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.
XVI
See, now, what comes of not doing what I expressly desired! Mijnheer van Lieverlee knew very well that I did not wish Little Johannes to be taken in hand; and yet now it happened, and, as you are to hear, with disastrous consequences.
Mijnheer van Lieverlee was not more than six years the senior of Johannes. He had large blue eyes, a waxy white face with two spots of soft color, a scanty, flax-like, double-pointed beard, and a thick tuft of sandy hair artfully arranged above his forehead. A scarf-pin of blue sapphires was sparkling in his broad, dark-violet scarf, a high, snow-white collar reached from his modish coat-collar up to the hair in his neck, and his hands – covered with rings – were resting on the exquisitely carved, ivory head of an ebony walking-stick. On the table, in front of him, lay a fine, light-grey felt hat, and his pantaloons were of the same color.
All were silent for a moment after Johannes' acknowledgment. Then Mijnheer van Lieverlee pulled out a handsome pocket-book, bearing an ornamental monogram in small diamonds, made in it several entries, and said to the lady:
"We can say to a certainty that this is not an accident. Evidently, his 'karma' is favorable. That he should have come directly here to us who know his history, and comprehend his soul, is the work of the highest order of intelligences – those who are attending him. We must heed the suggestion."
"It surely is an important circumstance, and one to be considered," said the lady, irresolutely. "Where do you live?"
"Over there by the railway – in the lodging-house," replied Marjon.
Mevrouw looked rather coldly, and said: "Well, boys, you may go home now. Here are three marks for each of you. And, Johannes, will you not write out that little song for me? There really was a charming melancholy in it. 'Twas sympathetic."
"Yes, Mevrouw, I will do so. And then may I come and bring it to you myself?"
"Certainly, certainly!" said the lady; but, at the same time, she closely scrutinized his clothing, through her lorgnette.
When they had turned away, and were out of sight, Marjon ran straight back again to the rear of the hotel, and began making personal inquiries, and kept busy as long as she could find any one who knew anything about the household of the stately lady, and the two lovely little girls.
"Do you mean the Countess?" asked a conceited head-waiter, with scornful emphasis. "Do you perchance belong to the family?"
"Well, why not?" retorted Marjon, with great self-assurance. "All the same, there have been countesses who eloped with head-waiters."
The cook and the chambermaids laughed.
"Clear out, you rascal!" said the waiter.
"What country is she from?" asked Marjon, undeterred.
"She? She has no native country. The Count was a Pole, and the Countess came from America. At present she is living in Holland."
"Widow – or divorced?" asked one of the chambermaids.
"Divorced, of course! That's much more interesting."
"And that young Hollander? Is he related to her?"
"What! He's a fellow-traveler. They met there."
"Shall we not start out again, Jo?" asked Marjon, as they sat together eating their supper of brown bread and cheese, in the same cramped, smoky room where the humble Hercules and his little daughter were also sitting – dressed, at present, in shabby civilian clothes, and each provided with a glass of beer.
"I am going to take my song," said Johannes.
"Manage it some way, Jo; I'll have nothing to do with those people."
Johannes ate his supper in silence. But, secretly, his feeling toward Marjon grew cooler, and she dropped in his estimation. She was jealous, or insensitive to what was beautiful or noble in people. She had also lived so long among dirty and rude folk! Oh, those two dear little girls! They were nobler and more refined beings. Softly – fervently – Johannes repeated their names: "Olga! Frieda!"
Then, as true as you live, there came a gold-bebraided small boy from the big hotel, bearing a note so perfumed that the close little room was filled with its sweetness; and the beer drinkers sniffed it with astonishment.
It was from Mijnheer, requesting Johannes to come to him, but without the monkey.
"Go by yourself," said Marjon. "Kees mustn't go along because he has an odor of another sort. You may say that I prefer that of Kees."
Mijnheer van Lieverlee was drinking strong black coffee from small metal cups, and smoking a Turkish pipe with an amber mouthpiece. At each pull of the pipe the water gurgled. He wore black silk hose and polished shoes, and he invited Johannes to a seat beside him on the broad divan.
After a pause he addressed Johannes as follows: "There – that's it, Johannes! Sit quite still, and while we talk try to maintain yourself in the uppermost soul-sphere." Then, after a period of pipe-gurgling, Mijnheer van Lieverlee asked: "Are you there?"
Johannes was not quite sure about it, but he nodded assent, being very curious concerning what was to follow.
"I can ask you that, Johannes, because we understand each other instantly. You and I, you know – you and I! We knew each other before we were in the body. It is not necessary for us to make each other's acquaintance after the manner of ordinary, commonplace people. We can instantly do as you and Windekind did. We are not learning to know, but we recognize each other."
Johannes listened attentively to this interesting and extraordinary statement. He looked at the speaker respectfully, and tried indeed to recall him, but without success.
"You will already have wondered that I should know about your adventures. But that is not so very marvelous, for there is some one else to whom you appear to have told them. Do you know whom I mean?"
Johannes knew well whom he meant.
"Really, you ought not to have done it, Johannes. When I heard of it I said at once that it was a great pity. The world is too coarse and superficial in such matters. People do not comprehend them. You must not permit that which is rare and delicate to be desecrated and contaminated by the foul touch of the indifferent public – the stupid multitude. Do you understand?"
Johannes nodded, the pipe gurgled, and Mijnheer van Lieverlee took a sip of coffee. Then, in a lighter tone, and gesticulating airily with his slender, white hands, he resumed:
"The veil of Maja, Johannes, obscures the vision of all who are created – of all who breathe and have aspirations – of all who enjoy and suffer. We must extricate ourselves from it. Will you have some coffee, too?"
"If you please, Mijnheer," said Johannes.
"A cigarette? Or do you not smoke yet?"
"No, Mijnheer."
"It is true, Windekind did not like tobacco smoke. But I do not smoke as common people do, for the fun of it or because it is pleasant. No! I permit myself to do so through my lowest qualities – the eighth and ninth articulations of Karma-Rupa. My higher attributes – the fourth and fifth – remain apart; just as a gentleman from the balcony of his country-seat views his cattle grazing. The cows do nothing but eat ravenously, digest, and eliminate. The gentleman makes of them a poem or a picture."
A pause, accompanied by the gurgling of the pipe.
"Well, as I have said, we should not cast before swine the pearls of our higher sensations and states of mind. We, Johannes – you and I, who have already passed through many incarnations – we are aged souls – we have already worn the veil so long that it is beginning to wear out. We can see through it. Now, we must not have too much to do with those young novices who are just setting out. We should decline, retrograde, and lose the benefit of our costly conquests."
That all seemed quite just to Johannes, and very flattering moreover. And it was also now made clear to him why he got on so poorly with people. He was of age, among minors.
"We, Johannes," resumed Van Lieverlee, "belong, so to speak, to the veterans of life. We bear the scars of countless incarnations, the stripes of many years – or, rather, let me say ages – of service. We must maintain our rank, and not throw to the dogs our dignity and prestige. This you will do if you continue to noise abroad all your intimate experiences; and I believe you still have a childish and quite perilous tendency that way."
Johannes thought of his many faults and blunders – of his stupidity in asserting his wisdom at school, and in blurting out Windekind's name before the men. Ashamed, he sat staring into his empty coffee cup.
"In short, it evidently was intended that you should find me, this time – me and Countess Dolores. For you must know that you have found two souls of the supremest refinement. Exactly what you need."
"Yes, how charming she is, and how lovely the children are!" chimed in Johannes, enthusiastically.
"Not on account of her being a countess," said Van Lieverlee, with a gesture of disdain. "Titles signify nothing with us. My family is perhaps more distinguished than hers. But she is the sister of our souls – a blending of glowing passion and lily-white purity."
At these fine words of Van Lieverlee, uttered with great care and emphasis, Johannes felt himself coloring with embarrassment. How did any one dare to say such words as if it were nothing?
"Are you a poet?" he asked bashfully.
"Certainly, I am. But you are one also, my boy. Did you not know it? Well, then, let me tell you, you are a poet. You see, at present you are the ugly duckling that for the first time meets a swan. Do you understand? Do not be afraid, Johannes. Do not be afraid, brother swan! Lift up your yellow beak – I shall not oppress you, but embrace you."
Johannes did lift up his yellow beak, but, instead of embracing him, Van Lieverlee took out the diamond-bedecked pocket-book, and began writing in it, hurriedly. Then, as he put away book and pencil, he smilingly said: "One must hold fast to good ideas. They are precious."
"Well, then," he resumed, drawing at his pipe again, while again it gurgled loudly, "you really could not have managed better, in the pursuit of your great aim, than to have come to us. We know the explanation of all those singular adventures with Pluizer and Windekind, and we can show you the infallible way to what you are seeking. That is, we go together."
Now was not that good news for Johannes? How stupid of Marjon not to be willing to go too! He listened thoughtfully to what followed.
"Give me your attention, Johannes, and I will tell you who all those beings are that you have encountered. I will also solve the riddle of their power, and tell you what there remains for us to do."
At that moment the door opened, and Countess Dolores came in with the children. She was dazzling, with magnificent jewels sparkling on her bare neck and arms. The children were in white. The grand table-d'hôte was over, and the countess had now come to drink her Arabic coffee with Van Lieverlee.
"Ah!" said she, looking at him through her lorgnette, "Have you a visitor? Shall we disturb you? But, really you can make such delicious coffee, and I cannot endure the hotel coffee!"
"Where is the monkey? Where is the monkey?" cried the two children, running up to Johannes.
Johannes stood up, in confusion. The two winsome children encircled him. He scented the exquisite perfume of their luxuriant hair and their rich dress. He felt their warm breath, their soft hands. He was charmed, through and through – possessed by delightful emotions. The little girls caressed him while they, asked after the monkey, until the gently reproachful "Olga! – Frieda!" sounded again.
Then they went and sat with Johannes on the sofa, one each side of him. The mother lighted a cigarette.
"Now proceed with your talking," said she, "so that I can be learning a little." Then in English: "If you listen quietly, girls, and are not troublesome, you may stay here."
Van Lieverlee had risen, put aside his Turkish pipe, grasped the lapel of his skirtless dinner coat with his left hand, and was gesticulating with the right, in front of Johannes and the countess.
"I ought to explain to him who Windekind, Wisterik, or – What is his name? Wistarik?.. and Pluizer, are, Mevrouw. You know, do you not, those characters in Johannes' life?"
"I – I – do not recall them," said the lady, "but that is nothing – speak out. Do not mind me. I do not count. I am only a silly creature."
"Ah! If people in general were similarly silly! Windekind, Wisterik, and Pluizer, then Johannes, are nothing other than "dewas," or elementals, materialized by a supreme effort of the will. They are personified, or rather impersonated, natural power – plasmatic appearances from the crystal-clear, elementary oneness. Windekind is harmonic poetry, or, rather, poetic harmony – the original dawning, or, rather, the dawning originality, of our planetary aboriginal consciousness. Wistarik, on the contrary, or Pluizer, is demoniacal antithesis – the eternally skeptical negation, or negative skepticism. They are like all ebb and flow, like the swinging pendulum, like winter and summer, eternally struggling with each other – continually destroying and forever reviving, the indispensable, mutually excluding, and yet again mutually complementing, first principles of dualistic monism, or of monistic dualism."
"How interesting!" murmured the countess; and turning to Johannes, she asked very seriously: "And have you really met with these elementals?"
"I – I believe I have," stammered Johannes.
"But, Van Lieverlee, then he truly is a medium! Do you not think so?"
"Of the second grade, Mevrouw, undoubtedly. Perhaps, with study and proper culture, he will attain the first rank."
"But would it not be well for us to introduce him to the Pleiades?"
And turning toward Johannes, she said affably: "We have a circle, you know, for the study of the higher sciences, and for the general improvement of our 'Karma.'"
"An ideal society, with a social ideal," supplemented Van Lieverlee.
That sounded very alluring to Johannes. Would Frieda and Olga belong to it also? he wondered.
He said, however, as politely and modestly as possible: "But, Mevrouw, would I really be in place there?"
His manner pleased the countess. Smiling most sweetly she said: "Surely, my boy! Rank has nothing to do with the higher knowledge."
Then to Van Lieverlee, in English, with that characteristic, cool loftiness of the English, who suppose the hearer does not understand their language: "Really, he is not so bad? – not so very common!"
But Johannes had learned English at school; yet, because he was still such a mere boy, with so little self-consciousness, he felt flattered rather than offended. He said – using English now, himself: "I am not good yet, but I will try my best to become so."
This word fell again upon good ground, with mother and daughters. There came to Johannes that exhilarating sensation of making conquests; he, Little Johannes – a brief while ago the scissors-grinder boy – at present a singer of street songs —he, in a world of supremely refined spirits, with a beautiful countess, all decked with glittering jewels, and her two enchanting little daughters! And that, not on account of birth or patronage, but through his own personal powers. If he could only see Wistik again, now – how he would boast of it!
But, suddenly, to his honor be it said, something else occurred to him:
"My comrade, Mevrouw! May we both go?"
"Who is your comrade? How did you meet him?"
Whoever had heard Johannes then would not have said that, only so short a time ago, he had thought slightingly of his little friend. He stood up for her warmly, described her natural goodness and her unusual talents, – yes even drew on his imagination for her probable noble origin, until it ended in his having touched the heart of Countess Dolores. But, in his enthusiasm, he said, by turns, "he" and "she," so that one of the little girls, being observing, as children usually are, abruptly asked: "Why do you say 'she'? Is it a girl?"
Then Johannes confessed. It could do no harm here, he thought – among such high-minded people. Blushing more deeply than ever, he said: "Yes, it is really a girl. She is disguised, so as not to fall into anybody's hands."
Van Lieverlee looked at Johannes very sternly and critically, without making any comment. The little girls, with a serious air, said: "How lovely!" Mevrouw laughed, rather nervously:
"Oh, oh! That is romantic. Almost piquant. Then let her come, but in the clothing that belongs to her, if you please."
"And the monkey, Mama? Will the monkey come, too?" asked Olga, the elder.
"Oh, lovely, lovely!" cried Frieda, clapping her hands.
"No, children; it is not to be thought of. Of course, you understand, Johannes, that the monkey cannot come with you. He would have a very bad influence. Would he not, Van Lieverlee?"
Van Lieverlee nodded his head emphatically, and, with an expressive gesture of refusal, said: "It would simply nullify all the higher influences. We must exclude carefully all low and impure fluids. The monkey, Johannes, has in general a very low and unfavorable aura, or inimical sphere, as you may always perceive from his fatal odor."
"It would make me ill," said the countess, putting her handkerchief to her face at the very thought of it.
So Johannes walked home that evening, proud and happy, with his head full of brilliant fancies; but at the same time burdened with a charge – a message to Marjon – which grew more and more heavy as the distance between him and the grand hotel increased, and the distance between him and the small lodging-house lessened.