Frederik van Eeden
The Quest
IV
"Oh, boys, boys! How dreadfully tedious it is in summer!" sighed one of the three big stoves which stood together, fretting, in a dark corner of the garret in the old house. "For weeks I have not seen a living soul nor heard a sensible word. And that emptiness within. It is horrible!"
"I am full of spider-webs," said the other. "In winter that would not happen."
"And I am so dusty that I shall be shamed to death next winter when the black man appears, as Van Alphen says." This bit of learning the third stove had gotten, of course, from Johannes, as he sat before the hearth winters, reciting verses.
"You must not speak so disrespectfully of the Smith," said the first stove – which was the eldest. "It pains me."
And a number of shovels and tongs also, which lay here and there on the floor, wrapped in paper to keep them from rusting, expressed freely their indignation at the frivolous remark.
Suddenly, they all stopped talking; for the trap-door was lifted, a ray of light darted to the far corner, exposing the entire dusty company, to their surprise and confusion.
It was Johannes whose coming had disturbed their talk. He had always enjoyed a visit to the garret; and now, after all the recent happenings, he often went there to find quiet and seclusion. There, too, closed with a shutter was a window, which looked out over the hillside. It was a keen delight to open that shutter suddenly, and after the mysterious gloom of the garret, to see before him all at once the wide-spread, clearly lighted landscape, framed by the gently undulating lines of the hills.
Three weeks had passed away since that Friday evening, and Johannes had not seen nor heard anything of his friend. His little key was now gone, and there was nothing to prove to him that he had not been dreaming. Often, he could not reason away the fear that all had been only imagination. He kept his own counsel, and his father remarked with anxiety that Johannes, since that night in the dunes, had certainly been ill. Johannes, however, was only longing for Windekind.
"Ought not he to care as much for me as I do for him?" he mused, while he leaned against the garret window and gazed out over the verdant, flowery garden. "And why does he not come oftener, and stay longer? If I could!.. But perhaps he has other friends, and cares more for them than for me? I have no other friend – not one. I care only for him – so much, oh, so much!"
Then he saw defined against the deep blue sky a flock of six white doves which wheeled with flapping wings above the house. It seemed as if one thought impelled them, so swiftly and simultaneously, again and again, they altered their direction, as if to enjoy to the full the sea of sunlight in which they were circling.
All at once they flew toward Johannes' little attic-window, and, with much fluttering and flapping of wings, alighted on the gutter. There they cooed, and bustled back and forth, with little, mincing steps. One of them had a little red feather in his wing. He tugged and pulled at it until he held it in his beak. Then he flew up to Johannes and gave it to him.
Johannes had scarcely taken it when he felt that he had become as light and fleet as one of the doves. He stretched himself out, up flew the flock of doves, and Johannes soared in their midst, through the free, open air and the clear sunshine. Nothing was around him but the pure blue, and the bright gleaming of the white dove-wings.
They flew over the garden toward the woods, whose tree-tops were waving in the distance like the swell of a green sea. Johannes looked down below, and saw his father sitting at the open window of the living-room. Simon sat on the window-sill, his forepaws folded, basking in the sunshine. "Can they see me?" he thought; but he did not dare call to them.
Presto was tearing through the garden paths, sniffing about every shrub, behind every wall, and scratching against the door of every hot-house or out-building, trying to find his master.
"Presto! Presto!" cried Johannes. The dog looked up, and began to wag his tail and whimper, plaintively.
"I am coming back, Presto. Watch!" cried Johannes, but he was too far away.
They swept over the woods, and the crows flew croaking out of the high tree-tops where their nests were. It was midsummer, and the odor of the blossoming lindens streamed up from the green woods below them.
In an empty nest at the top of a tall linden tree sat Windekind with the wreath of wind-flowers upon his head. He nodded to Johannes.
"Is that you? That is good," said he. "I sent for you. Now we can stay together a long while – if you would like to."
"Indeed, I would like to," said Johannes.
Then he thanked the kind doves who had brought him thither, and dropped down with Windekind into the woods.
It was cool and shady there. The golden thrush was fluting his strain – nearly always the very same, but yet a little different.
"Poor bird!" said Windekind. "He was once a bird-of-paradise. That you can still see by his strange, yellow feathers; but he was given another covering and expelled from Paradise. There is a word which can bring back again his former glorious covering, and restore him to Paradise, but he has forgotten it. Day after day he tries to find that word. He sings something like it, but it is not the right word."
Countless flies were glistening like floating crystals in the sunbeams that fell through the dark foliage. Listening acutely, one could hear their buzzing like a great, monotonous concert, filling the entire forest. It was as if the sunbeams sang.
Thick, dark-green moss covered the ground, and Johannes had become so small again that it appeared to him like a new-grown woods at the bottom of the great forest. What elegant little stems and how closely they grew! It was difficult to pass between them, and the moss-woods seemed dreadfully large.
Then they came upon an ant-path. Hundreds of ants ran busily to and fro, some carrying bits of wood, little leaves, or blades of grass in their jaws. There was such a tumult that it almost made Johannes dizzy. They were all so busy it was a long time before one of the ants would stop to speak with them. At last they found an old ant who had been stationed to keep watch over the small plant-lice from which the ants draw their honey-dew. Since his small herd was quiet he could devote a little time to the strangers, and show them the great nest. It was situated at the foot of an old tree-trunk, was very large, and had hundreds of entrances and little chambers. The plant-louse herder gave explanations, and led the visitors around everywhere, till they came to the cells of the young, where the larvæ crept out of their white cocoons. Johannes was amazed and delighted.
The old ant said that they were living under great stress on account of the military campaign which was about to be executed. They were going, with a huge force, to attack another ant colony not far away; to destroy the nest, and to steal or kill the larvæ. To accomplish this, they would need all the help possible, and thus they must first settle the most urgent affairs.
"What is the reason for this military expedition?" asked Johannes. "It does not seem nice."
"Indeed," said the herder, "it is a very fine and praiseworthy enterprise! You must know that it is the Fighting-Ants we are going to attack. We are going to extirpate their species, and that is a very good deed."
"Are not you Fighting-Ants, then?"
"Certainly not! What makes you think so? We are Peace-Ants."
"Then what does that mean?"
"Do you not know? I will explain. Once, all the ants were continually fighting – not a day passed without great slaughter. Then there came a good, wise ant who thought it would save a great deal of trouble if all the ants would agree to fight no more.
"When he said that, they all found it very strange; and what did they do but begin to bite him into pieces. Later, came still other ants who were of the very same opinion. These also were bitten into mince-meat. But so many of them kept coming that the biting-up became too much work for the others.
"Then they named themselves Peace-Ants, and all agreed that the first Peace-Ant was right. Whoever dissented was, in his turn, bitten up. Thus, nearly all the ants nowadays have become Peace-Ants, and the remnants of the first Peace-Ant have been preserved with great care and respect. We have the head – the authentic head. We have laid waste twelve other colonies, and have murdered the ants who pretended to have the genuine head. Now, there are only four such colonies left. They call themselves Peace-Ants, but they are really Fighting-Ants; because, you see, we have the true head, and the Peace-Ant had but one head. We are going, one of these days, to stamp out the thirteenth colony. You see now, that this is a good work."
"Yes, indeed," said Johannes, "it is very … remarkable."
Really he had become a little afraid, and felt more comfortable when they had taken their leave of the obliging herder and, far away from the ant colony, were resting awhile on a swaying grass-blade, in the shadow of a graceful fern-leaf.
"Whoo!" sighed Johannes, "that was a stupid, blood-thirsty set."
Windekind laughed, and swung up and down on his grass-blade.
"Oh," said he, "you must not call them stupid. Human beings go to the ants to learn wisdom from them."
Thus Windekind showed Johannes all the wonders of the woods. They flew together to the birds in the tree-tops, and in the close hedges; went down into the clever little dwellings of the moles, and saw the bees' nest in the old tree-trunk.
Finally, they came to an open place surrounded with undergrowth. The honeysuckle grew there in great abundance. It twined its wanton tendrils over all the shrubs, and its fragrant garlands adorned the luxuriant foliage. A flock of tomtits hopped and fluttered among the leaves, and chirped and chattered clamorously.
"Let us stay a little longer," said Johannes. "It is delightful here."
"Good," said Windekind. "Then you will see some more comical things."
Little blue-bells were growing in the grass. Johannes went up to one of them, and began to chat about the bees and the butterflies. These were good friends of the blue-bell, and so the conversation flowed smoothly on.
What was that? A great shadow passed over the grass, and something like a white cloud descended upon the blue-bell. Johannes scarcely had time to get out of the way. He flew to Windekind, who was sitting high up in a honeysuckle. From thence he saw that the white cloud was a handkerchief, and just then a portly woman sat down hard upon the handkerchief, and upon the poor little blue-bell that was under it.
He had not time to lament, for the sound of voices and of cracking branches filled the open place, and a crowd of people approached.
"Now we are going to have a laugh," said Windekind.
There they came – human beings. The women with baskets and umbrellas in hand; the men with high, stiff black hats on. Almost all the men were very, very black. In the sunny, green forest, they looked like great, ugly ink spots on a splendid picture.
Bushes were thrust rudely aside, and flowers were trampled under foot. Many more white handkerchiefs were spread over the meek grass; and the patient mosses, sighing, yielded to the weight that bore them down, and feared never to recover from the shock.
The smoke of cigars curled up over the honeysuckle vines, spitefully driving away the delicate fragrance of their flowers; and loud voices scattered the merry tomtits, that, chirping their fright and indignation, sought refuge in the nearest trees.
One man rose up from the crowd, and went to stand on a little mound. He had long, light hair, and a pale face. He said something, and then all the people opened their mouths frightfully wide and began to sing so hard that the crows flew up, croaking, from their high nests, and the inquisitive rabbits that had come to the edge of the glade, just to look on, took fright and started on a run, and kept it up a quarter of an hour after they were safe again in the dunes.
Windekind laughed, and whisked away the cigar smoke with a fern-leaf. The tears came into Johannes' eyes, but not from the smoke.
"Windekind," said he, "I want to go away – it is so ugly and horrid here."
"No, we must stay a while longer. You will laugh; it is going to be still more comical."
The singing was over, and the pale man began to speak. He shouted, so that all could hear, but what he said sounded very kind. He called the people brothers and sisters, and spoke of glorious nature, and the wonders of creation, of God's sunshine and of the dear birds and flowers…
"What is that?" asked Johannes. "Why does he speak of those things? Does he know you? Is he a friend of yours?"
Windekind shook his garlanded head disdainfully.
"He does not know me; still less the sun, the birds, the flowers. Everything he says is false."
The people all listened very attentively. The fat woman who was sitting on the blue-bell began several times to cry, and wiped away her tears with her skirt, because she had not the use of her handkerchief.
The pale man said that God had caused the sun to shine so brightly for the sake of their meeting. Then Windekind laughed and, out of the thick foliage, threw an acorn at his nose.
"He shall find it otherwise," said he. "My father shine for him! How conceited!"
But the pale man was too full of enthusiasm to mind the acorn, which appeared to have fallen out of the sky. He spoke a long time, and the longer the louder. At last he grew purple in the face, clenched his fists, and shouted so loud that the leaves trembled and the grasses waved hither and thither in astonishment. When at last he calmed down, they all began to sing again.
"Fie!" said a blackbird, who had heard the uproar from the top of a high tree. "What a frightful racket! I would rather the cows came into the woods. Just hear that! For shame!"
Now, the blackbird is a critic, and has fine taste.
After the singing, the people brought all sorts of eatables from baskets, boxes, and bags. They spread out papers, and distributed rolls and oranges. Bottles and glasses, too, came to light.
Then Windekind called his allies together, and the siege of the feasting company began.
A gallant frog jumped into the lap of an old lady, close beside the bread she was just about to eat, and remained sitting there, astonished at his own daring. The lady gave a horrible shriek, and stared at the intruder in amazement, without daring to stir. This mettlesome example found imitators. Green caterpillars crept valiantly over hats, handkerchiefs, and rolls, awakening fright and dismay. Big, fat spiders let themselves down glistening threads into the beer glasses, and upon heads or necks, and a loud, continual screaming accompanied their attack. Innumerable small flies assailed the people straight in the face, offering their lives for the good of the cause by tumbling into the food and drink, and, with their bodies, making it unfit for use. Finally, came multitudes of ants, a hundred at a time, and nipped the enemy in the most unexpected places. Men and women sprang up hurriedly from the long-crushed moss and grass; and the blue-bell was liberated through the well-aimed attack of two ear-wigs upon the ankles of the plump woman. Desperation seized them all; dancing and jumping with the most comical gestures, the people tried to escape from their pursuers. The pale man stood his ground well, and struck out on all sides with a small black stick; till a pair of malicious tomtits, that considered no method of attack too mean, and a wasp, that gave him a sting through his black trousers on the calf of the leg, put him out of the fight.
The jolly sun could no longer keep his countenance, and hid his face behind a cloud. Big rain-drops descended upon the struggling party. Suddenly, as though it had rained down, a forest of big black toadstools appeared. It was the outstretched umbrellas. The women drew their skirts over their heads, exposing white petticoats, white-stockinged ankles, and shoes without heels. Oh, what fun it was for Windekind! He laughed so hard he had to cling to the flower-stem.
Faster and faster fell the rain, and a greyish, glistening veil began to envelop the woods. Water dripped from umbrellas, high hats, and black coats. The coats shone like the shells of the water beetle, while the shoes kissed and smacked on the saturated ground. Then the people gave it up – dropping silently away in little groups, leaving many papers, empty bottles, and orange peels for unsightly tokens of their visit. The little glade in the woods was again solitary, and soon nothing was heard but the monotonous patter of the rain.
"Well, Johannes! Now we have seen human beings, also. Why do you not laugh at them, as well?"
"Oh, Windekind! Are all human beings like that?"
"Some of them are much worse and more ugly. At times they swear and tear and make havoc with everything that is beautiful or admirable. They cut down trees, and put horrid, square houses in their places. They wantonly trample the flowers, and kill, for the mere pleasure of it, every animal that comes within their reach. In their cities, where they swarm together, everything is dirty and black, and the air is dank and poisonous with stench and smoke. They are completely estranged from Nature and her fellow-creatures. That is why they make such a foolish and sorry figure when they return to them."
"Oh, Windekind! Windekind!"
"Why are you crying, Johannes? You must not cry because you were born among human beings. I love you all the same, and prefer you to everybody else. I have taught you the language of the birds and the butterflies, and how to understand the look of the flowers. The moon knows you, and good, kind Earth loves you as her dearest child. Why should you not be glad, since I am your friend?"
"Oh, Windekind, I am, I am! But then, I have to cry about all those people."
"Why? If it makes you sad, you need not remain with them. You can live here, and always keep me company. We will dwell in the depths of the woods, on the lonely, sunny dunes, or in the reeds by the pond. I will take you everywhere – down under the water among the water-plants, in the palaces of the elves, and in the haunts of the goblins. I will hover with you over fields and forests – over foreign lands and seas. I will have dainty garments spun for you, and wings given you like these I wear. We will live upon the sweetness of the flowers, and dance in the moonlight with the elves. When autumn comes, we will keep pace with the sun, to lands where the tall palms rise, where gorgeous flowers festoon the rocks, and the face of the deep blue sea lies smiling in the sun. And I will always tell you stories. Would you like that, Johannes?"
"Shall I never live with human beings any more?"
"Among human beings there await you endless sorrow, trouble, weariness, and care. Day after day must you toil and sigh under the burden of your life. They will stab and torture your sensitive soul with their roughness. They will rack and harass you to death. Do you love human beings more than you love me?"
"No, no, Windekind! I will stay with you."
Now he could show how much he cared for Windekind. Yes, for his sake he would leave and forget each and everything – his bedroom, Presto, and his father. Joyfully and resolutely he repeated his wish.
The rain had ceased. From under grey clouds the sunlight streamed over the woods like a bright smile. It touched the wet, shining leaves, the rain-drops which sparkled on every twig and stem, and adorned the spider-webs, stretched over the oak-leaves. From the moist ground below the shrubbery a fine mist languidly rose, bearing with it a thousand sultry, dreamy odors. The blackbird flew to the top of the highest tree, and sang in broken, fervent strains to the sinking sun, as if he would show which song suited best, in this solemn evening calm, as an accompaniment to the falling drops.
"Is not that finer than the noise of human beings, Johannes? Yes, the blackbird knows exactly the right tone to strike. Here everything is in harmony – such perfect harmony you will never find among human beings."
"What is harmony, Windekind?"
"It is the same as happiness. It is that for which all strive. Human beings also. Yet they are like children trying to catch a butterfly. They simply drive it away by their silly efforts."
"Shall I find it here with you?"
"Yes, Johannes; but then you must forget human beings. It is a bad beginning to have been born among human beings; but you are still young. You must put away from you all remembrance of your human life, else it would cause you to err and plunge you into conflicts, perplexities, and misery. It would be with you as with the young May-bug I told you about."
"What else happened to him?"
"He had seen the bright light which the older beetle had spoken of, and could think of nothing better to do than promptly to fly to it. Straight as a string, he flew into a room, and fell into human hands. For three long days he suffered martyrdom. He was put into cardboard boxes, threads were tied to his feet, and he was made to fly. Then he tore himself free, with the loss of a wing and a leg, and finally, creeping helplessly around on the carpet in a vain endeavor to reach the garden, he was crushed by a heavy foot.
"All creatures, Johannes, that roam around in the night are as truly children of the sun as we are. And although they have never seen the shining face of their father, still a dim remembrance ever impels them to anything from which light streams. And thousands of poor creatures of the darkness find a pitiful death through that love for the sun from whom they were long ago cut off and estranged. Thus a mysterious, irresistible tendency brings human beings to destruction in the false phantom of that Great Light which gave them being, but which they no longer understand."
Johannes looked up inquiringly into Windekind's eyes. But they were deep and mysterious – like the dark sky between the stars.
"Do you mean God?" he asked shyly.
"God?" The deep eyes laughed gently. "I know, Johannes, of what you think when you utter that name; of the chair before your bed beside which you make your long prayer every evening; of the green serge curtains of the church window at which you look so often Sunday mornings; of the capital letters of your little Bible; of the church-bag with the long handle; of the wretched singing and the musty atmosphere. What you mean by that name, Johannes, is a ridiculous phantom; instead of the sun, a great oil-lamp where hundreds of thousands of gnats are helplessly stuck fast."
"But what then is the name of the Great Light, Windekind? And to whom must I pray?"
"Johannes, it is the same as if a speck of mold turning round with the earth should ask me its bearer's name. If there were an answer to your question you would understand it no more than does the earth-worm the music of the spheres. Still, I will teach you how to pray."
Then, with little Johannes, who was musing in silent wonder over his words, Windekind flew up out of the forest, so high that beyond the horizon a long streak of shining gold became visible. On they flew – the fantastically shadowed plain gliding beneath their glance. And the band of light grew broader and broader. The green of the dunes grew dun, the grass looked grey, and strange, pale-blue plants were growing there. Still another high range of hills, a long narrow stretch of sand, and then the wide, awful sea.
That great expanse was blue as far as the horizon, but below the sun flashed a narrow streak of glittering, blinding red.
A long, fleecy margin of white foam encircled the sea, like an ermine border upon blue velvet.
And at the horizon, sky and water were separated by an exquisite, wonderful line. It seemed miraculous; straight, and yet curved, sharp, yet undefined – visible, yet inscrutable. It was like the sound of a harp that echoes long and dreamfully, seeming to die away and yet remaining.
Then little Johannes sat down upon the top of the hill and gazed – gazed long, in motionless silence, until it seemed to him as if he were about to die – as if the great golden doors of the universe were majestically unfolding, and his little soul were drifting toward the first light of Infinity.
And then the tears welled in his wide-open eyes till they shrouded the glory of the sun, and obscured the splendor of heaven and earth in a dim and misty twilight.
"That is the way to pray," said Windekind.
