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.