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,"6 or "Nooit-gedacht,"7 and make one think of ancient times when the burghers went out to walk, with their Gouda8 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.
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.