Frederik van Eeden
The Quest
PART I
I
I will tell you something about Little Johannes and his quest. My story is very like a fairy tale, but everything in it really happened. As soon as you lose faith in it, read no farther, for then it was not written for you. And, should you chance to meet Little Johannes, you must never speak to him about it, for that would grieve him and make me sorry I had told you all this.
Johannes lived in an old house with a big garden. It was hard to find the way about them, for in the house were many dark halls, flights of stairs, chambers, and spacious garrets; and in the garden everywhere were fencings and hot-houses. To Johannes it was a whole world in itself. He could make far journeys in it, and he gave names to everything he discovered. For the house he chose names from the animal kingdom; the caterpillar loft, because there he fed the caterpillars and watched them change their state; the chicken room, because once he had found a hen there. This had not come of itself, but had been put there by Johannes' mother, to brood. For things in the garden, preferring those products of which he was most fond, he chose names from the vegetable kingdom, such as Raspberry Mountain, Gooseberry Woods, and Strawberry Valley. Behind all was a little spot he named Paradise; and there, of course, it was exceedingly delightful. A great sheet of water lay there – a pond where white water-lilies were floating, and where the reeds held long, whispered conversations with the wind. On the opposite side lay the dunes. Paradise itself was a little grass-plot on the near shore, encircled by shrubbery. From the midst of this shot up the tall nightingale-plant. There, in the thick grass, Johannes often lay gazing through the swaying stalks to the gentle hill-tops beyond the water. He used to go every warm summer evening and lie looking for hours, without ever growing weary of it. He thought about the still depths of the clear water before him – how cozy it must be down amid the water plants, in that strange half-light. And then again, he thought of the far-away, gloriously-tinted clouds which hovered above the dunes – wondering what might be behind them, and if it would not be fine to be able to fly thither. Just as the sun was sinking, the clouds piled up upon one another till they seemed to form the entrance to a grotto; and from the depths of that grotto glowed a soft, red light. Then Johannes would feel a longing to be there. Could I only fly into it! he thought. What would really be beyond? Shall I sometime – sometime be able to get there?
But often as he made this wish, the grotto always fell apart in ashen, dusky flecks, and he never was able to get nearer to it. Then it would grow cold and damp by the pond, and again he would seek his dark little bedroom in the old house.
He lived there not entirely alone. He had a father who took good care of him, a dog named Presto, and a cat named Simon. Of course, he thought most of his father, but he by no means considered Presto and Simon so very much beneath him, as a big man would have. He confided even more secrets to Presto than to his father, and for Simon he felt a devout respect. That was not strange, for Simon was a big cat with glossy, black fur, and a thick tail. By merely looking at him one could see that he was perfectly convinced of his own greatness and wisdom. He always remained dignified and proper, even when he condescended to play with a rolling spool, or while gnawing a waste herring-head behind a tree. At the extreme demonstrativeness of Presto he closed his green eyes disdainfully, and thought: "Well – dogs know no better!"
Can you realize now, that Johannes had a great awe of him? He held much more intimate relations with the little brown dog. Presto was neither beautiful nor superior, but an unusually good and sagacious dog, never farther than two steps away from Johannes, and patiently listening to whatever his master told him. I do not need to tell you how much Johannes thought of Presto. But he still had room in his heart for other things. Does it seem strange that his little dark bedroom, with the diamond window-panes, held also a large place? He liked the wall-hangings, with the big flowers in which he saw faces – faces he had so often studied when he was ill, or while he lay awake mornings. He liked the one small picture that hung there. It represented stiff figures walking in a still stiffer garden beside a smooth lake, where sky-high fountains were spouting, and coquetting swans were swimming. He liked best, however, the hanging clock. He always wound it up carefully and seriously, and considered it a necessary courtesy to watch it while it was striking. At least that was the way unless he happened to be asleep. If, through neglect, the clock ran down, Johannes felt very guilty and begged its pardon a thousand times. You would have laughed, perhaps, if you had heard him in conversation with his room. But confess how often you talk to your own self. It does not appear to you in the least ridiculous. Besides, Johannes was convinced that his hearers understood him perfectly, and he had no need of an answer. Secretly, however, he expected an answer some day from the clock or the wall-paper.
Johannes certainly had schoolmates, but they were not properly friends. He played with them, invented plots in school, and formed robber bands with them out-of-doors; but he only felt really at home when he was alone with Presto. Then he never longed for the boys, but felt himself at ease and secure.
His father was a wise and serious man, who often took Johannes with him on long expeditions through the woods and over the dunes. They talked but little – and Johannes followed ten steps behind his father, greeting the flowers he met. And the old trees, which must always remain in the selfsame place, he stroked along their rough bark with his friendly little hand. Then the good-natured giants rustled their thanks.
Sometimes his father wrote letters in the sand, one by one, and Johannes spelled the words which they formed. Again, the father stopped and taught Johannes the name of some plant or animal.
And Johannes often asked questions, for he saw and heard many perplexing things. He often asked silly questions. He wanted to know why the world was just as it was, why plants and animals must die, and if miracles could take place. But Johannes' father was a wise man, and did not tell all he knew. That was well for Johannes.
Evenings, before he went to sleep, Johannes always made a long prayer. His nurse had taught him. He prayed for his father and for Presto. Simon, he thought, did not need to be prayed for. He prayed a good while for himself, too, and almost always ended with the wish that some day there might be a miracle. And when he had said Amen, he peeped expectantly around the darkening room, at the faces on the wall-hangings, which looked still stranger in the faint twilight; and at the door-knob, and the clock, where the miracle ought now to begin. But the clock always kept on ticking in the very same way – the door-knob did not stir – it grew quite dark, and Johannes fell asleep without having seen the miracle.
But some day it would happen. He knew it would.
II
It was warm by the pool and utterly still. The sun, flushed and tired with his daily work, seemed to rest a moment on the rim of the dunes, for a breathing spell before diving under. The smooth water reflected, almost perfectly, the flaming face of the sun. The leaves of the beech tree which hung over the pond took advantage of the stillness to look at themselves attentively, in the mirror-like water. The solitary heron, standing on one foot between the broad leaves of a water-lily, forgot that he had come out to catch frogs, and, deep in thought, was gazing along his nose.
Then came Johannes to the grass plot, to see the cloud-grotto. Plump! plump! sprang the frogs from the bank. The mirror was all rippled, the image of the sun was broken up into broad bands, and the beech leaves rustled angrily, for they had not yet viewed themselves long enough.
Fastened to the bare roots of a beech tree lay a little old boat. Johannes had been strictly forbidden to get into it; but, oh, how strong the temptation was this evening! The clouds had already taken the semblance of a wondrous portal, behind which the sun would soon sink to rest. Glittering ranks of clouds ranged themselves at the sides, like a golden-armored life-guard. The face of the water reflected the glow, and red rays darted through the reeds like arrows.
Slowly, Johannes loosened the boat-rope from the roots. He would drift there, in the midst of the splendor. Presto had already sprung into the boat, and before his master intended it the reeds moved apart, and away they both drifted toward the evening sun.
Johannes lay in the bow, and gazed into the depths of the light-grotto. Wings! thought he. Wings now, and away I would fly!
The sun had disappeared, but the clouds were all aglow. In the east the sky was deep blue. A row of willows stood along the bank, their small, pale leaves thrust motionlessly out into the still air. They looked like exquisite, pale-green lace against the sombre background.
Hark! What was that? It darted and whizzed like a gust of wind cutting a sharp furrow in the face of the water. It came from the dunes – from the grotto in the clouds!
When Johannes looked round, a big, blue dragon-fly sat on the edge of the boat. He had never seen one so large. It rested there, but its wings kept quivering in a wide circle. It seemed to Johannes that the tips of its wings made a luminous ring.
That must be a fire dragon-fly, he thought – a rare thing.
The ring grew larger and larger, and the wings whirled so fast that Johannes could see nothing but a haze. And little by little, from out this haze, he saw the shining of two dark eyes; and a light, frail form in a garment of delicate blue sat in the place of the dragon-fly. A wreath of white wind-flowers rested upon the fair hair, and at the shoulders were gauzy wings which shimmered in a thousand hues, like a soap bubble.
A thrill of happiness coursed through Johannes. This was a miracle!
"Will you be my friend?" he whispered.
That was a queer way of speaking to a stranger. But this was not an every-day case, and he felt as if he had always known this little blue being.
"Yes, Johannes," came the reply, and the voice sounded like the rustling of the reeds in the night wind, or the pattering of rain-drops on the forest leaves.
"What is your name?" asked Johannes.
"I was born in the cup of a wind-flower. Call me Windekind."1
Windekind laughed, and looked in Johannes' eyes so merrily that his heart was blissfully cheered.
"To-day is my birthday," said Windekind. "I was born not far away, of the first rays of the moon and the last rays of the sun. They say the sun is feminine.2 It is not true. The sun is my father."
Johannes determined forthwith to speak of the sun as masculine, the next morning, in school.
"Look! There comes up the round, fair face of my mother. Good evening, Mother! Oh! oh! But she looks both good-natured and distressed!"
He pointed to the eastern horizon. There, in the dusky heavens, behind the willow lace-work which looked black against the silver disk, rose the great shining moon. Her face wore a pained expression.
"Come, come, Mother! Do not be troubled. Indeed, I can trust him!"
The beautiful creature fluttered its gauzy wings frolicsomely and touched Johannes on the cheek with the Iris in its hand.
"She does not like it that I am with you. You are the first one. But I trust you, Johannes. You must never, never speak my name nor talk about me to a human being. Do you promise?"
"Yes, Windekind," said Johannes. It was still so strange to him. He felt inexpressibly happy, yet fearful of losing his happiness. Was he dreaming? Near him, Presto lay calmly sleeping on the seat. The warm breath of his dog put him at rest. The gnats swarmed over the face of the water, and danced in the sultry air, just as usual. Everything was quite clear and plain about him. It must be true! And all the time he felt resting upon him the trustful glance of Windekind. Then again he heard the sweet, quavering voice:
"I have often seen you here, Johannes. Do you know where I was? Sometimes I sat on the sandy bottom of the pond, among the thick water plants, and looked up at you as you leaned over to drink, or to peep at the water beetles, or the newts. But you never saw me. And many times I peeped at you from the thick reeds. I am often there. When it is warm I sleep in an empty reed-bird's nest. And, oh! it is so soft!"
Windekind rocked contentedly on the edge of the boat, and struck at the gnats with his flower.
"I have come now to give you a little society. Your life will be too dreary, otherwise. We shall be good friends, and I will tell you many things – far better things than the school-master palms off upon you. He knows absolutely nothing about them. And when you do not believe me, I shall let you see and hear for yourself. I will take you with me."
"Oh, Windekind! dear Windekind! Can you take me there?" cried Johannes, pointing to the sky, where the crimson light of the setting sun had just been streaming out of the golden cloud-gates. That glorious arch was already melting away in dull, grey mist, yet from the farthest depths a faint, rosy light was still shining.
Windekind gazed at the light which was gilding his delicate features and his fair locks, and he gently shook his head.
"Not yet, Johannes, not yet. You must not ask too much just now. Even I have not yet been at my father's home."
"I am always with my father," said Johannes.
"No! That is not your father. We are brothers, and my father is your father, too. But the earth is your mother, and for that reason we are very different. Besides, you were born in a house, with human beings, and I in a wind-flower. The latter is surely better. But it will be all the same to us."
Then Windekind sprang lightly upon the side of the boat, which did not even stir beneath his weight, and kissed Johannes' forehead.
That was a strange sensation for Johannes. Everything about him was changed.
He saw everything now, he thought, much better and more exactly. The moon looked more friendly, too, and he saw that the water-lilies had faces, and were gazing at him pensively.
Suddenly he understood why the gnats were all the time dancing so merrily around one another, back and forth and up and down, till their long legs touched the water. Once he had thought a good deal about it, but now he understood perfectly.
He knew, also, what the reeds were whispering, and he heard the trees on the bank softly complaining because the sun had set.
"Oh, Windekind, I thank you! This is delightful. Yes, indeed, we will have nice times together!"
"Give me your hand," said Windekind, spreading his many-colored wings. Then he drew Johannes in the boat, over the water, through the lily leaves which were glistening in the moonlight.
Here and there, a frog was sitting on a leaf. But now he did not jump into the water when Johannes came. He only made a little bow, and said: "Quack." Johannes returned the bow politely. Above everything, he did not wish to appear conceited.
Then they came to the rushes. They were wide-spread, and the boat entirely disappeared in them without having touched the shore. But Johannes held fast to his guide, and they scrambled through the high stalks to land.
Johannes thought he had become smaller and lighter, but perhaps that was imagination. Still, he could not remember ever having been able to climb up a grass stalk.
"Now be ready," said Windekind, "you are going to see something funny."
They walked on through the high grass, beneath the dark undergrowth which here and there let through a small, shining moonbeam.
"Did you ever hear the crickets evenings in the dunes? It is just as if they were having a concert. Is it not? But you can never tell where the sound comes from. Now they never sing for the pleasure of it; but the sound comes from the cricket-school where hundreds of little crickets are learning their lessons by heart. Keep still, for we are close to them."
Chirp! Chirp!
The bushes became less dense, and when Windekind pushed apart the grass blades with his flower, Johannes saw a brightly lighted, open spot in the thin, spindling dune-grass, where the crickets were busily learning their lessons.
Chirp! Chirp!
A big fat cricket was teacher, and heard the lessons. One by one the pupils sprang up to him; always with one spring forward, and one spring back again, to their places. The one that made a bad spring was obliged to take his stand upon a toadstool.
"Pay good attention, Johannes. Perhaps you too can learn something," said Windekind.
Johannes understood very well what the little crickets answered. But it was not in the least like that which the teacher of his school taught. First came geography. They knew nothing of the parts of the world. They were only obliged to learn twenty-six dunes and two ponds. No one could know anything about what lay beyond, said the teacher, and whatever might be told about it was nothing but idle fancy.
Then botany had its turn. They were all very clever at that, and there were many prizes distributed: selected grass blades of various lengths – tender and juicy. But the zoology astonished Johannes the most. There were springing, flying, and creeping creatures. The crickets could spring and fly, and therefore stood at the head. Then followed the frogs. The birds were mentioned, with every token of aversion, as most harmful and dangerous. Finally, human beings were discussed. They were great, useless, dangerous creatures that stood very low, since they could neither fly nor spring; but luckily they were very scarce. A wee little cricket who had never yet seen a human being got three hits with a wisp because he numbered human beings, by mistake, among the harmless animals.
Johannes had never heard anything like this before.
Suddenly, the teacher called out: "Silence. The springing exercise!" Instantly all the little crickets stopped studying their lessons and began to play leap-frog. They played with skill and zeal, and the fat teacher took the lead.
It was such a merry sight that Johannes clapped his hands with joy.
At the sound, the entire school rushed off in a twinkling to the dunes; and the little grass plot was as still as death.
"See what you have done, Johannes!" cried Windekind. "You must not be so rude – one can very well see that you were born among human beings."
"I am sorry. I will try my best to behave. But it was so funny!"
"It is going to be funnier still," said Windekind. They cut across the grass plot and ascended the dunes on the other side.
Ah, me! It was hard work in the deep sand, but Johannes caught hold of Windekind's light blue garment, and then he sped quickly and lightly up the slope. Half-way to the top was a rabbit-hole.
The rabbit whose home it was lay with his head and forepaws out of the entrance. The sweet-briar was still in flower, and its faint, delicate fragrance mingled with that of the wild thyme which was growing near.
Johannes had often seen rabbits disappear into their holes. He wondered what it was like inside them, and about how many could sit together there, and if it would not be very stifling. So he was very glad when he heard his companion ask the rabbit if they might take a peep inside.
"Willingly, so far as I am concerned," said the rabbit, "but unfortunately, it just happens that I have resigned my dwelling this evening for the giving of a charity-festival. So, really, I am not master in my own house."
"Ah, indeed! Has there been an accident?"
"Alas, yes!" said the rabbit, sorrowfully. "A great calamity. We shall not recover from it in years. A thousand jumps from here a house for human beings has been built-a big, big house – and there those creatures with dogs have come to live. Fully seven members of my family have perished through their deeds, and three times as many more have been bereft of their homes. And matters are still worse with the Mouse and the Mole families. And the Toads have suffered heavily. So we have gotten up a festival for the benefit of the surviving relatives. Everybody does what he can. I gave my hole. One ought to have something to spare for his fellow-creatures."
The compassionate rabbit sighed and, pulling a long ear over his head with his right forepaw, wiped a tear out of his eye. His ear was his handkerchief.
Then something rustled in the grass, and a stout, clumsy figure came scrabbling up to the hole.
"Look!" said Windekind. "Here comes Father Toad – hopping along."
Then followed a pun at the toad's expense.
But the toad paid no attention to the jest. His name furnished occasion for frequent jokes. Composedly he laid down by the entrance a full ear of corn, neatly folded in a dry leaf, and then he climbed dexterously over the back of the rabbit into the hole.
"May we go in?" asked Johannes, who was full of curiosity. "I will give something, too!"
He remembered that he still had a biscuit in his pocket-a little round biscuit of Huntley and Palmer's. As he pulled it out he noticed for the first time how small he had become. He could scarcely lift it with both hands, and could not understand how his pocket had contained it.
"That is very rare and expensive," said the rabbit. "It is a costly gift."
The entrance was respectfully made free to them both. It was dark in the cave, and Johannes let Windekind go in front. Soon, they saw a pale-green light approaching. It was a glow-worm, who obligingly offered to light the way for them.
"It promises to be a very pleasant evening," said the glow-worm, as he led them on. "There are a great many guests. You are elves, I should say. Is it not so?" With these words, the glow-worm glanced at Johannes somewhat suspiciously.
"You may announce us as elves," replied Windekind.
"Do you know that your king is at the party?" continued the glow-worm.
"Is Oberon here? That gives me a great deal of pleasure," exclaimed Windekind. "I know him personally."
"Oh!" said the glow-worm. "I did not know I had the honor to…" and his light nearly went out from fright. "Yes, His Majesty much prefers the open air, but he is always ready to perform a charitable act. This is going to be a most brilliant affair!"
It was indeed the case. The main room in the rabbit cave was splendidly decorated. The floor had been trodden smooth, and strewn with fragrant thyme. Directly in front of the entrance a bat was hanging, head downward. He called out the names of the guests, and served at the same time as a measure of economy for a curtain. The walls of the room were tastefully adorned with dry leaves, spider-webs and tiny, suspended bats. Innumerable glow-worms crept in and out of these, and all around the ceiling; and they made a most beautiful, ever-changing illumination. At the end of the chamber was a throne, built of bits of phosphorescent wood. It was a charming spectacle.
There were many guests. Johannes felt himself rather out of place in the strange crowd, and drew close to Windekind. He saw queer things there. A mole was chatting with a field-mouse about the handsome decorations. In a corner sat two fat toads, nodding their heads at each other, and bewailing the continued dry weather. A frog, arm in arm with a lizard, attempted a promenade. Matters went badly with him, for he was timid and nervous, and every once in a while he jumped too far, thus doing damage to the wall decorations.
On the throne sat Oberon, the elf-king, encircled by a little retinue of elves. These looked down rather disdainfully upon their surroundings. The king himself was most royal in his affability, and conversed in a friendly way with various guests. He had come from a journey in the Orient, and wore a strange garment of brightly colored flower-petals. Flowers like that do not grow here, thought Johannes. On his head rested a deep blue flower-cup, which was still as fragrant as though it had just been picked. In his hand was his sceptre – the stamen of a lotus-flower.
All present were quietly lauding his goodness. He had praised the moonlight on the dunes, and had said that the glow-worms here were almost as beautiful as the fireflies of the Orient. He had pleasantly overlooked the wall decorations, and a mole, even, had noticed that he nodded approvingly.
"Come with me," said Windekind. "I will present you." And they pressed forward to the place where the king sat.
When Oberon recognized Windekind, he greeted him joyfully, and gave him a kiss. At that the guests whispered to one another, and the elves threw envious glances at the pair. The two plump toads in the corner mumbled together something about "fawning and flattering," and "not lasting long," and then nodded very significantly to each other.
Windekind talked with Oberon for a long time in a strange language, and then beckoned to Johannes to come closer.
"Give me your hand, Johannes," said the king. "Windekind's friends are mine also. Whenever I can I will help you, and I will give you a token of our alliance."
Oberon released from the chain about his neck a little gold key, and gave it to Johannes who took it respectfully and held it shut close in his hand.
"That little key may be your fortune," said the king. "It fits a golden chest which contains a precious treasure. Who holds that chest I cannot say, but you must search for it zealously. If you remain good friends with me and with Windekind – steadfast and true – you will surely succeed." With that, the elf-king inclined his beautiful head, cordially, while Johannes, overflowing with happiness, expressed his thanks.
At this moment, three frogs, who were sitting together upon a little mound of damp moss, began to sing the introduction to a slow waltz, and partners were taken for the dance. Those who did not dance were lined along the side walls by the master of ceremonies – a lively, fussy little lizard – to the great vexation of the two toads who complained that they could not see. Then the dancing began.
And it was so comical! Every one danced in his own way, and fancied, of course, that he danced better than any one else. The mice and frogs sprang high up on their hind feet, and an old rat whirled round so wildly that all the dancers retreated before him. A fat tree-slug took a turn with a mole, but soon gave it up, under pretense that she was taken with a stitch in the side. The real reason was that she could not dance very well.
However, everything moved on seriously and ceremoniously. It was a matter of conscience with them, and all looked anxiously toward the king to find a sign of approval upon his countenance. But the king was afraid of causing discontent, and looked very sedate. His followers considered it beneath them to take part in the dancing.
Johannes had contained himself well, through all this seriousness, but when he saw a tiny toad whirling around with a tall lizard, who now and then lifted the unhappy toad high up off the floor and described a half circle with her in the air, he burst out into a merry laugh.
Then there was consternation. The music stopped and the king; looked round with a troubled air. The master of ceremonies flew in full speed up to the laugher, and urgently besought him to conduct himself with more decorum.
"Dancing is a serious matter," said he, "and nothing at all to be laughed at. This is a dignified company, who are dancing not merely for the fun of it. Every one was doing his best, and no one wished to be laughed at. That was very rude. More than that, this is a mourning feast – a sorrowful occasion. One should conduct himself respectably here, and not behave as though he were among human beings."
Johannes was frightened at that. Moreover, he saw hostile looks. His familiarity with the king had made him many enemies. Windekind led him to one side.
"We would better go away," he whispered. "You have made a mess of it again. That is the way when one is brought up among human beings."
Hastily, they slipped out under the bat-wing portiere, and entered the dim passage. The polite glow-worm was waiting for them.
"Have you had a good time?" he asked. "Did King Oberon speak with you?"
"Oh, yes. It was a jolly festival," said Johannes. "Do you have to stay here all the time, in this dark passage?"
"That is my own choice," said the glow-worm, in a bitter, mournful voice. "I care no more for vanities."
"Come," said Windekind, "you do not mean that!"
"It is just as I say. Formerly – formerly there was a time when I, too, went to feasts, and danced, and kept up with such frivolities; but now I am purified through suffering, now…" And he became so agitated that his light went out again. Fortunately they were near the outlet, and the rabbit, hearing them coming, moved a little to one side, so that the moonlight shone in.
As soon as they were outside by the rabbit, Johannes said: "Will you not tell us your history, Glow-worm?"
"Alas!" sighed the glow-worm, "it is a sad and simple story. It will not amuse you."
"Tell us! Tell us, all the same!" they cried.
"Well, then, you know that we glow-worms are very peculiar beings. Yes, I believe no one would contradict that we glow-worms are the most highly gifted of all who live.
"Why? I do not know that," said the rabbit. At this, the glow-worm asked disdainfully, "Can you give light?"
"No, indeed, I cannot," the rabbit was obliged to confess.
"Now we give light – all of us. And we can make it shine or can extinguish it. Light is the best gift of Nature, and to make light is the highest achievement of any living being. Ought any one then to contest our precedence? Moreover, we little fellows have wings, and can fly for miles."
"I cannot do that, either," humbly admitted the rabbit.
"Through the divine gift of light which we have," continued the glow-worm, "other creatures stand in awe of us, and no bird will attack us. Only one animal – the human being – the basest of all, chases us, and carries us off. He is the most detestable monster in creation!"
