Frederik van Eeden
The Quest
"Yes, a genuine shock," declared the Honorable Lady, in an excited tone.
"Be calm," commanded the General.
The table began turning and tilting, and now the questions were plied. The first spirit to put in an appearance gave general advice about reading the Bible, and about faithful attendance at church. This advice seemed to make a deep impression on the circle. Asked his name, the spirit replied, "Moses." This gave Professor Bommeldoos the opportunity to inquire if Moses himself had written the Pentateuch. "Yes": was the reply. But when the Professor queried him in Hebrew, Moses said that the medium needed a brief rest; and after that rest he left it to some one else to make reply. In succession followed Homer and Cicero, who both lamented that they had not known the true faith; and after them Napoleon, who evinced great sorrow for the amount of blood he had caused to be shed. One could see that this gave the General food for reflection.
But, save that all these people urged, in the main, the practice of purity and piety, it was unanimously demonstrated that Johannes and the countess were the ones from whose co-operation the greatest results were to be expected. They would have to study up these matters, and apply themselves to automatic writing.
Then Johannes had to sit beside the countess and hold her hand, and thus, together, write down the communications of the spirits. This was a bitter-sweet experience for Johannes. Would Markus come now?
But Markus did not come, nor any news of poor Heléne, nor of her father.
Yet a spirit disclosed itself who treated this ideal society in a very impolite, bearish manner. He called himself Thomas, and would not reply when Bommeldoos asked him if he was Thomas the Apostle, or Thomas Aquinas, or Thomas à Kempis, or Thomas Morus.
"Do you know us?" asked the Privy Counselor.
"Yes, you are heathen and malefactors."
"Will you help us?"
"Confess, pray, and do penance," said Thomas.
"Will you tell us something of the hereafter?" asked Countess Dolores, paling somewhat.
"Hell, if you go on this way," said Thomas.
"Then what must I do?" asked Dolores, almost trembling.
"Be converted," was the reply.
"That is all well and good," said Bommeldoos, "but I know at least twelve religions, and twice as many systems of philosophy. To which of them must we be converted?"
"Be still, you heretic," was the parting shot.
Such treatment as that was a bit too much for the learned Professor, and he declared he had had enough of it, and could better employ his time.
The society was of one mind – that the manifestations this evening had not been propitious. The medium ascribed this to her own indisposition. She had suffered the entire day with a headache, and, moreover, there were – she was certain of it – unfavorable influences present. Saying this, she cast a reproachful glance at the Professor.
"Oh, it was much more lively the last time," said the Honorable Lady. "Was it not truly extraordinary, General?"
"Phenomena cannot be forced," replied the General. "One has to practise patience. We would better stop, for the present."
So the session ended, and after the medium, with many obsequious airs, had taken her leave, they partook of a delicious supper.
Johannes retained his place beside the hostess, and the remembrance of the soft, warm hand that he had been able to hold in his own for so long a time made him very happy. He was not disappointed. Oh, no, he was elated – his excellent friend was so nice, so good, and so kind to him.
A new Dutch waitress in black and wearing a snow-white cap with long strings was in attendance. Johannes paid no attention to her, but noticed that Van Lieverlee looked at her repeatedly.
"Did you not think it a remarkable evening?" asked the countess, after the guests were gone and they were alone together.
"I thought it splendid," replied Johannes, with sincerity.
"They called it a failure," said the countess, "but it impressed me quite otherwise. I feel greatly moved."
"I too," said Johannes.
"Do you? That makes me happy. So you, also, feel that we need to be converted?"
"I do not think that," said Johannes, "but you have been so good to me."
Countess Dolores made no reply, but she smiled and pressed his hand kindly. Johannes retained her hand, while he looked into her eyes with passionate devotion.
The waitress had been standing at the buffet, placing silver in the drawer. At this moment she turned round, and when Johannes in some confusion looked at her to see if she had paid any attention to his all-too-tender airs and words, he suddenly found himself gazing into a pair of well-known, light-grey eyes.
They were Marjon's eyes, and they wore a look of unutterable anguish and sorrow.
It seemed to Johannes as if his heart had stopped beating. He sat like one paralyzed, until his friend's hand slipped from his clasp. He appeared to wish to rise – to say something…
But Marjon put her finger to her lips, and went quietly on with her work.
IX
Among the visitors at Villa Dolores was a Roman prelate – a friend of Dolores' deceased husband. He was heavy of build and always cheerful, and never talked on religious subjects. Sometimes he came sociably, as a table guest, and besides a fund of anecdotes he also had much to say that was instructive, to which Johannes listened eagerly.
He was a far more amiable person than Dominie Kraalboom, and Johannes liked him much better. He understood all about flowers and animals, about poetry, paintings, and music; and of special interest were his observations on beautiful Italy and holy Rome, where he had traveled and studied.
Of course he did not belong to the Pleiades; and if by rare exception the circle was referred to in his presence, he, being both cautious and courteous, remained silent.
Yet, after that first meeting of which I have told you in the preceding chapter, Johannes observed that he came oftener than before, and also at unconventional hours; and when Johannes came into the room he noticed that the conversation between the countess and the priest was suddenly broken off. He saw, also, that his hostess had more color in her cheeks, as if she had been speaking of weighty matters.
"Your Mahatma does not come," said Dolores once, when, after such a time as this, the priest had just taken his leave. "He has turned his back upon us."
"Yes, Mevrouw," Johannes was forced to admit.
"I think myself very fortunate in having found a wise man who can help me."
"Do you mean Father Canisius?"
"Yes. Do you know what he says? That we are on a dangerous road in the pursuit of our object. It is all the work of the devil, he declares. And everything he says agrees with what we heard that evening. Would you not like to have a chat with him?"
But Johannes hesitated. He had not yet spoken to Marjon, and was hoping to hear from her something concerning his brother.
Marjon evaded him, and he had not found an opportunity to meet her alone. Every morning he went to his room with a beating heart, hoping to find her there busied in putting it to rights; but generally it was already in order, and he found merely the traces of her care: his clothing brushed and folded, his linen looked over and nicely placed in the linen-press, and fresh flowers in the little vase on his table. He observed everything, and was deeply touched by it.
But she seemed careful to be always in company with the other servants, and to bear herself as stiffly and coldly as the most pert, demure, and well-trained chambermaid possibly could. Not a word nor a look nor a sign betrayed her acquaintance with Johannes; and he often heard the countess declare to her visitors that she had never before found so quickly a good Dutch servant.
Neither had Van Lieverlee recognized her, but was simply struck with her peculiar, somewhat alien manner, which led him to ask the lady of the house if she knew the origin of the girl.
"No," said the countess; "she was recommended to me by an old friend, and apparently she deserves all that was said of her."
But Johannes' yearning for Markus grew stronger every day. He both dreaded and longed for his coming, and he wished that in some way he might be delivered from his uncertainty.
Therefore he was ever on the alert to seize an opportunity for speaking with Marjon alone. One evening he detained her in the hall under the pretense of inquiring about his shoes.
"Where did you leave Keesje?" he asked in a low voice.
"You know very well," replied Marjon, curtly, and in the same low tone.
Johannes did indeed know, and for that very reason he had asked the question.
"Yes, but where is he who has Keesje?"
"I do not know; and even if I did, I would not tell you. He knows his time."
At that moment Countess Dolores passed by.
"Johannes," said she, "I am having a talk with Father Canisius. If you wish you may come, too."
Johannes questioned Marjon with a look; but there fell before her eyes that impenetrable veil which always completely hid her inmost self from every stranger.
Father Canisius was in the parlor, seated in a low chair. His black soutane fitted tightly over his robust body, and his heavy feet in their buckled shoes were planted wide apart. He was polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief, and as Johannes entered the room he put them quickly in place, and turned his large eyes, full of interest, toward the door.
When Johannes came forward he took his hand in a kindly way and drew him nearer. Johannes looked into the broad, smooth-shaven face with its flat nose and sagacious eyes.
"Have you never had good guidance, my boy? Without it life is difficult and dangerous."
"I have indeed had good guidance, Mijnheer," said Johannes, "but I have more than once preferred to go my own way; and then I disregarded my guidance."
"But was it good guidance?" asked the priest.
"I had a good father; later, I found a dear, good friend. But I left them both."
"Why did you do that? Were you not satisfied with what they taught you? What was it that took you from them?"
Johannes hesitated.
"Were they too strict?"
Johannes shook his head.
"Then what was lacking that you found elsewhere but not with them?"
"I do not know, Mijnheer, what to call it. It is not pleasure, for I am willing to endure much suffering. And yet again it is the most glorious thing I know. I think it is what is meant by 'the beautiful.'"
On saying this, he bethought himself that it was not merely "the beautiful" for which he had left his father, and that the emotion which had led him away from Markus, and which he had felt for the two little girls, might indeed be called love.
"Perhaps it is also called love," said he.
Father Canisius considered a moment, and throwing a glance at the countess, he said:
"Then did you not find the love of that good father and the good friend enough for you?"
"Oh, yes, yes," said Johannes, with spirit. "But it was from them I had learned that I ought to follow what seemed to me, in all sincerity, the most beautiful, and to do what I truly thought best."
The priest dropped Johannes' hand, and pressed his own fleshy palms together, while he slowly and sorrowfully shook his great head, gave a deep sigh, and continued to look at Countess Dolores with a very serious face.
"Poor boy!" said he then. "Poor, poor boy!"
Then, lifting his head and looking Johannes straight in the eyes, he said: "No, Johannes, they were not good guides. I do not know them, and I shall not judge them, but I assure you positively that with such teaching, such guidance, you are bound to be lost unless granted extraordinary grace."
A long silence ensued. Johannes was touched, and even startled.
"What do you mean?" he finally stammered with trembling lips.
"Listen, Johannes," said Countess Dolores. "Father Canisius is very wise – a man of large experience in life."
"Do you believe in God, Johannes?" asked the priest.
"I know that I have a Father who understands me," said Johannes, slowly.
"Do you mean a heavenly Father? Very well; so far, so good. But you must have observed also that there is an evil one – Satan – who goes about deceiving us."
"Yes," said Johannes, promptly, thinking of his many disappointments. "That is so. I have observed it."
"Well, then, Satan is always lying in wait for us, like a wolf lurking near the sheep. One who trusts only in his own powers and his own opinion is like a sheep that strays from the fold. The wolf surely waits his opportunity, and, unless God perform a miracle, that sheep is lost."
Johannes felt the fear strike to his heart, and he could not speak.
"We first notice the approach of this wolf by a terrible sensation. That is God's warning to us. That feeling is doubt. Have you ever known what it was to doubt, Johannes?"
Johannes, with clenched fists and compressed lips, nodded in quick and utter dismay. Yes, yes, yes! He had known what it was to doubt.
"I thought so," said Father Canisius, calmly. "It is a fearful feeling, is it not?" Raising his voice, he proceeded: "It is like the sound of howling wolves in the distance – to the wandering sheep. Let it not be in vain that you are warned, Johannes."
After a pause he continued:
"Doubt itself is a sin. He who doubts is on an inclined plane that slopes toward a fall. Have you ever heard of the hideous octopus, Johannes – that soft sea-monster with the huge eyes, and eight long arms full of suckers which, one by one, he winds around the limbs of a swimmer, before dragging him down to the deeps? You have? Well, Satan is such an octopus. Unnoticed, he reaches out his long arms, and twines them about your limbs – holding them fast with his suckers until he can stab his sharp beak into your heart. Doubt is not only a warning but positive proof that Satan has already gripped you. It is the beginning of his power. The end is everlasting pain and damnation."
Johannes raised his head and looked at the priest, who was watching the effect of his words.
In spite of his distress there was suddenly aroused in Johannes a feeling of resistance. He felt that an effort was being made to frighten him; and even if he was but a stripling he would not allow that.
"My Father does not condemn those who err in good faith," said he.
Father Canisius observed that by bearing on too hard he had awakened a rebellious spirit. He therefore became more cautious, and resumed gently:
"Certainly, Johannes. God is infinitely good and merciful. But have you not remarked that there is a justice from which you cannot escape? And do you believe that one who has been led astray can plead, 'I am not guilty, for I was deceived'? No, Johannes, you take this matter too lightly. Punishment attends sin. That is God's inexorable law. And only if He had failed to warn us – only if He had not accurately revealed to us His will, could you call that cruel and unjust. But we are warned —are instructed – and may follow good guidance. If then we continue to stray, it is our own fault and we must not complain."
"You mean the Bible, do you not, Mijnheer?"
"The Bible and the Church," said the Father, not pleased at the tone of this question. "I very well comprehend, my boy, that you, with your poetic temperament and your craving for the beautiful, have not found peace in the cold, barren, and barbarous creed of Protestantism. But the Church gives you everything – beauty, warmth, love, and exalted poetry. In the Church alone can you find peace and perfect security. You know, however, do you not, that the flock has need of a Shepherd? And you know also who that Shepherd is?"
"Do you mean the Pope?"
"I mean Christ, Johannes – our Redeemer, of whom the Pope is merely a human representative. Do you know this Shepherd? Do you not know Jesus Christ?"
"No, Mijnheer," replied Johannes, in all simplicity, "I do not know him at all."
"I thought as much; and that is why I said to you, 'Poor boy.' But if you wish to learn to know him, I will gladly help you. Do you wish me to?"
"Why not, Mijnheer?" said Johannes.
"Very well. Begin, then, by accompanying the countess to the church she has promised me to attend – Have you, indeed, arranged to go?"
"Yes, Father," replied the countess. "Oh, I am so happy that you take such an interest in us! Johannes will surely always be grateful to you."
Father Canisius pressed very cordially the hands of both of his new disciples, and, with an expression of calm satisfaction on his face, he took his leave.
The children came in, and nothing further was said that day between Johannes and his friend concerning the matter; but the countess was much more animated than usual, and wonderfully kind toward Johannes. She even kissed him again when they said good-night, as once before she had done – when with her children.
Johannes could not sleep. He was full of anxiety, and in a state of high nervous tension. When the house grew still, and the lonely, mysterious night had come, came also fear and doubt and faint-heartedness. He doubted that he doubted, and feared the doubt of the doubt. He heard the howling of the wolf that lay in wait for the wandering sheep; he felt the slippery, slimy, crawling grasp of those terrible arms, that unnoticed, had fastened their suckers everywhere to his limbs; he saw the great yellow eyes of the octopus, with the narrow, slit-shaped pupil; and he felt the mouth searching and feeling about his body for his heart, that it might stab it with the sharp, parrot-like beak. With chattering teeth he lay wide awake between the sheets – shivering and shaking, while the perspiration poured from him.
Then he heard a faint, creaking sound on the stairs, followed by a light footfall at the doorway. His door was opened, and a slim, dark form came cautiously up to the bed.
He felt a soft, warm hand on his clammy forehead, and heard Marjon's voice whispering:
"You must be faithful, Jo, and not let them make you afraid. The Father likes brave and loyal children."
"Yes, Marjon," said Johannes; and the shivering ceased, while a gentle warmth stole over and through his entire body. He dropped asleep so soon that he did not notice when she left the room.
X
"Jump out!" cried Wistik, excitedly, swinging his little red cap. "Come on – jump!"
Johannes saw no way of doing so. The window was high and quite too small. Perhaps by climbing still higher he might find a way out. A flight of stairs, and another garret. Still another narrow passage, and another stairway. Then he caught another glimpse of Wistik, astride a large eagle.
"Come on, Johannes!" cried he. "You must dare to – then nothing can happen."
Johannes was ready to venture, but he could not do it. The little window was again out of reach. Back again. Empty garrets, steep stairs – stairs without end. And there was the octopus! He knew it. Again and again he saw one of the long arms with its hundreds of suckers. Sometimes one of them lay stretched along the garret floor, so that he had to step over it. Sometimes one meandered over the stairs that Johannes was obliged to mount. The whole house was full of them.
And out-of-doors the sun was shining, and the blue air was clear and bright. Wistik was circling around the house, seated on the great eagle – the very same eagle they had come across before, in Phrygia.
Out-of-doors also rang the voice of Marjon. Hark! She was singing. She, too, was in the open air. She seemed to have made a little song, herself – words and melody – for Johannes had never before heard either of them.
"Nightly there come to me,White as the snow,Wings that I know to beStrange, here below."Up into ether blue,Pure and so high,Mounting on pinions true,Singing, I fly."Sea-gull like then I soar – Not light more swift – So near to Heaven's doorTo rock and drift!"
Alas! Johannes could not yet do that. He had no wings. He did, indeed, see rays of light at times, and here and there a bit of blue sky. But he could not get to it – he could not get out! And on he went again – upstairs, downstairs, through doorways, halls, and great garrets. And the terrible arms lay everywhere.
Again Marjon sang:
"Marvelous, matchless blue
I cleave in flight.
The spheres are not so fleet
As my winged feet.
"World after world speed by
Under my hand,
New ones I ever espy,
Countless as sand.
"Blue of the skies!
Blue of the deep!
Now make me wise – No
more to weep."
Johannes also heard the blue calling him; but what the magic word was he could not guess. He was on his knees now, before a small, garret window through which he could barely thrust his arm. Behind him he could hear a shuffling and sliding. It was the long arm again!
"It's a shame!" said Wistik again, his little face red with anger, "the way they have maligned me! I ought to be hail-fellow with the Evil One for not letting you be. What a rascal he is! Do you want to be rid of me, Johannes?"
"No, Wistik. I believe that you are good even if you have often disappointed me and made me very restless. You have shown me so much that is beautiful. But why do you not help me now? If you call me you ought to help me.
"No," said Wistik; "you must help yourself. You must act, you understand? Act! You know that It is behind you, do you not?"
"Yes, yes!" shrieked Johannes.
"But, boy, do not shriek at me! Shriek at It. It is much more afraid of you than you are of It. Try!"
That was an idea. Johannes set his teeth, clenched his fists, turned round and shouted:
"Out, I say! Out with you – you ugly, miserable wretch!"
I even believe he used a swear-word. But one ought to forgive him, because it was from sudden excitement. When he saw that the long arms shriveled and drew away, and that it grew still in the house – when he felt his distress abating and saw the sunlight burst out, revealing a spacious deep-blue sky – then his anger calmed down, and he felt rather ashamed of having been so vehement.
"That is good!" said Wistik. "But do not be unmannerly – do not scold. That is hateful. But nevertheless, act, and learn compassion."
Johannes was now no longer afraid; he shouted for joy. Yes, he was bathed in tears of thankfulness and relief. Oh, the glorious blue sky!
"Now you know it, once for all," said Wistik.
Marjon's voice again in song. But this time very different – the air of one of her old songs merely hummed: a customary calling sound – a soft suppressed little tune. And thereupon followed a "tap, tap, tap," at his chamber door, to tell him that it was half-past eight and time to get up.
Fresh energy, a feeling of high spirits and courage, filled Johannes that day. At last he was going to act – to do something to end his difficulties.
First, he sought an opportunity to speak with Van Lieverlee. He went to brave him in his own rooms where he had never yet been. There he saw a confused medley of dissimilar things: some rare old pieces of furniture, and oriental rugs; a large collection of pipes and weapons; a few modern books; on the wall some picture-studies of which Johannes could not glean the meaning; some French posters picturing frivolous girls. With the same glance he saw mediæval prints of saints in ecstasy, and plaster casts of wanton women, and the heads of emaciated monks. There were images of Christ in hideous nakedness, and lithographs and casts so blood-curdling, crazy, and bizarre that they made Johannes think of his most frightful dreams.
"What are you here for?" asked Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest who, with an empty pipe in his mouth and a face full of displeasure, lay stretched out languidly on the floor.
"I have come to ask something," said Johannes, not exactly knowing how to begin.
"Not in the mood for it," drawled Van Lieverlee.
The day before, Johannes would have wilted. Not so to-day. He seated himself, and thought of what Wistik had said – "Act!"
"I will not wait any longer," he began again. "I have waited too long already."
"The big priest has had you in hand, has he not?" said Van Lieverlee, with a little more interest.
"Yes," replied Johannes; "did you know it? What do you think of him?"
Van Lieverlee gaped, nodded, and said: "A knowing one! Just let him alone. Biceps! you know – biceps! All physique and intellectuality. Representative of his entire organization. Can't help respecting it, Johannes. How those fellows can thunder at the masses! One can't help taking off his hat to them. The whole lot of the Reformed aren't in it with them! Theirs is only half-work; they are irresolute in everything they give or take; krita-krita, as we say in Sanscrit. Whether you do good or do ill, aways do it wholly, not by halves; otherwise you yourself become the dupe. If you would keep the people down, hold them down completely. To establish a church, and at the same time talk of liberty of conscience, as do the Protestants – that is stuff and nonsense – nothing comes of it. You may see that from the results. Every dozen Protestants have their own church with its own dogmas, with its own little faith which alone can save, and with its little coterie of the elect! No, compared with them the Roman Church is at least a respectable piece of work – a formidable concern."
"Do you believe in it?" asked Johannes.
Van Lieverlee shrugged his shoulders.
"I shall have to think it over a while longer. If I think it agreeable to believe in it, then I shall do so. But it will be in the genuine old Church, with Adam and Eve, and the sun which circles around the earth; not in that modernized, up-to-date Church, altered according to the advancement of science – with electric light and the doctrine of heredity. How disgusting! No, I must have the church of Dante, with a real hell full of fire and brimstone, right here under our earth, and Galileo inside of it."
"But I did not come to inquire about that," said Johannes, sticking to his point. "I am not content, and you ought to help me. What I have heard in the Pleiades, and from Father Canisius does not satisfy me. I am sure, also, that it is not in this way I shall find my friend again; and now I am determined to find him."
"Where, then, do you wish to look for him?"
"I believe," said Johannes, "that if he is to be found anywhere, it is among the poor – the laborers."
"Ah! Would you take part in the labor agitation? Well, you can do so, but I do not agree to go with you. You know what I think about that. Socialism has got to come, but I am not going to concern myself with it. It smells too much of the proletariat. I am very glad of the birth of a new society, but a birth is always an unsavory incident. I leave that to the midwife. I'll wait until the infant is thoroughly washed and tidy before making its acquaintance."
"But I wish to look for my friend."
Van Lieverlee stood up and stretched himself.
"You bore me," said he, "with that eternal chatter about your friend."
"Act!" thought Johannes, and he went on:
"You promised to show me the way to what I am seeking, and to give an explanation of my experiences. But I know no more than I knew before."
"Your own fault, my friend. Result of pride and self-seeking. Why have you had so little to do with me? You kept yourself with those two little girls. Did they enlighten you?"
"Quite as much as you did," replied Johannes.
Van Lieverlee looked up in surprise. That was insubordination – open resistance. However, he thought it better to take no notice, so he said:
"But since you will join the labor movement, then you must find out for yourself. I won't hold you back. Go, then, and look for your Mahatma!"
"But how am I to begin? You have so many friends – do you know some one who can help me?"
Van Lieverlee thought about it while looking steadily at Johannes. Then he said, deliberately:
"Very well. I know of one who is in the middle of it. Would you like to go to him?"
"Yes, at once, if you please."
"Good," said Van Lieverlee. Together they set out. The friend referred to was the editor of a journal – a Doctor of Laws. Felbeck was his name.
His office was far from luxurious in appearance. The steps were worn, and the door-mat was trodden to shreds. It was a dreary and sombre place. Large posters and caricatures were pasted on the walls, and on the table, lay many pamphlets and papers. Also there were writing-desks, letter-boxes, and rush-bottomed chairs. Two clerks sat there writing, and a few men, with hats on and cigars in their mouths, were talking. There was a continual running to and fro of people – printers' devils, and men in slouch hats.
Dr. Felbeck himself had a pale, thin face, square jaws, bristling hair, and a black goatee and moustache. His eyes were deep-set, and they looked at Johannes keenly, in a manner not fitted to put him into a restful and confiding state of mind.
"This young person," said Van Lieverlee, "wishes, as you express it, to turn his back upon his bourgeois status, and to swell the ranks of the struggling proletariat. Is that what you call it?"
"Well!" said Dr. Felbeck. "He need not be ashamed of it, and you might follow his example, Van Lieverlee."
"Who knows what I may yet do," said Van Lieverlee, "when the proletariat shall have learned to wash itself?"
"What!" said Felbeck. "Would you, a poet, have washed and combed proletarians, with collars and silk hats? No, my friend; with their vile and callous fists they will smash your refined and coddled civilization, like an etagère of bric-à-brac in a parlor!" Dr. Felbeck vented his feelings in a blow at the imaginary etagère. The attention of a clerk on the other side of the room was arrested, and he stopped his work. Van Lieverlee, too, looked somewhat interested.
"A revolution appeals to me," said Van Lieverlee. "With barricades, and fellows on them with red flags, straggling hair, and bloodshot eyes. That isn't bad. But you people of the Society of the Future! – Heaven preserve us from that tedious and kill-joy crowd! I would ten times over prefer an obese, over-rich banker with his jeweled rings, who, waxing fat through the misfortunes of simpletons, builds a villa in Corfu, to your future citizen."
"You do not at all understand it yet," said Felbeck, with a slighting laugh. "You are bound to have such notions because you belong to the bourgeois class of which you are an efflorescence. You are obliged to talk like a bourgeois, and versify like one. You cannot do otherwise. You cannot possibly comprehend the proletarian civilization of the future. It is to be evolved from the proletarian class to which we belong, and with which your young friend wishes to connect himself, as I perceive with pleasure."
