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.