Frederik van Eeden
The Quest
III
The walls of the little house were much thicker than those of the houses of Dutch laborers. The small sashes, curtained with white muslin, lay deep in the window-openings, and upon each broad sill stood a flowering plant and a begonia.
When Johannes and Marjon looked in through the window, Markus was sitting at the table. The housewife stood beside him, sleeves tucked up, carrying on her left arm a half-sleeping child, while with her right hand she was putting food upon his plate. A somewhat older child stood by his knee watching the steaming: food.
The mother's cheeks were pale and sunken, from sorrow, and her eyes were still full of tears.
"Nothing will come of it, after all," she said with a sigh. "If only he had been wiser! Those miserable roysterers have talked him into it. That's what comes of those meetings. If only he had stayed at home! The husband belongs at home.
"Do not be afraid, mother," said Markus. "He did what he sincerely thought was right. Who does that can always be at peace."
"Although he should starve?" asked the wife, bitterly.
"Yes, although he should starve. It is better to starve with a good conscience, than to live in comfort by fraud."
This silenced the woman for a time. Then she said, "If it were not for the children…" and the tears flowed faster.
"It is exactly on account of the children, mother. If the children are good, they will thank the father who is struggling for their sakes, even though he struggle in vain. And there is something for them still, else you would not have been able to give to me – the stranger."
Markus looked at her smilingly, and she smiled in return.
"You – you should have our last mouthful!" said she, heartily. Then, glancing toward the window, she added: "Who are those young scamps looking in? And a monkey with them!"
Then Markus turned around. As soon as the two standing outside recognized his face, they shouted "Hurrah!" and rushed in without knocking.
Marjon flew to Markus, threw her arms about his neck, and kissed him. Johannes, rather more shy, clung to his hand. Keesje, being distrustful of the children, peered around the place with careful scrutiny.
Then there followed in Dutch a brisk, confused interchange of information. All the adventures had to be narrated, and Marjon was very happy and communicative. The mother kept still, looking on with a discontented air, full of her own troubles. The noise awakened the half-slumbering child, and it began to cry.
Then the husband came home, morose and irritable.
"What confounded business is this?" he cried; and the two were silent, slowly comprehending that they were in a dwelling full of care. Johannes looked earnestly at the weary, care-seamed face of the man, and the pale, anxious features of the mother, wondering if there was any news.
"Hollanders?" asked the miner, seating himself at the table, and holding up a plate.
"Yes, friends of Markus," replied the wife. Then, in assumed calmness, she asked: "Is there any news?"
"We have the best of it!" said the husband, with forced cheerfulness. "We win – we surely win. It can't be otherwise. What have you to say about it, Markus?"
But Markus was silent, and gazing out-of-doors. Swearing because the food was not to his taste, the man then began to eat. Marjon's merriment subsided. The wife shook her head sadly, and kissed her child.
"You need to look out, you young rascals," said the man, all at once. "They are searching for you. Have you been pilfering? Which of you is the girl in disguise?"
"Iam!" said Marjon. "What do they want of me? Now what if I have no other duds?"
"Are you a girl?" asked the wife. "Shame on you!"
"Has not Vrouw Huber a spare garment for her?" asked Markus. "She has so many daughters!"
"We may need to pawn them all," replied the wife. But Johannes, with a manly bearing, cried: "We can pay for them. I have some money!"
"O-o-oh!" said the others doubtfully, while Markus simply smiled. Thus Marjon was soon back again in her girl's apparel – an ugly red-checked little frock. Keesje alone was satisfied with the change.
"Have you been singing much?" asked Markus.
"Yes, we sing every day," said Marjon, "and Johannes has made some nice new songs."
"That is good," said Markus. Then, turning to husband and wife: "May they sing here a little?"
"Sing! A pretty time for singing!" said the wife, scornfully.
"Why not?" asked the husband. "A nice song is never out of place."
"You are right," said Markus. "It is not well to hear nothing but sighs."
Marjon softly tuned her guitar; and while the husband sat beside the brick stove, smoking his pipe, and the wife laid her little one in bed, the two children began to sing a song – the last of those they had made together. It was a melancholy little song, as were all those they had sung during the last weeks. These were the words:
"If I should say what makes me sad,
My effort would be all in vain;
But nightingales and roses glad
They whisper it in sweet refrain.
"The evening zephyr softly sighs
In strains one clearly understands;
I see it traced high o'er the skies
In writing made by mystic hands.
"I know a land where every grief
Is changed into a mellow song;
Where roses heal with blushing lips
All wounds and every aching wrong.
"That land, though not so far away,
I may not, cannot enter there;
It is not here where now I stay
And no one saves me from despair."
"Is that Dutch, now?" asked the miner. "I can't understand a bit of it? Can you, wife?"
Weeping, the wife shook her head.
"Then what are you snivelling for, if you don't understand?"
"I don't understand it at all; but it makes me cry, and that does me good," said the wife.
"All right, then! If it does you good we'll have it once more." And the children sang it over again.
When they went away, they left the family in a more peaceful mood.
Markus took his place in the middle, between the two children, Keesje sitting upon his shoulder, with one little hand resting confidingly on his cap, attentively studying the thick, dark hair at his temples.
"Markus!" said Johannes. "I do not understand it. Really, what has my grief to do with theirs? And yet, it did seem as if they were crying over my verses. But my little griefs are of so little account, while they are anxious about things so much more important."
"I understand, perfectly," said Marjon. "Awhile ago, they might beat me as hard as they pleased, and I wouldn't utter a sound. But once, when they had given me a hard whipping, I saw a forlorn little kitten that looked quite as unhappy as I was, and then I began to cry with all my might, and it made me feel better."
"Then you think, children, that all sorrow suffered is one single sorrow? But so is all happiness one happiness. The Father suffers with everything, and whoever comforts a poor little kitten, comforts the Father."
These sayings made things more plain to Johannes, and gave him much to ponder over. He forgot everything else, until they were again in their lodgings – two little rooms in an old, unoccupied mill. Here they were given some bed-clothes, by a girl from a near-by lodging-house. Marjon now slept apart, while Johannes and Markus stayed together, in one room.
The next morning, while they were drinking coffee in the dark little bar-room of the lodging-house, Johannes felt he must speak of what lay on his heart. He brought out the fragrant, violet-colored note, also the one adorned with the crown and the blue sealing-wax; but in his diffidence even his hope of an understanding with Markus drooped again.
"I smell it already!" cried Marjon. "That's the hair-dresser scent of that fop, with his tufted top-piece."
That angered Johannes. "Don't you wish you could make such poems as that 'fop' can?"
And, nettled by this disrespect of his new friend, he sprang to his feet, and began excitedly repeating the verses. He had his trouble for his pains. Markus listened with unmoved countenance, and Marjon, somewhat taken aback, looked at Markus. But the latter said not a word.
"I'll tell you what," she exclaimed at last, "I don't believe a bit of it! Not a darn bit."
"Then I'll tell you," retorted Johannes, sharply, "that you are too rude and coarse to understand things that are elevated."
"Maybe I am," said Marjon in her coolest, most indifferent manner.
Then Johannes spoke to Markus alone, hoping for an understanding from him. What he said came out passionately, as if it had long been repressed, and his voice trembled with ready tears.
"I have thought for a long, long time, Markus, that there was no use in trying. I cannot bear anything rude and rough, and everything I have yet seen in people is rude and rough – neither good nor beautiful. It cannot be that the Father meant it to be so. And now that I have found something fine, and exquisite, and noble, ought I not to follow it? I had not thought that there were anywhere such beautiful human beings. Markus, they are the most beautiful of all I have ever seen. Their hair is like gold, Markus. Not even the elves have more beautiful hair. And their little feet are so slim, and their throats so slender! I cannot help thinking of them all the time – of the pretty, proud way they raise their heads, of their sensitive lips, of the beautiful, upturned curves at the corners of their mouths, and of the music in their voices when they ask me anything. They danced together to the music, hand in hand, and then their nice smooth stockings peeped out, together, from under their little velvet dresses. It made me dizzy. One of them has blue eyes, and fuller, redder lips. She is the gentler and more innocent. The other has greyer, more mischievous eyes, and a smaller mouth. She is more knowing and roguish. She is the fairer, and she has little fine freckles just under her eyes. And you ought to see them when they run up to their mother, one on each side, when all their hair tumbles down over her, in two shades of gold – brown gold and light gold – that ripples together like a flowing river! And I saw the diamonds in their mother's neck, sparkling through it all! You ought to hear them speak English – so smoothly and purely. But they speak Dutch, too, and I would much rather hear that. One of them – the innocent one – lisps a little. She has the darkest hair, with the most beautiful waves in it. But I could talk more easily with the other one. She is more intelligent. And the mother, also, is so attractive in every way. Everything she says is fine and noble, and every movement is charming. You have a feeling that she stands far, far above you, and yet she acts in everything as if she were the least of all. Isn't that lovely, Markus? Is it not the way it should be?"
Markus made no reply, but looked straight at him, very seriously, and with a puzzling expression. It was kind, but wholly incomprehensible to Johannes.
In his excitement Johannes kept on: "I have just come into a consciousness now of something in the world of people, of which I knew nothing whatever before. My friend Walter, the one who made that poem, lives in that world. She – " pointing to Marjon – "has no idea of it. That is not her fault. I had no idea of it before. But I am not surly, like her; I do not scoff at it just because I do not belong there yet. It is a world of beauty and refinement – a sublime world of poetry and art. Walter wishes to lead me into it, and I think it silly in her now to jeer about it. Do you not think it silly, Markus?"
Markus' eyes remained as serious and puzzling as ever, and his mouth uttered not a word. Johannes looked first at one, then at the other, for an answer to his question.
At last Markus said: "What does Marjon say?"
Marjon, who had been leaning forward as she sat, lifted up her head. She no longer looked indifferent. Her cheeks were glowing, and her eyes, with their dry, red rims, seemed to be afire. She stared with the fixed, glittering look of one in a fever, and said:
"What do I say? I have nothing to say. He thinks me too rude and rough. Possibly I am. I swear sometimes, and Keesje smells. I can't endure those people, and they don't want anything to do with me – certainly not with Kees. As Jo has need of finer companionship now, he must choose for himself."
"No, Marjon, you do not understand me; or do you not wish to understand?" said Johannes, sadly. "It is not because I have need of it, but because it is good. It is good to enter a finer life – into a more elevated world. Is it not so, Markus? You understand me, do you not?"
"I understand," said Markus.
"Tell her, then, that she must come too – that it would be better so."
"I don't think it would be better," said Marjon, "and I'm certainly not going with you."
"Tell us, then, Markus, while we have you with us – tell us what we ought to do. We will do as you say."
"I don't know yet whether I will or not," said Marjon.
Then Markus smiled, and nodding toward Marjon, he said: "Look! She knows already we must not promise obedience to any one. Let him who promises obedience promise it to the Father."
"But you are so much wiser than we are, Markus."
"Is it enough that I am wiser, Johannes? Do you not wish to become wiser yourself? Because I can run better, ought you to let me carry you? How will you ever learn to run, yourself?"
Marjon stared at him fixedly, with her flashing, flaming eyes, while two red spots burned upon her pale cheeks. She stepped up to Markus and pressed her hand upon his mouth, exclaiming passionately:
"Do not say it! I know what you are going to say. Don't say it; for then he will do it, and he must not! he must not!"
Then she hid her face on Markus' arm. Markus laid his hand upon her head and spoke to her tenderly:
"Are you not willing, then, to grant him what you yourself demand – that he should be doing what he himself, not some one else, thinks right?"
Marjon looked up. Her eyes were tearless. Johannes listened quietly, and Markus continued:
"There are frightful events, children, but most of them are not so bad as they seem to be. The fear of them, only, is bad. But the only events that you should dread come through not doing what you yourself think right —yourself, children – yourself alone, with the Father. The Father speaks to us also through men, and through their wise words. But they are indirect vehicles; we have Him within ourselves – directly – just as you, Marjon, are now resting upon my bosom. He wills it to be so, and there we must seek him – more and more.
"Now there is a great deal of self-deception. Self is a long while blind and deaf, and we often mistake the Devil's voice for the voice of God, and take the Enemy to be the Father. But whoever is too fearful of straying never leaves his place, and fails to find the right way. A swimmer who dares not release his hold upon another – will drown when in peril. Dare then, children, to release your hold upon others – all – all – to follow the Father's voice as it speaks within yourselves. Let all who will, call evil what seems to yourselves good. Do this, and the Father will not be ashamed of you."
"But understand me well; close your ears to no one, for the truth comes from all sides, and God speaks everywhere. Ask the opinion of others, but ask no one else to judge for you."
They were all silent for awhile. At last Marjon stood up, slowly, with averted face, and flinging back her short, ash-blonde hair from her forehead, she stepped up to Keesje, who, fastened to a chain, sat shelling nuts. She loosened his chain, and said gently and affectionately: "Coming with me, Kees? I know very well what is going to happen now." Then she had him leap to her shoulder, and, without once looking round, she went out into the street.
"Do you also know, Johannes?" asked Markus.
"Yes!" said Johannes, resolutely, "I am going!"
IV
And so Little Johannes took leave again of his Guide and of his friend, and went forth to seek a finer and a nobler sphere of life.
He did not do this now in a heedless way, as when first he left his father, and, afterward, Windekind; nor partly by compulsion, as when he chose Vrede-best rather than the gypsy-wagon.
He was acting now quite voluntarily, according to his own ideas – not recklessly, but in harmony with his convictions. Ought we not to admit that he was making good progress? Indeed, he thought so himself.
How well he recollected his first talk with Markus, during the storm, about remembering and forgetting! What he was now doing, however, did not seem to him disloyal. True, he was turning away from friends, but he was following that which he took to be the mind of his dearest friend, even as Markus had taught him.
He was resolved to combat the sorrows of humanity. But first of all, he most become a good man himself, and he agreed with Van Lieverlee that it was the proper thing for a good man to be also a clever one, and to live a fine life.
Hitherto, there had been too little of that which was beautiful around him. With regard to his face, he had a vague idea that it was plain. But that he could not very well help. All the more, it behooved him to have a care for his clothes. Every flower and every bird presented a more comely appearance than did he. His cap and jacket were formless, ragged, and rain-spotted. His shoes were worn and out of shape. And while so attired, the thought of becoming the guest of a countess, and of appearing beside Van Lieverlee, was not a little distressing.
Happily, he now possessed a little money – not much, to be sure, for he had his traveling expenses to meet, but yet he could spare a little for a few purchases. And that was a serious question for Johannes, involving much thought – how he could array himself the most finely, at the least cost.
He first bought a white, starched "dicky," and with it a ready-made tie – black – not venturing, when he thought of Van Lieverlee's gorgeous cravats, to select a colored one. Then for his dicky he selected studs with little green stones in them. They looked like emeralds, but they were only green glass. The studs were not a necessity, for the dicky fastened at the back. But their modest twinkling simply attested his toleration of outward adornment. He bought also a stiff, round hat, a cloak, and a pair of new shoes. That the shoes pinched and pained him was a small matter. He was pleased at the odor of new leather which they spread around, and liked their loud squeaking still better.
They did not squeak at first, to his distinct disappointment; but after an hour or two – there it was! They began to creak and squeak, as if proclaiming to everybody that from this day forward he became part of the higher life, and one of the finer sort of human beings.
Finally – a pair of kid gloves! But these he dared not put on after he had them. As little did he dare leave them off, for they had cost a good deal, and the money must not be thrown away. So he settled the question by wearing one and carrying the other. He seemed, indeed, to remember that this was the mode.
And a traveling-bag now seemed to him the ideal – the acme – of dignity. But he had nothing to put into it. To buy more for the mere sake of filling it was not to be thought of, and to carry it for the mere sake of appearances ran counter to his ideas of sincerity and honesty. Aunt Seréna's old satchel he left behind with Marjon.
The leave-taking was not hard for him. No, indeed! He was too full of the new life which awaited him. Never had he felt more fully convinced that he was taking the right path – that he was going to do the right thing.
Markus had said that we must seek for happiness and prosperity, as well as for goodness. Johannes felt happier than he ever had felt since leaving Windekind. Did not that prove that he was in the right way?
And what was the Father's voice of which Markus had spoken, if not this inner joy? It was not, however, the audible, usual voice, sounding in Dutch, or some other tongue. The Bible, indeed, said so; but that was not now the way. Surely, then, it must be this feeling of joy and of glad anticipation that he now experienced.
Does it not seem to you that Johannes had advanced? I do not believe that you would have reasoned better than he did. And if you were not taken in as he was, it would have been more from good luck than from wisdom.
At first Van Lieverlee had promised to accompany him; but at the last moment, without giving a reason, he wrote to recall his promise, and let Johannes go alone.
In the corner of a third-class railway coach, among a strange people, he sped through a foreign country. He was at rest and contented, because he was going to the two children. It was as great a pleasure to him as if he had been traveling to the home of his parents. Where those dear, beautiful little beings were, there was his home. He looked at the foreigners with interest. They seemed less coarse and clownish, less ugly and unmannerly, than his own people. They were much more merry and agreeable, also more obliging to one another. Johannes was on the alert for an occasion to do the polite thing. However, as he did not speak the language very fluently, he sat in his corner wrapped in his cloak, listening quietly, and in a friendly mood, to the scraps of conversation that came to him. This was carried on in the rattling, jolting car, with loud laughter and vehement gesticulations.
At night he slept once more on the leather-covered benches of a boat. This time it was not on the smooth Rhine, but on the mighty, swelling ocean. All around him were people to whom he had nothing to say. Only, his neighbor on the leather bench requested him not to kick his head. Then he made himself as small as possible, and lay farther away, and quite still.
About midnight he took a peep around the cabin, hardly knowing whether or not he had been asleep.
The people lay at rest. Most of them appeared to be asleep – some making queer noises. The light was dim, and, in the semi-darkness, the lamps swung mysteriously to and fro, and the plants that stood upon the table were all of them quivering. One could hear, above the soft jingling and creaking everywhere, the quaking and dull throbbing of the engines. Outside, the water was hissing and rushing, and dashing along the sides of the vessel.
Beside the table sat a lone passenger – a tall, dark figure. He was motionless, his head resting upon his hand.
Johannes gave him a good look. He seemed to have on an amazingly big, spacious cloak, full of folds; on his head was a broad-brimmed hat. The one hand which Johannes could distinguish looked very thin and white.
How familiar the man looked, though! Johannes expected immediately to hear the sound of a well-known voice. He thought of Markus, then of his father…
Suddenly, the emaciated hand was removed, and the face turned slowly round toward Johannes. Only the white beard came into view. The rest remained in the shadow of the hat. Then Johannes recognized him.
"Friend Hein!" said he. And he was much more at his ease than the first time he had seen him – in fact, not at all afraid.
"How do you do?" said Death, nodding. How very kind he looked, and how much more human! Not a bundle of bones with a scythe! He looked instead more like a kind, old – very, very old, uncle.
"What are you doing here?" asked Johannes.
"Things!" replied Death, drily.
"Are we going to be shipwrecked?"
Johannes had come to this conclusion without any special alarm. It even seemed to him just now that a shipwreck would be a rather interesting incident.
"No, no!" said Death. "Would you really like that?"
"I would not want it, but neither would I be afraid of it."
"The last time we met, Johannes, you asked me to take you with me."
"I would not ask you that now," said Johannes; "life is too pleasant now."
"Then you are not afraid of me this time, Johannes?"
"No; for now you look so much more friendly."
"And I am friendly, Johannes. The more you try your best to live a fine life, the more friendly I become."
"But what do you mean, friend Hein? I should think the finer life became, the harder it would be to leave it."
"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.
They lived in a country-seat which to Johannes seemed a small palace. It was built of red brick and grey limestone, and stood on the summit of a hill, close by the shore. In the garden were dark cedar-trees and holm-oaks, and large plots of rhododendrons. The grass was short and even – quite like green velvet; and through it led neat, trim paths of yellow gravel.
The day was far from being so pleasant as Johannes had expected. In fact, it was very unpleasant. To be waited upon by a lackey, as one conies without a trunk, from a third-class carriage, is far from funny. Johannes had not heretofore had such a trying experience.
Indoors, it was very still and stately. The children were at their lessons, and for the first hour were invisible. Johannes received an unfavorable impression of fashionable life. He wished that he had not come. His hopefulness and confidence suddenly took flight. He tripped over a rug of white bearskin, and ran against a glass door, thinking it was open – just as if he were a bumblebee behind a window-pane. He wondered which was the quickest way out, and wished he were with Markus again, in the small tavern. He was not very far from crying.
On a couch in the quiet reception-room, beside a softly crackling coal fire, sat the countess. Johannes strode up to her, and made an awkward bow. A number of dogs, as many as seven, snapped and yapped about his shin-bones. He thought of his dicky and the green glass studs, and felt that they could be making next to no impression. The countess looked as if she did not quite remember who he was, nor what could have been his object in coming.
"Sit down," she said, in English, with a formal smile, and a weary tone of voice; "I hope you have had a pleasant journey."
Johannes took a seat and, as he did so, observed that some one else was in the room. He tried again to bow, but his attempt was unnoticed.
That other indeed was a most impressive personage. She lay back in an armchair, so enswathed in white lace, swan's down, gauze, and tulle as to look still larger than she really was. Upon her head was a huge hat, bearing natural-sized plums and peaches, artificial blue flowers – forget-me-nots and corn-flowers – besides a blue gauze veil. Her face was amazingly big, and highly colored by nature, but toned down with powder to a rosy flush. It was somewhat pimply, and more or less moustached. Her fat, red, shiny hands were rigid with jeweled rings; and, although it was not at all warm, she waved incessantly a large fan of white ostrich-feathers, in the midst of which glittered purple and green precious stones. Most wonderful bangles of gold and silver – little pigs, crosses, hearts, and coins – hung in a great bunch upon her bosom, from a long, many-stranded necklace. A slender crutch with a gold handle stood beside her chair, and on the table at hand, a small green parrot was eating grapes. The seven little dogs – all of them white, with pale-blue ribbons around their necks – probably belonged to her. They sat in a threatening circle, as if awaiting the word, and sharply eyed Johannes' ankles.
"What does that boy want?" she asked, in a deep, heavy voice, without even looking at Johannes. And before and answer could come, she called, "Alice!"
Instantly, there appeared from behind a curtain, just as in a comedy, a trim, spruce lady's-maid. She was dressed in black, with cap and cuffs of dazzling whiteness. With quiet little steps and mincing manners, she glided up to the large lady, and offered a smelling-bottle, at which that person began to sniff industriously.
Johannes sat there in extreme embarrassment. He felt that the costly cut-glass smelling-bottle concerned himself. It cried out, in the keen language of its hundreds of cut facets, "You smell of the third class!"
