But listen! That was not a bird! That was a more knowing, more cordial song; a melody that said something—something which Johannes could feel, like the words of a friend. It was a reed, played charmingly. No bird could sing like that.
"Oh, Wistik, who is playing? It is more lovely than blackbird or nightingale."
"Pst!" said Wistik, opening his eyes wide. "That is only the flute, yet. By and by you will hear the singing."
They sank down upon a mountain meadow, in a wide valley. The limpid, blue-green rivulet flowed through the sunny grass-plot, between blood-red anemones, yellow and white narcissi, and deep purple hyacinths. On both sides of it were thick, round azalea-bushes, entirely covered with fragrant, brick-red flowers. White butterflies were fluttering back and forth across it. On the other side rose tall laurel, myrtle, olive, and chestnut trees; and still higher the cedars and pines—half-way up the mountain wall of red-grey granite.
It was so still and peaceful and great blue dragon-flies with black wings were rocking on the yellow narcissus flowers nodding along the stream.
Then Johannes saw a fleeing deer, springing up from the sod in swift, sinewy leaps; then another, and another.
The flute-playing sounded close by, but now there was singing also. It came from a shady grove of chestnut trees, and echoed gloriously from mountain-side to mountain-side, while the brook maintained the rhythm with its purling, murmuring flow. The voices of men and women could be heard, vigorously strong and sweetly clear; and, intermingling with these somewhat rude shouts of joy, the high-pitched voices of children.
On they came, the people, a joyous, bright-colored procession. They all bore flowers—as wreaths upon their heads, as festoons in their hands or about their shoulders-flute-players, men, women, and children. And they themselves seemed living flowers, in their clear-colored, charming apparel. They all had abundant, curling hair which gleamed like dull gold in the sunshine, that tinted everything. Their limbs and faces were tanned by the sun, but when the folds of their garments fell aside, their bodies beneath them shone white as milk. The older ones kept step, with careful dignity; the children bore little baskets, with fruit, ribbons, and green branches; but the young men and maidens danced as they went, keeping the rhythm of the music in a way Johannes had never seen before. They swayed their bodies in a swinging movement, with little leaps; sometimes even standing still, in graceful postures, their arms alternately raised above their heads, their loosened garments flowing free, and again arranging themselves in charming folds.
And how beautiful they were! Not one, Johannes noted, old or young, who had not those noble, refined features, and those clear, ardent eyes, in which was to be found the deep meaning he was always seeking in human faces—that which made a person instantly his friend—that made him long to be cordial and intimate—that which he had first perceived in Windekind's eyes, and that he missed so keenly in all those human faces among which he had had to live. That, they all had—man and woman, grey-haired one and little child.
"Oh, Wistik," he whispered, so moved he could scarcely speak, "are they really human beings, and not elves? Can human beings be so beautiful? They are more beautiful than flowers—and much more beautiful than the animals. They are the most beautiful of all things in this world!"