VI
Johannes did not leave, and at last came the day of the dreaded party. Having grown more confident, he had spoken of his needs. The carriage put in an appearance, and in the neighboring town, he was soon provided with suitable clothing.
Still, his mind was not quite at rest.
"Will you also say, dear lady," said Johannes that afternoon, when with the children and their mother, "that I truly cannot play upon any instrument? Please don't ask me to do anything!"
"But, Johannes," urged the countess, "that would really be very disagreeable in me. After what I have said, something will be expected of you."
"I cannot do anything!" said Johannes, in distress.
"He is joking, Mama," said Olga; "he can play the castanets and can imitate animals."
"Oh, yes! all kinds of animals! Awfully nice!" cried Frieda.
"Is that so, Johannes? Well, then?"
It was true that Johannes had amused his two little friends while they were taking walks together – mimicking all sorts of animal sounds, like those of the horse, donkey, cow, dog, cat, pig, sheep, and goat. He had whistled like the birds so cleverly that the two little girls had been enraptured. And one single instrument he did indeed play admirably – the genuine boys' castanets that every schoolboy and street urchin in Holland carries in his pocket certain months of the year. Many an autumn day, sauntering home from school, he had shortened the way for himself with the sharp, clear, uninterrupted "a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty tick! – a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty tick! – a-rick-a-ty, tick-a-ty tick! – tack! tack!"
The little girls now begged him to let their mama hear. So he took out his castanets, which he himself had made while there, and clicked away with them lustily.
"Delightful!" cried the countess. "Now you must sing and dance at the same time, like the Spaniards."
Johannes shied at the dancing. But indeed he would sing. And he sang all kinds of street ditties, such as "Oh, Mother, the Sailor!" and "Sara, you're losing your Petticoat," to the merry music of the castanets. The children thought it splendid.
Their enthusiasm excited him, and he began improvising all sorts of nonsense. The little girls clapped their hands, and the longer he played the more merry they grew. Johannes struck an attitude, and announced his selections just as if he were before an audience. The countess and her daughters went and sat in a row – the little girls wild with delight.
"Sketches from Animal Life," announced Johannes, beginning, to the time-keeping accompaniment of the castanets, the well-known air from The Carnival of Venice,
"A hen that came from Japan
Assured a crippled toad
She'd never have him for her man.
That was a sorry load."
The little girls shouted and stamped, with glee.
"More, Jo! – More, more, Johannes! Do!"
"Splendid!" cried the countess, speaking in Dutch, now, herself.
"A rhinoceros said to a louse,
'I'll stamp you flat on the ground!
'The louse made tracks for his house,
And there he is now to be found.
"A grasshopper sat in the grass,
And said to a chimpanzee:
'Your coat I will thank you to pass,
That I may attend a partie.'
"A snoop who stood on the stoop
Asked of his fellow boarder
If hairs he found in the soup.
The hostess? – 'Twas malice toward her!
"A crab who enjoyed a joke,
Gave his mama a kick.
And when she dropped at his poke,
He laughed till the tears fell thick."
"Hey, there!" the little girls shouted boisterously. "Jolly! More, more! Jo!"
"A stock-fish, deaf-and-dumb born,
Once said to a billy-goat:
'Of my head I see I am shorn —
'Twas you did it, silly goat!'"
"There, there, Johannes! That will do. Now you are getting foolish," said the mother.
"Oh, no, Mama! Only funny!" cried Frieda and Olga. "He is so funny! Go on, Jo!"
But Johannes was quite disconcerted by the mother's comment, and there was no further exposition of "Sketches from Animal Life."
In the evening Johannes drove with the countess in the state-coach to Lady Crimmetart's. Milady dwelt in a very handsome house – a castle in a large park. From a distance, Johannes could see the brightly lighted windows, and also the vehicles in front of the pillars, at the entrance.
Overhead, an awning was spread, and a long strip of heavy, bright-red carpeting laid down, so that the guests might be protected in passing from their carriages to the magnificent vestibule. The way was lined with lackeys – full twenty on each side. They looked very impressive, all of them tall and heavy, wearing knee-breeches of yellow plush, and red lace-trimmed coats. Johannes was puzzled because they all seemed to be such old men. Their hair was white as snow. That was powder, however, and it added to their dignity. How small and shabby Johannes felt while running the gauntlet of those liveried lackeys!
Indoors, Johannes was completely blinded by the dazzling light. He ascended a vaulted staircase, the broad steps of which were of many-colored marble. He saw vaguely, flowers, electric lamps, variegated carpets, broad, conspicuously white expanses of shirt-linen bordered with black coat, and bare necks adorned with gems and white lace. He heard a subdued murmur of soft voices, the rustling of silk clothing, the announcement of names.
In the background, at the top of the stairs, the swollen visage of Lady Crimmetart was glowing like a railway danger-signal. All the guests went up to her, and their names being spoken, each one received a bow and a handshake.
"What name, sir?" asked a colossal lackey, as he bent obliquely over Johannes. Johannes stammered out something, but the countess repeated it, changed.
"Professor Johannes, of Holland!" he heard called out. He bowed, received a handshake, and saw the powdered face smiling – or grinning – with affected sweetness. Lady Crimmetart's neck and arms were so fat and bare that Johannes was nearly terrified by them, and did not dare look straight. They were loaded with precious stones – big, flat, square, uniformly cut diamonds, alternating with pear-shaped pearls. Three white ostrich feathers bobbed in her head-dress. There were no animals at her side, but of course she had her fan and her gold-headed crutch.
"How do you do?" inquired the deep voice. But before Johannes could reply that he was pretty well, she addressed herself, with a grinning smile, to the next comer. Beside her stood a short, heavily built man. He had a shiny, bald head, a red face with deeply cut lines, and a large, bony nose. It was precisely such a head as one sees carved upon knobs of walking-sticks and parasols. It was Lord Crimmetart who stood there, and he gave Johannes' hand a firm clasp.
For an hour or so Johannes wandered about in the midst of the crowd. He felt dispirited and lonesome to begin with; and the babel of voices, the sheen and rustle of silken garments, the glitter of lights and of precious stones, the uniforms, bare necks, and white shirt-fronts, and the heavy scent of perfumery and of flowers, – all this oppressed him until he became deeply dejected. There was such a press of people that at times he could not stir, and the ladies and gentlemen talked straight into his face. How he longed for a quiet corner and an every-day companion! Everybody except himself had something to say. There was no one among those passing by so forlorn as he. He did not understand what they all could be saying to one another. The scraps of conversation that did reach him were about the stir in the room and the magnificence of the party. But the saying of that was not the reason for their having come together.
Johannes felt that the feast of the elves in the dunes had been far more pleasant.
Then, strains of music reached him from a stringed orchestra hidden behind green laurel. That awakened longings almost painful, and he drew closer, to sit down, unobserved, and let the people stream by. There he sat, with moistened eyes, looking dreamily out before him, while his thoughts dwelt upon quiet dunes and sounding seas on a moonlit night.
"Professor Johannes, let me introduce you to Professor von Pennewitz," rang suddenly in his ears. He rose to his feet startled. There stood Lady Crimmetart beside a diminutive man, whose scanty grey locks hung down to his coat-collar. The vision was little like Johannes' dream.
"This is a youthful prodigy, Professor von Pennewitz – a young poet who recites his own compositions. At the same time he is a famous medium. You certainly will have interesting things to say to each other."
Thereupon, Lady Crimmetart disappeared again among the other guests, leaving the two bowing to each other – Johannes abashed and perplexed, von Pennewitz bowing and rubbing his hands together, teetering up and down on his toes, and smiling.
"Now for the examination!" thought Johannes, waiting in mute patience – a victim to whatever wise questions the great man was to pillory him with.
"Have you – ah – known the family here for long?" asked von Pennewitz – opening and closing his thin lips with a sipping sound, while with fingers affectedly spread, he adjusted his eyeglasses, peering over the tops of them at Johannes.
"No, I do not know them at all!" replied Johannes, shaking his head.
"No?" said von Pennewitz, rubbing and wringing his hands, most cheerfully. And then he continued, in broken English:
"Well, well! That pleases me. Neither do I. Curious people! Do you not think so, young man?"
Johannes, somewhat encouraged by this affability, gave a hesitating assent.
"Have you such types in Holland, also? Surely upon a more modest scale? Ha! ha! ha! – These people are astonishingly rich! Have you tried their champagne? – No? Then you must just come with me to the buffet. It is worth the trouble, I can assure you."
Happy, now, to be at least walking with some one, Johannes followed the little man, who piloted him through the packed mass of people.
Arrived at the buffet they drank of the sparkling wine.
"But, sir," said Johannes, "I have heard that Lady Crimmetart is so very clever."
"Have you, indeed?" said the Professor, looking again at Johannes over the top of his glasses, and nodding his head. "I have nothing to say about that. Much traveled – papa a hoarding-house keeper – a smattering of almost everything. Nowadays one can get a good deal out of the newspapers. Do you read the papers, young man?"
"Not much, sir," said Johannes.
"Good! Be cautious about it. Let me give you some extra-good advice. Read few newspapers, and eat few oysters. Especially in Rome eat no oysters. I have just come from a fatal case of poisoning – a Roman student."
Johannes mentally resolved, on the spot, to eat anything in Rome rather than oysters.
"Is Lord Crimmetart also so clever, Professor?" asked Johannes.
"He is bright enough. In order to become a Lord and an arch-millionaire by means of patent pills alone, one needs to be a bright rascal. Just try it! Ha! ha! ha!"
The professor laughed heartily, snorted and sniffed, clicked his false teeth, and finished off his glass. Then he said:
"But take care, young man, that you do not marry before you have made your pile. That was a stupid move of his. He would be able to do very much better now. If he chose, he might win Countess Dolores."
The blood rushed to Johannes' head, and he flushed deeply,
"I am staying there, sir!" said he, considerably touched.
"Is that so? Is that so?" replied the professor, in a propitiatory tone. "But I said nothing about her, you know. A most charming woman. A perfect beauty. So she is your hostess? Well, well, well!"
"There is His Grace, the bishop!" cried the heavy voice of Lady Crimmetart, as she passed by, hurrying toward the entrance.
Johannes was on the qui vive for the white mitre and the gilded crozier, but he could see only a tall, ordinary gentleman in a black suit, and wearing gaiters. He had a smooth, good-looking face, that bore an affected smile; and in his hand he held a curious, flat hat, the brim of which was held up with cords, as if otherwise it might droop down over his nose. Lady Crimmetart received him quite as warmly as Aunt Seréna received the dominie. How Johannes wished he was still at his Aunt Seréna's!
"Sir!" said some one at his ear, "Milady wishes to know if you have brought your instrument, and if you will not begin now."
Johannes looked round, in a fright. He saw a portly personage with an upstroked moustache, in black satin short-clothes, and a red coat – evidently a master of ceremonies.
"I have no instrument," stammered Johannes. But he did have his castanets in his pocket. "I cannot do anything," he repeated – most miserable.
The pompous one glanced right and left, as if he had made some mistake. Then he stepped away a moment, to return soon, accompanied by Countess Dolores.
"What is it, my dear Johannes?" said the countess. "You must not disappoint us."
"But, Mevrouw, I really cannot."
The pompous one stood by, looking on in a cool, impassive way, as if quite accustomed to the sight of freaks who were considered youthful prodigies. Johannes' forehead was wet with perspiration.
"Indeed you can, Johannes! You are sure to do well."
"What shall I announce?" asked the pompous one. Johannes did not understand the question, but the countess replied, in his stead.
In a twinkling he was standing beside a piano encircled by guests, and he saw hundreds of eyes, with and without eyeglasses, fastened upon him. Straight in front – next Lady Crimmetart – sat the bishop, looking at him severely and critically, out of hard, cold, light-blue eyes.
The master of ceremonies called out, loudly and clearly:
"National Hymns of Holland." And then poor Little Johannes had to clap and sing – whatever he could. To keep up courage, he threw just a glance at the beautiful face of the countess, with its near-sighted eyes – and tried to think it was for her alone that he sang. He did his best, and sang in tremolo from "Oh, Mother, the Mariner!" and "We are going to America," to "The Hen from Japan," and "The Tiger of Timbuctoo" – his entire repertory.
They listened, and looked at him as if they thought him a queer specimen; but no one laughed. Neither the goggle-eyes of the hostess, nor the stern regard of the bishop, nor one of the hundreds of other pairs of eyes pertaining to these richly dressed and excellent ladies and gentlemen, evinced the slightest token of emotion, happy or otherwise. That was scarcely to be wondered at, since they did not understand the words; but it was not encouraging. Without loss of time, most of them turned away their attention, and began anew their laughing and chattering.
When he stopped, there sounded, to his astonishment, a lone hand-clapping, and Countess Dolores came up to him, gave her hand, and congratulated him upon his success. Lady Crimmetart, also, thundered out that it was "awfully interesting." A tall, thin young lady, in white satin, whose prominent collar bones were but slightly concealed by a ten-fold necklace of pearls, came, smiling sweetly, to press his hand. She was so happy, she said, to have heard the Carnival of Venice in the original, by a veritable resident of the city. "How peculiarly interesting! But it must be so nice, Professor … ah! I have lost your name!.. so nice to live in a city lying wholly under water, and where everybody wears wooden shoes!"
"Was that entirely your own composition, Professor Johannes?" inquired a plain, good-natured little lady, in a simple black gown. And several other women, of riper years, sought to introduce themselves. He really brightened up a little at these tokens of approval, although he rather mistrusted their sincerity. When, however, he found himself beside a group of tall, broad-shouldered Britishers, with high collars, florid, smooth-shaven cheeks, and trim, closely-cropped, wavy, blonde hair, who, one hand in the trousers' pocket, stood drinking champagne, he heard such expressions as "beastly," "rot," and "humbug," and he very well knew that the words were applied to himself.
Shortly after this it became clear to him what constitutes genuine success. A robust young lady, with very artfully arranged hair, and pretty white teeth, sang, accompanied by the piano, a German song. With her head swaying from side to side and occasionally tossed backward, and with her mouth open very wide, she threw out trills and runs, like a veritable music-box. The sound of it all pierced through to Johannes' very marrow. What her song was intended to say, it was hard to tell, for she spoke a remarkable kind of German. Apparently, she was exciting herself over a faithless lover, or mistress, and dying – out of sheer affection.
When she had ended, and made a sweet, smiling bow, a vigorous round of applause followed, with cries of "bis," and "encore." Johannes had not himself received such acclaim, nor would he now take part therein.
In his dejection, he went to find Countess Dolores. She was the only one there to whom he could turn for comfort. He asked if he might not take his leave, since he was tired, and did not feel at home where he was.
The countess herself appeared not to be very well satisfied; she had won no honors through him, nevertheless she said:
"Come, my boy, do not be discouraged! You have still other gifts. Have you spoken with Ranji-Banji-Singh?"
A little earlier, Johannes had seen the tall East-Indian, with head erect, and a courtly carriage, striding through the motley crowd. He had wide nostrils, large, handsome eyes with somewhat drooping lids, a light-brown complexion, splendid blue-black hair, and a sparse beard. He wore his white turban, and yellow silk clothing, with solemn ceremoniousness. When any one spoke to him, he smiled most condescendingly, and, closing his eyes, he laid his slender hand, with its pale nails and upturned finger-tips, upon his bosom, and made a profound and graceful bow.
Johannes had noticed him especially, as one to whom he felt more attracted than to any other; and he had visions of deep, blue skies, majestic elephants, rustling palms, and palace facades of pale marble, on the banks of the Sacred River. However, he had not dared to address him.
But now the countess and Johannes went to find him, and find him they did, beside Lady Crimmetart, in a circle of ladies to whom he appeared to be speaking in rotation, with a courtly smile.
"Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh," said Countess Dolores, "have you made the acquaintance of Professor Johannes, of Holland? He is a great medium, and you certainly will find him sympathetic."
The East-Indian showed his white teeth again, in a winning smile, and gave his hand to Johannes. The boy felt, however, that it was not given from the heart.
"But are you not also a medium, Mr. Singh?" asked one of the ladies, "such a great theosophist as you!"
Ranji-Banji-Singh threw back his head, made with his clasped hands a gesture as if warding off something, and smiling disdainfully, said, in broken English:
"Theosophists not mediums. Mediums is organ-grinders – theosophist, composer. Medium-tricks stand low; – street-jugglery for gold. Theosophist and Yogi can everything, all the same – can much more, but not show. That is meanness, unworthiness!"
The slender brown hand was shaken in Johannes' face, in an endeavor to express its owner's contempt, while the dark face of the East-Indian took on an expression of one compelled to drink something bitter.
That was too much for Johannes. Feeling himself misunderstood by the only one upon whom he cared to make a good impression, he said, angrily:
"I never perform tricks, sir. I exhibit nothing. I am not a medium."
"Not by profession – not a professional medium," said Countess Dolores, to save the situation.
"Then you do not practise table-tilting, nor slate-writing, nor flower-showering?" asked the East-Indian, while his face cleared.
"No, sir! Nothing whatever!" said Johannes, emphatically.
"If I had known that!" exclaimed Lady Crimmetart, while her eyes seemed almost rolling out of her head. "But, Mr. Singh, can you not, just for this one time, show us something? Let us see something wonderful? A spinning tambourine, or a violin that plays of itself? Do, now! When we ask you so pleadingly, and when I look at you so fondly! Come!"
And she cast sheep's eyes at Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh in a manner which did not in the least arouse Johannes' envy.
The theosophist bowed again, smiling with closed eyes, but at the same time contracting his brows as if struggling with his aversion.
Then they went to a boudoir having glass walls and exotic plants – a kind of small conservatory, in a soft twilight. There they seated themselves at a table, with the East-Indian in the circle. Johannes was promptly excluded with the words: "Antipathetic! Bad influence!"
"That's Keesje, yet – surely!" thought Johannes.
Then there was writing upon slates held by Mr. Singh in one hand, under the table. The scratching of the pencil could be heard, and soon the slate reappeared – covered with writing in various languages – English, Latin, and Sanscrit. These sentences were translated by the East-Indian, and appeared to contain very wise and elevating lessons.
But Johannes had the misfortune to notice that the slate which should have been written upon was quickly exchanged by the theosophist the instant that he succeeded in diverting the attention of all the on-lookers. And Johannes added to his inauspicious observation the imprudent exclamation – loud and triumphant – "I see it all! He is exchanging slates!"
A regular riot ensued. Yet Ranji-Banji-Singh, with the utmost calmness, brought the exchanged slate to light again, and, with a triumphant smile, showed that it was without writing. Johannes looked baffled, yet he knew to a certainty that he had seen the deception, and he cried: "I saw it, nevertheless!"
"For shame!" thundered Lady Crimmetart. And all the other ladies cried indignantly, "Disgraceful!"
Ranji-Banji-Singh, with a taunting smile said: "I have compassion. Yogi know not hate, but pity evil-doer. Bad Karma. Unhappy person, this!"
That did not agree with what Herr van Lieverlee had said. He had commended Johannes' Karma. But Countess Dolores, now realizing that she was to have no further satisfaction out of her protégé, at once withdrew, and quite good-naturedly, so that he might not feel at all reproached. Indeed, she comforted him, with her friendly jests.
Johannes saw some daily papers lying in the hall of Countess Dolores' house. Against the advice of Professor von Pennewitz, he began running them through. His eyes remained glued to the page, for he saw there a communication from Germany, to the effect that the miners' strike had ended. The laborers had lost the battle.
The sleepless night that ensued seemed very long to him. Poor Heléne, also, was restless, and wailed and wailed without pause.