Frederik van Eeden
Little Johannes
V
Have you ever loitered in the woods on a fresh autumn day? When the sun shines calmly and clearly on the richly-tinted foliage; when the boughs creak, and the dry leaves rustle under foot. The forest seems weary of life; it can merely think, and lives in its memories of the past. A blue mist hangs about it like a dream, full of mysterious splendour, and the glistening gossamers float on the air with slow undulations – a sweet aimless musing.
And now from the moist ground among the mosses and withered leaves suddenly and inexplicably the strange forms of toadstools spring into being. Some sturdy, deformed and fleshy; others slim and tall with ringed stems and gaily painted hats. These are the quaint dream-figures of the forest. On the decayed tree-trunks, too, there are little white columns in numerable, with black heads as though they had been burnt. Certain learned men regard them as a sort of fungus. But Johannes knew better: —
'They are little tapers. In the still autumn nights they burn while the boguey-sprites sit near them, reading their little books.'
Windekind had told him this one such tranquil autumn day, and Johannes dreamily drank in the faint earthy smell which came up from the mouldering ground.
'How is it that the leaves of the ash-trees are so speckled with black?'
'Ah! the boguey-sprites do that too,' said Windekind. 'When they have been busy writing at night, in the morning they throw out what is left in their ink-bottles over the leaves. They do not love the ash-trees; crosses are made of ash-wood, and poles for church bags.'
Johannes was curious to know all about the busy little sprites, and he made Windekind promise to take him to see one of them. He had now stayed some time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret for his promise to forget all he had left behind him. And he had no hours of loneliness or terror, when repentance is always apt to intrude. Windekind never quitted him, and with him he felt everywhere at home. He slept soundly in the swinging nest, where it hung between the green reeds, however ominously the bittern might boom or the raven croak. He knew no fear of the pelting rain or howling storm – he could creep into a hollow tree or a rabbit's burrow, and hide close under Windekind's cloak, and listen to his voice as he told him tales.
And now he was to see the Wood-Sprites.
It was a good day for such a visit. So calm, so still, Johannes fancied he could already hear tiny voices and the rustle of little feet, though it was mid-day. The birds had almost all fled; only the thrushes were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There he hung with flapping wings, struggling till his sharp clenched claws were almost torn away. Johannes made haste to set him free, and he flew off with a happy chirp.
The toadstools had a great deal to say.
'Only look at me!' said a fat puffy Toadstool.
'Did you ever see the like? See how thick and white my stem is, and how my hat shines. I am the biggest of you all. And that in one night!'
'Pooh!' said the red spotted toadstool. 'You are most vulgar! – so brown and clumsy. Now, I sway on a tall stem like a reed; I am of a splendid red like the rowan berries, and most elegantly speckled. I am the handsomest of you all.'
'Hush!' said Johannes, who knew them both of old. 'You are both poisonous.'
'That is a virtue,' said the red fellow.
'Or are you a man by chance?' retorted the fat toadstool. 'Then indeed I wish you would eat me.'
But Johannes did not eat him; he took some dry twigs and stuck them into his round hat. That looked funny, and all the others laughed; even a swarm of slender toadstools with little brown heads who had only come up a few hours since, and pushed themselves everywhere to look out on the world. The fat toadstool turned blue with spite, thus displaying his venomous nature. Earth-stars raised their little pert heads on angular stems. Now and then a little cloud of the finest brown powder puffed out of the opening in a round head. Wherever that dust fell on the moist soil, threads would tangle and plait beneath the dark earth, and next year myriads of fresh stars would come up.
'What a beautiful existence!' they said to each other.
'The happiest lot in life is to shed dust. What joy to think we may do it as long as we live!' And they puffed the little smoke-like cloud into the air with the deepest concentration.
'Are they really happy, Windekind?'
'Why not? What higher joy can they know? They are happy, for they ask no better because they know no better.'
When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were merged in uniform gloom, the mysterious vitality of the forest knew no rest. The branches snapped and cracked, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither among the grass and in the underwood. Then Johannes felt the touch of invisible wings and was aware of the presence of invisible beings. He could plainly hear the murmur of little voices and tripping of little feet. There! there in the darkest depth of the thicket, a tiny blue spark glowed and vanished. There was another and another! – Hark! When he listened attentively he could hear a rustling in the leaf-strewn floor near him, close to the black tree-trunk. The blue lights again were visible and then stood still on the top.
Now Johannes saw such lights all about him; they flitted among the brown leaves, dancing along with airy leaping; and in one place a large sparkling mass beamed like a blue bonfire.
'What fire is that?' asked Johannes. 'It burns splendidly.'
'That is a rotten tree-stump,' replied Windekind.
They went towards a bright light which remained steady.
'Now I will introduce you to Wistik.7 He is the oldest and wisest of the Wood-Sprites.
As they approached Johannes saw him sitting by his candle. The wrinkled little face with its grey beard could be plainly seen by the blue light; he was reading diligently with knitted brows. On his head he wore an acorn-cup with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a wood-spider listening to his reading.
When the pair went near him, the little boguey, without raising his head, looked up from his book and lifted his eyebrows.
The spider crept away.
'Good-evening,' said he. 'I am Wistik. Who are you?'
'My name is Johannes. I should like to make acquaintance with you. What are you reading?'
'It is not meant for your ears,' said Wistik. 'It is only for wood-spiders.'
'Just let me once look at it, dear Wistik,' begged Johannes.
'I cannot. This is the sacred book of the spiders, and is in my charge. I may not let it out of my own hands. I have the keeping of the sacred books of the snails, and the butterflies, and the hedge-hogs, and the moles, and all the creatures that live here. They cannot all read, and when they want to know anything I read it to them. This is a great honour for me, a post of trust, you understand.'
The sprite nodded very gravely several times, and pointed with his tiny forefinger.
'And what were you studying just now?'
'The history of Kribbelgauw, the great hero among spiders, who lived very long ago and had a net which spread over three trees, and in which he caught millions of flies every day. Before the time of Kribbelgauw spiders made no nets, but lived on grass and dead creatures; but Kribbelgauw was a very clever fellow, and proved that all living insects were created on purpose for food for spiders. Then, by the most laborious calculation, Kribbelgauw discovered the art of making nets, for he was very learned. And to this day the wood-spiders make their nets exactly as he taught them, thread for thread, only much smaller. For the spider race is greatly degenerate. Kribbelgauw caught great birds in his net, and murdered thousands of his own children – he was something like a spider! At last there came a great storm and carried away Kribbelgauw and his net, with the three trees it was made fast to, through the air to a distant wood, where he is now perpetually honoured for his great achievements and sagacity.'
'Is that all true?' asked Johannes.
'It is all in this book,' said Wistik.
'Do you believe it?'
The boguey shut one eye and laid his forefinger to his nose.
'The sacred books of other creatures, when they mention Kribbelgauw, speak of him as a hateful and contemptible monster. But that is no concern of mine.'
'And is there a Sprites' Book, Wistik?'
Wistik looked at Johannes rather suspiciously.
'What sort of creature are you really, Johannes? There is something – just something – human about you, so to speak.'
'No, no; be easy, Wistik,' said Windekind, 'we are elves. But formerly Johannes saw a good deal of men and their doings. You may trust him entirely. It can do him no harm.'
'Ay, ay, well and good. But I am called the wisest of the sprites – and I studied long and hard before I knew what I know. So now I must be cautious with my learning. If I tell you too much, I shall lose my reputation.'
'But in what book do you think that the truth is to be found?'
'I have read a great deal, but I do not believe that I have ever read that book. It is not the Elves' Book nor the Sprites'. Yet it must exist.'
'The Men's Book perhaps?'
'That I do not know, but I do not think it. For the True Book must bring with it great peace and great happiness. In it there must be an exact explanation of why everything is as it is, so that no one need ever ask or inquire any more. Now men, I believe, have not got so far as that.'
'Oh dear, no!' said Windekind, laughing.
'Is there anywhere such a book?' said Johannes eagerly.
'Yes, yes,' whispered the sprite. 'I know there is, from very ancient legends. And – hush! – I know where it is, and who can find it.'
'Oh, Wistik! Wistik!'
'Why then have you not yet got it?' asked Windekind.
'Patience, patience, – it will be found. I know as yet no particulars, – but I shall soon find it. I have toiled for it and sought it all my life. For to him who finds it life shall be one perpetual autumn day – blue air above and blue mists all round, – only no falling leaves shall rustle, no twigs shall snap, no raindrops patter, the shadows shall not change, the sun-gold on the tree-tops shall not fade. What seems to us now to be light shall be darkness; what seems to us now to be joy shall be woe by comparison, to those who read that book! Ay! I know this much, and some day I shall find it.'
The Wood-Sprite raised his eyebrows very much and laid his finger on his lips.
'Wistik, if you could but teach me – ' Johannes began; but before he could say more he felt a strong gust of wind and saw a great, broad black shroud overhead, which silently and swiftly swept by. When he looked for Wistik again he saw one little foot just vanishing into the hollow tree. Whisk! the sprite had leapt into his cave, book and all. The candles burnt paler and paler and suddenly went out. Those were very strange little candles.
'What was that?' asked Johannes, clinging in terror to Windekind in the darkness.
'An owl,' said Windekind. Then they were both silent for some time. Presently Johannes said: —
'Do you believe what Wistik said?'
'Wistik is not so wise as he thinks himself. He will never find such a book, nor you either.'
'But does it exist?'
'It exists, as your shadow exists, Johannes. However fast you run, however cautiously you seize it, you can never overtake it or hold it. And at last you discover that you are trying to catch yourself. Do not be foolish; forget the sprite's chatter. I can tell you a hundred finer tales. Come along! We will go to the outskirts of the wood and see how our good father draws off the white woollen coverlets of dew from the sleeping meadows. Come.'
Johannes went; but he did not understand Windekind's words, nor did he follow his counsel. And while he watched the dawn of the glorious autumn morning, he was meditating over the book in which it is written why everything is as it is, and repeating to himself in a low tone, 'Wistik!'
VI
It seemed to him, all the next few days, as though it was no longer so delightful or so beautiful to be with Windekind in the wood or on the sand-hills. His thoughts were no onger wholly occupied with all that Windekind told him or showed him. He could not help thinking of that Book, but he dared not speak of it. The things he saw seemed to him less fine and wonderful than before. The clouds were so black and heavy, he was afraid lest they should fall upon him. It distressed him when the unresting autumn wind shook and bowed the poor weary trees, so that the sallow under side of the leaves was seen, and yellow leaves and dry twigs were swept before the gale.
What Windekind told him had ceased to interest him. A great deal of it he did not understand, and he never got a perfectly clear and satisfactory answer when he asked one of his old questions.
And this again made him think of that Book in which everything was set forth so plainly and simply; and of that everlasting still and sunny autumn day which would ensue.
'Wistik! Wistik!' he murmured.
Windekind heard him.
'Johannes, I am afraid you ought to have remained a human being. Even your friendship is as that of men – the first person who has spoken to you after me has won all your confidence from me. Ah! my mother was right after all!'
'No, Windekind. But you are much wiser than Wistik – as wise as that Book. Why do you not tell me everything? See now! Why does the wind blow through the trees so that they bend and bow? Look, they can bear it no longer; the boughs snap and the leaves are flying by hundreds on all sides, though they are still green and fresh. They are so tired they can no longer hold on, and yet they are constantly shaken and thrashed by the rude, spiteful wind. Why is it so? What does the wind mean?'
'My poor Johannes, you are talking as men talk.'
'Make it stop, Windekind. I want calm and sunshine.'
'You question and want as a man; there is no answer, no fulfilment. If you cannot learn to ask or wish better, the autumn day will never dawn for you, and you will be like the thousands of human beings who have talked to Wistik.'
'What, so many?'
'Yes, thousands. Wistik affects great mystery, but he is a chatterbox who cannot keep his own secrets. He hoped to find the Book among men, and communicates his knowledge to every one who might be able to help him. And he has made many as unhappy as himself. They believe in him, and go forth to seek the Book with as much zeal as some use in seeking the art of making gold. They sacrifice everything, give up their calling and their happiness, and shut themselves up among big volumes or strange matters and instruments. They risk their lives and health, they forget the blue sky and kindly gentle Nature – nay, even their fellow-creatures. Some find good and useful things, as it were gold nuggets, which they throw out of their holes on to the bright sunlit surface of the earth; but they do not themselves care for these; they leave them for others to enjoy, while they dig and grub on in the dark without cessation or rest. They are not seeking gold but the Book. Some lose their wits over the work, forgetting their object and aim, and becoming mere miserable dotards. The sprite has made them quite childish. You may see them building up little castles of sand, and calculating how many grains more are needed to make them fall in; they make little watercourses, and estimate precisely the bends and bays the water will make; they dig trenches, and devote all their patience and reason to making them very smooth and free from stones. If these poor idiots are interrupted in their work and asked what they are doing, they look up with great importance, shake their heads and mutter, 'Wistik, Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that little foolish Wood-Sprite. Have nothing to say to him, Johannes.'
But Johannes stared before him at the swaying, creaking trees. The smooth brow above his clear childish eyes puckered into furrows. He had never before looked so grave.
'And yet – you yourself said – that there is such a Book! And oh! I am quite sure that in it there is all about the Great Light, whose name you will not tell me.'
'Poor, poor little Johannes!' said Windekind, and his voice rose above the dizzy clamour of the storm like a peaceful hymn, sounding very far away. 'Love me, only love me with all your might. In me, you will find even more than you wish. You shall understand that which you cannot conceive of, and be, yourself, what you desire to know. Earth and heaven shall be familiar to you, the stars shall be your neighbours, infinitude shall be your dwelling-place. Love me! only love me! Cling to me as the hop-bine to the tree, be true to me as the lake is to its bed – in me alone shall you find rest, Johannes.'
Windekind ceased speaking, but the choral psalm still went on. It seemed to float at an immense distance, in solemn rhythm, through the raging and sighing of the wind – as tranquil as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds. Windekind opened his arms and Johannes fell asleep on his breast, under the shelter of the blue cloak.
But in the night he awoke. Peace had suddenly and imperceptibly fallen on the world; the moon was below the horizon; the leaves hung limp and motionless; the forest was full of silence and darkness.
And questions came back on Johannes' mind, in swift spectral succession, dislodging all his newly-born confidence. Why were men thus made? Why must he come away from them and lose their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall and the flowers die? Why – why?
Down in the thicket the blue lights were dancing again. They came and went. Johannes gazed at them with eager attention. He saw the larger, brighter light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind was sleeping soundly and peacefully.
'Just one more question!' thought Johannes, creeping out from under the blue mantle.
'So, here you are again!' cried Wistik, with a friendly nod, 'I am very pleased to see you. And where is your friend?'
'Out yonder. But I wanted to ask you one more question – alone. Will you answer it?'
'You have lived among men, I am sure. Has it anything to do with my secret?'
'Who will find the Book, Wistik?'
'Ay, ay! That's it, that's it. If I tell you, will you help me?'
'If I can – certainly.'
'Then listen, Johannes.' Wistik opened his eyes astonishingly wide, and raised his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered behind his little hand. 'Men have the golden casket; elves have the golden key; the foe of the elves can never find it, the friend of men alone can open it. The first night of Spring is the right time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way.'
'Is that true, quite true?' cried Johannes, remembering his little key.
'Yes,' said Wistik.
'How is it that no one has found it yet?' asked Johannes, 'so many men are seeking for it.'
'I have never confided to any man, never to any man, what I have told you. I never before knew a friend of the Elves.'
'I have it, Wistik, I can help you!' Johannes leaped and clapped his hands. 'I will ask Windekind about it.'
Away he flew over the moss and dry leaves. But he stumbled now and then and his feet were heavy. Stout twigs snapped under his tread, while before, it had not even bent the blades of grass. There was the shady fern under which they had been sleeping. Their bed was empty.
'Windekind!' he called. But he started at the sound of his own voice. 'Windekind!' It sounded like a human voice.
A scared night-bird flew up with a shriek.
There was no one under the fern. Johannes could see no one. The blue lights had vanished. It was very cold and perfectly dark on all sides. Overhead, he saw the black tree-tops against the starry sky.
Once more he called. Then he dared no more; his voice was an insult to the silence, and Windekind's name a mockery. Poor Johannes fell on the ground and sobbed in helpless grief.
VII
The morning was cold and grey. The black shining boughs, swept bare by the storm, dripped in the fog. Little Johannes ran as fast as he could over the wet, down-beaten grass, looking before him in the distance where the wood was thinnest, as though he had some goal beyond. His eyes were red with crying, and dazed with fear and grief. He had been wandering about all night, seeking some light, – the feeling of being safe and at home had vanished with Windekind. The spirit of loneliness lurked in every dark corner; he dared not look round.
At last he came out of the wood; he looked over a meadowland, and fine close rain was pouring steadily. A horse was standing out in the rain close to a bare willow tree. It stood motionless, with bowed head, and the water trickled slowly off its shining flanks and plaited mane. Johannes ran on, along the skirt of the wood. He looked with dim, timid eyes at the lonely beast, and the grey drizzle, and he softly groaned.
'Now it is all over,' thought he. 'Now the sun will never come again. Now everything will always look the same to me as it does here.'
But he dared not stand still in his despair; something most dreadful would befall him, he thought. Then he espied the high wall of a garden, and a little house, under a lime-tree with faded yellow leaves. He went into the enclosure and ran along broad paths where the brown and gold lime-leaves thickly covered the ground. Purple asters and other gay autumn flowers grew by the grass plots in wild abundance. Then he came to a pond. By the side of it was a large house, with windows and doors all opening down to the ground. Climbing roses and other creepers grew against the walls. But it was all shut up and deserted. Half-stripped chestnut trees stood about the house, and on the earth, among the fallen leaves Johannes saw the shining brown chestnuts.
The cold, dead feeling about his heart disappeared. He thought of his own home – there two chestnut-trees grew, and at this season he always went out to pick up chestnuts. He suddenly longed to be there, as though an inviting voice had called him. He sat down on a bench close to the big house and cried himself to rest.
A peculiar smell made him look up. A man was standing by him, with a white apron on and a pipe in his mouth. Round his waist he had a wisp of bast with which he tied up the flowers. Johannes knew that smell so well! It reminded him of his own garden, and the gardener who brought him pretty caterpillars and showed him starling's eggs.
He was not frightened, – though it was a man who stood before him. He told the man that he had got lost and did not know his way, and thankfully followed him to the little cottage under the lime-tree.
Indoors, the gardener's wife sat knitting black stockings. A large kettle of water was hung to boil over the turf-fire in the hearth-place. On the mat by the fire lay a cat with her forepaws crossed, just as Simon had been lying when Johannes left home.
Johannes was made to sit down by the fire to dry his feet. 'Tick-tick, tick-tick,' said the great hanging clock. Johannes looked at the steam which came singing out of the kettle, and at the little flames which skipped and jumped fantastically about the peat blocks.
'Here I am among men,' thought he.
It was not alarming. He felt easy and safe. They were kind and friendly, and asked him what he would like to do.
'I would rather stay here,' he replied.
Here he was at peace, and if he went home there would be scolding and tears. He would have to listen in silence, and he would be told that he had been very naughty. He would be obliged to look back on the past, and think everything over once more.
He longed, to be sure, for his little room, for his father, for Presto – but he could better endure the quiet longing for them here than the painful, miserable meeting. And he felt as though here he could still think of Windekind, while at home he could not. Windekind was now certainly quite gone. Gone far away to the sunny land where palm-trees bend over the blue sea. He would do penance here and await his friend's return.
So he begged the two good folks to let him live with them. He would be obedient and work for them. He would help to take care of the garden and the flowers, at any rate through this winter; for he hoped in his heart that Windekind would return with the Spring.
The gardener and his wife supposed that Johannes had run away from home because he had been hardly treated. They pitied him, and promised to let him stay. So he remained and helped to work in the garden and attend to the flowers. They gave him a little room to sleep in with a bedstead painted blue. Out of it, in the morning, he could see the wet yellow lime-leaves flutter past the window, and at night the black boughs waving to and fro, and the stars playing hide-and-seek between them. And he gave names to the stars, and the brightest of them he called Windekind.
He told his history only to the flowers, most of which he had known before at home; to the large, solemn asters, the many-hued zinnias, and the white chrysanthemums which bloom on so late into the blustering autumn. When all the rest of the flowers were dead the chrysanthemums still stood upright – even when one morning the first snow had fallen and Johannes came to see how they were getting on, they held up their cheerful faces and said: 'Yes, we are still here. You would never have thought it!' And they looked very brave; but two days later they were all dead.
But palms and tree-ferns were still thriving in the hot-house, and the strange blossoms of orchids hung in the damp heat. Johannes peeped with amazement into their gorgeous cups, and thought of Windekind. How cold and colourless everything seemed then when he came out again – the sloppy snow with black footmarks, and the sighing, dripping branches of the trees!
But when the snow-flakes had been noiselessly falling hour after hour so that the boughs bent under the growing burthen, Johannes ran off gleefully into the purple twilight of the snow-laden wood. That was silence – but not death. It was almost more lovely than summer verdure, as the dazzling whiteness of the tangled twigs made lace-work against the light-blue sky, or as one of the over-weighted boughs shook off its load of snow, which fell in a cloud of glittering powder.
Once in the course of such a walk, when he had gone so far that all round him there was nothing to be seen but snow and snow-wrapped woods, half white and half black, and every sound of life seemed stifled under the glistening downy shroud, it happened that he thought he saw a tiny white creature running swiftly in front of him. He followed it – it resembled no animal that he knew; but when he tried to catch it, it promptly vanished into a hollow trunk. Johannes stared into the hole where it had disappeared and thought to himself: 'I wonder if it was Wistik?'
But he did not think much about him. He fancied it was wrong, and he would not spoil his fit of repentance. And his life with these two kind people left him little to ask for. In the evenings he had indeed to read aloud out of a thick book in which a great deal was said about God; but he was familiar with the book, and read unheeding.
That night, however, after his walk in the snow, he lay awake in his bed, looking at the cold gleam of the moonlight on the floor. All at once he saw two tiny hands which came out from below the bedstead and firmly clutched the edge. Then the top of a little white fur cap came into sight between the two hands, and at last he saw a pair of grave eyes under uplifted eyebrows.
'Good-evening, Johannes!' said Wistik. 'I am come to remind you of your promise. You cannot yet have found the Book, for it is not yet Spring time. But do you ever think it over? What is that thick book which you are made to read? But that cannot be the right book. Do not imagine that.'
'I do not imagine that, Wistik,' said Johannes.
He turned over to go to sleep again; but he could not get the gold key out of his head. Before now, when reading the big Book, he had thought of that, and he saw plainly that it could not be the right Book.
