XV
Bright and early one still, sunny morning they came to a small watering-place nestled in the mountains. It was not yet seven o'clock. A light mist clung around the dark-green summits, and the dew was sparkling on the velvety green grass, and over the flaming red geraniums, the white, purple-hearted carnations, and the fragrant, brown-green mignonette of the park. Fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen were drinking, according to advice, the hot, saline waters of the springs; and later, while the cheerful music played, they promenaded up and down the marble-paved esplanade.
Marjon sought such places; for in them more was to be earned. Already a couple of competitors were there before them—a robust man and his little daughter. Both of them were dressed in flesh-colored tights, and in spangled, black velvet knickerbockers; but oh, how dusty and worn and patched they were! The little girl was much younger than Marjon, and had a vacant, impudent little face. She walked on her hands in such a way that her feet dangled down over her black, curly pate.
Johannes did not enjoy this encounter. Marjon and he belonged to the better class of Fair-people. Their caps and jackets just now were not, it is true, quite so fresh and well brushed as formerly, but all that they had on was whole—even their shoes. Johannes still wore his suit, which was that of a young gentleman, and Marjon was wearing the velvet stable-jacket of a circus-boy. They paid no attention to the shabby Hercules and his little daughter.
In Marjon's case this was only from vexation because of the competition; in Johannes', he well knew, it was pride. He pitied that rough man with the barbarous face, and that poor, dull child-acrobat; but it was not to his taste that he should be thought their colleague and equal, by all these respectable watering-place guests.
He was so vexed he would not sing; and he walked dreamily on amid the flowers, with vague fancies, and a deep melancholy, in his soul. He thought of his childhood home, and the kitchen-garden; of the dunes, and of the autumn day when he went to the gardener's, at Robinetta's country home; of Windekind, of Markus, and of Aunt Seréna's flower-garden.
The flowers looked at him with their wide-open, serious eyes—the pinks, the stiff, striped zinias, and the flaming yellow sunflowers. Apparently, they all pitied him, as if whispering to one another: "Look! Poor Little Johannes! Do you remember when he used to visit us in the land of elves and flowers? He was so young and happy then! Now he is sad and forsaken—a shabby circus-boy who must sing for his living. Is it not too bad?"
And the white, purple-hearted carnations rocked to and fro with compassion, and the great sunflowers hung their heads and looked straight down, with dismay in their eyes.
The sunshine was so calm and splendid, and the pointed heads of the mignonette smelled so sweet! And when Johannes came to a bed of drooping blue lobelias that seemed always to have shining drops of dewy tears in their eyes purely from sympathy, then he felt so sorry himself for poor Little Johannes that he had to go and sit down on a bench to cry. And there, just as if they understood the situation—in the music tent, concealed by the shrubbery—the portly band-master and his musicians, in their flat, gold-embroidered caps, were playing, very feelingly, a melancholy folksong. Marjon, however, who persistently kept business in mind, was on the marble esplanade, deep in jugglery with plates and eggs and apples. Johannes saw it, and was a little ashamed of himself. He began trying to make verses: