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 Gouda3 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.
Notes
1 Rust-oord = Place of repose.
2 Nooit-gedacht = Beyond thought.
3 Gouda = Name of town.