His night was a sad one; for the serious words of the poem were continually before him, and to think that they had been disdained was indeed torture. They would not be driven away, but remained to vindicate their worth. And then he wished that others, as well as he, should value them. But his powerlessness and his own mistrust, were a grievous vexation.
In the small hours, he had just fallen asleep—probably for only a few minutes—when he awoke again with the feeling that his room was full, but with what kind of company—human beings or other creatures—he could not tell. He did not see them; for just in the place where he was looking there was no one, and where he wanted to look, he could not. He seemed to be prevented from doing so by a strange power.
He heard a laugh, and the sound was very familiar to him. It was a dismal, old-time memory. It was Pluizer's laugh.
Could Pluizer be in the room?
Johannes tried his best to look at the spot whence the sound came. Exerting himself, he saw something at last—not an entire figure, but hands only—two, four, six little hands, busily doing something. Higher up, to what was above the hands, he could not look—but that they were the hands of Pluizer he was quite positive.
There was something in those hands—a white band—and the little hands were very busy tying all kinds of knots in it. And all the while there was continuous laughing and snickering, as if it was great fun.
What could that mean? Johannes felt that something menaced. The play of those little hands portended danger. Most plainly of all he saw the white band—a common, white tape.
Then the hands went out of the room, and Johannes was forced to follow them. In another room—that of Heléne's nurse—there they were, as busy as ever, this time with a pair of scissors. The scissors had fallen upon the floor close to a toilet-table. One point having stuck through the carpet into the floor, there they stood—erect. The invisible one was laughing again—giggling and snickering—and all six little hands were pointing at the scissors.
A light was burning in Heléne's room, but the poor, sick girl was not now complaining. All was quiet there. The door opened, and the nurse came out, leaving it open behind her. The nurse went to her own room to look for something. She was a long time searching, but could not find it. Surely it was the scissors.
All this time they were sticking by one point, in the carpet behind the toilet-table, and the six little hands were pointing at them. But the seeker apparently neither saw the hands nor heard the laughter.