V
Did you ever wander through the woods on a beautiful autumn day, when the sun was shining, calm and bright, upon the richly tinted foliage; when the boughs creaked, and the dry leaves rustled about your feet?
The woods seem so weary. They can only meditate, and live in old remembrances. A blue haze, like a dream, surrounds them with a mysterious beauty, and glistening gossamer floats through the air in idle undulations – like futile, aimless meditations.
Yet, suddenly and unaccountably, out of the damp ground, between moss and dry leaves, rise up the marvelous toadstools; some thick, deformed, and fleshy; others tall and slender with ringed stems and bright-colored hoods. Strange dream-figures of the woods are they!
There may be seen also, on moldering tree-trunks, countless, small white growths with little black tops, as if they had been burnt. Some wise folk consider them a kind of fungus. But Johannes learned better.
"They are little candles. They burn in still autumn nights, and the goblin mannikins sit beside them, and read in little books."
Windekind taught him that, on such a still autumn day, while Johannes dreamily inhaled the faint odor of the forest soil.
"What makes the leaves of the sycamore so spotted with black?"
"Oh, the goblins do that, too," said Windekind. "When they have been writing nights, they throw out in the morning, over the leaves, what is left in their ink bottles. They do not like this tree. Crosses, and poles for contribution bags, are made out of sycamore wood."
Johannes was inquisitive about the busy little goblins, and he made Windekind promise to take him to one of them.
He had already been a long time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret over his promise to forget all he had left behind. There were no times of anxiety or of loneliness – times when remorse wakens. Windekind never left him, and with him he was at home in any place. He slept peacefully, in the rocking nest of the reed-bird that hung among the green stalks, although the bittern roared and the raven croaked so ominously. He felt no fear on account of pouring rains nor shrieking winds. At such times he took shelter in hollow trees or rabbit-holes, and crept close under Windekind's mantle, and listened to the voice which was telling him stories.
And now he was going to see the goblins.
It was a good day for the visit – so very still. Johannes fancied he could already hear their light little voices, and the tripping of their tiny feet, although it was yet midday.
The birds were nearly all gone – the thrushes alone were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There it hung with outstretched wings, struggling until the tightly pinioned little foot was nearly severed. Johannes quickly released it, and with a joyful chirp the bird flew swiftly away.
The toadstools were having a chatty time together.
"Just look at me," said one fat devil-fungus. "Did you ever see anything like it? See how thick and white my stem is, and see how my hood shines! I am the biggest of all. And that in one night!"
"Bah!" said the red fly-fungus. "You are very clumsy – so brown and rough. I sway on my slender stalk like a grass stem. I am splendidly red, like the thrush-berry and gorgeously speckled. I am handsomer than any of you."
"Be still!" said Johannes, who had known them well in former days. "You are both poisonous."
"That is a virtue," said the red fungus.
"Do you happen to be a human being?" grumbled the big fellow, scornfully. "If so, I would like to have you eat me up!"
Johannes did not do that, however. He took little dry twigs, and stuck them into his clumsy hood. That made him look silly, and all the others laughed – among them, a little group of tiny toadstools with small, brown heads, who in a couple of hours had sprung up together, and were jostling one another to get a peep at the world. The devil-fungus was blue with rage. That brought to light his poisonous nature.
Puff-balls raised their round, inflated little heads on four-pointed pedestals. From time to time a cloud of brown powder, of the utmost fineness, flew out of the opening in the round head. Wherever on the moist ground that powder fell, tiny rootlets would interlace in the black earth, and the following year hundreds of new puff-balls would spring up.
"What a beautiful existence!" said they to one another. "The very acme of attainment is to puff powder. What a joy to be able to puff, as long as one lives!"
And with devout consecration they drove the small dust-clouds into the air.
"Are they right, Windekind?"
"Why not? For them, what can be higher? It is fortunate that they long for nothing more, when they can do nothing else."
When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were intermingled in one general obscurity, that mysterious forest life did not cease. The branches cracked and snapped, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither over the grass and in the underwood, and Johannes felt the draft from inaudible wing-strokes, and was conscious of the presence of invisible beings. And now he heard, clearly, whispering voices and tripping footsteps. Look! There, in the dusky depths of the bushes, a tiny blue spark just twinkled, and then went out. Another one, and another! Hush! Listening attentively, he could hear a rustling in the leaves close beside him, by the dark tree-trunk. The blue lights appeared from behind this, and held still at the top.
Everywhere, now, Johannes saw glimmering lights. They floated through the foliage, danced and skipped along the ground; and yonder was a great, glowing mass like a blue bonfire.
"What kind of fire is that?" asked Johannes. "How splendidly it burns!"
"That is a decayed tree-trunk," said Windekind. Then they went up to a bright little light, which was burning steadily.
"Now I will introduce you to Wistik.3 He is the oldest and wisest of the goblins."
Having come up closer, Johannes saw him sitting beside his little candle. By the blue light of this, one could plainly distinguish the wrinkled, grey-bearded face. He was reading aloud, and his eyebrows were knit. On his head he wore a little acorn cap with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a spider – listening to the reading.
Without lifting his head, the goblin glanced up from the book as the two approached, and raised his eyebrows. The spider crept away. "Good evening," said the goblin. "I am Wistik. Who are you?"
"My name is Johannes. I am very happy to make your acquaintance. What are you reading?"
"This is not intended for your ears," said Wistik. "It is only for spiders."
"Let me have just a peep at it, dear Wistik!" said Johannes.
"I must not. It is the Sacred Book of the spiders. It is in my keeping, and I must never let it out of my hands. I have the Sacred Book of the beetles and the butterflies and the hedgehogs and the moles, and of everything that lives here. They cannot all read, and when they wish to know anything, I read it aloud to them. That is a great honor for me – a position of trust, you know."
The mannikin nodded very seriously a couple of times, and raised a tiny forefinger.
"What were you reading just now?"
"The history of Kribblegauw,4 the great hero of the spiders, who lived a long while ago. He had a web that stretched over three trees, and that caught in it millions of flies in a day. Before Kribblegauw's time, spiders made no webs, and lived on grass and dead creatures; but Kribblegauw was a clever chap, and demonstrated that living things also were created for spider's food. And by difficult calculations, for he was a great mathematician, Kribblegauw invented the artful spider-web. And the spiders still make their webs, thread for thread, exactly as he taught them, only much smaller; for the spider family has sadly degenerated."
"Kribblegauw caught large birds in his web, and murdered thousands of his own children. There was a spider for you! Finally, a mighty storm arose, and dragged Kribblegauw with his web, and the three trees to which it was fastened, away through the air to distant forests, where he is now everlastingly honored because of his nimbleness and blood-thirstiness."
"Is that all true?" asked Johannes.
"It is in this book," said Wistik.
"Do you believe it?"
The goblin shut one eye, and rested his forefinger along the side of his nose.
"Whenever Kribblegauw is mentioned, in the Sacred Books of the other animals, he is called a despicable monster; but that is beyond me."
"Is there a Book of the Goblins, too, Wistik?"
Wistik glanced at Johannes somewhat suspiciously.
"What kind of being are you, really, Johannes? There is something about you so – so human, I should say."
"No, no! Rest assured, Wistik," said Windekind then. "We are elves; but Johannes has seen, formerly, many human beings. You can trust him, however. It will do him no harm."
"Yes, yes, that is well and good; but I am called the wisest of the goblins, and I studied long and hard before I learned what I know. Now I must be prudent with my wisdom. If I tell too much, I shall lose my reputation."
"But in what book, then, do you think the truth is told?"
"I have read much, but I do not believe I have ever read that book. It is not the Book of the Elves, nor the Book of the Goblins. Still, there must be such a book."
"The Book of Human Beings, perhaps?"
"That I do not know, but I should hardly think so, for the Book of Truth ought to bring great peace and happiness. It should state exactly why everything is as it is, so that no one could ask or wish for anything more. Now, I do not believe human beings have got so far as that."
"Oh, no! no!" laughed Windekind.
"Is there really such a book?" asked Johannes, eagerly.
"Yes!" whispered the goblin. "I know it from old, old stories. And hush! I know too, where it is, and who can find it."
"Oh, Wistik, Wistik!"
"Then why have you not yet got it?" asked Windekind.
"Have patience. It will happen all right. Some of the particulars I do not yet know, but I shall soon find it. I have worked for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it, life will be an endless autumnal day – blue sky above and blue haze about – but no falling leaves will rustle, no bough will break, and no drops will patter. The shadows will not waver, and the gold on the tree-tops will not fade. What now seems to us light will be as darkness, and what now seems to us happiness will be as sorrow, to him who has read that book. Yes, I know this about it, and sometime I shall find it." The goblin raised his eyebrows very high, and laid his finger on his lips.
"Wistik, if you could only teach me…" began Johannes, but before he could end he felt a heavy gust of wind, and saw, exactly above him, a huge black object which shot past, swiftly and inaudibly.
When he looked round again for Wistik, he caught just a glimpse of a little foot disappearing in a tree-trunk. Zip! – The goblin had dashed into his hole, head first – book and all. The candles burned more and more feebly, and suddenly went out. They were very queer little candles.
"What was that?" asked Johannes, in a fright, clinging fast to Windekind in the darkness.
"A night-owl," said Windekind.
They were both silent for a while. Then Johannes asked: "Do you believe what Wistik said?"
"Wistik is not so wise as he thinks he is. He will never find such a book. Neither will you."
"But does it exist?"
"That book exists the same as your shadow exists, Johannes. However hard you run, however carefully you may reach for it, you will never overtake nor grasp it; and, in the end, you will discover that it is yourself you chase. Do not be foolish – forget the goblin's chatter. I will tell you a hundred finer stories. Come with me! We will go to the edge of the woods, and see how our good Father lifts the fleecy, white dew-blankets from the sleeping meadow-lands. Come!"
Johannes went, but he had not understood Windekind's words and he did not follow his advice. And while he watched the dawn of the brilliant autumn day, he was brooding over the book wherein was stated why all is as it is, and softly repeating to himself, "Wistik!"
VI
It seemed to him during the days that followed that it was no longer so merry and cheerful as it had been – in the woods and in the dunes – with Windekind. His thoughts were no longer wholly occupied with what Windekind told or showed him. Again and again he found himself musing over that book, but he dared not speak of it. Nothing he looked at now seemed beautiful or wonderful. The clouds were so black and heavy, he feared they might fall upon him. It pained him when the restless autumn winds shook and whipped the poor, tired trees until the pale under sides of the green leaves were upturned, and yellow foliage and dry branches flew up in the air.
What Windekind related gave him no satisfaction. Much of it he did not understand, and whenever he asked one of his old questions he never received a full, clear, satisfactory answer.
Thus he was forced to think again of that book wherein everything stood so clearly and plainly written; and of that ever sunny, tranquil, autumn day which was to follow.
"Wistik! Wistik!"
Windekind heard it.
"Johannes, you will remain a human being, I fear. Even your friendship is like that of human beings. The first one after me to speak to you has carried away your confidence. Alas! My mother was quite right!"
"No, Windekind! But you are so much wiser than Wistik; you are as wise as that book. Why do you not tell me all? See, now! Why does the wind blow through the trees, making them bend and sway? Look! They can bear no more; the finest branches are breaking and the leaves are torn away by hundreds, although they are still so green and fresh. They are so tired, and yet again and again they are shaken and lashed by this rude and cruel wind. Why is it so? What does the wind want?"
"My poor Johannes. That is human language!"
"Make it be still, Windekind! I like calm and sunshine."
"You ask and wish like a human being; therefore there is neither answer nor fulfilment. If you do not learn better to ask and desire, the autumn day will never dawn for you, and you will become like the thousands of human beings who have spoken to Wistik."
"Are there so many?"
"Yes, thousands. Wistik pretended to be very mysterious, but he is a prater who cannot keep his secret. He hopes to find that book among human beings, and he shares his knowledge with any one who, perhaps, can help him. And so he has already caused a great deal of unhappiness. Many believe him, and search for that book with as much fervor as some do the secret of the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, and forget all their affairs – even their happiness – and shut themselves up among thick books, and strange implements and materials. They hazard their lives and their health – forget the blue heavens, good, kindly Nature, and even their fellow-beings. Sometimes they find beautiful and useful things, like lumps of gold. These they cast up out of their caves, on the sunny surface of the earth. Yet they do not concern themselves with these things – leaving them for others to enjoy. They dig and drudge in the darkness with eager expectancy. They are not seeking gold, but the book. Some grow feeble-minded with the toil, forget their object and their desire, and wander about in aimless idleness. The goblin has made them childish. They may be seen piling up little towers of sand, and reckoning how many grains are lacking before they tumble down. They make little waterfalls, and calculate precisely each bend and bay the flow will make. They dig little pits, and employ all their patience and genius in making them smooth and quite free from stones. If these poor, infatuated ones are disturbed in their labor, and asked what they are doing, they look at you seriously and importantly, shake their heads and mutter: 'Wistik! Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that wicked little goblin. Look out for him, Johannes!"
But Johannes was staring before him at the swaying, creaking trees. Above his clear child-eyes wrinkles had formed in the tender flesh. Never before had he looked so grave.
"But yet – you have said it yourself, that there was such a book! Oh, I know – certainly – that there is something in it which you will not tell me concerning the Great Light."
"Poor, poor Johannes!" said Windekind. And above the rushing and roaring of the storm his voice was like a peaceful choral-song borne from afar. "Love me – love me with your whole being. In me you will find more than you desire. You will realize what you cannot now imagine, and you will yourself be what you have longed to know. Earth and heaven will be your confidants – the stars your next of kin – infinity your dwelling-place. Love me – love me! Cling to me as the hop-vine clings to the tree – be true to me as the lake is to its bed. In me alone will you find repose, Johannes."
Windekind's words were ended, but it seemed as though the choral-song continued. Out of the remote distance it seemed to be floating on – solemn and regular – above the rushing and soughing of the wind – peaceful as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds.
Windekind stretched out his arms, and Johannes slept upon his bosom, protected by the little blue mantle.
Yet in the night he waked up. A stillness had suddenly and imperceptibly come over the earth, and the moon had sunk below the horizon. The wearied leaves hung motionless, and silent darkness filled the forest.
Then those questions came back to Johannes' head again – in swift, ghostly succession – driving out the very recent trustfulness. Why were human beings as they were? Why must he leave them – forego their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall, and the flowers die? Why? – Why?
There were the blue lights again – dancing in the depths of the underwood. They came and went. Johannes gazed after them expectantly. He saw the big, bright light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind lay very still, and fast asleep.
"Just one question more," thought Johannes, and he slipped out from under the blue mantle.
"Here you are again!" said Wistik, nodding in a friendly way. "That gives me a great deal of pleasure. Where is your friend?"
"Over yonder. I only wanted to ask you one more question. Will you answer it?"
"You have been among human beings, have you not? Is it my secret you have come for?"
"Who will find that book, Wistik?"
"Ah, yes. That's it; that's it! Will you help me if I tell you?"
"If I can, certainly."
"Listen then, Johannes." Wistik opened his eyes amazingly wide, and lifted his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered along the back of his little hand:
"Human beings have the golden chest, fairies have the golden key. The foe of fairies finds it not; fairies' friend only, opens it. A springtime night is the proper time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way."
"Is that true, really true?" cried Johannes, as he thought of his little key.
"Yes," said Wistik.
"Why, then, has no one yet found it?" asked Johannes. "So many people are seeking it!"
"I have told no human being what I have confided to you, I have never yet found the fairies' friend."
"I have it, Wistik! I can help you!" cried Johannes, clapping his hands. "I will ask Windekind."
Away he flew, over moss and dry leaves. Still, he stumbled now and then, and his step was heavy. Thick branches cracked under his feet where before not a grass-blade had bent.
There was the dense clump of ferns under which they had slept: how low it looked!
"Windekind!" he cried. But the sound of his own voice startled him.
"Windekind?" It sounded like a human voice! A frightened night-bird flew up with a scream.
There was no one under the ferns. Johannes could see nothing.
The blue lights had vanished. It was cold, and impenetrably dark all around him. Up above, he saw the black, spectral tree-tops against the starlight.
Once more he called. He dared not again. His voice seemed a profanation of the stillness, and Windekind's name a mocking sound.
Then poor little Johannes fell to the ground, and sobbed in contrite sorrow.