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 PROGENIËS....
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 Æschylus,” 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 Æschylus 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.
Notes
1 Bach = Fountain.