Frederik van Eeden
The Quest
"Dear me! Dear me!" said the dominie, and the ladies cried: "Good gracious!" and other exclamations of disapproval and indignation. "Be a little less uncivil, friend; you are not with your own kind here."
Markus continued, in a calm, friendly tone: "Theologians, however, thank God for many a rude truth, and know, also, how to take parables. Even when with cannibals, an apostle need not eat human flesh."
Widow Slot, who alone of all in the circle seemed to have retained her coolness, here interposed: "We have not improved, yet."
Markus turned toward her and said with great earnestness:
"Who are they who have their portion? Are not the poorest ones they who drink wine and eat cake, and yet produce not even bread? Every day they sink deeper into debt. I prefer to eat honest food."
"You mistake, my man! I have no debts!" cried Aunt Seréna, with trembling lips.
"But, Aunt Seréna, he does not mean that," said Johannes, as much moved as herself.
"Children must be silent, here!" cried the dominie, angrily.
"If the children are silent here, who is there to speak sense?" continued Markus. And then, with a gentle, penetrating voice, he addressed Aunt Seréna. "Whoever will not listen to children, the Father will not understand. I spoke in metaphor – in a simple way, for simple people. The whole world is a metaphor, and not a simple one. If we do not yet understand such a simple metaphor, then the world must indeed remain a sad riddle."
The dominie held his peace, and smoked fiercely; but Aunt Seréna thought it over, looking in front of her, and said; "All understanding comes through the light of grace."
Markus nodded, kindly. "Yes," said he, "for those who unbolt the shutters and throw open the windows. And the sun will shine even through little windows."
Then he ceased speaking and ate his bread. No one said anything more, unless in a whisper to his next neighbor.
When Markus had eaten he stood up and said: "Thank you. Good night!"
Johannes also stood up, and said anxiously: "Markus, You are not going away?"
"Yes, Johannes. Good-by till we meet again!"
Then he passed silently out of the door, took his cap and coat, and was let out by Daatje. Johannes heard her ask: "How much did you get?" And when Markus said simply: "Twopence," he felt a twinge at his heart. Indoors, no one spoke so long as the creaking of the cart-wheel could be heard. Then the dominie, in a loud tone, and with assumed lightness, said:
"That was a venturesome deed, dear Madam. You ought to be more cautious in future with that altogether too-largely developed philanthropy of yours. That man is known as a very dangerous individual."
Exclamations of astonishment and alarm followed this, and different ladies cried: "Goodness!" "It's a sin!" "Do you know him?"
"Alas, indeed I do!" averred the dominie, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. "He is a well-known person – one of those fanatics who incite the people and poison their natures: a nihilist."
"A nihilist!" echoed the ladies, frightened and horrified. Poor Johannes sat listening to Dominie Kraalboom with painful interest. The name "nihilist" did not make him afraid, but such notoriety was a bitter disappointment. It was as if thereby all the mysterious superiority of his beloved friend had been leveled. Had it, then, all been a fraud?
When the circle had taken their leave, and Aunt Seréna was going to bed, he saw Daatje very carefully counting the silver spoons!
IX
"Listen, Juffrouw," said Daatje, the following morning, when all was ready for going to church, "for forty years I have served you faithfully and well; but I just want to say to you, that if you bring any more heathen or Hottentots into the house – into the parlor, rather – in the future, I will leave in a jiffy, as sure as fate!"
"Will you, Daatje?" said Aunt Seréna, drily, asking for her prayer-book. Johannes sat stiffly in his Sunday collar, struggling to draw his thread gloves smoothly over his finger-tips. Then, under two umbrellas, the three set out for church.
Already Dominie Kraalboom was sitting in the chancel, busily stroking his freshly shaven cheeks, and thoughtfully watching the coming in of his flock. Not one of the circle was missing. The clothing of the congregation, wet with rain, gave out a peculiar odor; chairs were noisily shoved about over the flat, blue tombstones, while above the sound of shuffling feet and of slamming doors the deep throbbing of the organ was heard.
The dominie soon caught sight of Johannes; and the little man had cause to feel conceited by reason of all the attention paid him. Johannes said to himself that it certainly must be his own imagining (for what could such a great man have to do with a little boy?) but it appeared as if the entire sermon was written for, and especially aimed at, Johannes.
The text was: "Who shall understand his errors? Cleanse thou me from secret faults."
The dominie dwelt upon the sin of arrogance, and the numbers of young people who were wrecked through it ere they rightly understood what it was, and said that they ought to desire to be cleansed from it.
Young people, said the dominie, were conceited and presumptuous, and full of evil; but they were themselves unconscious of it. They thought they knew more than their elders, and they listened, far too willingly, to pernicious dogmas that would make all men equal – that would reason away royal and divine authority, and that made people rebellious, and discontented with the sphere in which God had placed them.
"The true Christian," said the dominie, "cares for neither gold nor goods. He has higher aspirations. If he be blessed with them, let him manage them well, for they are only lent to him. If he be poor, then let him not repine nor complain, knowing that everything is ordered for the best, and that true riches are not of this world."
It was a fine sermon. Johannes and his aunt both listened attentively. The precentor looked pleased, and the saintly Koos nodded repeatedly. Neeltje, alone, slept; but, as everybody knew, that was because of her nervous trouble.
The entire congregation joined spiritedly in the singing, and the dominie sat down visibly self-satisfied.
Once, Johannes looked around, and, close by the door, athwart the chancel in the shadow, beheld, supported by a slender hand, a bowed head with dark hair!
He knew the hand well, and recognized instantly that dark-haired man. Again and again he felt constrained to look in that direction. The figure remained sitting, motionless, and in a bowed posture.
But when the singing came to an end, and the dominie deliberately made ready to continue his sermon… Surely, the dark head was lifted up! Markus regarded the faces about him for an instant, with a sorrowful look, and then he stood erect.
Johannes' heart began to thump. "Was he going away? What was he going to do? Oh, dear! Oh, dear!"
But Markus, taking advantage of that pause wherein the people in a congregation are wont to cough, to make use of their handkerchiefs, and to compose themselves again for listening, began speaking in his gentle, musical voice:
"My friends, excuse me for addressing you unbidden, but you know that it is always permitted to bear witness of the Father, if one can do so truthfully."
In perplexity, the congregation looked from the speaker to Dominie Kraalboom. The precentor, also, directed his frightened eyes to the chancel up behind him, as if expecting from that quarter deliverance from this extraordinary difficulty.
Dominie Kraalboom grew very red, and, speaking in his most impressive tones – rolling his r's, for he was really angry – he said: "I beseech you not to disturb the order of this church."
Markus, however, paid not the slightest attention to these words. His voice rang clearer than ever through the chill, lofty spaces. The people listened, and the dominie had no alternative but to be silent or to shout the louder, which latter expedient he renounced from a sense of dignity.
"My poor friends," said Markus, "does it not alarm you that there are wrong-doings of which you are not conscious? Is it not sad to be guilty and not to know it?"
"If we, poor souls, forgive those who unconsciously wrong us, will not our Father forgive us?
"But to wander is to wander, and not to follow the straight course: and he who errs, though he may know it not, does not do right, although he may intend a thousand times to do the right.
"And he who continues to wander gets lost; for the Father's justice is inalterable and unfailing.
"And yet, my poor friends, the Father's forgiveness is for every one, even the poorest wanderer. His mercy is for all.
"And His forgiveness is called knowledge, and the name of His mercy is insight.
"These are bestowed upon every one who does not reject them; and no one will be lost who makes use of them.
"Therefore, the Psalmist begged to be cleansed from secret faults. He knew that we know not ourselves how very guilty we are. And He knew that the enlightening and purifying fire of confession is of the Father's mercy.
"Has ever a thirsty one continued to wander away from the water, after recognizing his mistake?
"Who of us does not long for forgiveness and blessedness? Or who would continue to err after confession?
"Confess, then, and will to look within. It is never too late to do so.
"We are guilty, my poor friends: confess it and there will be forgiveness, but not without knowledge thereof. The least among you can understand this, if only he will.
"It was not the Father who willed that you should be poor, and rich – the poor laboring, the rich idling. It would be abominable blasphemy to say that. Believe it not. Shun as defiling those who would thus delude you.
"Not by divine ordering, but through human mismanagement, wickedness, and foolishness, and the wandering away from the Father's will, have poverty and riches come into this human world.
"Acknowledge it; for, truly, there will be no forgiveness for those who reject the Father's mercy."
Here Dominie Kraalboom beckoned to the sexton and the precentor, who were standing together whispering with considerable vehemence, casting furious looks at the speaker. The sexton coughed and mounted the pulpit. The dominie exchanged a few words with him, and, with a resigned air, half-closed eyes, and a face as severe as possible, went to resume his seat. The sexton strode resolutely through the church, and left the building, all eyes following him in suspense.
Imperturbably, Markus proceeded:
"My poor friends, did ever an artist create a grand masterpiece, and desire that no one should admire it?
"Would the Father, then, have made the mountains, seas, and flowers, gold and jewels, and have desired that we should despise and reject them all?
"No; the highest good belongs not to this world, and neither does the beauty of the universe belong to this world. Yet even here – upon this earth – we may learn to know and to admire; for why else were we placed in this world?
"Let us admire not the mere wood and strings, but the music of them; not paint and canvas, but the eternal beauty to which they do homage.
"So we shall love the world, and admire it only as that by means of which the Father speaks to us; and whoever despises the world despises the voice of the Father.
"Will not he who receives a letter from his distant love kiss the dry paper, and wet the black ink with his tears?
"Shall we, then, hate the world, through which alone, in our alienation, the Father reveals to us his beauty?"
Markus' voice was so deep-toned, and so sweet to hear, that many listeners were moved, even although they only half understood. Tears were streaming freely from Johannes' shining, wide-open eyes. Aunt Seréna, too, looked agitated, and Neeltje, even, had waked up. The dominie scowled blackly, with closed eyes, like one about to lose his forbearance. The precentor looked nervously toward the door.
Again Markus began:
"My friends, how shall the poor, who compulsorily toil, and the rich, who compel them, comprehend the sacred message of the Father?
"Must they always remain both deaf and blind to what is best and most beautiful? Must they see and hear nothing of this?
"Sooner can the sunlight penetrate dungeon-doors of threefold thickness, than can the light of the Father's loving kindness and the radiance of His beauty enter the soul of the stupefied drudge.
"Upon the sands of the sea grow neither grapes nor roses. In the heart of the overworked, needy sufferer grows neither beauty nor wisdom.
"And the rich – who purloin the good things which the Father has given to others – who are served, without rendering service – who eat, without working, and found their houses upon the misery of others – how can these comprehend the justice of the Father?
"Exceeding sweetness shall turn to gall in the rich man's stomach; illicit pleasure shall waste him away like sorrow; wisdom, unrighteously acquired, shall turn in him to despair and madness.
"The rich man is like one who takes away the fire of many others, that he may always keep himself warm; but the heat consumes him. He will have all the water, that he may never again thirst; but he is drowned. Yet unto all the Father has given light and water in equal measure.
"No one escapes the Father's justice. The rich have their reward as they go; and in want shall they envy those whom they robbed while they were still upon earth.
"Admit, then, my poor friends, that it is not the Father's will that there should be poverty and riches, but that your own wickedness and maliciousness have created them – your unbrotherliness and ignorance, your thirst for power and your servility.
"Confess, and there shall be forgiveness for the most guilty. Submit and humble yourselves, and you shall be exalted. Lift up your hearts, fear not, and you shall be saved. Throw open the windows and the light will stream in."
At last, there was a creaking of the heavy, outside door, which was held shut by a rope, weighted with lead. Then followed several more long-drawn creakings of the pulley, ere the door closed with a dull thud. All heads were again turned in that direction. The dominie, too, looked up, visibly relieved.
And Johannes, stiff with terror, saw, in the rear of the sexton, two officers – two common, insignificant policemen – step up to Markus with an air of professional sternness, albeit with a rather slouching mien.
Yes, it was going to happen! The congregation looked on in breathless suspense. The sexton bristled, and the officers hesitatingly prepared themselves for a struggle.
But before the outstretched hand of the helmeted chief had descended upon his shoulder, Markus looked round and nodded in a friendly way as if he was expecting them. After that, he looked about the congregation once again, and bade them farewell with a cordial, comforting gesture which seemed to come to all as a surprise. He had the appearance, indeed, of one who was being conducted by two lackeys to a feast, instead of by policemen to the station.
When he went away, the officers grasped him by his arms, as firmly as if they were resolutely determined not to let him escape. They did this so awkwardly, and Markus was so cheerfully docile, that the effect was very comical, and several people smiled.
The dominie spoke a few more words, and made a long closing prayer which, however, was not listened to attentively. The congregation were too anxious to talk over what had happened. And they made a busy beginning even before they were out of the church.
But Aunt Seréna and Johannes went home with averted eyes, and in anxious silence, without exchanging a word or a look.
X
Johannes had one peculiarity which he could not excuse in himself. His good intentions and heroic resolves always came, according to his own opinion, a trifle too late. He might be a good boy yet, he thought, if only things did not happen so suddenly that he had not due time to think them over before he needed to act. Thus, sitting on the opposite side of the breakfast table from his Aunt Seréna, deliberating whether it would still be proper, after the agitating events of the morning, to spread his first roll, as usual, with sweet-milk cheese, and his second with Deventer cake, it suddenly dawned upon him what a mean, cowardly, perfidious boy he had been. He felt that any other brisk, faithful person in his place would have risen up instantly, and resisted with all his power of word and deed that shameful outrage against his beloved brother.
Of course, there had been something for him to do! He ought to have intervened, instead of walking home again with Aunt Seréna, as calmly and serenely as if he were not in the least concerned. How was it possible – how could it be possible, that he only now perceived this? He might not, perhaps, have accomplished anything; but that was not the question. Was it not his dearest friend who was concerned; and had he not, like a coward, left him alone? Was not that friend now sitting among thieves in a musty pen, enduring the insolence of policemen, while he himself was here in Aunt Seréna's fine house, calmly drinking his coffee?
That must not be. He felt very sure of it, now. And since Johannes, as I have already remarked, was never afraid to do a thing if he was only first sure about it, not only the cake and cheese, but even the rolls and coffee, remained untouched. He suddenly stood up and said:
"Aunt Seréna!"
"What is it, my boy?"
"I want to go!"
Aunt Seréna threw back her head, that she might give him a good look through her spectacles. Her face took on a very grieved expression.
At last, after a long pause, she asked, in her gentle voice, "What do you mean?"
"I want to go away. I cannot stand it. I want to be with my friend."
"Do you think he will take better care of you than I do, Johannes?"
"I do not believe that, Aunt Seréna, but he is being treated unfairly. He is in the right."
"I will not take it upon myself…" said Aunt Seréna, hesitating, "to say that he is wrong. I am not clever enough for that. I am only an old woman, and have not studied much, although I have thought and experienced a great deal. I will readily admit that perhaps I was at fault without knowing it. I did my best, to the best of my belief. But how many there are, better than I am, Johannes, who think your friend in the wrong!"
"Are they also better than he is?" asked Johannes.
"Who can say? How long have you known this friend – and whom of the people have you known besides? But although your friend were right, how would it help me, and what would it matter to me? Must I, in my sixty-fourth year, give away all that I have, and go out house-cleaning? Do you mean that I ought to do that, Johannes?"
Johannes was perplexed. "I do not say that, dear Aunt Seréna."
"But, what do you say, then? And what do you want of me?"
Johannes was silent.
"You see, Johannes…" continued Aunt Seréna, with a break in her voice – not looking at him now, but staring hard at her coffee-tray – "I never have had any children, and all the people whom I have been very fond of are either dead or gone away. My friends do, indeed, show me much cordiality. On my birthday I had forty-four calls, two hundred and eleven cards and notes, and about fifty presents; but that, however, is not for me true life. The life of the old is so barren if no young are growing near. I have not complained about it, and have submitted to God's will. But since … for a few months … you … I thought it a blessing – a dispensation from God…"
Aunt Seréna's voice grew so broken and hoarse that she stopped speaking, and began to rummage in her work-basket.
Johannes felt very tenderly toward her, but it seemed to him as if, in two seconds, he had become much older and wiser; yes, as if he had even grown, visibly, and was taller than a moment before. Never yet had he spoken with such dignity.
"My dear Aunt, I really am not ungrateful. I think you are good. More than almost any other you have been kind to me. But yet I must go. My conscience tells me so. I would be willing to stay, you see; but still I am going because it is best. If you say, 'You must not,' then I cannot help it; I think, though, that I will quietly run away. I am truly sorry to cause you sadness, but you will soon hear of an – another boy, or a girl, who will make you happier. I must find my friend – my conscience tells me so. Are you going to say, Aunt Seréna, that I must not?"
Aunt Seréna had taken out her worsted work, and appeared to be comparing colors. Then, very slowly, she replied:
"No, I shall not say that, my dear boy; at least, if you have thought it all over well."
"I have, Aunt Seréna," said Johannes.
Being deeply anxious, he wished to go instantly to learn where Markus had been taken. After that he would return to "Vrede-best."
He mounted the stone steps of the police station with dread and distaste. The officers, who were sitting outside on chairs, received him, according to their wont, with scant courtesy. The chief eyed Johannes, after the latter's bashful inquiry, with a scornful expression, which seemed to say: "What business is it of yours, and where have I seen you before?"
Johannes learned, however, that "the prisoner" had been set free. What use he had made of his freedom Johannes must find out for himself.
As he could give no other reason for his interest in the prisoner than that he was his friend, and as this reason was not enough to exalt him in the esteem of police authority, none of the functionaries felt called upon to put him on the track. They supposed that the scissors-grinder had very likely gone back to the Fair. That was all the help they gave.
Johannes returned to his aunt's baffled and in dismay. There, happily, he found relief; for the good aunt had already discovered that Markus had been led out of the town, and that, with his cart, he had taken the road to Utrecht. Already, lying in plain sight, he saw a large, old-fashioned satchel of hairy leather (a sort of bag which could be hung about one), full of neatly packed sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. And in the inside of a waistcoat Aunt Seréna had sewed a small pocket. Within that pocket was a purse containing five little gold-pieces.
"I do not give you more, Johannes, for by the time this is gone you will surely know if you really wish to stay away for good or to come back again. Do not be ashamed to return. I will not say anything to you about it."
"I will be honest, and give it back to you when I have earned it," said Johannes. He spoke in sober earnest; but he had, no more than had his aunt, any clear expectation that it would be possible.
Johannes took just a run into the garden to say good-by to his favorite places – his paths and his flowers. Swiftly and shyly, so as not to be seen, he ran past the kitchen where Daatje, loudly singing hymns the while, stood chopping spinach. After that, he embraced Aunt Seréna in the vestibule for the first and for the last time. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" came insultingly and triumphantly from the little trap-door, as the clock struck two. Then the stately green front door closed between him and Aunt Seréna.
That was a painful moment; yet there quickly followed in Johannes' heart a delightful glow – a feeling of freedom such as he had never yet known. He almost felt himself a man. He had extricated himself from soft and perilous ways; he was going out into the wide world; he would find his beloved brother again; he had a bagful of rolls, and in his waistcoat were five gold-pieces. These last were only lent to him; he would earn as much, and give them back again.
It was a still, humid, August day, and Johannes, full of gladness, saw his beautiful native land lying in white light under a canopy of delicate grey. He saw thickly wooded dikes, black and white cattle, and brown boats in water without a ripple. He walked briskly, inquiring everywhere for Markus the scissors-grinder. In front of an inn, not far from the city, sat three little gentlemen. They were apparently government or post-office clerks, who had taken their midday stroll and their glass of bitters.
Johannes asked information of the waiter who brought drinks, but received no answer.
One of the little dandies, who had heard his question, said to his companions:
"Jerusalem! but did you chaps hear that kicker? The fellow went into the new church yesterday morning, and talked back at the dominie."
"What fellow?" asked the others.
"Good Lord! Don't you know him? That half-luny fellow with the black curly-pate? He does that now and then."
"Gee! That's rich. And what did the dominie say?"
"Well, he found it no joke, for the fellow knew all about it – as darned well as he did himself. But the gypsy had his trouble for his pains; for that time the dominie wouldn't have anything to do with such a dirty competitor!"
And the three friends laughed at the top of their voices.
"How did it end?"
"He had him walked clean out of the church, by the sexton and two cops."
"That's confounded silly. 'Twould have been better to see who could crow the loudest. It's the loudest cock that wins."
"The idea! You'd have me believe you mean it? Suppose they gave the prize to the wrong fellow?"
"Whether you are cheated by a fool of a preacher, or by a scissors-grinder, what's the difference?"
Johannes reflected a moment and wondered if it would not be commendable to do what he ached to do – fly at these people and rain blows upon their heads. But he controlled himself and passed on, convinced that in doing so he was escaping some hard work.
For five hours he walked on without being much the wiser for his inquiries. Some people thought they had seen Markus; others knew positively nothing about him.
Johannes began to fear he had passed him; for by this time he ought to have overtaken him.
It began to grow dark, and before him lay a wide river which he must cross by means of a ferry-boat. On the farther side were hills covered with an underwood of oak, and tall, purple-flowered heather.
The ferryman was positive that he had not that day taken over a scissors-grinder; but in yonder town, an hour's distance from the river, a Fair was to begin in the morning. Very likely Markus also would be there.
Johannes sat down by the roadside in the midst of the dark broom, with its millions of small purple flowers. The setting sun cast a glorious coloring over land and mist, and over the lustrous, flowing water. He was tired but not depressed, and he ate his bread contentedly, certain that he should find Markus. The road had become quiet and lonely. It was fun to be so free – so alone and independent – at home in the open country. Rather than anywhere else he should like to sleep out-of-doors – in the underwood.
But just as he was about to lay himself down, he saw the figure of a man with his hands in his pockets, and his cap pushed back. Johannes sat up, and waited until he came closer. Then he recognized him.
"Good evening, Director!" said Johannes.
"Good evening to you, my friend!" returned the other. "What are you doing here? Are you lost?"
"No; I am looking for friends. Is Markus with you?"
The man was the director of a Flea-Theatre; a little fellow, with a husky voice, and eyes inflamed by his fine work.
"Markus? I'm not sure. But come along – there's no knowing but he might be there."
"Are you looking for new apprentices?" asked Johannes.
"Do you happen to have any? They're worth a pretty penny, you know!"
They walked together to the camp of gypsy wagons, near the town. Johannes found there all the old acquaintances. There was the fat lady, who could rest a plate upon her bosom and thus eat out of it. Now, however, she was eating simply from a box, like the others, because there were no spectators. There were the mother and daughter who represented the living mermaid, taking turns because one could not hold out very long. There was the exhibitor of the collection of curiosities – a poor, humpbacked knave whose entire possessions consisted of a stuffed alligator, a walrus-tooth, and a seven-months baby preserved in alcohol. There were the two wild men, who, growling horribly, could eat grass and live rabbits, and who might come out of the wagon only at night, when the street boys were away; but who, far from savage now, were sitting in the light of a flickering lantern, "shaving" one another with exceedingly dirty cards.
The flea-tamer brought Johannes at last to Marjon's wagon.
"Bless me!" cried Lorum, who seemed to be in a good humor as he sat by the road smoking his pipe. "Here is our runaway young gentleman again! Now the girls will be glad!"
From behind the wagon came the soft tones of a voice, singing to a zither accompaniment. Johannes could hear the song distinctly, in the dreamlike stillness of the hour. It was sung in a whining, melancholy, street-organ style, but with unusual emotion:
"They have broken my heart —
Ah, the tears I have shed!
They have torn us apart —
His dear voice is now dead.
Alas! Alas!
How could you forsake me?
Alas! Alas!
How you have deceived me!"
It was a ditty that Johannes thought he had often heard the nurse-maids sing. But, because he recognized that dear voice, and perhaps even because he was worried over the applicability to himself, he was greatly touched by it.
"Hey, there!" cried Lorum to one behind him. "The kid has come back! Stop your squalling!"
Then Marjon appeared from behind the wagon, and ran up to Johannes. Also, the door of the wagon flew back, and Johannes saw Marjon's sister standing in the bright opening. Her fat arms were bare, and she was in her night-gown.
