LITMIR.BIZ

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acquaintance with the Book of Books! It amazes me that your father, whom I know to be a devout man, has not already given it to you."

      "You do not know my father – he is far away."

      "Is that so? Well, it is all the same. Look here, my young friend! Read a great deal in this. Upon your path in life it will…"

      But Johannes had already recognized the book. It could not possibly come to him in this way! No! he could not have it so. He shook his head.

      "No, no! This is not what I mean. This I know. This is not it."

      He heard sounds of surprise, and felt the looks which were fastened on him from all sides. "What! What do you mean, child?"

      "I know this book; it is the Book of Human Beings. But there is not enough in it; if there were there would be rest among men – and peace. And there is none. I mean something else about which no one can doubt who sees it – wherein is told why everything is as it is – precisely and plainly."

      "How is that possible? Where did the boy get that notion?"

      "Who taught you that, my young friend?"

      "I believe you have been reading depraved books, boy, and are repeating the words!"

      Thus rang the various voices. Johannes felt his cheeks burning, and he began to feel dizzy. The room spun round, and the huge flowers on the carpet floated up and down. Where was the little mouse which had warned him so faithfully that day at school? He needed him now.

      "I am not repeating it out of books, and he who taught me is worth more than all of you together. I know the language of flowers, and of animals – I am their intimate friend. I know, too, what human beings are, and how they live. I know all the secrets of fairies and of goblins, for they love me more than human beings do."

      Oh, Mousie! Mousie!

      Johannes heard coughing and laughing, around and behind him. It all rang and rasped in his ears.

      "He seems to have been reading Andersen."

      "He is not quite right in his head."

      The man in front of him said:

      "If you know Andersen, little man, you ought to have more respect for God and His Word." "God!" He knew that word, and he thought about Windekind's lesson.

      "I have no respect for God. God is a big oil-lamp, which draws thousands to wreck and ruin."

      No laughing now, but a serious silence in which the horror and consternation were palpable. Johannes felt even in his back the piercing looks. It was like his dream of the night before.

      The man in black stood up and took him by the arm. That hurt, and almost broke his heart.

      "Listen, boy! I do not know whether you are foolish or deeply depraved, but I will not suffer such godlessness here. Go away and never come into my sight again, wretched boy! I shall ask about you, but never again set foot in this house. Do you understand?"

      Everybody looked at him coldly and unkindly – as in his dream the night before. Johannes looked around him in distress.

      "Robinetta! Where is Robinetta?"

      "Well, indeed! Corrupt my child? If you ever speak to her again, look out!"

      "No, let me go to her! I will not leave her. Robinetta!" cried Johannes.

      But she sat in a corner, frightened, and did not look up.

      "Out, you rascal! Do you hear? Take care, if you have the boldness to come back again."

      The painful grip led him through the sounding corridor – the glass door rattled, and Johannes stood outside, under the dark, lowering clouds.

      He did not cry now, but gazed quietly out in front of him as he slowly walked on. The sorrowful wrinkles were deeper above his eyes, and they stayed there.

      The little redbreast sat in a linden hedge and peered at him. He stood still and silently returned the look. But there was no trust now in the timid, peeping little eyes; and when he took a step nearer, the quick little creature whirred away from him.

      "Away, away! A human being!" chirped the sparrows, sitting together in the garden path. And they darted away in all directions.

      The open flowers did not smile, but looked serious and indifferent; as they do with every stranger.

      Johannes did not heed these signs, but was thinking of what the cruel men had done to him. He felt as if his inmost being had been violated by a hard, cold touch. "They shall believe me!" thought he. "I will get my little key and show it to them."

      "Johannes! Johannes!" called a light, little voice. There was a bird's nest in a holly tree, and Wistik's big eyes peeped over the brim of it. "Where are you bound for?"

      "It is all your fault, Wistik," said Johannes. "Let me alone."

      "How did you come to talk about it to human beings? They do not understand. Why do you tell them these things? It is very stupid of you."

      "They laughed at me, and hurt me. They are miserable creatures. I hate them!"

      "No, Johannes, you love them."

      "No! No!"

      "If you did not, you would not mind it so much that they are not like yourself; and it would not matter what they said. You must concern yourself less about human beings."

      "I want my key. I want to show it to them."

      "You must not do that; they would not believe you even if you did. What would be the use of it?"

      "I want my little key – under the rose-bush. Do you know how to find it?"

      "Yes, indeed! Near the pond, is it not? Yes, I know."

      "Then take me to it, Wistik."

      Wistik climbed up to Johannes' shoulder, and pointed out the way. They walked the whole day long. The wind blew, and now and then showers fell; but at evening the clouds ceased driving, and lengthened themselves out into long bands of gray and gold.

      When they came to Johannes' own dunes, he felt deeply moved, and he whispered again and again: "Windekind! Windekind!"

      There was the rabbit-hole, and the slope against which he had once slept. The grey reindeer-moss was tender and moist, and did not crackle beneath his feet. The roses were withered, and the yellow primroses with their faint, languid fragrance held up their cups by hundreds. Higher still rose the tall, proud torch-plants, with their thick, velvety leaves.

      Johannes tried to trace the delicate, brownish leaves of the wild-rose.

      "Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it."

      "I know nothing about it," said Wistik. "You hid the key – I didn't."

      The field where the rose had blossomed was full of primroses, staring vacantly. Johannes questioned them, and also the torch-plants. They were much too proud, however, for their tall flower-clusters reached far up above him; so he asked the small, tri-colored violets on the sandy ground.

      But no one knew anything of the wild-rose. They all were newly-come flowers – even the arrogant torch-plant, tall though it was.

      "Oh! where is it? Where is it?"

      "Have you, too, served me a trick?" cried Wistik. "I expected it – that is always the way with human beings!"

      He slipped down from Johannes' shoulder, and ran away into the tall grass.

      Johannes looked hopelessly around. There stood a small rose-bush.

      "Where is the big rose?" asked Johannes, "the big one that used to stand here?"

      "We do not speak to human beings," said the little bush.

      That was the last sound he heard. Every living thing kept silence. Only, the reeds rustled in the soft, evening wind.

      "Am I a human being?" thought Johannes. "No, that cannot – cannot be. I will not be a human being. I hate human beings."

      He was tired and faint-hearted, and went to the border of the little field to lie down upon the soft, grey moss with its humid,

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