Little Johannes

But the bird pretended not to hear, and flew about among the young pale-green birch boughs. They were sitting under a sand-hill, on which little birches and broom shrubs grew. A grassy path ran up the slope, and they sat at the edge of it, on the thick, dark, green moss. They could see over the tops of the low shrubs, a green sea of leaves with waves in light and shade.

'I believe,' said Robinetta, after thinking for some time, 'that I can find what you want before you do. But what do you mean about the little key? How did you come by it?'

'Ah! – how did I? – How was that?' muttered Johannes to himself, staring across the green landscape into the distance.

Suddenly, as though they had come into being under the sunny blue sky, a pair of white butterflies met his sight. They flitted and wheeled, and shone in the sunshine with purposeless giddy flutterings; but they came close to him.

'Windekind! Windekind!' The name came back to Johannes, and he spoke it in a whisper.

'What is Windekind?' asked Robinetta. The Redbreast flew chirping up, and the daisies in the grass at their feet seemed all at once to be staring at Johannes in alarm with their round white eyes.

'Did he give you the little key?' the girl went on.

Johannes nodded; still he said nothing, but she wanted to know more about it.

'Who was it? Did he tell you all these things? Where is he?'

'He is gone. – Now it is Robinetta – no one but Robinetta – only Robinetta.'

He took her arm and laid his head against it.

'Silly boy!' she said, laughing, 'I will make you find the Book; I know where it is.'

'But then I must go to fetch the key, and it is a long way off.'

'No, no, you need not. I can find it without the key. – To-morrow, I promise you, to-morrow.'

And as they walked homewards, the butterflies flitted in front of them.

That night, Johannes dreamed of his father, of Robinetta, and of many others. They were all good friends; they stood round him and looked at him kindly and trustfully. But on a sudden, their faces were changed, they looked coldly and laughed at him. He gazed about him in terror – on all sides there were none but angry, unfriendly faces. He felt a nameless misery, and awoke with a cry.

IX

Johannes had sat waiting for a long time. The air was chill, and heavy clouds swept over the scene in endless succession. They spread a dark grey mantle in wide folds, and lifted their proud heads to the bright light which shone above them. Sunshine and shadow chased each other with wonderful swiftness across the trees, like a fitfully blazing fire. Johannes was uneasy in his mind; he was thinking of the Book, not really believing that he should ever find it. Between the clouds very, very high up, he saw the clear, deep blue strewn with fleecy white clouds, soft and feathery, floating in calm and motionless rest.

'It must be like that!' thought he. 'So high, so bright, so still!'

Then came Robinetta. Her bird was not with her.

'It is all right, Johannes!' she cried out. 'You may come and see the Book.'

'Where is Robin Redbreast?' said Johannes doubtfully.

'He did not come; as we are not going for a walk.'

So he went with her, still thinking to himself: 'It cannot be. – It will not be like this, – it must be quite different.' However, he followed the shining golden hair which lighted up the way.

Alas! Sad things now befell little Johannes. I wish that his history ended here. Did you ever have a beautiful dream of an enchanted garden, with flowers and beasts who loved you and talked to you? And have you in your dream had the consciousness that you would presently awake, and all the glory of it vanish? Then you try with all your might to hold it fast, and not to see the cold light of morning.

Johannes had just such a feeling as he followed Robinetta.

She led him into the big house, into a passage where his steps echoed. He could smell the scent of clothes and food; he thought of the long days when he had been kept indoors – of his school-days – and of everything in his life which had been cold and gloomy.

They went into a room full of men and women; how many, he could not see. They were talking, but as he went in they were silent. He noticed that the carpet had a pattern of huge, impossible flowers in gaudy colours. They were as strange and monstrous as those on the curtains in his bedroom at home.

'So that is the gardener's little boy?' said a voice opposite him. 'Come here, my little friend; there is nothing to be afraid of.'

And another voice close to him said —

'Well, Robbie, you have found a nice little companion.'

What did it all mean? The deep lines gathered again above Johannes's dark childlike eyes, and he looked about him in bewilderment and alarm. A man dressed in black sat near him, looking at him with cold, grey eyes.

'So you want to see the Book of Books? I am surprised that your father, whom I know for a pious man, should not have put it into your hands before now.'

'You do not know my father; he is far, far away.'

'Indeed! Well, it is the same thing. Look here, my little friend! Read this diligently; it shall show you the way of life – '

But Johannes had already recognised the Book. This was not what he wanted. No, something very different. He shook his head.

'No, no! that is not what I mean. I know this Book. This is not it.'

He heard exclamations of surprise, and felt the looks which were fixed on him from all sides.

'What? What do you mean, little man?'

'I know this book. It is the book men believe in. But there is not enough in it – if there were, there would be peace and goodwill among men. And there is none. I mean something different – something which no one can doubt who sees it; in which it is written, precisely and clearly, why everything is as it is.'

'How is that possible? Where can the boy have picked up such a notion?'

'Who taught you that, my little friend?'

'I am afraid that you have read some wicked books, child, and are talking like them.'

Thus spoke the various voices. Johannes felt his cheeks burning – his eyes were dim and dazzled – the room turned round, and the huge flowers on the carpet swayed up and down. Where was the little mouse who had so faithfully helped him that day in the school-room? He wanted her badly.

'I am not talking like any book, and he who taught me what I know is worth more than all of you together. I know the language of flowers and animals, and am friends with them all. And I know too what men are, and how they live. I know all the fairies' secrets and the wood-sprites'; for they all love me – more than men do.'

Oh Mousey, Mousey!

Johannes heard sounds of disapprobation and laughter behind him, and all sides. There was a singing and roaring in his ears.

'He seems to have read Hans Andersen's tales.'

'He is not quite right in his head.'

The man opposite to him said: 'If you know Andersen, my little man, you ought to have more of his reverence for God and His Word.'