Little Johannes Part 7

'You are, Windekind, you are!--still I cannot help crying over men.'

'Why? You need not remain among them if it vexes you. You can live here with me, and always keep me company. We will make our home in the thickest of the wood, in the solitary, sunny downs, or among the reeds by the pool. I will take you everywhere, down under the water among the water-plants, in the palaces of the elves and in the earth-spirits'

homes. I will waft you over fields and forests, over strange lands and seas. I will make the spiders spin fine raiment for you, and give you wings such as I have. We will live on the scent of flowers, and dance with the elves in the moonlight. When autumn comes we will follow the summer, to where the tall palm-trees stand, where gorgeous bunches of flowers hang from the cliffs, and the dark blue ocean sparkles in the sun. And I will always tell you fairy tales. Will you like that, Johannes?'

'And I shall never live among men any more?'

'Among men, endless vexations await you, weariness, troubles and sorrow.

Day after day you will toil and sigh under the burden of life. Your tender soul will be wounded and tortured by their rough ways. You will be worn and grieved to death. Do you love men more than you love me?'

'No, no! Windekind, I will stay with you.'

Now he could prove how much he cared for Windekind. Yes, he would forsake and forget everybody and everything for his sake: his little room, and Presto, and his father. He repeated his wish, full of joy and determination.

The rain had ceased. A bright smile of suns.h.i.+ne gleamed through the grey clouds on the wet sparkling leaves, on the drops which hung twinkling from every twig and blade of gra.s.s, and gemmed the spiders' webs spread among the oak leaves. A filmy mist rose slowly from the moist earth and hung over the underwood, bringing up a thousand warm, sleepy odours. The blackbird flew to the topmost bough and sang a short, pa.s.sionate melody to the sinking sun--as though he would show what kind of singing befitted the spot--in the solemn evening stillness, to the soft accompaniment of falling drops.

'Is that not more lovely than the noises of men, Johannes? Ah, the blackbird knows exactly the right thing to sing! Here all is harmony; you will find none so perfect among men.'

'What is harmony, Windekind?'

'It is the same thing as happiness. It is that which all agree in striving after. Men too, but they do so like children trying to catch a b.u.t.terfly. Their stupid efforts are just what scare it away.'

'And shall I find it with you?'

'Yes, Johannes. But you must forget men and women. It is a bad beginning to have been born to be a man; but you are still young. You must put away from you all remembrance of your human life; among them you would go astray, and fall into mischief and strife and wretchedness--it would be with you as it was with the young c.o.c.kchafer of whom I told you.'

'What happened to him afterwards?'

'He saw the beautiful light of which the old chafer spoke; he thought he could do no better than fly towards it at once. He flew straight into a room, and into a human hand. For three days he lived in torture; he was shut up in a cardboard box; they tied a thread to his feet and let him fly at the end of it; then they untied him, with one wing and one leg torn off; and at last, helplessly creeping round and round on a carpet, trying to feel his way back to the garden, a heavy foot crushed him to death.

'All the creatures, Johannes, which come out and about at night are just as much children of the Sun as we are. And although they have never seen their glorious father, still an obscure remembrance always tempts them wherever a light is beaming. And thousands of poor creatures of the darkness find a miserable end through their love for the Sun, from which they were so long since parted, and to which they have become strangers.

And in the same way a vague and irresistible attraction brings men to ruin in the false image of that Great Light whence they proceeded, but which they no longer know.'

Johannes looked inquiringly into Windekind's eyes, but they were as deep and mysterious as the dark sky between the stars.

'Do you mean G.o.d?' he timidly asked.

'G.o.d?' There was a soft smile in the deep eyes. 'I know, Johannes, what you are thinking of when you speak that word,--of the chair by your bed-side where you knelt to say your long prayers last evening--of the green serge curtains in front of the church window, which you gaze at by the hour on Sunday mornings--of the capital letters in your little Bible--of the church-bag with its long pole--of the stupid singing and the stuffy atmosphere. All that you mean by the word, Johannes, is a monstrous, false image. In place of the sun a huge petroleum lamp, to which thousands and thousands of flies are helplessly and hopelessly stuck fast!'

'But what then is the name of that Great Light, Windekind? And to whom must I pray?'

'Johannes, it is as though a patch of mould should ask me what was the name of the earth which bears it round in s.p.a.ce. Even if there were any answer to your question you would no more understand it than an earthworm can hear the music of the stars. Still, I will teach you to pray.'

And while Johannes was still silently wondering over Windekind's reply, the elf flew out of the wood with him, high up, so high that beyond the edge of the down a long narrow line was visible, gleaming like gold.

They flew on and on, the undulating sand-hills beneath them gliding away, and the streak of light growing broader and broader. The green hue faded, the wild broom was grey and thin, and strange bluish-green plants grew among the bushes. Then another range of hills--a long narrow strip of sand--and beyond, the wide unresting sea.

The vast expanse was blue to the very horizon; but out there, under the sun, a small streak shone in blinding red fire. An endless fringe of downy-looking white foam edged the waters, as ermine borders blue velvet. On the horizon a wonderful, fine line divided the air from the ocean. It was indeed a marvel; straight yet curved; sharply defined yet non-existent; visible yet intangible. It was like the vibration of a harp-string, which thrills dreamily for a long time, seeming to die away and yet still be there.

Then little Johannes sat down on the sand-hill and gazed--gazed long--motionless and silent; till he felt as though he were about to die,--as though the great golden gates of the Infinite had opened majestically before him, and his little soul were soaring forth towards the first light of eternity; until the tears, which welled up to his wide-open eyes, had dimmed the radiance of the sun, and the splendour of sky and earth floated off into soft tremulous light.

'That is the way to pray!' said Windekind.

V

Have you ever loitered in the woods on a fresh autumn day? When the sun s.h.i.+nes calmly and clearly on the richly-tinted foliage; when the boughs creak, and the dry leaves rustle under foot. The forest seems weary of life; it can merely think, and lives in its memories of the past. A blue mist hangs about it like a dream, full of mysterious splendour, and the glistening gossamers float on the air with slow undulations--a sweet aimless musing.

And now from the moist ground among the mosses and withered leaves suddenly and inexplicably the strange forms of toadstools spring into being. Some st.u.r.dy, deformed and fleshy; others slim and tall with ringed stems and gaily painted hats. These are the quaint dream-figures of the forest. On the decayed tree-trunks, too, there are little white columns in numerable, with black heads as though they had been burnt.

Certain learned men regard them as a sort of fungus. But Johannes knew better:--

'They are little tapers. In the still autumn nights they burn while the boguey-sprites sit near them, reading their little books.'

Windekind had told him this one such tranquil autumn day, and Johannes dreamily drank in the faint earthy smell which came up from the mouldering ground.

'How is it that the leaves of the ash-trees are so speckled with black?'

'Ah! the boguey-sprites do that too,' said Windekind. 'When they have been busy writing at night, in the morning they throw out what is left in their ink-bottles over the leaves. They do not love the ash-trees; crosses are made of ash-wood, and poles for church bags.'

Johannes was curious to know all about the busy little sprites, and he made Windekind promise to take him to see one of them. He had now stayed some time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret for his promise to forget all he had left behind him. And he had no hours of loneliness or terror, when repentance is always apt to intrude. Windekind never quitted him, and with him he felt everywhere at home. He slept soundly in the swinging nest, where it hung between the green reeds, however ominously the bittern might boom or the raven croak. He knew no fear of the pelting rain or howling storm--he could creep into a hollow tree or a rabbit's burrow, and hide close under Windekind's cloak, and listen to his voice as he told him tales.

And now he was to see the Wood-Sprites.

It was a good day for such a visit. So calm, so still, Johannes fancied he could already hear tiny voices and the rustle of little feet, though it was mid-day. The birds had almost all fled; only the thrushes were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There he hung with flapping wings, struggling till his sharp clenched claws were almost torn away. Johannes made haste to set him free, and he flew off with a happy chirp.

The toadstools had a great deal to say.

'Only look at me!' said a fat puffy Toadstool.

'Did you ever see the like? See how thick and white my stem is, and how my hat s.h.i.+nes. I am the biggest of you all. And that in one night!'

'Pooh!' said the red spotted toadstool. 'You are most vulgar!--so brown and clumsy. Now, I sway on a tall stem like a reed; I am of a splendid red like the rowan berries, and most elegantly speckled. I am the handsomest of you all.'

'Hus.h.!.+' said Johannes, who knew them both of old. 'You are both poisonous.'

'That is a virtue,' said the red fellow.

'Or are you a man by chance?' retorted the fat toadstool. 'Then indeed I wish you would eat me.'

But Johannes did not eat him; he took some dry twigs and stuck them into his round hat. That looked funny, and all the others laughed; even a swarm of slender toadstools with little brown heads who had only come up a few hours since, and pushed themselves everywhere to look out on the world. The fat toadstool turned blue with spite, thus displaying his venomous nature. Earth-stars raised their little pert heads on angular stems. Now and then a little cloud of the finest brown powder puffed out of the opening in a round head. Wherever that dust fell on the moist soil, threads would tangle and plait beneath the dark earth, and next year myriads of fresh stars would come up.

'What a beautiful existence!' they said to each other.

'The happiest lot in life is to shed dust. What joy to think we may do it as long as we live!' And they puffed the little smoke-like cloud into the air with the deepest concentration.

'Are they really happy, Windekind?'

'Why not? What higher joy can they know? They are happy, for they ask no better because they know no better.'