"It must be the right sort of fineness, Johannes—the right sort."
"Then it must certainly be that I am seeking the right kind now, or you would not look so much more friendly."
"You are indeed seeking it, Johannes; but look well to it that you also find it. Take care! Take care! I should like when I come again to look most friendly, dear Johannes, and you must be careful to have it so."
"What shall I do, friend Hein? How can I be certain of the right way to live? How can I make you look friendly when you come again?"
But Death turned away his pale face, gave a slight shake of the head, and continued to sit immovable and silent. Once again Johannes asked him a question, but it was of no avail. Then his head grew heavy, his eyelids drooped, and everything vanished under the veil of slumber, while his resting-place quivered and shivered above the heaving waters.
When on deck, the next morning, the world looked again most bright and cheerful. The sun was shining warmly, the fresh, blue sea was sparkling in the light, and there, in front of him—there lay the foreign land—a long line of grey-white coast, basking in the October sunshine. On the hills Johannes saw little houses standing out in full sight; and he thought of the pettiness of life in those houses—of dressing, of bread and butter, and of little children going to school;—everything so trite and trivial, in what for him was so strange and great.
They coursed up a large river, much broader than the Rhine. The sea-gulls circled over the yellow water, and rested on the sand-banks and the muddy shores. The fishing-boats tacked in zig-zags all about, and throngs of ships and steamboats came to meet them. At last there loomed in the distance, enshrouded with a grey fog, a giant city—a dark maze of masts and chimneys and towers. It was sombre, awful, incomprehensible.
If Johannes had not been so absorbed in thinking of the two children, he would have paid more attention to the city. As it was, he only accepted it for a fact—the unforeseen shadow of a mysterious substance—an ominous premonition, like the rumbling of the ground preceding an earthquake: an instant later all fear is over, and one thinks no further about it.
So it was with Johannes; the great city, the miners—everything was forgotten, when he heard the loved voices of the two little girls.