"I do believe, Johannes," said Robinetta, after a little, "that I can find what you are looking for. But what do you mean about the little key? How did you come by it?"
"Why! How did I? How was it?" murmured Johannes, gazing far away over the green expanse.
Suddenly, as though fledged in the sunny sky, two white butterflies met his sight. They whirled about with uncertain capricious flight—fluttering and twinkling in the sunlight. Yet they came closer.
"Windekind! Windekind!" whispered Johannes, suddenly remembering.
"Who is that? Who is Windekind?" asked Robinetta.
The redbreast flew up, chattering, and the daisies in the grass before him seemed suddenly to be staring at Johannes in great alarm with their white, wide-open eyes.
"Did he give you the little key?" continued the girl. Johannes nodded, in silence; but she wanted to know more.
"Who was it? Did he teach you all those things? Where is he?"
"He is not any more. It is Robinetta now—no one but Robinetta. Robinetta alone!" He clasped her arm, and pressed his little head against it.
"Silly boy!" she said, laughing. "I will find the book for you—I know where it is."
"But then I must go and get the key, and it is far away."
"No, no, you need not. I will find it without a key—to-morrow—I promise you."
On their way home, the little butterflies flitted back and forth in front of them.
Johannes dreamed of his father that night—of Robinetta, and of many others. They were all good friends, and they stood near looking at him cordially, and trustfully. Yet later, their faces changed. They grew cold and ironical. He looked anxiously around; on all sides were fierce, hostile faces. He felt a nameless distress, and waked up weeping.
IX
Johannes had already sat a long while, waiting. The air was chilly, and great clouds were drifting close above the earth in endless, majestic succession. They spread out sombre, wide-waving mantles, and reared their haughty heads toward the clear light that shone above them. Sunlight and shadow chased each other swiftly over the trees, like flickering flames. Johannes was in an anxious state of mind, thinking about the book; not believing that he should really find it that day. Between the clouds—much higher—awfully high, he saw an expanse of clear blue sky; and upon it, stretched out in motionless calm, were delicate, white, plume-like clouds.
"It ought be like that," he thought. "So high, so bright, so still!"
Then came Robinetta. The robin 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, mistrustfully.
"He did not come. But we are not going for a walk."
Then he went with her, thinking all the time to himself:
"It cannot be! Not this way!—it must be entirely different!"
Yet he followed the sunny, blonde hair that lighted his way.
Alas! things went sadly now with little Johannes. I could wish that his story ended here. Did you ever have a splendid dream of a magical garden where the flowers and animals all loved you and talked to you? And did the idea come to you then, that you might wake up soon, and all that happiness be lost? Then you vainly try to hold the dream—and not to wake to the cold light of day. That was the way Johannes felt when he went with Robinetta.
He went into the house—and down a passage that echoed with his footsteps. He breathed the air of clothes and food; he thought of the long days when he had had to stay indoors, of his school-tasks, and of all that had been sombre and cold in his life.
He entered a room with people in it—how many he did not see. They were talking together, yet when he came they ceased to speak. He noticed the carpet; it had big, impossible flowers in glaring colors. They were as strange and deformed as those of the hangings in his bedroom at home.
"Well, is this the gardener's little boy?" said a voice right in front of him. "Come here, my young friend; you need not be afraid."
And another voice sounded suddenly, close beside him: "Well, Robbi, a pretty little playmate you have there!"
What did all this mean? The deep wrinkles came again above the child's dark eyes, and Johannes looked around in perplexity.
A man in black clothes sat near—looking at him with cold, grey eyes.
"And so you wish to make 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