave him no satisfaction. Much of it he did not understand, and whenever he asked one of his old questions he never received a full, clear, satisfactory answer. Thus he was forced to think again of that book wherein everything stood so clearly and plainly written; and of that ever sunny, tranquil, autumn day which was to follow. "Wistik! Wistik!" Windekind heard it. "Johannes, you will remain a human being, I fear. Even your friendship is like that of human beings. The first one after me to speak to you has carried away your confidence. Alas! My mother was quite right!" "No, Windekind! But you are so much wiser than Wistik; you are as wise as that book. Why do you not tell me all? See, now! Why does the wind blow through the trees, making them bend and sway? Look! They can bear no more; the finest branches are breaking and the leaves are torn away by hundreds, although they are still so green and fresh. They are so tired, and yet again and again they are shaken and lashed by this rude and cruel wind. Why is it so? What does the wind want?" "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. [1] Pluizer = Shredder. 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." "That is fine in sound, but it fails in fact. When the bees get a chance they bite a hole deep down in the flower, and upset the whole intricate arrangement. A cunning craftsman that, to let a bee make sport of him!" And when he came to the study of men and animals--their wonderful construction--matters went still worse. In all that looked beautiful to Johannes, or ingenious, Pluizer pointed out the incompleteness and defects. He showed him the great army of ills and sorrows that can assail mankind and animals, with preference for the most loathe-some and most hideous. "That designer, Johannes, was very cunning, but in everything he made he forgot something, and man has a busy time trying as far as possible to patch up those defects. Just look about you! An umbrella, a pair of spectacles--even clothing and houses--everything is human patchwork. The design is by no means adhered to. But the designer never considered that people could have colds, and read books, and do a thousand other things for which his plan was worthless. He has given his children swaddling-clothes without reflecting that they would outgrow them. By this time nearly all men have outgrown their natural outfits. Now they do everything for themselves, and have absolutely no further concern with the designer and his scheme. Whatever he has not given them they saucily and selfishly take; and when it is obviously his will that they should die, they sometimes, by various devices, evade the end." "But it is their own fault!" cried Johannes. "Why do they wilfully withdraw from nature?" "Oh, stupid Johannes! If a nursemaid lets an innocent child play with fire, and the child is burned, who is to blame? The ignorant child, or the maid who knew that the child would burn itself? And who is at fault if men go astray from nature, in pain and misery? Themselves, or the All-wise Designer, to whom they are as ignorant children?" "But they are not ignorant. They know...." "Johannes, if you say to a child, 'Do not touch that fire; it will hurt,' and then the child does touch it, because it knows not what pain is, can you claim freedom from blame, and say, 'The child was not ignorant?' You knew when you spoke, that it would not heed your warning. Men are as foolish and stupid as children. Glass is fragile and clay is soft; yet He who made man, and considered not his folly, is like him who makes weapons of glass, careless lest they break--or bolts of clay, not expecting them to bend." These words fell upon Johannes' soul like drops of liquid fire, and his heart swelled with a great grief that supplanted the former sorrow, and often caused him to weep in the still, sleepless hours of the night. Ah, sleep! sleep! There came a time after long days when sleep was to him the dearest thing of all. In sleep there was no thinking--no sorrow; and his dreams always carried him back to the old life. It seemed delightful to him, as he dreamed of it; yet, by day he could not remember how things had been. He only knew that the sadness and longing of earlier times were better than the dull, listless feeling of the present. Once he had grievously longed for Windekind--once he had waited, hour after hour, on Robinetta. How delightful that had been! Robinetta! Was he still longing? The more he learned, the less he longed--because that feeling, also, was dissected, and Pluizer explained to him what love really was. Then he was ashamed, and Doctor Cijfer said that he could not yet reduce it to figures, but that very soon he would be able to. And thus it grew darker and darker about Little Johannes. He had a faint feeling of gratitude that he had not recognized Robinetta on his awful journey with Pluizer. When he spoke of it, Pluizer said nothing, but laughed slyly; and Johannes knew that he had not been spared this out of pity. When Johannes was neither learning nor working, Pluizer made use of the hours in showing him the people. He took him everywhere; into the hospitals where lay the sick--long rows of pale, wasted faces, with dull or suffering expressions. In those great wards a frightful silence reigned, broken only by coughs and groans. And Pluizer pointed out to him those who never again would leave those halls. And when, at a fixed hour, streams of people poured into the place to visit their sick relations, Pluizer said: "Look! These all know that they too will sometime enter this gloomy house, to be borne away from it in a black box." "How can they ever be cheerful?" thought Johannes. And Pluizer took him to a tiny upper room, pervaded with a melancholy twilight, where the distant tones of a piano in a neighboring house came, dreamily and ceaselessly. There, among the other patients, Pluizer showed him one who was staring in a stupid way at a narrow sunbeam that slowly crept along the wall. "Already he has lain there seven long years," said Pluizer. "He was a sailor, and has seen the palms of India, the blue seas of Japan, and the forests of Brazil. During all the long days of those seven long years he has amused himself with that little sunbeam and the piano-playing. He cannot ever go away, and may still be here for seven more years." After this, Johannes' most dreadful dream was of waking in that little room--in the melancholy twilight--with those far-away sounds, and nothing ever more to see than the waning and waxing light. Pluizer took him also into the great cathedrals, and let him listen to what was being said there. He took him to festivals, to great ceremonies, and into the heart of many homes. Johannes learned to know men, and sometimes it happened that he was led to think of his former life; of the fairy-tales that Windekind had told him, and of his own adventures. There were men who reminded him of the glow-worm who fancied he saw his deceased companions in the stars--or of the May-bug who was one day older than the other, and who had said so much about a calling. And he heard tales which made him think of Kribblegauw, the hero of the spiders; or of the eel who did nothing, and yet was fed because a fat king was most desired. He likened himself to the young May-bug who did not know what a calling was, and who flew into the light. He felt as if he also were creeping over the carpet, helpless and maimed, with a string around his body--a cutting string that Pluizer was pulling and twitching. Ah! he would never again find the garden! When would the heavy foot come and crush him? Pluizer ridiculed him whenever he spoke of Windekind, and, gradually, he began to believe that Windekind had never existed. "But, Pluizer, is there then no little key? Is there nothing at all?" "Nothing, nothing. Men and figures. _They_ are all real--they exist--no end of figures!" "Then you have deceived me, Pluizer! Let me leave off--do not make me seek any more--let me alone!" "Have you forgotten what Death said? You were to become a man--a complete man." "I will not--it is dreadful!" "You must--you have made your choice. Just look at Doctor Cijfer. Does he find it dreadful? Grow to be like him." It was quite true. Doctor Cijfer always seemed calm and happy. Untiring and imperturbable, he went his way--studying and instructing, contented and even-tempered. "Look at him," said Pluizer. "He sees all, and yet sees nothing. He looks at men as if he himself were another kind of being who had no concern about them. He goes amid disease and misery like one invulnerable, and consorts with Death like one immortal. He longs only to understand what he sees, and he thinks everything equally good that comes to him in the way of knowledge. He is satisfied with everything, as soon as he understands it. You ought to become so, too." "But I never can." "That is true, but it is not my fault." In this hopeless way their discussions always ended. Johannes grew dull and indifferent, seeking and seeking--what for or why, he no longer knew. He had become like the many to whom Wistik had spoken. The winter came, but he scarcely observed it. One chilly, misty morning, when the snow lay wet and dirty in the streets, and dripped from trees and roofs, he went with Pluizer to take his daily walk. In a city square he met a group of young girls carrying school-books. They stopped to throw snow at one another--and they laughed and romped. Their voices rang clearly over the snowy square. Not a footstep was to be heard, nor the sound of a vehicle--only the tinkling bells of the horses, or the rattling of a shop door; and the joyful laughing rang loudly through the stillness. Johannes saw that one of the girls glanced at him, and then kept looking back. She had on a black hat, and wore a gay little cloak. He knew her face very well, but could not think who she was. She nodded to him--and then again. "Who is that? I know her." "That is possible. Her name is Maria. Some call her Robinetta." "No, that cannot be. She is not like Windekind. She is like any other girl." "Ha, ha, ha! She cannot be like _nobody_. But she is what she is. You have been longing to see her, and now I will take you to her." "No! I do not want to go. I would rather have seen her dead, like the others." And Johannes did not look round again, but hurried on, muttering: "This is the last! There is nothing--nothing!" XIII The clear warm sunlight of an early spring morning streamed over the great city. Bright rays entered the little room where Johannes lived, and on the low ceiling there quivered and wavered a great splash of light, reflected from the water rippling in the moat. Johannes sat before the window in the sunshine, gazing out over the town. Its aspect was entirely altered. The grey fog had floated away, and a lustrous blue vapor enfolded the end of the long street and the distant towers. The slopes of the slate roofs glistened--silver-white. All the houses showed clear lines and bright surfaces in the sunlight, and there was a warm pulsing in the pale blue air. The water seemed alive. The brown buds of the elm trees were big and glossy, and clamorous sparrows were fluttering among the branches. As he gazed at all this, Johannes fell into a strange mood. The sunshine brought to him a sweet stupor--a blending of real luxury and oblivion. Dreamily he gazed at the glittering ripples--the swelling elm-tree buds, and he listened to the chirping of the sparrows. There was gladness in their notes. Not in a long time had he felt so susceptible to subtle impressions --nor so really happy. This was the old sunshine that he remembered. This was the sun that used to call him out-of-doors to the garden, where he would lie down on the warm ground, looking at the grasses and green things in front of him. There, nestled in the lee of an old wall, he could enjoy at his ease the light and heat. It was just right in that light! It gave that safe-at-home feeling--such as he remembered long ago, in his mother's arms. His mind was full of memories of former times, but he neither wept for nor desired them. He sat still and dreamed--wishing only that the sun would continue to shine. "What are you moping about there, Johannes?" cried Pluizer. "You know I do not approve of dreaming." Johannes raised his pensive eyes, imploringly. "Let me stay a little longer," said he. "The sun is so good." "What do you find in the sun?" asked Pluizer. "It is nothing but a big candle; it does not make a bit of difference whether you are in candle-light or sunlight. Look! see those shadows and dashes of light on the street. They are nothing but the varied effect of one little light that burns steadily--without a flicker. And that light is really a tiny flame, which shines upon a mere speck of the earth. There, beyond that blue--above and beneath us--it is dark--cold and dark! It is night there--now and ever." But his words had no effect on Johannes. The still warm sunshine penetrated him, and filled his whole being with light and peace. Pluizer led him away to the chilly house of Doctor Cijfer. For a little while the image of the sun hovered before his vision, then slowly faded away; and by the middle of the day all was dark again. When the evening came and he passed through the town once more, the air was sultry and full of the stuffy smells of spring. Everything was reeking, and he felt oppressed in the narrow streets. But in the open squares he smelled the grass and the buds of the country beyond; and he saw the spring in the tranquil little clouds above it all--in the tender flush of the western sky. The twilight spread a soft grey mist, full of delicate tints, over the town. It was quiet everywhere--only a street-organ in the distance was playing a mournful tune. The buildings seemed black spectres against the crimson sky--their fantastic pinnacles and chimneys reaching up like countless arms. When the sun threw its last rays out over the great town, it seemed to Johannes that it gave him a kind smile--kind as the smile that forgives a folly. And the sweet warmth stroked his cheeks, caressingly. Then a great sadness came into Johannes' heart--so great that he could go no farther. He took a deep breath, and lifted up his face to the wide heavens. The spring was calling him, and he heard it. He would answer--he would go. He was all contrition and love and forgiveness. He looked up longingly, and tears fell from his sorrowful eyes. "Come, Johannes! Do not act so oddly--people are looking at you," said Pluizer. Long, monotonous rows of houses stretched out on both sides--dark and gloomy--offensive in the soft spring air, discordant in the springtime melody. People sat at their doors and on the stoops to enjoy the season. To Johannes it was a mockery. The dirty doors stood open, and the musty rooms within awaited their occupants. In the distance the organ still prolonged its melancholy tones. "Oh, if I could only fly away--far away to the dunes and to the sea!" But he had to return to the high-up little room; and that night he lay awake. He could not help thinking of his father and the long walks he had taken with him, when he followed a dozen steps behind, and his father wrote letters for him in the sand. He thought of the places under the bushes where the violets grew, and of the days when he and his father had searched for them. All night he saw the face of his father--as it was when he sat beside him evenings by the still lamp-light--watching him, and listening to the scratching of his pen. Every morning after this he asked Pluizer to be allowed to go once more to his home and to his father--to see once again his garden and the dunes. He noticed now that he had had more love for his father than for Presto and for his little room, since it was of him that he asked. "Only tell me how he is, and if he is still angry with me for staying away so long." Pluizer shrugged his shoulders. "Even if you knew, how would it help you?" Still the spring kept calling him--louder and louder. Every night he dreamed of the dark green moss on the hillslopes, and of sunbeams shining through the young and tender, verdure. "It cannot long stay this way," thought Johannes. "I cannot bear it." And often when he could not sleep he rose up softly, went to the window, and looked out at the night. He saw the sleepy, feathery little clouds drifting slowly over the disk of the moon to float peacefully in a sea of soft, lustrous light. He thought of the distant dunes--asleep, now, in the sultry night--how wonderful it must be in the low woods where not a leaf would be stirring, and where it was full of the fragrance of moist moss and young birch-sprouts. He fancied he could hear, in the distance the swelling chorus of the frogs, which hovered so mystically over the plains; and the song of the only bird which can accompany the solemn stillness--whose lay begins so soft and plaintive and breaks off so suddenly, making the silence seem yet deeper. And it all was calling--calling him. He dropped his head upon his arms on the window-sill, and sobbed. "I cannot bear it. I shall die soon if I cannot go." When Pluizer roused him the following morning, he was still sitting by the window, where he had fallen asleep with his head on his arm. The days passed by--grew long and warm--and there came no change. Yet Johannes did not die, and had to bear his sorrow. One morning Doctor Cijfer said to him: "Come with me, Johannes. I have to visit a patient." Doctor Cijfer was known to be a learned man, and many appealed to him to ward off sickness and death. Johannes had already accompanied him many times. Pluizer was unusually frolicsome this morning. Again and again he stood on his head, danced and tumbled, and perpetrated all kinds of reckless tricks. His face wore a constant, mysterious grin, as if he had a surprise all ready for the springing. Johannes was very much afraid of him in this humor. But Doctor Cijfer was as serious as ever. They went a long way this morning--in a railway train and afoot. They went farther than at other times, for Johannes had never yet been taken outside the town. It was a warm, sunny day. Looking out of the train, Johannes saw the great green meadows go by, with their long-plumed grass, and grazing cows. He saw white butterflies fluttering above the flower-decked ground, where the air was quivering with the heat of the sun. And, suddenly, he felt a thrill. There lay, outspread, the long and undulating dunes! "Now, Johannes!" said Pluizer, with a grin, "now you have your wish, you see." Only half believing, Johannes continued to gaze at the dunes. They came nearer and nearer. The long ditches on both sides seemed to be whirling around their centre, and the lonely dwellings along the road sped swiftly past. Then came some trees--thick-foliaged chestnut trees, bearing great clusters of red or white flowers--dark, blue-green pines--tall, stately linden trees. It was true, then; he was going to see his dunes once more. The train stopped and then the three went afoot, under the shady foliage. Here was the dark-green moss--here were the round spots of sunshine on the ground--this was the odor of birch-sprouts and pine-needles. "Is it true? Is it really true?" thought Johannes. "Am I going to be happy?" His eyes sparkled, and his heart bounded. He began to believe in his happiness. He knew these trees, this ground; he had often walked over this wood-path. They were alone on the way, yet Johannes felt forced to look round, as though some one were following them; and he thought he saw between the oak leaves the dark figure of a man who again and again remained hidden by the last turn in the path. Pluizer gave him a cunning, uncanny look. Doctor Cijfer walked with long strides, looking down at the ground. The way grew more and more familiar to him--he knew every bush, every stone. Then suddenly he felt a sharp pang, for he stood before his own house. The chestnut tree in front of it spread out its large, hand-shaped leaves. Up to the very top the glorious white flowers stood out from the full round masses of foliage. He heard the sound he knew so well of the opening of the door, and he breathed the air of his own home. He recognized the hall, the doors, everything--bit by bit--with a painful feeling of lost familiarity. It was all a part of his life--his lonely, musing child-life. He had talked with all these things--with them he had lived in his own world of thought that he suffered no one to enter. But now he felt himself cut off from the old house, and dead to it all--its chambers, halls, and doorways. He felt that this separation was past recall, and as if he were visiting a churchyard--it was so sad and melancholy. If only Presto had sprung to meet him it would have been less dismal--but Presto was certainly away or dead. Yet where was his father? He looked back to the open door and the sunny garden outside, and saw the man who had seemed to be following him, now striding up to the house. He came nearer and nearer, and seemed to grow larger as he approached. When he reached the door, a great chill shadow filled the entrance. Then Johannes recognized the man. It was deathly still in the house, and they went up the stairs without speaking. There was one stair that always creaked when stepped upon--Johannes knew it. And now he heard it creak three times. It sounded like painful groanings, but under the fourth footstep it was like a faint sob. Upstairs Johannes heard a moaning--low and regular as the ticking of a clock. It was a dismal, torturing sound. The door of Johannes' room stood open. He threw a frightened glance into it. The marvelous flower-forms of the hangings looked at him in stupid surprise. The clock had run down. They went to the room from which the sounds came. It was his father's bedroom. The sun shone gaily in upon the closed, green curtains of the bed. Simon, the cat, sat on the window-sill in the sunshine. An oppressive smell of wine and camphor pervaded the place, and the low moaning sounded close at hand. Johannes heard whispering voices, and carefully guarded footfalls. Then the green curtains were drawn aside. He saw his father's face that had so often been in his mind of late. But it was very different now. The grave, kindly expression was gone and it looked strained and distressed. It was ashy pale, with deep brown shadows. The teeth were visible between the parted lips, and the whites of the eyes under the half-closed eyelids. His head lay sunken in the pillow, and was lifted a little with the regularity of the moans, falling each time wearily back again. Johannes stood by the bed, motionless, and looked with wide, fixed eyes upon the well-known face. He did not know what he thought--he dared not move a finger; he dared not clasp those worn old hands lying limp on the white linen. Everything around him grew black--the sun and the bright room, the verdure outdoors, and the blue sky as well--everything that lay behind him--it grew black, black, dense and impenetrable. And in that night he could see only the pale face before him, and could think only of the poor tired head--wearily lifted again and again, with the groan of anguish. Directly, there came a change in this regular movement. The moaning ceased, the eyelids opened feebly, the eyes looked inquiringly around, and the lips tried to say something. "Father!" whispered Johannes, trembling, while he looked anxiously into the seeking eyes. The weary glance rested upon him, and a faint, faint smile furrowed the hollow cheeks. The thin closed hand was lifted from the sheet, and made an uncertain movement toward Johannes--then fell again, powerless. "Come, come!" said Pluizer. "No scenes here!" "Step aside, Johannes," said Doctor Cijfer, "we must see what can be done." The doctor began his examination, and Johannes left the bed and went to stand by the window. He looked at the sunny grass and the clear sky, and at the broad chestnut leaves where the big flies sat--shining blue in the sunlight. The moaning began again with the same regularity. A blackbird hopped through the tall grass in the garden--great red and black butterflies were hovering over the flower-beds, and there reached Johannes from out the foliage of the tallest trees the soft, coaxing coo of the wood-doves. In the room the moaning continued--never ceasing. He had to listen to it--and it came regularly--as unpreventable as the falling drop that causes madness. In suspense he waited through each interval, and it always came again--frightful as the footstep of approaching death. All out-of-doors was wrapped in warm, mellow sunlight. Everything was happy and basking in it. The grass-blades thrilled and the leaves sighed in the sweet warmth. Above the highest tree tops, deep in the abounding blue, a heron was soaring in peaceful flight. Johannes could not understand--it was an enigma to him. All was so confused and dark in his soul. "How can all this be in me at the same time?" he thought. "Is this really I? Is that my father--my own father? Mine--Johannes'?" It was as if he spoke of a stranger. It was all a tale that he had heard. Some one had told him of Johannes, and of the house where he lived, and of the father whom he had forsaken, and who was now dying. He himself was not that one--he had heard about him. It was a sad, sad story. But it did not concern himself. But yes--yes--he was that same Johannes! "I do not understand the case," said Doctor Cijfer, standing up. "It is a very obscure malady." Pluizer stepped up to Johannes. "Are you not going to give it a look, Johannes? It is an interesting case. The doctor does not know it." "Leave me alone," said Johannes, without turning round. "I cannot think." But Pluizer went behind him and whispered sharply in his ear, according to his wont: "Cannot think! Did you fancy you could not think? There you are wrong. You must think. You need not be gazing into the green trees nor the blue sky. That will not help. Windekind is not coming. And the sick man there is going to die. You must have seen that as well as we. But what do you think his trouble is?" "I do not know--I will not know!" Johannes said nothing more, but listened to the moaning that had a plaintive and reproachful sound. Doctor Cijfer was writing notes in a little book. At the head of the bed sat the dark figure that had followed them. His head was bowed, his long hand extended toward the sufferer, and his deep-set eyes were fixed upon the clock. The sharp whispering in his ear began again. "What makes you look so sad, Johannes? You have your heart's desire now. There are the dunes, there the sunbeams through the verdure, there the flitting butterflies and the singing birds. What more do you want? Are you waiting for Windekind? If he be anywhere, he must be there. Why does he not come? Would he be afraid of this dark friend at the bedside? Yet always he was there!" "Do you not see, Johannes, that it has all been imagination? "Do you hear that moaning? It sounds lighter than it did a while ago. You can know that it will soon cease altogether. But what of that? There must have been a great many such groans while you were running around outside in the garden among the wild-roses. Why do you stay here crying, instead of going to the dunes as you used to? Look outside! Flowers and fragrance and singing everywhere just as if nothing had happened. Why do you not take part in all that life and gladness? "First, you complained, and longed to be here; and after I have brought you where you wished to be, you still are not content. See! I will let you go. Stroll through the high grass--lie in the cool shade--let the flies buzz about you--inhale the fragrance of the fresh young herbs. I release you. Go, now! Find Windekind again! "You will not? Then do you now believe in me alone? Is what I have told you true? Do I lie, or does Windekind? "Listen to the moans!--so short and weak! They will soon cease. "Do not look so agonized, Johannes. The sooner it is over the better. There could be no more long walks now; you will never again look for violets with him. With whom do you think he has taken his walks, during the past two years--while you were away? You cannot ask him now. You never will know. After this you will have to content yourself with me. If you had made my acquaintance a little earlier, you would not look so pitiful now. You are a long way yet from being what you ought to be. Do you think Doctor Cijfer in your place would look as you do? It would make him about as sad as that cat is--purring there in the sunshine. And it is well. What is the use of being so wretched? Did the flowers teach you that? They do not grieve when one of them is plucked. Is not that lucky? They know nothing, therefore they are happy. You have only begun to know things; and now you must know everything, in order to be happy. I alone can teach you. All or nothing. "Listen to me. What is the difference whether that is your father or not? He is a man who is dying; that is a common occurrence. "Do you hear the moaning still? Very feeble, is it not? He is near his end." Johannes looked toward the bed in fearful distress. Simon, the cat, dropped from the window-seat, stretched himself, and curled up purring on the bed close beside the dying man. The poor, tired head moved no more. It lay still, pressed into the pillow; yet from the half-open mouth there still came, at intervals, short, exhausted sounds. They grew softer--softer--scarcely audible. Then Death turned his dark eyes from the clock to rest them upon the down-sunken head. He raised his hand--and all was still. An ashen shadow crept over the stiffening face. Silence--dreary, lonely silence! Johannes waited--waited. But the recurring groans had ceased. All was still--utterly, awfully still. The strain of the long hours of listening was suspended, and it seemed to Johannes as if his soul were released, and falling into black and bottomless depths. He fell deeper and deeper. It grew stiller and darker around him. Then he heard Pluizer's voice, as if from far away. "Hey, ho! Another story told." "That is good," said Doctor Cijfer. "Now you can find out what the trouble was. I leave that to you. I must away." While still half in a dream, Johannes saw the gleam of burnished knives. The cat ruffed up his back. It was cold next the body, and he sought the sunshine again. Johannes saw Pluizer take a knife, examine it carefully, and approach the bed with it. Then Johannes shook off his stupor. Before Pluizer could reach the bed he was standing in front of him. "What are you going to do?" he asked. His eyes were wide open with horror. "We are going to find out what it was," said Pluizer. "No!" said Johannes; and his voice was as deep as a man's. "What does that mean?" asked Pluizer, with a grim glare. "Can you prevent me? Do you not know how strong I am?" "You shall not!" said Johannes. He set his teeth and drew in a deep breath, looked steadily at Pluizer, and tried to stay his hand. But Pluizer persisted. Then Johannes seized his wrists, and wrestled with him. Pluizer was strong, he knew. He never yet had opposed him; but he struggled on with a fixed purpose. The knife gleamed before his eyes. He saw sparks and red flames; yet he did not give in, but wrestled on. He knew what would happen if he succumbed. He knew, for he had seen before. But it was his father that lay behind him, and he would not let it happen now. And while they wrestled, panting, the dead body behind them lay rigid and motionless--just as it was the instant when silence fell--the whites of the eyes visible in a narrow strip, the corners of the mouth drawn up in a stiffened grin. The head, only, shook gently back and forth, as they both pushed against the bed in their struggle. Still Johannes held firm, though his breath failed and he could see nothing. A veil of blood-red mist was before his eyes; yet he stood firm. Then, gradually, the resistance of the two wrists in his grasp grew weaker. His muscles relaxed, his arms dropped limp beside his body, and his closed hands were empty. When he looked up Pluizer had vanished. Death sat, alone, by the bed and nodded to him. "You have done well, Johannes," said he. "Will he come back?" whispered Johannes. Death shook his head. "Never. He who once dares him will see him no more." "And Windekind? Shall I not see Windekind again?" The solemn man looked long and earnestly at Johannes. His regard was not now alarming, but gentle and serious, and attracted Johannes like a profound depth. "I alone can take you to Windekind. Through me alone can you find the book." "Then take me with you. There is no one left--take me, too! I want nothing more." Again Death shook his head. "You love men, Johannes. You do not know it, but you have always loved them. You must become a good man. It is a fine thing to be a good man." "I do not want that--take me with you!" "You mistake--you do want it: you cannot help it." Then the tall, dark figure grew vague before Johannes' eyes--it faded into a filmy, grey mist adrift in, the room--and passed away along the sunbeams. Johannes bowed his head upon the side of the bed, and sobbed for the dead man. XIV A long time afterward, he lifted up his head. The sunbeams shone obliquely in, bringing a rosy glow. They resembled straight bars of gold. "Father, father!" whispered Johannes. Outside, the sun was pouring over everything a flood of shining, golden, glowing splendor. Every leaf hung motionless, and all was hushed in solemn worship of the sun. Along with the light there fell into the room a gentle soughing--as if the sunbeams were singing. "Sun-son! Sun-son!" Johannes lifted up his head, and listened. It tingled in his ears. "Sun-son! Sun-son!" It was like Windekind's voice. He alone had named him that; should he call him now? But he looked at the face beside him. He would listen no more. "Poor, dear father!" he said. But suddenly it rang again around him from all sides, so loud, so penetrating, that he trembled with his marvelous emotion. "Sun-son! Sun-son!" Johannes stood up and gazed outside. What light! What splendid light! It streamed over the high tree tops, it glistened amid the grass-blades, and sparkled in the shadow-patches. The whole air was filled with it up to the very sky where the first exquisite sunset clouds were flecking the blue. Beyond the meadow, between the green trees and shrubs, he saw the dunes. Red gold lay along their slopes, and in their shadows hung the blue of the heavens. They lay stretched out reposefully in their robe of tender tints. The delicate undulations of their expanse brought a benediction--as does prayer. Johannes felt again as he had felt when Windekind taught him how to pray. Was not that he, there, in the blue garment? Look! there in the heart of the light--shimmering in a maze of blue and gold. Was not that Windekind, beckoning him? Johannes flew out of doors into the sunlight. For an instant he stood still. He felt the holy solemnity of the light, and scarcely dared to move where the foliage was so still. Yet, there, in front of him, was the light figure again. It was Windekind! It surely was! His radiant face was turned toward him, and the lips were parted as if calling him. With his right hand he was beckoning. In his left he held aloft some object. In the tips of his slender fingers he held it, and it glittered and sparkled. With a glad cry of joy and yearning, Johannes sped toward the beloved apparition. But with laughing face and waving hand, it floated before him, still beckoning him on. Sometimes it would drift low, and lingeringly skim the ground, to ascend again lightly and swiftly, and float farther off, like a feathery seed borne on by the wind. Johannes himself longed to rise and fly as he had done long ago, in his dreams. But the earth held his feet, and his steps were heavy on the grassy ground. He was obliged to pick his way painfully through the bushes--their foliage rustling and scratching along his clothes--their branches brushing across his face. Panting with weariness he had to climb the mossy slopes of the dunes. Yet he followed untiringly--his eye never turned from Windekind's radiant apparition--from what was gleaming in the upraised hand. There he was, in the middle of the dunes. The wild-roses, with their thousands of pale yellow cups, were blossoming in the glowing valleys, and gazing at the sunlight. And many other flowers were blooming there--bright blue, yellow, and purple. A sultry heat filled the little hollows, cherishing the fragrant herbs. Strong, resinous odors hung in the air. Johannes smelled them as he went--he smelled the wild thyme, and the dry reindeer-moss which crackled under his feet. It was intoxicatingly delightful. And he saw mottled field-moths fluttering in front of the lovely image he was following; also little black and red butterflies, and the sand-eye--the merry little moth with satiny wings of the most delicate blue. Golden beetles that live on the wild-rose whirred around his head, and big bumblebees danced and hummed all about in the dry, scorched grass. How delightful it was! How happy he would be if only he were with Windekind. But Windekind swept farther and farther away. He followed breathlessly. The big, pale-leaved thorn-bushes held him back, and hurt him with their briars. The fuzzy, silvery torch-plants shook their tall heads as he pushed them aside from his course. He scrambled up the sandy barriers, and wounded his hands with the prickly broom. He pushed on through the low birch-wood where the grass was knee-high, and the water-birds flew up from the little pools which glistened among the shrubs. Dense, white-flowered hawthorns mingled their fragrance with that of the birch-leaves and the mint, which grew in great profusion in the swampy soil. But there came an end to woods, and verdure, and fragrant flowers. Only the singular, pale blue sea-holly, growing amid the sear, colorless heath-grass. On the top of the last high swell of the dunes Johannes saw Windekind's form. There was a blinding glitter from his upraised hand. Borne over from the other side by a cool breeze, a great, unceasing roar sounded mysteriously alluring. It was the sea. Johannes felt that he was nearing it, and he slowly climbed the last ascent. At the top, he fell on his knees and gazed upon the ocean. As he got above the ridge, a rosy glow illumined him. The sunset clouds had drawn apart from the central light. Like a wide ring of welded blocks of stone, with glowing red edges, they surrounded the sinking sun. Upon the sea was a broad path of living, crimson fire--a flaming, sparkling path leading to the distant gates of heaven. Behind the sun, which could not yet be looked upon--in the depths of the light-grotto--were exquisite tints of intermingled blue and rose. Outside, the whole wide sky was lighted up with blood-red streaks, and dashes and fleckings of streaming fire. Johannes watched--until the sun's disk touched the farthest end of that glowing path which led up to him. Then he looked down, and very near was the bright form that he had followed. A boat, clear and glistening as crystal, drifted near the shore upon the broad, fiery way. At one end of the boat stood Windekind, alert and slender, with that golden object in his hand. At the other end, Johannes recognized the dark figure of Death. "Windekind! Windekind!" cried Johannes. But as he approached the marvelous boat, he also looked toward the horizon. In the middle of the glowing space, surrounded by great fiery clouds, he saw a small, black figure. It grew larger and larger, and a man slowly drew near, calmly walking on the tossing fiery waters. The glowing red waves rose and fell beneath his feet, but he walked tranquilly onward. The man's face was pale, and his eyes were dark and deep--deep as the eyes of Windekind; but there was an infinitely gentle melancholy in their look such as Johannes had never seen in any other eyes. "Who are you?" asked Johannes. "Are you a man?" "I am more," was the reply. "Art Thou Jesus--Art Thou God?" asked Johannes. "Speak not those names!" said the figure. "They were holy and pure as sacerdotal robes, and precious as nourishing corn; yet they have become as husks before swine, and a jester's garb for fools. Name them not, for their meaning has become perverted, their worship a mockery. Let him who would know me cast aside those names and listen to himself." "I know Thee! I know Thee!" said Johannes. "It was I who made you weep for men, while yet you did not understand your tears. It was I who caused you to love before you knew the meaning of your love. I was with you and you saw me not--I stirred your soul and you knew me not. "Why do I first see Thee now?" "The eyes which behold Me must be brightened by many tears. And not for yourself alone, but for Me, must you weep. Then I will appear to you and you shall recognize in Me an old friend." "I know Thee! I recognized Thee! I want to be with Thee!" Johannes stretched out his hands. But the man pointed to the glittering boat that was slowly drifting out upon the fiery path. "Look!" said he; "that is the way to all you have longed for. There is no other. Without those two shall you not find it. Take your choice. There is the Great Light; there you would yourself be what you long to know. _There_!"--and he pointed to the dark East--"where human nature and its sorrows arc, there lies my way. Not that errant light which has misled you, but _I_, will be your guide. You know now. Take your choice." Then Johannes slowly turned away his eyes from Windekind's beckoning figure, and reached out his hands to the serious man. And with his guide, he turned to meet the chill night wind, and to tread the dreary road to the great, dark town where humanity was, with all its misery. Sometime I may tell you more about Little Johannes; but it will not be like a fairy tale. PART II I I have said that I might perhaps have something more to tell about Little Johannes. Surely you have not thought I would not keep my word! People are not so very trustful in these days, nor so patient, either. But now I am going to put you to confusion, by telling you what else happened to Little Johannes. Listen! It is worth your while. And the best thing of all is that it will be rather like a fairy story--even more so than what I have already told you. And yet it is all true. Yes, it all really truly happened. Perhaps you will again be inclined to doubt; but when you are older--much, much older--you will perceive how true it is. It will be so much more pleasant for you to have faith in it, that I wish from my heart you may be able to. If you cannot, I am sorry for you; but at least be truthful. Therefore skip nothing, but read it all. And should you happen to meet Johannes, I give you leave to speak with him about these matters, and to give him my regards. He might not answer, but he will not be offended. He is still rather small, but he has grown a bit. * * * * * The fine weather did not continue far into the evening. The splendid clouds which Johannes had seen above the sea, and out of which strode that dark figure, now betokened a thunder-storm. Before he reached the middle of the dunes again, the sunset sky and the starry heavens were obscured, and a wild, exhausting wind, filled with fine, misty rain, swept him on. Behind him the lightning played above the sea, and the thunder rolled as if the heavens were being torn asunder, and the planks of its floor tossed one by one into a great garret. Johannes was not alarmed, but very happy. He felt the close clasp of a warm, firm hand. It seemed as if he never yet had clung to a hand so perfect and so life-giving. Even the hand of Windekind seemed flimsy and feeble compared with this. He thought that he now had reached the end of all his puzzles and difficulties. This may also have occurred to you. But how could that be possible when he was still such a mere stripling, and did not yet comprehend one half of all the marvelous things that had befallen him! It may be that all has been plain to you. But it was not to him, although he may have thought so. He was yet only a little fellow without beard or moustache, and his voice was still that of a boy. "My friend," said he to his Guide, "I know now that I have been bad--very bad. But now that you have come and I can cling to your hand, can I not redeem my faults? Is there still time?" The dark figure kept silently and steadily on beside him in the storm and darkness. Johannes could see neither his eyes nor his features; he only heard the swishing and flapping of his garments--heavy with the rain. Then he asked again, somewhat anxiously, because the consolation he was yearning for was longer delayed than he expected: "May I not sometime call myself a friend of yours? Am I not yet worthy of that? I have always so wanted to have a friend! That was the best thing in life, I thought--really the only thing I cared about. And now I have lost all my friends--my dog, Windekind, and my father. Am I too bad to deserve a true friend?" Then there came an answer: "When you can _be_ a true friend, Johannes, then indeed you will find one." There was consolation in the soft, low tones, and there was love and forgiveness; but the words were torturing. "Bad, bad!" muttered Johannes, setting his teeth together. He wanted to cry, but he could not do that. That would have been to pity himself, and that was not in accordance with his Guide's reply. He had not been a good friend to his dog, nor to Windekind, nor to his father. He wished now that he could at once make amends for everything, but that could not be. It had been made clear. * * * * * It was desolate on the dunes, and dark as pitch. The wind was whistling through the reeds and the dwarf poplars, but there was nothing to be seen. How far away seemed the quiet sunlight now, the playful animals, and the flowers! Silently and swiftly the two strode on along a winding cart-track through the deep, wet sand, now and then stumbling over the ruts. It was the road that led to the town. "I shall--" began Johannes again, resolutely lifting his head. But there he halted. "Who says 'I shall'? Who knows what he will do? Can Johannes say, I am?" "I am sorry and I am ashamed, and I wish to be better," said Johannes. "That is well," said the soft low voice. And the tears started in Johannes' eyes. He clung close to his Guide, trembling slightly as they went. "Teach me, my Father. I want to know how to be better." "Not 'Father,' Johannes. We both have the same Father. You must call me Brother." At that word Johannes looked timidly up at his Guide with startled face and wide-open eyes. In a flash of the steel-blue lightning, Johannes saw the pale brow, with the dark eyes turned kindly toward him. The hair of his Guide was matted and dripping with water, as were also his beard and his moustache. The locks clung to his white gleaming forehead, and his eyes glowed with an inner light. Johannes felt a boundless love and adoration, and at the same time an inexpressible compassion. "My brother!" thought he. "Oh, good, good man!" And he said: "How wet you are! Put my jacket over your head. I do not need it." But in the darkness his hand was gently restrained, and they hurried on while the sweat and the rain were commingled upon their faces. * * * * * After a while his Guide said to him: "Johannes, pay attention to me, for I am going to say something to you that you must bear in mind. Your true life is only now beginning, and it is difficult to live a good life. If only you could remember what I am now telling you, you would never again be unhappy. Neither life nor people would be able to make you unhappy. And yet it will not prove thus--because you will forget." There was silence for a while, broken only by the whistling of the wind, the flapping of their garments, and their rapid breathing--for they were walking very fast. "Train your memory, therefore; for without an exact and retentive memory nothing good is attained. And mark this well; not the small and transient must you be mindful of, but the great and the eternal." Then there was a flash of lightning, and it seemed as if the heavens were being consumed in the white fire, while a terrific peal of thunder immediately followed, directly over their heads. But Johannes' thoughts were dwelling attentively upon the words he had heard, and he was neither frightened nor disquieted. He raised his head, proud and glad that he was not afraid, and looked, with wide-open eyes, into the high, dark dome of the heavens. "This is the great and the eternal, is it not?" he asked. "This I will bear in mind." But his Guide said: "It is not the thunder and the lightning which you must bear in mind, for they are temporal and will often recur; but that you were unafraid, and bravely held up your countenance--_that_ you must remember, and the reason why you did so. For it will thunder and lighten at other times, and you will be afraid. But even now--at this instant--it could strike you dead. Why do you not fear now?" "Because you are with me," said Johannes. "Well, then, Johannes, remember this; you always have me with you." * * * * * They were silent for a long while, and Johannes was thinking over these noble words. But he did not understand their import. If he were always to have his Leader with him, how could he forget? Then he asked, although he well knew what the reply would be: "Are you, then, going to stay with me always?" "Even as I always have been with you," was the unexpected answer. "But I did not see you, then." "And very soon again you will not see me; yet I shall be with you, just the same. Therefore, you must cultivate your memory, so that it will remind you when your eyes see not. Who that is forgetful can be relied on? You have never been faithful, Johannes, and you will forget me also. But I shall remain faithful, and you will bring me to mind. Then, when you have learned to bethink yourself, and are yourself a faithful friend, you shall have a brother and a friend." * * * * * The road was firmer now, and in the distance they saw the lights of the town. Close by, the orange-yellow window-squares were glimmering through the rain and darkness--the dwellings themselves being still invisible in the night. They saw the pools glisten, and they met a man. There was a hurried, heavy footstep--a glowing red cigar-tip. Johannes breathed the well-known, offensive, human atmosphere of wet garments and tobacco smoke. By the flashes of lightning he could see all around him little white and grey cottages. He saw the gleaming street, far out in front of him--haystacks and barns--a fence along the way; everything suddenly sharp and livid. Then a change came over him. At once, he was conscious of everything, as one, being awakened, is aware of a voice already heard in his dream. He clearly felt himself to be an ordinary human being, like every one else. And his exalted companion was also an ordinary man. He saw both, just as the passers-by would see them; a man and a boy, wet with the rain, walking hand in hand. Windekind did not get wet in the rain. As they neared the suburbs, it became lighter and more noisy. It was not the great city where Johannes had lived with Pluizer, but the small one where he was born and where he had gone to school. And as the two approached, they heard, through the rushing of the rain and the rolling of the thunder, a lighter, indistinct sound which reminded Johannes so well of former times. It was a confused intermingling of voices, singing, a continual din of organ-grinding, sharp little sounds of trumpets and flutes, the reports of fire-crackers and rifle-shots, and now and then a shrill, discordant whistle, or the sound of a bell. It was the Fair! "Be careful now, Johannes. Here are people," said his companion. Johannes gave a start. His task was to begin. He could no longer rail at human beings, nor disclaim his own human origin. He knew now that he had been erring, and he resolved to mend his ways. Had not good Death told him it was well worth while to be a good man? So now he would live with men, and try to become a good man himself; to relieve pain, to lighten grief, and to bring beauty and happiness into the lives of others. Was not that what He was teaching--He at whose blessed side he should henceforth go? But he was greatly distressed. He already knew so well what men were. He shivered in his wet clothing. "Are you afraid already? Think how brave you were just now. You must mind, not only the words, but the meaning of them." "I will be strong and brave. I will be a man among men, a good man--doing good to men." So saying, Johannes nerved himself, and with steadfast step entered the town. Here things looked truly dismal. Water was spouting out of the gutters into the streets. Everything was glistening in the wet, and big streams of water were flowing down the tent canvases. But the people were out on pleasure bent, and pleasure they would have. As the shop doors were opened one could see the red faces within, close to one another in the blue tobacco smoke, and could hear the uproar of loud singing and the stamping of feet. Under the projecting canvas of the booths the crowds flocked together, slowly pushing one past the other into the bright light of the lamps. Johannes and his Guide pressed in among them to get out of the rain. Johannes was fond of fairs. Always he was glad when the boats arrived in the canal with the timber for the various booths and play-tents; and he looked on eagerly while the flimsy structures--for that one week only--were being put together. This onlooking was an earnest of the strange and fantastic pleasures in store for him. He liked the gay and merry pageantry, the foolish inscriptions on the merry-go-rounds, the mysterious places behind and between the tents, where the performers lodged; and above all, the tiny, out-of-the-way tents with their natural curiosities, and the strange animals, which seemed so sadly out of place in this Dutch world, in their tedious, unvarying captivity, with the reveling crowd around them. And every summer he found it just as hard to see the breaking up of this variegated medley. Not that he ever had longed for the Fair when with Windekind, but, of all that he had experienced while among human beings, the Fair seemed to him the most delightful. And now he was rejoiced at the familiar scene of the booths with their toys; the cakes, layered with rose-colored sugar and inscribed with white lettering; all the shining brass-work of the toy-pistol bazaars; the small tents in lonely places, where brown, smoked eels lay between brass-headed iron bars; the shooting-galleries; the noisy and showy merry-go-rounds. Nor did he, for old remembrance' sake, mind the various odors and mal-odors; the smell of cake, of frying fat, and of smoking lamps; nor the strange, mysterious, stable and wild-beast scents that came out of the large exhibition tents. The children were running about, as usual, with their red balloons--tooting upon trumpets, and twirling their rattles. The mothers had their skirts over their heads to keep off the rain. Now and then a train of young men and maidens--their caps and hoods askew, or back side before--danced their way through the crowds, with shining, rollicking faces, shouting as they went: "hi! ha! hi! ha!" Then they would calm down, and step one side to look again at the cakes and the knick-knacks. As Johannes dearly loved a laugh, he stopped again and again where there was anything funny; at the Punch-and-Judy show, or the antics in front of the circus, of which the peasants are foolishly fond. Thus, beside his companion, he stood looking, in the midst of a group of people holding open umbrellas. On all sides he saw staring faces, reddened by the light of the sputtering oil-torch in front of the tent. The people looked stupid, he thought, standing there staring, now and then all bursting out together in a laugh when a clown cracked a joke. Painted on the canvas, in front of the tent, he saw ugly pictures of horrible battles between men and tigers--and everywhere, blood! From the balustrade, a monkey was watching the people very seriously. Ever and anon he darted a glance at a boy standing close by, to discover if he meant well or ill by his outstretched hand. Behind the little table at the curtained entrance sat a buxom woman dressed in a black silk gown. Her face was round and broad, and her dark, glossy hair was smoothly plastered to her forehead. She was not ugly, but reminded Johannes of the wax dolls in front of the hair-dressers'. Suddenly, Johannes heard the ring-master speaking to him; and the people turned their heads round and grinned at him. "Come on, young gentleman," said the ring-master, "you must see the show, too! Ask your papa to let you see the show. There are pretty girls here, too--very nice for young gentlemen. Just look here, what pretty girls!" Then he pointed to the buxom woman behind the table, who, laughing not a bit, but showing off her rings with their mock jewels, held up the curtain as an invitation to Johannes to enter. And then the ring-master pointed to a pale, slim girl, whose lank hair, light and silky, was combed straight down, and fell below her waist. She stood in front of the tent, dressed in a soiled white suit, spangled with silver. Her skirt was short, and her white tights did not fit well over her long, thin legs. "Hello! Come on! Come on!" cried the girl, in a shrill, eager little voice, clapping her hands. Ha! How suddenly Johannes' attention was riveted! He experienced a wonderfully strong feeling of tenderness and sympathy as he looked at that pale child. She wore a little silver crown on her hair, which was nearly ash-blonde, and her eyes, also, were light-grey or light-blue, he could not tell which. "Would you like to go in?" asked his Guide. Without looking up Johannes nodded his head. They pressed slowly through the people, and Johannes saw that the girl kept looking at him attentively, as if his coming mattered more to her than that of the others. What wonderful things entered his head in those few seconds, while pressing through the packed, ill-smelling crowd, on his way into the tent. He thought of his dead father--and about his own going, now, to an entertainment at a Fair. But, immediately, he thought, also, of the great change--his deliverance from Pluizer, and that he had not come to the Fair for his own pleasure, like an every-day schoolboy, but that he had now come among people in order to soothe their sorrows, and to make them good and happy. At the same time he felt a strong aversion to that rough, rude, and unsavory throng. And then he looked again at the pale girl who had called to him, and was waiting for him. She was a human being, too, and his whole heart went out to her. She looked so slight, so serious and intelligent. What a life she must have led! And what must she think and feel! For an instant he forgot something; namely, whose hand it was he was holding. He had not yet let drop that dear hand, but was not thinking who it was that had been taken for his father, and was leading him into a circus. "What is the price?" he heard his Guide ask the young woman, in his deep, serious voice. But the pale little girl, who had continued all this time looking at him, cried out in an abrupt, decided tone: "It's Markus!" The fat young woman just glanced in silence from the girl to the two visitors, and then struck the table with her plump, white, ring-covered hands, till the money-box jingled. "Jerusalem! Is that you Vissie? Where did you swim from? And how did you find that kid? Nix to pay! Just step inside. Right here! First row. I'll see you again, presently, eh?" Then she looked straight at Johannes with her black eyes. He shrank from that cold, hard, scrutiny. But she laughed in a friendly way and said: "How d' do, youngster?" Johannes felt the perspiration start, from fright and confusion. That exalted being, whom he had seen treading the glowing waters of the sea, whose hand he still retained, to be spoken to in such a manner, by this insignificant creature--as if he were an old acquaintance! Had he utterly lost his senses? Had he been dreaming, and had he been walking with one or other of the Fair-goers? Not until he had sat awhile, and his heart had ceased to beat so fast, did he venture to lift his eyes--which had taken in nothing of their surroundings--and look up at his Guide. The latter had evidently been regarding him for a considerable time. The first glance sufficed. Johannes saw the selfsame pale face, the selfsame somewhat weary, but clear and steady eyes full of earnest ardor, trustful and begetting trust; bestowing, through their regard alone, rest and solace indescribable. But he was an ordinary man--the same as the others. He had on a brown cap with the ear-flaps tied together over the top, and he wore an old faded cloak out of which the rain-water was still trickling down upon the seat. His shoes, mud-covered and water-soaked, stood squarely against each other on the wooden floor. His trousers were frayed out, and had lost all definite color. Johannes wanted to speak to him, but his lips trembled so he could not utter a word, and tears coursed down his cheeks. All this time they still sat hand in hand. Nothing had been said, but Johannes felt his hand being pressed, while a superhuman assurance and encouragement, from out those kindly eyes, gradually penetrated to the depths of his being. His Guide smiled, and indicated that he ought to give attention to the performance and to the spectators. Slowly, with a long-drawn breath, Johannes turned his eyes thither; but he looked on listlessly and without interest. And now and then--whenever he dared--he looked at his Guide; at his wet, shabby clothes; at his hands--not coarse--but oddly rough, and with a blackened thumb and forefinger; at his pale, patient face, with the hair clinging to the temples. The boy's lips began to tremble again, his throat contracted, and irrepressible sobs accompanied the tears. When he looked into the sanded ring around which the spectators sat, he saw a large white horse coming in. Upon him stood the pale, fair little girl. She had more color now, and looked much prettier and more graceful. She sprang and knelt upon the big white horse while she enlivened him with her shrill cries. It was not merely sympathy and tenderness that moved Johannes now, but something more of admiration and respect; for she seemed no older than himself, and yet she was not in the least timid, but understood her art well. The people clapped loudly, and then she put her slender, delicate hands one by one to her lips, waving them first to the left, then to the right, with self-possessed grace. The clown made her a low bow with all kinds of foolish grimaces, and indicated the greatest respect; and she rewarded him with a studied smile, like a princess. Johannes could not take his eyes away from her. "Who is that little girl?" he asked his Guide. "Is she really so lovely?" "Her name is Marjon," said his Guide, "and she is a dear, good child, but too weak for her task." "I wish I could do something for her," said Johannes. "That is a good boy. We will go to her, presently." Johannes did not pay much more attention to the exhibition. His mind was full of the prospective interview with the little actress. The world in which she lived was charming. And she herself seemed, at this moment, the one above all others he most wished to help and benefit. After the spectators were gone he went with his Guide between the curtains from behind which the horses had come. In the dimly lighted space where a single lamp was burning, and close to where the breathing and stamping of the horses could be heard, Johannes saw her sitting. She was stooping down to a chest on the top of which were some plates of food, and she still had on her pretty costume. There was no one with her. "Good day, Markus," said she, extending her hand to Johannes' Guide. "Who is the little boy?" "This is Johannes. He wishes to make your acquaintance, and to do something good for you." "Is that so?" laughed the girl. "Then he might just change my silver quarters into gold." Johannes did not know what to say, and was more perplexed than he remembered ever in his life to have been before. But Marjon looked at him with her large, light, grey eyes, and nodded kindly. "Come, little boy, don't be so bashful. Won't you have something to eat? Quick! Before my sister comes! But you ought to stay with us. We are going to Delft this week. Are you going with us, Markus?" "It may be," said Markus. "Now, we are only going to try to find a place to sleep in. Johannes can hardly feel hungry. Do you, Johannes?" Johannes shook his head. "He has had a great sorrow, Marjon; his father has just died." Marjon looked at him again, gently and good-naturedly, and then gave him her hand, with the very same, quick gesture of confidence a monkey employs when he recognizes his master. "Good-by, till morning," she said, as the two passed out of the rear door of the tent. Outside, the moon was shining, and, since the rain had stopped, the Fair-people had become still more jolly and noisy. Well, well! How ugly they were! How clumsily they danced, and how badly they sang! The men and women were now standing in circles, their arms interlocked, with one another's hoods and caps on, ready to spring into the street, and to shriek out, in their harsh voices, songs without sense or tune. All their faces were wanton, vacant, or downright dissipated, and most of them were flushed with excitement or with drink. Johannes saw mothers, too, with infants in their arms, and leading little children by the hand, coming out of the fritter-stalls, dragging themselves along through the crowds. The tavern doors flew open, and the rude Fair-goers bounced outside. Here and there, on the street corners, a fierce quarrel was in progress, with a close ring of on-lookers gathered around. Nothing more that was pretty, or nice, or pleasing, was in sight. Everywhere there was raving and ranting and bawling; with a thousand dissonant noises, and a wretched stench. The only exception was a squad of six soldiers, passing calmly and quietly, with regulated step, through the throng, in single file. It was the patrol. Johannes knew it, and it gave him a feeling of rest and contentment, as if there was something else in human beings save rudeness and debauchery; that a little self-restraint and worthiness still remained. Up above--beyond that petty tumult--beyond that ruddy flaming and flickering, the moon was shining, silver-white and stately. Johannes looked up longingly. He found his task an awful one, and the people worse than he had expected. But of one little being he thought with tenderness; and in her case he would persevere. "Let us go to sleep," he begged. "Very well," said his Guide, opening a tavern door. It was oppressive there, and reeking with the fumes of gin and tobacco. They pressed their way through the crowd and went up to the bar. "Have you lodgings for us, Vrouw Schimmel?" asked Johannes' Guide. "Lodgings? Well, seeing it's you, Markus. But otherwise not! See? Go now--the two of you!" They crept up to a small dark garret, and there received a couple of mattresses which the maid had dragged upstairs; and then they could lie down. Johannes lay awake through the clamor and jingling and the stamping of the Fair-goers downstairs until long after the morning light had broken. The day just passed--long as a year, and full of great and weighty matters--was thought over from beginning to end. Serene, open-eyed--quietly, not restlessly, he lay there meditating till morning dawned, and the sunlight, like a red-gold stain, touched the wall above him, and till the din downstairs had subsided and died away. Then he fell asleep, thinking of Marjon--her bright eyes and silver crown. II He was awakened by jovial sounds. There was something hopeful and powerful about and within him when he opened his eyes again, and looked around the close, dark little garret. A column of sunbeams stood slanting from the floor to the little dormer window, and motes were glistening in the light. Both out-of-doors, and below him, Johannes heard the women singing, and busily, merrily talking--the way women do mornings as they hurry with their kitchen and door-yard tasks. The rubbish of the day before was thrust aside, and everything was in readiness for a new Fair day. Beside him lay his Guide, still calmly sleeping. He had removed nothing but his coat with which he had covered himself, and his shoes which were standing beside the mattress. He was in a profound sleep--his head upon his rolled-up mantle. His curling hair was now dry, and looked dark and glossy, and his cheeks bore a little more color. Johannes gazed attentively at his right hand hanging down from under his coat, over the mattress to the floor. It was a slender, shapely hand, with short-cut nails, but the blackening which Johannes had seen the day before was still there. That stamp of toil could not be washed away. Johannes slipped quietly downstairs and went to wash himself at the pump in the courtyard. About him all was cheerful activity--scrubbing and scouring, washing and rinsing. The summer morning was warm and yet fresh. It was a clear and sober world with nothing dreamy or fanciful about it. The bar-woman poured him out a cup of coffee, and asked in a familiar way if his roommate was still sleeping, and how Johannes had met him. "Oh, just by chance!" answered Johannes, blushing deeply; not only because he was fibbing, but because it was to himself such a delicate and obscure matter, and of such supreme importance. "Who is he, really?" he asked, with a feeling of committing treason. "Who is he!" re-echoed the mistress, in such a loud voice and with such emphasis that the other women stopped their work and looked up. "Did you hear him? He asks who Markus is!" "Do you mean Markus Vis?" asked a slatternly work-girl. "Yes, that's who he means!" said the bar-woman. The women looked at one another, and then went on again with their splashing and scrubbing. "I do not know anything _yet_," said Johannes, a little more boldly. "Neither do we," said the slovenly girl. "Do you, Bet?" "I know that he is a darn good fellow," answered Bet. "They do say, though, that he is not good," said another work-woman. "True, he _may_ not be good--but good he _is_, I say," retorted Bet. This sounded a bit obscure, but Johannes understood it perfectly well. "He has more sense than all four of you put together," said the bar-woman, indignantly. "I have seen, with my own eyes, how the little daughter of Sannes, the Plumber, who had been given up by as many as four doctors because there was not a ghost of a chance for her,--how she was taken by Markus on his lap, when all the phlegm came loose; and only yesterday, I saw her with her mother, running in front of the booths." "And the other day," said the slatternly girl, "when that tall Knelis at the vegetable market was drunk again--you know that common brawler with the white flap on his cap--well, he just took him gently by the wing, home to his old woman; and the fellow went along, as meek as a booby tied to his mother's apron-string." In this way, one story suggested another, and Johannes soon learned how much his Guide was liked and esteemed among performers, showmen, workmen, day-laborers--yes, even by the shopkeepers and tavern-keepers, although he was a poor customer. "What does he really do?" asked Johannes. "Don't you know that?" replied the mistress, astonished. "And yet I thought you were going to be his apprentice. He is a scissors-grinder. His cart stands here, in the shed." Johannes felt his heart thumping again, for he heard coming the very one of whom they were speaking. He scarcely dared to look at him. But the woman exclaimed: "Good morning, Markus! That's a sly-boots of yours--he doesn't even know what your work is!" Quite in his accustomed way Markus said: "Good morning, all! Is there a bowl of coffee for me, too? Well, there is time enough yet to understand about that. One may learn fast enough, turning the wheel." "Will he have to turn?" asked the woman. "Then have you no footboard?" Markus set his coffee down among the clean drinking-glasses, on a little table, and sat down beside it, while the maid was cutting the slices of bread. Then Johannes and he regarded each other with a look full of complete, mutual understanding. In his earnest, musical voice Markus had spoken lightly, and easily, without conveying to the others any particular meaning. But that they listened eagerly was apparent. Whenever his voice was heard, others usually stopped speaking; and the least thing he said, in jest or in earnest, was listened to with respectful attention. "Yes, you see," said Markus, "I still have a cart with a footboard. But nowadays there are much finer ones with window-glass upon them, and a big wheel which another has to turn." "Gracious!" said the bar-mistress, "so you're getting up in the world, Markus! Sure, you've had a legacy, or a lucky lottery ticket." "No, Vrouw Schimmel, but I thought this; your standing is good, of late, and as you have to go to the banker's now, with your money, you might loan me, say, a hundred and fifty guldens, and I'll repay the loan at the rate of a gulden a week. How will that do?" The woman stopped working and laughed. The mistress laughed, too, and cried: "You're a regular Jew!" and, after having sauntered back and forth a while, she said: "All right--begin now and here! Sharpen these knives, and mind you make them sharp as razors!" * * * * * After Markus and Johannes had eaten their bread, the old cart was dragged out of the shed and dusted off, the axles oiled, the rope moistened, and the knives were sharpened. Johannes watched attentively, and saw how swiftly and skilfully Markus turned and directed the steel until it was sharp and bright, and how the golden fountain of sparks flew over the whizzing wheel. Afterward they went together up the street, for it was necessary to earn some money. Markus stepped slowly wheeling his cart through the sunny streets--alive with people. From time to time his "Scissors to Gri-i-i-nd!" rang out above the tramp of feet and the rattle of wagons, while he looked searchingly right and left to see if there was not some one who had something to be sharpened. Johannes ran ahead, to ring the bells of all the houses, and to bring the knives and scissors out to the cart. Johannes did his very best. He felt that only now had life begun in real earnest. For one's bread one must work, and earn money. He had never yet thought about money and money-making; but the reality was stern and sobering. Every one around him talked about money and money-getting. Yet his noble Guide, he saw, was poor and shabby--forced to hard and constant labor to keep from starving. Life grew serious indeed. They said but little to each other. They were too busy. Johannes enjoyed the work. He felt there was something heroic and important in the fact that he, the young gentleman who had been to a superior school here, was now going around as a scissors-grinder's boy. And when the housemaids, somewhat surprised, looked at his neat little suit, he carried it more jauntily. But the meeting with an old schoolmate was full of pain. Toward twelve o'clock he grew tired and hungry. In passing by the bakeries he had a feeling now that he had never known before--almost peevishness--as if something had been taken away from him--as if that bread were his by very right. Then they came to the circus, where Marjon was. And there she sat, with her dark-eyed sister. Her flaxen hair was now braided and wound around her head. Johannes heard the sound of an iron kettle being shaken, and he knew that that meant potatoes. And there was bacon, also, and some boiled vegetables. At first, these things were of prime importance to him. He could think of nothing else until he had eaten--ravenously. Then, rather ashamed, he glanced up. They were sitting out-of-doors, in the rear of the tents and the booths, with an awning stretched out over their heads to protect them from the sun, which was shining fiercely and brightly. Close by stood the circus-wagon--painted green, with variegated red and white trimmings. A canary's cage stood upon the platform, between flower-pots, and the yellow bird was singing merrily. Johannes thought it fine and good now to be among people. There sat the bright little being with the pale face, the large grey eyes, and the ash-blonde hair--braided and wound like a diadem about her head. It seemed to Johannes as if a brilliant light streamed out from her; a light which tasted sweet, and smelled sweet also. And could she not ride a horse, and spring through hoops, and with those slender hands throw plates up high, and catch and balance them? And she looked often at Johannes, and seemed to find him a nice little boy. Beside her, calm and serious, his head bent forward, his dark hair curling in his neck, sat Markus, eating. This made him seem to Johannes still more dear and intimate. Next, sat Marjon's sister. Johannes felt a little uneasy in her presence. She sat close by him, and ate very audibly. She shoveled food upon Johannes' plate, and now and then patted him on the shoulder, to encourage him to eat. Then she looked at him, kindly enough, but with a cold penetration as if with some fixed purpose. Her eyes seemed almost black, and her glossy hair was as black as ebony. But her skin was waxy white. Whenever she stirred, something in her clothing always creaked, and there was a heavy odor of perfumery about her. Beyond Marjon sat the little monkey, watching the movements of the steel forks with his sharp, earnest eyes. Occasionally Marjon spoke to him, and then he whined in eager expectation of something to eat. That quarter of an hour was delightful! Johannes looked repeatedly at Marjon, trying to think who she looked like, and why it seemed as if he must have known her a long time. And he found it pleasant and adorable when she spoke to him, and was as confidential as if with a friend. Yes, he remembered something of that old sensation with Windekind--the feeling of friendship and intimacy. But he could well see that she did not resemble Windekind. He noticed that her nails were not very clean, and admitted that she did make use of coarse and profane language. Yet her speech was not flat, but musical--with a foreign accent; and her bearing was nearly always winsome, although she did things considered bad manners--things never permitted him. The afternoon which now followed, filled with the same sort of work--continually running back and forth across the sunny streets--seemed hard indeed. At last he could not think any more, and his feet burned fiercely. Sad and perplexed he sat down on a stone stoop as the shadows grew deeper and cooler, and thought of the gloomy garret where he was again to sleep. "Come, Johannes. The day's money is nearly earned, and then we go to Vrouw Schimmel's for our supper." "How much have we earned?" asked Johannes; expecting to hear, to his consolation, of the riches which he had procured by his hard work. "Two guldens, forty-seven cents," said Markus. "Is that enough?" "So long as we can sleep for nothing at Vrouw Schimmel's and can eat for nothing at the circus. But we cannot do that every day." Johannes felt greatly discouraged. Already so tired, and so little accomplished! Not enough earned yet for one day's support! How would he ever have enough strength left over to help the people? With his head in his hands he sat staring vacantly at the pavement. "Tired?" asked Markus, gently. Johannes nodded. Markus spoke again: "But remember, my boy! This is your first day. It will be easier after you get used to it." Johannes lifted his weary, disheartened eyes, and looked at his Guide who was patiently engaged in putting something about the cart-axle to rights. "It is not _your_ first day, though, Markus, is it? It can never be any easier for _you_. And that ought not to be so. It will never do." A strange bitterness of thought took possession of Johannes--as if everything were full of fraud and foolishness--as if he himself were made a fool of. What sort of fellow was that, with the long hair, the silly old cap, and frayed-out trousers, who sat there, pottering? Markus glanced round and looked at him. Immediately Johannes grew ashamed of his thoughts and felt a deep, over-mastering sorrow and sympathy, that He--He who was standing there before him, was obliged to toil so--in poverty and squalor. This time he burst into unrestrained sobs, he was both so tired and so over-excited. Weeping, he could only utter, "Why is it? I cannot understand. It will never--never!--" Markus did not attempt to console him; he merely said gently but firmly that he must wheel the cart and go home, for people were observing them. Johannes went early to bed, and his Guide went with him. The din from below came up to them, as before, and the moon shone brightly into the little garret. The two friends lay upon their hard mattresses, hand in hand, talking together in an undertone. They did not use the careless common-places of every-day speech, but they spoke as Johannes had done with Windekind;--in the old, serious way. "When I look at you, my brother, what is it makes me feel so sad?" asked Johannes. "When I see your shabby clothes and blackened hands; when I hear you addressed as comrade by those poor and filthy people; when I see you sharing their hard, unlovely life, then I cannot keep from crying. I am sorry I gave way to my feelings, and attracted attention, but then it is so dreadful!" "It is dreadful, Johannes, not on my account, but because of the necessity for it." "How can there be any need of your being so plain and sad? Is there anything good in plainness and sadness?" "No, Johannes; plainness and sadness are evils. The beautiful and the joyful only are good, and it is they we must seek." "But, dear brother, you may be both beautiful and joyful. Indeed, what is there you cannot be? I saw you walking upon the shining waters. That surely was no illusion?" "No, that was no illusion." "I saw only your face--not your clothing; only your face, and that was beautiful and noble. And if you can walk upon the sea, then you can, if you wish to, be beautiful and grand and joyful, even among those ugly people." "Yes, I can do that also, Johannes, but I will not do it, because I love those plain and sorrowful people. I will do much more, just because so much power has been given me. I will be a brother to them, so that they may learn to know me. "Must you, for that reason, be low in station and be sorrowful?" "I am not of low degree, nor am I sorrowful. My spirits are high and my heart is glad: and because I am so strong I can stoop to those who are lowly and sad, in order that they may attain me, and with me, the Light." In the dark--eyes shut close--Johannes nodded his satisfaction, and then fell asleep, his hand still in that of his friend. III At the end of the week, the bell rang from noon until one o'clock, to announce the closing of the Fair. The tent canvases remained fastened down, and the performances were hurriedly broken off. The stakes and boards were loaded upon the boats lying in the canal; and there the wooden lions of the merry-go-rounds made a sorry figure. They bore no resemblance whatever to the lively, furious lions of the day before; and one could hardly tell what had become of all that motley and magnificent array. The real, living Hons, and the people, in their different vehicles, went up the street, in a long caravan, to the next town where the Fair was to begin anew; for the summer is one long Fair for the Fair-folk. Days before, Johannes and Markus had passed through that same street; for with their heavy cart, they would have been unable to keep up with the more rapid, horse-drawn vehicles. The weather remained fine and clear. The walks along the road from village to village, with the excitement of finding work and earning money--the restings on the sunny, grassy wayside--the baths in retired spots--and now and then coffee in the kitchens of the farmhouses--all this was new, pleasant, and stimulating, and Johannes grew light-hearted and merry again. Close by the next town the circus overtook them. It was only a mite of a company. The big white horse was drawing the green wagon, and two black-and-white spotted horses were drawing the second one. The ring-master walked beside it, swearing now, not joking, and wearing a very sour face. Then came a couple of men and some loose horses, in the rear. Johannes lay in the grass on the lookout for Marjon. There she came, in her hand a big branch of alder leaves, with which she was brushing away the flies from the white horse. She was walking on dreamily, with only an indifferent look at the staring peasant children along the way. But when she saw Johannes, her eyes grew big and bright, and she waved her branch at him. He sprang up and ran to her, and she struck at him playfully with her alder branch. Then, with a sudden charming movement, she gave him a kiss. Johannes kissed her bashfully in return. The peasant children were astonished, but circus folk are always queer! From between the muslin curtains of the little window in the green wagon, Johannes saw two jet-black eyes peeping at him. They were the eyes of Marjon's sister, and they wore a strange smile. Johannes and Marjon walked on, hand in hand, chatting busily about the experiences of the past few days. And while Marjon told of her performances--how she had learned her tricks, and how often, too, she had fallen--he listened as deferentially as if he were being initiated into the mysteries of a princely court or of the national government. Walking thus hand in hand beside the white horse, they approached the town. By the wayside, with projecting tea-arbors, and well-planned gardens, stood those low, wide country-seats which are still to be seen in the neighborhood of the towns of Holland. They bear such names as "Rust-oord,"[1] or "Nooit-gedacht,"[2] and make one think of ancient times when the burghers went out to walk, with their Gouda[3] pipes, and when the fragrant violets still grew upon the ramparts. Between the windows of these houses, fastened to a curved iron rod, are little mirrors, in which the inmates, seated by the window, are able to see any one standing on the stoop, or approaching from a distance. They are called "spionnetjes." The passer-by sees in this glass only the face of the indweller. In one of these little spyglasses Johannes suddenly saw a face that startled him. Yet it was not a frightful countenance. It was pale and spectacled, with two stiff "puffs" on each side. A lace cap crowned the whole, with lavender ribbons falling over the ears down to the shoulders. Two very clear, kindly, serious eyes were looking straight at him. Johannes was startled, because he knew the face so well. It was that of his aunt. There was no doubt about it--it was Aunt Seréna. She had often been to visit at his home, and now Johannes remembered the house where she lived. He had even spent the night there. He cast a shy glance toward it. Yes, to be sure! That was the one-story, white stucco house, with the low windows, and the glass doors opening on the garden. He remembered the garden, with the splendid beech-trees. Between the house and the road was a green ditch, and on the fancy iron railing was the name "Vrede-best." He recalled it all very well now, and it made him uneasy and anxious. "What makes you so white, Jo?" asked Marjon. "Aren't you well?" "An aunt of mine lives there," said Johannes, blushing deeply now. "Did she see you?" asked Marjon, quickly perceiving the significance of the event. "She surely did." "Don't look round," said Marjon. "Cut around the corner! Can she do anything to you?" Johannes had not thought about that, at all. He owned to himself, that while his Aunt Seréna was looking at him, he felt ashamed of being seen with the circus-wagon, but he said nothing, and grasped Marjon's hand again, for he had let it drop. Fortunately Markus did not tell him to ask if there was anything at "Vrede-best" to be sharpened. But that pale face, with the puffs, the spectacles, the clear eyes, as seen in the little mirror, continued to follow Johannes in a very disconcerting way. The reflector was double, and Johannes felt certain that his aunt now sat before the other side, and that the fixed eyes were watching him. "Have you any aunts, Marjon?" "How do I know? Maybe," laughed Marjon. "Your father, then?--Is he dead?" Marjon lowered her voice a little, and, in a more serious manner, began a confidential explanation of an important matter: "I do not know, Jo. My mother is dead. She was a lion-tamer, and met with an accident. She is buried in Keulen; but my father was rich, and he may be living still. So you see I may have aunts--a lot of them--rich ones, perhaps." "Have you never seen your father?" asked Johannes, speaking softly himself, now. "No, never! But Lorum says" (Lorum was the ring-master) "that he was a count and had a castle." "I can well believe that," said Johannes, looking at her admiringly. "Yes, but Lorum tells lies." That cast a shadow over Johannes' beautiful imaginings. Later, he often had occasion to experience the untruthfulness of Lorum. It was a hot noon-time when they entered the town. Those afoot were tired and irritable, and the customary visit to the municipal authorities concerning positions was attended with no little quarreling and swearing. The empty, darkened parlors of the stately houses looked cool and alluringly tranquil. Bright housemaids came to the doors to see the circus-troup go by, and they chatted and giggled with one another. Outside the town a large, grass-grown place was pointed out, where the dwelling-wagons might stand. So they were all in a circle--twenty or more of them--from the big, two-horsed leading wagons, freshly painted, with dainty curtains, flower-pots, gilded decorations, bird-cages and carvings, to the rickety, home-made wagons, constructed of old boards, patched up with bits of canvas and sheet-iron, and drawn by a man and a dog. And now the steaming dust-covered horses were unharnessed, the hay and straw--which had been pilfered or begged--spread out, fires were started, and preparations made for a hasty meal. It was a lively, bustling camp. Markus was there, too. His new scissors-cart with its window-glass stood beside Marjon's wagon glittering in the sunshine. He was thoughtfully walking around among the people with Johannes, exchanging greetings with everybody, and carrying on brief conversations. His raincoat and cap were packed away, but his coat and trousers were the same, for he had no others. He had on now a very broad-brimmed straw hat, such as can be purchased at the Fairs for two stuivers. Johannes much preferred to see him in this, and was pleased to note how the hat became his long, dark hair. Wherever Markus came, things went better. Disputes filled the air, and shocking language was to be heard on every side, even from the lips of the children. But when Markus appeared they calmed down, and threats and quarrels were soon exorcised. Not having been seen in a long while, he was greeted with hearty exclamations of surprise, and with all sorts of questions which he answered jestingly. "Hello, Vis! What have you been doing with yourself? Have you been under water?" "At court, Dirk Volders. See what a fine present I have brought away." And he pointed out the new cart. "Surely, you've been sharpening the coupon-scissors again, haven't you?" "No, the nail-scissors, Dirk, and it's time to do it here." Wherever Markus went, a troop of children followed him Without apparent reason, or any expectation of delicacies, always several children tagged untiringly after him, an hour at a time, clinging fast, with their dirty little hands, to a shred of his coat or a fold of his trousers. With earnest faces they listened to his words and watched his movements, quietly managing the while to usurp one another's place at the front. Whoever could catch hold of his coat held on. Wherever he went, the ragged, unwashed little ones, from under wagons and behind boxes, put in an appearance--trotting after, so as to be on hand. There was always a chance of his suddenly throwing himself down and telling a story to a dozen dirty little listeners. Their small mouths, all smeared and stained, were wide open with interest, and their hands, furnished with a bread-crust or an old doll, hung down motionless, as they listened in suspense. And no one had ever surprised Markus in a peevish or impatient word to his troublesome little admirers. Not one of the surly, scolding parents had ever been able to admit to a child that it was naughty enough for Markus, even, to send it away. Johannes observed this with great admiration. At first it seemed to him wonderful--supernatural. A whimpering, naughty child became submissive, a troublesome one tractable, and rude, unmannerly, and passionate children went away composed and quiet. And how could any one remain patient under such a continual din, and tagged after by the dirtiest and the worst-behaved children in the world? But, listening and keenly scrutinizing, Johannes gradually came to understand the apparently incomprehensible. It was the power of the interest in them which performed the miracle. There was nothing concerning those neglected little waifs in which Markus did not evidence the keenest interest, and he gave it his fullest attention--sparing no trouble nor exertion. Thus the roving mind of the child was at the same time pacified and restrained, and reduced to a state favorable for guidance. But, however he himself might explain it, the parents who were unable to control their children maintained that Markus had something in his eyes, or in his fingers--a "magic," they called it--by which he ruled the children. And these convictions grew still more settled through the knowledge of the willing and blessed help he gave to the sick. There prevailed among these people a great distrust of physicians, and the one grievance they had against Markus was that he too often (according to their views) referred the sick to the doctor and the hospital. "He can do it better himself," they thought. "He surely is afraid of getting into jail." Yet they begrudged the police the satisfaction of seeing him there. But they tried to induce Markus to help them in every illness--even that of a broken bone--without their having recourse to doctor or hospital. In cases where the sick body could do without the relief of costly attendance and technical apparatus, Markus did not refuse to help with his simple expedients. It was said that he was a healer, yet no one had ever seen or heard him pray beside a sick person. He sometimes sat for a long time, deep in thought, by the side of a sufferer who was restless, or in pain. He would lay his hand upon the head, or the affected part, or take the hand of the patient. This he would sometimes do hour after hour, and he seldom left without having reduced the pain and restlessness. Johannes had already heard this related by Marjon, and now he also saw mothers bringing their crying infants to him for advice, and he gave eager attention to what Markus would say. A baby screamed and wriggled like a worm, resisting vehemently, for it dreaded the light, and wanted to hide its affected eyes in the mother's arms. But Markus insisted on examining the poor little eyes. They were all stuck together with foulness, and were red and swollen. Johannes expected nothing else than that Markus would anoint them and command them to open. But Markus said: "That's a loathsome lot of stuff, mother. There is a good eye-clinic in Leyden. But there is also a good one here. Go to it soon--now--to-day." The mother, a strong, bony woman, looked at him through her straggling hair, in an irresolute, dissatisfied way. "Curse 'em--those quacks! You do it instead. You can do it just as well." "I'll not do it, mother, positively. And think of it! If you do not go quickly, your child will surely be stark blind. Go! It is your duty to." "How is it, Markus? Can't you do it, or don't you dare to, that you send me off to those murderers?" Markus regarded her several moments, and then said, gently: "Mother, it is your own fault--you know it very well. I may not give you help, but it is not on account of the police. There in the town they will give you good advice. But go now, quickly, or the blindness of your child will be upon your conscience." With a sullen look the woman turned away, and Johannes asked in a whisper: "Are these doctors more clever than Markus?" "They know enough for this," said Markus, abruptly. [1] Rust-oord = Place of repose. [2] Nooit-gedacht = Beyond thought. [3] Gouda = Name of town. IV In the heat of the afternoon the Fair-folk went to sleep. They lay snoring everywhere--on straw or heaps of rags, in ugly, ungainly postures. But the children continued in motion, and often here and there the sound of their teasing and crying could be heard. Johannes strolled around dejectedly. To go and lie calmly down, to sleep between those vile men, as Markus did, was impossible. Rank odors pervaded everything, and he was afraid, too, of vermin. Should he go walk in the town park, or between the sunny polders? Although he was ashamed to run away, he could not remain in peace. Again that frightful feeling arose, of unfitness for his great task. He was too weak--too sensitive. He thought, with a painful longing, of the cool, stately, and peaceful parlors in the houses of the town, with furniture neatly dusted by tidy maids. He thought, too, of Aunt Seréna and her pretty, old-fashioned house, and of her large, shady garden, where surely the raspberries were now ripe. Strolling moodily along, he came upon the green wagon, and behold, there was Marjon, lying in peaceful sleep. She lay on a shaggy, red-and-yellow horse-blanket, and her lean arms and scrawny neck were bare. She was so still--her knees drawn up and her cheek in her hand--that one could not tell whether she was really sleeping, or lying awake with closed eyes. The monkey sat close beside her in the hot sun, contentedly playing with a cocoanut. Johannes felt touched, and went to sit down against the wheel of the wagon. Looking intently at the dear little girl, he thought over her troubled, wandering life. In thinking of that he forgot his own grief; and from the depths of his discontent he passed over to a mood of tender melancholy full of compassion. And then there awakened in him words which he was careful to remember. He thought of a butterfly that he had once seen flying seaward over the strand; and thinking of Marjon he said to himself: "Out to the sea a white butterfly passed--It looked at the sunshine, not at the shore; Now it must flutter in every blast, And may rest never more." As he repeated those last words he was greatly moved, and tears coursed down his cheeks. He repeated the lines, over and over, adding new ones to them, and ended by losing himself wholly in this sweet play. Thus the summer afternoon sped quickly, and Johannes went to the wagon for pencil and paper, to write down the thoughts which had come into his head. He was afraid they might escape. "What are you doing?" asked Marjon, waking up. "Are you sketching me?" "I am making verses," said Johannes. Marjon had to see the verses, and when she had read them she wanted to sing them. Taking from the wagon a zither, she began to hum softly, while trying to find the chords. Johannes waited in suspense. At last Marjon found a sad yet fervent melody, that sounded to Johannes like one well known to him of old; and together they sang the song: "Out to the sea a white butterfly passed-- It looked at the sun, but at the shore, never; Now it must flutter in every blast, Nor may rest, ever. "Oh, butterfly, little butterfly, Seeking everywhere for your valley fair, Never, ah, never again will you spy The shady dell, where sweet flow'rs dwell. "By wild winds driven out to sea, Floating on sunshine far from the shore, Evermore she a-wing now must be, And can rest, never. "Oh, butterfly, lovely butterfly! Through sunny blue, or shadowy grey, Never again shall you descry That leafy dell where the roses dwell." The children sang it once, twice, three times through; for those who had been awakened listened and asked for a repetition. Like a sudden illumination of sense and soul there came to Johannes the consciousness of having done something good. The poor, vile, neglected people--adults and children--had listened. He had made it, and it had given him happiness; now it seemed also to afford these sorrowful people some pleasure. This made him glad. It was not much, but then he could do something. Night came; the air grew cooler, a fresh wind blew in from the sea over the grassy polders, and a rosy mist hung over the dunes. The broad canal along which the camp lay was sparkling in the sunset light. Everywhere noises awoke, and from the town came the twilight sounds of hand-organs and the rattling of carts. The Fair-people formed a ring, and, eager for more music, besought Markus to play for them. Markus took a harmonica, and played all kinds of tunes. Men and women, squatting down, or prone upon the ground, chin in hand, listened with great earnestness; and when the children, talking or loitering, and paying no attention to the music, came up to their parents, they were impatiently sent off. When Markus stopped, a man cried out in a husky voice: "Come, boys, let's sing something--The Song of the Poor Customers." Instantly, they all fell in obediently--Markus striking the key-note--and sang the following song: "We coatless wand'rers without land,-- We are poor customers. He who more dollars has than wits,-- 'Tis he may loll around. Tho' high we jump, or low we jump We're bound to lose the game. With empty stomachs we must dance,-- Our Ruler is the dollar. "In olden times the King was boss, To rack us for our sins; But now he's only a figure-head, And has his own boss found. Whoever crown, or scepter bears, And gorgeous raiment wears,-- Tho' he jump high, or jump less high, He's ruled by the dollar. "Before his men the General stands And tells 'em how to kill. The dapper heroes--one and all-- Make haste to do his will. Yet, in his 'broidered uniform, The dickens! what commands he? Tho' he jump high or jump less high Th' Commander is--The Dollar. "Where lies our land? where spreads our roof? We live by favor, only. To them who have but pelf in pocket We show our arts and tricks. But if at last we come to grief There yet is something for us,-- The fill of our mouths, a tasteful cover, And a nook that's all our own." When the last word of the song had died away, the husky voice cried: "You might as well say, while you are about it, that the churchyards are emptied out every tenth year." "Every twentieth!" cried another. "Children," said Markus, setting his instrument upon the ground between his feet, "children, now listen to me. We have been singing of money, and of those who had more money than sense; but have you more sense than money? What is it you have that is better than either?" "Only give me the money," cried the husky voice. "And me!" cried the other. "I would sooner give money to the monkey, who would throw it into the water, and not get tipsy with it," said Markus. "Children," he continued, and gradually Johannes heard that deep ring in his voice, which riveted attention and caused an inner thrill, "where there is gold without sense, there will be misery; and where there is sense, there will be prosperity. For wisdom will not lack for gold. "You truly are poor wretches--ill-treated and deceived. "But nobody receives what is not his due. So do not rage and curse about it. "He who is wise is strong, and cannot be ill-treated. The wise one cannot be deceived. The wise one is good, and neither steals nor lets himself be stolen from. "You are weak and foolish; therefore you are deceived. "But you cannot help it, poor children. I know it well; for the children suffer because of what parents and grandparents have done. "But yet nobody receives what he does not deserve. "We suffer for our parents and grandparents. Do not call that unjust. The wise ones love their parents, and will redeem their wrong-doing. "And we can all make amends for what our parents did amiss. Yes, we can make amends to our parents--even now that they are dead. "The grave is not a snare, children, for catching soul-birds. Father and mother are living still, and are benefited through our efforts. "Make your little ones good, then, for you will have need of them. Yes, those who die like the dumb beasts--like the harlots and drunkards--even they will find good children most needful. "And no one can complain who fails of the expiation of the good children, nor is there any one who with their help cannot grow wiser. "If two travelers, wandering at night in the cold--the one having wood, the other matches--do not understand each other, both will suffer and be lost in the dark. "And if two shipwrecked people have between them a single cocoanut, and one takes the milk and the other the meat, then they both will perish--one from hunger, the other from thirst. "So, also, with wisdom; and no one lives upon the earth who can be wise alone." Markus' voice rang loud and clear, and it was as still as death in the sultry field, among those ragged people. For a time he was silent, and Johannes was so moved he was softly weeping; although he by no means accurately understood the meaning of the discourse. Finally, the husky voice sounded again, but now more gently: "I'll be darned if I can make head or tail of it; but I take it for truth." "Children," said Markus, "you are not bound to understand, and you are not bound to believe me; but will you, for my sake, remember it, word for word, and teach it to your children? Then I will be grateful to you." Softly rang the voices here and there: "Yes--yes, indeed!" "Will you not play some more?" asked a young girl with large, dark eyes. "Yes, I will play, and then you can dance," said Markus, nodding kindly. Then he took a violin from one of the musicians and began to play for the dancing--such fine music that the promenaders upon the street along the canal stood still, and remained to listen. A magistrate, who often played piano and violin duets with his friend the notary, remarked that there must be a veritable Zigeuner among the Fair-folk, since he only could play in such a manner. Then, forming a large circle, the people began to dance. The men, holding the maidens with stiff right arms under the armpits, whirled them around in an awkward, woodeny way. They kept it up until the perspiration streamed from their red, earnest faces. The children and their parents sat around. Occasionally, also, songs were sung. There was a good deal of laughing, and they all enjoyed themselves greatly. * * * * * In the midst of their jollity, two breathless children came running in. The larger was a little girl of eight years, with a dirty little cherub-face, haloed with flaxen ringlets. She had on an old pair of boy's trousers, held up by suspenders, and falling quite down to her little bare feet, so that in running so fast she nearly tripped in them. "The cops!" cried the child, panting, and the little one cried after her: "The cops!" Johannes scarcely comprehended the full import of this word; but it had the effect upon the group which the appearance of a hawk in the upper air has upon a flock of tomtits, or of sparrows. The presence of one or two watchmen, or policemen, on the road in front of the camp was nothing unusual; but now they were coming in greater numbers, and conducted by a dignified official in a black coat, and with a walking-stick and eye-glasses--the mayor, perchance! With that heroic tread which indicates an exalted sense of duty he led his men upon the scene. The music and noisy demonstrations were struck dumb, the dancing stopped, and everybody looked toward the road whence the common danger menaced. Each asked himself who most probably would be the victim; or considered the possibility of a harmless retreat from the neighborhood. Johannes alone thought nothing specially about it, not comprehending the extraordinary concern of the others. But, behold! After the policemen and the presumptive mayor had stood a while at the entrance to the camp, asking information, they came straight up to Marjon's wagon. They soon had their eyes on Marjon and Johannes, and Johannes at once felt that the affair concerned himself. He felt wretchedly ashamed, and, although he could not remember any evil deed, he felt as if he certainly must have done something very wrong, and that now the law--the _Law_, had come to get him, and to punish him. "_Jimminy_, Johnnie! Now you're in a pickle!" said Marjon. "She's got you in a hole." "Who?" asked Johannes, all at sea, and turning pale. "Well, that furious aunt of yours, of course." Johannes heard his name called, and he was requested to go with them. While he was hesitating, in miserable silence, Marjon's sister began scolding, in a sharp voice. But the policemen acted as if they did not hear her, and the chief began, in a kindly, admonitory tone: "Young man, you are a minor--you must obey the orders of your family. Here you are not in your own station. Your aunt is a very nice and excellent lady. You will be much better off with her than you are here. Your aunt is influential, and you must do what she says. That is the wisest way." In his uncertainty, Johannes looked round at Markus and asked: "What shall I do?" Gravely, without any consolation in the look he gave him, Markus said: "Do you think, Johannes, that I shall tell you every time what you ought to do? That would not make you any wiser. Do what seems to you best, and do not be afraid." "Come, boy, this isn't a matter of choice," said the gentleman with the cane. "You can't stay, and that's the end of it." And when Johannes started to follow, Marjon threw herself upon his shoulder, and began to cry. The Fair-people drew together in groups, muttering. But Johannes did not cry. He was thinking of his Aunt Seréna's tidy house, and of the fresh, spacious chamber with its large bed curtained with green serge, and of the big bed-tassel. "Cheer up, Marjon," said he. "I'll not forget you. Good-by till we meet again." And with the three officials he went his way to Vrede-best, often turning round to look at the camp, and to wave his hand at the weeping Marjon. V "Well, well, Master Johannes!" said Daatje, the old servant, as she thrust the heated bed-pan between the fresh linen sheets. "Truly, that was a blessed escape for you; like getting out of purgatory into paradise--away from those vile people to be with our mistress. That was fortunate, indeed. My! My!" Damp sheets are dangerous, even in midsummer, and Daatje had been drilled very strictly by her mistress in caring for the comfort of guests. Daatje wore a snow-white cap and a purple cotton gown. Her face was wrinkled, and her hands and arms were still more so. She had been an astonishingly long time in Aunt Seréna's service--perhaps forty years--and lost no opportunity clearly to prove to Johannes what an excellent being his aunt was: always polite and kind, always ready to assist, a blessing to the poor, a refuge for every one in the neighborhood, adored by all who knew her, and pure as an angel. "She is converted," said Daatje, "yes, truly converted. Ask whoever you please; like her there are not many living." Johannes perceived that "converted" meant "very good." According to Daatje, the natural man was not good, and it was necessary for every one to be converted before he was fit for anything. For a long time before falling asleep, while looking around the big, quiet bedroom, Johannes lay thinking over these things. A night-light was spluttering in a glass filled with equal parts of water and oil. As soon as the flame was lighted, behind the milk-white, translucent shade appeared strange, dreamy landscapes--formed by the unequal thicknesses. The chamber had an ancient, musty odor, and all the furniture bore an old-fashioned stateliness. There was a queer pattern upon the green bed-curtains, distressing to see; like half-opened eyes, alternately squinting. The big bed-tassel hung down from above in dogged dignity, like the tail of a lion keeping watch up above, on the canopy of the four-poster. Johannes felt very comfortable, yet there was something uncanny around him that he did not quite relish. Once, it really seemed to be the ponderous linen-chest of dark wood, with its big, brass-handled drawers, upon which stood, under a bell-glass, a basket filled with wax fruit. What the pictures represented could not be seen in the dim light, but they were in the secret too, as was also the night-stand with its crocheted cover, and the fearfully big four-poster. Every half-hour "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" rang through the house, as if those out in the hall and in the vestibule were also in the secret; the only one left out being the little fellow in clean underclothes and a night-gown much too big for him, who lay there, wide awake, looking around him. In the midst of all these solid, important, and dignified things, he was a very odd and out-of-place phenomenon. He felt that, in a polite way, he was being made sport of. Besides, it remained to be seen whether, after his more or less unmannerly adventures, he could ever be taken into confidence. Evidently the entire house was, if not precisely hostile, yet in a very unfriendly attitude. He kept his eye upon the bed-tassel, all ready to see the lion wag his tail. In order to do that, however, he must surely first become "converted," just like Aunt Seréna. When the day dawned, this new life became more pleasant than he had anticipated. Aunt Seréna presided at the breakfast, which consisted of tea, fresh rolls, currant buns, sweet, dark rye-bread, and pulverized aniseed. Upon the pier-tables, bright with sunshine, stood jars of Japanese blue-ware, filled with great, round bouquets of roses, mignonette, and variegated, ornamental grasses. The long glass doors stood open, and the odor of new-mown grass streamed in from the garden to the room, which was already deliciously fragrant with the roses and mignonette, and the fine tea. Aunt Seréna made no allusion to the foregoing day, nor to the death of Johannes' father. She was full of kindly attentions, and interrogated him affably, yet in a very resolute manner, concerning what he had learned at school, and asked who had given him religious instruction. It was now vacation time, and he might rest a little longer, and enjoy himself; but then would come the school again and the catechism. Until now Johannes had had small satisfaction out of his solemn resolution to value men more highly in order to live with them in a well-disposed way. But this time he was more at ease. The nice, cool house, the sunshine, the sweet smells, the flowers, the fresh rolls, everything put him in good humor; and when Aunt Seréna herself was so in harmony with her surroundings, he was soon prepared to see her in the light of Daatje's glorification. He gazed confidingly into the gleaming glasses of her spectacles, and he also helped her carry the big, standing work-basket, out of which she drew the bright-colored worsteds for her embroidery--a very extensive and everlasting piece of work. * * * * * But the garden! It was a wonder--the joy of his new life. After being released by his aunt until the hour for coffee, he raced into it like a young, unleashed hound--hunting out all the little lanes, paths, flower-plots, arbors, knolls, and the small pool; and then he felt almost as if in Windekind's realm again. A shady avenue was there which made two turns, thus seeming to be very long. There were paths between thick lilac-bushes already in bloom; and there were mock-oranges, still entirely covered with exceedingly fragrant white flowers. There was a small, artificial hill in that garden, with a view toward the west, over the adjacent nursery. Aunt Seréna was fond of viewing a fine sunset, and often came to the seat on the hilltop. There was a plot of roses, very fragrant, and as big as a plate. There were vivid, fiery red poppies with woolly stems, deep blue larkspurs, purple columbines, tall hollyhocks, like wrinkled paper, with their strange, strong odor. There were long rows of saxifrage, a pair of dark brown beeches; and everywhere, as exquisite surprises, fruit trees--apples, pears, plums, medlars, dogberries, and hazel-nuts--scattered among the trees which bore no fruit. Indeed, the world did not now seem so bad, after all. A human being--a creature admirably and gloriously perfect--a human dwelling filled with attractive objects, and, close beside, a charming imitation of Windekind's realm, in which to repose. And all in the line of duty, with no departure from the prescribed path. Assuredly, Johannes had looked only on the dark side of life. To confess this was truly mortifying. Towards twelve o'clock Daatje was heard in the cool kitchen, noisily grinding coffee, and Johannes ventured just a step into her domain, where, on all sides, the copper utensils were shining. In a little courtyard, some bird-cages were hanging against the ivy-covered walls. One large cage contained a skylark. He sat, with upraised beak and fixed gaze, on a little heap of grass. Above him, at the top of the cage, was stretched a white cloth. "That's for his head," said Daatje, "if he should happen to forget he was in a cage, and try to fly into the air." Next to this, in tiny cages, were finches. They hopped back and forth, back and forth, from one perch to another. That was all the room they had; and there they cried, "Pink! Pink!" Now and then one of them would sing a full strain. Thus it went the whole day long. "They are blind," said Daatje. "They sing finer so." "Why?" asked Johannes. "Well, boy, they can't see, then, whether it is morning or evening, and so they keep on singing." "Are you converted, too, Daatje?" asked Johannes. "Yes, Master Johannes, that grace is mine. I know where I'm going to. Not many can say that after me." "Who besides you?" "Well, I, and our mistress, and Dominie Kraalboom." "Does a converted person keep on doing wrong?" "Wrong? Now I've got you! No, indeed! I can do no more wrong. It's more wrong even if you stand on your head to save your feet. But don't run through the kitchen now with those muddy shoes. The foot-scraper is in the yard. This is not a runway, if you please." * * * * * The luncheon was not less delicious: fresh, white bread, smoked beef, cake and cheese, and very fragrant coffee, whose aroma filled the entire house. Aunt Seréna talked about church-going, about the choosing of a profession, and about pure and honest living. Johannes, being in a kindly mood, and inclined to acquiescence, avoided argument. In the afternoon, as he sat dreaming in the shady avenue of lindens, Aunt Seréna came bringing a tray, bearing a cooky and a glass of cherry-brandy. At half-past five came dinner. Daatje was an excellent cook, and dishes which were continually recurring on stated days were particularly well prepared. Vermicelli soup, with forced-meat balls, minced veal and cabbage, middlings pudding with currant juice: that was the first meal, later often recalled. Aunt Seréna asked a blessing and returned thanks, and Johannes, with lowered eyes and head a little forward, appeared, from the movement of his lips, to be doing a little of the same thing. Through the long twilight, Aunt Seréna and Johannes sat opposite each other, each one in front of a reflector. Aunt Seréna was thrifty, and, since the street lantern threw its light into the room, she was not in a hurry to burn her own oil. Only the unpretending little light for the making of the tea was glimmering behind the panes of milk-white glass--with landscapes not unlike those upon the night-light. In complete composure, with folded hands, sat Aunt Seréna in the dusk, making occasional remarks, until Daatje came to inquire "if the mistress did not wish to make ready for the evening." Then Daatje wound up the patent lamp, causing it to give out a sound as if it were being strangled. A quarter of an hour later it was regulated, and, as soon as the cozy, round ring of light shone over the red table-cover, Aunt Seréna said, in the most contented way: "Now we have the dear little lamp again!" At half-past ten there was a sandwich and a glass of milk for Johannes. Daatje stood ready with the candle, and, upstairs, the night-light, the chest of drawers with the wax fruit, the green bed-curtains, and the impressive bed-tassel were waiting for him. Johannes also descried something new--a big Bible--upon his night-table. There was no appearance yet of any attempt at a reconciliation on the part of the furniture. The cuckoo continued to address himself exclusively to the stilly darkness, in absolute disregard of Johannes; but the latter did not trouble himself so very much about it, and soon fell fast asleep. The morning differed but little from the foregoing one. Some Bibles were lying ready upon the breakfast-table. Daatje came in, took her place majestically, folded her half-bare wrinkled arms--and Aunt Seréna read aloud. The day before, Aunt Seréna had made a departure from this, her custom, uncertain how Johannes would take it; but, having found the boy agreeable and polite, she intended now to resume the readings. She read a chapter of Isaiah, full of harsh denunciations which seemed to please Daatje immensely. The latter wore a serious look, her lips pressed close together, occasionally nodding her head in approval, while she sniffed resolutely. Johannes found it very disconcerting, and could not, with his best endeavors, keep his attention fixed. He was listening to the twittering of the starlings on the roof, and the cooing of a wood-dove in the beech tree. In front of him he saw a steel engraving, representing a young woman, clad in a long garment, clinging with outstretched arms to a big stone cross that stuck up out of a restless waste of waters. Rays of light were streaming down from above, and the young person was looking trustfully up into them. The inscription below the engraving read, "The Rock of Ages," and Johannes was deep in speculation as to how the young lady had gotten there, and especially how she was to get away from there. It was not to be expected that she could long maintain herself in that uncomfortable position--surely not for ages. That refuge looked like a peculiarly precarious one; unless, indeed, something better might be done with those rays of light. Upon the same wall hung a motto, drawn in colored letters, amid a superfluity of flowers and butterflies, saying: "The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want." This awakened irreverent thoughts in Johannes' mind. When the Bible-reading was over, he was suddenly moved to make a remark. "Aunt Seréna," said he, conscious of a rising color, and feeling rather giddy on account of his boldness, "is it only because the Lord is your Shepherd that you do not lack for anything?" But he had made a bad break. Aunt Seréna's face took on a severe expression, and adjusting her spectacles somewhat nervously, she said: "I willingly admit, dear Johannes, that in many respects I have been blessed beyond my deserts; but ought not you to know--you who had such a good and well-informed father--that it is very unbecoming in young people to pass judgment, thoughtlessly, upon the lives of older ones, when they know nothing either of their trials or of their blessings?" Johannes sat there, deeply abashed, suddenly finding himself to be a silly, saucy boy. But Daatje stood up, and in a manner peculiarly her own--bending a little, arms akimbo--said, with great emphasis: "_I'll_ tell you what, mistress! you're too good. He ought to have a spanking--on the bare spanking place, too!" And forthwith she went to the kitchen. VI There were regularly recurring changes in Aunt Seréna's life. In the first place, the going to church. That was the great event of the week; and the weekly list of services and of the officiating clergymen was devoutly discussed. Then the lace cap, with its silk strings, was exchanged for a bonnet with a gauze veil; and Daatje was careful to have the church books, mantle, and gloves ready, in good reason. Nearly always Daatje went also; if not, then the sermon was repeated to her in detail. Johannes accompanied his aunt with docility, and tried, not without a measure of success, to appreciate the discourse. The visits of Minister Kraalboom were not less important. Johannes saw, with amazement, that his aunt, at other times so stately and estimable, now almost humbled herself in reverent and submissive admiration. She treated this man, in whom Johannes could see no more than a common, kindly gentleman, with a head of curling grey hair, and with round, smoothly shaven cheeks, as if he belonged to a higher order of beings; and the adored one accepted her homage with candid readiness. The most delicious things the aunt had, in fine wines, cakes, and liqueurs, were set before him; and, as the minister was a great smoker, Daatje had a severe struggle with herself after every visit, between her respect for the servant of the Lord and her detestation of scattered ashes, stumps of cigars, and tobacco-smelling curtains. Once a week there was a "Krans," or sewing circle, and then came Aunt Seréna's lady friends. They were more or less advanced in years, but all of them very unprepossessing women, among whom Aunt Seréna, with her erect figure and fine, pale face, made a very good appearance; and she was clearly regarded as a leader. Puff-cakes were offered, and warm wine or "milk-tea" was poured. The aim of the gatherings was charitable. Talking busily, the friends made a great many utterly useless, and, for the most part, tasteless, articles: patchwork quilts, anti-macassars, pin-cushions, flower-pot covers, picture frames of dried grasses, and all that sort of thing. Then a lottery, or "tombola,"[1] as it was called, was planned for. Every one had to dispose of tickets, and the proceeds were given, sometimes to a poor widow, sometimes to a hospital, but more often, however, to the cause of missions. On such evenings Johannes sat, silent, in his corner, with one of the illustrated periodicals of which his aunt had a large chestful. He listened to the conversation, endeavoring to think it noble and amiable; and he looked, also, at the trifling fingers. No one interfered with him, and he drank his warm wine and ate his cake, content to be left in peace; for he felt attracted toward none of the flowers composing this human wreath. But Aunt Seréna did not consider her duty accomplished in these ways alone. She went out from them to busy herself in parish calls on various households--rich as well as poor--wherever she thought she could do any good. It was a great satisfaction to Johannes when, at his request that he be allowed to go with her, she replied: "Certainly, dear boy; why not?" Johannes accompanied her this first time under great excitement. Now he was going to be initiated into ways of doing and being good. This was a fine chance. So they set out together, Johannes carrying a large satchel containing bags of rice, barley, sugar, and split peas. For the sick there were jars of smoked beef and a flask of wine. They first went to see Vrouw Stok, who lived not far away, in French Lane. Vrouw Stok evidently counted upon such a visit, and she was extremely voluble. According to her statements, one would say that no nobler being dwelt upon earth than Aunt Seréna, and no nicer, more grateful, and contented creature than Vrouw Stok. And Dominie Kraalboom also was lavishly praised. After that, they went to visit the sick, in reeking little rooms in dreary back streets. And everywhere they met with reiterations of gratitude and pleasure from the recipients, together with unanimous praising of Aunt Seréna, until Johannes several times felt the tears gather in his eyes. The barley and the split peas were left where they would be of use, as were also the wine and the jars of smoked beef. Johannes and his aunt returned home very well pleased. Aunt Seréna was rejoiced over her willing and appreciative votary, and Johannes over this well-conducted experiment in philanthropy. If this were to be the way, all would be well. In a high state of enthusiasm he sped to the garden to dream away the quiet afternoon amid the richly laden raspberry-bushes. "Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, at table that noon, "that poor boy in the back street, with the inflamed eyes and that ulcerated leg--is he a religious boy?" "Yes, Johannes, so far as I know." "Then is the Lord his Shepherd, too?" "Yes, Johannes," said his aunt, more seriously now, having in mind his former remark. But Johannes spoke quite innocently, as if deep in his own thoughts. "Why is it, then, that he lacks so much? He has never seen the dunes nor the ocean. He goes from his bed to his chair, and from his chair to his bed, and knows only that dirty room." "The Lord knows what is good for us, Johannes. If he is pious, and remains so, sometime he will lack for nothing." "You mean when he is dead?... But, Aunt Seréna, if I am pious I shall go to heaven, too, shall I not?" "Certainly, Johannes." "But, Aunt Seréna, I have had a fine time in your home, with raspberries and roses, and delicious things to eat, and he has had nothing but pain and plain living. Yet the end is the same. That does not seem fair, does it, Aunt Seréna?" "The Lord knows what is good for us, Johannes. The most severely tried are to Him the best beloved." "Then, if it is not a blessing to have good things, we ought to long for trials and privations?" "We should be resigned to what is given us," said Aunt Seréna, not quite at her ease. "And yet be thankful only for all those delicious things? Although we know that trials are better?" Johannes spoke seriously, without a thought of irony, and Aunt Seréna, glad to be able to close the conversation, replied: "Yes, Johannes, always be thankful. Ask the dominie about it." Dominie Kraalboom came in the evening, and, as Aunt Seréna repeated to him Johannes' questions, his face took on the very same scowl it always wore when he stood up in the pulpit; his wry mouth rolled the _r's_, and, with the emphasis of delightful certainty, he uttered the following: "My dear boy, that which you, in your childlike simplicity, have asked, is--ah, indeed--ah, the great problem over which the pious in all ages have pondered and meditated--pondered and meditated. It behooves us to enjoy gratefully, and without questioning, what the good Lord, in His eternal mercy, is pleased to pour out upon us. We should, as much as lies in our power, relieve the afflictions that He allots to others, and at the same time teach the sufferers to be resigned to the inevitable. For He knows what we all have need of, and tempers the wind to the shorn lamb." Then said Johannes: "So you, and Aunt Seréna, and I, have a good time now, because we have no need of all that misery? And that sick boy does need it? Is that it, Dominie?" "Yes, my dear boy, that is it." "And has Daatje, too, need of privations? Daatje said that she was converted as completely as you and Aunt Seréna were." "Daatje is a good, pious soul, entirely satisfied with what the Lord has apportioned her." "Yes, Dominie; but," said Johannes, his voice trembling with his feeling, "I am not converted yet, not the least bit. I am not at all good. Why, then, have I so much more given me than Daatje has? Daatje has only a small pen, up in the garret, while I have the big guest-room; she must do the scrubbing and eat in the kitchen, while I eat in the house and get many more dainties. And it is not the Lord who does that, but Aunt Seréna." Dominie Kraalboom threw a sharp glance at Johannes, and drank in silence, from his goblet of green glass, the fragrant Rhine wine. Aunt Seréna looked, with a kind of suspense, at the dominie's mouth, expecting the forthcoming oracle to dissipate all uncertainty. When the dominie spoke again, his voice was far less kindly. He said: "I believe, my young friend, that it was high time your aunt took you home here. Apparently, you have been exposed to very bad influences. Accustom yourself to the thought that older and wiser people know, better than yourself, what is good for you; and be thankful for the good things, without picking them to pieces. God has placed each one in his station, where he must be active for his own and his fellow-creatures' salvation." With a sigh of contentment, Aunt Seréna took up her embroidery again. Johannes was frightened at the word "picking," which brought to mind an old enemy--Pluizer. Dominie Kraalboom hastened to light a fresh cigar, and to begin about the "tombola." * * * * * That night, in the great bed, Johannes lay awake a long while, uneasy and restless. His mind was clear and on the alert, and he was in a state of expectancy. Things were not going right, though. Something was the matter, but he knew not what. The furniture, in the still night-time, wore a hostile, almost threatening air. The call of the cuckoo spelled mischief. About three or four o'clock, when the night-light had sputtered and gone out, he lay still wider awake. He was looking at the bed-cord, which, bigger and thicker than ordinary, was growing ominously visible in the first dim light. Suddenly--as true as you live--he saw it move! A slight quiver--a spasmodic, serpentine undulation, like the tail of a nervous cat. Then, very swiftly and without a rustle, he saw a small shadow drop down the bed-cord. Was it a mouse? After that he heard a thin little voice: "Johannes! Johannes!" He knew that voice. He lifted up his head and took a good look. Seated upon the bed-tassel, astride the handle, was his old friend Wistik. He was the same old Wistik, looking as important as ever; yes, his puckered little face wore a peculiar, almost frightened expression of suspense. He was not wearing his little acorn-cup, but a smart cap that appeared black in the twilight. "I have news for you," cried Wistik. "A great piece of news. Come with me, quick!" "How do you do, Wistik?" whispered Johannes. He lay cozily between the sheets, and was glad to see his friend again. Let the chest of drawers and the cuckoo be as disagreeable as they wanted to, now; here was his friend again. "Must I go with you? How can I? Where to?" "This way--up here with me," whispered Wistik. "I have found something. It will make you open your eyes. Just give me your hand. That's the best way. You can leave your body lying here while you are away." "That will be a fine sight," said Johannes. But it happened without any trouble. He put out his hand, and in a twinkling he was sitting beside Wistik, on the bed-tassel. And truly, as he looked down below, there he saw his body lying peacefully fast asleep. A ray of light streamed into the room, through the clover-leaf opening in the blinds, and lighted up the sleeping head. Johannes thought it an extremely pretty sight, and himself still a really nice boy as he lay there among the pillows, with his dark curly hair about the slightly contracted brows. "Do you believe that I am very bad, Wistik?" said he, looking down upon himself. "No," said Wistik, "we must never fib to each other. Neither am I bad; not a bit. I have found that out now, positively. Oh, I have discovered so much since we last met! But we must not admire ourselves on that account. That would be stupid. Come, now, for we have not much time." Together they climbed up the bed-cord. It was easy work, for Johannes was light and small, and he climbed nimbly up the shaggy rope. But it felt warm, and hairy, and alive in his hands! Up they worked themselves, through the folds of the canopy. But the bed-cord did not end there. Oh, no! It went on farther and grew bigger and bigger, and then.... What they came to, I will tell you in the following chapter. [1] Lottery-Fair. VII It was, indeed, a real lion's tail, and not a bed-cord. Johannes and Wistik were now sitting on the very back of the mighty beast. Above them it was all dark, but out in front--away where the lion was looking--the daylight could be seen. They let themselves down cautiously to the ground. They were in a large cave. Johannes saw streaks of water glistening along the rocky walls. Gently as they tried to slip past the monster, he yet discovered them, and turned his shaggy head around, watching them distrustfully. "He will not do anything," said Wistik. And the lion looked at them as if they were a pair of flies, not worth eating up. They passed on into the sharp sunlight outside, and, after several blinding moments, Johannes saw before him a wide-spread, glorious mountain view. They were standing on the slope of a high, rocky mountain. Down below, they saw deep, verdant valleys, whence the sound of babbling brooks and waterfalls ascended. In the distance was the dazzling, blinding glitter of sunshine upon a sea of deepest, darkest blue. They could see the strand, and every now and then it grew white with the combing surf. But there was no sound; it was too far away. Overhead, the sky was clear, but Johannes could not see the face of the sun. It was very still all around, and the blue and white flowers among the rocks were motionless. Only the rushing of the water in the valleys could be heard. "Now, Johannes, what do you say to this? It is more beautiful than the dunes, is it not?" said Wistik, nodding his head in complete satisfaction. Johannes was enchanted at the sight of that vast expanse before him, with the rocks, the flowers, the ravines, and the sea. "Oh, Wistik, where are we?" asked he, softly, enraptured with the view. "My new cap came from here," said Wistik. Johannes looked at him. The pretty cap that had appeared black in the twilight proved to be bright red. It was a Phrygian cap. "Phrygia?" asked Johannes, for he knew the name of those caps well. "Maybe," said Wistik. "Is not this a great find? And I know, too...." Here he spoke in whispers again, very importantly, behind the back of his hand, in Johannes' ear: "Here they know something more about the little gold key, and the book, which we are both trying to find." "Is the book here?" asked Johannes. "I do not know yet," said Wistik, a trifle disturbed. "I did not say that, but the people know about it--that is certain." "Are there people here?" "Certainly there are. Human beings, and elves, and all kinds of animals. And they know all about it." "Is Windekind here, too, Wistik?" "I do not doubt it, Johannes, but I have not seen him yet. Shall we try to find him?" "Oh, yes, Wistik! But how are we going to get down there? It is too steep. We shall break our necks." "No, indeed, if only you are not afraid. Just let yourself float. Then you will be all right." At first Johannes did not dare. He was wide awake, not dreaming; and if any one wide awake were to throw himself down from a high rock, he would meet his death. If one were dreaming, then nothing would happen. If only he could know, now, whether he was awake or dreaming! "Come, Johannes, we have only a little time." Then he risked it, and let himself drift downward. And it was splendid--so comfortable! He floated gently down through the mild, still air, arms and legs moving as in swimming. "Is it only a dream, then?" he asked, looking down attentively at the beautiful, blooming world below him. "What do you mean?" asked Wistik. "You are Johannes, just the same, and what you see, Johannes sees. Your body lies asleep, in Vrede-best, at your aunt's. But did you ever in the daytime see anything so distinct as this?" "No," said Johannes. "Well, then, you can just as well call your Aunt Seréna and Vrede-best a dream--just as much as this." A large bird--an eagle--swept around in stately circles, spying at them with its sharp, fierce eyes. Below, in the dark green of the valley, a small white temple, with its columns, was visible. Close beside it a mountain stream tumbled splashing down below. Still and straight as arrows, tall cypresses, with their pale grey trunks and black-green foliage, encircled it. A fine mist rose up from the splashing water, and, crowned with an exquisite arc of color, remained suspended amidst the glossy green myrtle and magnolia. Only where the water spattered did the leaves stir; elsewhere everything was motionless. But over all rang the warbling and chattering of birds, from out the forest shade. Finches sang their fullest strains, and the thrushes fluted their changeful tune, untiringly. But listen! That was not a bird! That was a more knowing, more cordial song; a melody that _said_ something--something which Johannes could feel, like the words of a friend. It was a reed, played charmingly. No bird could sing like that. "Oh, Wistik, who is playing? It is more lovely than blackbird or nightingale." "Pst!" said Wistik, opening his eyes wide. "That is only the flute, yet. By and by you will hear the singing." They sank down upon a mountain meadow, in a wide valley. The limpid, blue-green rivulet flowed through the sunny grass-plot, between blood-red anemones, yellow and white narcissi, and deep purple hyacinths. On both sides of it were thick, round azalea-bushes, entirely covered with fragrant, brick-red flowers. White butterflies were fluttering back and forth across it. On the other side rose tall laurel, myrtle, olive, and chestnut trees; and still higher the cedars and pines--half-way up the mountain wall of red-grey granite. It was so still and peaceful and great blue dragon-flies with black wings were rocking on the yellow narcissus flowers nodding along the stream. Then Johannes saw a fleeing deer, springing up from the sod in swift, sinewy leaps; then another, and another. The flute-playing sounded close by, but now there was singing also. It came from a shady grove of chestnut trees, and echoed gloriously from mountain-side to mountain-side, while the brook maintained the rhythm with its purling, murmuring flow. The voices of men and women could be heard, vigorously strong and sweetly clear; and, intermingling with these somewhat rude shouts of joy, the high-pitched voices of children. On they came, the people, a joyous, bright-colored procession. They all bore flowers--as wreaths upon their heads, as festoons in their hands or about their shoulders-flute-players, men, women, and children. And they themselves seemed living flowers, in their clear-colored, charming apparel. They all had abundant, curling hair which gleamed like dull gold in the sunshine, that tinted everything. Their limbs and faces were tanned by the sun, but when the folds of their garments fell aside, their bodies beneath them shone white as milk. The older ones kept step, with careful dignity; the children bore little baskets, with fruit, ribbons, and green branches; but the young men and maidens danced as they went, keeping the rhythm of the music in a way Johannes had never seen before. They swayed their bodies in a swinging movement, with little leaps; sometimes even standing still, in graceful postures, their arms alternately raised above their heads, their loosened garments flowing free, and again arranging themselves in charming folds. And how beautiful they were! Not one, Johannes noted, old or young, who had not those noble, refined features, and those clear, ardent eyes, in which was to be found the deep meaning he was always seeking in human faces--that which made a person instantly his friend--that made him long to be cordial and intimate--that which he had first perceived in Windekind's eyes, and that he missed so keenly in all those human faces among which he had had to live. _That_, they all had--man and woman, grey-haired one and little child. "Oh, Wistik," he whispered, so moved he could scarcely speak, "are they really human beings, and not elves? Can human beings be so beautiful? They are more beautiful than flowers--and much more beautiful than the animals. They are the most beautiful of all things in this world!" "What did I tell you?" said Wistik, rubbing his little legs in his satisfaction. "Yes, human beings rank first in nature,--altogether first. But until now we have had to do with the wrong ones--the trash, Johannes--the refuse. The right ones are not so bad. I have always told you that." Johannes did not remember about it, but would not contradict his friend. He only hoped that those dear and charming people would come to him, recognize him as their comrade, and receive him as one of them. That would make him very happy; he would love the people truly, and be proud of his human nature. But the splendid train drew near, and passed on, without his having been observed by any one; and Johannes also heard them singing in a strange, unintelligible language. "May I not speak to them?" he asked, anxiously. "Would they understand me?" "Indeed, no!" said Wistik, indignantly. "What are you thinking about? This is not a fairy tale nor a dream. This is real--altogether real." "Then shall I have to go hack again to Aunt Seréna, and Daatje, and the dominie?" "Yes, to be sure!" said Wistik, in confusion. "And the little key, and the book, and Windekind?" "We can still be seeking them." "That is always the way with you!" said Johannes, bitterly. "You promise something wonderful, and the end is always a disappointment." "I cannot help that," said Wistik. They went farther, both of them silent and somewhat discouraged. Then they came to human habitations amid the verdure. They were simple structures of dark wood and white stone, artistically decorated and colored. Vines were growing against the pillars, and from the roofs hung the branches of a strange, thickly leaved plant having red flowers, so that the walls looked as if they were bleeding. Birds were everywhere making their nests, and little golden statues could be seen resting in marble niches. There were no doors nor barriers--only here and there a heavy, many-colored rug hanging before an entrance. It seemed very silent and lonely there, for everybody was away; yet nothing was locked up, nor concealed. An exquisite perfume was smoldering in bronze basins in front of the houses, and columns of blue smoke coiled gently up into the still air. * * * * * Then they ventured farther into the forest that lay behind the houses. It was dusky twilight there, and all was solemnly and mysteriously silent. The moss grew thick upon the massive rocks between which the mighty chestnut and cedar trees took root. Foaming rivulets were flowing down; and frequently it seemed to Johannes as if he saw some creature--a deer or other animal--peep at him, and then dart away between the tree-trunks. "What are they? Deer?" asked Johannes. "Indeed, no!" said Wistik, lifting a finger. "Only listen! They are laughing. Deer do not laugh." Truly, Johannes heard every now and then, as he saw a figure disappear in the twilight of the woods, a soft peal of laughter--clearly, human laughter. "Now! now we are going to see him!" said Wistik. "Who?" asked Johannes. "Pst!" said Wistik, very mysteriously, pointing toward an open place in the forest. Johannes saw there such a pretty and captivating spectacle that he stood speechless, with only a light laugh of joy and amazement. The forest was more open there, and the sun shone in upon a grassy, flower-covered spot. In the centre stood a single, extraordinarily large chestnut tree. About its foot, bordered with white narcissi, a little stream of purest water was winding. On every side tall rhododendrons stood out in all their beauty of dark foliage, and hundreds of hemispherical clusters of purple flowers. At the foot of the tree, in the shade of its leaves, a strange figure, dark and shaggy, was sitting in a circle of exquisite, fair-skinned beings. Johannes did not know what to think of them, they were so light and so delicate. And they lay in all sorts of graceful attitudes amid the tall grass and the narcissus flowers. They seemed to be human beings, but they were so small; and they were as white as the foam of the brook. Their long hair was so feathery light, it seemed to float about their heads in the motionless air. In the centre sat the dark, shaggy figure, with his arms upon his knees, and his hands extended. He had a long, grey beard, an old, wrinkled, friendly face, large gold earrings, a wreath of leaves upon his head, a red flower-festoon adorned with living yellow butterflies about his shoulders, bare, brown arms, a deep, broad, hairy chest, and legs entirely covered with a growth of red-brown fleece. On each hand rested a bird--a finch--and each bird sang, in turn, his longest strain. Then the old figure laughed, and nodded his approval, and the fair little beings joined in the laugh. On his shoulder sat a squirrel, shucking chestnuts so that the shells fell upon his beard. "Oh, Wistik!" cried Johannes, half laughing, half crying, with rapture, "I know who that is--I know him. That is Pan--Father Pan!" "Very likely!" said Wistik, with a knowing look. "Now _he_ will listen to us. Let's try!" Diffidently, Johannes went nearer. At the first step he took in the open space, the little white nymphs sped apart in a trice--as swiftly and softly as if they had been turned into newts--and there was nothing to be heard save their light, mocking laughter, and a slight rustling in the dark shadow of the rhododendrons. The two finches flew away and the yellow butterflies, also, from their flower-festoon; and the squirrel shot into the tree--his little nails clattering as he went. But Pan remained sitting, with head bent forward, down-dropping hands, and peering, friendly eyes. "I know you all right!" came from the wide mouth of Pan, while he nodded to Johannes, and looked at him with his large head a little to one side. "Oh, Father Pan!" exclaimed Johannes, quivering with awe and suspense, "do you know me? Will you answer me? Tell me where we are, then!" Continuing to nod in a quieting, affable manner, Pan replied: "Phrygia! Golden Era--to be sure!" "And do you know Wistik, too? And Windekind? And do you know about the little key, and the book?" "Wistik? Certainly! Would that I knew all, though!--You know how to ask questions, Vraagal. Know-all and Ask-all! A pretty pair you are!" And Pan laughed heartily, showing his great white teeth in an astonishingly large mouth. "But tell me, Father Pan! Who is Windekind?" "My dearest dear! My darling, clever little son! That is who he is. We are two yolks of one egg, although I am old, rough, and shaggy, and he is sleek, and fine, and beautiful." "Shall I ever see him again?" "Why not? He comes here often; and you also like it here, do you not?" "But Wistik said I could not stay." "You cannot do so--now; but why could you not come back again sometime?" "Could I?" Pan's face took on a most amused, astonished look, and he puffed out his cheeks. "You dear little Vraagal! Give me your hand." Johannes laid his small hand trustfully in the broad open palm. The large hand was dark and shaggy on the outside, but white, and smooth, and firm on the inside. "Do you not know that yet? Then let Father Pan make you happy with a word. Do not forget it, mind! _Vraagal can do whatever he wills to do--everything_--if he will only be patient! But tell me now,--how did you know me?" "I have seen statues and engravings of you." "Do I look like them?" "No!" said Johannes. "I think you are much nicer. In the prints you look like the Devil." "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Pan, raising his heavy hands above his head, and clapping them together. "That is who I am, Vraagal. They have made a devil of me, so as to drive people away. But do you believe, now, that I am bad? Give me your paddy again! And now the other one!" This time Johannes laid both his own in Pan's two giant hands, and said: "I know who you are. You are good. You are Nature!" "Hold your tongue, little hypocrite, with your conceited platitudes! Are you not ashamed of yourself?" Johannes blushed deeply; tears fell from his eyes, and he wished he could sink out of sight. But Pan drew him up closer and stroked his cheek. "Now, do not cry! It is not so bad. You have come, too, out of a dreary nest. I am not evil--neither is Wistik. Only trust us." "I have told him that, too," said Wistik, earnestly and emphatically. "Little Vraagal," continued Pan, looking very serious, "there is, indeed, an evil Devil, but he is far more ugly than I am. Is it not so, Wistik? You know him. Is he not much uglier? Tell us!" Johannes never forgot the look on Wistik's face as Father Pan asked him this in a loud voice, with a keen, serious regard. The little fellow grew as pale as death, his mouth dropped open, he pressed both hands upon his stomach, and from his trembling lips came the almost inaudible word: "Horrible!" "Oh, indeed!" said Pan. "Well, I am not that. Sometime Wistik must point him out to you. He looks much more like those foolish people you have just come from than like me." "Aunt Seréna?" asked Johannes, astounded. "Is _she_, then, not good and first-rate? Is _she_ a foolish person?" "Now, now, you dear little Vraagal!" said Pan, in palliation. "Everything is relative. But it is a fact that she looks more like the Devil than I do." "How can that be?" asked Johannes, in amazement. Pan grew a little impatient. "Does that puzzle you? Then ask her to show you the little tree she has in her safe, with the golden apples growing on it. Do not forget!" "Good, good!" shouted Wistik, clapping his hands with delight. * * * * * At this moment there came suddenly from the distance an alarming sound--a short, hoarse, resounding roar that echoed through the forest. "The lion!" cried Wistik; and away he went, as fast as he could run. Johannes also was greatly frightened. He knew it was time to leave, but he would not go quite yet. He asked, imploringly: "Father Pan, shall I find the book?" "Remember what I said to you," replied Pan. "Vraagal can do what Vraagal wills to do. To will is to do. But it must be the right sort of will." Again that frightful roar resounded, this time much nearer. Johannes stretched out his hand, hesitating between his mounting fears, and his desire to make use of an instant more. "One more question!" he cried. "Who is Markus?" At that, he saw Pan's eyes distend, and stare at him with a look full of intense emotion. He seemed as fiercely sorrowful as a wounded animal; and, until now, Johannes had not observed what beautiful great eyes he had. He lifted up his outspread hands--then covered his face with them, and began to weep and wail, loudly. The air grew dense and dark, and a heavy shower descended. Then, for the third time, the lion roared.... VIII "It's a downright shame!" said Daatje, snappishly, while unfastening the third shutter, which opened with a shriek and a rumble. "Half past-nine--on Saturday, at that--and the room to be tidied up! You'll catch it from Aunt Seréna. Half-past nine! It's a downright shame!" Johannes was not pleased with this familiarity, as if he were still a mere child; and, in a rebellious spirit, without quite understanding his own object, he muttered: "This thing's got to end." With Aunt Seréna, disapproval was expressed in a manner very different from that in a kermis-wagon. There was no swearing, nor scolding, nor any din; and no cooking utensils flew out of the window. But Aunt Seréna would grow a little paler, her fine face become cold and severe like marble, and the very few words that fell from her lips would be short and spoken in a soft, low voice. She knew how, though, to make one so uncomfortable in this way, that he would rather she had thrown a piece of the tea-set at his head. Johannes, however, neither felt, nor evinced, any remorse. On the contrary, he assumed an independent bearing. He was not saucy, but wonderfully indifferent; neither was he morose, but cheerful and obliging; for his thoughts were full of that beautiful land and its noble people, and of his good Father Pan. Aunt Seréna, herself, felt a little disconcerted. That evening the circle of lady friends came in full force. There was Juffrouw Frederike--called Free--tall and bowed, with her grey hair in a net. There was Pietekoo, who was always laughing, and saying flattering things, but who could, also, show a tart side upon occasion. There was Suze, who had the name of being so musical, and who, pluming herself on that score, kept on taking piano lessons far on in her sixties though she was. There was the saintly Koos, who had once leaped into the water, in a religious frenzy, and who could repeat the sermons, word for word. There was the quiet Neeltje, a bit round-shouldered, and very negligent in her dress, who never said anything, and was always being teased about suitors. There was the widow Slot, who, in her deep voice, uttered short, sarcastic comments, mostly at the expense of poor Neeltje. There was Miebet, the beauty of the company, toward whom Johannes felt a special aversion. They all brought their hand-work, and were speedily deep in conversation. Johannes was greeted in a friendly way as "dear boy" and "good boy," but, after that, as always, was left in peace. It did seem, listening to their conversation, as if love and meekness reigned undisturbed in their hearts. It was an uninterrupted competition in generosity, each striving to be foremost in helping the others to the footstools, the cozy places, and the various delicacies. Miebet said that she had only one defect--this one, that she always thought of others first, and herself last. From this single defect one could perceive, by comparison, the nature and number of her virtues. To the saintliness of Koos, according to her own testimony, even Daatje and Aunt Seréna would have to yield precedence. She could repeat, word for word, the long, closing prayer of the previous Sunday, and stood alone in this proficiency. Johannes noticed that she could neither read nor write, nor even tell the time, but cunningly contrived to hide her ignorance. Juffrouw Frederike, who was wont to enumerate the excruciating pains that her poor health inflicted upon her, was not silent concerning the heavenly patience with which she endured these trials, and the indifference of the world toward her sufferings. At seven o'clock came the dominie. He was greeted respectfully, and with a tender solicitude, while he made interested and condescending inquiries after health and circumstances. Also, he admired and praised the products of womanly industry, deducing therefrom weighty and forceful morals that were listened to in thoughtful silence. Johannes had received a cold, limp hand-shake. He felt that he had been a long time in disfavor. Neither had Aunt Seréna's stiffness relaxed, and she looked at him now and then, restlessly, as if wishing and expecting that he would show signs of repentance or submissiveness. And it seemed as if the entire circle concerned themselves less about him than ever. He sat still in his corner, turning the leaves of his penny magazine, his little heart brave and not at all disquieted. But he did not see much of the engravings, and felt more than at other times constrained to listen to the talking. Then, while all gave quiet attention, Aunt Seréna began an enumeration of all the petty trifles and knick-knacks which had been brought together this time for the "tombola": "three napkin-rings, two corner-brackets, one waste-paper basket worked with worsted, seven anti-macassars, a knitting-needle holder, two sofa-pillows, one lamp-shade, the beautiful fire-screen made by Free, two picture-frames, four pin-cushions, one needle-book, one patchwork quilt, one pair of slippers, by Miebet, one reticule, one painted teacup, two flower-pieces made of bread, one cabinet of shells, one straw thread-winder, seventeen book-marks, eight pen-wipers, one small postage-stamp picture, two decorated cigar-cases, one ash-holder. That is all, I believe." "Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, over the top of his penny magazine, "do you know what else you ought to count in?" A moment of suspense followed. All eyes were turned upon him. Aunt Seréna looked surprised, but kindly inquisitive. The dominie suspected something, and his brows contracted. "What, my dear boy!" asked Aunt Seréna. "A couple of gold apples, from your little tree." There followed a moment of subdued silence. Then Aunt Seréna, with a self-restrained but severe manner, asked: "What tree do you mean, Johannes?" "The little tree you have in your chest, with the gold apples growing on it." Again silence, but all understood; that was clear. Pietekoo even tittered. The others exchanged significant glances. Aunt Seréna's pale face flushed perceptibly, and she shot a glance at the dominie over her spectacles. The dominie took the affair very calmly, gave Johannes a cold, disdainful look, as much as to say that he had all along had his measure, and then, while his eyes narrowed in a smile, he signified to Aunt Seréna, by a quieting motion of the hand, that she ought not to bestow any thought upon such a matter. Thereupon, with assumed unprejudice, and in a sprightly tone, he said: "This is, indeed, a fine 'tombola'!" But Aunt Seréna was not to be appeased in this way. She threw back her rustling, purple silk cap-strings with a nervous, trembling gesture (in her the betrayal of vehement emotion), and, standing up, motioned to Johannes to follow her into the vestibule. Closing the door of the room behind her: "Johannes!" said she, in a voice not quite within control, "Johannes, I will not suffer this! To think of you making me appear ridiculous to others! For shame! And after all the good I thought to have done you! Ought you to have grieved your old aunt so? For shame, Johannes! It is mean and ungrateful of you!" With a face almost as pale as that of his aunt, Johannes looked straight up into her glistening glasses. There were tears in her voice, and Johannes saw them appear from under the spectacles, and slowly trickle down along the delicate lines of her cheeks. It was Johannes' turn, now, to feel badly. He was utterly confounded. Who was right--Father Pan or Aunt Seréna? In such straits was he that he would rather be running the streets at such a pace as never to get back again. The street door stood ajar, the autumn day was drawing to its close in a melancholy twilight, and a drizzling rain was falling. Daatje was standing outside, talking with some one. "Aunt Seréna," said Johannes, trying hard to control himself, "I know that I am wicked, but I really will be good--_really_--if only I knew...." Just then there came from outside a sound which made him quiver with agitation. It thrilled through marrow and bone, and he felt his knees giving way. It was the sharp, rasping sound of steel being held against the whetstone; and through the door-crack he saw the glitter of that beautiful fountain of golden sparks. It sounded to him like a blessed tidings--like the utterance of mercy to one condemned. "That is Markus!" he cried, with heightened color and shining eyes. Aunt Seréna went to the door and opened it. There, bowed over his work, stood Markus. Again, he was treading the wheel of the old cart, the one with the footboard. As before, the water was dripping from his old cap, down upon his faded raincoat. His face was sad, and there were deep lines about his mouth. "Markus!" cried Johannes; and, springing forward, he threw his arms around him, and pressed his head caressingly against the wet clothing. "For the love of Christ, Boy! What are you doing?" said Daatje. "What Romish freak is this?" "Oh, Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. "May he not come indoors? He is so wet, and so tired! He is a good man--my best friend." Daatje placed her arms akimbo, and stepped angrily in front of Aunt Seréna and the doorway. "Now, I'll attend to that. The dear Lord preserve us! Such a dirty lout of a gypsy come into my clean marble hall! That's altogether too much!" But Aunt Seréna, in that earnest tone which had always been a command for Daatje--admitting no oppositions--said: "Daatje, go back to the kitchen. I will settle this matter myself." And turning toward Markus she asked: "Will you not come in and rest?" Slowly straightening himself up, Markus replied: "I will, Madam." And he laid down his scissors, took off his cap, and walked in. This time Daatje was disobedient, for she did not return to the kitchen, but remained, arms still akimbo, repeatedly shaking her head, surveying the intruder with horror--especially his feet, and the old coat which he hung upon the hat-rack. And, when Aunt Seréna actually let him out of the vestibule into the room itself, she tarried behind the unclosed door, anxiously listening. Within the room a dead stillness ensued. The dominie's face took on an expression of utter amazement, while he lifted his eyebrows very high, and thrust out his pursed-up lips. Pietekoo tittered in her embarrassment, and then hid her face in her hands. The others looked, now with a puzzled mien at Markus, then in doubtful expectation at Aunt Seréna, with distrust at Johannes, with very expressive glances at one another, and finally, with pretended absorption in their hand-work. The silence was still unbroken. "Will you take something?" asked Aunt Seréna. "Yes, Madam, a bit of bread," said Markus, in his calm, gentle voice. "Would you not rather have a glass of wine, and some cake?" "No, Madam, if you will excuse me; I prefer common bread." The dominie thought it time to intervene. He was stung by the censure conveyed in Markus' refusal. "The Scripture teaches, my friend, that we should eat what is set before us, when we are guests." "Do you take me for a theologian--or for an apostle?" asked Markus. "He has the gift of gab," said Mevrouw Slot, in her coarse voice. In those pure accents which held Johannes breathlessly attentive, Markus continued: "I will even sit at table with witches, but not necessarily eat of their food." "Dear me! Dear me!" said the dominie, and the ladies cried: "Good gracious!" and other exclamations of disapproval and indignation. "Be a little less uncivil, friend; you are not with your own kind here." Markus continued, in a calm, friendly tone: "Theologians, however, thank God for many a rude truth, and know, also, how to take parables. Even when with cannibals, an apostle need not eat human flesh." Widow Slot, who alone of all in the circle seemed to have retained her coolness, here interposed: "We have not improved, yet." Markus turned toward her and said with great earnestness: "Who are they who have their portion? Are not the poorest ones they who drink wine and eat cake, and yet produce not even bread? Every day they sink deeper into debt. I prefer to eat honest food." "You mistake, my man! I have no debts!" cried Aunt Seréna, with trembling lips. "But, Aunt Seréna, he does not mean that," said Johannes, as much moved as herself. "Children must be silent, here!" cried the dominie, angrily. "If the children are silent here, who is there to speak sense?" continued Markus. And then, with a gentle, penetrating voice, he addressed Aunt Seréna. "Whoever will not listen to children, the Father will not understand. I spoke in metaphor--in a simple way, for simple people. The whole world is a metaphor, and not a simple one. If we do not yet understand such a simple metaphor, then the world must indeed remain a sad riddle." The dominie held his peace, and smoked fiercely; but Aunt Seréna thought it over, looking in front of her, and said; "All understanding comes through the light of grace." Markus nodded, kindly. "Yes," said he, "for those who unbolt the shutters and throw open the windows. And the sun will shine even through little windows." Then he ceased speaking and ate his bread. No one said anything more, unless in a whisper to his next neighbor. When Markus had eaten he stood up and said: "Thank you. Good night!" Johannes also stood up, and said anxiously: "Markus, You are not going away?" "Yes, Johannes. Good-by till we meet again!" Then he passed silently out of the door, took his cap and coat, and was let out by Daatje. Johannes heard her ask: "How much did you get?" And when Markus said simply: "Twopence," he felt a twinge at his heart. Indoors, no one spoke so long as the creaking of the cart-wheel could be heard. Then the dominie, in a loud tone, and with assumed lightness, said: "That was a venturesome deed, dear Madam. You ought to be more cautious in future with that altogether too-largely developed philanthropy of yours. That man is known as a very dangerous individual." Exclamations of astonishment and alarm followed this, and different ladies cried: "Goodness!" "It's a sin!" "Do you know him?" "Alas, indeed I do!" averred the dominie, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "He is a well-known person--one of those fanatics who incite the people and poison their natures: a nihilist." "A nihilist!" echoed the ladies, frightened and horrified. Poor Johannes sat listening to Dominie Kraalboom with painful interest. The name "nihilist" did not make him afraid, but such notoriety was a bitter disappointment. It was as if thereby all the mysterious superiority of his beloved friend had been leveled. Had it, then, all been a fraud? When the circle had taken their leave, and Aunt Seréna was going to bed, he saw Daatje very carefully counting the silver spoons! IX "Listen, Juffrouw," said Daatje, the following morning, when all was ready for going to church, "for forty years I have served you faithfully and well; but I just want to say to you, that if you bring any more heathen or Hottentots into the house--into the parlor, rather--in the future, _I_ will leave in a jiffy, as sure as fate!" "Will you, Daatje?" said Aunt Seréna, drily, asking for her prayer-book. Johannes sat stiffly in his Sunday collar, struggling to draw his thread gloves smoothly over his finger-tips. Then, under two umbrellas, the three set out for church. Already Dominie Kraalboom was sitting in the chancel, busily stroking his freshly shaven cheeks, and thoughtfully watching the coming in of his flock. Not one of the circle was missing. The clothing of the congregation, wet with rain, gave out a peculiar odor; chairs were noisily shoved about over the flat, blue tombstones, while above the sound of shuffling feet and of slamming doors the deep throbbing of the organ was heard. The dominie soon caught sight of Johannes; and the little man had cause to feel conceited by reason of all the attention paid him. Johannes said to himself that it certainly must be his own imagining (for what could such a great man have to do with a little boy?) but it appeared as if the entire sermon was written for, and especially aimed at, Johannes. The text was: "Who shall understand his errors? Cleanse thou me from secret faults." The dominie dwelt upon the sin of arrogance, and the numbers of young people who were wrecked through it ere they rightly understood what it was, and said that they ought to desire to be cleansed from it. Young people, said the dominie, were conceited and presumptuous, and full of evil; but they were themselves unconscious of it. They thought they knew more than their elders, and they listened, far too willingly, to pernicious dogmas that would make all men equal--that would reason away royal and divine authority, and that made people rebellious, and discontented with the sphere in which God had placed them. "The true Christian," said the dominie, "cares for neither gold nor goods. He has higher aspirations. If he be blessed with them, let him manage them well, for they are only lent to him. If he be poor, then let him not repine nor complain, knowing that everything is ordered for the best, and that true riches are not of this world." It was a fine sermon. Johannes and his aunt both listened attentively. The precentor looked pleased, and the saintly Koos nodded repeatedly. Neeltje, alone, slept; but, as everybody knew, that was because of her nervous trouble. The entire congregation joined spiritedly in the singing, and the dominie sat down visibly self-satisfied. Once, Johannes looked around, and, close by the door, athwart the chancel in the shadow, beheld, supported by a slender hand, a bowed head with dark hair! He knew the hand well, and recognized instantly that dark-haired man. Again and again he felt constrained to look in that direction. The figure remained sitting, motionless, and in a bowed posture. But when the singing came to an end, and the dominie deliberately made ready to continue his sermon.... Surely, the dark head was lifted up! Markus regarded the faces about him for an instant, with a sorrowful look, and then he stood erect. Johannes' heart began to thump. "Was he going away? What was he going to do? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" But Markus, taking advantage of that pause wherein the people in a congregation are wont to cough, to make use of their handkerchiefs, and to compose themselves again for listening, began speaking in his gentle, musical voice: "My friends, excuse me for addressing you unbidden, but you know that it is always permitted to bear witness of the Father, if one can do so truthfully." In perplexity, the congregation looked from the speaker to Dominie Kraalboom. The precentor, also, directed his frightened eyes to the chancel up behind him, as if expecting from that quarter deliverance from this extraordinary difficulty. Dominie Kraalboom grew very red, and, speaking in his most impressive tones--rolling his r's, for he was really angry--he said: "I beseech you not to disturb the order of this church." Markus, however, paid not the slightest attention to these words. His voice rang clearer than ever through the chill, lofty spaces. The people listened, and the dominie had no alternative but to be silent or to shout the louder, which latter expedient he renounced from a sense of dignity. "My poor friends," said Markus, "does it not alarm you that there are wrong-doings of which you are not conscious? Is it not sad to be guilty and not to know it?" "If we, poor souls, forgive those who unconsciously wrong us, will not our Father forgive us? "But to wander is to wander, and not to follow the straight course: and he who errs, though he may know it not, does not do right, although he may intend a thousand times to do the right. "And he who continues to wander gets lost; for the Father's justice is inalterable and unfailing. "And yet, my poor friends, the Father's forgiveness is for every one, even the poorest wanderer. His mercy is for all. "And His forgiveness is called knowledge, and the name of His mercy is insight. "These are bestowed upon every one who does not reject them; and no one will be lost who makes use of them. "Therefore, the Psalmist begged to be cleansed from secret faults. He knew that we know not ourselves how very guilty we are. And He knew that the enlightening and purifying fire of confession is of the Father's mercy. "Has ever a thirsty one continued to wander away from the water, after recognizing his mistake? "Who of us does not long for forgiveness and blessedness? Or who would continue to err after confession? "Confess, then, and will to look within. It is never too late to do so. "We are guilty, my poor friends: confess it and there will be forgiveness, but not without knowledge thereof. The least among you can understand this, if only he will. "It was not the Father who willed that you should be poor, and rich--the poor laboring, the rich idling. It would be abominable blasphemy to say that. Believe it not. Shun as defiling those who would thus delude you. "Not by divine ordering, but through human mismanagement, wickedness, and foolishness, and the wandering away from the Father's will, have poverty and riches come into this human world. "Acknowledge it; for, truly, there will be no forgiveness for those who reject the Father's mercy." Here Dominie Kraalboom beckoned to the sexton and the precentor, who were standing together whispering with considerable vehemence, casting furious looks at the speaker. The sexton coughed and mounted the pulpit. The dominie exchanged a few words with him, and, with a resigned air, half-closed eyes, and a face as severe as possible, went to resume his seat. The sexton strode resolutely through the church, and left the building, all eyes following him in suspense. Imperturbably, Markus proceeded: "My poor friends, did ever an artist create a grand masterpiece, and desire that no one should admire it? "Would the Father, then, have made the mountains, seas, and flowers, gold and jewels, and have desired that we should despise and reject them all? "No; the highest good belongs not to this world, and neither does the beauty of the universe belong to this world. Yet even here--upon this earth--we may learn to know and to admire; for why else were we placed in this world? "Let us admire not the mere wood and strings, but the music of them; not paint and canvas, but the eternal beauty to which they do homage. "So we shall love the world, and admire it only as that by means of which the Father speaks to us; and whoever despises the world despises the voice of the Father. "Will not he who receives a letter from his distant love kiss the dry paper, and wet the black ink with his tears? "Shall we, then, hate the world, through which alone, in our alienation, the Father reveals to us his beauty?" Markus' voice was so deep-toned, and so sweet to hear, that many listeners were moved, even although they only half understood. Tears were streaming freely from Johannes' shining, wide-open eyes. Aunt Seréna, too, looked agitated, and Neeltje, even, had waked up. The dominie scowled blackly, with closed eyes, like one about to lose his forbearance. The precentor looked nervously toward the door. Again Markus began: "My friends, how shall the poor, who compulsorily toil, and the rich, who compel them, comprehend the sacred message of the Father? "Must they always remain both deaf and blind to what is best and most beautiful? Must they see and hear nothing of this? "Sooner can the sunlight penetrate dungeon-doors of threefold thickness, than can the light of the Father's loving kindness and the radiance of His beauty enter the soul of the stupefied drudge. "Upon the sands of the sea grow neither grapes nor roses. In the heart of the overworked, needy sufferer grows neither beauty nor wisdom. "And the rich--who purloin the good things which the Father has given to others--who are served, without rendering service--who eat, without working, and found their houses upon the misery of others--how can these comprehend the justice of the Father? "Exceeding sweetness shall turn to gall in the rich man's stomach; illicit pleasure shall waste him away like sorrow; wisdom, unrighteously acquired, shall turn in him to despair and madness. "The rich man is like one who takes away the fire of many others, that he may always keep himself warm; but the heat consumes him. He will have all the water, that he may never again thirst; but he is drowned. Yet unto all the Father has given light and water in equal measure. "No one escapes the Father's justice. The rich have their reward as they go; and in want shall they envy those whom they robbed while they were still upon earth. "Admit, then, my poor friends, that it is not the Father's will that there should be poverty and riches, but that your own wickedness and maliciousness have created them--your unbrotherliness and ignorance, your thirst for power and your servility. "Confess, and there shall be forgiveness for the most guilty. Submit and humble yourselves, and you shall be exalted. Lift up your hearts, fear not, and you shall be saved. Throw open the windows and the light will stream in." * * * * * At last, there was a creaking of the heavy, outside door, which was held shut by a rope, weighted with lead. Then followed several more long-drawn creakings of the pulley, ere the door closed with a dull thud. All heads were again turned in that direction. The dominie, too, looked up, visibly relieved. And Johannes, stiff with terror, saw, in the rear of the sexton, two officers--two common, insignificant policemen--step up to Markus with an air of professional sternness, albeit with a rather slouching mien. Yes, it was going to happen! The congregation looked on in breathless suspense. The sexton bristled, and the officers hesitatingly prepared themselves for a struggle. But before the outstretched hand of the helmeted chief had descended upon his shoulder, Markus looked round and nodded in a friendly way as if he was expecting them. After that, he looked about the congregation once again, and bade them farewell with a cordial, comforting gesture which seemed to come to all as a surprise. He had the appearance, indeed, of one who was being conducted by two lackeys to a feast, instead of by policemen to the station. When he went away, the officers grasped him by his arms, as firmly as if they were resolutely determined not to let him escape. They did this so awkwardly, and Markus was so cheerfully docile, that the effect was very comical, and several people smiled. The dominie spoke a few more words, and made a long closing prayer which, however, was not listened to attentively. The congregation were too anxious to talk over what had happened. And they made a busy beginning even before they were out of the church. But Aunt Seréna and Johannes went home with averted eyes, and in anxious silence, without exchanging a word or a look. X Johannes had one peculiarity which he could not excuse in himself. His good intentions and heroic resolves always came, according to his own opinion, a trifle too late. He might be a good boy yet, he thought, if only things did not happen so suddenly that he had not due time to think them over before he needed to act. Thus, sitting on the opposite side of the breakfast table from his Aunt Seréna, deliberating whether it would still be proper, after the agitating events of the morning, to spread his first roll, as usual, with sweet-milk cheese, and his second with Deventer cake, it suddenly dawned upon him what a mean, cowardly, perfidious boy he had been. He felt that any other brisk, faithful person in his place would have risen up instantly, and resisted with all his power of word and deed that shameful outrage against his beloved brother. Of course, there had been something for him to do! He ought to have intervened, instead of walking home again with Aunt Seréna, as calmly and serenely as if he were not in the least concerned. How was it possible--how _could_ it be possible, that he only now perceived this? He might not, perhaps, have accomplished anything; but that was not the question. Was it not his dearest friend who was concerned; and had he not, like a coward, left him alone? Was not that friend now sitting among thieves in a musty pen, enduring the insolence of policemen, while he himself was here in Aunt Seréna's fine house, calmly drinking his coffee? That must not be. He felt very sure of it, now. And since Johannes, as I have already remarked, was never afraid to do a thing if he was only first sure about it, not only the cake and cheese, but even the rolls and coffee, remained untouched. He suddenly stood up and said: "Aunt Seréna!" "What is it, my boy?" "I want to go!" Aunt Seréna threw back her head, that she might give him a good look through her spectacles. Her face took on a very grieved expression. At last, after a long pause, she asked, in her gentle voice, "What do you mean?" "I want to go away. I cannot stand it. I want to be with my friend." "Do you think he will take better care of you than I do, Johannes?" "I do not believe that, Aunt Seréna, but he is being treated unfairly. He is in the right." "I will not take it upon myself...." said Aunt Seréna, hesitating, "to say that he is wrong. I am not clever enough for that. I am only an old woman, and have not studied much, although I have thought and experienced a great deal. I will readily admit that perhaps I was at fault without knowing it. I did my best, to the best of my belief. But how many there are, better than I am, Johannes, who think your friend in the wrong!" "Are they also better than he is?" asked Johannes. "Who can say? How long have you known this friend--and whom of the people have you known besides? But although your friend were right, how would it help me, and what would it matter to me? Must I, in my sixty-fourth year, give away all that I have, and go out house-cleaning? Do you mean that I ought to do that, Johannes?" Johannes was perplexed. "I do not say that, dear Aunt Seréna." "But, what do you say, then? And what do you want of me?" Johannes was silent. "You see, Johannes...." continued Aunt Seréna, with a break in her voice--not looking at him now, but staring hard at her coffee-tray--"I never have had any children, and all the people whom I have been very fond of are either dead or gone away. My friends do, indeed, show me much cordiality. On my birthday I had forty-four calls, two hundred and eleven cards and notes, and about fifty presents; but that, however, is not for me true life. The life of the old is so barren if no young are growing near. I have not complained about it, and have submitted to God's will. But since ... for a few months ... you ... I thought it a blessing--a dispensation from God...." Aunt Seréna's voice grew so broken and hoarse that she stopped speaking, and began to rummage in her work-basket. Johannes felt very tenderly toward her, but it seemed to him as if, in two seconds, he had become much older and wiser; yes, as if he had even grown, visibly, and was taller than a moment before. Never yet had he spoken with such dignity. "My dear Aunt, I really am not ungrateful. I think you are good. More than almost any other you have been kind to me. But yet I must go. My conscience tells me so. I would be willing to stay, you see; but still I am going because it is best. If you say, 'You must not,' then I cannot help it; I think, though, that I will quietly run away. I am truly sorry to cause you sadness, but you will soon hear of an--another boy, or a girl, who will make you happier. I must find my friend--my conscience tells me so. Are you going to say, Aunt Seréna, that I must not?" Aunt Seréna had taken out her worsted work, and appeared to be comparing colors. Then, very slowly, she replied: "No, I shall not say that, my dear boy; at least, if you have thought it all over well." "I have, Aunt Seréna," said Johannes. * * * * * Being deeply anxious, he wished to go instantly to learn where Markus had been taken. After that he would return to "Vrede-best." He mounted the stone steps of the police station with dread and distaste. The officers, who were sitting outside on chairs, received him, according to their wont, with scant courtesy. The chief eyed Johannes, after the latter's bashful inquiry, with a scornful expression, which seemed to say: "What business is it of yours, and where have I seen you before?" Johannes learned, however, that "the prisoner" had been set free. What use he had made of his freedom Johannes must find out for himself. As he could give no other reason for his interest in the prisoner than that he was his friend, and as this reason was not enough to exalt him in the esteem of police authority, none of the functionaries felt called upon to put him on the track. They supposed that the scissors-grinder had very likely gone back to the Fair. That was all the help they gave. Johannes returned to his aunt's baffled and in dismay. There, happily, he found relief; for the good aunt had already discovered that Markus had been led out of the town, and that, with his cart, he had taken the road to Utrecht. Already, lying in plain sight, he saw a large, old-fashioned satchel of hairy leather (a sort of bag which could be hung about one), full of neatly packed sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. And in the inside of a waistcoat Aunt Seréna had sewed a small pocket. Within that pocket was a purse containing five little gold-pieces. "I do not give you more, Johannes, for by the time this is gone you will surely know if you really wish to stay away for good or to come back again. Do not be ashamed to return. I will not say anything to you about it." "I will be honest, and give it back to you when I have earned it," said Johannes. He spoke in sober earnest; but he had, no more than had his aunt, any clear expectation that it would be possible. Johannes took just a run into the garden to say good-by to his favorite places--his paths and his flowers. Swiftly and shyly, so as not to be seen, he ran past the kitchen where Daatje, loudly singing hymns the while, stood chopping spinach. After that, he embraced Aunt Seréna in the vestibule for the first and for the last time. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" came insultingly and triumphantly from the little trap-door, as the clock struck two. Then the stately green front door closed between him and Aunt Seréna. That was a painful moment; yet there quickly followed in Johannes' heart a delightful glow--a feeling of freedom such as he had never yet known. He almost felt himself a man. He had extricated himself from soft and perilous ways; he was going out into the wide world; he would find his beloved brother again; he had a bagful of rolls, and in his waistcoat were five gold-pieces. These last were only lent to him; he would earn as much, and give them back again. * * * * * It was a still, humid, August day, and Johannes, full of gladness, saw his beautiful native land lying in white light under a canopy of delicate grey. He saw thickly wooded dikes, black and white cattle, and brown boats in water without a ripple. He walked briskly, inquiring everywhere for Markus the scissors-grinder. In front of an inn, not far from the city, sat three little gentlemen. They were apparently government or post-office clerks, who had taken their midday stroll and their glass of bitters. Johannes asked information of the waiter who brought drinks, but received no answer. One of the little dandies, who had heard his question, said to his companions: "Jerusalem! but did you chaps hear that kicker? The fellow went into the new church yesterday morning, and talked back at the dominie." "What fellow?" asked the others. "Good Lord! Don't you know him? That half-luny fellow with the black curly-pate? He does that now and then." "Gee! That's rich. And what did the dominie say?" "Well, he found it no joke, for the fellow knew all about it--as darned well as he did himself. But the gypsy had his trouble for his pains; for that time the dominie wouldn't have anything to do with such a dirty competitor!" And the three friends laughed at the top of their voices. "How did it end?" "He had him walked clean out of the church, by the sexton and two cops." "That's confounded silly. 'Twould have been better to see who could crow the loudest. It's the loudest cock that wins." "The idea! You'd have me believe you mean it? Suppose they gave the prize to the wrong fellow?" "Whether you are cheated by a fool of a preacher, or by a scissors-grinder, what's the difference?" Johannes reflected a moment and wondered if it would not be commendable to do what he ached to do--fly at these people and rain blows upon their heads. But he controlled himself and passed on, convinced that in doing so he was escaping some hard work. For five hours he walked on without being much the wiser for his inquiries. Some people thought they had seen Markus; others knew positively nothing about him. Johannes began to fear he had passed him; for by this time he ought to have overtaken him. It began to grow dark, and before him lay a wide river which he must cross by means of a ferry-boat. On the farther side were hills covered with an underwood of oak, and tall, purple-flowered heather. The ferryman was positive that he had not that day taken over a scissors-grinder; but in yonder town, an hour's distance from the river, a Fair was to begin in the morning. Very likely Markus also would be there. Johannes sat down by the roadside in the midst of the dark broom, with its millions of small purple flowers. The setting sun cast a glorious coloring over land and mist, and over the lustrous, flowing water. He was tired but not depressed, and he ate his bread contentedly, certain that he should find Markus. The road had become quiet and lonely. It was fun to be so free--so alone and independent--at home in the open country. Rather than anywhere else he should like to sleep out-of-doors--in the underwood. But just as he was about to lay himself down, he saw the figure of a man with his hands in his pockets, and his cap pushed back. Johannes sat up, and waited until he came closer. Then he recognized him. "Good evening, Director!" said Johannes. "Good evening to you, my friend!" returned the other. "What are you doing here? Are you lost?" "No; I am looking for friends. Is Markus with you?" The man was the director of a Flea-Theatre; a little fellow, with a husky voice, and eyes inflamed by his fine work. "Markus? I'm not sure. But come along--there's no knowing but he might be there." "Are you looking for new apprentices?" asked Johannes. "Do you happen to have any? They're worth a pretty penny, you know!" * * * * * They walked together to the camp of gypsy wagons, near the town. Johannes found there all the old acquaintances. There was the fat lady, who could rest a plate upon her bosom and thus eat out of it. Now, however, she was eating simply from a box, like the others, because there were no spectators. There were the mother and daughter who represented the living mermaid, taking turns because one could not hold out very long. There was the exhibitor of the collection of curiosities --a poor, humpbacked knave whose entire possessions consisted of a stuffed alligator, a walrus-tooth, and a seven-months baby preserved in alcohol. There were the two wild men, who, growling horribly, could eat grass and live rabbits, and who might come out of the wagon only at night, when the street boys were away; but who, far from savage now, were sitting in the light of a flickering lantern, "shaving" one another with exceedingly dirty cards. The flea-tamer brought Johannes at last to Marjon's wagon. "Bless me!" cried Lorum, who seemed to be in a good humor as he sat by the road smoking his pipe. "Here is our runaway young gentleman again! Now the girls will be glad!" From behind the wagon came the soft tones of a voice, singing to a zither accompaniment. Johannes could hear the song distinctly, in the dreamlike stillness of the hour. It was sung in a whining, melancholy, street-organ style, but with unusual emotion: "They have broken my heart-- Ah, the tears I have shed! They have torn us apart-- His dear voice is now dead. Alas! Alas! How could you forsake me? Alas! Alas! How you have deceived me!" It was a ditty that Johannes thought he had often heard the nurse-maids sing. But, because he recognized that dear voice, and perhaps even because he was worried over the applicability to himself, he was greatly touched by it. "Hey, there!" cried Lorum to one behind him. "The kid has come back! Stop your squalling!" Then Marjon appeared from behind the wagon, and ran up to Johannes. Also, the door of the wagon flew back, and Johannes saw Marjon's sister standing in the bright opening. Her fat arms were bare, and she was in her night-gown. XI Since that first night in the dunes with Windekind, Johannes had slept many a time in the open air, and he did not see why he should not now do so. He would lie down under the wagon, upon some hay. He was tired, and so would sleep well. But sleep did not come to him very promptly. Adventures in the world of people proved to be even more exciting than those in Windekind's land of elves. He was full of the important and unusual situation in which he was placed; the strange human life that surrounded him claimed his attention. Above him, feet were shuffling over the wagon floor, and he could see the people crawling around one another inside the warm, dirty wagons. He was obliged to listen to the talking, singing, laughing and quarreling that frequently broke out here and there. A solitary ocarina continued to whistle awhile; then all was still. It grew cold. He had with him only a thin cloak of Aunt Seréna's; and, as a horse-blanket could not be spared, he found a couple of empty oat-bags; but they were too short. When all were asleep, and he was still lying awake, shivering, his spirits already inclined to droop, he heard the door of the wagon open. A voice called him, in a whisper. Johannes scrambled out into sight, and recognized Marjon's dark sister. "Why don't you come in here, Kiddie?" she asked. The truth was that Johannes, above all else, feared the closeness and the fleas. But he would not offer these insulting reasons, so he replied--intending to be very courteous and praiseworthy: "But that would not do for me--to be with you!" Now, formality is not a very strong point in a house-wagon. In the very stateliest, a curtain does indeed sometimes define two sleeping-rooms at night, thus denoting regard for the proprieties. But in most cases the custom is to do as do the birds which change their suits but once a year, and not too much, at that; and as do the mice which also have no separate bedrooms. "Aw! Come, Boy! You're silly. Just come on! It's all right." And when Johannes, perplexed and very bashful, hesitated, he felt a fat, heavy arm around his neck, and a soft, broad, cold mouth upon his cheek. "Come on, Youngster! Don't be afraid. Surely you are not so green! Hey? It's time for me to make you wiser." Now there was nothing Johannes had learned more to value than wisdom, and he never willingly neglected a chance of becoming wiser. But this time there came to him a very clear idea of the existence of an undesirable wisdom. He had no time to deliberate over this wonderful discovery; for, happily, there came to the help of his immature thoughts a very strong feeling of aversion, so that for once he knew betimes what he ought to do. He said loudly, and firmly: "I will not! I rest better here." And he crept back under the wagon. The swarthy jade appeared not to like that, for she uttered an oath as she turned away, and said: "Clear out, then!" Johannes did not take it greatly to heart, although it did appear to him unfair. He slept, however, no more than before; and the sensation of the recent touches, and the wretched odor of poor perfumery which the woman had brought with her, remained with him, to his distress. As soon as it began to grow light, the door of the wagon was again opened. Johannes, surprised, looked up. Marjon came softly out in her bare feet, with an old purple shawl thrown over her thin little shoulders. She went up to Johannes and sat down on the ground beside him. "What did she do?" she asked, in a whisper. "Who?" asked Johannes, in return. But that was from embarrassment, for he well knew whom she meant. "Now, you know well enough. Did you think I was sleeping? Did she give you a kiss?" Johannes nodded. "Where? On your mouth?" "No. On my cheek." "Thank God!" said Marjon. "You will not let her do it again? She is a common thing!" "I could not help it," said Johannes. Marjon looked at him thoughtfully a few moments, with her clear, light grey eyes. "Do you dare steal?" she asked then, abruptly. "No," said Johannes. "I dare to, but it's wrong." "Indeed it isn't!" said Marjon, very emphatically. "Indeed, it is not! It's only a question of who from. Stealing from one another is mean, but from the public is allowable. I must not steal from that woman any more than from Lorum. But _you_ may steal from the huzzy, if you only dared." "Then can you steal from me, too?" asked Johannes. Marjon looked at him in sudden surprise, and gave a pretty laugh, showing her white, even teeth. "A while ago I could, but not now. Now you belong to me. But that woman has a lot of money and you have not." "I have some money, too--fifty guldens. Aunt Seréna gave it to me." Marjon drew in the air with her lips as if sipping something delicious. Her pale face shone with pleasure. "Five little golden Teners! Is it truly so? But, Johannes, then we are well off! We'll have a good time with them. Shan't we?" "To be sure," assented Johannes, recovering himself. "But I want to find Markus." "That's good," said Marjon. "That's the best thing to do. We'll both go looking for him." "Right away?" asked Johannes. "No, you stupid! We should be nabbed in no time. We'll start in the evening. Then, during the night, we can get a good way off. I'll give you the signal." * * * * * It was morning--clear and cool, yet growing warmer with the early August sunshine. Everywhere over the dark heather the dew-covered cobwebs were shining like clusters of sparkling stars. The fires of the foregoing evening were still smouldering in the camp; and there was a smell of wood coals and of honey. Johannes was well pleased. There was a glowing little flame also within himself. He felt that it was good to be alive, and a joy to strive. It was a long, strange day, but he was patient and happy in the thought of fleeing with Marjon. The dark woman was friendly toward him again. He was helping her in the circus the entire day, and had no chance to speak with Marjon. But now and then they gave each other a look full of complete understanding. That was delightful! Never before in his every-day life had Johannes experienced anything so delightful. That evening there was an exhibition, and Marjon performed her tricks. Johannes felt very proud and important because he belonged to the troupe, and was looked upon by the public as an athlete or an equestrian. He might stand, in topboots and with a whip, at the entrance to the stall, but he must not perform a single trick, nor once crack his whip. When it was good and dark, and everybody was asleep again, Marjon came to summon him. He could scarcely distinguish her figure; but he knew by a soft, grunting sound, that she carried Kees, her monkey, on her arm. She thrust her guitar into Johannes' hand, and said in a low tone: "Move on, now!" They set out hastily and in silence, Marjon taking the lead. First they went by the highway; then they took a footpath along the river; and then, at a ferry, they softly unfastened a small boat, and pushed out into the current. "Keep your wits about you, Jo, and be on the lookout!" "We shall be overtaken," said Johannes, not quite at his ease. "Are you afraid?" "No, not afraid," said Johannes, although the truth was that he was trying not to be; "but where are we going to bring up? And how can we keep out of the way if a boat should come along? We have no oars!" "I wish a boat _would_ come. Then we'd go on with it." "Where do you want to go, Marjon?" "Well, over the frontier, of course. Otherwise they'll catch us. "But Markus!" "We'll find him, by and by--only come on now." In silence the two children drifted out over the still, black water, which here and there bubbled past a floating log, or a barrel. Everything was mysterious. It was pitch dark, and there was no wind. The reeds, even, scarcely sighed. Keesje whined, complainingly, not liking the cold. "But who is Markus, Marjon? Do you know?" "You must not ask that, Jo. You must trust him. I do." Then they heard a dull, fitfully throbbing sound that slowly drew nearer from the distance, and Johannes saw red and white lanterns ahead of them. "A steamboat!" he cried. "What are we going to do now?" "Sing!" said Marjon, without a moment's hesitation. The boat came very gradually, and Johannes saw in the rear of her a long file of little lights, like a train of twinkling stars. It was a steam-tug with a heavy draught of Rhine-boats. It seemed to be panting and toiling with its burden, against the powerful current. They stayed a boat's length away from the tug, but its long, unwieldy train--swinging out in a great curve at the rear--came nearer and nearer. Marjon took her guitar and began to sing, and suddenly, with the sound of lapping water and throbbing engines, the music was ringing out in the still night--exquisite and clear. She sang a well-known German air, but with the following words: "Tho' on dark depths of waters I fear not and am strong, For I know who will guard me And guide me all life long." "Are you tipsy, there, or tired of life? What do you put yourself across the channel for--and without a light?" rang out over the water from one of the vessels. "Help! Throw a line!" cried Marjon. "Help! help!" cried Johannes, after her. Then a rope came wabbling across their oarless craft. By good luck Johannes caught it, and pulled himself, hand over hand, up to the vessel. The helmsman, standing beside the great, high-arched rudder, looked overboard, with a lantern in his hand. "What wedding do you hail from?" Johannes and Marjon climbed into the boat and Marjon pushed off their own little shallop. "Two boys!" exclaimed the helmsman. "And a monkey!" subjoined Marjon. Johannes looked round at her. By the light of the lantern he saw a little figure that he hardly recognized--a slip of a boy wearing a cap on his closely cropped head. She had sacrificed for the flight her silky blonde hair. Keesje's head was sticking up out of her jacket, and he was blinking briskly in the glare of the lantern. "Oh, that's it! Fair-folk!" grumbled the skipper. "What's to become of that boat?" "It knows the way home!" said Marjon. XII I will simply tell you, without delay, in order that you may be able to read what follows in peace of mind, that Johannes and Marjon became husband and wife ere the ending of the story. But at the time the old skipper pointed out to them a comfortable sleeping-corner in the deck-house of the long Rhine-boat, they had not the least idea of it. Being very tired, they were soon lying, like two brothers, in deep sleep, with Keesje, now warm and contented, between them. When it grew light, the whole world seemed to have vanished. Johannes had been wakened by the rattling of the anchor-chains, and when he looked out, he saw on all sides nothing but white, foggy light; no sky, no shore--only, just under the little windows, the yellow river current. But he heard the striking of the town clocks, and even the crowing of cocks. Therefore the world was still there, as fine as ever, only hidden away under a thick white veil. The boats lay still, for they could not be navigated. So long as the waters of the Rhine could not be seen frothing about the anchor-chains, so long must they wait for a chance to know the points of the compass. Thus they remained for hours in the still, thick white light, listening to the muffled sounds of the town coming from the shore. The two children ran back and forth over the long, long vessel, and had a fine time. They had already become good friends of the skipper, especially since he had learned that they could pay for their passage. They ate their bread and sausage, peering into the fog in suspense, for fear that Lorum and the dark woman might be coming in a boat to overtake them. They knew that they could not yet be very far away from their last camping-place. At last the mists grew thinner and thinner, and fled from before the shining face of the sun; and, although the earth still remained hidden beneath swirling white, up above began to appear the glorious blue. And this was the beginning of a fine day for Johannes. Sighing and groaning, as if with great reluctance, the tugboat began again its toilful course up the stream. The still, summer day was warm, the wide expanse of water sparkled in the sun, and on both sides the shores were gliding gently by--their grey-green reeds, and willows and poplars, all fresh and dewy, peeping through the fog. Johannes lay on the deck, gazing at land and water, while Marjon sat beside him. Keesje amused himself with the tackle rope, chuckling with satisfaction every now and then, as he sprang back and forth, with a serious look, after a flitting bird or insect. "Marjon," said Johannes, "how did you know so certainly yesterday that there was nothing to be afraid of?" "Some one watches over me," said Marjon. "Who?" asked Johannes. "Father." Johannes looked at her, and asked, softly: "Do you mean your own father?" But Marjon made a slight movement of her head toward the green earth, the flowing water, the blue sky and the sunshine, and said, with peculiar significance, as if now it was quite clear to her: "No! I mean The Father." "The Father Markus speaks about?" "Yes. Of course," said Marjon. Johannes was silent a while, gazing at the rapid flow of the water, and the slower and slower course of things according to their distance in the rear. His head was full of ideas, each one eager for utterance. But it is delightful to lie thus and view a passing country spread out under the clear light--letting the thoughts come very calmly, and selecting carefully those worthy of being clad in speech. Many are too tender and sensitive to be accorded that honor, but yet they may not be meanest ones. Johannes first selected a stray thought. "Is that your own idea?" he asked. Marjon was not quick with an answer, herself, this time. "My own? No. Markus told me it. But I knew it myself, though. I knew it, but he said it. He drew it out of me. I remember everything he says--everything--even although I don't catch on." "Is there any good in that?" asked Johannes, thoughtlessly. Marjon looked at him disdainfully, and said: "Jimminy! You're just like Kees. He doesn't know either that he can do more with a quarter than with a cent. When I got my first quarter, I didn't catch on, either, but then I noticed that I could get a lot more candy with it than with a cent. Then I knew better what to do. So now I treasure the things Markus has said--all of them." "Do you think as much of him as I do?" asked Johannes. "More," said Marjon. "That cannot be." Then there was another long pause. The boat was not in a hurry, neither was the sun, and the broad stream made even less haste. And so the children, as well, took plenty of time in their talking. "Yes, but you see," Johannes began again, "when people speak of our Father, they mean God, and God is...." What was it again, that Windekind had said about God? The thought came to him, and clothed in the old terms. But Johannes hesitated. The terms were surely not attractive. "What is God, now?" asked Marjon. The old jargon must be used. There was nothing better. "... An oil-lamp, where the flies stick fast." Marjon whistled--a shrill whistle of authority--a circus-command. Keesje, who was sitting on the foremast, thoughtfully inspecting his outstretched hind foot, started up at once, and came sliding down the steel cable, in dutiful haste. "Here, Kees! Attention!" Kees grumbled assent, and was instantly on the alert, for he was well drilled. His sharp little brown eyes scarcely strayed for one second away from the face of his mistress. "The young gentleman here says he knows what God is. Do you know?" Keesje shook his head quickly, showing all his sharp little white teeth in a grin. One would have said he was laughing, but his small eyes peered as seriously as ever from Marjon's mouth to her hand. There was nothing to laugh at. He must pay attention. That was clear. Goodies were bound to follow--or blows. But Marjon laughed loudly. "Here, Kees! Good Kees!" And then he had the dainties, and soon was up on the mast, smacking aloud as he feasted. The result of this affront was quite unexpected to Marjon. Johannes, who had been lying prone on the deck, with his chin in his hands, gazed sadly for a while at the horizon, and then hid his face in his folded arms, his body shaking with sobs. "Stop now, Jo; you're silly! Cry for _that_!" said Marjon, half frightened, trying to pull his arms away from his face. But Johannes shook his head. "Hush! Let me think," said he. Marjon gave him about a quarter of an hour, and then she spoke, gently and kindly, as if to comfort him: "I know what you wanted to say, dear Jo. That's the reason, too, why I always speak of The Father. I understand that the best; because, you see, I never knew my earthly father, but he must have been much better than other fathers." "Why?" asked Johannes. "Because I am much better than all those people round about me, and better than that common, dark woman who had another father." Marjon said this quite simply, thinking it to be so. She said it in a modest manner, while feeling that it was something which ought to be spoken. "Not that I have been so very good. Oh, no! But yet I have been better than the others, and that was because of the father; for my mother, too, was only a member of a troupe. And now it is so lovely that I can say 'Father' just as Markus does!" Johannes looked at her, with the sadness still in his eyes. "Yes, but all the meanness, the ugliness, and the sorrow that our Father permits! First, He launches us into the world, helpless and ignorant, without telling us anything. And then, when we do wrong because we know no better, we are punished, Is that fatherly?" But Marjon said: "Did you fancy it was not? Kees gets punished, too, so he will learn. And now that he is clever and well taught he gets hardly any blows--only tid-bits. Isn't that so, Kees?" "But, Marjon, did you not tell me how you found Kees--shy, thin, and mangy--his coat all spoiled with hunger and beatings; and how he has remained timid ever since, because a couple of rascally boys had mistreated him?" Marjon nodded, and said: "There are rascals, and deucedly wicked boys, and very likely there is a Devil, also; but I am my Father's child and not afraid of Him, nor what He may do with me." "But if He makes you ill, and lets you be ill-treated? If He lets you do wrong, and then leaves you to cry about it? And if He makes you foolish?" Keesje was coming down from the mast, very softly and deliberately. With his black, dirty little hands he cautiously and hesitatingly touched the boy's clothes that Marjon was wearing. He wanted to go to sleep, and had been used to a soft lap. But his mistress took him up, and hid him in her jacket. Then he yawned contentedly, like a little old man, and closed his pale eyelids in sleep--his little face looking very pious with its eyebrows raised in a saintly arch. Marjon said: "If I should go and ill-treat Keesje, he would make a great fuss about it, but still he would stay with me." "Yes; but he would do the same with a common tramp," said Johannes. Marjon shook her head, doubtfully. "Kees is rather stupid--much more so than you or I, but yet not altogether stupid. He well knows who means to treat him rightly. He knows well that I do not ill-treat him for my own pleasure. And you see, Jo, I know certainly, _ever_ so certainly--that my Father will not ill-treat me without a reason." Johannes pressed her hand, and asked passionately: "How do you know that? How do you know?" Marjon smiled, and gave him a gentle look. "Exactly as I know you to be a good boy--one who does not lie. I can tell that about you in various ways I could not explain--by one thing and another. So, too, I can see that my Father means well by me. By the flowers, the clouds, the sparkling water. Sometimes it makes me cry--it is so plain." Then Johannes remembered how he had once been taught to pray, and his troubled thoughts grew calmer. Yet he could not refrain from asking--because he had been so much with Pluizer: "Why might not that be a cheat?" Suddenly Keesje waked up and looked behind him at Johannes, in a frightened way. "Ah, there you are!" exclaimed Marjon, impatiently. "That's exactly as if you asked why the summer might not perchance be the winter. You can ask that, any time. I know my Father just for the very reason that He does not deceive. If Markus was only here he would give it to you!" "Yes, if he was only here!" repeated Johannes, not appearing to be afraid of what Markus might do to him. Then in a milder way, Marjon proceeded: "Do you know what Markus says, Jo? When the Devil stands before God, his heart is pierced by genuine trust." "Should I trust the Devil, then?" asked Johannes. "Well, no! How could that be? Nobody can do that. You must trust the Father alone. But even if you are so unlucky as to see the Devil before you see the Father, that makes no difference, for he has no chance against sincere trust. That upsets his plans, and at the same time pleases the Father." "Oh, Marjon! Marjon!" said Johannes, clasping his hands together in his deep emotion. She smiled brightly and said: "Now you see that was a quarter out of my savings-box!" * * * * * Really, it was a very happy day for Johannes. He saw great, white, piled-up clouds, tall trees in the light of the rising sun, still houses on the river-banks, and the rushing stream--with violet and gold sparkling in the broad bends--ever flowing through a fruitful, verdant country; and over all, the deep, deep blue--and he whispered: "Father--Father!" In an instant, he suddenly comprehended all the things he saw as splendid, glorious Thoughts of the Father, which had always been his to observe, but only now to be wholly understood. The Father said all this to him, as a solemn admonition that _He_ it was--pure and true, eternally guarding, ever waiting and accessible, behind the unlovely and the deceitful. "Will you always stay with me, Marjon?" he asked earnestly. "Yes, Jo, that I will. And you with me?" Then Little Johannes intrepidly gave his promise, as if he really knew what the future held for him, and as if he had power over his entire unknown existence. "Yes, dear Marjon, I will never leave you again. I promise you. We remain together, but as friends. Do you agree? No foolishness!" "Very well, Jo. As you like," said Marjon. After that they were very still. XIII It was evening, and they were nearing Germany. The dwellings on the river-banks no longer looked fresh and bright colored, but faded and dirty. Then they came to a poor, shabby-looking town, with rusty walls, and grey houses inscribed with flourishing black letters. The boats went up the stream to lie at anchor, and the custom-house officers came. Then Marjon, rousing up from the brown study into which Johannes' last question had plunged her, said: "We must sing something, Jo. Only think! Your Aunt's money will soon be gone. We must earn some more." "Can we do it?" asked Johannes. "Easy. You just furnish the words and I'll take care of the music. If it isn't so fine at first, that doesn't matter. You'll see how the money rains down, even if they don't understand a thing." Marjon knew her public. It came out as she said it would. When they began to sing, the brusque customs collectors, the old skipper, and other ships' folk in the boats lying next them, all listened; and the stokers of the little tugboat stuck their soot-begrimed faces out of the machine-room hatch, and they, also, listened. For those two young voices floated softly and harmoniously out over the calmly flowing current, and there was something very winning in the two slender brothers--something fine and striking. They were quite unlike the usual circus-people. There was something about them which instantly made itself felt, even upon a rude audience, although no one there could tell in what it consisted, nor understand what they were singing about, nor even the words. At first they sang their old songs--_The Song of the Butterfly,_ and the melancholy song that Marjon had made alone, and which Johannes, rather disdainfully, had named _The Nurse-Maid's Song_, and also the one Marjon had composed in the evening, in the boat. But when Marjon said, "You must make something new," Johannes looked very serious, and said: "You cannot _make_ verses--they are born as much as children are." Marjon blushed; and, laughing in her confusion, she replied: "What silly things you do say, Jo. It's well that the dark woman doesn't hear you. She might take you in hand." After a moment of silence, she resumed: "I believe you talk trash, Jo. When I make songs the music does come of itself; but I have to finish it off, though. I must _make_--compose, you know. It's exactly," she continued, after a pause, "as if a troop of children came in, all unexpected--wild and in disorder, and as if, like a school-teacher, I made them pass in a procession--two by two--and stroked their clothing smooth, and put flowers in their hands, and then set them marching. That's the way I make songs, and so must you make verses. Try now!" "Exactly," said Johannes;'"but yet the children must first come of themselves." "But are they not all there, Jo?" * * * * * Gazing up into the great dome of the evening sky, where the pale stars were just beginning to sparkle, Johannes thought it over. He thought of the fine day he had had, and also of what he had felt coming into his head. "Really," said Marjon, rather drily, "you'll just have to, whether you want to or not--to keep from starving." Then, as if desperately alarmed, Johannes went in search of pencil and paper; and truly, in came the disorderly children, and he arranged them in file, prinked them up, and dealt them out flowers. He first wrote this: "Tell me what means the bright sunshine, The great and restless river Rhine, This teeming land of flocks and herds-- The high, wide blue of summer sky, Where fleecy clouds in quiet lie. To catch the lilt of happy birds. "The Father thinks, and spreads his dream As sun and heaven, field and stream. I feast on his creation-- And when that thought is understood, Then shall my soul confess Him good, And kneel in adoration." Marjon read it, and slowly remarked, as she nodded: "Very well, Jo, but I'm afraid I can't make a song of it. At least, not now. I must have something with more life and movement in it. This is too sober--I must have something that dances. Can't you say something about the stars? I just love them so! Or about the river, or the sun, or about the autumn?" "I will try to," said Johannes, looking up at the twinkling dots sprinkled over the dark night-sky. Then he composed the following song, for which Marjon quickly furnished a melody, and soon they were both singing: "One by one from their sable fold Came the silent stars with twinkling eyes, And their tiny feet illumed like gold The adamantine skies. "And when they'd climbed the domed height-- So happy and full of glee, There sang those stars with all their might A song of jubilee." It was a success. Their fresh young voices were floating and gliding and intertwining like two bright garlands, or two supple fishes sporting in clear water, or two butterflies fluttering about each other in the sunshine. The brown old skipper grinned, and the grimy-faced stokers looked at them approvingly. They did not understand it, but felt sure it must be a merry love-song. Three times--four times through--the children sang the song. Then, little by little, the night fell. But Johannes had still more to say. The sun, and the splendid summer day that had now taken its leave, had left behind a sweet, sad longing, and this he wanted to put upon paper. Lying stretched out on the deck, he wrote the following, by the light of the lantern: "Oh, golden sun--oh, summer light, I would that I might see thee bright Thro' long, drear, winter days! Thy brightest rays have all been shed-- Full soon thy glory will have fled, And cold winds blow; While all dear, verdant ways Lie deep in snow." As he read the last line aloud, his voice was full of emotion. "That's fine, Jo!" said Marjon. "I'll soon have it ready." And after a half-hour of trying and testing, she found for the verses a sweet air, full of yearning. And they sang it, in the dusk, and repeated the former one, until a troupe of street musicians of the sort called "footers" came boisterously out of a beer-house on the shore, and drowned their tender voices with a flood of loud, dissonant, and brazen tones. "Mum, now," said Marjon, "we can't do anything against that braying. But never mind. We have two of them now--_The Star Song_ and _The Autumn Song_. At this rate we shall get rich. And I'll make something yet out of _The Father Song_; but in the morning, I think--not to-night. We've earned at least our day's wages, and we can go on a lark with contented minds. Will you go, Jo?" "Marjon," said Johannes, musingly, hesitating an instant before he consented, "do you know who Pluizer is?" "No!" said Marjon, bluntly. "Do you know what he would say?" "Well?" asked Marjon, with indifference. "That you are altogether impossible." "Impossible? Why?" "Because you cannot exist, he would say. Such beings do not and cannot exist." "Oh, he must surely mean that I ought only to steal and swear and drink gin. Is that it? Because I'm a circus-girl, hey?" "Yes, he would say something like that. And he would also call this about the Father nothing but rot. He says the clouds are only wetness, and the sunshine quiverings, and nothing else; that they could be the expression of anything is humbug." "Then he would surely say that, too, of a book of music?" asked Marjon. "That I do not know," replied Johannes, "but he does say that light and darkness are exactly the same thing." "Oh! Then I know him very well. Doesn't he say, also, that it's the same thing if you stand on your head or on your heels?" "Exactly--that is he," said Johannes, delighted. "What have you to say about it?" "That for all I care he can stay standing on his head; and more, too, he can choke!" "Is that enough?" asked Johannes, somewhat doubtfully. "Certainly," said Marjon, very positively. "Should I have to tell him that daytimes it is light, and night-times it is dark? But what put you in mind of that Jackanapes?" "I do not know," said Johannes. "I think it was those footers." * * * * * Then they went into the deck-house where Keesje was already lying on the broad, leather-cushioned settee, all rolled up in a little ball, and softly snoring; and this cabin served the two children as a lodging-house. XIV On the second day they came to the great cathedral which, fortunately, was then not yet complete, and made Johannes think of a magnificent, scrag-covered cliff. And when he heard that it was really going to be completed, up to the highest spire, he was filled with respect for those daring builders and their noble creation. He did not yet know that it is often better to let beautiful conceptions rest, for the reason that, upon earth, consummated works are sometimes really less fine and striking than incomplete projects. And when at last, on the third evening, he found himself among the mountains, he was in raptures. It was a jovial world. Moving, over the Rhine in every direction were brightly lighted steamboats laden with happy people, feasting and singing. Between the dark, vine-covered mountains the river reflected the rosy, evening light. Music rang on the water; music came from both banks. People were sitting on terraces, under leafy bowers, around pretty, shining lamps--drinking gold-colored wine out of green goblets; and the clinking of glasses and sound of loud laughter came from the banks. And, singing as they stepped, down the mountains came others, in their shirt sleeves, carrying their jackets on alpenstocks over their shoulders. The evening sky was aflame in the west, and the vineyard foliage and the porphyry rocks reflected the glowing red. Hurrah! One ought to be happy here. Truly, it seemed a jolly way of living. Johannes and Marjon bade their long ark farewell, and went ashore. It saddened Johannes to leave the dear boat, for he was still a sentimental little fellow, who promptly attached himself by delicate tendrils to that which gave him happiness. And so the parting was painful. They now began the work of earning their livelihood. And Keesje's idle days were over, as well. They put his little red jacket upon him, and he had to climb trees, and pull up pennies in a basin. And the children had to sing their songs until they lost their charm, and Johannes grew weary enough with them. But they earned more--much more than Markus with his scissors-grinding. The big, heavily moustached, and whiskered gentlemen, the prettily dressed and perfumed ladies, sitting on the hotel terraces, looked at them with intolerable arrogance, saying all kinds of jesting things--things which Johannes only half understood, but at which they themselves laughed loudly. But in the end they almost all gave--some copper, some silver--until the _friséd_ waiters, in their black coats and white shirt-fronts, crossly drove them away, fearing that their own fees might be diminished. Marjon it was who dictated the next move, who was never at a loss, who dared the waiters with witty speeches, and always furnished advice. And when they had been singing rather too much, she began twirling and balancing plates. She spoke the strange tongue with perfect fluency, and she also looked for their night's resting-place. The public--the stupid, proud, self-satisfied people who seemed to think only of their pleasure--did not wound Marjon so much as they did Johannes. When their snobbishness and rudeness brought tears to his eyes, or when he was hurt on account of their silly jests, Marjon only laughed. "But do not you care, Marjon?" asked Johannes, indignantly. "Does it not annoy you that they, every one of them, seem to think themselves so much finer, more important, and fortunate beings than you and I, when, instead, they are so stupid and ugly?" And he thought of the people Wistik had shown him. "Well, but what of it?" said Marjon, merrily. "We get our living out of them. If they only give, I don't care a rap. Kees is much uglier, and you laugh about it as much as I do. Then why don't you laugh at the snobs?" Johannes meditated a long time, and then replied: "Keesje never makes me angry; but sometimes, when he looks awfully like a man, then I have to cry over him, because he is such a poor, dirty little fellow. But those people make me angry because they fancy themselves to be so much." Marjon looked at him very earnestly, and said: "What a good boy you are! As to the people--the public--why, I've always been taught to get as much out of 'em as I could. I don't care for them so much as I care for their money. I make fun of them. But you do not, and that's why you're better. That's why I like you." And she pressed her fair head, with its glossy, short-cut hair, closer against his shoulder, thinking a little seriously about those hard words, "no foolishness." They were happy days--that free life, the fun of earning the pennies, and the beautiful, late-summer weather amid the mountains. But the nights were less happy. Oh! what damp, dirty rooms and beds they had to use, because Fair-people could not, for even once, afford to have anything better. They were so rank with onions, and frying fat, and things even worse! On the walls, near the pillows, were suspicious stains; and the thick bed-covers were so damp, and warm, and much used! Also, without actual reason for it, but merely from imagination, Johannes felt creepy all over when their resting-place was recommended to them, with exaggerated praise, as a "very tidy room." Marjon took all this much more calmly, and always fell asleep in no time, while Johannes sometimes lay awake for hours, restless and shrinking because of the uncleanliness. "It's nothing, if only you don't think about it," said Marjon, "and these people always live in this way." And what astonished Johannes still more in Marjon was that she dared to step up so pluckily to the German functionaries, constables, officers, and self-conceited citizens. It is fair to say that Johannes was afraid of such people. A railway official with a gruff, surly voice; a policeman with his absolutely inexorable manner; a puffed-out, strutting peacock of an officer, looking down upon the world about him, right and left; a red-faced, self-asserting man, with his moustache trained up high, and with ring-covered fingers, calling vociferously for champagne, and appearing very much satisfied with himself,--all these Marjon delighted to ridicule, but Johannes felt a secret dread of them. He was as much afraid of all these beings as of strange, wild animals; and he could not understand Marjon's calm impudence toward them. Once, when a policeman asked about their passport, Johannes felt as if all were lost. Face to face with the harsh voice, the broad, brass-buttoned breast, and the positive demand for the immediate showing of the paper, Johannes felt as if he had in front of him the embodied might of the great German Empire, and as if, in default of the thing demanded, there remained for him no mercy. But, in astonishment, he heard Marjon whisper in Dutch: "Hey, boy! Don't be upset by that dunce!" To dare to say "that dunce," and of such an awe-inspiring personage, was, in his view, an heroic deed; and he was greatly ashamed of his own cowardice. And Marjon actually knew how, with her glib tongue and the exhibition of some gold-pieces, to win this representative of Germany's might to assume a softer tone, and to permit them to escape without an inspection. But it was another matter when Keesje, seated upon the arm of a chair, behind an unsuspecting lieutenant, took it into his little monkey-head to reach over the shining epaulet, and grasp the big cigar--probably with the idea of discovering what mysterious enjoyment lay hidden in such an object. Keesje missed the cigar, but caught hold of the upturned moustache, and then, perceiving he had missed his mark, he kept on pulling, spasmodically, from nervous fright. The lieutenant, frightened, tortured, and in the end roundly ridiculed, naturally became enraged; and an enraged German lieutenant was quite the most awful creature in human guise that Johannes had ever beheld. He expected nothing less than a beginning of the Judgment Day--the end of all things. The precise details of that scrimmage he was never able to recall with accuracy. There was a general fracas, a clatter of iron chairs and stands, and vehement screeching from Keesje, who behaved himself like murdered innocence. From the lieutenant's highly flushed face Johannes heard at first a word indicating that he was suspected of having vermin. That left him cold, for he had been so glad to know that up to this time he had escaped them. Then he saw that it was not the shrieking Keesje, but Marjon herself, who had been nabbed and was being severely pommeled. She had hurriedly caught up the monkey, and was trying to flee with him. Then his feelings underwent a sudden change, as if, in the theatre of his soul, "The Captivity" scene were suddenly shoved right and left to make place for "A Mountain View in a Thunder-storm." The next moment he found himself on the back of the tall lieutenant, pounding away with all his might; at first on something which offered rather too much resistance--a shining black helmet--afterward, on more tender things--ears and neck, presumably. At the same time he felt himself, for several seconds, uncommonly happy. In a trice there was another change in the situation, and he discovered himself in a grip of steel, to be flung down upon the dusty road in front of the terrace. Then he suddenly heard Marjon's voice: "Has he hurt you? Can you run? Quick, then; run like lightning!" Without understanding why, Johannes did as she said. The children ran swiftly down the mountain-side, slipped through the shrubbery of a little park, climbed over a couple of low, stone walls, and fled into a small house on the bank of the river, where an old woman in a black kerchief sat peacefully plucking chickens. Johannes and Marjon had continually met with helpfulness and friendliness among poor and lowly people, and now they were not sent off, although they were obliged to admit that the police might be coming after them. "Well, you young scamps," said the old woman, with a playful chuckle, "then you must stay till night in the pigsty. They'll not look for you there; it smells too bad. But take care, if you wake Rike up, or if that gorilla of yours gets to fighting with him!" So there they sat in the pigsty with Rike the fat pig, who made no movement except with his ears, and welcomed his visitors with short little grunts. It began to rain, and they sat as still as mice--Keesje, also, who had a vague impression that he was to blame for this sad state of things. Marjon whispered: "Who would have thought, Jo, that you cared so much for me? _I_ was afraid this time, and you punched his head. It was splendid! Mayn't I give you a kiss, now?" In silence, Johannes accepted her offer. Then Marjon went on: "But we were both of us stupid; I, because I forgot all about Kees, in the music; and you, because you let out about me. "Let out about you!" exclaimed Johannes, in amazement. "Certainly," said Marjon, "by shouting out that I was a girl!" "Did I do that?" asked Johannes. It had quite slipped out of his mind. "Yes," said Marjon, "and now we're in a pickle again! Other togs! You can't do that in these parts. That's worse than hitting a lieutenant over the head, and we mustn't do any more of that." "Did he hit you hard?" asked Johannes. "Does it hurt still?" "Oh," said Marjon, lightly, "I've had worse lickings than that." * * * * * That night, after dark, the old woman's son--the vine-dresser--released them from Rike's hospitable dwelling, and took them, in a rowboat, across the Rhine. XV Bright and early one still, sunny morning they came to a small watering-place nestled in the mountains. It was not yet seven o'clock. A light mist clung around the dark-green summits, and the dew was sparkling on the velvety green grass, and over the flaming red geraniums, the white, purple-hearted carnations, and the fragrant, brown-green mignonette of the park. Fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen were drinking, according to advice, the hot, saline waters of the springs; and later, while the cheerful music played, they promenaded up and down the marble-paved esplanade. Marjon sought such places; for in them more was to be earned. Already a couple of competitors were there before them--a robust man and his little daughter. Both of them were dressed in flesh-colored tights, and in spangled, black velvet knickerbockers; but oh, how dusty and worn and patched they were! The little girl was much younger than Marjon, and had a vacant, impudent little face. She walked on her hands in such a way that her feet dangled down over her black, curly pate. Johannes did not enjoy this encounter. Marjon and he belonged to the better class of Fair-people. Their caps and jackets just now were not, it is true, quite so fresh and well brushed as formerly, but all that they had on was whole--even their shoes. Johannes still wore his suit, which was that of a young gentleman, and Marjon was wearing the velvet stable-jacket of a circus-boy. They paid no attention to the shabby Hercules and his little daughter. In Marjon's case this was only from vexation because of the competition; in Johannes', he well knew, it was pride. He pitied that rough man with the barbarous face, and that poor, dull child-acrobat; but it was not to his taste that he should be thought their colleague and equal, by all these respectable watering-place guests. He was so vexed he would not sing; and he walked dreamily on amid the flowers, with vague fancies, and a deep melancholy, in his soul. He thought of his childhood home, and the kitchen-garden; of the dunes, and of the autumn day when he went to the gardener's, at Robinetta's country home; of Windekind, of Markus, and of Aunt Seréna's flower-garden. The flowers looked at him with their wide-open, serious eyes--the pinks, the stiff, striped zinias, and the flaming yellow sunflowers. Apparently, they all pitied him, as if whispering to one another: "Look! Poor Little Johannes! Do you remember when he used to visit us in the land of elves and flowers? He was so young and happy then! Now he is sad and forsaken--a shabby circus-boy who must sing for his living. Is it not too bad?" And the white, purple-hearted carnations rocked to and fro with compassion, and the great sunflowers hung their heads and looked straight down, with dismay in their eyes. The sunshine was so calm and splendid, and the pointed heads of the mignonette smelled so sweet! And when Johannes came to a bed of drooping blue lobelias that seemed always to have shining drops of dewy tears in their eyes purely from sympathy, then he felt so sorry himself for poor Little Johannes that he had to go and sit down on a bench to cry. And there, just as if they understood the situation--in the music tent, concealed by the shrubbery--the portly band-master and his musicians, in their flat, gold-embroidered caps, were playing, very feelingly, a melancholy folksong. Marjon, however, who persistently kept business in mind, was on the marble esplanade, deep in jugglery with plates and eggs and apples. Johannes saw it, and was a little ashamed of himself. He began trying to make verses: "Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true! Ah, lovely lobelia blue! Why look those eyes so mournfully? For whom do you wear, In the morning bright, Those glistening tears of dew? "Ah! do you still know me?..." But he got no further, because he found it too hard, and also because he had no paper with him. Just then Marjon came up: "Why do you sit there bungling, Jo, and let me do all the work? As soon as the bread and butter comes you'll be sure to be on hand." She spoke rather tartly, and it was not surprising that Johannes retorted curtly: "I am not always thinking of money, and something to eat, like you." That hit harder than he thought; and now the sun was sparkling not only upon the dew-drops in the lobelia's eyes, but upon those in the two clear eyes of a little girl. However, Marjon was not angry, but said gently: "Were you making verses?" Johannes nodded, without speaking. "Excuse me, Jo. May I hear them?" And Johannes began: "Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true! Ah, lovely lobelia blue! Why look those eyes so earnestly? Why thus bedight, This morning bright With glistening tears of dew? "Oh, do you still think of the olden days...." Again he broke down, and gazed silently out before him, with sorrowful eyes. "Are you going to finish it, Jo?" asked Marjon with quiet deference. "You just stay here, I shall get on very well alone. See if I don't!" And she returned to the fashionable, general promenade, with Keesje, her plates, her eggs, and her apples. Then Johannes looked up, and suddenly saw before him something so charming and captivating that he became conscious of an entirely new sensation. It was as if until now he had been living in a room whose walls were pictured with flowers and mountains and waterfalls and blue sky, and as if those walls had suddenly vanished, and he could see all about him the real blue heavens, and the real woods and rivers. The sunny, flower-filled little park of the watering-place was bounded by steep rocks of porphyry. At the foot of them, by the side of a small stream of clear, dark water, was a rich growth of shadowy underwood. A small path led from the mountain, and two children were descending it, hand in hand, talking fast in their light, clear voices. They were two little girls, about nine and ten years of age. They wore black velvet frocks confined at the waist by colored ribbons--one red, the other ivory-white. Each one had trim, smoothly drawn stockings of the same color as her sash, and fine, low shoes. They were bare-headed, and both had thick golden hair that fell down over the black velvet in heavy, glossy curls. 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. PART III I The warm tears for Father Pan were still flowing down his cheeks, when Johannes lifted up his eyes with the consciousness of being awake. That which met his gaze was exactly what he had last seen--the comforting face of his exalted Brother enveloped by a dun swirl of smoke. But now it looked different, or else it was perceived through another sense--like the same story told in another tongue--like the same music played upon an instrument of different timbre: neither finer nor more effective, but simpler and more sober. He found himself sitting on the slope of a mountain, and saw Markus bending over him. The sun had set, and the valley lay in twilight, yet in the dusk one could see the glow of fiery furnaces--could see tall factory-chimneys out of whose huge throats there rolled great billows of murky smoke, like dirty wool. The whole valley and everything that grew on the mountain-side was smirched with black. A constant humming and buzzing, pounding and resounding, rose up from that city of bare, blackened buildings. At intervals there flared up from the furnace bluish yellow and violet flames, like glowing, streaming pennants. The land looked gloomy and desolate, as if laid waste by lava; yet now and then, as a rotary oven belched out a flood of brilliant sparks, the grey air was lighted up for miles beyond. "Markus," said Johannes, his heart still heavy with sorrow, "Pan is dead!" "Pan is dead!" said Markus in return. "But your Brother lives." "Thank God for that. What brought you here?" "I am among the miners, Johannes, and the factory operatives. They need me." "Oh, my Brother! I too need you. I do not know where in the world to go ... and Pan is dead!" Johannes embraced the right arm of Markus, and rested his head against his Brother's shoulder. Thus sitting, he was a long time silent. He gazed at the clouded valley with its colossal mine-wheel, the black chimneys and ovens, the black, yellow, and blue-white wreaths of vapor, the great iron sheds, and the many-windowed buildings devoid of ornament and color. All about him he could see the sides of the mountains severed as by great, gaping wounds; the trees prostrate; all nature, with its beautiful verdure, burned to cinders; and the rocks cleft and crushed. Upon the top of the mountain, at the very edge of the chasm--an excavation resembling the hole made by fruit-devouring wasps--several pine-trees were still standing. But these last children of the forest were also soon to fall. And in the distance the echo of explosions reverberated through the mountains, followed by the loud sounds of falling stones, as the rocks were shattered with dynamite. "Pan is dead!" His beautiful wonderland was being destroyed; and in the new life which was to be founded upon the ruins of the old one, Johannes knew not where to go. He was frightened and bewildered. But had he not found his Brother again, and for the second time beheld him in a glorified form, clothed in shining raiment? And was he not, even now, in his warm, comforting presence? The thought of this composed and strengthened Johannes. "My Brother," he asked, "who killed Pan?" "No one. His time had come." "But why, then, was he so sad when I asked him about you?" "The flower must perish if the fruit is to ripen. A child cries when night comes and it is time to sleep, because he wants to play longer and does not know that rest is better for him. All people who continue to be like children cry about death, which is only a birth and full of joyful anticipations." "Have Pan and Windekind known you, Brother?" "No, but they have feared me, as the lesser fears the greater." "Will your kingdom, then, be more beautiful than theirs?" "As much more beautiful as the sun is brighter than the moon. But the weak, the frail and timid ones who live in the night-time, will not perceive this, and will fear the glorious sun." For a long time Johannes thought this over. In the far, smoky valley with its mines and factories, a clock struck--farther away another--in the distance still another. Thereupon followed the shrill screaming of steam-whistles, and the loud clanging of bells, and people could be seen pouring out of the workshops. "How gloomy!" exclaimed Johannes. Markus smiled. "The black seed also, in the dark ground, is gloomy, yet it grows to be a glad sunflower." "Brother," said Johannes, imploringly, "advise me what to do now. The beautiful is of the Father, is it not?" "Yes, Johannes." "Then must I not follow after that which is the most beautiful of all I have found in this human world? Do tell me!" "I only tell you to follow the Father's voice where it seems to call you most clearly." "And what if I am in doubt?" "Then you must question, fervently, and, still as a flower, listen with all your heart." "But if I must act?" "Then do not for an instant hesitate, but venture in the name of the Father, trusting in your own and His love, which is one and the same." "Then suppose I make a mistake?" "You might do that; but if the error is for His sake, He will open your understanding. Only when you fear for your own sake, and forget Him, can you be lost." "Show me then, Brother, what _your_ way is!" "Very well, Johannes. Come with me." * * * * * Together they descended to the valley. The ground was everywhere black--black with coal and slag and ashes, and the puddles of water were like ink. From all sides came the sound of heavy footfalls. It seemed as if the black town would empty itself of all its people. Hundreds of men ran hither and thither, all of them with heavy, weary, yet hurried steps. Apparently, they were all running over one another--each one in the others' way--but yet there was no disorder, for each seemed to know where he wished to go. Most of them looked black--completely begrimed with coal and smoke. Their hats and blouses were shiny with blackish water. Usually they were silent; but now and then they called to one another roughly and to the point, as men do who have spent all their strength, and have none left for talking or jesting. Several were already leaving the wash-houses, cleansed and in their customary sober garments. Their freshly washed faces looked conspicuously pale in the twilight, amid those of their unwashed comrades; but their eyes bore dark rims that could not be cleaned. Johannes and Markus went past the mines, the coal pits, and the smelting works, until they came to long rows of little houses where the families of the laborers lived. Thitherward also the people were now streaming. Behind the small windows where wives were waiting with supper, little lights began to twinkle everywhere. Markus and Johannes entered a large, dreary hall having a low wooden ceiling. In the front part of it two lighted gas-jets were flickering. The rest of the place was in semi-darkness. There were a good many benches, but no one had yet arrived. The walls were bare and besmirched, and upon them were several mottoes and placards. For a half-hour the two sat there without speaking. A dismal impression of the gloom and ugliness of this abode took possession of Johannes. It was worse than the tedium of the schoolhouse. It seemed more frightful to have to live here than in the wildest and most desolate spot in Pan's dominion. There it was always beautiful and grandiose, though often also terrible. Here all was cramped, uninteresting, bare, and ugly--the horrors of a nightmare, the most frightful Johannes had ever known. This lasted an hour, and then the great hall gradually filled with laborers. They came sauntering in, somewhat embarrassed, pipes in their mouths, hat or cap on head. At first they remained in the dark background; then, seating themselves here and there upon the benches, they glanced to right and left and backward, occasionally expectorating upon the floor. Their faces looked dull and tired, and the hands of most of them--rough and broad, with black-rimmed nails--hung down open. They talked in an undertone, at times laughing a little. Women also came in with children in their arms. Some were still fresh and young, with a bit of color about their apparel; some, delicate little mothers in a decline, with deformed bodies, sharp noses, pale cheeks, and hollow eyes. Others were coarse vixens, with hard, selfish looks and ways. The hall filled, and the rows of faces peered through the tobacco smoke, watching and waiting for what was to take place. A laborer--a large, robust red-bearded man--came forward under the gaslight, and began to speak. He stammered at first, and pushed his right arm through the air as if he were pumping out the words. But gradually he grew more fluent; and the hundreds of faces in the hall followed his attitudes and gestures with breathless interest, until one could see his anger and his laughter reflected as if in a mirror. And when he broke off a sentence with a sharp, explosive inquiry, then the feet began to shuffle and stamp with a noise which sometimes swelled to thunder, in the midst of which could be heard cries of "Yes! Yes!" while laughing faces, and looks full of meaning, were turned hither and thither as if searching for, and evincing, approval. Johannes did not very well understand what was said. He had, indeed, learned German; but that did not avail him much here, on account of the volubility of the speaker and his use of popular idioms. His attention, too, was given as much to the listeners as to the speaker. Nevertheless, the great cause which was being agitated grew more and more clear to him. The speaker's enthusiasm was communicated to his audience, becoming intensified a hundred-fold, until a great wave of emotion swept over all present, Johannes included. He saw faces grow paler, and observed signs of heightened interest. Eyes began to glisten more and more brightly, and lips were moving involuntarily. Now and then a child began to whimper. But it disturbed no one. On the contrary, the orator appeared to utilize the occurrence for his own purposes. Two tears rolling down the ruddy moustache riveted Johannes' attention, and he heard a quiver in the rough voice as the speaker pointed with both hands toward the wailing infant, in such a way as to remove from the incident all that was comic or annoying. It was apparent to Johannes that these people suffered an injustice; that they were about to resist; and that this resistance was perilous--yes, very perilous--to the point of involving their lives and their subsistence, and also that of their wives and children. He could see the evidences of long-suffered injustice, in their passionate looks and eager gestures. He saw breathless fear at the thought of the danger which menaced them and their dear ones if they should offer resistance. He saw the proud glitter in their eyes, and the high-spirited lifting of their heads as the inner struggle was decided, and heroism triumphed over fear. They would fight--they knew it now. The great rising wave of courage and ardor left no irresolute one unmoved. Johannes looked the faces over very carefully, but there was not one upon which he could still read the traces of anxiety and hesitation. One kindled soul illuminated them all, like a mighty fire. Then Johannes' soul grew ardent, and he too waxed strong at heart; for there began to touch him the first rays of the beauty which lay slumbering beneath that sombre veil of ugliness. After this speaker there were others, who rose in their places without coming forward. Not one of them hazarded the quenching of the sacred fire. They all spoke of the coming struggle as of an inevitable event. But Johannes, with a sensation that made him clench his fists as if the enemy's hand were already at his throat, now saw a heavy, burly fellow stop, stammering, in the middle of his speech, and begin to sob; not from fear--no!--but from keen anger, on account of suffered scorn and humiliation, and because of the insupportable suspicion that he had been disloyal to his comrades. Johannes guessed the details of that story, even although he did not understand the words. The man had been deceived; and, in a time of deep misery, when his wife was ill, he had been seduced, by promises, from joining his comrades in this struggle. Johannes was glad to see actions, fine in themselves, proceed from a burst of pure emotion, when the whole earnest assemblage, in one unanimous spirit of generosity, forgave the seeming traitor, and reinstated him in their regard. And as the workmen were about to take their leave, with the stern yet cheerful earnestness of those who are committed to a righteous struggle, Johannes saw, with great pleasure, that Markus was going to speak. They knew him, and instantly there was absolute silence. There was something in the pleased readiness with which these German miners took their places again to listen--a childlike trust, and a good-natured seriousness--that Johannes had never seen among the Fair-people; no, nor anywhere in his own country. As Markus spoke German with the careful slowness and the purity of one who did not belong to the land, Johannes understood it all. "My friends," said Markus, "you have been taught in your schools and churches of a Spirit of Truth, which was to come as the Comforter of mankind. "Well, then, this which has now taken possession of you, and which has strengthened all your hearts and brightened all your eyes--even this is the Comforter, the Spirit of Truth, the Holy Ghost. "For Truth and Righteousness are _one_, and proceed from One. From your cheerful and courageous eyes I see that you know surely, with a full conscience, that it is the truth which has stirred you, and that you are to risk your lives in the cause of justice. "And that this spirit is a Comforter you will find by experience; that is, if you are loyal. "But this I now say to you, because you do not know as I know, that truth is like a mountain-path between, two abysses, and that it is more difficult to maintain than the tone of a violin. "You have suffered injustice; but you have also committed injustice. For the act of oppression is injustice, and it is also injustice to permit oppression. "You have been taught otherwise, and have been told it is written that injustice will be permitted. But even if this were written, the Spirit of Truth would cause it to be erased. I say to you that whoever practices injustice is an evil-doer, and whoever permits injustice is his accomplice. "There is a pride which in God's eyes is an honor to a man, and there is also an arrogance which will cause him to stumble and to be crushed. "The Spirit of Truth says this: 'Acquaint yourselves with your own value, and endure no slight which is hostile to the truth.' But he who overestimates himself will have a fall, and God will not lift him up." After these powerful and penetrating words, which sounded like a threatening admonition, Markus sat down, resting his head upon his hand. After waiting awhile in silence, the whispering crowd dispersed with shuffling footsteps, without having made a sign of approval or acquiescence. "May I stay with you, Markus?" asked Johannes, softly, afraid of disturbing his guide. Markus looked up kindly. "How about your little comrade?" he asked. "Would she not grow uneasy? Come with me. I will show you the way back again." Together they found the way in the night through the woods to the little resort and the lodging-house. But excepting an exchange of "Good-nights" not another word was spoken. In his great awe of him, Johannes dared not ask Markus how he knew all about his adventures. II The next morning, in the dirty little breakfast-room of the lodging-house, there mingled with the usual smell of fresh coffee and stale tobacco smoke the fragrance of wood-violets and of musk; for a pale lavender note, written with blue ink, was awaiting Johannes. He opened it, and read the following: Dearly beloved Soul-Brother: Come to me to-day as soon as you can, upon the wings of our poet-friendship. Countess Dolores went yesterday, with her little daughters, and her servants; but she left something for you which will make you happy, and which I myself will place in your hand. The following is the first delicate and downy fruit of our union of souls: HYMEN MYSTICUM To Little Johannes In solemn state swim our two souls, Like night-black, mystic swans. O'er passion-seas profoundly deep-- Of briny, melancholy tears. Oh! Thou supremely bitter ocean! All wingless, bear we with us, thro' the sky's dark courses, Thy ceaseless, lily-sorrow-- And the fell weight of this sad world's woe. Entwine with mine thy slender throat, my brother, That, swooning, we may farther swim, And with our song the dazzled race amaze. Let us, in sensuous tenderness, Like faded lilies intertwine, With a death-sob of supremest ecstasy. Would not your friend be able to compose music for this? And I hope soon to know her better. Your soul's kinsman, Walter v. L. T. D. _Kurhotel_,8th Sept. (Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest). Just here, I wish I could say that Johannes immediately let Marjon read both the letter and the verses, and that, with her, he made merry over them. But that, alas! the truth will not permit. And now, for the sake of my small hero, I confess I should be heartily ashamed if I thought that none of you, in reading the above, would be as ingenuous as he was, in regarding the poem with the utmost seriousness--even hesitating, like himself, to doubt its quality, concluding that it must indeed be fine though a little too high for understanding, and, for that very reason, not at first sight so very striking and intelligible. Are you certain that none of you would have been so stupid as to be deceived by it? Quite certain? Well, then, please do not forget how youthful Johannes still was; and consider, also, the wonderful progress of the age, due, no doubt, to the zealous and untiring efforts of our numerous literary critics. Johannes did not mention the letter; but when he saw Marjon, he said: "I saw somebody, yesterday. Can you think who it was?" Marjon's pale, dull face lighted up suddenly, and she stared at Johannes with fixed, bright eyes. "Markus!" said she. Johannes nodded assent, and she continued: "Thank God! I felt it. I heard that the laborers about here were soon to go on a strike, and then I supposed-well--Now everything will be all right again!" Then she was silent, eating her bread contentedly. A little later, she asked: "Where are you going? Is it far? What have you agreed to do?" "I have settled nothing," said Johannes. "But I will go to him with you before long. It is not far." Then, affecting to make light of it, he said: "I have had an invitation to the hotel." "Gracious!" said Marjon, under her breath. "The deuce is to pay again." * * * * * In the park Johannes met Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He stood on the grass in front of a thicket of withered shrubs, gazing at the mountains; and was clad in cream-white flannel, with a bright-purple silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. One hand rested upon his ebony walking-stick; with the other--thumb and forefinger pressed together, and little finger extended--he was making rhythmical movements in the air. When he saw Johannes, he greeted him with a nod and a wink, as if there were a secret understanding between them. "Superb! Is it not? Superb!" Johannes did not exactly know what he meant--the verses he had received, the mountains opposite, or the fine, September morning. He selected the most obvious, and said: "Yes, sir! Glorious weather!" Van Lieverlee gave him a keen look, as if uncertain whether or not he was being made sport of, and then leisurely remarked: "You do not appear to be impressed by the combination of white, mauve, and golden brown." Johannes thought himself very sensitive to the effect of color; so he felt ashamed of not having noticed the color-composition. He saw it now, fully--the white flannel, the purple pocket-handkerchief, and the faded, yellow-brown shrub. That Van Lieverlee should thus include himself in this symphony of color seemed to him in the highest degree pertinent. "I was engaged in making a 'pantoem' in harmony with that color-scheme," said Van Lieverlee; and then, seeing the blank look on Johannes' face, he added, "Do you know what a 'pantoem' is?" "I do not, sir." "Oh, boy! boy! and you call yourself a poet! What did you receive this morning? Do you know what _that_ is?" "A sonnet," said Johannes, eagerly. "Is that so? Did you think it a fine one?" That was a disquieting question. Johannes was quite at a loss about it; but it seemed that poets were wont to ask such questions, so he overcame what he considered his childishness, and said: "I think it is splendid!" "You think so! Well, I _know_ it. There is no need to make a secret of it. I call what is good, _good_, whether it was I who made it, or somebody else." That seemed both just and true to Johannes. Now that he was again with Van Lieverlee, and heard him talk in such a grand style, with that easy, fluent enunciation, and those elegant gestures, he found him, on the whole, not bad, but, on the contrary, attractive and admirable. He knew that Marjon would think otherwise; but his confidence in her judgment declined as his confidence in Van Lieverlee augmented. "Now, Johannes, I have something for you which ought to make you very happy," said Van Lieverlee, at the same time taking from a pretty, red portfolio, that smelled delightfully like Russia leather, a note embellished with a crown and sealed with blue wax. "This was written by Countess Dolores with her own hand, and I know what it contains. Treat it with respect." Before handing it over to him, Van Lieverlee, with a sweeping flourish, pressed it to his own lips. Johannes felt himself to be a dolt; for he knew it would be an impossibility for him to imitate that. The note contained a very brief, though cordial, invitation to stay at her home sometime, when she should be with her children, at her country-seat in England. There was, too, within the note, a pretty bit of paper. Johannes had never seen its like. It meant money. "How kind of her!" he exclaimed rapturously. He felt greatly honored. Immediately, however, his thoughts turned toward Markus--toward Marjon and Keesje. How about them? Something must be done about it; to decline was impossible. "Well?" said Van Lieverlee. "You do not appear to be half pleased about it. Or do not you believe it yet? It really is not a joke!" "Oh, no!" said Johannes. "I know it is not ... but...." "Your friend may go with you, you know; or does she not care to?" "I have not asked her yet," said Johannes, "for, you see, we have ... we have finally found him." "What do you mean? w hat are you talking about? Speak out plainly, boy. You need never keep secrets from me. "It is no secret, sir," said Johannes, greatly embarrassed. "Then why are you stuttering so? And why do you say 'sir'? Did I not write you my name? Or do you reject my offer of brotherhood?" "I will accept it, gladly, but I have still another brother that I think a great deal of. It is he whom we are seeking--my comrade and I. And now we have found him." "A real, ordinary brother?" "Oh, no!" said Johannes. And then, after a moment of hesitation, softly, but with emphasis, "It is ... Markus.... Do you know whom I mean?" "Markus? Who is Markus?" asked Van Lieverlee, with some impatience, as if completely mystified. "I do not know who he is," replied Johannes, in a baffled manner. "I hoped that you might know because you are so clever, and have seen so much." Then he related what had happened to him after he had fallen in with the dark figure, on the way to the city where mankind was--with its sorrows. Van Lieverlee listened, staring into space at first, with a rather incredulous and impatient countenance, now and then giving Johannes a scrutinizing look. At last he smiled. Then, slowly and decisively, he said, "It is very clear who he is." "Who is he?" asked Johannes in breathless expectancy. "Well, a Mahatma, of course--a member of the sacred brotherhood from Thibet. We will surely introduce him, also, to the Pleiades. He will feel quite at home there." That sounded very pleasing and reassuring. Was the great enigma about to be solved now, and every trouble smoothed away? "But," said Johannes, hesitating, "Markus feels really at home only when he is among poor and neglected people--Kermis-folk, and working men. He looks like a laborer, too--almost like a tramp--he is so very poor. I never look at him without wanting to cry. He is very different from you--utterly unlike!" "That is nothing. That does not signify," said Van Lieverlee, with an impatient toss of his head. "He dissembles." "Then you, also, think...." said Johannes, hesitating, and resuming with an effort, "You think, Walter, that the poor are downtrodden, and that there is injustice in wealth?" Van Lieverlee threw back his head, and made a sweeping gesture with his right arm. "My dear boy, there is no need for you to enlighten me upon that subject. I was a socialist before you began to think. It is very natural for any kind-hearted man to begin with such childish fancies. The poor are imposed upon, and the rich are at fault. Every newsboy, nowadays, knows that. But when one grows somewhat older, and gets to be-hold things from an esoteric standpoint, the matter is not so simple." "There you are," thought Johannes. "As Markus told it, it was much too simple to be true." "Do not forget," resumed Van Lieverlee, "that we all come into the world with an individual Karma. Nothing can alter it. Each one must bring with him his past, and either expiate or else enjoy it. We all receive an appointed task which we are obliged to perform. The poor and downtrodden must attribute their sad fate to the inevitable outcome of former deeds; and the trials they endure are the best medium for their purification and absolution. There are others, on the contrary, who behold their course in life more clear and smooth because their hardest struggles lie behind them. I really sympathize deeply with the unhappy proletarian; but I do not on that account venture to lower myself to his pitiful condition. The Powers hold him there, and me here--each at his post. He still needs material misery to make him wiser. I need it no longer, because I have learned enough in former incarnations. My task, instead, is the elevation, refinement, and preservation of the beautiful. Therefore I am assigned to a more privileged position. I am a watch-man in the high domain of Art. This must be kept pure and undefiled in the great, miry medley of coarse, rude, and apathetic people who compose the greater part of mankind. This cultivation of the beautiful is my sacred duty. To it I must devote myself in all possible ways, and for all time. The beautiful! The beautiful! in its highest refinement--sleeping or waking--in voice, in movement, in food, and in clothing! That is my existence, and to it I must subordinate everything else." This oration Van Lieverlee delivered with great emphasis while slowly moving forward over the short, smooth grass, accompanying the cadences of the well-chosen sentences with wide time-beats of the ebony walking-stick. Johannes was convinced--to such a degree that he perceived in it naught else than the complement and completion of that which Markus, up to the present, had taught him. Yes, he might go to his children now. He was sure of it. Markus would approve. "I wish that Marjon might hear you--just once," said he. "Marjon? Is that your comrade? Then why does he not come? Bless me! It was a girl, though, truly! What _are_ you to each other?" Van Lieverlee stopped, and, stroking his small, flaxen beard gave Johannes another keen look. "Do you not really think, Johannes," he proceeded, with significant glances, and in a judicial tone, "do you not think ... h'm ... to put it mildly, that you are rather free and easy?" "What do you mean?" asked Johannes, looking straight at him, unsuspiciously. "You are a sly little customer, and you know remarkably well how to conduct yourself; but there is not a bit of need for your troubling yourself about me. I am not one of the narrow-minded, every-day sort of people. Such things are nothing to me--no more than a dry leaf. I only wish you to bear in mind the difficulties. We must not expose our esoteric position. There are too many who understand nothing about it, and would get us into all kinds of difficulties. Countess Dolores, for example, is still very backward in _that_ respect." Johannes understood next to nothing of this harangue, but he was afraid of being taken for a fool if he let it be evident. So he ventured the remark: "I will do my best." Van Lieverlee burst out laughing, and Johannes laughed with him, pleased that he appeared to have said something smart. Thereupon he took his leave, and went to look up Marjon, that they might go to the city of the miners. III The walls of the little house were much thicker than those of the houses of Dutch laborers. The small sashes, curtained with white muslin, lay deep in the window-openings, and upon each broad sill stood a flowering plant and a begonia. When Johannes and Marjon looked in through the window, Markus was sitting at the table. The housewife stood beside him, sleeves tucked up, carrying on her left arm a half-sleeping child, while with her right hand she was putting food upon his plate. A somewhat older child stood by his knee watching the steaming: food. The mother's cheeks were pale and sunken, from sorrow, and her eyes were still full of tears. "Nothing will come of it, after all," she said with a sigh. "If only he had been wiser! Those miserable roysterers have talked him into it. That's what comes of those meetings. If only he had stayed at home! The husband belongs at home. "Do not be afraid, mother," said Markus. "He did what he sincerely thought was right. Who does that can always be at peace." "Although he should starve?" asked the wife, bitterly. "Yes, although he should starve. It is better to starve with a good conscience, than to live in comfort by fraud." This silenced the woman for a time. Then she said, "If it were not for the children...." and the tears flowed faster. "It is exactly on account of the children, mother. If the children are good, they will thank the father who is struggling for their sakes, even though he struggle in vain. And there is something for them still, else you would not have been able to give to me--the stranger." Markus looked at her smilingly, and she smiled in return. "You--you should have our last mouthful!" said she, heartily. Then, glancing toward the window, she added: "Who are those young scamps looking in? And a _monkey_ with them!" Then Markus turned around. As soon as the two standing outside recognized his face, they shouted "Hurrah!" and rushed in without knocking. Marjon flew to Markus, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him. Johannes, rather more shy, clung to his hand. Keesje, being distrustful of the children, peered around the place with careful scrutiny. Then there followed in Dutch a brisk, confused interchange of information. All the adventures had to be narrated, and Marjon was very happy and communicative. The mother kept still, looking on with a discontented air, full of her own troubles. The noise awakened the half-slumbering child, and it began to cry. Then the husband came home, morose and irritable. "What confounded business is this?" he cried; and the two were silent, slowly comprehending that they were in a dwelling full of care. Johannes looked earnestly at the weary, care-seamed face of the man, and the pale, anxious features of the mother, wondering if there was any news. "Hollanders?" asked the miner, seating himself at the table, and holding up a plate. "Yes, friends of Markus," replied the wife. Then, in assumed calmness, she asked: "Is there any news?" "We have the best of it!" said the husband, with forced cheerfulness. "We win--we surely win. It can't be otherwise. What have you to say about it, Markus?" But Markus was silent, and gazing out-of-doors. Swearing because the food was not to his taste, the man then began to eat. Marjon's merriment subsided. The wife shook her head sadly, and kissed her child. "You need to look out, you young rascals," said the man, all at once. "They are searching for you. Have you been pilfering? Which of you is the girl in disguise?" "_I_ am!" said Marjon. "What do they want of me? Now what if I have no other duds?" "Are you a girl?" asked the wife. "Shame on you!" "Has not Vrouw Huber a spare garment for her?" asked Markus. "She has so many daughters!" "We may need to pawn them all," replied the wife. But Johannes, with a manly bearing, cried: "We can pay for them. I have some money!" "O-o-oh!" said the others doubtfully, while Markus simply smiled. Thus Marjon was soon back again in her girl's apparel--an ugly red-checked little frock. Keesje alone was satisfied with the change. "Have you been singing much?" asked Markus. "Yes, we sing every day," said Marjon, "and Johannes has made some nice new songs." "That is good," said Markus. Then, turning to husband and wife: "May they sing here a little?" "Sing! A pretty time for singing!" said the wife, scornfully. "Why not?" asked the husband. "A nice song is never out of place." "You are right," said Markus. "It is not well to hear nothing but sighs." Marjon softly tuned her guitar; and while the husband sat beside the brick stove, smoking his pipe, and the wife laid her little one in bed, the two children began to sing a song--the last of those they had made together. It was a melancholy little song, as were all those they had sung during the last weeks. These were the words: "If I should say what makes me sad, My effort would be all in vain; But nightingales and roses glad They whisper it in sweet refrain. "The evening zephyr softly sighs In strains one clearly understands; I see it traced high o'er the skies In writing made by mystic hands. "I know a land where every grief Is changed into a mellow song; Where roses heal with blushing lips All wounds and every aching wrong. "That land, though not so far away, I may not, cannot enter there; It is not here where now I stay And no one saves me from despair." "Is that Dutch, now?" asked the miner. "I can't understand a bit of it? Can you, wife?" Weeping, the wife shook her head. "Then what are you snivelling for, if you don't understand?" "I don't understand it at all; but it makes me cry, and that does me good," said the wife. "All right, then! If it does you good we'll have it once more." And the children sang it over again. * * * * * When they went away, they left the family in a more peaceful mood. Markus took his place in the middle, between the two children, Keesje sitting upon his shoulder, with one little hand resting confidingly on his cap, attentively studying the thick, dark hair at his temples. "Markus!" said Johannes. "I do not understand it. Really, what has my grief to do with theirs? And yet, it did seem as if they were crying over my verses. But my little griefs are of so little account, while they are anxious about things so much more important." "I understand, perfectly," said Marjon. "Awhile ago, they might beat me as hard as they pleased, and I wouldn't utter a sound. But once, when they had given me a hard whipping, I saw a forlorn little kitten that looked quite as unhappy as I was, and then I began to cry with all my might, and it made me feel better." "Then you think, children, that all sorrow suffered is one single sorrow? But so is all happiness one happiness. The Father suffers with everything, and whoever comforts a poor little kitten, comforts the Father." These sayings made things more plain to Johannes, and gave him much to ponder over. He forgot everything else, until they were again in their lodgings--two little rooms in an old, unoccupied mill. Here they were given some bed-clothes, by a girl from a near-by lodging-house. Marjon now slept apart, while Johannes and Markus stayed together, in one room. The next morning, while they were drinking coffee in the dark little bar-room of the lodging-house, Johannes felt he must speak of what lay on his heart. He brought out the fragrant, violet-colored note, also the one adorned with the crown and the blue sealing-wax; but in his diffidence even his hope of an understanding with Markus drooped again. "I smell it already!" cried Marjon. "That's the hair-dresser scent of that fop, with his tufted top-piece." That angered Johannes. "Don't you wish you could make such poems as that 'fop' can?" And, nettled by this disrespect of his new friend, he sprang to his feet, and began excitedly repeating the verses. He had his trouble for his pains. Markus listened with unmoved countenance, and Marjon, somewhat taken aback, looked at Markus. But the latter said not a word. "I'll tell you what," she exclaimed at last, "I don't believe a bit of it! Not a darn bit." "Then I'll tell you," retorted Johannes, sharply, "that you are too rude and coarse to understand things that are elevated." "Maybe I am," said Marjon in her coolest, most indifferent manner. Then Johannes spoke to Markus alone, hoping for an understanding from him. What he said came out passionately, as if it had long been repressed, and his voice trembled with ready tears. "I have thought for a long, long time, Markus, that there was no use in trying. I cannot bear anything rude and rough, and everything I have yet seen in people _is_ rude and rough--neither good nor beautiful. It cannot be that the Father meant it to be so. And now that I have found something fine, and exquisite, and noble, ought I not to follow it? I had not thought that there were anywhere such beautiful human beings. Markus, they are the most beautiful of all I have ever seen. Their hair is like gold, Markus. Not even the elves have more beautiful hair. And their little feet are so slim, and their throats so slender! I cannot help thinking of them all the time--of the pretty, proud way they raise their heads, of their sensitive lips, of the beautiful, upturned curves at the corners of their mouths, and of the music in their voices when they ask me anything. They danced together to the music, hand in hand, and then their nice smooth stockings peeped out, together, from under their little velvet dresses. It made me dizzy. One of them has blue eyes, and fuller, redder lips. She is the gentler and more innocent. The other has greyer, more mischievous eyes, and a smaller mouth. She is more knowing and roguish. She is the fairer, and she has little fine freckles just under her eyes. And you ought to see them when they run up to their mother, one on each side, when all their hair tumbles down over her, in two shades of gold--brown gold and light gold--that ripples together like a flowing river! And I saw the diamonds in their mother's neck, sparkling through it all! You ought to hear them speak English--so smoothly and purely. But they speak Dutch, too, and I would much rather hear that. One of them--the innocent one--lisps a little. She has the darkest hair, with the most beautiful waves in it. But I could talk more easily with the other one. She is more intelligent. And the mother, also, is so attractive in every way. Everything she says is fine and noble, and every movement is charming. You have a feeling that she stands far, far above you, and yet she acts in everything as if she were the least of all. Isn't that lovely, Markus? Is it not the way it should be?" Markus made no reply, but looked straight at him, very seriously, and with a puzzling expression. It was kind, but wholly incomprehensible to Johannes. In his excitement Johannes kept on: "I have just come into a consciousness now of something in the world of people, of which I knew nothing whatever before. My friend Walter, the one who made that poem, lives in that world. She--" pointing to Marjon--"has no idea of it. That is not her fault. I had no idea of it before. But I am not surly, like her; I do not scoff at it just because I do not belong there yet. It is a world of beauty and refinement--a sublime world of poetry and art. Walter wishes to lead me into it, and I think it silly in her now to jeer about it. Do you not think it silly, Markus?" Markus' eyes remained as serious and puzzling as ever, and his mouth uttered not a word. Johannes looked first at one, then at the other, for an answer to his question. At last Markus said: "What does Marjon say?" Marjon, who had been leaning forward as she sat, lifted up her head. She no longer looked indifferent. Her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes, with their dry, red rims, seemed to be afire. She stared with the fixed, glittering look of one in a fever, and said: "What do I say? I have nothing to say. He thinks me too rude and rough. Possibly I am. I swear sometimes, and Keesje smells. I can't endure those people, and they don't want anything to do with me--certainly not with Kees. As Jo has need of finer companionship now, he must choose for himself." "No, Marjon, you do not understand me; or do you not wish to understand?" said Johannes, sadly. "It is not because I have need of it, but because it is good. It is good to enter a finer life--into a more elevated world. Is it not so, Markus? You understand me, do you not?" "I understand," said Markus. "Tell her, then, that she must come too--that it would be better so." "I don't think it would be better," said Marjon, "and I'm certainly not going with you." "Tell us, then, Markus, while we have you with us--tell us what we ought to do. We will do as you say." "I don't know yet whether I will or not," said Marjon. Then Markus smiled, and nodding toward Marjon, he said: "Look! She knows already we must not promise obedience to any one. Let him who promises obedience promise it to the Father." "But you are so much wiser than we are, Markus." "Is it enough that I am wiser, Johannes? Do you not wish to become wiser yourself? Because I can run better, ought you to let me carry you? How will you ever learn to run, yourself?" Marjon stared at him fixedly, with her flashing, flaming eyes, while two red spots burned upon her pale cheeks. She stepped up to Markus and pressed her hand upon his mouth, exclaiming passionately: "Do not say it! I know what you are going to say. Don't say it; for then he will do it, and he must not! he _must_ not!" Then she hid her face on Markus' arm. Markus laid his hand upon her head and spoke to her tenderly: "Are you not willing, then, to grant him what you yourself demand--that he should be doing what he himself, not some one else, thinks right?" Marjon looked up. Her eyes were tearless. Johannes listened quietly, and Markus continued: "There are frightful events, children, but most of them are not so bad as they seem to be. The fear of them, only, is bad. But the only events that you should dread come through not doing what you yourself think right--_yourself,_ children--yourself alone, with the Father. The Father speaks to us also through men, and through their wise words. But they are indirect vehicles; we have Him within ourselves--directly--just as you, Marjon, are now resting upon my bosom. He wills it to be so, and there we must seek him--more and more. "Now there is a great deal of self-deception. Self is a long while blind and deaf, and we often mistake the Devil's voice for the voice of God, and take the Enemy to be the Father. But whoever is too fearful of straying never leaves his place, and fails to find the right way. A swimmer who dares not release his hold upon another--will drown when in peril. Dare then, children, to release your hold upon others--all--all --to follow the Father's voice as it speaks within yourselves. Let all who will, call evil what seems to yourselves good. Do this, and the Father will not be ashamed of you." "But understand me well; close your ears to no one, for the truth comes from all sides, and God speaks everywhere. Ask the opinion of others, but ask no one else to judge for you." They were all silent for awhile. At last Marjon stood up, slowly, with averted face, and flinging back her short, ash-blonde hair from her forehead, she stepped up to Keesje, who, fastened to a chain, sat shelling nuts. She loosened his chain, and said gently and affectionately: "Coming with me, Kees? I know very well what is going to happen now." Then she had him leap to her shoulder, and, without once looking round, she went out into the street. "Do you also know, Johannes?" asked Markus. "Yes!" said Johannes, resolutely, "I am going!" IV And so Little Johannes took leave again of his Guide and of his friend, and went forth to seek a finer and a nobler sphere of life. He did not do this now in a heedless way, as when first he left his father, and, afterward, Windekind; nor partly by compulsion, as when he chose Vrede-best rather than the gypsy-wagon. He was acting now quite voluntarily, according to his own ideas--not recklessly, but in harmony with his convictions. Ought we not to admit that he was making good progress? Indeed, he thought so himself. How well he recollected his first talk with Markus, during the storm, about remembering and forgetting! What he was now doing, however, did not seem to him disloyal. True, he was turning away from friends, but he was following that which he took to be the mind of his dearest friend, even as Markus had taught him. He was resolved to combat the sorrows of humanity. But first of all, he most become a good man himself, and he agreed with Van Lieverlee that it was the proper thing for a good man to be also a clever one, and to live a fine life. Hitherto, there had been too little of that which was beautiful around him. With regard to his face, he had a vague idea that it was plain. But that he could not very well help. All the more, it behooved him to have a care for his clothes. Every flower and every bird presented a more comely appearance than did he. His cap and jacket were formless, ragged, and rain-spotted. His shoes were worn and out of shape. And while so attired, the thought of becoming the guest of a countess, and of appearing beside Van Lieverlee, was not a little distressing. Happily, he now possessed a little money--not much, to be sure, for he had his traveling expenses to meet, but yet he could spare a little for a few purchases. And that was a serious question for Johannes, involving much thought--how he could array himself the most finely, at the least cost. He first bought a white, starched "dicky," and with it a ready-made tie--black--not venturing, when he thought of Van Lieverlee's gorgeous cravats, to select a colored one. Then for his dicky he selected studs with little green stones in them. They looked like emeralds, but they were only green glass. The studs were not a necessity, for the dicky fastened at the back. But their modest twinkling simply attested his toleration of outward adornment. He bought also a stiff, round hat, a cloak, and a pair of new shoes. That the shoes pinched and pained him was a small matter. He was pleased at the odor of new leather which they spread around, and liked their loud squeaking still better. They did not squeak at first, to his distinct disappointment; but after an hour or two--there it was! They began to creak and squeak, as if proclaiming to everybody that from this day forward he became part of the higher life, and one of the finer sort of human beings. Finally--a pair of kid gloves! But these he dared not put on after he had them. As little did he dare leave them off, for they had cost a good deal, and the money must not be thrown away. So he settled the question by wearing one and carrying the other. He seemed, indeed, to remember that this was the mode. And a traveling-bag now seemed to him the ideal--the acme--of dignity. But he had nothing to put into it. To buy more for the mere sake of filling it was not to be thought of, and to carry it for the mere sake of appearances ran counter to his ideas of sincerity and honesty. Aunt Seréna's old satchel he left behind with Marjon. The leave-taking was not hard for him. No, indeed! He was too full of the new life which awaited him. Never had he felt more fully convinced that he was taking the right path--that he was going to do the right thing. Markus had said that we must seek for happiness and prosperity, as well as for goodness. Johannes felt happier than he ever had felt since leaving Windekind. Did not that prove that he was in the right way? And what was the Father's voice of which Markus had spoken, if not this inner joy? It was not, however, the audible, usual voice, sounding in Dutch, or some other tongue. The Bible, indeed, said so; but that was not now the way. Surely, then, it must be this feeling of joy and of glad anticipation that he now experienced. Does it not seem to you that Johannes had advanced? I do not believe that you would have reasoned better than he did. And if you were not taken in as he was, it would have been more from good luck than from wisdom. At first Van Lieverlee had promised to accompany him; but at the last moment, without giving a reason, he wrote to recall his promise, and let Johannes go alone. In the corner of a third-class railway coach, among a strange people, he sped through a foreign country. He was at rest and contented, because he was going to the two children. It was as great a pleasure to him as if he had been traveling to the home of his parents. Where those dear, beautiful little beings were, there was his home. He looked at the foreigners with interest. They seemed less coarse and clownish, less ugly and unmannerly, than his own people. They were much more merry and agreeable, also more obliging to one another. Johannes was on the alert for an occasion to do the polite thing. However, as he did not speak the language very fluently, he sat in his corner wrapped in his cloak, listening quietly, and in a friendly mood, to the scraps of conversation that came to him. This was carried on in the rattling, jolting car, with loud laughter and vehement gesticulations. At night he slept once more on the leather-covered benches of a boat. This time it was not on the smooth Rhine, but on the mighty, swelling ocean. All around him were people to whom he had nothing to say. Only, his neighbor on the leather bench requested him not to kick his head. Then he made himself as small as possible, and lay farther away, and quite still. About midnight he took a peep around the cabin, hardly knowing whether or not he had been asleep. The people lay at rest. Most of them appeared to be asleep--some making queer noises. The light was dim, and, in the semi-darkness, the lamps swung mysteriously to and fro, and the plants that stood upon the table were all of them quivering. One could hear, above the soft jingling and creaking everywhere, the quaking and dull throbbing of the engines. Outside, the water was hissing and rushing, and dashing along the sides of the vessel. Beside the table sat a lone passenger--a tall, dark figure. He was motionless, his head resting upon his hand. Johannes gave him a good look. He seemed to have on an amazingly big, spacious cloak, full of folds; on his head was a broad-brimmed hat. The one hand which Johannes could distinguish looked very thin and white. How familiar the man looked, though! Johannes expected immediately to hear the sound of a well-known voice. He thought of Markus, then of his father.... Suddenly, the emaciated hand was removed, and the face turned slowly round toward Johannes. Only the white beard came into view. The rest remained in the shadow of the hat. Then Johannes recognized him. "Friend Hein!" said he. And he was much more at his ease than the first time he had seen him--in fact, not at all afraid. "How do you do?" said Death, nodding. How very kind he looked, and how much more human! Not a bundle of bones with a scythe! He looked instead more like a kind, old--very, _very_ old, uncle. "What are you doing here?" asked Johannes. "Things!" replied Death, drily. "Are we going to be shipwrecked?" Johannes had come to this conclusion without any special alarm. It even seemed to him just now that a shipwreck would be a rather interesting incident. "No, no!" said Death. "Would you really like that?" "I would not want it, but neither would I be afraid of it." "The last time we met, Johannes, you asked me to take you with me." "I would not ask you that now," said Johannes; "life is too pleasant now." "Then you are not afraid of me this time, Johannes?" "No; for now you look so much more friendly." "And I am friendly, Johannes. The more you try your best to live a fine life, the more friendly I become." "But what do you mean, friend Hein? I should think the finer life became, the harder it would be to leave it." "It must be the right sort of fineness, Johannes--the right sort." "Then it must certainly be that I am seeking the right kind now, or you would not look so much more friendly." "You are indeed seeking it, Johannes; but look well to it that you also find it. Take care! Take care! I should like when I come again to look most friendly, dear Johannes, and you must be careful to have it so." "What shall I do, friend Hein? How can I be certain of the right way to live? How can I make you look friendly when you come again?" But Death turned away his pale face, gave a slight shake of the head, and continued to sit immovable and silent. Once again Johannes asked him a question, but it was of no avail. Then his head grew heavy, his eyelids drooped, and everything vanished under the veil of slumber, while his resting-place quivered and shivered above the heaving waters. * * * * * When on deck, the next morning, the world looked again most bright and cheerful. The sun was shining warmly, the fresh, blue sea was sparkling in the light, and there, in front of him--there lay the foreign land--a long line of grey-white coast, basking in the October sunshine. On the hills Johannes saw little houses standing out in full sight; and he thought of the pettiness of life in those houses--of dressing, of bread and butter, and of little children going to school;--everything so trite and trivial, in what for him was so strange and great. They coursed up a large river, much broader than the Rhine. The sea-gulls circled over the yellow water, and rested on the sand-banks and the muddy shores. The fishing-boats tacked in zig-zags all about, and throngs of ships and steamboats came to meet them. At last there loomed in the distance, enshrouded with a grey fog, a giant city--a dark maze of masts and chimneys and towers. It was sombre, awful, incomprehensible. If Johannes had not been so absorbed in thinking of the two children, he would have paid more attention to the city. As it was, he only accepted it for a fact--the unforeseen shadow of a mysterious substance--an ominous premonition, like the rumbling of the ground preceding an earthquake: an instant later all fear is over, and one thinks no further about it. So it was with Johannes; the great city, the miners--everything was forgotten, when he heard the loved voices of the two little girls. * * * * * They lived in a country-seat which to Johannes seemed a small palace. It was built of red brick and grey limestone, and stood on the summit of a hill, close by the shore. In the garden were dark cedar-trees and holm-oaks, and large plots of rhododendrons. The grass was short and even--quite like green velvet; and through it led neat, trim paths of yellow gravel. The day was far from being so pleasant as Johannes had expected. In fact, it was very unpleasant. To be waited upon by a lackey, as one conies without a trunk, from a third-class carriage, is far from funny. Johannes had not heretofore had such a trying experience. Indoors, it was very still and stately. The children were at their lessons, and for the first hour were invisible. Johannes received an unfavorable impression of fashionable life. He wished that he had not come. His hopefulness and confidence suddenly took flight. He tripped over a rug of white bearskin, and ran against a glass door, thinking it was open--just as if he were a bumblebee behind a window-pane. He wondered which was the quickest way out, and wished he were with Markus again, in the small tavern. He was not very far from crying. On a couch in the quiet reception-room, beside a softly crackling coal fire, sat the countess. Johannes strode up to her, and made an awkward bow. A number of dogs, as many as seven, snapped and yapped about his shin-bones. He thought of his dicky and the green glass studs, and felt that they could be making next to no impression. The countess looked as if she did not quite remember who he was, nor what could have been his object in coming. "Sit down," she said, in English, with a formal smile, and a weary tone of voice; "I hope you have had a pleasant journey." Johannes took a seat and, as he did so, observed that some one else was in the room. He tried again to bow, but his attempt was unnoticed. That other indeed was a most impressive personage. She lay back in an armchair, so enswathed in white lace, swan's down, gauze, and tulle as to look still larger than she really was. Upon her head was a huge hat, bearing natural-sized plums and peaches, artificial blue flowers--forget-me-nots and corn-flowers--besides a blue gauze veil. Her face was amazingly big, and highly colored by nature, but toned down with powder to a rosy flush. It was somewhat pimply, and more or less moustached. Her fat, red, shiny hands were rigid with jeweled rings; and, although it was not at all warm, she waved incessantly a large fan of white ostrich-feathers, in the midst of which glittered purple and green precious stones. Most wonderful bangles of gold and silver--little pigs, crosses, hearts, and coins--hung in a great bunch upon her bosom, from a long, many-stranded necklace. A slender crutch with a gold handle stood beside her chair, and on the table at hand, a small green parrot was eating grapes. The seven little dogs--all of them white, with pale-blue ribbons around their necks--probably belonged to her. They sat in a threatening circle, as if awaiting the word, and sharply eyed Johannes' ankles. "What does that boy want?" she asked, in a deep, heavy voice, without even looking at Johannes. And before and answer could come, she called, "Alice!" Instantly, there appeared from behind a curtain, just as in a comedy, a trim, spruce lady's-maid. She was dressed in black, with cap and cuffs of dazzling whiteness. With quiet little steps and mincing manners, she glided up to the large lady, and offered a smelling-bottle, at which that person began to sniff industriously. Johannes sat there in extreme embarrassment. He felt that the costly cut-glass smelling-bottle concerned himself. It cried out, in the keen language of its hundreds of cut facets, "You smell of the third class!" He sat like one rooted to the spot, and all unnerved, looking at the smelling-bottle as if he wished it was a dynamite bomb which would promptly send himself, the fine house, and all his beautiful illusions, flying into space. Then Countess Dolores came to his rescue. "Dear Lady Crimmetart," said she, in a coaxing voice, "this is a very interesting youth--really, very interesting. He is a young poet who sings his own compositions. Is it not so, Johannes? They are so charmingly melancholy--really, charmingly so! Indeed, you must hear them, dear friend. I am sure they will please you." "Really?" said the deep voice; and the blue goggle-eyes in the frightfully big face glared at Johannes. "Oh, yes, Lady Crimmetart," continued the countess; "but that is not all. Johannes is also a medium--a sensitive--who can see all kinds of elementals--sometimes even in broad daylight. Is it not so, Johannes?" Johannes was too much distressed and confounded to do more than give a nod of stupefied acquiescence. "Really?" said Lady Crimmetart, in a voice like that of a ship's commander in heavy weather. "Then he must come to my party next Saturday evening." "Do you hear, Johannes? That is a great honor," said Countess Dolores. "Lady Crimmetart is one of the cleverest women in the world, and the elect of intellectual England attend her parties." "Young man," said Lady Crimmetart, "I will let you talk with Ranji-Banji-Singh, of the University of Benares, the great Theosophist, and with Professor von Pennewitz, from Moscow." One can well fancy what a fine prospect that opened out for poor little Johannes! But Lady Crimmetart did not request; she commanded. It did not seem possible to decline. Then came another housemaid--just as trim and still and swift as the first one--to offer tea, little slices of bread and butter, and hot cake. Johannes watched nervously, to see how the others partook of them, and then tried to do as they did. But, under the cool, keen regard of the trig maid, of course he upset the milk. "The bishop is coming, too! The angel!" burst forth Lady Crimmetart. Johannes had before his mind's eye the mitre and crozier at the evening party. It made him think of Santa Claus. Thereupon the ladies began chatting about church affairs, the altar and the Lord's Supper, elections, and corn-laws, until he could follow them no further. At last Alice was again summoned, the carriage ordered, the smelling-bottle stored away in a big reticule, the seven small dogs were arranged upon a long, blue-silk cord--like a string of beads; and thus, with the parrot upon the hand of the lady's maid, the procession passed out. At the door, the great lady, who limped a little with gout, turned round once again, while still fanning herself, and thundered: "Come on time, mind! And do not forget your instrument!" * * * * * "A woman in a million," said Countess Dolores after she had gone. "Is she not a wonderful woman, Johannes? So good! So clever!" "Yes!" replied Johannes, meekly, his thoughts occupied anxiously with that instrument he was expected to take to the party. At last he heard the chattering of high-pitched little voices, and the pattering of light little feet through the quiet house. His heart began to thump. Then the door opened, and in two seconds the dear, soft little hands put him into a tumultuous state, and the lively, high little voices quite overwhelmed him. He was consoled; and when they led him away, out-of-doors, and he walked with them, one on each side, over the green cliffs, beside the broad ocean--then he felt something of the new happiness for which he had hoped. But at night he could not sleep, and when it grew light he still lay in a state of excitement, gazing at the handsome ceiling of dark-brown wood whereon he could see little gilt stars. He--Little Johannes--was being entertained by a countess, ushered into a sphere of refinement, and living with the dearest little creatures to be found among human beings. He was with his child friends now, but yet he was not happy. He was much too poor and too dull, and would be pitifully mortified here. When he thought of that glittering smelling-bottle, and of the upset milk-pitcher, he buried his face, in shame and bitterness, deep in the pillows. Toward morning, when he fell asleep for a little while, he dreamed of a big shop where swimming trousers only were for sale in a hundred varieties of color and material, and bordered with fur, cloth, leather, ermine, and velvet, and decked with bows and monograms. And when Johannes went in to select a pair for the party, an immense man, with a long beard and a high fur cap, stood up behind the counter. It was Professor von Pennewitz, and he gave Johannes an examination; but Johannes knew nothing--absolutely nothing. He failed. Then he was given a stringless violin, and forced to play upon it. The professor was not pleased with the performance; and taking off his fur cap, he completely extinguished Johannes. Suffocated with the heat and closeness, the boy found himself awake, and clammy with distress, having been aroused by a vigorous tap, tap, tap! V Even before his "ya" (instead of the "yes" he had firmly intended to say, but was surprised out of saying), the door flew open, and the chambermaid came in bearing a big, silver tea-tray. She looked still more trig and trim than the day before, as if all this time she had been standing under a bell-glass. Without the least embarrassment, she went up to Johannes and presented the tea. Oh, woe! That was a distressing situation! Nothing of the kind had befallen him since the whooping-cough period while his mother was still living, and when she had brought him, abed, tea and toast. Daatje had, indeed, come just once to call him, and it had made him angry because it seemed as if he were still a child. In Daatje's case, too, it was quite different. She looked more like a nurse-maid. But this utterly strange and stylish little lady, with arranged hair, and a cap with snow-white strings, who surprised him in his nightgown, sound and well, in bed, while his dicky was still hanging by itself over the back of a chair, and the green glass studs were looking in a frightened way at the rest of the shabby clothes lying scattered over the table--_this_ housemaid put him out of countenance. Blushing deeply, he declined the tea. As each of his poor garments came under the eye or hand of this pert chambermaid, he could feel her scornful, unuttered thoughts, and he lay dead still while his room was being put in order. He shrank under the sheets up to his nose, and grew wet with perspiration. When the door closed behind her, he took breath again, and regarded, in astonishment, the pitcher of hot water and the snowy towels that she had left him, uncertain exactly what it was he was expected to do with them all. Really, it was no trifling matter for Johannes--that entrance into a higher and finer station. Things went rather better during the forenoon, for he stayed with the two children and their German governess. With this kind, every-day sort of person, Johannes felt more at his ease; and he ventured to consult her about his clothes, and what he might, and might not, do in such a grand house. The countess herself he did not see until afternoon. Then, through the medium of a housemaid, he received an invitation to go to her. She wished to talk with him. She was again resting on the sofa, and beckoned him to a seat beside her. Johannes thought that she wished to ask him about something. But no! She simply wanted a little conversation--he must know what about. Then, very naturally, Johannes could not think at all; and after a painful quarter of an hour, during which he uttered scarcely anything more than "Yes, Mevrouw!" or "No, Mevrouw!" he was dismissed, still more unhappy than before. The principal meal, at half-past eight in the evening, was no less distressingly formal, and full of trials. It was as quiet as a funeral, voices were low and whispering, and the servants moved noiselessly to and fro. The governess had told Johannes that he must "dress" for dinner. But alas! poor fellow! What had he to do it with? As he stood behind his chair, in his shabby jacket and dicky, while the rose-shaded candles lighted up the flowers and the glittering table-furnishings, and the countess came into the great dim dining-room in her rustling, silk attire--then again he felt really wretched. Besides, it was very awkward trying to talk English here, and Dutch seemed not to be in favor. He was conscious during each course of doing something wrong or clumsy; and the lackeys, as they bent over him in offering the dishes, breathed slightingly on his neck. The second night, being tired from lack of sleep, he soon lost consciousness. But during the small hours he had a thrilling and stirring time. Surely I do not need to tell you what rude occurrences there may be in one's dreams. Raging bulls tore after him as he tried to escape, meeting him again and again at the turning of a lane. There were lonely rooms whose doors flew open of their own accord--a footstep, and a shadow around the corner--of _it_! There were railway tracks with an oncoming train, and, suddenly--paralysis! Then loud hangings at the door, and a call of "Johannes! Johannes!" and, waking up, a deathly stillness. After that he noticed some very queer and most astonishing things in the room--a pair of pantaloons that walked away of itself, and in the corner a blood-curdling phantom. And then he was conscious of not being awake, and of making a desperate effort to shake off sleep. Such was the frightful time which befell Johannes that night. At last, when he actually woke himself up with a scream that he heard resounding in the stillness, and while he lay listening to the beating of his heart, he also heard, like a soft echo of his cry, a fearful, smothered moaning and lamenting that lingered in the silent hallways of the darkened house When all was still, he thought it had been a part of his dreams. But even while he was lying wide awake, it began again, and it was such a dismal sound he could feel the goose-flesh forming. Then silence. "It must have been a dog," he thought. But there it was! A dog does not groan like that! It was a human voice. Could Olga or Frieda be ill? The next time it came, he knew it was not the voice either of Olga or of Frieda. It was that of a much older person--not an invalid, but some one in mortal anguish--some one being menaced, who was imploring pity. He heard something like "Oh! Oh!--O God, have mercy!" But he could not understand the words, for the sounds came faintly. He thought a murder was being committed, and he recalled that Death had been his fellow traveler. He sprang out of bed and stepped into the dark hall. Everything was quiet there. The sound came from upstairs, and now he heard, replying to the groans, a calm, soothing, hushing voice--sometimes commanding, sometimes coaxing. A door opened, and a faint light shone out. Another door was opened and then closed. All this seemed to prove that Johannes' intervention was not at all necessary, and that he would perhaps cut a ridiculous figure by attempting to step in as a rescuer. Then, unnerved and miserable, he went to sleep again. In the morning, both little girls and the governess partook of their breakfast of tea, malted milk, toasted bread, and ham and eggs, just as if nothing had happened. The mother was to be away again until afternoon. Frieda and Olga sat peacefully and quietly eating, like well bred little girls. At last Johannes could keep silence no longer, and said to the governess: "Did anything bad happen in the night?" "No," said the young German lady, looking at her plate. "There is an invalid in the house." "Did you hear Heléne?" asked Olga, looking at Johannes earnestly. "I never hear her now. At first I used to very plainly, but now I sleep through it. Poor Heléne!" "Poor Heléne!" lisped Frieda dutifully after her, resuming her busy spooning of the malted milk. * * * * * At noon Johannes was again summoned to the drawing-room. He had had a long walk, alone, beside the sea, and felt more at his ease. He had resolved to ask if he might not go away, since he was out of place here, and felt unhappy. And the party the next evening, at Lady Crimmetart's, where he was expected with an instrument--that was too much for him. He must get away before that. But ere he had a chance to speak about it, his hostess began thus: "Were you alarmed in the night, Johannes? Did you hear anything?" Johannes nodded. "Well, now that I trust you, fully, I will confide to you my sorrowful secret. Listen." And the estimable and attractive woman beckoned him, with her loveliest smile, to sit beside the sofa, on a low stool. It made Johannes feel as if he had been brought, nearly benumbed, into a warm room. Pleasant tinglings coursed down his back, and a fine feeling of contentment and security came over him. The countess rested her soft, delicate hand upon his own, and looked into his eyes, kindly. How beautiful she was! And what a sweet, caressing voice she had! All the distress of those recent days was more than amended. "I am going to speak to you, my dear Johannes, as if you were much older than you are. You really do seem to me older and wiser than your years would lead one to expect." Johannes was charmed. "You must know, then, that my life has been full of suffering. Sorrow has been, so to speak, my constant companion, from earliest youth." Johannes' heart was aglow with compassion. In well-chosen words, and in the flowing English that Johannes more admired than comprehended, the lady continued: "My marriage was very unhappy. Constrained by my parents I married a rich man whom I did not love. He is dead now. I will not speak any evil of him." Johannes that instant made up his mind to a certainty that the man had been a wretch. "Neither will I trouble you with the story of all our misery. It suffices to say that we did not belong to each other, and each embittered the other's life. After six years of torture--it was nothing else--something happened ... what usually happens in such cases.... Do you understand?" Johannes, greatly to his vexation, did not understand, and he felt himself to be very stupid. "I became fond of another.... Do you think less of me for that?" "No! No!" said Johannes' head, as he shook it emphatically. "Fortunately, my dear boy, I can say that I have nothing to reproach myself with, and can look into the faces of my children without shame. The man for whom I cared was unhappily married--just as I was. We have never seen each other again--not even...." There was a pause in which the voice of the beautiful speaker broke, while her eyes were veiled in the tears that she was making an effort to repress. Johannes' heart was melting with sympathy. "Not even," she resumed, "when I was free. My husband made this the opportunity for taking away from me my two children. For years I lived separated from them, even in poverty and privation, with only one old servant who, notwithstanding his low wages, would not desert me. "During that time, my boy,--you may be surprised to know it,--I longed not only for my children, but even for him who had caused me so much suffering. The mutual parentage of dearly loved children is a wonderful bond that is never completely severed. I would have forgiven him all if he had only called me back." A silence, in which Johannes' heart, already so inclined to admiration, surrendered itself wholly. The lady continued: "I was recalled, but alas! too late. They telegraphed me that he was ill, and wished to speak with me. When I arrived, he lay raving, and never recovered his reason. For three days and nights I sat beside him, almost without sleep, to catch anything he might have to say to me. But he raved and raved, incessantly, uttering nothing but nonsense and inarticulate sounds. He certainly knew me; but just the same, he remained hard and cold--sometimes taunting, sometimes angry and abusive. Never shall I forget that night...." "With my own two children I found an older girl whom I had never seen. They told me she was a child of a former union. I had never even heard of her. Where the mother was, no one could say. It was thought she was not living. The girl was then about fifteen years of age, beautiful, with a brilliant color, a fine profile, and flowing black hair." "More beautiful than Frieda or Olga?" asked Johannes. The countess smiled. "Quite another kind of beauty. Much more gloomy and melancholy. When I went to her, she sat crying, and would pay no attention to me. 'Every one dislikes me,' she kept saying. And she repeated this all day long. She did nothing but walk back and forth, crying and lamenting. Only with the greatest trouble could she be induced to rise in the morning, and be dressed, and in the evening, to go to sleep. Her mind was diseased, and little by little it has grown worse. My husband died, and I remained with the three daughters, caring for them as well as I could." Countess Dolores studied for a while her beautiful, gem-adorned hands, and then went on, with frequent pauses. "Heléne knew very little concerning her mother; but she steadfastly maintained that she was living, and would return, and also ... that her father and mother had been married...." Another prolonged silence, the countess regarding Johannes with her lightly half-closed eyes, to see if he understood. Apparently he did not understand; for he sat, in unsuspecting patience, waiting for whatever else was to be said. "Can you fancy, Johannes, what that would signify to me to my children ... if it were true?" Johannes fancied only that he was looking at the speaker in a somewhat confounded and sheepish manner. "Bigamy, Johannes, is a terrible crime!" Wait!--A light broke in upon him, albeit a feeble one. His dearly loved children, then, were not legal--were illegitimate--natural, or whatever it was called. Yes, indeed! That was terrible, even though no one, to look at them, would ever think it. But the countess enlightened him still further. "The idea of living upon the property of another, Johannes, is, to a woman of honor, insufferable!" What more? The property of another? Then all this sumptuousness, belonged, perhaps, to poor, crazed Heléne; and his dear, pretty children and their beautiful mother were only illegal intruders--usurpers of another's possessions! Johannes faithfully tried his best to feel as the speaker did about all these curious and confusing things. But he did not succeed. Then, in his desire to comfort her, he gallantly uttered in broken English whatever came into his head. "No, Mevrouw; you must not think that. You are beautiful and your children are beautiful, and therefore everything that is beautiful belongs to you. I do not believe you have cause to be ashamed, for I have seen no sign of it. If there were any disgrace, I should have detected it. And how is any one to suppose that such evidence exists either on paper or in some secret closet or other--who knows where? Are you and Frieda and Olga any less beautiful, less lovely, less good? I do not care a bit about it. Absolutely nothing." The countess laughed so heartily, and pressed his hand so warmly, that Johannes was embarrassed. "Oh, you lovely boy!" she laughingly cried. "Oh, you queer, funny, darling of a boy! How you cheer me up! I have not been so light-hearted in a long time." Johannes was very glad, and proud of his success. Countess Dolores dried her tears of laughter upon her lace handkerchief, and resumed: "But now we must be in earnest. It will be clearer to you now why I am so interested in all that pertains to spiritualism and theosophy--why I listen so eagerly to the wisdom of Mijnheer van Lieverlee, and of Lady Crimmetart--why I attend the circle of the Pleiades, at the Hague--and, too, why it made me so happy to meet you, when I heard that you also were a medium, and could see the _elementals_, in full daylight." "But why, Mevrouw?" asked Johannes, in some distress. "How can you ask that, my dear boy! Nothing can ever bring back my peace of mind, except _one_ word from him, from the other side of the grave!" Ah! but that was a hard blow for Johannes. He was not so troubled at having been invited as a guest, for a side purpose--he was not so overweening as that--but because he was surely going to be a disappointment to his beloved countess. With a sigh he looked down at the carpet. "Shall we not make a call upon the invalid?" asked the lady, rising. Johannes nodded, and followed her. * * * * * The door of the sick-room was barely open, when a pitiable scream rang out from the corner. The poor girl sat on the floor, huddled up in her nightgown, her long black hair disheveled, and hanging down over face and back. Her beautiful dark eyes were widely distended, and her features wore an expression of mortal anguish. "Oh, God!--It is coming!" she shrieked, trembling. "Now it will happen! Oh, God! It surely will! I know it will! There it comes! Did I not say so? Now it comes!--Oh! Oh! Oh!" The nurse hushed and commanded, but the poor, tormented creature trembled and wept, and seemed so desperately afraid, that Johannes, greatly moved, begged leave to go away again. It seemed as if she were afraid of him. "No, my boy!" said the countess. "It is not on account of you. She does that way whoever comes in. She is afraid of everybody and everything she sees or hears." * * * * * That whole day, and a good deal of the night, Johannes mused over this one query: "Why--_why_ is that poor girl so afraid?" VI Johannes did not leave, and at last came the day of the dreaded party. Having grown more confident, he had spoken of his needs. The carriage put in an appearance, and in the neighboring town, he was soon provided with suitable clothing. Still, his mind was not quite at rest. "Will you also say, dear lady," said Johannes that afternoon, when with the children and their mother, "that I truly cannot play upon any instrument? Please don't ask me to do anything!" "But, Johannes," urged the countess, "that would really be very disagreeable in me. After what I have said, something will be expected of you." "I cannot do anything!" said Johannes, in distress. "He is joking, Mama," said Olga; "he can play the castanets and can imitate animals." "Oh, yes! all kinds of animals! Awfully nice!" cried Frieda. "Is that so, Johannes? Well, then?" * * * * * It was true that Johannes had amused his two little friends while they were taking walks together--mimicking all sorts of animal sounds, like those of the horse, donkey, cow, dog, cat, pig, sheep, and goat. He had whistled like the birds so cleverly that the two little girls had been enraptured. And one single instrument he did indeed play admirably--the genuine boys' castanets that every schoolboy and street urchin in Holland carries in his pocket certain months of the year. Many an autumn day, sauntering home from school, he had shortened the way for himself with the sharp, clear, uninterrupted "a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty _tick_!--a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty _tick_!--a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty _tick_!--tack! tack!" The little girls now begged him to let their mama hear. So he took out his castanets, which he himself had made while there, and clicked away with them lustily. "Delightful!" cried the countess. "Now you must sing and dance at the same time, like the Spaniards." Johannes shied at the dancing. But indeed he would sing. And he sang all kinds of street ditties, such as "Oh, Mother, the Sailor!" and "Sara, you're losing your Petticoat," to the merry music of the castanets. The children thought it splendid. Their enthusiasm excited him, and he began improvising all sorts of nonsense. The little girls clapped their hands, and the longer he played the more merry they grew. Johannes struck an attitude, and announced his selections just as if he were before an audience. The countess and her daughters went and sat in a row--the little girls wild with delight. "Sketches from Animal Life," announced Johannes, beginning, to the time-keeping accompaniment of the castanets, the well-known air from _The Carnival of Venice_, "A hen that came from Japan Assured a crippled toad She'd never have him for her man. That was a sorry load." The little girls shouted and stamped, with glee. "More, Jo!--More, more, Johannes! Do!" "Splendid!" cried the countess, speaking in Dutch, now, herself. "A rhinoceros said to a louse, 'I'll stamp you flat on the ground!' The louse made tracks for his house, And there he is now to be found. "A grasshopper sat in the grass, And said to a chimpanz_ee_: 'Your coat I will thank you to pass, That I may attend a part_ie_.' "A snoop who stood on the stoop Asked of his fellow boarder If hairs he found in the soup. The _hostess_?--'Twas malice toward her! "A crab who enjoyed a joke, Gave his mama a kick. And when she dropped at his poke, He laughed till the tears fell thick." "Hey, there!" the little girls shouted boisterously. "Jolly! More, more! Jo!" "A stock-fish, deaf-and-dumb born, Once said to a billy-goat: 'Of my head I see I am shorn-- 'Twas you did it, silly goat!'" "There, there, Johannes! That will do. Now you are getting foolish," said the mother. "Oh, no, Mama! Only funny!" cried Frieda and Olga. "He _is_ so funny! Go on, Jo!" But Johannes was quite disconcerted by the mother's comment, and there was no further exposition of "Sketches from Animal Life." * * * * * In the evening Johannes drove with the countess in the state-coach to Lady Crimmetart's. Milady dwelt in a very handsome house--a castle in a large park. From a distance, Johannes could see the brightly lighted windows, and also the vehicles in front of the pillars, at the entrance. Overhead, an awning was spread, and a long strip of heavy, bright-red carpeting laid down, so that the guests might be protected in passing from their carriages to the magnificent vestibule. The way was lined with lackeys--full twenty on each side. They looked very impressive, all of them tall and heavy, wearing knee-breeches of yellow plush, and red lace-trimmed coats. Johannes was puzzled because they all seemed to be such old men. Their hair was white as snow. That was powder, however, and it added to their dignity. How small and shabby Johannes felt while running the gauntlet of those liveried lackeys! Indoors, Johannes was completely blinded by the dazzling light. He ascended a vaulted staircase, the broad steps of which were of many-colored marble. He saw vaguely, flowers, electric lamps, variegated carpets, broad, conspicuously white expanses of shirt-linen bordered with black coat, and bare necks adorned with gems and white lace. He heard a subdued murmur of soft voices, the rustling of silk clothing, the announcement of names. In the background, at the top of the stairs, the swollen visage of Lady Crimmetart was glowing like a railway danger-signal. All the guests went up to her, and their names being spoken, each one received a bow and a handshake. "What name, sir?" asked a colossal lackey, as he bent obliquely over Johannes. Johannes stammered out something, but the countess repeated it, changed. "Professor Johannes, of Holland!" he heard called out. He bowed, received a handshake, and saw the powdered face smiling--or grinning--with affected sweetness. Lady Crimmetart's neck and arms were so fat and bare that Johannes was nearly terrified by them, and did not dare look straight. They were loaded with precious stones--big, flat, square, uniformly cut diamonds, alternating with pear-shaped pearls. Three white ostrich feathers bobbed in her head-dress. There were no animals at her side, but of course she had her fan and her gold-headed crutch. "How do you do?" inquired the deep voice. But before Johannes could reply that he was pretty well, she addressed herself, with a grinning smile, to the next comer. Beside her stood a short, heavily built man. He had a shiny, bald head, a red face with deeply cut lines, and a large, bony nose. It was precisely such a head as one sees carved upon knobs of walking-sticks and parasols. It was Lord Crimmetart who stood there, and he gave Johannes' hand a firm clasp. For an hour or so Johannes wandered about in the midst of the crowd. He felt dispirited and lonesome to begin with; and the babel of voices, the sheen and rustle of silken garments, the glitter of lights and of precious stones, the uniforms, bare necks, and white shirt-fronts, and the heavy scent of perfumery and of flowers,--all this oppressed him until he became deeply dejected. There was such a press of people that at times he could not stir, and the ladies and gentlemen talked straight into his face. How he longed for a quiet corner and an every-day companion! Everybody except himself had something to say. There was no one among those passing by so forlorn as he. He did not understand what they all could be saying to one another. The scraps of conversation that did reach him were about the stir in the room and the magnificence of the party. But the saying of that was not the reason for their having come together. Johannes felt that the feast of the elves in the dunes had been far more pleasant. Then, strains of music reached him from a stringed orchestra hidden behind green laurel. That awakened longings almost painful, and he drew closer, to sit down, unobserved, and let the people stream by. There he sat, with moistened eyes, looking dreamily out before him, while his thoughts dwelt upon quiet dunes and sounding seas on a moonlit night. "Professor Johannes, let me introduce you to Professor von Pennewitz," rang suddenly in his ears. He rose to his feet startled. There stood Lady Crimmetart beside a diminutive man, whose scanty grey locks hung down to his coat-collar. The vision was little like Johannes' dream. "This is a youthful prodigy, Professor von Pennewitz--a young poet who recites his own compositions. At the same time he is a famous medium. You certainly will have interesting things to say to each other." Thereupon, Lady Crimmetart disappeared again among the other guests, leaving the two bowing to each other--Johannes abashed and perplexed, von Pennewitz bowing and rubbing his hands together, teetering up and down on his toes, and smiling. "Now for the examination!" thought Johannes, waiting in mute patience--a victim to whatever wise questions the great man was to pillory him with. "Have you--ah--known the family here for long?" asked von Pennewitz--opening and closing his thin lips with a sipping sound, while with fingers affectedly spread, he adjusted his eyeglasses, peering over the tops of them at Johannes. "No, I do not know them at all!" replied Johannes, shaking his head. "No?" said von Pennewitz, rubbing and wringing his hands, most cheerfully. And then he continued, in broken English: "Well, well! That pleases me. Neither do I. Curious people! Do you not think so, young man?" Johannes, somewhat encouraged by this affability, gave a hesitating assent. "Have you such types in Holland, also? Surely upon a more modest scale? Ha! ha! ha!--These people are astonishingly rich! Have you tried their champagne?--No? Then you must just come with me to the buffet. It is worth the trouble, I can assure you." Happy, now, to be at least walking with some one, Johannes followed the little man, who piloted him through the packed mass of people. Arrived at the buffet they drank of the sparkling wine. "But, sir," said Johannes, "I have heard that Lady Crimmetart is so very clever." "Have you, indeed?" said the Professor, looking again at Johannes over the top of his glasses, and nodding his head. "I have nothing to say about that. Much traveled--papa a hoarding-house keeper--a smattering of almost everything. Nowadays one can get a good deal out of the newspapers. Do you read the papers, young man?" "Not much, sir," said Johannes. "Good! Be cautious about it. Let me give you some extra-good advice. Read few newspapers, and eat few oysters. Especially in Rome eat no oysters. I have just come from a fatal case of poisoning--a Roman student." Johannes mentally resolved, on the spot, to eat anything in Rome rather than oysters. "Is Lord Crimmetart also so clever, Professor?" asked Johannes. "He is bright enough. In order to become a Lord and an arch-millionaire by means of patent pills alone, one needs to be a bright rascal. Just try it! Ha! ha! ha!" The professor laughed heartily, snorted and sniffed, clicked his false teeth, and finished off his glass. Then he said: "But take care, young man, that you do not marry before you have made your pile. That was a stupid move of his. He would be able to do very much better now. If he chose, he might win Countess Dolores." The blood rushed to Johannes' head, and he flushed deeply, "I am staying there, sir!" said he, considerably touched. "Is that so? Is that so?" replied the professor, in a propitiatory tone. "But I said nothing about her, you know. A most charming woman. A perfect beauty. So she is your hostess? Well, well, well!" * * * * * "There is His Grace, the bishop!" cried the heavy voice of Lady Crimmetart, as she passed by, hurrying toward the entrance. Johannes was on the _qui vive_ for the white mitre and the gilded crozier, but he could see only a tall, ordinary gentleman in a black suit, and wearing gaiters. He had a smooth, good-looking face, that bore an affected smile; and in his hand he held a curious, flat hat, the brim of which was held up with cords, as if otherwise it might droop down over his nose. Lady Crimmetart received him quite as warmly as Aunt Seréna received the dominie. How Johannes wished he was still at his Aunt Seréna's! "Sir!" said some one at his ear, "Milady wishes to know if you have brought your instrument, and if you will not begin now." Johannes looked round, in a fright. He saw a portly personage with an upstroked moustache, in black satin short-clothes, and a red coat--evidently a master of ceremonies. "I have no instrument," stammered Johannes. But he did have his castanets in his pocket. "I cannot do anything," he repeated--most miserable. The pompous one glanced right and left, as if he had made some mistake. Then he stepped away a moment, to return soon, accompanied by Countess Dolores. "What is it, my dear Johannes?" said the countess. "You must not disappoint us." "But, Mevrouw, I really cannot." The pompous one stood by, looking on in a cool, impassive way, as if quite accustomed to the sight of freaks who were considered youthful prodigies. Johannes' forehead was wet with perspiration. "Indeed you can, Johannes! You are sure to do well." "What shall I announce?" asked the pompous one. Johannes did not understand the question, but the countess replied, in his stead. In a twinkling he was standing beside a piano encircled by guests, and he saw hundreds of eyes, with and without eyeglasses, fastened upon him. Straight in front--next Lady Crimmetart--sat the bishop, looking at him severely and critically, out of hard, cold, light-blue eyes. The master of ceremonies called out, loudly and clearly: "National Hymns of Holland." And then poor Little Johannes had to clap and sing--whatever he could. To keep up courage, he threw just a glance at the beautiful face of the countess, with its near-sighted eyes--and tried to think it was for her alone that he sang. He did his best, and sang in _tremolo_ from "Oh, Mother, the Mariner!" and "We are going to America," to "The Hen from Japan," and "The Tiger of Timbuctoo"--his entire repertory. They listened, and looked at him as if they thought him a queer specimen; but no one laughed. Neither the goggle-eyes of the hostess, nor the stern regard of the bishop, nor one of the hundreds of other pairs of eyes pertaining to these richly dressed and excellent ladies and gentlemen, evinced the slightest token of emotion, happy or otherwise. That was scarcely to be wondered at, since they did not understand the words; but it was not encouraging. Without loss of time, most of them turned away their attention, and began anew their laughing and chattering. When he stopped, there sounded, to his astonishment, a lone hand-clapping, and Countess Dolores came up to him, gave her hand, and congratulated him upon his success. Lady Crimmetart, also, thundered out that it was "awfully interesting." A tall, thin young lady, in white satin, whose prominent collar bones were but slightly concealed by a ten-fold necklace of pearls, came, smiling sweetly, to press his hand. She was so happy, she said, to have heard the _Carnival of Venice_ in the original, by a veritable resident of the city. "How peculiarly interesting! But it must be so nice, Professor ... ah! I have lost your name!... so nice to live in a city lying wholly under water, and where everybody wears wooden shoes!" "Was that entirely your own composition, Professor Johannes?" inquired a plain, good-natured little lady, in a simple black gown. And several other women, of riper years, sought to introduce themselves. He really brightened up a little at these tokens of approval, although he rather mistrusted their sincerity. When, however, he found himself beside a group of tall, broad-shouldered Britishers, with high collars, florid, smooth-shaven cheeks, and trim, closely-cropped, wavy, blonde hair, who, one hand in the trousers' pocket, stood drinking champagne, he heard such expressions as "beastly," "rot," and "humbug," and he very well knew that the words were applied to himself. Shortly after this it became clear to him what constitutes genuine success. A robust young lady, with very artfully arranged hair, and pretty white teeth, sang, accompanied by the piano, a German song. With her head swaying from side to side and occasionally tossed backward, and with her mouth open very wide, she threw out trills and runs, like a veritable music-box. The sound of it all pierced through to Johannes' very marrow. What her song was intended to say, it was hard to tell, for she spoke a remarkable kind of German. Apparently, she was exciting herself over a faithless lover, or mistress, and dying--out of sheer affection. When she had ended, and made a sweet, smiling bow, a vigorous round of applause followed, with cries of "bis," and "encore." Johannes had not himself received such acclaim, nor would he now take part therein. In his dejection, he went to find Countess Dolores. She was the only one there to whom he could turn for comfort. He asked if he might not take his leave, since he was tired, and did not feel at home where he was. The countess herself appeared not to be very well satisfied; she had won no honors through him, nevertheless she said: "Come, my boy, do not be discouraged! You have still other gifts. Have you spoken with Ranji-Banji-Singh?" A little earlier, Johannes had seen the tall East-Indian, with head erect, and a courtly carriage, striding through the motley crowd. He had wide nostrils, large, handsome eyes with somewhat drooping lids, a light-brown complexion, splendid blue-black hair, and a sparse beard. He wore his white turban, and yellow silk clothing, with solemn ceremoniousness. When any one spoke to him, he smiled most condescendingly, and, closing his eyes, he laid his slender hand, with its pale nails and upturned finger-tips, upon his bosom, and made a profound and graceful bow. Johannes had noticed him especially, as one to whom he felt more attracted than to any other; and he had visions of deep, blue skies, majestic elephants, rustling palms, and palace facades of pale marble, on the banks of the Sacred River. However, he had not dared to address him. But now the countess and Johannes went to find him, and find him they did, beside Lady Crimmetart, in a circle of ladies to whom he appeared to be speaking in rotation, with a courtly smile. "Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh," said Countess Dolores, "have you made the acquaintance of Professor Johannes, of Holland? He is a great medium, and you certainly will find him sympathetic." The East-Indian showed his white teeth again, in a winning smile, and gave his hand to Johannes. The boy felt, however, that it was not given from the heart. "But are you not also a medium, Mr. Singh?" asked one of the ladies, "such a great theosophist as you!" Ranji-Banji-Singh threw back his head, made with his clasped hands a gesture as if warding off something, and smiling disdainfully, said, in broken English: "Theosophists not mediums. Mediums is organ-grinders--theosophist, composer. Medium-tricks stand low;--street-jugglery for gold. Theosophist and Yogi can everything, all the same--can much more, but not show. That is meanness, unworthiness!" The slender brown hand was shaken in Johannes' face, in an endeavor to express its owner's contempt, while the dark face of the East-Indian took on an expression of one compelled to drink something bitter. That was too much for Johannes. Feeling himself misunderstood by the only one upon whom he cared to make a good impression, he said, angrily: "I never perform tricks, sir. I exhibit nothing. I am not a medium." "Not by profession--not a professional medium," said Countess Dolores, to save the situation. "Then you do not practise table-tilting, nor slate-writing, nor flower-showering?" asked the East-Indian, while his face cleared. "No, sir! Nothing whatever!" said Johannes, emphatically. "If I had known that!" exclaimed Lady Crimmetart, while her eyes seemed almost rolling out of her head. "But, Mr. Singh, can you not, just for this one time, show us something? Let us see something wonderful? A spinning tambourine, or a violin that plays of itself? Do, now! When we ask you so pleadingly, and when I look at you so fondly! Come!" And she cast sheep's eyes at Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh in a manner which did not in the least arouse Johannes' envy. The theosophist bowed again, smiling with closed eyes, but at the same time contracting his brows as if struggling with his aversion. Then they went to a boudoir having glass walls and exotic plants--a kind of small conservatory, in a soft twilight. There they seated themselves at a table, with the East-Indian in the circle. Johannes was promptly excluded with the words: "Antipathetic! Bad influence!" "That's Keesje, yet--surely!" thought Johannes. Then there was writing upon slates held by Mr. Singh in one hand, under the table. The scratching of the pencil could be heard, and soon the slate reappeared--covered with writing in various languages--English, Latin, and Sanscrit. These sentences were translated by the East-Indian, and appeared to contain very wise and elevating lessons. But Johannes had the misfortune to notice that the slate which should have been written upon was quickly exchanged by the theosophist the instant that he succeeded in diverting the attention of all the on-lookers. And Johannes added to his inauspicious observation the imprudent exclamation--loud and triumphant--"I see it all! He is exchanging slates!" A regular riot ensued. Yet Ranji-Banji-Singh, with the utmost calmness, brought the exchanged slate to light again, and, with a triumphant smile, showed that it was without writing. Johannes looked baffled, yet he knew to a certainty that he had seen the deception, and he cried: "I saw it, nevertheless!" "For shame!" thundered Lady Crimmetart. And all the other ladies cried indignantly, "Disgraceful!" Ranji-Banji-Singh, with a taunting smile said: "I have compassion. Yogi know not hate, but pity evil-doer. Bad Karma. Unhappy person, this!" That did not agree with what Herr van Lieverlee had said. He had commended Johannes' Karma. But Countess Dolores, now realizing that she was to have no further satisfaction out of her protégé, at once withdrew, and quite good-naturedly, so that he might not feel at all reproached. Indeed, she comforted him, with her friendly jests. * * * * * Johannes saw some daily papers lying in the hall of Countess Dolores' house. Against the advice of Professor von Pennewitz, he began running them through. His eyes remained glued to the page, for he saw there a communication from Germany, to the effect that the miners' strike had ended. The laborers had lost the battle. The sleepless night that ensued seemed very long to him. Poor Heléne, also, was restless, and wailed and wailed without pause. VII Be brave now, for my story is going to be truly sombre and shuddery. Truth can sometimes appear very black; but if we only dare to look her straight in the eye, she smiles, in the end, brightly and blithely. Only those who are afraid of her, and turn halfway back, will be caught and held fast in the meshes of gloom and misery. * * * * * You have, doubtless, known all along that there was something utterly amiss in Johannes' fine, new life--that he had made a pitiful mistake, and was all at sea. He, also, knew it now, although he would not admit it to himself. Those joyful expectations had not been prompted by the Father's voice, and he knew now that one could be misled by positive impressions. However, he was not yet out of the scrape. To acknowledge again that he had made a mistake--to leave this life and return to Markus and Marjon, was a hard thing to do. Here were far greater attractions than Aunt Seréna's raspberries and fresh rolls. When he thought of the garden at Vrede-best, ah, how eagerly he longed to be there again! But that which held him here had a much stronger hold upon him, for he would not admit to himself that it would be better to leave it. That he should be an intimate little friend of this beautiful, distinguished woman--_that_, above all things--preoccupied him day and night. Did you ever, late at night, when you ought to have been in bed, read a very captivating book? You knew then, did you not, that it was not good for you--that you would be sorry for it? Perhaps you even found the book to be dull or base. And yet you could not break off, but read on and on, just one more chapter, to see how it ended. That was the way with Johannes, in the pretty villa of Countess Dolores. He stayed on, week after week, month after month, writing nothing to Holland, nor to Aunt Seréna--nothing to his Brother, nor to Marjon, either because of he knew not what, or because he was ashamed. One thought alone prevailed over all others; what would she say when he should have another talk with Countess Dolores, and what should he reply? Would she stroke his hair, or even press a kiss upon it, as once she had done--the same as with her two little daughters? Perhaps you have never yet been in love. If you never have, you cannot know what all this means. But it is not a slight matter, and there is nothing in it to rail about. Johannes himself did not quite know what had happened. He only felt that never yet in his life had anything so perplexing and distressing come to him. It was so wonderful, too. It gave him pain--sharp pain--and yet it was sweet to him, and he welcomed it. It caused him anguish and anxiety, and yet he would not run away from it. It was so contradictory--so confounding! One sultry, stormy evening he took a lonely walk over the cliffs, and followed a narrow path lying close to the grey steeps at the foot of which the breakers were pounding. He saw the sun go down behind great masses of clouds, just as he had formerly done. But now how different it was! How cold and strange it seemed! He felt left out. Life--cruel, human life--with its passions and entanglements, now had him in its grasp. It seemed agonizing and frightful, as if a great monster had pursued him to the shore of the sea, and were still close behind. And now Nature had become strange and inhospitable. He stretched out his hand, and cried to the clouds: "Oh, help me, clouds with the silver lining!" But the clouds rolled on as if wholly unconscious of the wonderful shapes they assumed at every turn--ever changing, and adorned anew with glittering gold and gleaming silver. And all the while the sea was roaring just as if it had no memory whatever of Johannes. And when he had cried "Help me, clouds with the silver lining!" the words clung to his mind, and, like shining angels, they beckoned other, sister words, still lingering in the depths of his soul, to come and join them. And so they came--one after another, in twinkling file, and fell into line. Their faces seemed more serious than did ever those of his own words. "Help, oh, help me, ye silver-lined clouds! Oh, save me, sun and stormy sea! To thee I fly from stifling haunts of men. _Life_, with its frightful, crimson-flaming hands, Has laid its hold on me. Once I was thy friend and confidant-- At home in thy mysterious loneliness. I explored without fear thy boundless space And celestial mansions builded I there With the mere light of stars, and the waves of wind. Peace I found in thy grandeur stern, And rest in thy bright expanse. Now, life sweeps me on with its current swift, And a seething volcano I find where erst Was an ocean serene of exalted delights. Alas! thou doest rest in thy splendor immersed-- As cool as a lion licking his paws. All slowly the cloud is transformed, Letting the light stream through, And the tossing main with sparks is clad, As if with a golden coat of mail. Ah, beautiful world! Untrue and unreal Thou glidest away 'neath my anguished eyes. The ocean roars ever, and silent are sun and clouds. Sadly, I see the strange daylight fail. It leaves me alone with still stranger night. Oh! may I yet find there my Father's spirit, That dwells beyond sun and sea and clouds? Must I join with the hapless, hopeless throng And bind my sorrowful fate to theirs, Until the Great Leveler bring surcease?" What Johannes meant by the "Great Leveler" he did not himself know at first. Neither did he at all realize that he had composed something better than formerly. But in the night he understood that it was Death he had meant. And he knew, also, that something within him had opened to the light, like an unfolding flower. He felt that the verses might be sung like a song, but he could not hear the melody--or but faintly--like wind-wafted tones from the farthest distance. At night, he heard in his dreams the full strain, but in the morning he had entirely forgotten it. And Marjon was not there to help him. You must remember that Little Johannes was no longer so _very_ little. Nearly four years had passed since that morning when he had waked up in the dunes, with the little gold key. He could not refrain from reading the poem to the countess on the following day. The making of it--the writing and rewriting--had calmed the unrest out of which it had come. He was curious, now, to learn what others would say of it--above all, the one who was ever in his thoughts. "Ah, yes!" said she, after he had read it aloud, "life is fearful! And that 'surcease' is all that I long for. I fully agree with you." This remark, however kind the intention of the speaker, gave Johannes, to his own astonishment, small pleasure. He would have preferred to hear something different. "Do you think it good?" he asked, with a vague feeling that he really ought not to ask the question, because he had been so very much in earnest over the verses. And when one is deeply in earnest about anything one does not ask if it is good; no more than he would ask if he had wept beautifully. But yet he would have liked, so well, to know what she thought. "I do not know, Johannes. You must not hope for a criticism from me. I think the idea very sympathetic, and the form seems to me also quite poetic. But whether or not it is good poetry, you must ask of Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He is a poet." "Is Mijnheer van Lieverlee coming soon?" "Yes; I expect him shortly." One fine day Van Lieverlee put in an appearance. With him arrived a host of merrily creaking, yellow trunks, smelling delightfully like russia leather--ditto high-hat box, and a brisk, smooth-shaven, traveling-servant. Van Lieverlee wore in his button-hole a dark-red rose, and pointed pale-green carnation leaves. He was very much at his ease--contented and gay--and when he saw Johannes he did not appear to have a very clear remembrance of him. That evening Johannes read to him the poem. Van Lieverlee listened, with an absent-minded expression of face, while he drummed on the arm of the low, easy-chair in which he lay indolently outstretched. It looked very much as if the verses bored him. When it was over, and Johannes was waiting in painful suspense, he shook his head emphatically. "All rhetoric, my worthy friend--mere bombast! 'Oh! Alas!' and 'Ah!' All those are impotent cryings which show that the business is beyond you. If you had full control of expression, you would not utter such cries--you would form, shape, knead, create, model--_model_! Plasticity, Johannes! That is the thing--vision, color, imagery! I see nothing in that poem. I want something to see and taste. Just think of that sonnet of mine! Every line full of form, of imagery, of real, actual things! With you, there is nothing but vague terms--weak swaggering--all about the spirit of your Father, and such things--none of them to be seen. And, to produce effect, you call upon the other words: 'Ah!' and 'Alas!' and 'Oh!' as if that helped, at all. Any cad could do that if he fell into the water. That is not poetry." Johannes was completely routed. And although his hostess tried to console him with assurances that if he did his best things would go better with him by and by, when he was a little older, it was of no avail. Johannes already knew that it was quite in vain for him to attempt his best, so long as the inspiration he so much needed was withheld. His night was a sad one; for the serious words of the poem were continually before him, and to think that they had been disdained was indeed torture. They would not be driven away, but remained to vindicate their worth. And then he wished that others, as well as he, should value them. But his powerlessness and his own mistrust, were a grievous vexation. In the small hours, he had just fallen asleep--probably for only a few minutes--when he awoke again with the feeling that his room was full, but with what kind of company--human beings or other creatures--he could not tell. He did not see them; for just in the place where he was looking there was no one, and where he wanted to look, he could not. He seemed to be prevented from doing so by a strange power. He heard a laugh, and the sound was very familiar to him. It was a dismal, old-time memory. It was Pluizer's laugh. Could Pluizer be in the room? Johannes tried his best to look at the spot whence the sound came. Exerting himself, he saw something at last--not an entire figure, but hands only--two, four, six little hands, busily doing something. Higher up, to what was above the hands, he could not look--but that they were the hands of Pluizer he was quite positive. There was something in those hands--a white band--and the little hands were very busy tying all kinds of knots in it. And all the while there was continuous laughing and snickering, as if it was great fun. What could that mean? Johannes felt that something menaced. The play of those little hands portended danger. Most plainly of all he saw the white band--a common, white tape. Then the hands went out of the room, and Johannes was forced to follow them. In another room--that of Heléne's nurse--there they were, as busy as ever, this time with a pair of scissors. The scissors had fallen upon the floor close to a toilet-table. One point having stuck through the carpet into the floor, there they stood--erect. The invisible one was laughing again--giggling and snickering--and all six little hands were pointing at the scissors. A light was burning in Heléne's room, but the poor, sick girl was not now complaining. All was quiet there. The door opened, and the nurse came out, leaving it open behind her. The nurse went to her own room to look for something. She was a long time searching, but could not find it. Surely it was the scissors. All this time they were sticking by one point, in the carpet behind the toilet-table, and the six little hands were pointing at them. But the seeker apparently neither saw the hands nor heard the laughter. Johannes could not help her. He had to follow the hands. He still heard giggling and snickering, and saw the little hands go away--downstairs, through the hall, outside. Save for the shining of the stars--sharp and clear in the black sky--it was still very dark out-of-doors. On the terrace, there was visible to Johannes, a tall, dark figure. He could look at it better than at the sneering ones. He recognized it, instantly. It was He with whom he had traveled by sea. The dark figure now took the lead with slow, firm strides. Pluizer went next, but in between these two there was a third. It was quite impossible for Johannes to look at that third one. When he tried to look, he felt an indescribable agony. That third one! Yes, he certainly knew it well. It was _it_! Do you understand? The _It_ which lies in wait around the corner, outside the door, while you dream of being alone in a dark room, vainly trying to call for help. _It_, the most frightful object!--so frightful that no one can either look at or describe it. These three now passed down the dark avenue of the park until they came to the black pool lying deathly still and calmly expectant--shining beneath the starlight. There the three sat down and waited. It was still as still could be. Not a leaf rustled. The star-tips on the water were as sharply defined as points of light upon fathomless darkness. "Prettily planned; don't you think so?" said Pluizer. _It_ grumbled, sneeringly. Thereupon good Death, in a soft, restful voice, said: "Yet all is for the best!" Then again they sat very still. Johannes waited with them for he could not do otherwise. The sound of a door was heard in the still night air, and a white figure drew near, with light, swift steps. By the faint starlight Johannes saw the slender girl in a white night-dress, her black hair flowing loose. For an instant she stood still at the edge of the pool. Johannes could see her eyes shining with both terror and joy, like those of one pursued who sees escape. He tried to call or to move, but could do neither. Then the girl waded into the water with her arms extended as if to embrace it. She went cautiously, so that the water neither plashed nor spattered; only, the star-points were broken up and became long stripes, and serpentine lines of light. These, after the white garment could be seen no more, still continued--dancing up and down with the ripples. "We have her!" sneered Pluizer. "That remains to be seen," said good Death. * * * * * At once, Johannes found himself awake, in his own bed. He had been wakened by noises, cries of anguished voices, hasty runnings hither and thither through the hallways of the house, and by the opening and shutting of doors. "Heléne! Heléne!" rang through the halls, in the garden, in the park. "Heléne! Heléne!" Johannes dressed himself, not overhastily, for he knew it was too late. The members of the household were already gathered in the large vestibule. The poor nurse, with a startled face of deathly pallor, came in from the garden. "I cannot find her anywhere," she cried. "It is my fault--my fault!" She sat down and began to sob. "Come, dear," said the countess, in her tranquil voice, "do not reproach yourself. She may be back again in no time; or perhaps the servants will find her in the town." "No, no," shrieked the poor nurse. "She has long wanted to do it, and I knew it. I never left her door unfastened. But this time I only thought to be gone two seconds. She had knotted a tape into a tangle, and I wanted to get my scissors. But I could not find them ... and then.... O God! How could I be so stupid! I can never forgive myself. Oh, my God, my God!" Could not Johannes have run quickly to the pool, and told what he knew? No, for he also knew, quite as surely, that it was too late. And before he could have done it, the men came to say she had been found. He saw her borne into the house, wrapped in a checked bed-cover. And when he saw them making vain endeavors to resuscitate her he remarked that he feared it would do no good. And he added, "Indeed, I don't fear--but I hope so." "For her sake," said the countess. "Surely for her sake," repeated Johannes, in some surprise. Van Lieverlee had not appeared. But when the corpse of the beautiful girl had been placed upon her death-bed, her slender hands crossed upon her breast, her hair--still moist--laid in heavy braids about the delicate, sallow little face, the dark lashes nearly closed over the sightless eyes, white lilies and snowdrops all around, then Van Lieverlee came to see. "Look," said he to Johannes, "this is very pretty. I would not have cared to see her taken from the water. A drowned person is nearly always an ugly spectacle. Even the most beautiful girl becomes repulsive and clownlike when being dragged out of the water by leg or arm, with face and hair all duck-weed and mud. But _this_ is worth while. Mind, Johannes, genuine artists are always lucky. They come across the beautiful, everywhere. Such an event as this is, for a poet, a rare bit of good luck." * * * * * The next day he was deep in the making of poetry. But Johannes was in a restless, introverted mood, and could find no words for what distressed him. VIII A few days later, the two guests were sitting with their hostess at the afternoon-tea table. "Is it not a frightful thought," said Countess Dolores, "that the poor girl cannot yet have rest, but must do penance for her sinful deed?" "I cannot believe it," said Johannes. "But yet it was a sin." "I would certainly forgive her." "By which we perceive, Dolores," broke in Van Lieverlee, "that Johannes is much more kind-hearted than his beloved Lord." "But why, Johannes, can you not assure us about that of which I have so often asked?" said the countess again. "Can you not put yourself into communication with her?" "No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes. "But your Mahatma, Johannes!" said Van Lieverlee. "He can do it all right. It is child's play for him." "Of whom are you speaking?" asked the hostess, looking with quickened interest at Van Lieverlee. "Of his Mahatma. Has he never told you about his Mahatma?" "Not a word," said the countess, a little pettishly, while Johannes maintained a mortified silence. "Well, Johannes knows a sage--a Yogi--a great Magician. He saw him come ashore from over the North Sea--which phenomenon might be termed levitation--and this Magician traveled with him in disguise." "But, Johannes, why have you never told me that? It was not kind of you. You knew how much I have longed for the advice of such a person." Johannes knew very little to tell. That question exactly concerned what was most perplexing and distressing to him in this situation. Something there was that always restrained him from speaking of Markus--yes, even the thought of him was baffling. And yet how much he longed for him! But he felt that that longing was opposed to the other longings which held him where he was. "I believe," he said at last, timidly, "that he does not like it when I talk about him." "Of course," said Van Lieverlee, "but only in the case of the uninitiated--the common herd." "Do you count me in with them?" asked his hostess in her most engaging manner. "No, oo!" protested Johannes, with great earnestness. "But neither do I know where he is." "He well knows, however, where _we_ are," said Van Lieverlee, "and if we desire to see him, he will come to us." "He surely will not come here," said Johannes. "Why not?" Johannes could not explain why, but the countess said: "Then we will go to Holland and have him come to our club." That gave Johannes a thrill of joy. But ah! he realized at the same time how cold and unresponsive he had become to the _beautiful_ which had brought him thither. The two children were indeed just as captivating, but they did not give him the same happiness as before. And he began gradually to dislike Van Lieverlee. * * * * * In Holland, Countess Dolores dwelt in a villa between a large town and the ocean. And when Johannes was there again, and, though knowing better, was expecting to re-see his beloved dunes, then, for the first time, he felt convinced that Pan was indeed dead, and Windekind's kingdom at an end. Civilization had conquered the dunes. Long, straight, barren streets led out to them, and house after house, all exactly alike--as tedious as they were ugly--lined the comfortless way. Sand drifted through the dreary, brick-paved streets, and shavings, bits of tin, and great pieces of tattered wall-paper were strewn about the intervening spaces. Buildings were being put up everywhere. Of the beauty and mystery of the dunes there was nothing left--only dismal, dust-littered heaps of sand. The ocean also was spoiled for Johannes, for here there were great crowds of people, come for the sake of society, or else for the music. And even when they were gone there still remained the ugly buildings they had erected. Countess Dolores seemed indeed to share Johannes' aversion and disappointment. Not so Van Lieverlee. Here he was in his element--dressing himself most gorgeously, making visits, and attending the principal clubs, restaurants, and concerts. "Romance is dead, my friend," said he. "You must have _life_--Life with a capital letter. Life is Passion. Art is Passion. Life is Art--rude, real life--one day gloriously luxurious, the next day coarse and loathsome. You must not dream of the past, Johannes, but live in the present. And you must experience everything, take a part in and enjoy everything, and despise everything. You must lead life by the nose--seize it by the throat and force it to do your bidding. Get tipsy with life--spew it out of your mouth--strike it flat to earth--sling it at the clouds--play upon it as upon a violin--stick it in your buttonhole, like a gardenia--roll with it in the gutter, and consort with it in orgies of supremest passion. Study it in its hideous nakedness and vileness, and subjugate it to your dearest dreams of blood and gold." This oration was delivered in the evening after Van Lieverlee had dined with his friends. Later, Johannes observed that Van Lieverlee liked best to study the hideous phases of life from a safe distance, and to choose for himself the easy and pleasant ones. Visitors from very respectable circles came to Dolores' villa; and already, at the receptions preceding the seances of the Pleiades, Johannes had met the members of that "ideal community of ideals in common." There were, of course, besides the countess and Van Lieverlee, only five others; and when Johannes hesitated to add to this number of seven, he was assured that the Constellation was composed of eight visible stars, besides a great many others not visible to the naked eye. The leader was a General with a gold-embroidered collar and a grey, closely-cut beard. He had a powerful, commanding voice, and spoke with great respect of the present dynasty. Johannes wondered that he could think of anything other than cannon and battles; but it appeared that he had a very gentle heart, and was extraordinarily curious concerning the immaterial and the life on the other side of the grave. He even seemed to be conscious that his blood-thirsty trade did not tally with his philosophical researches, and therefore preferred that no one should know he belonged to this ideal community--a weakness common to all the members of the Pleiades. Then there were a senator and his wife--both of them very courtly and fashionable persons. The husband had exquisitely cut grey hair, and a handsome white beard, small hands, and thin legs. The wife, who was an invalid, had a languishing voice, a discontented face, and a manner that became earnest and excited as soon as things were mentioned of highest import to the society. Then there was Professor Bommeldoos--an impressive man, who certainly would have been chosen as leader had it not been known that at heart he scorned and condemned such researches. He took part only at the urgent request of the countess, to whose beauty he was not insensible, for as a representative of pure science she desired him to be present. Professor Bommeldoos was awfully learned--his Greek was as fluent as water, and he had, so to speak, every conceivable system of philosophy under his thumb. He was so much taken up with himself that he paid no attention to any reply he might have received to his discourse. He thought only of his own words, and if he did not receive instant assent, or if some one, with a bow, wished to differ from him, he turned himself about, and declared the hearer to be an ignoramus. These bad manners, however, were the exception among the well-bred Pleiades; but they were endured as being a necessary attribute of his great erudition. The seventh, and last, was an Honorable Lady, no longer young. She was of noble birth, fat, unattractive, and as ignorant as Professor Bommeldoos was learned. Every one of her observations was crushed by him, with cold disdain, under some obscure quotation or other. Whereupon the Honorable Lady, smiling insipidly, became silent, but with a face which seemed to say that she was by no means convinced. Johannes waited in great suspense for the first seance, above all because of the possibility that Markus would perceive his longings, and, as Van Lieverlee surmised, suddenly appear. The members of the society gathered just as if they had no other thought than to make a casual evening visit. The Privy Counselor, who bore a threefold name, and whom therefore I shall call simply the Privy Counselor, chatted with the fat Honorable Lady about the climate on the Riviera, along which he had been traveling with his wife, for her health's sake, and whence he had brought her back home more ill than when she left. The General chatted on about the early shell-peas, while Van Lieverlee talked softly in French to the countess, to the silent distraction of Johannes. No one appeared to care to know the object of their meeting. But this dissimulation was rudely shaken by Professor Bommeldoos, who, having scarcely entered, burst out in his frightful voice: "Come, followers of Allan Kardec! Where is the keeper of the door--he who shall unlock for us that portal through which we may step from the kingdom of the three dimensions into that of the fourth dimension?" Thereupon he looked searchingly into the faces of those present. They smiled in a rather embarrassed way, and glanced at the General. After a good, thorough clearing of his throat, the General said: "If you refer to our medium, Professor, there is none yet; but we should--ah ... can--ah ... begin to form the circle, in order to prepare ourselves, in some degree, for...." During oppressive silence, a round, marble-topped table was drawn by the gentlemen into the middle of the room. The assistance of the servants was not desired. "Look! See what a crack was made in it the other time," whispered the Honorable Lady, "when it rose completely up into the air, you know. We could not possibly hold it down." "Ought not the light to be put out?" asked the Professor, who had not yet attended a seance. "No, no," said the General. "A little lower--just a little lower." "Very well! H'm--h'm!" muttered Bommeldoos. "The Professor must not counteract with his irony," said the countess, pleasantly. "Mevrouw," declaimed the Professor, solemnly, "in the researches of a philosopher nothing is trifling, nothing is ridiculous. He stands for all phenomena like an unbroken mirror. Darwin had the contrabass played to an audience of sprouting garden-beans, in order to observe the effect of music on vegetation. And if you have read my book about Plotinus...." "Pardon, Professor, I have not." "What! Then the one about the material basis of ideas?" "Nor that." "Then you certainly must read my book upon Magic. Do not forget it, or I will not come the next time. Plotinus says...." Here followed a quotation in Greek that I will spare you, but which was listened to with respect. Then the Honorable Lady chimed in with: "Shall we not sing something? It puts one in such a good frame of mind." They all agreed with her, but no one wanted to begin. The General seated himself mettlesomely at the table, and spread out his hands on the top of it. With simulated unconcern, one after another followed him. At last, Johannes also was invited to take part. "Is the young gentleman a novice in psychical fields?" asked the Privy Counselor, condescendingly. "My friend Johannes ought to have strong mediumistic powers. I hope that those present will not object...." said the countess. "Not at all, not at all," said the General. "In this research we are all as ignorant as children." "I do not in the least agree with you, there, General," blustered Bommeldoos. "Have you read all the writings of Phillipus Aureolus Paracelsus Theophrastus Bombastus ab Hohenheim, born in 1493, died in 1541?" "I have not, Professor," replied the warrior, meekly. "Well, I have, and it was not child's work. Magic is a subdivision--and only a small subdivision--of philosophy. In my library I have a hundred and seventy-five volumes, all that subdivision--all of them on magical subjects, from Apollonius Tyannæus to Swedenborg, Hellenbach, and Du Prell. Do you call that childish ignorance?" "'Suffer the little children to come unto me,'" said the fat Honorable Lady, improving the opportunity to make a quotation, also. "I am not going to drive them away," said Bommeldoos, "if only they do not imagine they know as much as I do." Johannes did not at all imagine that, and, hands upon the marble top of the table, he waited very patiently for the manifestations. They sat a considerable time, however, without anything unusual having happened. Van Lieverlee said to the countess, softly yet quite distinctly: "Neither are those magical powers of Johannes very unusual." Then came the medium--a demure young woman of the middle class, who made deep courtesies to right and left, and appeared not to feel quite at home in this dignified society. She had scarcely seated herself at the table, before the wife of the Privy Counselor cried out in a shrill voice: "I feel it already. There it goes!" "Yes, a genuine shock," declared the Honorable Lady, in an excited tone. "Be calm," commanded the General. The table began turning and tilting, and now the questions were plied. The first spirit to put in an appearance gave general advice about reading the Bible, and about faithful attendance at church. This advice seemed to make a deep impression on the circle. Asked his name, the spirit replied, "Moses." This gave Professor Bommeldoos the opportunity to inquire if Moses himself had written the Pentateuch. "Yes": was the reply. But when the Professor queried him in Hebrew, Moses said that the medium needed a brief rest; and after that rest he left it to some one else to make reply. In succession followed Homer and Cicero, who both lamented that they had not known the true faith; and after them Napoleon, who evinced great sorrow for the amount of blood he had caused to be shed. One could see that this gave the General food for reflection. But, save that all these people urged, in the main, the practice of purity and piety, it was unanimously demonstrated that Johannes and the countess were the ones from whose co-operation the greatest results were to be expected. They would have to study up these matters, and apply themselves to automatic writing. Then Johannes had to sit beside the countess and hold her hand, and thus, together, write down the communications of the spirits. This was a bitter-sweet experience for Johannes. Would Markus come now? But Markus did not come, nor any news of poor Heléne, nor of her father. Yet a spirit disclosed itself who treated this ideal society in a very impolite, bearish manner. He called himself Thomas, and would not reply when Bommeldoos asked him if he was Thomas the Apostle, or Thomas Aquinas, or Thomas à Kempis, or Thomas Morus. "Do you know us?" asked the Privy Counselor. "Yes, you are heathen and malefactors." "Will you help us?" "Confess, pray, and do penance," said Thomas. "Will you tell us something of the hereafter?" asked Countess Dolores, paling somewhat. "Hell, if you go on this way," said Thomas. "Then what must I do?" asked Dolores, almost trembling. "Be converted," was the reply. "That is all well and good," said Bommeldoos, "but I know at least twelve religions, and twice as many systems of philosophy. To which of them must we be converted?" "Be still, you heretic," was the parting shot. Such treatment as that was a bit too much for the learned Professor, and he declared he had had enough of it, and could better employ his time. The society was of one mind--that the manifestations this evening had not been propitious. The medium ascribed this to her own indisposition. She had suffered the entire day with a headache, and, moreover, there were--she was certain of it--unfavorable influences present. Saying this, she cast a reproachful glance at the Professor. "Oh, it was much more lively the last time," said the Honorable Lady. "Was it not truly extraordinary, General?" "Phenomena cannot be forced," replied the General. "One has to practise patience. We would better stop, for the present." So the session ended, and after the medium, with many obsequious airs, had taken her leave, they partook of a delicious supper. Johannes retained his place beside the hostess, and the remembrance of the soft, warm hand that he had been able to hold in his own for so long a time made him very happy. He was not disappointed. Oh, no, he was elated--his excellent friend was so nice, so good, and so kind to him. A new Dutch waitress in black and wearing a snow-white cap with long strings was in attendance. Johannes paid no attention to her, but noticed that Van Lieverlee looked at her repeatedly. "Did you not think it a remarkable evening?" asked the countess, after the guests were gone and they were alone together. "I thought it splendid," replied Johannes, with sincerity. "They called it a failure," said the countess, "but it impressed me quite otherwise. I feel greatly moved." "I too," said Johannes. "Do you? That makes me happy. So you, also, feel that we need to be converted?" "I do not think that," said Johannes, "but you have been so good to me." Countess Dolores made no reply, but she smiled and pressed his hand kindly. Johannes retained her hand, while he looked into her eyes with passionate devotion. The waitress had been standing at the buffet, placing silver in the drawer. At this moment she turned round, and when Johannes in some confusion looked at her to see if she had paid any attention to his all-too-tender airs and words, he suddenly found himself gazing into a pair of well-known, light-grey eyes. They were Marjon's eyes, and they wore a look of unutterable anguish and sorrow. It seemed to Johannes as if his heart had stopped beating. He sat like one paralyzed, until his friend's hand slipped from his clasp. He appeared to wish to rise--to say something.... But Marjon put her finger to her lips, and went quietly on with her work. IX Among the visitors at Villa Dolores was a Roman prelate--a friend of Dolores' deceased husband. He was heavy of build and always cheerful, and never talked on religious subjects. Sometimes he came sociably, as a table guest, and besides a fund of anecdotes he also had much to say that was instructive, to which Johannes listened eagerly. He was a far more amiable person than Dominie Kraalboom, and Johannes liked him much better. He understood all about flowers and animals, about poetry, paintings, and music; and of special interest were his observations on beautiful Italy and holy Rome, where he had traveled and studied. Of course he did not belong to the Pleiades; and if by rare exception the circle was referred to in his presence, he, being both cautious and courteous, remained silent. Yet, after that first meeting of which I have told you in the preceding chapter, Johannes observed that he came oftener than before, and also at unconventional hours; and when Johannes came into the room he noticed that the conversation between the countess and the priest was suddenly broken off. He saw, also, that his hostess had more color in her cheeks, as if she had been speaking of weighty matters. "Your Mahatma does not come," said Dolores once, when, after such a time as this, the priest had just taken his leave. "He has turned his back upon us." "Yes, Mevrouw," Johannes was forced to admit. "I think myself very fortunate in having found a wise man who can help me." "Do you mean Father Canisius?" "Yes. Do you know what he says? That we are on a dangerous road in the pursuit of our object. It is all the work of the devil, he declares. And everything he says agrees with what we heard that evening. Would you not like to have a chat with him?" But Johannes hesitated. He had not yet spoken to Marjon, and was hoping to hear from her something concerning his brother. Marjon evaded him, and he had not found an opportunity to meet her alone. Every morning he went to his room with a beating heart, hoping to find her there busied in putting it to rights; but generally it was already in order, and he found merely the traces of her care: his clothing brushed and folded, his linen looked over and nicely placed in the linen-press, and fresh flowers in the little vase on his table. He observed everything, and was deeply touched by it. But she seemed careful to be always in company with the other servants, and to bear herself as stiffly and coldly as the most pert, demure, and well-trained chambermaid possibly could. Not a word nor a look nor a sign betrayed her acquaintance with Johannes; and he often heard the countess declare to her visitors that she had never before found so quickly a good Dutch servant. Neither had Van Lieverlee recognized her, but was simply struck with her peculiar, somewhat alien manner, which led him to ask the lady of the house if she knew the origin of the girl. "No," said the countess; "she was recommended to me by an old friend, and apparently she deserves all that was said of her." * * * * * But Johannes' yearning for Markus grew stronger every day. He both dreaded and longed for his coming, and he wished that in some way he might be delivered from his uncertainty. Therefore he was ever on the alert to seize an opportunity for speaking with Marjon alone. One evening he detained her in the hall under the pretense of inquiring about his shoes. "Where did you leave Keesje?" he asked in a low voice. "You know very well," replied Marjon, curtly, and in the same low tone. Johannes did indeed know, and for that very reason he had asked the question. "Yes, but where is he who has Keesje?" "I do not know; and even if I did, I would not tell you. He knows his time." At that moment Countess Dolores passed by. "Johannes," said she, "I am having a talk with Father Canisius. If you wish you may come, too." Johannes questioned Marjon with a look; but there fell before her eyes that impenetrable veil which always completely hid her inmost self from every stranger. Father Canisius was in the parlor, seated in a low chair. His black soutane fitted tightly over his robust body, and his heavy feet in their buckled shoes were planted wide apart. He was polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief, and as Johannes entered the room he put them quickly in place, and turned his large eyes, full of interest, toward the door. When Johannes came forward he took his hand in a kindly way and drew him nearer. Johannes looked into the broad, smooth-shaven face with its flat nose and sagacious eyes. "Have you never had good guidance, my boy? Without it life is difficult and dangerous." "I have indeed had good guidance, Mijnheer," said Johannes, "but I have more than once preferred to go my own way; and then I disregarded my guidance." "But was it _good_ guidance?" asked the priest. "I had a good father; later, I found a dear, good friend. But I left them both." "Why did you do that? Were you not satisfied with what they taught you? What was it that took you from them?" Johannes hesitated. "Were they too strict?" Johannes shook his head. "Then what was lacking that you found elsewhere but not with them?" "I do not know, Mijnheer, what to call it. It is not pleasure, for I am willing to endure much suffering. And yet again it is the most glorious thing I know. I think it is what is meant by 'the beautiful.'" On saying this, he bethought himself that it was not merely "the beautiful" for which he had left his father, and that the emotion which had led him away from Markus, and which he had felt for the two little girls, might indeed be called love. "Perhaps it is also called love," said he. Father Canisius considered a moment, and throwing a glance at the countess, he said: "Then did you not find the love of that good father and the good friend enough for you?" "Oh, yes, yes," said Johannes, with spirit. "But it was from them I had learned that I ought to follow what seemed to me, in all sincerity, the most beautiful, and to do what I truly thought best." The priest dropped Johannes' hand, and pressed his own fleshy palms together, while he slowly and sorrowfully shook his great head, gave a deep sigh, and continued to look at Countess Dolores with a very serious face. "Poor boy!" said he then. "Poor, poor boy!" Then, lifting his head and looking Johannes straight in the eyes, he said: "No, Johannes, they were not good guides. I do not know them, and I shall not judge them, but I assure you positively that with such teaching, such guidance, you are bound to be lost unless granted extraordinary grace." A long silence ensued. Johannes was touched, and even startled. "What do you mean?" he finally stammered with trembling lips. "Listen, Johannes," said Countess Dolores. "Father Canisius is very wise--a man of large experience in life." "Do you believe in God, Johannes?" asked the priest. "I know that I have a Father who understands me," said Johannes, slowly. "Do you mean a heavenly Father? Very well; so far, so good. But you must have observed also that there is an evil one--Satan--who goes about deceiving us." "Yes," said Johannes, promptly, thinking of his many disappointments. "That is so. I have observed it." "Well, then, Satan is always lying in wait for us, like a wolf lurking near the sheep. One who trusts only in his own powers and his own opinion is like a sheep that strays from the fold. The wolf surely waits his opportunity, and, unless God perform a miracle, that sheep is lost." Johannes felt the fear strike to his heart, and he could not speak. "We first notice the approach of this wolf by a terrible sensation. That is God's warning to us. That feeling is doubt. Have you ever known what it was to doubt, Johannes?" Johannes, with clenched fists and compressed lips, nodded in quick and utter dismay. Yes, yes, _yes_! He had known what it was to doubt. "I thought so," said Father Canisius, calmly. "It is a fearful feeling, is it not?" Raising his voice, he proceeded: "It is like the sound of howling wolves in the distance--to the wandering sheep. Let it not be in vain that you are warned, Johannes." After a pause he continued: "Doubt itself is a sin. He who doubts is on an inclined plane that slopes toward a fall. Have you ever heard of the hideous octopus, Johannes--that soft sea-monster with the huge eyes, and eight long arms full of suckers which, one by one, he winds around the limbs of a swimmer, before dragging him down to the deeps? You have? Well, Satan is such an octopus. Unnoticed, he reaches out his long arms, and twines them about your limbs--holding them fast with his suckers until he can stab his sharp beak into your heart. Doubt is not only a warning but positive proof that Satan has already gripped you. It is the beginning of his power. The end is everlasting pain and damnation." Johannes raised his head and looked at the priest, who was watching the effect of his words. In spite of his distress there was suddenly aroused in Johannes a feeling of resistance. He felt that an effort was being made to frighten him; and even if he was but a stripling he would not allow that. "My Father does not condemn those who err in good faith," said he. Father Canisius observed that by bearing on too hard he had awakened a rebellious spirit. He therefore became more cautious, and resumed gently: "Certainly, Johannes. God is infinitely good and merciful. But have you not remarked that there is a justice from which you cannot escape? And do you believe that one who has been led astray can plead, 'I am not guilty, for I was deceived'? No, Johannes, you take this matter too lightly. Punishment attends sin. That is God's inexorable law. And only if He had failed to warn us--only if He had not accurately revealed to us His will, could you call that cruel and unjust. But we _are_ warned--_are_ instructed--and may follow good guidance. If then we continue to stray, it is our own fault and we must not complain." "You mean the Bible, do you not, Mijnheer?" "The Bible and the Church," said the Father, not pleased at the tone of this question. "I very well comprehend, my boy, that you, with your poetic temperament and your craving for the beautiful, have not found peace in the cold, barren, and barbarous creed of Protestantism. But the Church gives you everything--beauty, warmth, love, and exalted poetry. In the Church alone can you find peace and perfect security. You know, however, do you not, that the flock has need of a Shepherd? And you know also who that Shepherd is?" "Do you mean the Pope?" "I mean Christ, Johannes--our Redeemer, of whom the Pope is merely a human representative. Do you know this Shepherd? Do you not know Jesus Christ?" "No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes, in all simplicity, "I do not know him at all." "I thought as much; and that is why I said to you, 'Poor boy.' But if you wish to learn to know him, I will gladly help you. Do you wish me to?" "Why not, Mijnheer?" said Johannes. "Very well. Begin, then, by accompanying the countess to the church she has promised me to attend--Have you, indeed, arranged to go?" "Yes, Father," replied the countess. "Oh, I am so happy that you take such an interest in us! Johannes will surely always be grateful to you." Father Canisius pressed very cordially the hands of both of his new disciples, and, with an expression of calm satisfaction on his face, he took his leave. The children came in, and nothing further was said that day between Johannes and his friend concerning the matter; but the countess was much more animated than usual, and wonderfully kind toward Johannes. She even kissed him again when they said good-night, as once before she had done --when with her children. * * * * * Johannes could not sleep. He was full of anxiety, and in a state of high nervous tension. When the house grew still, and the lonely, mysterious night had come, came also fear and doubt and faint-heartedness. He doubted that he doubted, and feared the doubt of the doubt. He heard the howling of the wolf that lay in wait for the wandering sheep; he felt the slippery, slimy, crawling grasp of those terrible arms, that unnoticed, had fastened their suckers everywhere to his limbs; he saw the great yellow eyes of the octopus, with the narrow, slit-shaped pupil; and he felt the mouth searching and feeling about his body for his heart, that it might stab it with the sharp, parrot-like beak. With chattering teeth he lay wide awake between the sheets--shivering and shaking, while the perspiration poured from him. Then he heard a faint, creaking sound on the stairs, followed by a light footfall at the doorway. His door was opened, and a slim, dark form came cautiously up to the bed. He felt a soft, warm hand on his clammy forehead, and heard Marjon's voice whispering: "You must be faithful, Jo, and not let them make you afraid. The Father likes brave and loyal children." "Yes, Marjon," said Johannes; and the shivering ceased, while a gentle warmth stole over and through his entire body. He dropped asleep so soon that he did not notice when she left the room. X "Jump out!" cried Wistik, excitedly, swinging his little red cap. "Come on--jump!" Johannes saw no way of doing so. The window was high and quite too small. Perhaps by climbing still higher he might find a way out. A flight of stairs, and another garret. Still another narrow passage, and another stairway. Then he caught another glimpse of Wistik, astride a large eagle. "Come on, Johannes!" cried he. "You must dare to--then nothing can happen." Johannes was ready to venture, but he could not do it. The little window was again out of reach. Back again. Empty garrets, steep stairs--stairs without end. And there was the octopus! He knew it. Again and again he saw one of the long arms with its hundreds of suckers. Sometimes one of them lay stretched along the garret floor, so that he had to step over it. Sometimes one meandered over the stairs that Johannes was obliged to mount. The whole house was full of them. And out-of-doors the sun was shining, and the blue air was clear and bright. Wistik was circling around the house, seated on the great eagle--the very same eagle they had come across before, in Phrygia. Out-of-doors also rang the voice of Marjon. Hark! She was singing. She, too, was in the open air. She seemed to have made a little song, herself--words and melody--for Johannes had never before heard either of them. "Nightly there come to me, White as the snow, Wings that I know to be Strange, here below. "Up into ether blue, Pure and so high, Mounting on pinions true, Singing, I fly. "Sea-gull like then I soar-- Not light more swift-- So near to Heaven's door To rock and drift!" Alas! Johannes could not yet do that. He had no wings. He did, indeed, see rays of light at times, and here and there a bit of blue sky. But he could not get to it--he could not get out! And on he went again--upstairs, downstairs, through doorways, halls, and great garrets. And the terrible arms lay everywhere. Again Marjon sang: "Marvelous, matchless blue I cleave in flight. The spheres are not so fleet As my winged feet. "World after world speed by Under my hand, New ones I ever espy, Countless as sand. "Blue of the skies! Blue of the deep! Now make me wise--No more to weep." Johannes also heard the blue calling him; but what the magic word was he could not guess. He was on his knees now, before a small, garret window through which he could barely thrust his arm. Behind him he could hear a shuffling and sliding. It was the long arm again! "It's a shame!" said Wistik again, his little face red with anger, "the way they have maligned me! I ought to be hail-fellow with the Evil One for not letting you be. What a rascal he is! Do you want to be rid of me, Johannes?" "No, Wistik. I believe that you are good even if you have often disappointed me and made me very restless. You have shown me so much that is beautiful. But why do you not help me now? If you call me you ought to help me. "No," said Wistik; "you must help yourself. You must act, you understand? Act! You know that _It_ is behind you, do you not?" "Yes, yes!" shrieked Johannes. "But, boy, do not shriek at me! Shriek at _It_. It is much more afraid of you than you are of It. Try!" That was an idea. Johannes set his teeth, clenched his fists, turned round and shouted: "Out, I say! Out with you--you ugly, miserable wretch!" I even believe he used a swear-word. But one ought to forgive him, because it was from sudden excitement. When he saw that the long arms shriveled and drew away, and that it grew still in the house--when he felt his distress abating and saw the sunlight burst out, revealing a spacious deep-blue sky--then his anger calmed down, and he felt rather ashamed of having been so vehement. "That is good!" said Wistik. "But do not be unmannerly--do not scold. That is hateful. But nevertheless, act, and learn compassion." Johannes was now no longer afraid; he shouted for joy. Yes, he was bathed in tears of thankfulness and relief. Oh, the glorious blue sky! "Now you know it, once for all," said Wistik. Marjon's voice again in song. But this time very different--the air of one of her old songs merely hummed: a customary calling sound--a soft suppressed little tune. And thereupon followed a "tap, tap, tap," at his chamber door, to tell him that it was half-past eight and time to get up. * * * * * Fresh energy, a feeling of high spirits and courage, filled Johannes that day. At last he was going to act--to do something to end his difficulties. First, he sought an opportunity to speak with Van Lieverlee. He went to brave him in his own rooms where he had never yet been. There he saw a confused medley of dissimilar things: some rare old pieces of furniture, and oriental rugs; a large collection of pipes and weapons; a few modern books; on the wall some picture-studies of which Johannes could not glean the meaning; some French posters picturing frivolous girls. With the same glance he saw mediæval prints of saints in ecstasy, and plaster casts of wanton women, and the heads of emaciated monks. There were images of Christ in hideous nakedness, and lithographs and casts so blood-curdling, crazy, and bizarre that they made Johannes think of his most frightful dreams. "What are you here for?" asked Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest who, with an empty pipe in his mouth and a face full of displeasure, lay stretched out languidly on the floor. "I have come to ask something," said Johannes, not exactly knowing how to begin. "Not in the mood for it," drawled Van Lieverlee. The day before, Johannes would have wilted. Not so to-day. He seated himself, and thought of what Wistik had said--"Act!" "I will not wait any longer," he began again. "I have waited too long already." "The big priest has had you in hand, has he not?" said Van Lieverlee, with a little more interest. "Yes," replied Johannes; "did you know it? What do you think of him?" Van Lieverlee gaped, nodded, and said: "A knowing one! Just let him alone. Biceps! you know--biceps! All physique and intellectuality. Representative of his entire organization. Can't help respecting it, Johannes. How those fellows can thunder at the masses! One can't help taking off his hat to them. The whole lot of the Reformed aren't in it with them! Theirs is only half-work; they are irresolute in everything they give or take; _krita-krita_, as we say in Sanscrit. Whether you do good or do ill, aways do it wholly, not by halves; otherwise you yourself become the dupe. If you would keep the people down, hold them down completely. To establish a church, and at the same time talk of liberty of conscience, as do the Protestants--that is stuff and nonsense --nothing comes of it. You may see that from the results. Every dozen Protestants have their own church with its own dogmas, with its own little faith which alone can save, and with its little coterie of the elect! No, compared with them the Roman Church is at least a respectable piece of work--a formidable concern." "Do you believe in it?" asked Johannes. Van Lieverlee shrugged his shoulders. "I shall have to think it over a while longer. If I think it agreeable to believe in it, then I shall do so. But it will be in the genuine old Church, with Adam and Eve, and the sun which circles around the earth; not in that modernized, up-to-date Church, altered according to the advancement of science--with electric light and the doctrine of heredity. How disgusting! No, I must have the church of Dante, with a real hell full of fire and brimstone, right here under our earth, and Galileo inside of it." "But I did not come to inquire about that," said Johannes, sticking to his point. "I am not content, and you ought to help me. What I have heard in the Pleiades, and from Father Canisius does not satisfy me. I am sure, also, that it is not in this way I shall find my friend again; and now I am determined to find him." "Where, then, do you wish to look for him?" "I believe," said Johannes, "that if he is to be found anywhere, it is among the poor--the laborers." "Ah! Would you take part in the labor agitation? Well, you can do so, but I do not agree to go with you. You know what I think about that. Socialism has got to come, but I am not going to concern myself with it. It smells too much of the proletariat. I am very glad of the birth of a new society, but a birth is always an unsavory incident. I leave that to the midwife. I'll wait until the infant is thoroughly washed and tidy before making its acquaintance." "But I wish to look for my friend." Van Lieverlee stood up and stretched himself. "You bore me," said he, "with that eternal chatter about your friend." "Act!" thought Johannes, and he went on: "You promised to show me the way to what I am seeking, and to give an explanation of my experiences. But I know no more than I knew before." "Your own fault, my friend. Result of pride and self-seeking. Why have you had so little to do with me? You kept yourself with those two little girls. Did they enlighten you?" "Quite as much as you did," replied Johannes. Van Lieverlee looked up in surprise. That was insubordination--open resistance. However, he thought it better to take no notice, so he said: "But since you will join the labor movement, then you must find out for yourself. I won't hold you back. Go, then, and look for your Mahatma!" "But how am I to begin? You have so many friends--do you know some one who can help me?" Van Lieverlee thought about it while looking steadily at Johannes. Then he said, deliberately: "Very well. I know of one who is in the middle of it. Would you like to go to him?" "Yes, at once, if you please." "Good," said Van Lieverlee. Together they set out. The friend referred to was the editor of a journal--a Doctor of Laws. Felbeck was his name. His office was far from luxurious in appearance. The steps were worn, and the door-mat was trodden to shreds. It was a dreary and sombre place. Large posters and caricatures were pasted on the walls, and on the table, lay many pamphlets and papers. Also there were writing-desks, letter-boxes, and rush-bottomed chairs. Two clerks sat there writing, and a few men, with hats on and cigars in their mouths, were talking. There was a continual running to and fro of people--printers' devils, and men in slouch hats. Dr. Felbeck himself had a pale, thin face, square jaws, bristling hair, and a black goatee and moustache. His eyes were deep-set, and they looked at Johannes keenly, in a manner not fitted to put him into a restful and confiding state of mind. "This young person," said Van Lieverlee, "wishes, as you express it, to turn his back upon his bourgeois status, and to swell the ranks of the struggling proletariat. Is that what you call it?" "Well!" said Dr. Felbeck. "He need not be ashamed of it, and you might follow his example, Van Lieverlee." "Who knows what I may yet do," said Van Lieverlee, "when the proletariat shall have learned to wash itself?" "What!" said Felbeck. "Would you, a poet, have washed and combed proletarians, with collars and silk hats? No, my friend; with their vile and callous fists they will smash your refined and coddled civilization, like an _etagère_ of bric-à-brac in a parlor!" Dr. Felbeck vented his feelings in a blow at the imaginary _etagère_. The attention of a clerk on the other side of the room was arrested, and he stopped his work. Van Lieverlee, too, looked somewhat interested. "A revolution appeals to me," said Van Lieverlee. "With barricades, and fellows on them with red flags, straggling hair, and bloodshot eyes. That isn't bad. But you people of the Society of the Future!--Heaven preserve us from that tedious and kill-joy crowd! I would ten times over prefer an obese, over-rich banker with his jeweled rings, who, waxing fat through the misfortunes of simpletons, builds a villa in Corfu, to your future citizen." "You do not at all understand it yet," said Felbeck, with a slighting laugh. "You are bound to have such notions because you belong to the bourgeois class of which you are an efflorescence. You are obliged to talk like a bourgeois, and versify like one. You cannot do otherwise. You cannot possibly comprehend the proletarian civilization of the future. It is to be evolved from the proletarian class to which we belong, and with which your young friend wishes to connect himself, as I perceive with pleasure." The clerk across the room came nearer, to listen to the speech of his chief. He was an under-sized young man whose pomaded black hair was parted in the middle. He had a crooked nose straddled by eye-glasses, and thick lips from between which dangled a cigar--even while he spoke. He wore a well-fitting suit, and pointed shoes with gaiters. "May I introduce myself," said he. "I am Kaas--fellow-partner Isadore Kaas." "Pleased to meet you," said Van Lieverlee. And Johannes also received a handshake. "Have you come to register yourself?" the partner asked. "In what?" asked Johannes, who had not yet exactly gotten the idea of things. "In the proletarian class?" "As a member of the party," said Kaas. "What does that imply?" asked Johannes, hesitating. "It implies," said Felbeck, "that you renounce the privileges of the class to which you are native, and that you range yourself, under the red flag, in the ranks of the International Workingmen's Party--with the struggling proletariat--the party of the future." "Then what have I to do?" "Sign your name, make a small contribution, attend the meetings, read our paper, spread our doctrines, and vote for our candidates in the elections." "Nothing else?" asked Johannes. "Well, is not that enough?" "Did you not speak of privileges I must renounce?" "There, there!" said partner Kaas, "do not make too much of that, to begin with. Don't be frightened. For the present, nothing further is required of you." "Oh, I was not afraid," said Johannes, a trifle vexed that he should have been misunderstood. "I was even hoping that I might be able to do more." "So much the better! So much the better!" said Kaas, stepping hurriedly over to his desk again, and eagerly hunting for a pen. "That settles it. Your name, if you please." But Johannes was not, for the time being, in a very compliant mood. Since he had dared the octopus he had found that he had more than one string to his bow. "No, I came for something else. I have a dear friend who lives and works for the poor and oppressed. I am looking for him. I saw him last, at the great strike of the miners, in Germany. Since that time I have heard nothing from him, but I know, surely, that he is with the working people. Mijnheer van Lieverlee has told me that you were in the midst of the labor movement. Could you not help me?" "What's his name?" asked Dr. Felbeck. "They know him as Markus," replied Johannes, although it cost him an effort to speak the dear name in that place. "Markus?" repeated the gentleman, considering. "Markus only?" "Markus Vis," said Johannes, with yet more reluctance. "Oh! He!" exclaimed partner Kaas. "Markus Vis?" said Felbeck, turning round to the others in the office. "Is that--?" "Yes, yes!" interrupted Kaas, "the very same who caused that row at the Exchange." "Gee! That confounded anarchist!" cried one of the soft-hatted smokers. "Is he a friend of yours?" asked Dr. Felbeck, with a disdainful sniff. "Yes, Mijnheer, my best friend," said Johannes, firmly. "Well, young man, you consort with odd and dangerous friends. "Do you know where he is?" asked Johannes, quite undisturbed. "Not I," declared Felbeck, scornfully. "Do any of you happen to know?" "I rather think somewhere in the neighborhood of Bedlam," said another man. "Trommel," called Felbeck to a clerk who had kept on writing, "where does Vis hang out at present?" "Markus Vis?" said partner Trommel. "Well, for the nonce, at the office of an iron foundry. He has a job there." "That's a neat berth for him," remarked one of the smokers. "You'll see what a boot-licker he'll be after he puts on a collar." "What foundry is that?" asked Van Lieverlee. "In the 'de Ruiter,' of your uncle Mijnheer van Trigt," replied partner Trommel. "How long has he been there?" asked Van Lieverlee. "For two or three weeks past." "Is he a tall dark fellow with a beard, and curling hair, and a jumper?" "That is it--exactly!" said various voices. Van Lieverlee swung round, strode up to the window, threw back his head, pulled out his handkerchief, and snorted into it. The bystanders could hardly tell whether he was sneezing, or laughing, or indisposed. "Excuse me!" he cried out. "Something comical occurred to me." Then he snorted again, and one could plainly see that he was laughing. "A Mahatma!" they heard him murmur, in the middle of his laughing. "Oh! Oh! but that is good! A Mahatma!" Those present looked rather perplexed at this outburst, as if waiting for further explanation. "If I only had had that description earlier, Johannes," said Van Lieverlee, recovering from his fit of laughter, "we need not have annoyed these gentlemen. Your friend is in my uncle's office. I have seen him several times." "Then will you go there with me?" asked Johannes. His voice was still firm, but I assure you his eyes were full of tears. However, he controlled himself in the presence of those men and partners. "Of course, of course! Sometime!" said Van Lieverlee, in high glee; and he actually began laughing again. He made a pretense of trying to control this outburst, but such was his manner that Johannes would have liked to strike him straight in the face. He did not do it, however, but went down the steps with Van Lieverlee without having enrolled in the proletarian class. "Well, good-by!" said Van Lieverlee, when they were in the street, giving Johannes' hand an immoderate shake. "I must go to the Soos.[1] Sometime we will go to the foundry. I'll make some inquiries, first. We'll go sometime--of course--of course!" With his mouth still twisted in irony, and humming a song, he passed on, in affected indifference. That evening--alone--Johannes hunted for the foundry. But the office was closed and dark, and there was no one about to give him information. He found in his own little room a small bit of cheer--a vase of forget-me-nots, from Marjon. [1] Soos = Abbreviation of _Societeit_, or Club. XI "Wistik, dear," said Johannes, "let me hold your hand. You are such a good and true friend. I am not sorry any more that I slipped from under Windekind's mantle to listen to you." "One must not admire oneself--I have always said that," replied Wistik, "but it is very true that I am good, and do not deserve all those mean things said of me. And what is the truth may be acknowledged, even if it be called boasting. Neither bragging nor decrying, but the truth--that is my idea." Thereupon the little fellow nodded proudly, and set his cap on more firmly. They were sitting on a rocky coast. To the left the sun was shining brightly upon a steep wall of rose-red rocks. To the right was a gentle upward slope, where trees were growing, with delicate silver-grey foliage. In front of them lay the wide waters of the sea--almost motionless, but slightly stirring with the fresh wind, and sparkling in the light. There was nothing to be seen save red rocks, blue sky, and water. The blue, crystal-clear water lapped and gurgled and splashed about the hollows and chinks in the stone at their feet, and then disappeared in the clefts and caves, where the sea-weed and the coral were. How bright it was! How fresh and spacious! "I never see Windekind, now," said Johannes. "It is truly sad, for Father Pan's kingdom was most beautiful. But I am resigned, and I believe you when you say that still more beautiful things are to be found. Did I not once think the dunes the most beautiful of all, and fear I never should feel at home anywhere else? But now this strange land seems to me even greater, and I feel at home here also. Where are we, dear Wistik?" "What difference does it make?" said Wistik, who never willingly admitted he did not know a thing. "It does not matter," replied Johannes. "The main thing is that I know that I am I--Johannes, and that I see things good and clear; that yesterday I was at that office, and that I sought for Markus at the foundry. And I know too that I might now be seen lying asleep. But yet I am not dreaming, for I am wide awake--quite wide awake, and I remember everything." "Exactly," agreed Wistik. "Do you recollect what Markus said about remembering?" He paused a moment, and then went on in a tone that grew softer and more solemn. "Remembrance, Johannes, is truly a holy thing; for it makes the past--_present_. Now the future to it ... and then we should be...." "Where, Wistik?" "In that still autumn day, where the gold on the tree-tops never fades, and a branch never breaks. Do you remember?" asked Wistik, hardly above a whisper. Johannes nodded, in silence. After a while he said: "It is splendid, Wistik, that I still remember, even in the night, and stay awake and knowing things, even although my body is asleep in bed. I will not be dead and lie down like a log, forgetting everything, as some do in sleep. Neither will I dream all sorts of nonsense, as if every night I grew foolish. That is shameful. I will not do so." "Right, Johannes! No one wishes to be dead, and no one wishes to be foolish. And when human beings sleep they are dead, and when they dream they are foolish. None of that for me!" "I shall try to live in my sleep, and to be wise in my dreams," said Johannes. "But it is hard, and time flies so fast!" He gazed at his hands, his limbs, and his whole body. He had on his handsomest suit. In amazement, he asked: "What body is this I have on, Wistik? And how silly to wear clothes. What clothes are these?" "Do you not see? They are your own clothes." So it was. Johannes recalled them precisely. And he held in his hand one of Marjon's blue forget-me-nots. "I do not understand it, Wistik! That I have a dream-life--that I travel with you in the night, that I do understand. But how did my clothes get here? Do my clothes dream, too?" "Why not?" asked Wistik. Astonished, Johannes continued to meditate. The water swirled and splashed all about the hollows in the rocks. The exquisite warbling of a yellow-finch rang sweet and plaintive from between the clefts. "But if everything can dream, then everything must be alive--my trousers too, and my shoes." "Why not?" said Wistik again. "Just prove to me that they are not." The way to do that was not clear to Johannes. "Or perhaps," he resumed, "perhaps I make everything--rocks, sea, light, and clothing. One or the other; _I_ dream it and make it, or it dreams everything itself and makes itself." "It cannot be any other way," assented Wistik. "But then, I could make something else if I wished to." "I think so, too," said Wistik. "A violin? Could I make a violin, and then play on it?" "Just try it," said Wistik. Behold! There was the violin--all ready for him. Johannes took it, and passed the bow over the strings as if he had handled it all his life. The most glorious music came from it--as fine as any he had ever heard. "Oh, Wistik! Do you hear? Who would ever have thought that I could make such music!" "'Vraagal can do all that Vraagal wills,' said Pan." "Yes," said Johannes, musing an instant, and forgetting his violin, which forthwith vanished. "Pan also spoke of the real Devil, you remember. He said that I must ask you to show him to me." Wistik had drawn up his little knees and placed his arms about them, his long beard hanging down in front to his shins. Sitting thus, he threw a sidelong glance at Johannes, to see if he intended to do it. Then his entire little body began to tremble. "Shall we not take a little fly out over the ocean?" he asked. But Johannes was not to be diverted. "No, I want to see the real Devil." "Are you sure, Johannes?" "Yes," replied the latter. He felt himself a hero, now, after having defied the octopus. "Think well about it," said Wistik. "What does he look like?" "What do you think?" "I think," said Johannes, beginning to look stern and angry, "I think he looks like Marjon's sister." "Why?" asked Wistik. "Because I hate her! Because whatever I think beautiful she always spoils for me, and spoils it through the remembrance alone. She looks like Marjon, and she also looks like that dear friend about whom I am always thinking; and yet she is not the same--she is ugly and common. She kissed me once, and it has spoiled my life." "Wrong, Johannes! He does not look in the least like that," said Wistik. Suddenly, Johannes noticed that the bright light was growing dimmer, and that the great firm rocks began to quiver and shake as if seen through heated air, uneven glass, or flowing water. Then, all at once, he knew, without descrying it, through an inner feeling of nameless distress, that _It_ was sitting behind him. It! You know well, do you not, what it was? It--the same that sat by the pool when that poor young girl was drowned--It was sitting behind him, huge and deathly still. Sunlight, sea, and rocks--the whole beautiful land, grew hazy and vague. "He is here," whispered Wistik, "behind us. Bear up, Johannes! You yourself wanted it." "What shall I do?" asked Johannes, now very nervous and terrified. "Do not be afraid! For God's sake, do not be afraid! If you do you are lost." "Shall I cry to God, or to Jesus? Or cross myself?" "He cares not a bit for such things; he laughs at them; he knows all about them. He makes fun of prayers and the sign of the cross. The main thing is to keep on the alert, and not to be afraid. He will be very friendly, and show you all kinds of pretty and interesting sights, and he will try to make you sleepy and afraid. But you must not fear and must not forget. Above all, keep fast hold of Marjon's flower. And here ... look!" With his nervously trembling little fingers Wistik fumbled in the small satchel that always hung by a strap over his shoulder, and took from the jumbled lot of pebbles, scissors, lead-pencils, and dried plants, a little mirror on the frame of which his name was neatly engraved. Then in a voice shaken and nearly speechless with emotion, he said: "Hold that good and fast! It is your salvation. Go now, dear boy. Go!" And the good little fellow wept. "Are you not going with me?" asked Johannes, in agitation. "I am his greatest enemy," said Wistik; "he cannot endure the sight of me. But I will stay in the neighborhood. Call me once in a while, and I will answer you. Then you will know that you are safe...." "Welcome, Johannes!" said a gentle, friendly voice, and a soft warm hand clasped his own. "You are not embarrassed in my presence, I hope." Could that be the Evil One? A nice, polite person like that, with such taking manners, and such a caressing voice? Johannes looked round, in amazement, to the place where _It_ was. He could not distinguish clearly, nor look straight at the speaker, but he seemed to be an ordinary, modish gentleman, with a frank, smiling face--well dressed in a brown suit and a straw hat. "Would you not like to make acquaintance with me and my Museum?" continued the speaker. "It is an excellent collection--sure to please you. But what have you in your hand? Not a mirror, is it? Fie! You must throw it away. I have no patience with such mirrors. I abhor them! They foster only conceit." The soft hand essayed to take away the mirror, but Johannes held it fast, and said firmly: "I will keep the mirror." He had scarcely said this when there flitted across that smiling, honest-looking face a shade of indescribable malice. It was very brief, but plain enough to cause Johannes a shudder, and to convince him that truly the Evil One stood before him. But instantly the face became again most frank and winning, and he heard: "Very well, then, as you please. We will begin by making the acquaintance of my subjects--all of them friends, comrades, or relatives." Just then Johannes heard again the well-remembered whispering and giggling which he had heard while watching the little hands. On all sides, amid much rustling and shuffling, he heard breathing, coughing, and sniffling--all sorts of queer human sounds, as if the place was thronged with people. But still he could see nothing. "You fancied I was very different, did you not, Johannes? That I had horns and a tail? That idea is out of date. No one believes it now. Thank God we are forever above that foolish separation of good and evil. That is untenable Dualism. My kingdom is as good as the other." "What is your name?" asked Johannes. "They call me King Waan.[1] Yes, indeed! I am a king, if I do appear so humble. Besides, external pomp is out of fashion. I am a constitutional, bourgeois, democratic king. Here, Bangeling![2] Come here! This is my most trusty helper--my right hand, in fact." Johannes shuddered at the sight of Bangeling--a shrinking, stooping, pale, and loathsome youngster. His eyes were red-rimmed, and glanced shiftingly right and left--never straight in front. His lean knees knocked against each other, and every moment his rag-covered body twitched with terror, and he cried: "Oh, Heaven! Oh, God! Now you will catch it! It is too late! Too la-a-ate!" To hear and see this repeatedly, without becoming frightened oneself, was not easy; but Johannes pressed his flower close to his breast and cried: "Wistik!" "Ay, ay!" he heard his good little friend shout. But the voice sounded from above, and far away. And suddenly Johannes had a very distinct sensation of falling, fast as lightning, down fathomless depths, although everything around him remained the same. "Are we falling down below?" he asked. King Waan gave Johannes a falsely-sweet smile. "One should not ask such impolite questions when making a visit," said he. "Get away!" cried Johannes to Bangeling, who was now standing close beside them, twitching and whining. Then a throng of frightful figures pushed forward, trying to approach him, grinning, twisted, misformed faces--some with big purple noses, others with drooling lips--still others pale, and passive, with closed eyes, but with scornful muttering mouths. Johannes knew these figures well; he had often when a child seen them in his dreams. And doubtless you also have seen many of them in the night--just before the measles broke out, or after you have eaten too much pie for dinner. And you were very much afraid of them, were you not? Perhaps as much as formerly Johannes was. But this time he was not in the least afraid. When they came too near, he called out in a fierce voice: "Back!" Then they grew pale, and crumpled up like withered toadstools. "This one is Ginnegap!"[3] said the Devil, pointing out a girl-like being with open mouth, dull eyes, and a finger in each nasty nostril, who was constantly tittering. "Another excellent assistant of mine. Here are Labbekak[4] and Goedzak;[5] charming twins, compact of goodness and charity. Just look! They quiver and quake like jelly. They have no bones, and they never did any wrong. If they do not belong in heaven, who does?" "Of course they have no sense," said Johannes. "But here, then--this one--an old acquaintance of yours. Maybe you think he has no wits, either?" Who was it Johannes saw there? Pluizer, in truth--his old enemy Pluizer! But he lacked a good deal of looking so pert and fierce as formerly. Upon seeing Johannes he hid himself behind the back of a stout, dumpy demon. "A little to one side, Sleur!" said the king to the bulky devil. "Give Johannes a peep at his old friend." But Sleur did not budge. He was very sluggish. Pluizer called out: "Does Death know about it, Johannes--that you are already here?" "What is this place, really?" asked Johannes. "Hell? Is it here that Dante was?" "Dante?" asked the Devil. And all his retainers whispered and tittered and chattered: "Dante? Dante? Dante?" "Surely," resumed the king, "you must mean that nice place full of light where it is so hot and smells so bad; where sand melts; where rivers of blood are seething, and the boiling pitch is ever bubbling; where they scream and yell and curse and lament, and swear at one another." "Yes," said Johannes. "Dante told about that." "But, my little friend!" said the Devil, affably, "that is not here, as you can very well see. That is not my kingdom. That is the kingdom of another who, they say, is called Love. With me, no one suffers. I am not so cruel as that. I cause no one pain." "I know that well," said Johannes, "for so long as I have pain I am alive and am warned. Is it not so, Wistik?" "Yes!" cried the little fellow, his voice now sounding as if far in the distance--up above. "We are falling all the time!" said Johannes, in great alarm. "Do not think about it. Does it make you dizzy? I thought you were so level-headed. Just give this a look. This is my cabinet of curiosities." And before Johannes knew that he had entered anything he found himself in a very small, close room. It was exactly like a bathroom with low ceilings, and was brightly lighted. "You did not think to find it so well lighted here, _did_ you?" "Trick-light!" shouted Wistik, his voice coming faintly from above. "Look! Here lies an acquaintance of yours." And King Waan pointed to a straight white form that lay on the stone floor. It was Heléne; and Johannes saw that she was calmly sleeping. Two imps stood looking at her; one was Bangeling; the other, equally small and dirty, stood gnawing his nails. His head, with its misshapen ears, was much too big for him. He had on a barret-cap of aniline blue velvet, with russet ribbons, a pale-green blouse of Scotch plaid, and short trousers, as purple as spoiled berry-juice. "That is Degeneracy," said Waan. "These two brought her here; a deserving deed. We hope to keep her. Look! See how peacefully she sleeps." The sight of the pale, still sleeper, with her outspread black hair, made Johannes also feel drowsy. But he looked in his little mirror, holding his eyes open, hard, and called: "Heléne!" The long dark lashes were lifted just a little. "Pst! Not a word!" said the king. "Here we come to number two--a pretty and clever piece of work." By a little door, so low and narrow that Johannes had to wriggle his way through it, they entered the next place. They were in an extremely smart little church--a dolls' church. The walls were bare and white, and little candles were burning. In the pulpit stood a tiny little dominie, preaching fervidly, gesticulating with hand and head. "Dominie Kraalboom!" cried Johannes, in astonishment. "Who is he raving at?" "Look at him, Johannes!" said Waan. "Only do not think he is dead. In order to come here one does not have to wait till death. And do you not see at whom he is raving? Take a good look." "Reflectors!" exclaimed Johannes. In reality the little church was empty, but it was everywhere furnished with pretty little mirrors, and in each one of them was reflected the dominie's little face surrounded by a halo. "Those mirrors are of peculiar manufacture. I make much use of them. The imported article alone I cannot endure. Look! here is the counterpart." Another little church--just as smart and neat and light. But here there were many more candles, also flowers and images. The walls were gaudily painted with pictures, and Father Canisius stood in glittering, gold-embroidered garments, praying and mumbling before the altar. Johannes looked up at the stained-glass windows. It was as dark as pitch behind them. "What is outside there?" he asked. "Just let me look out." And he thought he could hear the snickering and giggling of the imps who were peering through the windows. "Keep away! Silence!" cried the king, sternly. "Wistik!" called Johannes. "Ay!" sounded the voice, now very fine, and far away. And they kept falling, falling. Through a long, narrow passage they went to the next number. It did not smell very fresh there, and Johannes soon noticed that this stale-smelling apartment corresponded with what they usually called at home "the best room." In the middle of the white-wood floor stood an overturned waste-water pail. A puddle of thick, offensive fluid lay trickling around it. "Under this," said King Waan, "sits one of the most remarkable specimens in my collection. It is a little creature having the habit of describing precisely everything it sees. His watchword is: '_Truth Above Everything_!' He could not have a finer one. I make very interesting experiments with him. Sometimes I put him here, sometimes there. Just now he is under this pail. Listen to him!" A light little voice came monotonously out from under the pail: "A rich, soft greyish violet shading off through brown into cream-white, clot-curdling stripe coagulations; long flittery-fluttery down-trickling welter-whirls filtering through pale-yellow toned-down dully shining topazy vaults; faint phlegmy greyish-green dozing off...." And thus the voice went on until Johannes began to get quite qualmish and drowsy. "Is not that nice? Lately, I had him in a cuspidor. You should have heard him then. Here is his label." And he pointed to a trim little tag on which was marked: _Division, Fine Arts. Naturalist, var. Word-Artist. Locality: Terra Firma of Europe. Rather rare._ "Is Van Lieverlee here, also?" asked Johannes. "To be sure! I have him a few centuries farther on, composing sonnets," said the Wicked One. "This is a very large place although you might not think so. I can show you only a small part of it." Then they came to a division called "Sciences," and the Devil said: "Look! That concerns you, Wisdom-Seeker!" And he had Johannes look through the crack of the door, into a little room brightly lighted, cram-full of books. Professor Bommeldoos was there, standing on his head. "Pluizer taught him that," said the Devil. "And do you see that clever contrivance he has made of mirrors and copper tubes? That is to look into his own brains with. He thinks to become still wiser." The professor was utterly absorbed in his intricate apparatus, and gazed and gazed, with all his might, into an odd sort of twisted tubing, the end of which was attached to the back part of his head. Johannes heard a low rushing and roaring, as if made by a gust of wind. "Silence!" cried the Devil, testily. But the roaring sound continued and grew louder. "What is that?" asked Johannes. "That is Death," said the Devil, spitefully. "He is called an ally of mine, but he often muddles up my affairs here, and he steals by the thousand the choicest specimens in my collection--especially the crack-brained." "Here they are all crack-brained," said Johannes. "Yes; but those you in the awake-life call that, he snatches away from me. Here we come to the division, "Happiness." This is the richest man in the world. Would you like a magnifying glass?" The pen wherein sat the richest man in the world was all of gold, but so small that Johannes could not possibly enter it. The richest man in the world had a large head, quite bare and bald, above a very small insignificant body. He moved slowly back and forth, like a caterpillar incasing himself; and out of his little lips there driveled golden threads with which he made a cocoon of himself. "Poor fellow!" said Johannes, shuddering. "Nonsense! Nonsense!" returned the Devil. "Here they are all happy. They know no better. I never torment as does the Other with his Love eternal. I have also here the classification 'War.' You would naturally think that these must be unhappy. But quite the contrary. In general, I am an enemy of war. I prefer peace, as you will presently see. But this is a pleasant 'War.' In fact, the people enjoy it. For that reason it belongs here." And now they came to a long row of very small pens in which was just such a bustle as one hears at night in a chicken-coop when the fowls are going to sleep. Over each little pen was: "_Religious War," "Party Strife," "Class Strife_," and as Johannes looked in through a small window, he saw a solitary little fellow, much excited and red in the face, who stood skirmishing in front of a mirror. The reflection of his own figure was so queer that it looked like someone's else. In the third pen Johannes saw Dr. Felbeck. With furious fists, the little fellow rushed up to the mirror again and again, and stamped and scolded and raved until the foam flew from his mouth. Then they came to a very long and diminishing little room that bore the words Love and Peace. "There!" said the Devil. "Now we can talk aloud. They are not easily wakened here. Snug and cozy, is it not? A section of it also is _Pure Living_, and _Piety_, and _Benevolence_." In the little ward stood many tiny beds, as in a hospital; and Johannes saw Labbekak and Goedzak in slovenly felt slippers, shuffling back and forth, distributing cups of warm tea and spoonfuls of a syrupy mixture. The beings in the little beds licked off the spoons, and fell asleep again. Outside, the demons yelled and screeched still louder, and the downward motion was so apparent that Johannes grew dizzy. "Here, also," said the Devil, "Death does me much harm." Johannes looked at him. He now appeared wholly different. His brown suit had disappeared, and his smooth supple body--as shiny as a snakeskin--was as iridescent as water stirred by dripping tar. His face, too, was far less affable. Hollow and grinning, it began to look like a death's head. "You are the real Death!" exclaimed Johannes. "The other is a good friend of mine. I have no more fear of him." The Devil laughed and reached out his hand toward Johannes' little flower. But Johannes caught it up close to his breast. The flower hung limp and seemed to be perishing. The little mirror shook like a leaf in his hand, so that he could scarcely hold it. "Wistik!" he cried. He listened, but could hear nothing. And now he seemed to be falling with whizzing speed. Johannes was greatly alarmed. The long ward with its rows of little beds grew ever longer, ever narrower. "Wistik! Marjon! Let me out! Let me out! Set me free!" "I have also a classification 'Freedom'," remarked the Devil, pointing out a mannikin who, busy with a long ribbon inscribed with the words "_Freedom and 'Justice_," kept winding it around his head, arms, and legs until he could not move a muscle. "No!" cried Johannes, banging with both hands--in which were still clutched his flower and mirror--at a hard, spotted door. This door was marked "_Sin and Crime_." "Look out!" said the Devil. "Do you not see what it says over it?" "I do not care what it says!" cried Johannes, pounding away. "Take care! For God's sake, take care!" shouted Bangeling. "Help! Wistik! Marjon! Markus! help!" cried Johannes, crashing through the door. Before him he saw a black and bottomless night; but it was more spacious, and he felt his distress diminishing. And now he saw the imps all racing after him, and they were playing with something. It glittered as they threw it, one to another, and they tugged and pulled and spit on it, and did things still worse--such as only very vile and impudent beings could do. It was a book, and Johannes saw his name upon it--his own and his family name. Johannes was called the "Traveler" of his family. At last one of the imps caught hold of it by a leaf, and flung it high up in air to tear it to pieces. The leaves fluttered and glittered, but held together. And the book, ceasing to fall, went higher and higher up into the dark night until it seemed in the far distance to be a little star. Johannes kept looking at it with all his might, and it seemed to him as if he were a light bit of wood, or a bubble, rising swifter and swifter to the surface--from out the awful depths of the sea. Then, slowly, the heavens grew blue and bright. At last he was drifting in the full light of day. His eyes were still closed, but he felt that he had returned to his _day_ body, and he rested--still a little longer--in the light, motionless, blissful slumber of a convalescent, or of one come home again after a long and weary journey. [1] Waan = Error. [2] Bangeling = Little coward. [3] Ginnegap = Giggler. [4] Labbekak = Duffer. [5] Goedzak = Goody-goody. XII "Shall we go to the beach this morning?" asked Countess Dolores after breakfast. "It will be fresh and cool there now." It was a merry morning trip. Both of the little girls went with them, and Johannes carried a small folding chair, and his friend's book. The countess took a seat in a beach-chair, and Johannes sat at her feet and read aloud to her, while the two children--their skirts tucked up, and their little feet and legs bare and pink in the clear light--busied themselves in the water and sand, with their pails and shovels. Everything was flooded with sunshine, and clearly, beautifully tinted:--the knotted blonde tresses of the little girls--beneath their broad-brimmed white beach-hats--against the delicate blue of the horizon; the still deeper blue of the sea wherein could be seen the bright figures of the bathers in their red and blue bathing-dresses; and right and left the pure white sand, and the snowy foam. Johannes had indeed become quite accustomed to what had so pained him at first--the profanation of the sea by human beings--so they were happy hours. He resolved this morning to resume his inquiries after Markus, as soon as he was at liberty to do so. They had not been sitting long on the beach when Van Lieverlee came sauntering-up, arrayed in white flannel. He was without a waistcoat, but wore a lilac shirt, and a wide, black-silk girdle, and had on a straw hat. He gave the countess a graceful cordial greeting, and immediately said to Johannes, this time without irony: "I sent to my uncle, this morning, for information. Your friend is not there now. He received his discharge last Saturday on account of his disorderly conduct." "What had he done?" asked Johannes. "He had delivered an address at the exchange when, mark you, he had gone there on a matter of business. Now," said Van Lieverlee, looking at the countess with a smile, "it is quite obvious that a man of affairs could not retain such a clerk as that. It takes my uncle Van Trigt, who is so jealous of his good name, to deal with such cases." "Yes, I understand," said Dolores. "It depends, though, upon what he said," ventured Johannes. "No! One talks about business at the exchange--not about reason and morality. There is a time and a place for everything. My uncle was well satisfied with him in all else. He had taken him for a rather well-bred person, he said. But the man has a remarkable propensity for discoursing in public places." "Where is he now?" "Where is any idler who has received his discharge? Off looking for an easy berth, L should say." "Is your friend so very poor?" asked the countess, in a serious whisper, as one would speak over the shame of a kinsman. "Of course," replied Johannes, with a positiveness that was a challenge. "Indeed, he would be ashamed not to be poor." "I think such men insufferable!" exclaimed Van Lieverlee. "As Socrates said, their conceit can be seen through the holes in their clothes. Without even opening their mouths they--every one of them--seem to be forever preaching morals and finding fault. I hate the tribe. They are of all men the most turbulent and dangerous." Johannes had never yet seen Van Lieverlee so angry, but he remained cool throughout the tirade, and kept his temper. The countess said in a languid voice: "He certainly is very immoderate. I cannot say, either, that such pronounced types are to my taste." Johannes was silent, and the other two talked together a while longer. The children came up nearer, and lying down in the clean, clear sand, they listened to the conversation. It was a bright group, for they were all dressed in white, except Johannes. At last Van Lieverlee rose to go, and the countess, clinging to his hand, with a certain warmth of manner said: "Of course you are coming to dinner?" "Most assuredly!" replied Van Lieverlee. * * * * * After he had gone, there were several moments of constrained silence--a sort of suspense so obvious that even the children did not resume their chatter as usual, but continued silently playing with the sand, as if waiting for something to be said. Johannes also began to comprehend that something was pending, but he had no idea of what it could be. At last the lady said, rather hesitatingly, while tracing all kinds of curious figures in the sand, with her parasol: "Have you not observed anything, Johannes?" "Observed anything? I? No, Mevrouw," replied Johannes, with some discomposure. He surely had observed nothing. "I have!" said Olga, decidedly, without looking up. "I, too!" lisped Frieda after her. "Hear the little smarties!" said Mevrouw, laughing in confusion, and blushing. "Well, what have you observed?" "A new papa!" replied Olga. "A new papa!" repeated Frieda. Johannes looked up in some surprise and perplexity, into the beautiful, laughing eyes, and exquisite, blushing face of his friend. Her laugh was a confirmation; and accompanying her question with a shake of the head, she continued: "Really, do you not understand yet?" "No," replied Johannes, in all seriousness. "Who is the new papa?" "There he goes," said Olga, pointing with her little white finger after Van Lieverlee. And Frieda, too, stretched out her little hand in his direction. "Fie, children! Do not point," said Mevrouw. And Johannes began to comprehend--much as one does who has fallen out of a window, or has been struck on the head with a stone. As in the latter case, his first thought was astonishment at the cause of the blow, and that he could possibly survive it. The blue air, the sea, the sand, the series of light-green dunes, the houses, the white figures--everything reeled and whirled, and then grew altogether black. He could not think, but only felt that he was extremely uncomfortable and qualmish. He was obliged to go. As he stood up, he heard the words: "How pale you are!" That was the last. Then he walked away, beside the sea, hearing nothing save the washing of the waves upon the sand and the rushing of the blood in his ears. He staggered a little back and forth, as if he had been drinking too much, and he wondered how that could be. At last he could no longer see the people or houses--only water, sky, and sand. It seemed to have been his intention; for, weak and limp, he went and lay down in the loose sand, and fell into a drowse. XIII Such drowsing is not real sleep, neither does it refresh. When Johannes awoke after a quarter of an hour, his throat was parched, and he felt as if his heart were shriveled in his breast. He essayed to think over what had happened, but it was too bitter and too frightful. He looked at the imprinted sand where he had been lying, as if he would go to sleep again. But now he could not sleep, and must stay awake. He sat up and stared at the sea, and then again at the dunes. What was it that had befallen him? A very long time--he knew not himself how long--he sat looking. Then he stood up, feeling stiff and sluggish, as if dead tired from a long journey. Slowly and aimlessly he dragged himself into the dunes, and tried to take an interest in the beetles and the flowers. Sometimes, from force of habit, he succeeded; but immediately there returned the shudderings which that cruel blow had caused. It had never entered his head that he himself would marry his friend. Why, then, should it go to his heart as if he were flung aside and trampled upon, now that another was about to take the place of her husband? "It must not--_must_ not be!" was all he could say. He very well knew that the world did not always concern itself with his thoughts, and that his day-life was conducted quite differently from his night-life where everything proceeded from his will and wish. But this was so squarely against his desires and ideas that it seemed to him as if the world _must_ care about it. Naturally, the world continued not to mind anything about it, because the world is a far greater and stronger thought than that of Little Johannes. And if he had been sensible he would have modestly admitted it, because it is true. Then, at the most, that truth would only have saddened him. But he was not yet very wise, and he did not wish to admit that his mind and thought were still weak and small compared with the great world-thought. And therefore he was not only sad, but angry as well. Do not judge him too harshly, for he was still more boy than man. And how few _men_ even there are with such clear good sense that they impute the variance solely to their own weakness and stupidity, and do not become dismayed and embittered when the world differs from them. Johannes, then, was angry--furiously angry. That surely was not sensible, but yet it proved that he had more stamina than had Labbekak and Goedzak. And all his anger was directed against that person who had thrust him aside from the place which he had so long, without being aware of it, considered his own. He thought Van Lieverlee not only a tiresome fool, but also an odious, abominable monster that ought to be exterminated. And as his fancy pictured other figures, and he thought of that other hated being, Marjon's sister, and then again of Van Lieverlee, and his dear, beautiful, winsome friend, he found himself closely and frightfully besieged by insupportable thoughts--as if in a fire-begirt city, all aglow and scorching, with ever narrowing streets. It was impossible to cry. At other times, as you surely must have observed, his tears came quickly enough. But now his eyes seemed to have been cauterized. Eyes, heart, brains, and ideas--all were equally hot and dry, and strained and distressed. He went home at night with no idea of the hour. He had eaten nothing, but felt neither hunger nor thirst. Where he had been for so long, he was unable to tell. He went to his room and began trifling with his knickknacks--his souvenirs, books, and little treasures--for he was a collector. His hostess came to rap at his door and to ask what was the matter--where he had been, and why he had been absent from his afternoon lessons. But Johannes did not invite her in, and said that he wished to be alone. And she, half surmising the truth, and distressed about it, did not insist. Then, among his treasures, Johannes found a pair of compasses--a large pair, one arm of which could be loosened for the attachment of a tracing-pen. And that single, loosened compass-arm was a shining, three-cornered bit of steel, about a finger long, and as sharp as a lancet. With some wood and leather he contrived a handle for that bit of steel, and then he had a dagger--a real, wicked, dangerous dagger. Apparently he did this merely to pass away the time, but after it was finished he began to think what could be done with it. Then what he _wished_ to do with it. And at last _how_ he should do it, _if_, indeed, he was to do it. Thus, he was already a good bit on in an ugly way. The octopus that he had defied so bravely had laid for him a trap of which he was not aware; for it has many more than eight arms, and there are many more demons than those whose acquaintance Johannes had already made. He was going to step up to Van Lieverlee and say to him, "You or I." And if Van Lieverlee should then laugh at him, as he most likely would, he would stab him to death. Such thoughts as that actually took possession of Little Johannes' head; for, I have told you, indeed, that Love is nothing to be ridiculed. Fortunately, a wide gulf yawns between thought and deed, otherwise there would be a great many more accidents upon this earth. It was already past midnight, and he still sat pottering and burnishing and sharpening, when he heard again the creaking of the stair, that he now instantly recognized, and Marjon's step at the door. She opened the door, and Johannes looked into her distended, anguished eyes. Her blonde hair fell straight and free over her shoulders, and her long white night-dress reached down to her bare feet. "What are you doing, Jo?" she asked. "You make me so anxious! What has happened? Where have you been the whole long day? Why do you eat nothing? And why are you still sitting up, with a light, till after midnight?" Startled and distressed, Johannes made no reply. The dagger was still in his hand. He tried to hide it, without being observed, under his handkerchief. But Marjon saw it, and asked excitedly: "What is that?" "Nothing," said Johannes, in shame and confusion, like a detected child. Marjon snatched away the handkerchief, and looked from the shining little object to Johannes with an expression of mingled pain and fright. In silence they looked into each other's eyes a long time--Marjon with a searching, beseeching gaze, until Johannes lowered his lids and let his head droop. "Who is it for?" she whispered. "Yourself?" Without speaking or looking up, Johannes shook his head. Marjon sighed deeply, as if relieved. "For whom, then?" again she asked. "For ... him?" Johannes nodded. Then she said: "Poor Jo!" That sounded strangely to him, for when irritated one is not apt to be compassionate toward others nor toward one's self. He thought, rather, to find abhorrence of his blood-thirsty plan. But she said it so sincerely and fervently that he began to weaken, although not to the point of crying. "You will not do it, will you? It would not help at all. And you would ... you would make me so frightfully unhappy." "I cannot endure it, Marjon--I _cannot_ endure it!" Marjon kneeled down by the table, and rested her chin in her hands. Her clear, true eyes were now looking steadily at Johannes, and as she spoke they grew more tranquil. Johannes continued to look at her with the irresolute expression of one in despair who yet hoped for deliverance. "Poor Jo!" repeated Marjon. And then, slowly, with frequent pauses, she said: "Do you know why I can speak so?... I know exactly how you feel. I have felt that way, too. I did not think that this would be the way of it--the way it now is. I only thought, 'She is going to have him, not I.' And then I too said, 'It cannot--_cannot_ be!' But yet it might have been. And now _you_ say, 'It cannot be.' But it can, just the same." Here she waited a while, and Johannes looked at her more attentively, and with less irresolution. "And now listen, Jo. You want to stab that prig, don't you? And you well know that I never had any liking for him. But now let me tell you that I myself, for days and for weeks, have wanted to do the same thing." "What!" exclaimed Johannes, in astonishment. Marjon hid her face and said: "It is the truth, Jo. Not him, of course, but ... but her." "You do not mean it, Marjon," said Johannes, indignantly. "I am in earnest, Jo. I am not even sure whether I came into her service for that very reason, or for a better one." "My God! How frightful!" exclaimed Johannes, deeply moved. "There you are--alarmed and probably angry. Naturally you think her lovely, and are fond of her. And I am ashamed of myself--heartily ashamed." Again they were silent, and in both those young heads were many turbulent thoughts. "And do you know what helped me most to give it up? Not fear of punishment, nor of judgment, for I dreaded nothing so much as, worst of all, that she might succeed in getting you. But it helped me when I thought how much you loved her, and how you would cry and suffer if you should see her lying dead." Again they looked at each other, steadily and frankly, and their eyes were dimmed with tears. Then said Marjon: "And now, Jo, think of this. I care nothing about that man, nor do you; and doubtless he would not be a great loss. But to her he would be, and indeed if you should kill him, you would bring it about that she would see him dead, and would have to cry. Do you wish to do that?" Johannes' eyes opened wide, and he looked into the lamplight. "Yes," said he, deliberately. "He deceives her and she deceives herself. He is altogether different from what she fancies." Then Marjon, taking both hands from the table, and resting them upon Johannes' arm, said with rising voice: "But Jo, Jo--indeed everything is different from what we think! Who can see just how and what people and things are? I thought that woman hateful, and you thought her lovely. You think that fellow odious, while she thinks him charming. Really, only the Father, knows how things are. Believe me, the Father only. We are poor, poor creatures. We know nothing--nothing." Then, resting her head, with its fair, fine hair, upon his arm, she sobbed bitterly; and Johannes, now completely broken down and mollified, wept with her. Then they heard a door open in the hall. Probably, in their agitation, they had been talking too loudly. Marjon took flight. In a moment of less excitement she would have been too shrewd for that. Johannes did indeed quickly put out the light, but he saw, through the crack of the door, that some one with a candle was standing in the hall. There was a meeting, and Johannes overheard a brief exchange of angry words, in vehement, suppressed tones. The last he understood was: "To-morrow morning you leave." XIV About the time all this was taking place, something else occurred which most of you will readily recall. It happened at the time the King and Queen were married. That was a time of many processions, when arches of honor were erected in all the squares, and when there arose, everywhere, the peculiar odor of spruce-boughs and of burning illuminants. And the life of the King and Queen was far different from that of Little Johannes. They had to be decked often with beautiful clothes, and then as often to be undressed, to parade, to sit in state, to listen to wearisome harangues, to live through long dinners, and to be forever bowing and smiling. Such was their life. To Johannes all this excitement and these joyful festivities seemed but a motley background against which his own sombre trouble was all the more sharply in relief. Although everybody was concerned about the King and Queen, and no one at all about Little Johannes, he yet found himself and his own sorrow none the less important. You are aware that these festivities lasted for several weeks, and took place in every town in the land. In the evening of the day about which I last told you, there was a great display of fireworks on the beach, and Johannes, with the entire household, went to see it. And there, in the midst of all that crowding and shouting, he had, for the first time, a chance to speak with the beloved friend who had caused him so much suffering. Marjon he had not seen, and he knew not if she was gone; but the countess seemed as friendly and as cheerful as ever, and she had not questioned him. On the terrace from which they watched the golden columns rush skyward with a hiss, and the "pin-wheels" sizzle and fizz, accompanied by the "a-a-a-ahs!" of admiration from the dark, moving mass of people--there, he ventured in an undertone to speak to her. "What did you really think of me yesterday, Mevrouw?" "Well," replied the countess, rather coldly, continuing to look at the fireworks, "you have not come up to my expectations, Johannes." "What do you mean? Why not?" asked Johannes, sick at heart. "Oh, you know very well. I was aware that you had plain connections, and were not descended from a distinguished family; but I hoped to make that good, in some degree, through my own influence. Yet I had not thought you so ordinary as that." "But what do you mean?" The lady cast a disdainful glance upon him. "Would you care to hear it spoken, word for word? Liaisons, then--with inferiors. And at your age, too. How could you?" In a flash Johannes comprehended. "Oh, Mevrouw--but you mistake--completely. I am not in the least enamored of that girl, but formerly she was my little comrade, and she thinks a great deal of me. She saw that I was unhappy yesterday, and then she came to sympathize with me." "Sympathize?" asked the countess, hesitatingly, and not without irony, of which Johannes, however, was unconscious. "Yes, Mevrouw. But for her, I should have done desperate things. She prevented me. She is a brave girl." Then he told her still more of Marjon. Countess Dolores believed him, and became more friendly. In that caressing voice which had caused Johannes so much unhappiness, and which even now completely fascinated him, she asked: "And why were you so desperate, my boy?" "Do you not understand? It was because of what you told me yesterday." She understood well enough, and Johannes thought it charming in her to be willing to listen so kindly. But although she felt flattered she pretended not to know what he meant--as if such an idea were unthinkable. "But how can that make you feel so desperate, my boy? I have not said, however, that you must leave my house on account of it." "If that should take place, Mevrouw, do you fancy that I could remain with you? Did you think I could endure that? But it is not going to be, is it? It was only a jest. Tell me that it was! You were only teasing me! Tell me that you were only teasing me!" It was all too clear now, and she could dissemble no longer. Half in kindness, half in compassion, she said: "But, my boy, my boy, what has got into your head?" Johannes rested his hand on her arm, and asked, imploringly: "You were not in earnest, were you?" But she freed her arm gently, saying: "Yes, Johannes, I was in earnest." And now he knew that he was hoping against hope. "Is there no hope for me?" The countess smilingly shook her head. "No, dear boy, not the least. Put the thought quite away from you." * * * * * The last of the rockets rushed up with a startling hiss, to burst in the black sky with a soft puff, and expire in a shower of brilliant sparks. Then it was all over. The band played "Wilhelmus of Nassau," and the dark throng surged and pressed more vehemently, while on all sides the street-boys whistled shrilly and shouted to one another: "J-a-a-a-n!" and "Gerrèt!" Johannes, stunned by renewed pain, passed on through the cheering like one deafened and stupefied. His hostess, now full of sympathy, said: "Do you remember, Johannes, what we promised Father Canisius? He was to teach you who Jesus is, was he not? Will you go to church with me to-morrow? That will best console you." A wicked thought passed through Johannes' head. He wished to ask a question, but he could not utter the hated name. "Is any one else going?" "Yes, the man to whom I am engaged. He also is now convinced that peace is only to be found in the Holy Church. He is Catholic, as are myself and my children." Johannes said not another word that evening; but he slept more peacefully than the night before. XV The church was full when Johannes, with the entire family, entered it. He and the others were in their best attire, and Van Lieverlee had on a very long black coat and a high hat. As he passed in he removed his hat respectfully, and his white face, now smoothly shaven, wore a serious, even stern, expression. It was cool and dark and solemn in the building. The rays of the sun, in passing through the window-glass, were tinged with yellow and blue, and cast queer fleckings over the faces and forms of those who stood waiting or were securing seats. The fragrance of incense floated about the altar, and the organ was playing. It was not really an old church, but, with its paintings and floral adornments, was beautiful enough to move Johannes to tenderness; for he felt so sad and disheartened, listening to the solemn music in that richly-colored twilight, that he had to make an effort to keep from sobbing. Father Canisius, smiling kindly, and with priestly seriousness in face and tread, although not yet in his robes, stopped on his way to the sacristy to speak with them. Johannes could feel his sharp, penetrating look through the thick glasses of his spectacles. "You see, Father," said the countess, "we have come to seek Jesus. Johannes, also." "He is waiting for you," replied the priest, solemnly, pointing out the great crucifix above the altar. Then he disappeared in the sacristy. Johannes immediately fastened his eyes upon that figure, and continued to contemplate it while the people were taking their places. It hung in the strongest light of the shadowy church. Apparently it was of wood stained a pale rose, with peculiar blue and brown shadows. The wounds in the side and under the thorns on the forehead were distinct to exaggeration--all purple and swollen, with great streaks of blood like dark-red sealing-wax. The face, with its closed eyes, wore a look of distress, and a large circle of gold and precious stones waggishly adorned the usual russet-colored, cork-screwy, woodeny locks. The cross itself was of shining gold, and each of its four extremities was ornamented, while a nice, wavy paper above the head bore the letters I.N.R.I. One could see that it was all brand-new, and freshly gilded and painted. Wreaths and bouquets of paper flowers embellished the altar. For a long time--perhaps a quarter of an hour--Johannes continued to look at the image. "That is Jesus," he muttered to himself, "He of whom I have so often heard. Now I am going to learn about Him, and He is to comfort me. He it is who has redeemed the world." And however often he might repeat this, trying seriously to convince himself--because he would have been glad to be convinced and also to be redeemed--he could nevertheless see nothing except a repulsive, ugly, bloody, prinked-up wooden doll. And this made him feel doubly sorrowful and disheartened. Fully fifteen minutes had he sat there, looking and musing, hearing the people around him chatting--about the price they had paid for their places, about the keeping on or taking off of women's hats, and about the reserved seats for the first families. Then the door of the sacristy opened, and the choir-boys with their swinging censers, and the sacristan, and the priests in their beautiful, gold-bordered garments, came slowly and majestically in. And as the congregation kneeled, Johannes kneeled with them. And when Johannes, as well as all the others, looked at the incoming procession, and then again turned his eyes to the high altar, behold! there, to his amazement, kneeling before the white altar, he saw a dark form. It was in plain sight, bending forward in the twilight, the arms upon the altar, and the face hidden in the arms. A man it was, in the customary dark clothes of a laborer. No one--neither Johannes nor probably any one else in the church--had seen whence he came. But he was now in the full sight of all, and one could hear whisperings and a subdued excitement run along the rows of people and pass on to the rear, like a gust of wind over a grain-field. As soon as the procession of choir-boys and priests came within sight of the altar, the sacristan stepped hastily out of line and went forward to the stranger, to assure him that, possibly from too deep absorption in devotion, or from lack of familiarity with ecclesiastical ceremony, he was guilty of intrusion. He touched the man's shoulder, but the man did not stir. In the breathless stillness that followed, while every one expectantly awaited the outcome, a deep, heart-rending sob was heard. "A penitent!" "A drunken man!" "A convert!" were some of the whispered comments of the people. The perplexed sacristan turned round, and beckoned Father Canisius, who, with impressive bearing, stepped up in his white, gold-threaded garb, as imposingly as a full-sailed frigate moves. "Your place is not here," said the priest, in his deep voice. He spoke kindly, and not particularly loudly. "Go to the back of the church." There was no reply, and the man did not move; yet, in the still more profound silence, his weeping was so audible that many people shuddered. "Do you not hear me?" said the priest, raising his voice a little, and speaking with some impatience. "It is well that you are repentant, but only the consecrated belong here--not penitents." So saying, he grasped the shoulder of the stranger with his large, strong hand. Then, slowly, very slowly, the kneeling man raised his head from his arms, and turned his face toward the priest. What followed, perhaps each one of the hundreds of witnesses would tell differently; and of those who heard about it later, each had a different idea. But I am going to tell you what Johannes saw and heard--heard quite as clearly as you have seen and heard the members of your own household, to-day. He saw his Brother's face, pale and illumined, as if his head were shone upon by beams of clearest sunlight. And the sadness of that face was so deep and unutterable, so bitter and yet so gentle, that Johannes felt forced, through pain, to press both hands upon his heart, and to set his teeth, while he gazed with wide, tear-filled eyes, forgetting everything save that shining face so full of grief. For a time it was as still as death, while man and priest regarded each other. At last the man spoke, and said: "Who are you, and in whose name are you here?" When two men stand thus, face to face, and address each other with all earnestness in the hearing of many others, one of them is always immediately recognized to be the superior--even if the listeners are unable to gauge the force of the argument. Every one feels that superiority, although later many forget or deny it. If that dominance is not very great, it arouses spitefulness and fury; but if it is indeed great, it brings, betimes, repose and submissiveness. In this case the ascendancy was so great that the priest lost even the air of authority and assurance with which he had come forward, and did that for which, later, he reproached himself--he stopped to explain: "I am a consecrated priest of the Triune God, and I speak in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ--our Saviour and Redeemer." There ensued a long silence, and Johannes saw nothing but the shining, human face and the eyes, which, full of sorrow and compassion, continued to regard the richly robed priest with a bitter smile. The priest stood motionless, with hanging hands and staring eves, as if uncertain what next to say or do; but he listened silently for what was coming, as did Johannes and all the others in the church--as if under an overpowering spell. Then came the following words, and so long as they sounded no one could think of anything else--neither of the humble garb of him who spoke, nor of the incomprehensible subjection of his gorgeously arrayed listener: "But you are not yet a man! Would you be a priest of the Most High? "You are not yet redeemed, nor are these others with you redeemed, although you make bold to say so in the name of the Redeemer. "Did your Saviour when upon earth wear cloth of silver and of gold? "There is no redemption yet--neither for you nor for any of yours. The time is not come for the wearing of garments of gold. "Mock not, nor slander. Your ostentation is a travesty of the Most High, and a defamation of your Saviour. "Do you esteem the kingdom of God a trifle, that you array yourself and rejoice, while the world still lies in despair and in shackles? "So plays a little girl with a doll, and calls herself a mother. She tosses and pets and prinks her little one, but it is all wood and paint and bran. And the real mother smiles--she who knows the anguish and the gladness. "But you abandon the naked, living child for the bedizened doll. And the mother sheds tears of blood. "Like peacocks, you strut through your marble churches, glittering in tinsel; but you let the kingdom of God lie like an uncleansed babe upon unclean linen--naked and languishing. "And the Devil delights in your churches, your masses, and prayers and psalms--your treasure and fine linen; for the child lies naked at your back door, with the dogs, and it wails for its mother. "Weep--as do I! Weep bitter tears--for that child is two thousand years old. And still it lies, unwashed and uncherished. "Why do you vaunt your consecration, and prate of your Redeemer? Your Holy One still toils beneath His grievous cross, yet all your splendid churches have you built upon that heavy cross. "You bear the mitre of Persians, and Egyptians, and the tabard of the Jews. And you also make use of the scourge wherewith the Jews did scourge Him. "They bound and spat upon--they scourged and crucified and speared Him; but for two thousand years you have been roasting Him before a slow fire--before the fire of your lies and misrepresentations; of your treachery and arrogance; of your cruelties and perversions; of your pomp and oblations; of your transgressions, and of your attacks upon and strivings against the God who is Truth. "You are commanded to serve your Father in spirit and in truth, and you have served Him with the letter and with lies. "His prophets, who loved the truth better than their lives, you have burned at the stake, and have made them martyrs. "Yet you have bent your proud neck to the world which you affect to despise. In the name of the Father you have burned and imprisoned sages; but at last you were forced to eat the bread of their wisdom, for the knife of the scornful was at your throat. "The world you have disdained and denounced is wiser than you--more beautiful and even more holy. "Black as the raven--black as the beetles, the moles, the creatures that live in the slime--black and vile, you burrow your secret way through the clear, bright world. But in your churches you enthrone yourselves and parade like kings--in violet and yellow and purple, and gold brocade. "You were not commanded to found a kingdom solely for yourselves--a kingdom of the sacred and the elect in a world of the unholy and immature. "You were commanded to spread abroad the kingdom of God over the whole earth--over all that weep and are oppressed. "You were not commanded to despise the world and to forsake it, but you were commanded to hallow the world. "You rend the world in twain, speaking of the sanctified and the unsanctified. Your Saviour lived among thieves, and died between murderers, nevertheless he promised them Paradise. "Not until every man is sanctified, until every day is a holy day, and every house a House of God---not until then may you speak of redemption, and array yourself in white and gold. "Woe unto you, forsakers of the world! Was not the world bestowed upon you by the Father as the noblest and most precious gift of the dearest of friends? "How dare you despise it? "Will you openly preserve the penny of your enemy, and reject the noblest gift of the Most High? "Do you speak in the name of the Triune God? But you have smitten the Father's face--you have martyred the Son, and the Holy Ghost have you violated. "You have been told that God is Truth. Yet you have striven against the truth with torture-tongs, with dungeons, and with burnings at the stake. "You have made the Son of man an object of ridicule--a shield for lying and violence, a pretext for strife and bloodshed, a monstrous idol. "And of all sins, the worst is the sin against the Holy Ghost--which is the bread that you eat, and the water wherein you swim. "You shackle and restrain the Spirit. This is of all sins the worst, and this you know. "Where God alone may reign--in the free human heart--there you establish yourselves with your laws and dogmas, your writings and your imageries. "Think you, madman, that the wisdom of the Eternal can be comprised within the limits of written or printed pages? "To Him your sacred books are as cobwebs and sweepings; for He lives and moves eternally, and book nor brain can compass Him. Like to flowing water, you are told, is the wisdom of God. Forever changing, forever the same, no finite word can picture His progressive wisdom. "There is more of the Father's wisdom in the shy, faltering whisper of a poor heathen child, than in all your bulls and councils and decretals. "Would you put a tube to the lips of the Father, that He may speak at your pleasure? Yet will He speak as seems best to Himself. "Would you point with the finger and say to Him: 'Here! These shall speak in thy name, and to these shalt thou give wisdom, and these shalt thou inspire with understanding, and these shalt thou save, and these condemn!' "But He will reply: 'There!' and will regard your pointings even as the lava of a volcano regards the guide-posts and little crosses on the slopes. "But your opinions and your pride are avenged, for the world commands you as the hunter his hound, as the show-man his monkey. You pull the carriage of prince and monied man, and make grimaces before the powerful. "They build you churches, and you say masses for them, although they be Satan himself. "The world is sanctified without you, and you sanctify yourselves because of the world. "That your Popes are not more dissolute, your prelates more prodigal, and your friars more slothful, is because the world has constrained you. But you have constrained the world to no purpose. "You have set yourself against the usurer, but the world will practise usury, and you practise usury with the world. Thus are you the ape and the servant of the world. "Where you have rivals, you show yourself discreet; but where you are without competitors, there as ever you corrupt the land. "You follow after the world, as a captive shark follows a sailing ship. You turn and twist, but the world points out the way--not you. "Like a kettle tied by mischievous boys to the tail of a dog, so do you rattle with hollow menaces behind the course of the world. You scare, but do not guide. "Yes, you strive against the sanctifying of the world, for with your hands you would conceal the godlike fire of knowledge; but the flame bursts through your fingers, and consumes you. "What have you done for the sheep committed to your care--for the poor and bereaved--for the oppressed and the disinherited? "Submission you have taught them--ay--submission to Mammon. You have taught them to bow meekly to Satan. "God's light--the light of knowledge--you have withheld from them. Woe be to you! "You have taught them to beg, and to kiss the rod that smote them. You have cloaked the shame of alms-receiving, and have prated of honor in servitude. "Thus have you humbled man, and disfigured the human soul. "With the fruit of their hands you have decorated your churches and adorned your unworthy bodies. "You have aroused the devil in the heart--the devil of fear--fear of hell and everlasting punishment. The aspiration of the free heart toward God you have deadened; and with indulgences and the confessional have you lulled the waking conscience. "Of the love of the Father you have made commerce--a sinful merchandise. Not because you love virtue do you preach it, but because of the sweet profit. You promise deliverance to all who follow your counsel; but as well can you make a present of moon and stars. "Are you not told to recompense evil with good? And is God less than man that He should do otherwise? "It is well for you that He does not do otherwise, for where then were your salvation? "For you, and you only, are the brood of vipers against whom is kindled the wrath of Him who was gentle with adulterers and murderers." * * * * * While speaking, the man had risen to his full height, and he now appeared, to all there assembled, impressively tall. When he had spoken, reaching his right hand backward he grasped the foot of the great golden crucifix. It snapped off like glass, and he threw it on the marble floor at the feet of the priest. The fragment broke into many bits. It was apparently not wood, but plaster. "Sacrilege!" cried the priest, in a stifled voice, as if the sound were wrung from his throat. His eyes seemed to be starting out of his great purple face. The man quietly replied: "No, but my right; for you are the sacrilegist and the blasphemer who makes of the Son of man a hideous caricature." Then the priest stepped forward, and gripped Markus by the wrist. The latter made no resistance, but cried in a loud voice that reverberated through the church: "Do your work, Caiaphas!" After that he suffered himself to be led away to the sacristy. While the congregation still sat, spellbound and motionless, Johannes hastily writhed his way out between the benches and the throngs of people. Father Canisius returned, now quite calm and far less red. And while the sacristan with broom and dust-pan swept up the fragments and put them into a basket, the priest turned toward the audience and said: "Have sympathy with the poor maniac. We will pray for him." After that, the service proceeded without further disturbance. XVI In a dreary district of the city, at the end of a long, lonely street, stands a long, gloomy building. The windows--all of the same form--are of ground glass, and the house itself is lengthened by a high wall. What lies behind this wall the neighbors do not know; but sometimes strange noises are borne over it--loud singing, yelling, dismal laughter, and monotonous mutterings. On the steps of this house, silent, and with earnest faces, stood Johannes and Marjon. The latter had on a simple, dark gown, and she carried Keesje on her arm. The door was opened by a porter wearing a uniform-cap. The man gave them, especially the monkey, a critical, hesitating look. "That will not do," said he, drily. "You must leave your little ones at home when you come here to make visits." "Come," said Marjon, without a smile at his jest, "ask the superintendent. My brother is so fond of him, and I do not dare leave him at home." They had to wait awhile in the vestibule. At first they said not a word, and Keesje was very still. Then, scratching Keesje's head, Johannes quietly remarked, "He has grown thin." "He has a cough," said Marjon. At length the doorkeeper came back, with the superintendent. Johannes instantly recognized in the tall, spare gentleman, the slovenly black suit, the gold spectacles, and the bushy white hair, his old friend Dr. Cijfer. "Whom have they come to see?" he asked. "The new one who was brought in yesterday--working-class," said the doorkeeper. "Violent?" asked the doctor. "No, quiet, Doctor. But they want to take their monkey with them." "Why so, young people?" asked Dr. Cijfer, frowning at the monkey over the top of his spectacles in a most objectionable manner, to the discomfiture of Keesje. "Doctor Cijfer, have you forgotten me?" asked Johannes. "Wait," said the doctor, giving him a sharp look, "are you the boy who assisted me some time ago, and then ran away? Your name, indeed, was Johannes, was it not?" "Yes, Doctor." "Ah, yes," said the doctor, reflecting. "A rather queer boy, with some talent. And there is a brother of yours here? I always thought there were hereditary _moments_ in your family. You were a queer boy." "But it can't do any harm if our monkey goes with us, Doctor," said Marjon. "He is quite still and obedient." Slowly shaking his head, the doctor made a prolonged "m-m-m" with his compressed lips, as if to say that he did not himself think it so hazardous. "I have not yet seen the patient. We will ask the junior physician if he may receive callers. But only ten minutes--not longer, mind." Dr. Cijfer vanished with the doorkeeper, and again the trio waited a considerable time. Then the doorkeeper returned with a man-nurse in white jacket and apron. The latter led them down long halls, three times unlocking different doors and gratings with the key that he carried in his hand, until it seemed to Johannes as if they were pressing deeper and deeper into realms of error and constraint. But it was still there--sadly still--not, as Johannes had expected it to be, noisy with ravings. Now and then a patient in a dark blue uniform came toward them, carrying a pail or a basket. He would look back at them suspiciously, and then go farther on, softly muttering. At last they came to a dismal reception-room with a little wooden table and four rush-seated chairs. It was lighted from above, and there was no outlook. There they were left by themselves in painful suspense. After what again seemed to be a very long time a different door of the same little room was opened by another nurse; and then, at last, Little Johannes could rest again on the bosom of his beloved brother. But even before Johannes could reach him, Keesje had sprung to his shoulder and received the first greeting. "Hey, Markus, do you greet Kees before you do us?" said Marjon, laughing through her tears. "Are you jealous?" asked Markus. "He has become such a good comrade of mine." Drawing Keesje up to him, he sat down, while Johannes and Marjon kneeled, one on each side. The two young people regarded him a long while without saying anything; yet it did them good. "Only ten minutes," sighed Johannes, "and I have so much to ask and to say." "Do not be uneasy," said Markus. "I shall not be here long. "Is it not frightful here?" asked Marjon. "It is the most sorrowful place on earth. But it is without deceit; and I am happy here, for I can do much to comfort." "But it is fearfully unjust to put you here, with crazy folks," said Marjon. "Those miserable creatures!" and she clenched her slender little hand. "It is only a small part of the great wrong. They act according to their understanding." "Markus," said Johannes, "I want to ask you this: I saw poor Heléne in the kingdom of the Evil One. Do you know whom I mean? You do? What does that signify? And will she be saved?" "I know whom you mean, Johannes; but do not forget that we are all in the kingdom of the Evil One. Only in the heart of the Father are we free. The Father allows Waan to have power over all who are away from Him--even over me. "But not for ever, Markus." "How can that which is evil avail for ever? The melancholy seem to be the chosen ones. The burden they bear is a precious one, but only if they realize that it is of the Father. Then it sanctifies; otherwise it crushes. Some learn this first through death, as did Heléne." "Markus," said Marjon then, "we both have had such wicked things in our heads. Shall we ever be forgiven them?" "Tell me about them," said Markus. "I know indeed, but yet tell me." "We have wanted to murder, out of jealousy--he and ... and I." "That is the way with stags and buffaloes and cocks," said Markus. "They kill one another on account of their love. The strongest survives, and feels not the least remorse. And he is forgiven." "But we are human, Markus," said Johannes. "That is fine, dear Johannes, that you should say it of yourself. And yet you have not murdered anybody, have you?" "No, but I have wanted to." "Truly and with all your heart?" "Not that way," said Johannes. "No, for in that case you would not now be asking forgiveness. Forgiveness is already there, because insight is forgiveness." The two disciples were silent, and looked at him thoughtfully through half-closed eyes. At last Marjon said: "But then if we had done it we would have been forgiven all the sooner; for then we should have perceived the sooner that it was wrong." "You would then have experienced the desire for, and the satisfaction in, the deed, and have lost the fear of it. That would have been two more fetters for you, with the power to understand reduced." "But yet there are things which we have to do in order to know that they are wicked," said Johannes. "Are there such things?" asked Markus. "Well, then, do them; but do not complain if the lesson is a hard one. There are children, also, who do not believe their parents when they tell them that fire will burn, and that burns are painful. And yet such children cry if they burn themselves." "But why is it so intolerable to think that another will obtain that which we hold dear? Is that wicked?" asked Marjon. "It is not wicked to long for love or power or honor, when those things are our due because of our being wise and good. But that which he covets comes not to the jealous one, nor power to him who thirsts for it, nor honor to the over-ambitious. The things longed for will not satisfy them. Nor are eating and drinking bad in themselves, but they are only for those who have need of them." At that moment the door was unlocked. As it swung open the nurse said that the time was up, adding: "Perhaps you may come again to-morrow." "Will he have to stay here?" asked Marjon, as they were on their way down the long hall. "Well," replied the nurse, "they may indeed shut up quite a lot more. He can deal with the violent ones better than the professor can. There was one here who gave us a lot of trouble, because he wouldn't eat. He'd thrown his plate at me head. Look here! What a cut! But your brother had him eating inside of ten minutes." "Will he soon be free?" asked Johannes. "They ought to make him a professor," was the reply. "I've heard they're to examine him to-morrow." * * * * * Little was said while Johannes was accompanying Marjon to the boarding-house in which she now lived. It was kept by one of Markus's friends, a workman in the iron foundry. The man was called Jan van Tijn, and was foreman of the hammer-works. He earned sixteen guldens a week, and had nine children. His dwelling had three small rooms and a kitchen, and there twelve persons had to sleep--father, mother, nine children, and the boarder. But Juffrouw van Tijn was still young, with a fresh face and a pair of strong arms, and she made light of her work. "If there are to be still more of us," said Jan, "we must begin to lie in a row--spoon-fashion." Jan had a long blonde moustache and a pair of shrewd eyes, and his manner of speech was coarse--terribly so. Marjon slept in the little kitchen, and, as Jan's eldest girl was not yet sixteen, Marjon could be of great service in the family. "Did you get him out?" asked Jan, who had come in his working-blouse to meet them. And when they shook their heads, he began cursing, tremendously. "Well-! Did ye ever see such scoundrels? I'd like to pitch into the loons! Can't that perfesser see that Markus knows more in his little finger than the whole scurvy lot of them--patients, doctors, perfessers, and all? And because he's given the priest a dressing-down, and broken an image worth a nickel, must he be shut up in a mad-house? Well-!!!" Jan was furious, and proposed, with the aid of a sledge-hammer, to convince the learned gentlemen that they had made a blunder. "He is to be examined to-morrow," said Johannes, thinking to calm him. But Jan retorted scornfully, "Examined! Examined! I'll examine their own cocoanuts with a three-inch gimlet! If anything comes out but sawdust I hope to drop dead." He said much more that I will not repeat. Johannes stayed away from the Villa Dolores the entire day, for it was too dreary for him there. He would now far rather be in this poor household with its many children. He noticed how the young mother managed her uproarious little troop, how constantly and cheerfully busy she was the whole day long--bearing, and getting the better of, difficulties which would have dismayed and discouraged many another. Johannes ate with them, and although not very hungry, because of his anxiety, he enjoyed his food. And after they had had their late afternoon coffee, and the younger children had gone to bed--when Van Tijn had returned from his work, and with a certain solemn thoughtfulness had filled his pipe and was silently smoking it--then Johannes felt wonderfully at peace. He had not known such peace in a long time. Very little was said. Outside, the twilight was falling; indoors, the only light was from the little flame under the coffee-pot. The women, too, were tired, and sat listening to the sounds in the street. And Johannes knew that they were all thinking of the friend in the asylum. * * * * * That evening, when he was again in the handsome, luxurious villa, everything seemed strange and distasteful. In the brightly lighted drawing-room, chatting in a low tone, Van Lieverlee sat close beside the lady of the house, with an intolerable air of being the rightful lord of the manor. Johannes merely wanted to bid them good-night. "Have you found your poor friend?" asked Van Lieverlee, in his most condescending manner. "Yes, Mijnheer," replied Johannes. And then, after some hesitation: "Can anything be done to get him out promptly?" "My dear boy," said Van Lieverlee, "it is not to be desired, either for his own sake or that of society. I am not a doctor, but that he belongs where he is I can see at once, as could any layman. What do you think, Dearest?" Dolores nodded languidly, and said: "My heart was touched for the man--he has a fine face. And have you noticed, Walter, what a splendid baritone voice he has?" "Yes," said Van Lieverlee; "it is a pity he is out of his head. What a good singer of Wagner he might be! An excellent Parsifal! Do you not think so, Dolores?" "A splendid Parsifal! Perhaps he may get well yet," added the countess. "Oh, no," said Van Lieverlee. "That sort of prophet-frenzy is incurable. I know indeed of so many cases." For an instant Johannes stood hesitating. Should he give vent to what was boiling in his breast? But he was older now, and he curbed himself. Before he went to sleep he resolved: "This is my last night here." XVII Again they stood on the steps of the gloomy building--the three--Johannes, Marjon, and Keesje. It was a bleak day, and Keesje's thin little black face peeped out from under a thick shawl. "Just go into the doctor's room, will you?" said the doorkeeper. "The doctor wishes to speak with you. The professor is there, also," he added, importantly. And when Marjon would have gone with them, he extended his hand as if to stay her, saying, "Pardon, but the lady and the little one weren't invited." Without replying, Marjon turned round to Johannes and said, "Then I'll wait for you at the house. Will you come soon?" * * * * * In the tiresome, pompous quarters of the doctor, with its bookcases draped in green, its white gypsum busts of Galenus, Hippocrates, and other old physicians, sat two dark-coated gentlemen. They were vis-à-vis, each in an office-chair, and deep in conversation. On the large writing-table lay several open books, and some shining white metal instruments for measuring and examining. "Sit down, my friend," said Professor Bommeldoos, in his loud voice and brusque manner. "We all know one another, do we not? We have already made an examination together." Johannes silently took a seat. "Let me explain to you, Johannes," said Dr. Cijfer, in more soft and moderate tones. "We--Professor Bommeldoos and I--have been charged by the judicial commission to make a medical investigation of the mental condition of your brother. He has committed a crime--not a heavy one, but yet not without significance, and one for which he ought to have been placed under arrest. Yet the clergyman thought him irresponsible, and summoned a physician from the asylum. Your brother simply would not reply to the latter. He was stubbornly silent." Johannes nodded. He knew it already. "That was the reason for his being temporarily secluded here. Now I have seen the patient myself once, but I am sorry to have to say that I can get no further than the other physician. When I interrogate him he looks at me in a very peculiar way, and remains silent." "I do not understand, Colleague," said Bommeldoos, "why you did not instantly diagnose this as a symptom of megalomania." "But, worthy Colleague," replied Dr. Cijfer, "he does talk with the nurses and his fellow patients, and he is obliging and ready to help. They all wish him well--yes, they are even singularly fond of him." "All of which comports very well with my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos. "Does he often have those whims, Johannes," asked Dr. Cijfer, "when he will not speak?" "He has no whims," said Johannes, stoutly. "Why, then, will he not reply?" "I think you would not answer me," returned Johannes, "if I were to ask you if you were mad." The two learned men exchanged smiles. "That is a somewhat different situation," said Bommeldoos, haughtily. "He was not questioned in such a blunt manner as that," explained Doctor Cijfer. "I asked about his extraction, his age, the health of his father and mother, about his own youth, and so forth--the usual memory promptings. Will you not give us some further information concerning him? Remember, it is of real importance to your brother." "Mijnheer," said Johannes, "I know as little as yourself about all that. And even if I knew more I would not tell you what he himself thought best not to tell." "Come, come, my boy," said the professor, "are you trying to make sport of us? Do you not know whence you came? Nothing of your parents, nor of your youth?" Johannes hesitatingly considered whether or not he should do as Markus had done, and answer no questions whatever. But still he might reply to those that concerned only himself. "I do, indeed, know all that about myself, but not about him," said he. "Then you are not brothers?" asked the doctor. "No, not in the sense you mean." Dr. Cijfer looked at Bommeldoos as if to see what he thought of this reply. Then he touched a bell-button, saying: "It seems to me, Colleague, that we might better see him face to face. We can then, perhaps, get on better than when apart." Bommeldoos nodded solemnly, and passed his hand over his mighty forehead. A servant came in. "Will you bring the patient Vis from the ward of the calm patients, working-class?" "Very well, Doctor." The servant vanished, and for several minutes afterward it was as still as death in the study. The two learned men stared at the carpet quite absorbed in thought--not minding delay--after the manner of deep thinkers. Johannes heard the clock ticking on the mantel, the faint music from an out-of-doors band playing a merry march, the sound of hurrahs, and the clatter of horses' hoofs on the cobblestone pavement. The royal wedding-festivities were still in progress, and Johannes could mentally see the two people who at that moment were bowing and waving as they sat in their carriage. There was a knock at the door. The nurse came and said, "Here is the patient." Then he let Markus in, remaining himself to look on. "I will ring for you," said Dr. Cijfer, with a gesture. The nurse disappeared. Markus had on a dark-blue linen blouse, such as all the patients of the working-class wear. He stood tall and erect, and Johannes observed that his face was less pale and sad than usual. The blue became his dark curling hair, and Johannes felt happy and confident as he looked at him--standing there so proud and calm and handsome. "Take a seat," said Dr. Cijfer. But Markus seemed not to have heard, and remained standing, while he nodded kindly and reassuringly to Johannes. "Observe his pride," said Professor Bommeldoos, in Latin, to Dr. Cijfer. "The proud find pride, and the gloomy, gloom; but the glad find gladness, and the lowly, humility," said Markus. Dr. Cijfer stood up, and took his measuring instrument from the table. Then, in a quiet, courteous tone, he said: "Will you not permit us, Mijnheer, to take your head measure? It is for a scientific purpose." "It gives no pain," added Bommeldoos. "Not to the body," said Markus. "There is nothing in it to offend one," said Dr. Cijfer. "I have had it done to myself many a time." "There is a kind of opinionativeness and denseness that offend." Bommeldoos flushed. "Opinionativeness and denseness! Mine, perchance? Am I such an ignoramus? Opinionated and stupid!" "Colleague!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer, in gentle expostulation. And then, as he enclosed Markus's head with the shining craniometer, he gave the measurement figures. A considerable time passed, nothing being heard save the low voice of the doctor dictating the figures. Then, as if proceeding with his present occupation, taking advantage of what he considered a compliant mood of the patient, the crafty doctor fancied he saw his opportunity, and said: "Your parents certainly dwelt in another country--one more southerly and more mountainous." But Markus removed the doctor's hand, with the instrument, from his head, and looked at him piercingly. "Why are you not sincere?" asked he then, with gentle stress. "How can truth be found through untruth?" Dr. Cijfer hesitated, and then did exactly what Father Canisius had done--something which, later, he was of the opinion he ought not to have done: he argued with him. "But if you will not give me a direct reply I am obliged to get the truth circuitously." Said Markus, "A curved sword will not go far into a straight scabbard." Professor Bommeldoos grew impatient, and snapped at the doctor aside in a smothered voice: "Do not argue, Colleague, do not argue! Megalomaniacs are smarter, and sometimes have subtler dialectic faculties, than you have. Just let _me_ conduct the examination." And then, after a loud "h'm! h'm!" he said to Markus: "Well, my friend, then I will talk straight out to you. It is better so, is it not? Then will you give me a direct reply?" Markus looked at him for some time, and said: "You cannot." "I cannot! Cannot what?" "Talk," replied Markus. "I cannot talk! Well, well! I cannot talk! Colleague, you will perhaps take note of that. You say I cannot talk. What am I now doing?" "Stammering," said Markus. "Exactly--exactly! All men stammer. The doctor stammers, and I stammer, and Hegel stammers, and Kant stammers...." "They do," said Markus. "Mijnheer Vis, then, is the only one who can talk. Is it not so?" "Not with you," replied Markus. "In order to talk one must have a hearer who can understand." Dr. Cijfer smiled, and whispered, not without a shade of irony, "Take care, Colleague! You also err in dialectics." But Bommeldoos angrily shook his round head with its bulbous cheeks, and continued: "That is to say that you consider yourself wiser than all other men? Note the reply, Colleague." "I think myself wiser than you," said Markus. "Decide yourself whether this means wiser than all other men." "I have made a note of the reply," said Dr. Cijfer, while a sound of satisfaction came from his pursed-up lips. Yet the professor took no notice of these ironical remarks, and proceeded: "Now just tell me, frankly, my friend, are you a prophet? An apostle? Are you perhaps the King? Or are you God himself?" Markus was silent. "Why do you not answer now?" "Because I am not being questioned." "Not being questioned! What, then, am I now doing?" "Raving," said Markus. Again Bommeldoos flushed, and lost his composure. "Be careful, my friend. You must not be impertinent. Remember that we may decide your fate here." Markus lifted his head, with a questioning air, so earnest that the professor held his peace. "With whom rests the decision of our fate?" asked Markus. Then, pointing with his finger: "Do you consider yourself the one to decide?" Both of the learned ones were silent, being impressed for the moment. Markus continued: "Why do not _you_ now reply? And would you have decided otherwise had I not been what you term impertinent?" Here Dr. Cijfer interposed: "No, no, Mijnheer, you mistake. But it is not nice of you to offend a learned man like the professor here. We are performing a scientific task. You impress us as being a person of refinement and advancement, aside from the question of your being ill or not. For all that, it behooves you to have respect for science, and for those who are devoting all their efforts and even their lives to its development." "Do you know," asked Bommeldoos, in a voice now near to breaking, "do you know what the man whom you have scoffed at as opinionated, stupid, and a ranter--what that man has written and accomplished?" Then Markus's stern features relaxed, assuming a softer, more companionable expression, and he took a chair and sat down close beside his two examiners. "Look," said he, showing both of his open palms, "your naked sensibilities protrude on all sides--from under the cloak of your wisdom. How otherwise could I have touched you?" "Your wisdom--so much greater--does not, however, make you invulnerable to our opinion and stupidity," said Professor Bommeldoos, still tartly, indeed, but yet with far more courtesy. "The most high wisdom of God does not make Him invulnerable to our sorrows and sins," returned Markus. "Wisdom is a covering which makes its wearer not insensible to suffering, but able to support it." "Forever that speaking in metaphor!" exclaimed Bommeldoos. "Figures of speech do not instruct. A weak and childish mind always makes use of metaphors. Science demands pure speech and logical argument." "Forgive me if I offend still further," said Markus, gently now and kindly, as he laid his hand on the black cloth enveloping the arm of the professor, "but it is exactly your own weakness that you cannot question. Science is the light of the Father. Why should not I respect it? And I know also what you have written and accomplished. But the most you did was to question imperfectly, and then to assume the complete reply. That one should find it so difficult and unsatisfactory to reply amazes you, because you do not realize the imperfection of your questions. But the finest and clearest responses--those that are most satisfying and intelligible to all--await those who have learned better how to question. If I esteem myself wiser than you, it is solely because I realize that we have nothing but metaphors, and that we must patiently and unpretendingly decipher as a communication from the Father the meaning of all these metaphors. While you imagine that, from your words and documents, one may comprehend His living Being." "With your permission," interrupted the professor. "You seem not to have read what I have written concerning the logical necessity of an incomprehensible basis for reality. Did you consider me such a dunce as not to have perceived that?" "To speak of things is not necessarily to understand them," replied Markus. "And so to speak of them is proof of not understanding." "I know very well what the human mind can compass, and what not; and in my last work, 'On the Essence of Matter,' I think I have defined the utmost to which the human mind can attain," said Professor Bommeldoos. "So did the Egyptians place the farthest reaches of the earth at the first falls of the Nile, to which the river was said to have flowed from heaven. And thousands and thousands of years passed away before they ventured to step beyond that boundary. And now the world is beginning to fraternize, and men to co-operate--now the barriers of the world are being removed to infinite distance. Who then shall term that which the human intellect can grasp, the extreme limit?" "There remains a barrier, constituted by our material structure, just as there is a barrier because of our confinement to this terrestrial ball which we cannot leave," declared Professor Bommeldoos, loudly and oracularly, encircling his chin with his hand, as was his habit when in learned discussions. He seemed to have quite forgotten that he had before him a patient for examination. "You read the book of life from the end toward the beginning," said Markus, "and see the world upside down. Why do you babble of a dead dust which would establish a limit to the life of the soul? But all matter is made of living thought, and nothing is lifeless, or formed without life. Mountains and seas are thoughts of the earth; and planets and suns, and all life, are the thoughts of God. The stone at your feet seems to you dead; but neither does the ant that creeps over your hand perceive the life of it. You have built up your own body--" "Out of existent material," cried the professor. "There is nothing existent as the effect of other life, that you cannot search into. And the operations of your life meet on all sides the counter-influences of other lives. But all is spirit and life. Shall, then, a builder say that the house he has built defines the boundary outside of which he cannot go?" "But a race like the human race preserves its permanent characteristics," interpolated Dr. Cijfer. "Why do we term permanent the creatures of one day? There is nothing permanent, and there are no persistent races. Life is a flowing water, a flaming fire--never the same from one second to another. But in your ignorance you make fixed definitions, write dead words and dead books, and imagine that you understand the things that live." There was an instant of silence. Then Markus added: "You have yourselves created death, and placed the barriers. Your words are diseased and rotten; and with those words you would analyze life. Would you perform an operation with unclean knives? But with your dead words you cut into life, and thus spread death." Another silence, and then: "Purify your thoughts and your words. Put away that which is impure--that is, the superfluous. Make a science of words, as you have made a science of the stars--as exact and as sacred. "Through co-operation and fellowship among scholars you have created a system of relations called mathematics. Make also such a system of significations, for you miss your mark with words, and fail to find that life which is the most beautiful and exquisite, as children miss the moths they would catch with their caps and with bags. And through co-operation and fellowship you shall create a demand, the response to which shall ring out like a revelation and an evangel--full, joyous, marvelous." Markus ceased speaking, and gazed as though into the far distance. For a while they all waited, respectfully, to see if he was going to say more, for they had been listening eagerly. Then Dr. Cijfer said, in a gentle tone: "Your views are surely worthy of consideration. Neither did I make a mistake when I thought you a person of advancement and refinement. But let me remind you that we are here for the purpose of making a medical examination. Without doubt you will now indeed reply to the simple questions that I shall put to you." Markus, throwing a glance and a smile to Johannes, who had been listening with breathless attention, said to the learned men: "I spoke not for you; that were fruitless. I spoke for him." After that he uttered not a word. Dr. Cijfer questioned with gentle stress, Professor Bommeldoos with vehement energy; but Markus was silent, and seemed not to notice that there were others in the room. "I adhere to my diagnosis, Colleague," said Bommeldoos. Dr. Cijfer rang, and ordered the nurse to come. "Take the patient to his ward again. He will remain, for the present, under observation." Markus went, after making a short but kindly inclination of the head to Johannes. "Will you not tell us now, Johannes, what you know of this person?" asked Dr. Cijfer. "Mijnheer," replied Johannes, "I know but little more of him than you do yourself. I met him two years ago, and he is my dearest friend; but I have seen him rarely, and have never inquired about his life nor his origin." "Remarkable!" exclaimed Dr. Cijfer. "Once again, Colleague, I stand by my diagnosis," said Bommeldoos. "Initial paranoia, with megalomaniacal symptoms, on the basis of hereditary inferiority, with vicarious genius." XVIII In all this time the King and Queen were not yet married. That was the way of things in such lofty circles. They were still to attend many more banquets, to listen to many more speeches, and to make a great many more bows. I should judge, indeed, that they were just about half-way through. And while most of the people acted as if they thought the ceremonies proper and pleasant, and took their part in the celebrations, there were others, who met to say that they were not altogether pleased. Such gatherings are called "indignation meetings." Of course they do not protest against the marriage of those two people--they have nothing to say against that--but only against the prolonged ceremonials. They consider the banquets, the fine array, the wine-drinking and the feasting occasioned thereby, both costly and unnecessary. They also consider the maintenance of a king and queen costly and unnecessary. Such an opinion is, indeed, very uncommon, if not unheard of; for you remember that even the creatures of the pond into which Johannes dived with Windekind had found the need of a king who could eat a great deal. So, when Jan van Tijn and his wife got ready to attend that indignation meeting, Johannes wished to accompany them; for he was curious to hear what would be said there. Like Marjon, Johannes was now in a boarding-house. He was with some friends of Jan--a worthy couple without children--who kept a total-abstinence coffee-house. The man was named Roodhuis, and he was tall and stout. He had a large, forceful face, light-colored eyes, and a small, fair moustache. He said little, and had a great dislike of alcohol and of soldiers. His wife, too, seldom spoke, but was very kindly and industrious. Through their little business they made a livelihood, and no more. They were interested in everything that concerned the labor movement, and received in their small assembly-place all of the leaders and speakers prominent in the struggle. In that little hall, too, choir rehearsals were held, and little plays were given--as often as possible, adverse to war and to alcohol, and in favor of the so ardently desired Freedom and Fraternity. Here Johannes found board and lodging, for which he did not need to pay, because he lent a helping hand in the work of the place. He had just been having a hard experience: he had bidden his little friends good-by. Although they had grown larger and stronger, and were therefore no longer so tender and delicate as when he first saw them, yet the parting was full of sadness. "Why do you go away, Johnny, and where are you going to live?" they asked. "I am poor, and must work to earn my bread," replied Johannes. "Oh, but Mama will give you money--will you not, Mama? And you can always eat and live here. Then you will not need to work," said Olga. "You can have half of my share of oatmeal every time," said Frieda; "I get more than I want, though." "No, children," said the mother, "it is not nice nor well to live upon what one gets from another, without working one's self. That is parasitism, and sinful before God. Johannes knows this, and being poor he is good to wish to work." "Well, then, dear Johnny," said Olga, "I shall pray that God will make you rich quickly--as rich as we are; and then you will not need to work, and will come back again." "I don't think it nice of God to make Johnny poor and us rich," said Frieda, pouting. "Fie, Frieda, you must not say that," said Mevrouw. And then Johannes went away swiftly and bravely before the tears came. Later, he heard that Van Lieverlee, whom he had not bidden good-by, had told everybody that Johannes had left in a pet to live with some proletarians because of his having been repeatedly rebuked by himself on account of his excessive vanity. * * * * * In the little public room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house, "The Future," a large circle of congenial spirits sat waiting. Jan van Tijn was there, his wife, an infant, and the oldest girl. Marjon was there also, a neighbor having volunteered to care for the other Van Tijn children. Besides those named, there were about twenty other men and women in the little hall with its dirty, dingy hangings. On small tables in front of the visitors were cups of tea and chocolate. Many mothers had brought their infants. There was a dearth of talking and a deal of smoking; for it would have been too much, at the outset, to put a ban upon both alcohol and tobacco. "Well, what did they find with their examination?" asked Jan van Tijn, as Johannes entered the smoky hall. "He is not free yet," replied Johannes, "but he talked with them so finely and sanely they are bound to let him go." "Good!" said Jan. "Come here, Jo. Here's a cup of comfort for you, then," said Vrouw Roodhuis. "But all the same," cried a man with a hoarse voice, a sallow face, and black beard, dressed in a brown Manchester suit, with a loose scarf around his sweater, and a pair of sandals on his bare feet, "you needn't think he will be set free. As soon as you begin to oppose that pest of hypocrites, you'll have the whole crew at your throat. That sort knows it all, every time--whether it be the pastor, or the dominie, or the general, or the professor--always the same pack; and if they once get you into their clutches you never get out again, whether in jail or in the madhouse or in the hospital; you never get out till they've given you a good start toward kingdom-come." "Are they goin' to poison 'im?" asked a woman, in alarm. "What with? Ratsbane?" "They'll poison him, for sure," answered the man in brown, "or they'll nag him to death, or starve him. They have methods and tricks enough--the villains!" It was scarcely half-past eight o'clock yet, and the indignation meeting was to begin at nine. So it was proposed to shorten the time with recitations and singing. And this was done. First some one sang alone--the song of a poor conscript who was forced to go to war, and had conscientious scruples about it. Then they all sang a song of freedom. After that, a very young typographer recited, with great fervor, a poem describing the way the Jews made merry at the crucifixion of Jesus on Golgotha; how they even took their little children with them, and hoped the anguish would be prolonged, that they might have the more pleasure. The description of that cruelty, vehemently expressed, made a deep impression, and they sat listening with open mouths notwithstanding that they had heard it many times before. When it was over they all stamped uproariously on the floor. At that moment the door opened, and Markus stood at the threshold of the little hall. "Hurrah!" cried Johannes; and the others, who had just before been shouting; "Hurrah for Golgotha!" now shouted "Hurrah for Markus!" They were all greatly excited and glad to see him free. "Good-evening," said Markus, without giving token, himself, of being particularly glad. He wore again his customary workman's suit. From all sides hands were held out to him. "I hadn't thought it," said Jan, "that they'd let you out of their clutches again. How did you manage it?" "Let 'im have something to eat, first," said Vrouw Roodhuis. "Aren't you hungry, man? You couldn't have been in clover there." "I shouldn't have had any appetite with all those mad folks about," remarked another woman. "And then, too, when they wanted to poison you!" "Yes, I am hungry," said Markus. And then bread and milk were given him. "Why did you come here again?" asked Marjon. Markus replied simply, "I had something more to say." After he had eaten, he asked, "Is there a meeting to-night? Who called it?" "The politicians," replied the young typographer. "Felbeck wants to be President of the Republic," said the man in brown. "Is there to be a debate?" asked Markus. "Listen! Hakkema is coming, too. Oh, there'll be a racket!" said Jan. "You might say a little something, too, Markus," said Roodhuis. "You must give that confounded military set a good thrashing, just such as you give the pious." "I never have given the pious a 'thrashing,'" said Markus. "That's a damn shame!" said the man with the sandals. "Religion is the root of all evil." "No, it's militarism," said Roodhuis. "No, alcohol," said the young typographer. "Neither of them! It's eating meat that does it," said a pale, slim little woman, not yet twenty. "First you slaughter animals, then you eat them, then you drink, and then you murder and steal. One thing leads to another." "So long, I say, as the people let themselves be taxed and fleeced by kings and priests, so long as they bow to a boss--whether they call him patron or God makes no difference--so long shall we remain in misery." "Now, Markus," said Jan, "put in an oar yourself. You know better how to pull than the rest of 'em, I should say." "Well, I will tell you a story," said Markus, "if you will promise to remember it, and not ask an explanation." "Why not an explanation?" asked the man in brown. "What does that mean? Is it a riddle?" "I would just as soon be silent," said Markus. "Come, now, Markus, pitch in! We won't ask you any more than you want to tell us." "Listen, then," said Markus; and he began his story in a tone which constrained them all to silence. "Once there were some field-laborers who were very poor--so poor that when they were asked how, with all their children, they could make both ends meet, they replied, 'The churchyard helps us out.' "They had a rich landlord, and there was an abundance of land. But they were obliged to work so long every day, and so many days in succession, that they had no time to learn anything--not even the best way to plow and sow and reap. They did only the work they were bidden to do. So they remained dull because they were poor, and poor because they were dull. It seemed as if it would stay thus until eternity. "But the landlord grew richer and richer, through the toil of his many laborers, and according to the increase of his wealth did he become more covetous and dissolute and indolent. And he demanded that his laborers work still harder because his desires were greater. "But that they could not do. And the help of the churchyard was so very great that they were filled with fear. "Then, through their great need, there came to one of them a little spark of light, and he said to the others: 'Brothers, this is all wrong. At this rate we shall very soon perish ourselves. We have hungered long enough. Let us slay him and seize the treasure we have collected for him.' "That seemed to the others a good plan, and they wondered they had not thought of it before. Thereupon they slew the rich landlord, and divided his wealth. But, because he had lived a prodigal life, and since they themselves knew not the best way to plow, to sow, and to reap, they were in a short time still poorer than before. "Then the son of the landlord, who had escaped, returned to them, and said: "'You see it was stupid of you to kill your master, for now you are bound to starve, because you cannot manage for yourselves.' "Then they replied: 'Be to us then a better master, and we will let you live.' "And the son of the landlord, who had the knowledge of his father, directed their work. And he became rich, and they remained poor--so poor that the churchyard had to help, although not to the former extent. Yet was there land in abundance. "But the spark of knowledge which that extreme need had awakened continued to shine, and that one laborer said to his fellow-workers: 'Brothers, still is it not well, for, although we do not yet die ourselves from want, our children die. And although it is not right to slay one's lord, why should it be right to make him so rich that he becomes idle and lewd and wanton? We labor hard, and our toil enriches him. But he saves nothing. When we struck down his father we did not find enough to feed us for a week. We must not suffer this, for our wives and children can live upon what he wastes.' "Then said another: 'We have no need of the landlord, but of his knowledge. For when we had slain our lord we found ourselves no richer. Nor had we the skill to create new wealth. Therefore are we even more miserable than before.' "At that, a third one said: 'Lacking our labor, must he die; but without his knowledge we must starve. Let us go to him, and say that we will not give him our labor unless he give us his knowledge. If he refuse, then we shall die with him; if he assent, then we shall all live.' "This the laborers did. And the young landlord, fearful lest he die, taught all who asked him with what they must fertilize the land, and what to sow, and how to irrigate, and all the secrets of tilling the soil, so that they might live. And he also gave to every one that asked it some land to cultivate, and a handful of grain. 'For my forefathers also began with no more than this,' said he. "Then some of them took the handful of grain and ate it up, because they were so poor and so greedy. And they squandered away their piece of land, and asked not for the knowledge wherewith to till it. "But others, accepting the knowledge, cultivated their piece of land with the mouthful of grain. But because they had for so long suffered a scarcity they were overjoyed at the harvest. And those--the first--who had again become poor, they pressed into their service. So each became a landlord, and they each gave to the first landlord a share of what was theirs. Thus the first landlord remained very rich, while the others were even richer, and the very poorest remained as miserable as before. All that resulted was the renewal of slothfulness, prodigality, and killing. And the churchyard had to keep on helping. "But the spark of knowledge, once lighted, continued to burn, and one laborer said to the others: 'Brothers, still it is not well, for we remain unhappy beings. The rich are unhappy through their over-abundance, and the poor through their poverty. What, then, shall be done that it be otherwise?' "Then said another: 'Brothers, we have taken away from our landlord both his power and his knowledge. We have no further need of him. But what master is it then of whom we have need? For we are as miserable as before.' "Then said another: 'Brothers, we still need a master, but one who will teach us wisdom and charity; for is it not ignorance through which some have eaten up their seed-grain; and a lack of charity that has caused others to waste all their harvest, and compelled the poorest to serve them?' "Then they chose a master who taught them wisdom and charity, and that master said: 'You shall not give full possession of the land, for it is lent to all; and of your harvest shall you not--you and your household--consume more than is good for your health. And all the surplus shall you sow again; for there is land enough. And no man shall work for another who can himself work and yet does not.' "And they did according to this command. And under that master they founded a realm of plenty that was called 'Freedom.'" Markus was silent, and so for a while were his listeners. At last, the man in the brown suit said: "Well, now, but they might have done that just as well without master or mandate." "Say, Markus," said Jan van Tijn, "if you happen to know of such a gentleman, just quietly set me down on the waiting list. My word for it, if he's boss, I'll not go on a strike." "Well, heaven help us! Are you an anarchist?" asked the other. "You throw the whole principle overboard." Jan just glanced at him. "I don't hear anything fall yet," said he, drily. And then, looking to right and left at his neighbors: "D'ye hear anything?" The company laughed. Markus, looking earnestly at him, said: "You can at once enter that service, Jan, as can every one." "What a silly gull!" said he in the brown suit. XIX On the way to the Assembly-room they passed the Royal Residence. The windows were a blaze of light, for another banquet had just been held, and the marriage was thus brought a step nearer. The lackeys looked down at the thronging multitude, and smiled disdainfully. In front of the palace, erect upon their horses, their carbines at their hips, sat the hussars. The people shouted. They wanted to see the bridal pair do some more bowing. And, verily, after a while, open flew the balcony doors, and out came the King and Queen--for all the world like the cuckoo of a clock at the stroke of the hour; and there they bowed and bowed--many times more than the hours that were struck by the clock. Thus the crowd had its will, and shouted to hearts' content. At the same time Johannes also felt, distinctly, a thrill of enthusiasm, although it was mingled with pity; for it did seem as if the crowd found delight in keeping those two poor people bowing, without asking if they had the least desire to do so, so soon after dinner, and after a busy day. * * * * * At the indignation meeting it was very warm and crowded. People stood packed at the entrance. Inside, above a haze of tobacco smoke, Dr. Felbeck could be seen sitting at a table covered with green. In front of him were a black hammer, a carafe, and glasses. The table stood on a little stage between side-scenes that represented a forest by moonlight. There was a great deal of bustle and noise in the hall. Above the clamor rose the cries of the colporteurs reiterating the virtues of their weeklies and pamphlets: "Buy the Pathfinder--three cents!" "Throne, Exchange and Altar; or the Robber Conspiracy Unmasked--one cent!" "Hypocrisy; or the Source of all Depravity--one cent!" "Who are the Murderers?--two cents!" Dr. Felbeck looked around the hall, casting piercing, frowning glances, like a general surveying the field of battle. At times he chatted with the associate chairman who sat beside him, apparently about this or that advocate or opponent whom he observed in the hall. At times, also, he nodded smilingly to some one in the audience. The doors were closed, and no one else was permitted to enter. A few helmeted policemen took their stand at the entrance. The chairman--a spruce young gentleman--after straightening his eye-glasses, grasped with his left hand the old speaker's hammer, rapped upon the table with it, and spoke a few words. Gradually it grew more still. Then Dr. Felbeck stood up, resting upon the table with both hands--his head between his shoulders like a cat about to make a spring. Then, rising to his full height, and glancing several times at his audience--challenging, and certain of success--he began: "Comrades!" * * * * * The speech lasted an hour and a half. What he said accorded very well with that which Johannes had heard him say when they first met. The downtrodden proletarian must in the end gird himself against the oppressor--against the rotten civic society, against the gentry of the safety-box, who are supported by the soldiers, assisted by priests, and represented by the Crown. The people must become conscious of their power, for the people are the source of all wealth, and to the people belongs the future. If only the laborers would act in unison, they would be able to make the laws. They were by far the majority. They might compose the Parliament, command the military, possess the collective wealth. Then they could make better laws, and could take from the rich their unmerited privileges. Then would come a time of real liberty and fraternity. Thereupon Dr. Felbeck made an estimate of the number of guldens a minute that the King had to spend; adding the statement that whole families of laboring men must live for a week upon no more. He showed how many people must work hard, continually, to pay for all that festivity and magnificence. He showed in detail how the rich live, and what splendor was theirs; and he claimed that such beauty and pleasure were the right of each and all. And with tears in his voice, he told them how, with his meagre wages, the poor wage-earner must make both ends meet. He said the laborer must learn to hate his enemy, and not let himself be deluded by oily-tongued preachers of peace who were paid by the rich; for then he would surely remain in his misery. And yet, in the end, they must certainly have a share of the pleasure--they who had heretofore always come out of the little end of the horn. All that Dr. Felbeck said was listened to with avidity. The listeners grew more and more attentive, and the speaker more and more vehement. There were frequent outbursts of laughter from the audience, and the hall trembled with the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands. Sometimes there was cheering to the echo. And when the speaker ended--with a fiery, well-turned clause in which all were urged to join the International Social Democratic Labor-Party--Grand Army of Laborers--there followed such an uproar that Johannes lost all sense of sight and hearing. His duty done, the speaker sat down, yet he looked around with some anxiety at the succeeding speakers. Again the hammer sounded: "Would any one like to add a few words?" Three--four--hands went up. "Hakkema has the Boor." "Oh, indeed!" said Jan. "Now for a Punch-and-Judy session!" Hakkema was a small, stocky man, with long hair combed straight back to his neck. His voice was rough and harsh from much speaking, and as he spoke he dropped his head back, in such a way that his shaggy beard stuck out in front. He began very softly, almost hesitatingly--apparently to flatter the former speaker. But very speedily the audience observed--what every one had expected--that he was deriding him. His deep voice grew steadily louder and rougher, and his jokes tarter and tougher. Part of the audience, carried away, and agog for fresh taunts, burst out in loud, insulting laughter, while another part enlivened itself by hissing and whistling, and by shouts of derision. The irony chiefly concerned the fact that the former speaker termed himself a proletarian, while at the same time he owned a villa at Driebergen, and had a son preparing to be a lawyer. Of course, he appeared to be quite disinterested and would fight for the people, if only the people would be so good as to send him to the House of Representatives, with a salary of forty guldens a week. Certainly, if the King should make Dr. Felbeck Minister to-morrow, with a salary of eight thousand guldens, Dr. Felbeck would accept it out of sheer self-sacrificing devotion to the people. And then the laborer could demand audience of Dr. Felbeck, and ask why the portion on the table of the laborer should still remain so small, and also when the general national distribution would begin. After a half-hour of such talk, the speaker ended with a stimulating appeal for a purified class struggle in which no little lords among the proletarians should be tolerated, and in which--pointing at Dr. Felbeck, who, smiling scornfully, sat sharpening a lead-pencil--the wolves in sheeps' clothing should be restrained; a struggle in which war should be declared, not only against all tyranny, all coercion, but also against the despotism of party; a struggle in which there should be strife until men had a free society where each might take what he pleased, without lords, without bosses, without safety-boxes, without gods, and without laws. The applause for this speaker was none the less thundering, mingled, however, with shrill whistlings, and cries of "Throw him out!" But Felbeck was a match for the man. With furious gestures and banging of his fists on the green-covered table, he called his opponent a deceiver of the people, a man without judgment or conscience, an enemy of the laborer, a sower of discord who would never bring anything to pass save disorder and confusion. The audience grew more and more excited. Ten, twenty speakers at once, stood up in their places. Angry words were shouted back and forth. Everybody thought it time to say something. The women grew nervous, and the policemen looked at their chief as if only awaiting a signal to put an end to the row. All this time, Markus, without having made a sign either of approval or of censure, had been sitting between Marjon and Johannes, with the family of Van Tijn. "Have you been listening, Markus?" asked Marjon, for it seemed to her as if his thoughts were elsewhere. But he nodded "Yes." "Say something, then," said Marjon. "Yes, do," urged Johannes. "Tell them which one is right." "Speak out, Markus. The one who knows ought to tell," said Van Tijn. "That is not easy to do," said Markus. Then he stood up. His figure now, as always, riveted attention, and the adroit leader of a tumultuous meeting felt instantly to whom he must yield the floor in order to re-establish calm. Thus Markus' first words rang out, amid the lessening uproar, as in a subsiding storm. And as he spoke it finally grew very still. But there was no sign either of assent or of disagreement. "There are fathers and mothers here," said Markus, "who know what spoiled children are. The spoiled child that is always coaxed and indulged, like the one that is always constrained, becomes at last capricious, malicious, and sickly. "Shall we then treat one another as we may not our children? People are flattered by undue praise of their power and influence--are carried away by the sweetness of fine words concerning the injustice they have too long endured and concerning their right to property and to happiness. You all listen to that eagerly, do you not? "But that to which one listens most eagerly, it is not always best to say. There are things hard to hear, which must, however, be said and be listened to. "I know that you are not going to applaud me, as yon did those two others; but yet I am a better friend to you than they are. "Among you there are those who suffer injustice. Yet you must not exalt yourselves. You should be ashamed of it. For whoever continues to suffer injustice is too weak, too stupid, or too indifferent to overcome it. "You must not ask, 'Why is it done to me?' but, 'Why cannot I overcome it?' "The answer to that question is, Weakness, stupidity, and indifference. "I do not blame you; but I say, blame not others, only yourselves. That is the sole way to betterment. "Is there one here--a single one--who dares assure me, solemnly, that if an honorable place were offered him by his master, on account of his good work and his good judgment, with higher pay than that of his comrades--that he would, in such case, reply, 'No, my master, I will not accept; for that would be treachery to my comrades, and desertion to your party.' Is there one such? If so, let him stand up." But no one stirred, and the silence remained unbroken. "Well, then," continued Markus, "neither is there here a single one who has the right to rail at the rich whom he would hate and supplant. For each of you in their place would do what the rich do. The affairs of the world would be no better conducted were you, not they, at the helm. "How you delude and flatter and fawn upon one another! You continually hear that you are the innocent, downtrodden ones who have so much to suffer; who are worthy of so much better things; who are so good and so powerful; who would rule the world so well; whose turn it now is to have ease and luxury. "Men, even if this were so, would it be well that you should always be told it? Would it not make of you conceited fools? Would not the reality revenge itself frightfully upon yourselves, and upon those fawners and flatterers? "It is, instead, falsehood and conceit. "You would not rule the world better--you have neither the wisdom nor the charity to do so. You are no more worthy of pity than are your oppressors, for when they injure your bodies they injure also their own souls. The rich are in paths more perilous than are the poor, and it is always better to suffer wrong than to commit it. "The good things of the earth do not yet belong to you, for you would make the same misuse of them as do those against whom you are being incited. "Wage war, and desist not until death; but the war of the righteous against the unrighteous, of the wise and charitable against the stupid and sensual. And question not whence come your companions in arms, for you are not the only unhappy ones, you are not alone merciful among men, and good-will and uprightness are not the exclusive possessions of the poor." * * * * * Although it seemed to Johannes that Markus' voice was not so wonderfully impressive as at other times, the people had become very attentive. And when he stopped, and sat down without having made a particularly oratorical or cumulative close, they all were still for many seconds. But not a foot stamped, not a hand stirred. And this very silence made Dr. Felbeck angry. "Comrades," he began, in his most scornful manner, with an envious, nasal twang in his voice, "we do net need to ask whence the wind blows. This is one more of that obsolete little band of old-fashioned, bourgeois idealists who wish to reform the world with tracts and sermons, and to keep the toilers content in subjection and resignation. Laborers, have you not, I ask, practised patience long enough? Have you, then, no right to the pleasures of life? Must you fill the hungry stomachs of your little ones with palaver about wisdom and charity?" "No, no!" roared the crowd, freed instantly from the spell of respect under which for a moment they had been held. "Do not let yourselves be befogged by those tedious maunderings that would reason away the strife of the classes. Oh, true! To such the gentlemen of the safety-box listen eagerly enough, for they are, oh, so afraid of the War of the Classes! But if they were to hear this gentleman talk, they would shout their approval. Take notice, this gentleman will do much to further it. Of course, they have his medal all ready for him." "And a pension," said Hakkema, while the audience laughed. "He is an unfrocked priest," said he in the Manchester suit. "Damn ye, are ye a workman?" cried a voice at the back of the hall. "And do ye mean to say it's my fault that my children perish with hunger, and not the fault of those cursed blood-suckers? You 're a God-forsaken hypocrite, no laborer!" Markus sat very still, gazing straight before him into the flame of a gas-jet. But Johannes saw that he was deathly pale, and that his eyes seemed to sink deeper into their sockets. Beads of perspiration were standing on his temples. Hakkema stood up. "Now I chance to know, fellow-laborers, that this man has escaped from a madhouse. That is a mitigating circumstance. Otherwise," Hakkema went on, drawing his clenched hand from his pocket, and thrusting it out in front of him, "otherwise I would have my fist at his jaw, and ask him if he had no feeling at all in his accursed carcass, that he begrudged the laborer his pittance of the good things of life. It's an enormous amount of pleasure, isn't it--glorious pleasure--you've been able to get on two hundred cents a day!" "You cad!" cried the young typographer, to Markus--the very same youth who had recited the poem about Golgotha. "I'll invite you sometime to my home--with my six children, and a seventh one coming, and the clothes in the pawn-shop, and no warm food for three days--then you can see what a fine time of it the laborer has." "Vile, hateful traitor!" "Hireling socialist!" "I'll ring yer neck for ye!" "I'll guzzle yer blood, ye hateful cur!" Such cries as these rang from various sides, and the uproar steadily increased. The man in the brown suit shrieked invectives without cessation--"Cad! Carrion! Thief!" and the worst ones he could think of; while, in his excitement, the tears ran down his pale, drawn cheeks. The din was deafening. Johannes clenched his fists, and stared at the pale, passionate faces with their evil, flashing glances, which threatened them on every side. He saw Marjon beside him, her eyes distended with terror. Markus sat immovable. The drops of moisture were so thick upon his forehead and cheeks that Johannes took his handkerchief and wiped them away. Jan van Tijn stood up, but he felt he could do nothing to stem that tide. He began, "Say, are you people--" But he was shouted down, with threats of a broken head; and already fists and chairs were upraised. Then the chief gave the signal, for which the police had so long waited, and declared in a hard, impartial voice that the place must be vacated. And this work was expedited, with the calm satisfaction of officials who had indeed hoped that matters would end thus--as usual. The Roodhuis family and the Van Tijns remained with Markus, while Johannes and Marjon were a little in the rear. Roodhuis and Van Tijn wished, they said, to protect Markus if he should need their help. Markus said, "No need." "Please, Markus," pleaded Van Tijn, "don't think it means so much. I know the workmen. They fly off the handle so easily, but by morning they'll shriek something else. They're not so bad--only a bit rough, you know--sort o' half wild yet. Will ye believe me, Markus, and not despise 'em for't, nor turn yer back on 'em for't, Markus?" "No, Jan, surely not, if only I have the strength," said Markus, in a hoarse, unsteady voice. XX One chilly autumn day, the three sat together in a gloomy bar-room, just as formerly they had done in the small mining town. And, also, the fourth one was there, but in a pitiable condition. Keesje lay in Markus' lap, under a covering of faded, old red baize. His little black face was as full of folds as an old shoe, his body wasted away, and he was panting and gasping for breath. A hairy little arm came out from under the red baize, and a long, slim black hand clasped Markus' thumb; and whenever Markus had occasion to use his hand, one could see the little black monkey-hand stretch out and feel around, while the brown eyes looked restlessly backward, as if now all safety were gone. They were in the total-abstainers' coffee-house, for Roodhuis continued to proffer hospitality to Markus, although this did not help his business. After that indignation meeting Markus' stay with Roodhuis was made an excuse by all his friends for their avoidance of the coffee-house. Except Van Tijn and a few other independent ones, none of the old customers returned; but Roodhuis would not permit Markus to go away on that account. "Now, you must never again lower yourself for that rabble that doesn't understand you, anyway, and isn't worth the trouble," said Marjon, with the pride of one who knows what takes place in high circles, and esteems one's self of better origin. "Tell me, Johannes, what you would do," said Markus, kindly, while he warmed Keesje's little hand in his own. "I do not know, Markus," replied Johannes. "It was a wretched evening, for I could not endure that it should cost you so dearly. But if they had done it to me I would not have cared." "That is right," said Markus. "And now, my dear Johannes, do not think that I am less submissive than yourself. Did you indeed fancy it?" Johannes shook his head. "Well, then, it is not scorn which humiliates, but the doing of unworthy deeds. And those people are not less worthy of my help than they were before. Evil inclinations are good inclinations gone astray." "Then are there not any wicked people?" asked Marjon. "Ay, ay! Because there is not a black light, is there therefore no night? Calmly call a villain a villain, but take care that you are not one yourself, Marjon." "But are there not, for the Father, any evil-doers?" asked Johannes. "Why should there not be for the Father what there is for us? But He knows--what we do _not_ know--the why and the wherefore." "But, Markus, I saw what you endured that wretched evening. And it must not be. Must you, then, let what is high and noble be so misunderstood and defiled?" Markus bowed his head in silence over the coughing monkey. Then he said gently: "I have suffered, my two dear ones, because my Father has not given me strength enough. Did you not see how they listened to me, and trusted, for an instant? But then my Father, in His own way, which is beyond our comprehension, gave power again to the Evil One. Had I more wisdom I should have been able so to speak that they would have understood me. Thus I suffered doubly: on account of their dulness and wickedness, and from shame, not of them, but because of my own weakness. And this I say, Johannes, that you may know what weakness also there is in one who is stronger than you yourself will ever be." Johannes, his chin upon his clasped hands, looked at him long and thoughtfully, and then whispered: "Dear Brother, I believe I understand." In this way they lived together for some time, and saw one another frequently. Johannes and Marjon performed their daily tasks in the boarding-house, and Markus went out every day to look for work. But Johannes was sad and troubled to see that Markus looked more pale and weary than formerly; and as Johannes lay awake in the night, he heard his brother, who slept beside him, sigh often, and softly moan. One morning Markus did not go out, for Keesje lay still, looking, and could neither get up nor eat. When Markus took away his hand Keesje began to whine; and this brought on a paroxysm of coughing. Markus set him in a patch of sunshine that fell upon the counter from an upper window. There he brightened up a bit, and looked at the flies that, chilled with the cold, crept over the counter near his head. But toward night, when Marjon came, it was all over with Keesje. He was all shriveled up, and as light as a handful of straw. They put him into a cigar box, and the trio buried him at night, by the light of a lantern, in the bit of soggy, black ground between the foul fences that had to represent a garden, and where shavings and papers supplied the place of flowers and trees. Marjon and Johannes tried to control themselves, but did not succeed. First one and then the other began to cry. "Truly, it is silly," said Johannes, "sobbing over such a creature, when so many thousands of people are starving every day." Said Markus, "There are thousands starving here, and infinitely many more in all parts of my Father's world, but yet none cry a tear too much who cry as you do now. The tears that the angels will shed for Johannes, he will need as much as Keesje needs these tears of his." XXI At last they had had enough of smiling, of dining, and of bowing, and the King and Queen were actually to be married in the Cathedral, at eleven o'clock in the morning. Furthermore, it was to be a great feast day, with brilliant illuminations at night, in all the towns of the good Netherlands. * * * * * What Hakkema had said of Markus--that he had escaped from an asylum--was not true. He had simply been released because he was not considered dangerous, and because, nowadays, the asylums, especially those of the working-class, are already too crowded. But he had been warned sternly that a watch would be kept over him, and that he would be rearrested at the slightest disturbance of the peace. Since the indignation meeting, the police had been a number of times to see Roodhuis, to inquire after Markus. It was further said that he had been advised not to speak in public, because such speaking might furnish a pretext for his immediate arrest. Markus had not again spoken in public, but had been seeking work. Sometimes he went afoot to neighboring towns, many hours' distant--but always fruitlessly. He did not always lodge with Roodhuis, but sometimes with a kind-hearted and trusted friend, at another place. Johannes noticed that Markus was very poor, for he was obliged to live upon what his friends gave him, and they could spare but little. "Why do we not travel together, we three," asked Johannes, "just as we used to? We could surely earn our living." "Yes, those were good times," said Marjon. "And if Markus would go with us, we would have still better ones. He makes even better music than ours. We shall earn money." But Markus shook his head. "No, dear children, for us three those good times will not come again. My singing-time is passed, and I must remain here, for my task is not yet done. But it soon will be." "And then shall we go together?" asked Marjon. "No; then I shall go alone," replied Markus, briefly. "Why alone?" asked Johannes and Marjon, almost in the same breath. And there followed a silence of some moments' duration. Then said Markus: "You will be faithful and remember me and my words, and act as if I were with you, will you not?" They sighed, and thereafter their words were few and brief; nor did they sing. * * * * * But on the morning of that festal day, when the bells of all the Netherlands were ringing, Markus came into the little tavern with a face more joyful than Johannes had ever seen him wear. His eyes shone, and a smile was on his lips. "Do you hear the bells, Johannes?" asked he. "It is a holiday." Johannes had entirely forgotten about the holiday. "How splendid, Markus, to have you so glad. Has something good happened?" "Have you struck it?" asked Juffrouw Roodhuis. "Happy man!" "The worst is over," said Markus. "Yes, Juffrouw, to-day I'll 'strike it', and it is well." After eating some bread, said he: "Johannes, go to the Van Tijns and ask if Marjon may go with us. If you would like to, we will go to see the King and Queen." "Where?" asked Johannes. "In the church, Johannes. The sexton is a good friend of mine, and has promised me a place for you both, near the singers." I shall not tell you in detail of the ceremony, for you may read all about it in the papers: how the church was crammed with the stateliest and most distinguished citizens of the Netherlands, all of them beautifully dressed; how the floral decorations were furnished by a certain firm; how people stood at the door all night that they might be the first to enter in the morning; how the bridal pair came in to the music of Mendelssohn's wedding march; how charming the bride looked, although a little pale; how an impressive train of brilliantly decorated military men and magistrates followed the royal pair, and grouped themselves about them, till the church interior seemed truly magnificent; how respectfully the people stood, and how stirred they all were; how the Minister made a brief but touching speech, that affected all profoundly; how finely, during the customary formalities, the King carried himself, and how winsomely the Queen; how the Queen, moreover, said "Yes" in a voice that thrilled all present; how the King then spoke a few words, in which he promised to consecrate all his powers to the good of his beloved people, and invoked the blessing-of God upon his difficult but exalted task; and how, finally, a thundering "Long live the King!" and "Long live the Queen!" burst forth, making the whole vast edifice resound. With all of this the papers have accurately acquainted you. But you might perhaps recall that a number of journals had something to say of a slight disturbance caused by the appearance of one who probably was not quite right in his head. The incident, however--so the papers averred--had no significance whatever, and was speedily forgotten; such instances often occurring at ceremonies attended by great crowds. The disturber of the peace--so the papers stated--was one whom the police had long held under surveillance, on account of his peculiar behavior. He was, therefore, promptly taken into custody, the police, indeed, having had no little difficulty in protecting him from the fury of the populace. The royal pair, not in the least agitated by the occurrence, drove home through the enthusiastic rejoicings of the people, greeting all with friendly smiles. This, then, was the information imparted by some few of the newspapers--not all of them. But now I will tell you what actually took place. I know well, because Johannes and Marjon--for whom the sexton had secured a fine place with the singers in the church choir, and who, therefore, witnessed everything--told me all about it. * * * * * In the nave of the cathedral, above the arches of the aisles, and running beneath the high windows, is a very narrow gallery having a stone balustrade. The only way to this gallery is through small doorways called "Monks' Holes." They are so named because from them, in olden times, the friars could witness the church rites below. When the King had ended his brief speech, and all present, being deeply impressed, held respectful silence, there appeared up above, through one of these openings, a man in a spacious, dun-grey mantle, with a white cloth about his neck. And suddenly, in the deep silence, the voice of this man--much fuller and more powerful than that of the King--cried out, so that they echoed and re-echoed from every corner of the great temple, these words: "King of men!" At once everybody looked up, including the King and Queen, who were directly opposite. But the man was not looking at them. He held his head a little backward, and his dark hair fell down in curls over the white linen. His eyes, beneath their half-closed lids, were gazing into the light of the arched windows opposite him as if to screen the inner vision from the too fierce outer light. His figure was tall and erect. One hand rested on the white balustrade, the other was raised to the height of his head, in a strange and majestic posture of authority. Again he cried: "Hail to thee, King of men!" The master of ceremonies with his white staff, the generals, stiff with gold, the diplomats and magistrates, all looked with something of wonder, by turns at the speaker, at one another, and at the royal pair, not knowing but that it was a special addition to the program, of which there was no official mention. But since it had made an impression, and seemed to befit the temper and spirit of the assembly, all continued to listen. And the conductor of the choir of children, whose turn it now was to take part, waited and listened as well. And quite without hindrance, Markus spoke the following: "Hail to him who should be called the King of men!-Blessed is he who merits that name. "For he is crowned by the grace of God, which is wisdom. His sceptre is love, and his seat is righteousness. "Among the millions who wander and complain, he is the strong and wise one, who goes before and lights the way. "Blessed is his progress, for without effort he leads the multitude. "Blessed are his thoughts, for beyond all others he fore-sees the marvels of the Father. "Blessed is his word, for he is the poet who fashions worlds after the pattern of the Father. God's mouthpiece he is. "Joyful is he in the midst of sadness and happy in all adversity; for wherever he goes he dwells in the shadow of the Eternal, and hears His wings above him. "Among the countless lame and maimed, in the multitude of the defective and infirm, he is the only perfect one, showing what it is possible for man to be. "Strong is he, and beautiful in person; proud and unpretentious; daring and patient; wise in great, and sagacious in lesser, things; stern in deed, yet tender-hearted; unlimited in love; gentle, but never weak. "For he is the only hale flower of perfect bloom in a full field of the pale and the deformed. Honor be to him! Elect him, and encompass him with care and with homage; for in him exists the future and the entire race. "He is the director of the ways of men, and bears with ease the burden of their sorrow and their care, for he knows the issue and the solution. "He is the maker and maintainer of order in human relations, because he knows and comprehends, and beholds in his mind, like an accurate map, the longings and emotions of men. "He operates not through pressure of fear or force, but through the superiority of his mind, which must be perceptible to all. "He is the regulator of the labor of men, teaching them how to bring forth and to distribute in such manner that none may have overflow while others suffer scarcity; and also that none may be idle while others overwork. He plans and confirms the bond through which each finds his place in the great family, so that life becomes fine and orderly and easy, like the figures of a well-drilled dance. "Such is the King of men. His power is given him, not through the unreasoning, capricious fancy of the undeveloped who are the slaves of custom and of idle, impressionable fear, but through the reasonable views of the multitude who follow and honor, in him, their own best self. "He moves not in the splendor of external pomp, neither wears he a golden crown; but around his head streams, visible to all, the grace of God, which is wisdom, love, and beauty." * * * * * When Markus had said this, people here and there began to be restless. The master of ceremonies indicated that enough had been said, and sent one lackey to the choir-conductor to ask why, according to regulations, there was no singing, and another lackey to the door to see if the carriages were in waiting. But the carriages were not yet there, and the children who were to sing the chorus now in order, remained, with perplexed faces and open mouths, gazing at that strange figure speaking as if out of the sky in such a marvelous voice. The conductor failed to attract their attention, and realized that all his painstaking, studious preparations for the song were useless. Markus paid not the slightest heed to the increasing unrest and nervousness, nor to the commanding gestures of the irritated master of ceremonies that he cease speaking; instead, he now raised his voice until it reverberated from the high vaultings: "Where is he, that King of men? "Where is the people's King? Where is the people's Queen--his peer--who supports and supplements him? "Seek them, ye unhappy ones! Never so much as now have you had need of them. "Seek them in every land; for misery and ugliness and barrenness and confusion are not much longer to be endured. "Seek them in the city and in the country. Seek them also in the alleys and in the hovels. Yes, seek them in the prisons and in the places of execution. For even so great is your confusion." Then, bending his head toward the royal pair below, and fastening upon them and the surrounding group of splendid notables his flashing glance, Markus shouted in vehement, resounding tones: "But seek them not here. Has the light of the grace of God pointed hither? "Has the grace of God become here evident to all, like a shining aureole of wisdom and love and beauty? "What children and mischief-makers you are--you there, with your robes of state, and your badges of dignity,--that you think to create a king without the manifestation of the grace of God! "Deluded by an empty sound, by a dynastic name, you in your ignorance would proclaim, 'Here is a king, and here therefore must God's grace be manifested, for even so we wish it to be.' "Would you, like mischief-makers and frivolous bugle-blowers, dictate to your God, and show Him where to bestow His grace? "Who has beheld in this pair of wretched human beings the wisdom, beauty, love, and power which are the visible tokens of God's elect? "Do you not tremble, then, at the fearful responsibility you take upon yourselves, and put also upon these two pitiable people, by this blasphemous child's-play?" * * * * * The excitement now became more serious. That the King and Queen, counts and barons, generals, court marshals, state counselors and ministers should be called mischief-makers and frivolous bugle-blowers, was not to be tolerated. The King grew red, coughed in his glove, and looked angrily at the master of ceremonies. The Queen, on the contrary, grew pale, and nervously fingered the folds of her heavy, white-satin train. Half turning round, a quick-witted courtier beckoned to the organist, and shouted: "Music!" A general--Johannes recognized him as one of the "Pleiades"--in an attempt at guarding his Rulers, cried out with all the dramatic importance and bluffness of a war-charge: "Silence, miscreant!" But it had to be admitted that this sounded more ridiculous than impressive. And not one of the courtiers, officers, or magistrates felt individually powerful enough to set himself by voice and bearing against that forceful speaker. Each felt that he would appear theatrical. And the man in the grey cloak, up above there, was not that. Besides, the assembly gave no countenance to such effort, and was, like every great gathering of people, under the influence of the most powerful personality. At last, the organist comprehended what was desired of him in this critical situation, and drawing out all the stops he sent forth a heavy peal of trembling sound. In the meantime, two policemen were despatched aloft to silence the undesirable speaker. But the majestic music rang out upon the words of Markus as if in solemn confirmation. So at least it seemed to Johannes, and to many others in the church. Markus ceased speaking, and appeared to be listening, pensively. The policemen returned without having attained their object. The gallery could only be reached by climbing over a great beam, having broken and decayed supports, one hundred feet above the floor. The officers, becoming dizzy, lost their zest for the affair, and the firemen had to be sent for. The music stopped again, and yet there was no continuance of the ceremonies. Markus still stood calmly in his elevated place, looking down upon the throng below with that sad expression of countenance which Johannes knew so well. And yet again, softer, but with keen and cutting penetration: "Oh, ye poor, poor people! Slaves of the devil, called custom! "You know no better, and cannot do otherwise. You mean to perform your duty, and to reach that which is good and holy. "How would you possibly find your King? And how would you maintain order--holy order--without these two people; without him whom you happen to have named your king, as you might have named some foundling? "But notwithstanding you have felt, every one of you, that I spoke the truth just now, you yet will continue this unblushing lie because you dare not do otherwise, and because you know no other way. "But bethink yourselves, unhappy beings! Cowardice and weakness shall not excuse you, if, knowing the lie, you adhere to it, and, seeing the truth, you accept it not. "What you endure is indeed terrible. I esteem you still more worthy of pity than the neglected people out of whose misery you have extracted your splendor. "You have burdened this poor pair of human beings with royalty--a power befitting only the strongest and the wisest among men. "Thus do you crush their weak spirits under a weight which only the strongest can bear. You desecrate the name of King--you blaspheme against God, whose grace is not subject to your command. "You dazzle your bewildered people with a blinding glare, as if they truly had a king. But it is an idle puppet-show, to comply with a hollow peace and a defective method. There is none among you who has the wisdom and the might to lead this people into righteousness; and yet you bear all the responsibility for their confusion, their ignorance, their crudeness, and their misery. "And they are the least guilty, because, in working for your luxury, they miss the opportunity to learn. "But you pride yourselves upon your knowledge and your refinement. You know how the industrious lack food, and the rich have the privilege of idleness. You know how an over-abundance flows to you from the deprivations of the neglected. You know the injustice of all this, and yet permit it. And on these two unfortunates you impose the responsibility and the lie. "But you know--and you shall not be justified! "And you, two unfortunates, corrupted by the burden of your imposed greatness--poor man, poor, poor little woman! The superhuman power to break the spell of lies round about you will not be yours. May the Good Father, who hath not poured out His grace upon you, encompass you with His compassion." * * * * * Just then an excited young adjutant drew out a revolver, and cried, "He insults the Queen!" A more moderate diplomat, fearing a panic, held back his hand. The cry "He insults the Queen!" was repeated at the entrance to the church. And an uproar was heard outside, for, at the coming of the firemen, the waiting crowds had overheard something about a murderer, or a madman, who was in the upper part of the church. The helmeted men now appeared in the small gallery, and dragged Markus aside. They immediately bound him with strong cords, fearing he might throw them down below. Then one of them first made his way over the big beam, and ordered Markus to come to him. After that, the other cautiously followed. The assembly could not see this, because it took place in the dark ridge of the aisle; but all breathed freely once more, now that the powerful voice up above was silent. Again the organ pealed forth, and the royal pair, ceremoniously preceded by the court official, at last proceeded toward the exit, for the carriages were now ready. The singing by the children was omitted. Everything else went just as the daily papers have recorded it for you. * * * * * Markus, tightly bound, was led out through a side door, yet not so secretly but that the crowd became aware thereof, and a riotous mob soon encircled the firemen and their prisoner. "The Queen insulted!" they shrieked. "Kill him! Orange forever!" And they pressed closer and closer. When Johannes and Marjon, hurried and breathless, had forced their way out through the disorderly throng, they saw, in the distance, above the encircling crowds, the shining helmets, swaying and undulating as they gradually moved farther and farther away. Hands, hats, walking-sticks, and umbrellas could be seen, now uplifted and then lowered. The two followed on, in extreme anxiety, but they were not so fortunate as to get close by. They saw the red, angry faces of men and women, and heard the shouts of, "Orange forever!" and "Kill him!" At last, to their relief, they saw approaching a long file of policemen, who forced their way through the crowd. The people now pressed closely about the entrance to a narrow alley in which was the police-station. Then Johannes saw a man take up a large iron ash-can that stood on a stoop at the corner of the alley, and toss it so that it came down in the middle of the clamoring crowd where Markus was. A great cloud of yellow-white ashes flew from it, and the rabble laughed and cheered. The police cleared the alley, and the mob slowly scattered, with the triumphant shout: "Orange forever!" When Johannes peered into the alley, between the policemen who would not let him through, he saw Markus--no longer walking, but only an inert body under the weight of which the firemen were moving with shuffling feet. Marjon and Johannes waited patiently during what seemed an hour. It might have been only fifteen minutes. Then they obtained permission to pass through, and to see their brother in the station-house. When questioned, an officer, who was sitting at the entrance, pointed over his shoulder with his pipe-stem to a dark corner. There, upon the wooden floor, unconscious, lay Markus. His clothing was torn to rags; his hair, his beard, his eyebrows and lashes, were white with ashes; and over all were dark red clots and streaks of coagulated blood. He breathed heavily and painfully. There was no one close beside him, and he lay unwashed and uncared for, with the rope still around his wrists. Johannes and Marjon asked for water, but were not permitted to do anything. They had to wait until the municipal doctor came. Tightly clasping each other's hand, they waited, watching their friend. At last the doctor came, and cut away the rope. It was not a mortal hurt, he said. They saw the ambulance, with its white awning come, and saw Markus laid therein. Then, hand in hand, they walked behind to the door of the hospital, without speaking a word. * * * * * That evening there were great rejoicings and brilliant illuminations in all the towns and villages of the dear Netherlands. Everywhere there were flaming torches and exploding fireworks, and on all sides rang strains of "Wilhelmus!" and "Orange forever!" The King and Queen were glad when at last the day was ended. XXII Johannes and Marjon both held out bravely until night, doing their daily work as well as they could, and telling briefly, to the few faithful friends of Markus, what had occurred. But when the lonesome night was come, and they were about to part for several hours, Johannes said: "No, do not go away from me! How can I endure it--alone with my thoughts--without you!" They were in the little kitchen where Marjon slept. A small lamp, without a shade, stood burning on the table beside an untidy coffee-set. When Johannes said this, Marjon looked at him with puzzled, half-closed eyes, as if she did not understand and was trying to think it out. Then she threw herself forward upon her pillow, her face in her hands, and began to cry piteously. At that Johannes also broke down, and kneeling beside her poor, rickety little iron bed, he cried with her like one in desperation. Then said Johannes: "What shall we do without him, Marjon?" Marjon made no reply. "Do you remember that he said he should soon go away from us?" "If only I could nurse him," she said. "Is he going to die?" asked Johannes. "He can die as well as we. Is he not flesh and blood?" "He will never really die, though." "Nor will we, Jo. But what does that avail us? I can't do without him." And she sobbed again, hopelessly. "Perhaps it is not so had," said Johannes. "We will call in the morning, and they surely will let us see him." And so they talked on for a time. Then Johannes said: "Let me stay with you, Marjon. It really seems as if I never again could go away from you." Marjon looked at him through her tears, and even smiled. "But, Jo, we cannot do as we used to. We are no longer children. I am already eighteen, and are you not that also?" "Then let us become husband and wife, so that we can remain together," said Johannes. "Then you no longer love that other one more than me?" "I think not, Marjon; for she would understand nothing of this, and certainly would not join us in our sorrow." "But, dear boy, we are far too young to become husband and wife." "I do not understand, Marjon. First you find us too old to stay together, and then you find us too young. And yet I want to remain with you. How can it be done?" "Listen, Jo. Formerly you said to me, 'No foolishness,' and that hurt me for I cared much more for you than you did for me. Why were you never more kind to me then?" "Because I was forced to remember that ugly, dark woman, your sister. I cannot bear the thought of her." Marjon reflected a while, and then said: "But that is no reason for you to be hard toward me, Jo. I am not low, like her." Johannes was silent. Then she resumed: "But then I know what, Jo: you may stay here. But now _I_ shall say 'No foolishness,' and remain unyielding until you shall have forgotten that ugly woman. Will that do?" "Yes, Marjon," replied Johannes. Then a pillow and some covering were given him, and he lay on the hard floor of the little kitchen the entire night. And now and then, as one of them became aware that the other was still awake, they would talk together, softly, about their poor friend, each trying to comfort the other. And thus it happened, as I told you it would, that, before the ending of the book, they became husband and wife. But when Johannes forgot the ugly, dark woman Marjon's sister I do not tell you; for that does not concern others. XXIII The humble little kitchen, in the first pale, glimmering light that passed through the unwashed, uncurtained window; two rush-bottomed chairs; the unpainted table with the oil-lamp and the untidy coffee-set; Marjon's narrow iron bed, which quaked if she merely stirred; her breathing, now deep and regular, for at last she slept; the first chirping of the sparrows out-of-doors; continually before Johannes' mental vision the pale face of his kind Brother, befouled with blood and ashes; in his ears the powerful voice resounding through the arches of the church; the howling of the mob; and then--his own body, stiff and sore, on the hard, wooden boards.... Then, all at once, light! Bright, golden sunlight, a mild, refreshingly fragrant air, all pain away, an elastic, feather-light body--and the majestic sound of the sea. Where was he? Where--where! Oh, he knew; he felt in himself where he was. He recognized the feeling of self-consciousness, although he had not recalled his surroundings. But he heard the ocean--heard it roaring grandly as only it roars on a level, sandy coast; and he heard the whistling of wind in the rushes. And he watched the play of the grey-green waves as they came rolling in--their long lines of shining breakers crested with combing white, dashing and splashing and foaming over the flat stretches of sand. He had seen it all for years, and every day it was the same, from age to age. And when he glanced round to see if his little friend Wistik, whom he hoped to find, was also here, he saw, close beside him, a bright little figure sitting quite still and gazing out over the sea. It was not Wistik. No, for this one had the large, gauzy wings of a dragon-fly, and a little mantle of delicate blue waving gently in the sea-breeze. "Windekind!" exclaimed Johannes. Then the bright being looked at him, and he recognized the dear, enigmatical eyes, and the exquisite hair--a bloom-like blonde like the mere sheen of gold--with its flower-crown of green and white. "Here we are again," said Windekind. "Then did you not die with Father Pan?" asked Johannes, in astonishment. "I live forever," said Windekind. Johannes thought this over. He was tranquil again, as he always was here. Life, so rude and painful, seemed now very far away. He felt only calmness and contentment, although he well knew that his body still lay on the hard floor. Then he asked, "Does not that bore you?" Windekind laughed, and held out in front of him his flower, which he used as a staff. It was not an iris, but a strange, splendid blossom--a lily or an orchid--blue, striped with white and gold. "Silly boy!" said he. "To be bored is to be no longer able to enjoy anything. I am not a human being, that gets bored after a few years. I am not weary of happiness." "Never?" asked Johannes. "That I do not know," answered Windekind; "but not yet. If life were to bore me, then I should die and return to my Father. He can never grow weary." "And have you grown still wiser?" Windekind looked tenderly and very seriously at Johannes. "Do you see my flower?" he asked. "This is not my old iris. This is much more beautiful. Oh, Mother Earth is greatly changed; and so am I." Johannes looked about him. But everything appeared as before: the long lines of delicate green dunes; the sky, all mottled with white clouds; the graceful sea-gulls rocking in the wind, with their cry of grand and lonely liberty. But on the water not a sail was to be seen, nor on the strand a person. "How good it is to see you again," said Johannes. "I have been so sorry about Father Pan. And now I am very anxious about my poor Brother." But as Johannes said this he felt quite calm and peaceful; and this puzzled him. Windekind looked at him, and smiled mysteriously. "That was a long time ago," he said. And when Johannes gazed at him in amazement, he repeated: "Long ago--quite a thousand years." "A thousand years?" murmured Johannes, mistrustfully. "Yes, truly a thousand years," said Windekind, positively. "I have grown old, although you cannot see it in me. But the longer those of my race live, the younger they grow, in nature and appearance. Learn that yourself, Johannes--it is well to. I have grown stronger with the centuries, and more elastic--wiser and more loving. That's the way. I have not now an enemy upon earth. I have made up with that small goblin Wistik. He is a right good fellow, after all." "Is he not?" exclaimed Johannes, delighted. "I too have noticed that." "Yes," said Windekind, "when he has a leader. I have also become reconciled to human beings." "Oh, splendid, splendid!" cried Johannes. "I know who has done that!" "Right!" said Windekind, nodding. "Your good Brother did it." Then Johannes saw great numbers of sea-gulls flocking together from all sides, wheeling and screaming because of something in the distance that was drawing nearer from out over the sea. It was like a large bird soaring on vast, silently outspread wings. The fierce sunlight fell upon it, making it flash like burnished gold, or like some shining metal. As it came nearer Johannes saw that it had the pretty colors of a swallow, steel-blue, brown and white, but with gilded beak and claws, and that long, variegated feathers, or ribbons, were streaming out behind, because of its rapid flight. The exquisite white of the circling, screaming sea-gulls was in sharp contrast with the huge, dark-colored hulk. A soft, clear sound came from above, as of clinking glass attuned like bells. "What is that immense creature?" asked Johannes; for the shadow of it moved over the sea like that of a cloud. "That is not a creature," replied Windekind. "There are human beings in it, but they are not at all ugly now, nor ridiculous. Only look!" And Johannes saw, from its immobility, that it was not a bird, but a colossal air-ship in the form of a bird. And also he could see, clearly, that lightly dressed figures were moving to and fro along the decks, tossing crumbs to the sea-gulls that, fluttering, and crying caught them up. Then the great shining wings altered their course, and with a graceful movement the colossus dipped gently downward, skimming the level sandy beach for the distance of a hundred yards. At last it was still, and Johannes could admire the splendid structure: the glittering gold, the gleaming steel-blue decorations, and the bright-hued banners and pennants with gold-lettered mottoes that fluttered in the breeze. "Climb up," cried Windekind, "it is going away again. It will not stay a great while." "Are you going along?" asked Johannes. "Yes," replied Windekind. "I am at home with these people. But remember they cannot see us yet, any more than could those a thousand years ago. They are still only human beings." Johannes, his hand in Windekind's, floated up to the air-ship, and nestled in the golden crown upon the head of the bird. Secluded there, they could see what the people were doing. The people were strong and handsome, like those in the realms of Father Pan; but their hair was darker, and their faces, with thoughtful eyes, were more earnest. And they all resembled Johannes' Brother--as if they were all one large family, and akin to him. The garments of all of them were much alike--exceedingly simple. They were of unfigured material, similar to linen, with the pretty, sober coloring of some birds--the wood-dove and the peregrine; and all were bordered with fine, bright-colored embroidery. Almost without exception the passengers carried flowers. And festoons of flowers hung in every part of the ship; but these were wilted, and diffused the sweet, keen fragrance of roses. All went with heads uncovered, and their waving hair was thick, but not long. There was little to distinguish the dress of the men from that of the women; but the men all wore full beards, and the women braids of hair wound about their heads. Now, leaving their vessel for a short time, they raced along the beach, laughing merrily, and glad of the exercise. Johannes saw that they wore sandals--just like the man in brown at Roodhuis'; and he had to laugh at the recollection. The younger ones were barefooted. After they had bathed and played, they climbed into the ship again; and, taking their places, all facing the sea, they sang a song. Although Johannes did not understand the words, he knew the meaning of them. It sounded like a psalm, but was more fine and earnest than any he had ever heard. "That is the song of thanks they always sing after a safe passage over the great water," said Windekind. "Yes, they mean it, for they all know the Father. See how they mean it." And Johannes saw the deep emotion in their earnest faces, and the tears that glistened beneath the eyes of the younger women. And he heard the quiver of feeling in their full, pure voices. Then the magnificent great bird, with a strange clatter of unfolding wings, with the whirring of unseen wheels, and the klink-klank of glass bells, rose slowly, and pointed its golden beak and its fixed, crystal eyes toward the land. "But how does it move?" asked Johannes. "Could you have explained to your forefathers how an electric vehicle of your own time was propelled?" asked Windekind. "Then do not ask that question, but rather, take a look at your native country, and see how beautiful it has become." The long line of coast was visible as they ascended, and Johannes could see extending into the ocean at regular distances great dikes of dark-grey stone, over which the white foam of the waves was splashing. "They are not handsome, but necessary," said Windekind. "But here are our dunes." And behold! They were as fair and free as in the olden days--a wide, open wilderness without hedge or fence, without shavings or paper. The hollows were full of little green groves; and there the white hawthorn blossomed, and the singing of hundreds of nightingales ascended to their high position. Johannes saw, as of old, the little white tails of thousands of rabbits, flipping over the grey-green stretches of moss. And also he saw people--sometimes by twos or threes, then in large groups. But they did not disturb the harmony of the peaceful scene, and their delicate grey, soft brown, and subdued green clothing was quite in keeping with the tender tints of the landscape. After that came the verdant country. And how excited Johannes was when, in his flight, he saw it looking like one great, flowery, tree-filled park! The bright green fields were there, the straight ditches and canals; but everywhere were trees. Sometimes they stood alone--mighty giants casting broad shadows; sometimes in great forests, each one vast expanse of foliage, cool and rustling, where the wood-doves cooed, and golden thrushes whistled. Gorgeous blossoms and thickly flowered shrubs, such as Johannes had seen only in gardens, were everywhere--growing wild in such masses that, from above, they sometimes looked like carpets of glowing red or deepest blue. And the small white houses of the people, looking as if some giant had sawed them out with supple hand, were dotted about in the midst of the verdure and flowers. But on the borders of the water, by lakes and rivers and canals, were they strewn most thickly. The shining blue waters appeared to be the magnet which had attracted the little square blocks. "You see, indeed, Johannes," said Windekind, "it was their own fault that human beings seemed out of place in Nature. They had no reverence for her, and harmed her in their stupidity. They have now learned from Nature how beautiful and like unto her they themselves may be, and they have made friends with her. They have taught their children, from their earliest infancy, to do no needless damage to flower or leaf, and to kill no creature ruthlessly; taught them also to desire to be worthy of their place in the midst of all those beautiful and charming objects. Sacred reverence for all that is beautiful, and for everything that has life, is now strictly enjoined. Thus is peace preserved between man and Nature, and they live in intimate relations, neither annoying the other." "But, Windekind, where are the cities? I see only scattered houses and churches. And where are the iron railways and their sooty stations? And where are the factories, with their tall chimneys and dirty smoke?" "My dear Johannes, ought ugly things to be retained any longer than extreme need for them demands?" "Are not, then, railroads and cities and factories necessities?" "There are still factories, but they do not have to be ugly. There they are--finer than many palaces of a thousand years ago. And why tracks of iron, when the broad ways of the air are open and free to all? And why swarm in cramped quarters, high over one another, so long as there is dwelling-room amid the flowers and the verdure? Men were not so stupid but that they found a way to dispense with all that ugliness, and to drive their engines without the burning of dusty, deeply buried coal. But still some roads remain. Look!" And Johannes saw that all the dwellings were connected by roads--some of them fourfold and broad, of a dark russet color; others like narrow white ribbons winding through the grass from house to house. And people were passing over them, afoot, or in small, swiftly moving vehicles. "It is a holiday," said Windekind. "Such days are now really happy and holy days, without the deadly dreariness of the former ones." Everywhere Johannes saw little churches having pointed spires in the old Dutch style; but now they were full of statuary and ornament. The doors stood open, and people were passing through. And now Johannes heard the sound of music coming out of those little churches--as pure and as fine as the best he had ever heard. "Oh, Windekind, how I should love to go in and listen to that splendid music! I do so want to," said Johannes. But Windekind put his finger to his lips, and said: "Hush! We are going to hear still better. Our voyagers are going to a much larger church, where most beautiful music can be heard. They are pilgrims, such as go from all countries every year, at this time, to celebrate the great festival." "Do I not see another air-ship, Windekind? And there--still another?" asked Johannes. "Yes; perhaps, indeed, one may be going along with us," said Windekind. "That will make it lively." And very soon there actually came a second air-ship--a big brother-bird, that flew up to them. Then the flags dipped, and wide dark-blue banners, bearing silver-lettered mottoes, were unfurled to the breeze. The people waved, and shouted aloud. And when the twin birds were so close together that the tips of their great bright wings nearly touched, the people on Johannes' ship struck up an anthem--a full and powerful song--that was immediately responded to by an antistrophe from the other ship. And thus they took turns, first one, then the other, for quite a time. Johannes' heart was warmed by this sweet understanding among peoples wholly unknown to one another. "Do all men now speak the same language?" he asked his friend. "Do you not hear what they are singing? All people have chosen that language as the most beautiful and the most natural. It is Greek." "I do not know Greek," said Johannes, regretfully. "But just look at that pennant, then, on the other ship. What does it say?" "That is Dutch, Windekind--ordinary Dutch," cried Johannes. And he read: "_There is no Death_," and "_Gladness only endures_." And he also read the name of the ship, "_he Heron_." Then his own ship dropped down again, upon a level meadow close beside some large buildings of grey freestone, charmingly sculptured, and there, for some mysterious reason, the vessel lay a long while--to get up power, thought Johannes. And the pilgrims took advantage of the delay to dance over the meadows with graceful steps, and also to replace with fresh flowers the wilted festoons. Then they rose again, and whizzed through the still, summer air toward the south. Johannes noticed that not much more than half the land was devoted to field and orchard and vegetable-garden, and that all the rest was forest and park and flower-garden; that there were no hedges nor fences, nor any walls, except those against which grapes and peaches were growing. He did indeed still see brown and white sails on lake and river--that beautiful and ever charming spectacle--but there were no more of the tall four-armed windmills. And that was a pity. "One cannot demand everything," said Windekind. Johannes saw colossal wheels, like anchored paddle-wheels, glistening in the sunlight--turning constantly, and moved by some mysterious force. That certainly was better than smoking chimneys. And nowhere was it dirty, nowhere was there wan poverty, nowhere the deathly ugliness and monotonous melancholy of the cities. He saw no ragged nor wretched people, no unsightly regions of refuse and lumber. In the places where he knew the cities to have been, there were now verdant tracts vocal with the songs of birds, and fruitful, well-tilled fields and gardens. "The housekeeping of the world is revolutionized, dear Johannes," said Windekind. "It lasted quite a while, and cost considerable bickering; but that is all over now, and everything is according to method. I myself take real pleasure in it." And from his golden seat he gazed over the country, like a tiny pretty king, who, proud and well-satisfied, rules his domain with a floral sceptre. "Watch, now: we are going higher. We have to fly over the mountains." And the ship rose until the people below were no longer visible, and at last even the houses disappeared. It grew chilly as they cut through the white mists of the great clouds; and, as of old, Windekind threw his little blue mantle about Johannes. Thus they went on for hours, in fog and mist, and the mighty vessel quivered with the speed of its flight. The voyagers were still, and stayed, snug and safe, inside. On they rushed, through rain and through snow, catching occasional glimpses of wide tempestuous landscapes, with green fields, foaming rivers, snow-capped mountains, glaciers, and lakes of gleaming blue. "Is the whole world as beautiful now, and as well cared for, as my own country?" asked Johannes. "The work of men is never complete," replied Windekind, "and that is good for them, else they would become too proud. Asia and Africa are a long way yet from being in trim, possibly they never will be. But then it is all very well as it is--very well. A thousand years ago one could not have said that." How long they had been speeding thus, Johannes could not say. It seemed to him many hours. Then the great billows of cloud grew more and more transparent, and again the green land beneath them became visible, and also a deep, deep blue sea. "Is it Italy?" asked Johannes. Windekind nodded, and Johannes hoped they would stay still a while so that he might see the beautiful country of which the priest had told him. Then the ship descended until people and houses could again be distinguished, and Johannes saw a scene so grand, so rich, so overwhelming, that he was startled and almost speechless. He could only say, thinking of Marjon, "Oh, how shall I describe all this?" For the scene was exhibited with a fulness and variety that left no time for close observation. It was a landscape and a world-city in one--an extraordinary valley, down which the vessel now drifted, full of trees, verdure, flowers, buildings, statues, and people. Just before him he saw a gigantic azalea-tree covered with red flowers; farther on, a long arcade, overgrown with ivy, extending down to the foot of the vale. Then a temple with tall, slender, white pillars, also overgrown with ivy. In the middle of the valley stood a colossal piece of sculpture--simply a head. Johannes saw the sun shining upon it. And farther on there were structures unending, and thousands and thousands of people. Altogether, it gave him an impression of happiness and of beauty indescribable. Johannes could only cry, "How splendid! How splendid!" doing his utmost to take in everything, that he might remember and describe it to Marjon. But he felt that it would be beyond his powers, and so deeply moved was he by the beauty of the scene that he cried out, "It is too glorious! I cannot bear it!" And he wondered if the ship was going to stop there. It did not stop, but floated farther on--not far now from the ground--and followed the rocky coast. Johannes remembered the red rocks and the coast where he and Wistik had sat when the Devil appeared. This country, also, looked well-tilled and inhabited, after the manner of his own country. Then they put out again, over the blue, deep sea, and observed how it was navigated by large, swift vessels, without either sail or steam. They seemed to glide over the water as sledges over the snow, and the white foam flew high up over the bows. * * * * * Then after a long voyage there loomed from the sea, like a violet shadow, a large island; and, although it was broad daylight, it seemed as if above that island a bright yellow-white star were sparkling. "That is our goal," said Windekind. "Take heed, now, you are going to see something fine." And when they came nearer, Johannes could not tell what it was: whether the island was Nature's work, or some marvel wrought by the hand of man. For that whole great island, that from a distance had looked like a mountain, appeared, when approached, to be entirely covered with buildings--a piling up of pillars and roofs that soared one above another, and converged to an awe-inspiring dome. That crowning dome sparkled in the clear, sunlit air like an arrested cloud--with the silvery, light green, and dark blue splendor of a glacier covered with thousands of beautifully sculptured, inverted icicles; and upon the top shone the yellow-white light which, even in broad daylight, seemed to be a star. So immense and so numerous were the structures, that one could not tell what the natural form of the island had been, nor what had been made by human hands. Coming still nearer, one could see green masses of foliage filling all the spaces between the buildings, up to the very top. The whole island seemed a miracle of art and nature; of columns of pure white, of silver and silver-blue; of cupolas, bronze-green or golden; while amidst them all was the dark green of the dense groves and the shrubbery, above which rose the tufted palms on their slender, slightly curved stems. "Oh, Windekind," cried Johannes, "is this a story?" "This is a story," said Windekind, "as fine as any I ever told you. But this one is true. Human beings first heard of it through me, and then they resolved to build it as soon as they could find time, and housekeeping was systematized. It could have been somewhat finer, but still it came out very nicely, especially when you reflect that they have had merely a hundred years in which to work out the plan; considering, also, that, when half completed, an earthquake destroyed it." "What is it that glitters on that high dome at the summit of the island? It looks like a distant star. Is it fire?" "That is not fire, Johannes, but metal--a golden flame. It is a piece of gilded metal, that always glow's in the sunlight as if it were burning. By means of that flame the people wish to indicate their ardent love." "Love for whom, Windekind--for one another, or for God?" "They know no difference, Johannes," said Windekind. With radiant faces the pilgrims stood gazing at the spectacle; and, shouting their joy, they sang again. Only a few of the older ones appeared to have seen the island before. The sea was now covered with large white vessels speeding to and fro, and one could also see air-ships flying thither from all points of the compass, like herons to their nesting-place. Then Johannes vessel settled down upon a great grassy plain close to the shore, and the pilgrims alighted. They were embarrassed and bewildered now by all that surrounded them--by the multitude of air-ships, and also by the people, among whom they felt shy and strange. Hundreds of these ships were now at rest--a brilliant spectacle, all differently rigged and adorned, and patterned after various birds. There were hawks and eagles, and giant beetles, entirely of bronze, looking like gold. There were moths of green-reflecting metal; and dragon-flies with wings of iridescent glass; wasps with bodies ringed with black and yellow; butterflies having enormous yellow wings, marked with peacock-eyes of blue, from which long pennants, black and red, streamed out behind. There was now considerable commotion throughout the grassy plain, among those who, just arrived, were trying to find their way. On the coast, around the whole island, was an almost unbroken series of cool terraces beneath white colonnades shaded by the light lavender flowers of the _glycine_; and behind them were small, white-stuccoed recesses overlooking the sea. There the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who annually came to the feast were lodged and fed. Johannes saw them sitting at long tables on which were bread, fruit, and flowers. And above the sound of the foaming surf, as the crystalline blue water broke in white spray over the dull red rocks, cheerful talking and laughing could be heard, and also the music of guitars. Higher up, the island was clear and open. Here were sunny parks with low flowering shrubs, and now and then a tall palm, and everywhere temples and buildings for various purposes. With his hand in Windekind's, Johannes glided over this, unable to note all of the many things that met his gaze. He saw, beneath him, close to the shore, large arenas for the games and the races; also long buildings, with thousands of columns, for the display of useful and ingenious articles and implements. A little higher were gardens with plants and animals, museums, observatories, immense libraries, and covered colonnades and assembly-rooms for scholars. After that came theatres, in Hellenic form--semicircular--with white marble seats. And every place was thronged with people, in their tasteful, charming dress. The brown and the yellow races were represented; also the very dark-colored ones, with their flashing eyes, haughty bearing, and vigorous frames. These wore brightly-colored silken garments, green and red, embroidered with gold; but all who were white or fair were soberly clad in soft, refined colors. Still higher were collections of statues, marble and gilded--many of them outside in the park, among the flowers, the aloes, and the plashing fountains; others, beneath long porticoes; and in large, low buildings there were sketches and paintings, or statuettes wrought in metal or carved in wood. Finally, still higher up the incline, close beside the great middle temple which was the crown of the island, surrounded by the serious silences of dark laurel and myrtle groves, were the temples of music. There was a variety of them. Some were lighter and more ornamental--of brighter stone, and with steep, golden roofs; others, massive and strong, of quiet grey limestone, with green and red granite pillars, and arched roofs of bronze. Windekind pointed out that each temple was dedicated exclusively to one composer; and Johannes heard with joy names that were well known to him in his own day. "Which one shall we choose?" asked Windekind. "Nowhere else upon earth can their works be heard as in any one of these temples." While he hesitated, with the name Beethoven on his lips, Johannes saw coming over the grassy path between the rose-colored flowering oleanders, a group of five majestic persons. They were tall, powerful figures--four men and a woman. The men were all elderly, one of them having silver-white, the others thick grey hair. The woman was younger, and indescribably noble and beautiful. They each wore a mantle of the same amaranthine red, and upon the head a small wreath of green myrtle, and each one held a flower. They walked slowly and with dignity, and wherever they went the people all greeted them. Those who had been chatting were respectfully silent; those sitting or lying down stood up; and those who were in their path hastily stepped aside. "Who are those five people, Windekind?" "They are the five kings. Do you not see that they carry my flower in their hands? It is the blue, white, and gold Lily of the Kings, which the people have evolved. Formerly it did not exist. These are the noblest, wisest, strongest, the purest and most worthy among human beings. In them are united, in most perfect harmony, all of the human faculties. They are poets, masters of speech, and sages, that purify and elevate morals. They are regulators of labor, directors in business, in taste, and in science. Not all are equally excellent, nor are there always so many. The best are sought for and elevated. But they bear no rank--they have no court, no palace, no army, no realm. Their throne is where they seat themselves; their kingdom is the whole world. Their power consists in the beauty of their words, in their wisdom, and in the love of their fellowmen. See how they are revered! Look at those adoring women--doing obeisance as ever. There are still the very same foolish ones among the young women." And Windekind called Johannes' attention to the fair enthusiasts who attempted not only to kiss the hands of the Five, but also to touch them with their flowers, which, thereby made sacred as relics, were later to be cherished as mementoes. But the sages smilingly motioned these aside, and entered the largest of the music-temples--a mighty structure of smooth, cream-white marble, without ornament, but pure in line, and nobly harmonious in its proportions. It was round in form, having a bronze roof without side-windows, and lighted only from above. Over the entrance, in large gold letters, was the name "Bach."[1] When the Five came in all the people stood up, and waited until they were seated in the chairs reserved for them. And then Johannes heard exceedingly fine music. And Windekind said, "This fountain is not yet exhausted, nor will it be for ages to come." When they were again out-of-doors, and Johannes saw the happiness of all those beautiful people, and the mood of solemn devotion into which the music had put them, he suddenly became depressed, and said: "Oh, Windekind, now that I have seen all this, and know what it is possible for people to be if only they are wise and good, what avails it all when I have to return to that pitiful land of ugliness and folly and injustice? And, alas, of what advantage is it to all those poor people who are perhaps preparing for this lovely life, but who yet are never to see it?" Johannes looked imploringly at his friend, who was silently meditating while they slowly drifted still higher along a dense grove of dark laurel, through which the happy, high spirited people were proceeding to the great, the loftiest temple. Said Windekind: "You do not yet comprehend the unity of life, Johannes. However beautiful all this appears to you, it is only a short step in advance. These are yet, and will continue to be, human beings--subject to illness and death, to quarrels and misunderstandings, to superstition and injustice. All that now seems to you elevated and marvelous is but a wisp of straw compared with the magnificence of the Father to whom we all return. The victory is not here, but higher. And whoever has made preparation, however humble, shall have his rightful part in the final triumph." Johannes did not fully understand, but eagerly drank in the comfort of these mysterious words. Still musing upon them, he stepped out of the dark, leafy woods upon an extraordinary plain, and saw before him the great middle temple that formed the summit of the island. The sight of it was overwhelming, for it was almost frightfully and oppressively grand; and he saw all the oncoming people stop, as though turned to stone. None ventured to speak unless in whispers. The plain was so large that those who had just reached the border of the woods could not distinguish the hands nor the heads of those who were entering the temple. The plain was utterly bare--upon it was neither plant nor statue. It was the leveled top of the natural rock--a reddish-grey granite, smoothly polished, and rising gradually by low flights of steps each twelve paces wide and one foot high. The base of the temple was sombrely grand. Its shape was oblong, the greatest length being from north to south, showing an endless series of massive lotus-columns, close together, and all of the same reddish-grey stone. The eye was bewildered by them, as if in a dark forest of pillars. The steady stream of dot-like human forms appeared to be engulfed in their shade. These mighty columns, resting on straight and flat string-courses, supported a broad terrace that surrounded the entire temple. Upon this terrace was a layer of earth, whence sprang a luxuriant growth of trees and shrubs, wide-spreading sycamores, towering cypresses, and slender palms--all overgrown and bound together by a veil of flowers and leafy vines. Then succeeded, higher up, a second series of pillars, supporting another terrace covered with smaller shrubs. And above that, still a third, whose columns were of brighter stone--light-green and grey. The topmost row was of pure white, against which the green of the plants was in clear relief. And above these, delicate and daring, soared a convergence of groinings, with a maze of exquisite spires and pinnacles, resembling a forest of stalagmites. Together they formed an oval whose chief colors--steel-blue, dark and sparkling, light-grey, and silver--resembled a cloud or a glacier; yet all harmoniously fashioned by human hands. Above, on a colossal tripod, glowed the emblem of love and life--the Golden Flame! Although thousands of people from every side were ceaselessly pouring into the temple, and disappearing amid the dark columns, it was very still there--so still that above the sound of moving feet one could distinctly hear the babbling of the brooks that, coursing through the verdant terraces, flowed thence to the four corners of the plain. Johannes tried to follow the soft speech of the people, but he did not understand the language. Then Windekind, calling his attention to a trio of persons--a vigorous father about fifty years of age, and his two sons, slender, fine fellows not far from twenty--said, "Listen to them!" It was Dutch they were speaking--pure, mellifluous Dutch. The father said: "Look, Gerbrand; the lowest columns are so large that ten men could not encircle them. But within the temple, in the great oval centre, there are a hundred columns, far larger, that reach to the floor of the third terrace. On the groined arches resting upon those columns stand twice as many smaller pillars, which, rising somewhat higher than the gallery of the third terrace, are attached thereto by a system of buttresses. On these two hundred smaller pillars rests the enormous middle dome which over-arches the oval hall. The dome is entirely of metal. The dark blue is steel; the grey, aluminium; the bright green, bronze. The pinnacles, arches, and ornamentations are all of silver or silver-plated steel. In the four corner-spaces, between square and oval, stand four towers, having small gold-covered cupolas. Within these, elevators move up and down, and through them the water also is raised for the terraces. "The tall tripod at the top of the dome is of bronze, and the flame is gilded bronze. The flame itself is twelve metres long, and its tip is a hundred and eighty metres above the plain." Gerbrand, the younger son, knitting his brows as he regarded the awe-inspiring spectacle, asked: "How many people have worked upon it, father?" "Oh, more than a hundred thousand, for nearly a century. But if the temple should again collapse, as once it did, ten times as many more would eagerly come, to rebuild it in less than half that time." Drawing nearer, Johannes discerned, on the stone band beneath the first terrace, colossal silver letters, in plain Roman form. On the front a portion of a proverb was legible. The rest of it probably ran around the entire temple. Johannes retained the majestic tenor of it, although he did not comprehend the full meaning. Facing him was: REDEUNT SATURNIA REGNA and on the eastern side he read the first words, IAM NOVA PROGENI�S.... This was all he could distinguish. They entered the forest of columns, and Johannes continued to follow the trio closely. Through the solemn semi-darkness all pressed gently on toward the steps that led to the higher terraces. On the second terrace stood thousands of statues, representing the great and famous of all the ages. Johannes was delighted to hear what the sons and their father said about them. They seemed best acquainted with the composers, then with the dramatic poets, the sculptors, the painters, and the scholars. They were most at a loss concerning the statesmen. Gerbrand said, "Here is a warrior, father--Bismarck is his name. When did he live, and what did he do?" Then the father said to his elder son, "Do you not know when Bismarck lived, and what he did, Hugo?" Hugo replied, "I think he lived in Bach's time, father; but what he did I do not know." "Yes, he lived about the time of Bach, or rather, that of Brahms. He created the German Empire." Said Gerbrand, "The German Empire, father! Where is that?" "There is no longer a German Empire, Gerbrand, although there are millions of Germans. Such empires do not now exist; but in that day they were thought to be something very admirable." And Hugo: "Was it as fine as the Chromatic Fantasie, father, or the Pyramids?" "It was something very different, my boy, but certainly not so fine, for it was less lasting." On the third and highest terrace, beneath the loftiest of the white marble columns, and running around the entire temple, was a frieze, sculptured in bas-relief. Upon it were groups of figures, cut with most wonderful art, giving representative scenes from the whole history of mankind. Among them, the spectacle of the battles held the youths the longest. "Look, father! Here again is a man being killed. Why was that? What harm did he do?" "That is Pertinax," replied the father, "a king of Rome, killed by his soldiers because he was just." "A man killed for being just! What strange people!" said Hugo, smiling. "They killed Socrates also, because he was wise, did they not, father? We saw that a little while ago," said Gerbrand. "Yes, Gerbrand," said Hugo; "but indeed they also fought for good reasons, did they not, father? Socrates himself fought, and Sophocles." "And �schylus," added the father. "He lost his hand at Marathon. And Dante fought, and so did Byron." "Shelley too, father?" asked Hugo. "No, my boy." "But, father," asked Gerbrand, "when is it right to fight, and when is it not?" "It is right, my boys, when that which is the dearest and most sacred must be protected from attack--whatever is dearer to us than our lives. That is what �schylus and Socrates and Dante conceived to be their duty. They fought for freedom--the greatest freedom of their time. And should any beings come now and try to attack what we term our liberty and our rights, we also would fight for them." "I wish that would happen," said Gerbrand.--And the others laughed. "Did Beethoven fight, father?" asked Hugo. "No, although his life, as well as that of Shelley, was a struggle in the cause of true liberty--at least for what he held to be true liberty." "But Beethoven wore a high, black hat, did he not, father? And Bach had his hair cut off, and wore a wig," said Gerbrand. "Mozart also," added Hugo. "I do not understand how kings could do such queer things." "How was it possible," exclaimed Gerbrand, "for these people in their high hats and silly black clothes to look at one another and not burst out laughing?" "My dear boys," said the father, "there is not a thing so foolish, so ugly, or so bad, but even the best of men will do it, or tolerate it, if only many take part in it, and it is a common error of their time. But that was a very queer age. At the time such great and wise kings as Goethe, Shelley, and Beethoven lived, ninety out of every hundred men lived like the very beasts. Some never bathed their entire bodies.... "_Think_ of it!" cried the youths. "They wore soiled, hideous clothing, were rude and ill-mannered, and had no conception of music nor of poetry." "How could that be?" exclaimed the two young men. "Because it was thought that the best human living was possible for only an occasional exception--for one in a hundred, or one in a thousand. You think that very stupid, do you not? But at that time everybody felt so, even the kings." "Not Shelley, though," exclaimed Hugo. "No, not Shelley," said the father. "But it is now nearly noon. We must not miss the Hall of the Hundred Pillars. We agreed to go there, you remember, while we were still at home with mother and the children." The halls were decorated with inscriptions in many languages--each with its own ornate characters. Johannes recognized Sanskrit, Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek. He could read only a few of the sentences; but these he retained, without understanding them: "IN LA SUA VOLONTADE E NOSTRA PACE," and "MITE ET COGNATUM EST HOMINI DEUS." The Hall of the Hundred Pillars had entrances from all sides, on the same level, through the lowest and heaviest colonnades, and also along stairways descending from all the terraces. The floor of the hall looked like a vast, snow-covered plain, so white was the marble, and the astronomical figures with which it was inlaid were all of silver. The hundred pillars that gave the hall its name were of red granite, and supported the central dome, which, spanning the imposing space by arch on arch, stood like a miracle of art. There were no windows, but the light streamed in through the open arches, and past the white and light blue pillarets of the dome. Yet it was not possible, from below, to see the sky. The hall was already filled with people--thousands upon thousands. Whispering softly, all pressed forward, and at last stood still in silent expectation. Johannes followed his fellow-countrymen. "Look, boys," whispered the father, "these pillars are of one piece--the largest stone columns in the world. In remote antiquity, when, also, men were able to build great structures, there were two like them in Rome; and we found another one, half hewn, on the coast of Corsica. Then we ourselves made ninety-seven others, and placed them all here, to the honor of God." "Father," whispered Gerbrand, "surely we are now the happiest and the mightiest beings in the universe, are we not?" But the father looked at him reprovingly, and said: "For shame, boy! We are only poor blind earth-worms, and all our happiness is misery, and all our magnificence is a sham, compared with the splendor of the Truth. It is but a feeble glimmering of the reality. To express this, we come hither yearly; and it was to teach you this that I brought you with me. Look up, and read what is written there." Johannes' eyes followed the direction of the upraised hand, and he saw a Greek proverb that ran around the dome in colossal letters of gold. As interpreted by the father of the two youths it read thus: "To the only God, who alone is the Truth and the real Existence--our Father, whom we love with all our hearts and all our understanding, and for whose sake we love one another as we love ourselves." Then the man showed his children a gold figure, at the northern end of the hall, at which the eyes of all the people were now directed, and said: "Notice! There is the number of the hour; but beneath, it says: '_There is neither hour nor time_.' Do you see? Remember that as long as you live. And now consider why we have come here to-day. For a few moments the sun stands at the summer solstice--its highest point. The temple is so built that just at that instant the sun's light comes through the opening in the dome and touches the golden figure of the hour. Then all of us--thousands on thousands from every region of the world--will again in song solemnly pledge ourselves to faithful love toward one another, and toward the Father of us all." After this the boys were silent, gazing with all the people at the golden figure. And now that innumerable throng, in the whole, vast space, became as still as death--as still as some great forest before a storm, when not a leaf stirs. Then, in mighty, resounding tones, a great bell began to strike the hour; while the people, all in the utmost suspense, counted the strokes. Before the last stroke fell, the golden figure burst into flame, in the bright light of the sun. Then, in unison, without any pause, all joined in one mighty chorus, stately, solemn, and simple, that soared into the spacious vault like a song of thanks and of promise in one--a renewal for the year to come of the bond of love between God and man. And so strong and deep was their emotion that some sank to their knees as if overcome, while others rested head or hands upon the shoulders of those standing in front of them. But the greater number stood erect, and sang loudly and clearly, regarding the scene with bright, joyful, and spirited looks. Johannes himself felt thankful and happy beyond words--like a child under his Father's blessing, in the heart of his home. * * * * * Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!!! went the alarm-clock on the black mantel-shelf above the Dutch oven in Marjon's small kitchen. The iron bed shuddered and creaked; and Marjon sprang up, with the sleepy, mechanical haste of one accustomed to begin work at dawn, to stop the alarm. There stood the unpainted table, the oil-lamp, and the unwashed coffee-set, and Marjon began to put things in order. And out from the stifling, dark alcove came, one by one, the seven children of Van Tijn--to wash themselves at the kitchen pump and to dry themselves with one and the same old hand-towel. [1] Bach = Fountain. XXIV Already they had been twice to the hospital, on visitors' days--Wednesday and Saturday--but they had not been permitted to see Markus. He still lay unconscious, and the doctor did not yet know whether an operation would be necessary. And when Johannes implored that they might only look upon the face of their friend, to know if he was still alive, it availed nothing. Their acquaintance with Dr. Cijfer or with Professor Bommeldoos had no influence here. There was no disposition to be indulgent. The feeling of hostility toward his Brother was general, and permeated the humane, scientific atmosphere of the hospital to such an extent that Johannes also was received more coldly because he appeared to be a relative of this man. For not even doctors and nurses are exempt from the suspicion of being sensitive to the opinions of others. The strain of their sorrow was so great that Johannes and Marjon each feared lest the other would be ill--they ate so little and looked so worn, and their cheeks, although never very round and blooming, grew so pale and sunken. At last--at last, they might go, for their third call, and join the stream of callers on Wednesday afternoon, from two o'clock until four. Marjon carried some white and purple asters; Johannes, a bunch of grapes bought with money carefully saved, cent by cent. Entering the ward, they looked in great anxiety over the two long rows of beds. They searched for the face they knew so well, but did not find it. Timidly, they made inquiry of the nurse who sat writing, in the middle of the ward, at a little table covered with bandages and remedies. Without replying, she pointed to a bed. Then they saw the dark eyes, turned toward them with a kind smile. They had not recognized him, for his beard was gone, his head enveloped with wrappings, and his face covered with plasters. He beckoned them, and extended his emaciated white hand. They flew to him. Two young men stood beside his bed. They were students. One of them, who seemed to have just made an examination of Markus, was rather gross in appearance, and had a flushed, uneasy face. The perspiration stood in drops on his forehead. The other stood by, indifferently, his hands in his pockets. "Have you got at it?" asked the latter. "Confound it, no," replied the other, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "It's a thundering complicated case. There's a fracture of the skull; but the paralysis I can't account for. It's a mean trick of Snijman's to pick out such a business for me, just to pester me. I'll be sure to fail in the examination. "Come, come, old fellow, you're in a pet. It's a pretty little chance for you--one to brag about. Come to-night to the quiz, and go through the brain anatomy again with me. Bring your _Henle_ along. I'll give you such a lift you'll astonish them, old man. But we must be off now, for it's visiting-day." And, taking the arm of his comrade, who sighed and packed up his instruments, he led him out of the ward. "What do you think of the way they have fixed me up, children?" asked Markus, cheerfully, as he took Marjon's flowers--with his left hand, because he could not move the other. But neither Marjon nor Johannes could speak. They stood with trembling lips, swallowing back their tears. Then they sat down, one each side of the bed, and Marjon rested her forehead on his helpless hand. Johannes held out to him the grapes, and tried to greet him in words; but he could not. "Children," said Markus, gently, yet with a rebuke in his tones, "I notice that you cry altogether too much. Do you remember, Johannes, when you sat down in the street beside the scissors'-wheel, and how I reproved you? When one cries so readily, it looks as if the great sorrow of mankind were not felt. He who has once realized that, weeps no more over his own little troubles; for the greater grief should hold him bathed in tears, both day and night." At these words the two controlled themselves in some degree, and Marjon said: "But this is not a trifling thing that they have done to you." "It is not a trifling thing that the world is so that this could happen. _That_ is frightful; but it remains equally frightful whether this befell me or not. And that it has been done to me, and I have submitted, is cause for joyfulness, not for weeping." Then said Johannes: "But, dear Markus, what has it availed, and what will be the good of it? No one is sorry for it. No one will ever perceive the significance of it. No one, at this instant, has any further thought of you, nor of your words." Markus, regarding him attentively, with an earnest expression, as if to urge upon him a deeper reflection, said: "But, Johannes, do you not remember the story of that little seed--the most diminutive of all seeds? It falls to the ground--is trodden under foot--no one sees it--it appears to be completely lost and dead. But in good time it begins to germinate, and grows to be a plant. And the plant bears new seeds, which are scattered by the wind. And the new seeds become new plants, and the whole terrestrial globe becomes too small for the might of what proceeds from that insignificant seed. Has Johannes forgotten me and my words?" Johannes shook his head. "Well, then, Johannes and Marjon are not the only ones with ears to hear, are they? The spark has fallen, and shines in secret. The seed lies in the dark ground, and waits its time." Gradually the ward began to fill with visitors. Relatives were now sitting beside each bed. There were wives and mothers with children, little and big, and some had babes at the breast. A subdued murmuring filled the place, where the smell of old and long-worn clothing mingled with the sharp scent of the disinfectants. "Stay with me, children, as long as is permitted. The instrument is broken, and will soon cease to sound. Listen to it so long; as it vibrates." "Are you going to leave us, Markus?" asked Johannes, setting his teeth to keep command of himself. "I have performed my task," said Markus. "Already? Already?" they both asked. "We cannot spare you. We might for a little while, but not for always." "Where is your memory, Johannes? You possess me always, and some time I shall be still closer to you than I now am." "But, Markus, how can I, without you, help people in their sorrow? Indeed, I am far from knowing the way yet. It seems as though I ought to be asking the way, for weeks to come, day and night." "Dear Johannes, I have said enough. To ask day and night would help you no more than to think day and night upon what I have already said to you. It seems--does it not--as if I had spoken little, and done little, among men. But recall how the same was said of old, and how it has never, through many words, become clearer, but always more dim. Where the plain commandments have not enough weight, much speaking has not a particle of effect. Has not the best already been said--two thousand years ago? Millions have torn and martyred one another on account of additions, because of misinterpretations, explanations, and commentaries; but the simple commandment, known of all, they have not kept. Concerning the swaddling-cloths they have fought bitterly; but the babe itself they have left to the swine and the dogs." They were permitted to stay throughout the time of visiting, and Johannes related where he had been during the night of his betrothal. Marjon, having listened, asked: "Markus, if he really saw the whole world as it is to be, why did he neither see nor hear anything of Markus himself?" But Markus closed his eyes, as if weary of listening, laid back his head with a contented smile, and said, gently: "The faithful architect is not concerned about his own renown, but about the work itself." Then he indicated that he wished to rest; and, exchanging looks, they slowly stood up, and with reluctant steps, absorbed in deep thought, they turned away. * * * * * On Saturday, when they came again, they looked straight over to Markus' bed, for now they knew where he lay. But an icy fear came upon them when they caught sight of his face, below the white swathing-cloths. It was like sallow wax, with insunken eyes, and lay pressed into the pillow. They thought he was dead. And when they stopped, hesitating and trembling, the patient in the cot next that of Markus motioned to them to come nearer. "Come on, you," said the man, a disreputable old fellow with a bandage around his bald head, a crooked nose, and a shaggy beard stained a yellow-brown with tobacco-juice. "He isn't cold yet, but he's snoozin' away's steady's a new-born babe. Isn't that so, Sjaak?" And Sjaak, the patient on the other side--a drunkard with a broken leg, and a face full of red pimples--cried out: "Hear me! I couldn't sleep better meself--after a couple o' drinks." "Just make yerselves easy," said the old fellow. "Don't be upset about it. He'd be sorry if you went away again." "A little less noise, number eight," called the nurse. "Talk quietly." "Is he your brother?" asked Sjaak, in a whisper this time. Johannes nodded. "They've given him the very devil," said the old man, "just as they gave it to me. Though I believe they served me about right." "I'm askin' a great deal," said Sjaak; "but if we've both always got to stay in this here boardin'-house--him and me--why, then, I'd like to ask the good Lord not to let him kick the bucket before I kicks it. Because if I've got to stay here alone with that old red-nose there, and my own damn wicked carcass, then--hi! hi! hi!" Then came a sudden outburst of maudlin sobs, due, no doubt, to a condition of enforced abstinence. "Silence!" called the Sister, sternly. Markus waked up and greeted his two loved ones. Then he looked at his neighbors, right and left, and asked: "Have you been childish again, Sjaak? I heard you, indeed. No one is forever doomed, I tell you, neither you nor old Bram--if you take care from now on to drink water only, and not gin." "I swear I will, Marrakus--swear it by God!" said Sjaak, striking himself on the breast. "You cannot do that, Sjaak; neither would it help. After a half-glass of beer you will have forgotten all your vows." "No beer, either," said Sjaak. "So help...." "Be quiet now, Sjaak. Do not talk about it, but let it alone." "Mar-r-akus," said Old Bram, in a hoarse, quaking voice, at the same time sitting up, with his griffin-like knuckles stretched out over the woollen covers, "tell me now, the honest truth: can it be possible for such a old hulk as me to escape eternal damnation? I'm shy of the priest, but I was brought up a Christian: and now that I can't get no booze here, I settle down in me bed o' nights with the jim-jams, and shake like an earthquake. But if _I_ don't have to go to the devil, they can go to blazes with their bloomin' damnation! They can use their fires to dry the shirts of the angels, or to bake butter-cakes!--it's all the same to me." "Listen, my man," said Markus, kindly. "I am going to speak to you from my heart. Will you believe me?" "That I will, Marrakus," replied the old man, seriously, holding up a withered talon. "When I stand before the Father above--if He let me into heaven--I shall say, I will not enter in until Old Bram also is redeemed from hell--even if he be the very last one." For a time the old fellow continued to gaze into the earnest eyes of Markus. Then his grotesque face assumed a whimsical grin, and he let himself fall back on his pillow, with a thud. There he lay, dumbfounded, staring at the ceiling--grinning, mumbling, and shaking his head. Johannes heard him whisper, "God-a-mighty!--Jesus Christ--Jesus Mary--God-a-mighty forever--" and so on and on. Gently, yet not without some bitterness, Marjon asked: "But, Markus, is he worthy of that? The fellow is half-witted." Markus replied, "And Keesje, then? Have you not shed tears over him? There is more need for them here." Thereat the two lapsed into thoughtful silence. At length Johannes, sighing deeply, exclaimed, "Oh, how many enigmas there are! The golden key seems farther away than ever." "Yet it is nearer," said Markus. "Because you have chosen Me and Life, instead of Windekind and Death. "The lily of eternal wisdom is a tender flower, which needs to grow slowly, and of itself. "The Father hath sent us all forth to search for it; but no one findeth it alone. "Eternal wisdom is like a bashful maiden: she flees from him who pursues too recklessly; but that one who turns aside, and first follows after love--him she coyly comes to find." When Markus had said this, Marjon blurted out: "Johannes and I are husband and wife." Markus nodded, without appearing at all surprised. "Will you join us in truth, Markus?" asked Johannes. "Can I give truth, Johannes, where it is not?" asked Markus. "That is not what I mean," said Johannes, in confusion; "but I will promise to be true to her, in the sense you mean." "Consider your words, Johannes. A promise is a prophecy. Who can prophesy without full knowledge? This man beside me here promised not to drink. He intended not to; but what is his promise worth, without knowledge? Have you knowledge of your lasting faith? Then say, 'I desire to be true,' and show it. But make no promises; for whoever makes an idle promise is guilty; and whoever keeps a false promise is more guilty than he who breaks it." Then said Marjon to Johannes: "I do not wish you to make any promises, but I want your loyalty. If you will not remain true without promises, I do not wish them. Can you love only because you have promised to? For such love as that I would not thank you." "Then I will say that I feel true, so far as I know myself," said Johannes, "and I will promise that I will do everything in my power to remain true." "That is more considerately said," added Markus. "But where we are to set up housekeeping I cannot yet see--he a _piccolo_, and I only a housemaid! That doesn't bring in much. I think we shall yet fetch up in a tingel-tangel."[1] "It cannot make any difference to me where we find ourselves, if only I know I am contributing something toward the good life--toward the happiness of all those fine and dear people whom I have seen. But there will be small chance of that, either as _piccolo_ or in a tingel-tangel." "Children," said Markus, "out of the word springs the deed, and out of the deed springs life. And every one who speaks the good word creates the deed and fosters life." "Good," said Johannes. "We will speak the word to all who have ears, so long as we shall live; and even if in prison, we shall speak it. And I have not only a mouth, but hands also that are willing to do." "Such hands will always find something to do--with more to follow; for the word and the deed are like the forest and the rain: the forest attracts the rain, and the rain makes the forest grow." "But how, then," cried Johannes, "how? I see no way, no opportunity for my deeds." "Do you remember what I told you about the field-laborers? That tells it all. And this I say to you, Johannes: constant love makes one invincible; love, a sure memory, and patience. For him who draws nigh to the Father, and who forgets not, who remains always the same,--for such a one, although he still be weak, God always opens the way through every obstruction and perplexity. He is like one who continues to urge gently, in one direction, through throngs that go--they know not whither. He will make progress where others lag behind. And think of it, children, the highest and noblest thing you can long for is still only sad and inferior compared with what you can attain through a calm and steadfastly determined love." The bell which warned the visitors that it was four o'clock, and time to leave, had sounded some time ago, and the ward was nearly empty. The head nurse softly clapped her hands, to indicate to Johannes and Marjon that they must pass on. They were obliged to rise. Then the door opened, and Professor Snijman came in with two assistants. The professor was a tall man, with a beardless face, and brown hair which curled behind his ears and about his carefully shaven neck. He had a hard and haughty look, with an assumption of stately condescension. With short steps he walked up to Markus' bed, followed by the two young men--his assistants--with little pointed, blonde beards, and in spotless white linen coats. "Well, well! Come! Visitors still? Not getting on very fast, are you?" said the professor. At the same time he studied Markus with the cool calculation of a gardener considering whether he will uproot the shrub or let it remain. Then he took Markus' paralyzed hand in his own, and moved it meditatively. "It seems to me, gentlemen--don't you think?--that we'll have to try what the knife can do here. Don't you think so? It's a _casus perditus_, anyway, isn't it? And who knows?... removal of the bone splinter--relieving the pressure on the motor-centre.... Possibly splendid results, don't you think?" The assistants nodded, and whispered to each other and to the professor. Markus said: "Professor, will you not let me rest in peace? I am quite resigned to my condition. I know that it will be labor lost; and I am not willing to be made unconscious." "Come, come," said the professor, half commanding, half in pretended kindness. "Not so gloomy, not so crest-fallen. We'll just see if you can't have the use of this arm again, shall we not? You need not be afraid. Everything is safe, and no pain. Would you not like to be able again to draw on your own blouse, to cut your meat, and to fill your pipe? Come, come! Keep up courage--keep up courage. Sister, to-morrow--ten o'clock--on the operating-table." Then to Marjon and Johannes: "Hello, young folks, it's after four. Out of the ward, quick!" Markus put out his hand, which they both kissed, and said: "Till I see you again." [1] A kind of cheap music-hall. XXV The next Wednesday, at two o'clock, when they came again with the stream of visitors, and, with the eagerness of those who thirst and know where they will find water, hastened to the ward where Markus lay, they saw, as they entered, three green screens around his bed. They had not yet learned what that means in a hospital ward, and they stepped up to the bed as hastily as ever, expecting that Markus might now be able to speak to them with more privacy. But Sjaak, at number six, saw them coming, and, thrusting out his lower lip compassionately, he shook his red head. "Gone!" said he. And Old Bram, on the other side: "Just missed him! Gone--this mornin'!" "Gone!" exclaimed Johannes, terrified and not understanding. "Where?" "Well," replied Sjaak, "if he'd only come back and tell me where, I'd know more than I do." And Bram, whom Sjaak could not see, on account of the screen, said to Marjon: "He promised me," striking the woolen covers with his fist, "that I'll not be lost. He promised it, and I count on it. I just do!" "What has happened to him?" asked Marjon, gradually comprehending. "They operated on him," said Sjaak. "They got the ash-can out of his brains. If he'd lived, then he'd 'a' walked again. He'd 'a' left the premises now, if he'd only lived." "Come with me, Marjon," said Johannes; and he led her away. Then softly, "Shall we ask to see him--now?" Marjon, pale as death, but calm, replied: "Not I, Jo. I want to keep the living picture before me as a last remembrance, not the dead one." Johannes, as pale as she, silently acquiesced. Then he went to the head nurse and asked, softly and modestly: "When is the funeral to be, Sister?" The Sister, a small, trim, pale and spectacled lady, with a rather sour but yet not heartless face, gave the two a swift glance, and said, somewhat nervously and hurriedly: "Oh, you mean number seven, do you not? Yes? Well, we know nothing about him. There is indeed no family, is there? There was no statement of birth--no ticket of removal--nothing. There is--ah ... there is to be no funeral." "No funeral, Sister!" exclaimed Marjon. "But what then? What--what is to be done with ... with him?" Then the nurse, with a scientific severity probably more cruel than she purposed, said: "The cadaver goes to the dissecting-rooms, Miss." For a time the two stood speechless--completely dismayed and horrified. They had not thought of that possibility--they were not prepared for such a thing. They both felt it unbearably gruesome, now that they faced the fact, and were without advice. "Is there no help for it, Sister?" asked Johannes, stammering in his confusion. "Can it not ... can it not ... from the poor fund...?" He comprehended that it would be a question of money, but he could see no relief. More practical, Marjon immediately asked, "What would it cost, Sister?" "I am sorry, Miss," replied the nurse, her feelings now really touched for them, "but I fear you have come too late. You ought to have asked about that in advance. The professor has given express orders." "Twenty-five gulden, Sister? Would that be enough?" asked Marjon, perseveringly. The Sister shrugged her shoulders. "Possibly, if you ask the professor, and if you can prove that you belong to the family. But I am afraid it is too late." The two turned away in silence. * * * * * "What shall we do, Marjon?" asked Johannes, when they were in the street. "There is no use in going to that professor," said Marjon. "He's a conceited fool--bound to have his own way. But it's a matter of money." "I have nothing, Marjon," said Johannes. "Neither have I, Jo--at least, nothing to begin with. But we must go after the people who _do_ have something. You know who." "It is miserable work, Marjon." "It is that; but we shall maybe get still harder work on his account. Don't you think so?" "Yes, of course; but neither will I shun it. I am going, now. I know well where you want me to go." "Good! They are the richest, are they not? But I, too, am going out to get something. You might not succeed there." "Where are you going?" "Where there is money, Jo,--to the circus, and to Vrede-best." "Have you enough to get there with?" "Yes. I've enough for that." * * * * * Great was the indignation in the Roodhuis and Van Tijn households when they heard of the event. Sentimentality, the enjoyment of the sensational, and attachment to tradition--all this so moved the good women that their meagre purses contributed, without delay, three gulden and twenty-four cents. In the meantime Johannes dragged himself to Dolores' villa. In the drawing-room, beside a brightly flaming wood fire, sat Van Lieverlee engaged in lively conversation with two young-lady callers, for whom the countess was pouring tea. Into this circle came Johannes, with his sad heart and his lugubrious petition. He entered hurriedly, awkwardly, abruptly, without heeding the astonished and disdainful looks of the visitors, nor the very evident consternation which his poverty-stricken appearance, his untoward entrance, and his melancholy tidings made upon host and hostess. "But, Johannes," said Van Lieverlee, "I thought you were more philosophical and had higher ideas than that. It seems to me that--for your friend who claimed to be a magician, and for yourself who believed in him--it makes a sad lot of bother what happens to the dust out of which his temporal presence was formed." "I thought," replied Johannes, "that as you are now a Catholic, you might perhaps feel that you could do something for...." "Certainly," said Van Lieverlee, scornfully, "if your friend also were a Catholic. Was he?" "No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes. "But, Johannes," said the countess, "why was not your friend in a burial club? Nowadays all people of his class belong to such clubs. Is that not so, Freule?" "Of course," replied the Honorable Lady. "Every decent poor person belongs to a club. But it's astonishing how people will complain of their poverty and yet be _so_ thoughtless and careless." "Yes, astonishing," sighed the other visitor. "Then you will do nothing for me?" asked Johannes, not without a touch of bitterness in his tones. The countess looked at Van Lieverlee, who frowned and shook his head. "No, dear Johannes. For anything else, quite willingly; but for this there seems to be no justification." * * * * * A whole night and day passed in which nothing could be done, since Marjon had not yet returned; and the three gulden and twenty-four cents had only increased by very slow degrees to about five gulden. At last, on Saturday forenoon, a carriage drew up to the door of the little coffee-house, and out stepped a stately figure in black, which, with its old-time jetted bonnet, heavy rustling black-silk skirt, full mantilla, and a dainty, lavenderlike suggestion of linen chests, and of choice silken souvenirs, entirely filled the narrow entrance. "Aunt Seréna!" cried Johannes. And in a quick impulse of warm affection he threw his arms around her. "It is herself!" said Marjon, excited by her success. "And I've got ten gulden from the dark woman, who is not so bad as I thought she was." * * * * * Aunt Seréna received a cup of coffee, and was soon on good terms with the Roodhuis family. In the same carriage that had brought her, Marjon and Johannes drove with her to the hospital. They were sure of success, now, relying upon Aunt Seréna's wealth. But you will not be surprised to hear that they arrived too late--that the doorman, and the doctor on duty, gave them positive assurance that, for all the gold in the world, there could now be no question of burial--because no one could reassemble what had once been the body of their friend. "Wretches!" muttered Marjon, as they went homeward. But Johannes cried out: "Oh, Marjon, Marjon, the time is not yet come for men to honor their kings." * * * * * There was mourning only in the dark alcove behind the drinking-room of the total-abstainers' coffee-house; but there the mourning, the sobbing and the sighing, were genuine. Before going away, Aunt Seréna remarked: "You see, the golden apples of my little tree were good for something, after all." "Ah, Aunt Seréna," replied Johannes, "do not think me proud. I did not come to you before, because I was ashamed, even though you had said I need not be. But _he_ has cured me of looking down upon others because they do not yet think as I do." "Then you will not be too proud to cherish my little apple-tree, if I leave it for you to transplant into your own garden?" And she laughingly continued: "That is not so kindly intentioned as it appears to be. I have a mischievous pleasure in thinking of your embarrassment at not knowing how to use it better than I did." "That is naughty of you, Aunt Seréna," said Marjon. "One thing I know," said Johannes. "I shall spread broadcast, the 'little apples,' that from them new trees may grow; for _he_ taught us that." "Good! You must come, some time, and explain that to me. God bless you both! And God bless your work, my children." "God bless you, Aunt Seréna! Give Daatje our greetings." And now I have told you all that I had to tell about Little Johannes.