Little Johannes

What was that? A huge shadow came across the grass, and something like a white cloud fell down on the blue-bell – Johannes had scarcely time to get away, – he flew to Windekind who was sitting high up in a honeysuckle flower. Then he saw that the white cloud was a pocket-handkerchief, and bump! A sturdy damsel sat down on the handkerchief and on the poor blue-bell which was under it.

He had not time to bewail it before the sound of voices and the cracking of branches filled the glade in the forest. A crowd of men and women appeared.

'Now we shall have something to laugh at,' said Windekind.

The party came on, the ladies with umbrellas in their hands, the men with tall chimney-pot hats, and almost all in black, completely black. In the green sunny wood they looked like great, ugly ink-spots on a beautiful picture. The brushwood was broken down, flowers trodden underfoot; many white handkerchiefs were spread, and the yielding grass and patient moss sighed as they were crushed under the weight they had to bear, fearing much that they might never recover from the blow. The smoke of cigars curled among the honeysuckle wreaths, and enviously supplanted the delicate odour of their blossoms. Sharp voices scared the gleeful tomtits, who, with terrified and indignant piping, took refuge in the nearest trees.

One man rose and went to stand on a little mound. He had long light hair, and a pale face. He said something, and then all the men and women opened their mouths very wide and began to sing so loud, that the rooks flew cawing out of their high nests, and the inquisitive little rabbits, who had come from the sand-hills to see what was going on, ran off in alarm, and were still running fully a quarter of an hour after they were safe at home again in the dunes.

Windekind laughed and fanned away the cigar-smoke with a fern leaf; but there were tears in Johannes' eyes, though not from the tobacco.

'Windekind,' said he, 'I want to go. This is all so ugly and so rude.'

'No, no, we must stay. You will laugh; it will be more amusing.'

The singing ceased and the pale man began to speak. He shouted hard, that every one might hear him; but what he said sounded very kind. He called them all his brothers and sisters, spoke of the glories of nature and the wonders of creation, of God's sunshine and the dear little birds and flowers.

'What is this?' asked Johannes. 'How can he talk of these things? Does he know you? Is he a friend of yours?'

Windekind shook his flower-crowned head disdainfully.

'He does not know me, and the sun and the birds and the flowers even less. What he says is all lies.'

The people listened very attentively. The stout lady who sat on the blue-bell began to cry several times, and wiped her eyes on her skirt, as she could not get at her handkerchief.

The pale man said that God had made the sun shine so brightly for the sake of their meeting here, and Windekind laughed and threw an acorn down from the thick leaves, which hit the tip of his nose.

'He shall learn to know better,' said he; 'my father shines for him, indeed! a fine idea!'

But the pale man was too much excited to pay any heed to the acorn, which seemed to have dropped from the sky; he talked a long time, and the longer the louder. At last he was red and purple in the face, doubled his fists, and shouted so loud that the leaves quivered and the grass stems were dismayed, and waved to and fro. When at last he came to an end they all began to sing again.

'Well, fie!' said a blackbird, who was listening from the top of a high tree, 'that is a shocking noise to make! I had rather the cows should come into our wood. Only listen. Well, for shame!'

Now the blackbird knows what he is talking about, and has a fine taste in music.

After singing, the folks brought all sorts of eatables out of baskets, boxes and bags. Sheets of paper were spread out; cakes and oranges were handed round. And bottles and glasses also made their appearance.

Then Windekind called his allies together, and they began to attack the feasters.

A smart frog leaped up into an old maid's lap, flopped on to the bread she was just about to put into her mouth, and sat there as if amazed at his own audacity. The lady gave a fearful yell, and stared at the intruder without daring to stir. This bold beginning soon found imitators. Green caterpillars crept fearlessly over hats, handkerchiefs and rolls, inspiring terror and disgust; fat field-spiders let themselves down on glittering threads into beer glasses, and on to heads or necks, and a loud shriek always followed their appearance; endless winged creatures fairly attacked the human beings in the face, sacrificing their lives for the good cause by throwing themselves on the food and in the liquor, making them useless by their corpses. Finally the ants came in innumerable troops and stung the enemy in the most unexpected places, by hundreds at once. This gave rise to the greatest consternation and confusion. Men and women alike fled from the long crushed moss and grass. The poor blue-bell, too, was released in consequence of a well-directed attack by two ear-wigs on the stout maiden's legs. The men and women grew desperate; by dancing and leaping with the most extraordinary gestures, they tried to escape their persecutors. The pale man stood still for a long time, hitting about him with a small black stick; but a few audacious tomtits, who were not above any form of attack, and a wasp, who stung him in the calf through his black trousers, placed him hors de combat.

Then the sun could no longer keep his countenance, and hid his face behind a cloud. Large drops of rain fell on the antagonistic parties. It looked as though the shower had suddenly made a forest of great black toadstools spring out of the ground. These were the umbrellas, which were hastily opened. The women turned their skirts over their heads, thus displaying their white petticoats, white-stockinged legs, and shoes without heels. Oh, what fun for Windekind! He had to hold on to a flower-stem to laugh.

The rain fell more and more heavily; the forest was shrouded in a grey sparkling veil. Streams of water ran off the umbrellas, tall hats and black overcoats, which shone like the shell of a water-snail; their shoes slopped and smacked in the soaking ground. Then the people gave it up, and dropped off doubtfully in twos and threes, leaving behind them a litter of papers, empty bottles and orange peel, the hideous relics of their visit. The open glade in the forest was soon deserted once more, and ere long nothing was to be heard but the monotonous rush of the rain.

'Well, Johannes! now we have seen what men are like. Why do you not laugh at them?'

'Oh, Windekind! Are all men like these?'

'Indeed, there are worse and uglier. Sometimes they shout and rave, and destroy everything that is pretty or good. They cut down trees and stick their horrible square houses in their place; they wilfully crush the flowers, and kill every creature that comes within their reach, merely for pleasure. In their dwellings, where they crowd one upon another, it is all dirty and black, and the air is tainted and poisoned by the smell of smoke. They are complete strangers to nature and their fellow-creatures. That is why they cut such a foolish, miserable figure when they come forth to see them.'

'Oh dear! Windekind, Windekind.'

'Why do you cry, Johannes? You must not cry because you were born to be a man. I love you all the same and choose you out of them all. I have taught you to understand the language of the butterflies and birds, and the faces of the flowers. The moon knows you, and the good kind earth regards you as her dearest child. Why should you not be glad since I am your friend?'

'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 sunshine gleamed through the grey clouds on the wet sparkling leaves, on the drops which hung twinkling from every twig and blade of grass, 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, passionate 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 butterfly. 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 cockchafer 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 God?' he timidly asked.

'God?' 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 space. 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 shines 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 sturdy, 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 shines. 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.'

'Hush!' 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.'

When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were merged in uniform gloom, the mysterious vitality of the forest knew no rest. The branches snapped and cracked, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither among the grass and in the underwood. Then Johannes felt the touch of invisible wings and was aware of the presence of invisible beings. He could plainly hear the murmur of little voices and tripping of little feet. There! there in the darkest depth of the thicket, a tiny blue spark glowed and vanished. There was another and another! – Hark! When he listened attentively he could hear a rustling in the leaf-strewn floor near him, close to the black tree-trunk. The blue lights again were visible and then stood still on the top.

Now Johannes saw such lights all about him; they flitted among the brown leaves, dancing along with airy leaping; and in one place a large sparkling mass beamed like a blue bonfire.

'What fire is that?' asked Johannes. 'It burns splendidly.'

'That is a rotten tree-stump,' replied Windekind.

They went towards a bright light which remained steady.

'Now I will introduce you to Wistik.7 He is the oldest and wisest of the Wood-Sprites.

As they approached Johannes saw him sitting by his candle. The wrinkled little face with its grey beard could be plainly seen by the blue light; he was reading diligently with knitted brows. On his head he wore an acorn-cup with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a wood-spider listening to his reading.

When the pair went near him, the little boguey, without raising his head, looked up from his book and lifted his eyebrows.

The spider crept away.

'Good-evening,' said he. 'I am Wistik. Who are you?'

'My name is Johannes. I should like to make acquaintance with you. What are you reading?'

'It is not meant for your ears,' said Wistik. 'It is only for wood-spiders.'

'Just let me once look at it, dear Wistik,' begged Johannes.

'I cannot. This is the sacred book of the spiders, and is in my charge. I may not let it out of my own hands. I have the keeping of the sacred books of the snails, and the butterflies, and the hedge-hogs, and the moles, and all the creatures that live here. They cannot all read, and when they want to know anything I read it to them. This is a great honour for me, a post of trust, you understand.'

The sprite nodded very gravely several times, and pointed with his tiny forefinger.

'And what were you studying just now?'

'The history of Kribbelgauw, the great hero among spiders, who lived very long ago and had a net which spread over three trees, and in which he caught millions of flies every day. Before the time of Kribbelgauw spiders made no nets, but lived on grass and dead creatures; but Kribbelgauw was a very clever fellow, and proved that all living insects were created on purpose for food for spiders. Then, by the most laborious calculation, Kribbelgauw discovered the art of making nets, for he was very learned. And to this day the wood-spiders make their nets exactly as he taught them, thread for thread, only much smaller. For the spider race is greatly degenerate. Kribbelgauw caught great birds in his net, and murdered thousands of his own children – he was something like a spider! At last there came a great storm and carried away Kribbelgauw and his net, with the three trees it was made fast to, through the air to a distant wood, where he is now perpetually honoured for his great achievements and sagacity.'

'Is that all true?' asked Johannes.

'It is all in this book,' said Wistik.

'Do you believe it?'

The boguey shut one eye and laid his forefinger to his nose.

'The sacred books of other creatures, when they mention Kribbelgauw, speak of him as a hateful and contemptible monster. But that is no concern of mine.'

'And is there a Sprites' Book, Wistik?'

Wistik looked at Johannes rather suspiciously.

'What sort of creature are you really, Johannes? There is something – just something – human about you, so to speak.'

'No, no; be easy, Wistik,' said Windekind, 'we are elves. But formerly Johannes saw a good deal of men and their doings. You may trust him entirely. It can do him no harm.'

'Ay, ay, well and good. But I am called the wisest of the sprites – and I studied long and hard before I knew what I know. So now I must be cautious with my learning. If I tell you too much, I shall lose my reputation.'

'But in what book do you think that the truth is to be found?'

'I have read a great deal, but I do not believe that I have ever read that book. It is not the Elves' Book nor the Sprites'. Yet it must exist.'

'The Men's Book perhaps?'

'That I do not know, but I do not think it. For the True Book must bring with it great peace and great happiness. In it there must be an exact explanation of why everything is as it is, so that no one need ever ask or inquire any more. Now men, I believe, have not got so far as that.'

'Oh dear, no!' said Windekind, laughing.

'Is there anywhere such a book?' said Johannes eagerly.

'Yes, yes,' whispered the sprite. 'I know there is, from very ancient legends. And – hush! – I know where it is, and who can find it.'

'Oh, Wistik! Wistik!'

'Why then have you not yet got it?' asked Windekind.

'Patience, patience, – it will be found. I know as yet no particulars, – but I shall soon find it. I have toiled for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it life shall be one perpetual autumn day – blue air above and blue mists all round, – only no falling leaves shall rustle, no twigs shall snap, no raindrops patter, the shadows shall not change, the sun-gold on the tree-tops shall not fade. What seems to us now to be light shall be darkness; what seems to us now to be joy shall be woe by comparison, to those who read that book! Ay! I know this much, and some day I shall find it.'