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!"
[1] Wistik = Would that I knew.
[2] Kribblegauw = Quarrel = quick.
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,
