Frederik van Eeden
The Quest
XXII
Johannes and Marjon both held out bravely until night, doing their daily work as well as they could, and telling briefly, to the few faithful friends of Markus, what had occurred.
But when the lonesome night was come, and they were about to part for several hours, Johannes said:
"No, do not go away from me! How can I endure it – alone with my thoughts – without you!"
They were in the little kitchen where Marjon slept. A small lamp, without a shade, stood burning on the table beside an untidy coffee-set.
When Johannes said this, Marjon looked at him with puzzled, half-closed eyes, as if she did not understand and was trying to think it out. Then she threw herself forward upon her pillow, her face in her hands, and began to cry piteously.
At that Johannes also broke down, and kneeling beside her poor, rickety little iron bed, he cried with her like one in desperation.
Then said Johannes: "What shall we do without him, Marjon?"
Marjon made no reply.
"Do you remember that he said he should soon go away from us?"
"If only I could nurse him," she said.
"Is he going to die?" asked Johannes.
"He can die as well as we. Is he not flesh and blood?"
"He will never really die, though."
"Nor will we, Jo. But what does that avail us? I can't do without him."
And she sobbed again, hopelessly.
"Perhaps it is not so had," said Johannes. "We will call in the morning, and they surely will let us see him."
And so they talked on for a time. Then Johannes said:
"Let me stay with you, Marjon. It really seems as if I never again could go away from you."
Marjon looked at him through her tears, and even smiled.
"But, Jo, we cannot do as we used to. We are no longer children. I am already eighteen, and are you not that also?"
"Then let us become husband and wife, so that we can remain together," said Johannes.
"Then you no longer love that other one more than me?"
"I think not, Marjon; for she would understand nothing of this, and certainly would not join us in our sorrow."
"But, dear boy, we are far too young to become husband and wife."
"I do not understand, Marjon. First you find us too old to stay together, and then you find us too young. And yet I want to remain with you. How can it be done?"
"Listen, Jo. Formerly you said to me, 'No foolishness,' and that hurt me for I cared much more for you than you did for me. Why were you never more kind to me then?"
"Because I was forced to remember that ugly, dark woman, your sister. I cannot bear the thought of her."
Marjon reflected a while, and then said:
"But that is no reason for you to be hard toward me, Jo. I am not low, like her."
Johannes was silent. Then she resumed:
"But then I know what, Jo: you may stay here. But now I shall say 'No foolishness,' and remain unyielding until you shall have forgotten that ugly woman. Will that do?"
"Yes, Marjon," replied Johannes. Then a pillow and some covering were given him, and he lay on the hard floor of the little kitchen the entire night. And now and then, as one of them became aware that the other was still awake, they would talk together, softly, about their poor friend, each trying to comfort the other.
And thus it happened, as I told you it would, that, before the ending of the book, they became husband and wife.
But when Johannes forgot the ugly, dark woman Marjon's sister I do not tell you; for that does not concern others.
XXIII
The humble little kitchen, in the first pale, glimmering light that passed through the unwashed, uncurtained window; two rush-bottomed chairs; the unpainted table with the oil-lamp and the untidy coffee-set; Marjon's narrow iron bed, which quaked if she merely stirred; her breathing, now deep and regular, for at last she slept; the first chirping of the sparrows out-of-doors; continually before Johannes' mental vision the pale face of his kind Brother, befouled with blood and ashes; in his ears the powerful voice resounding through the arches of the church; the howling of the mob; and then – his own body, stiff and sore, on the hard, wooden boards…
Then, all at once, light! Bright, golden sunlight, a mild, refreshingly fragrant air, all pain away, an elastic, feather-light body – and the majestic sound of the sea.
Where was he? Where – where!
Oh, he knew; he felt in himself where he was.
He recognized the feeling of self-consciousness, although he had not recalled his surroundings.
But he heard the ocean – heard it roaring grandly as only it roars on a level, sandy coast; and he heard the whistling of wind in the rushes. And he watched the play of the grey-green waves as they came rolling in – their long lines of shining breakers crested with combing white, dashing and splashing and foaming over the flat stretches of sand.
He had seen it all for years, and every day it was the same, from age to age.
And when he glanced round to see if his little friend Wistik, whom he hoped to find, was also here, he saw, close beside him, a bright little figure sitting quite still and gazing out over the sea.
It was not Wistik. No, for this one had the large, gauzy wings of a dragon-fly, and a little mantle of delicate blue waving gently in the sea-breeze.
"Windekind!" exclaimed Johannes.
Then the bright being looked at him, and he recognized the dear, enigmatical eyes, and the exquisite hair – a bloom-like blonde like the mere sheen of gold – with its flower-crown of green and white.
"Here we are again," said Windekind.
"Then did you not die with Father Pan?" asked Johannes, in astonishment.
"I live forever," said Windekind.
Johannes thought this over. He was tranquil again, as he always was here. Life, so rude and painful, seemed now very far away. He felt only calmness and contentment, although he well knew that his body still lay on the hard floor.
Then he asked, "Does not that bore you?"
Windekind laughed, and held out in front of him his flower, which he used as a staff. It was not an iris, but a strange, splendid blossom – a lily or an orchid – blue, striped with white and gold.
"Silly boy!" said he. "To be bored is to be no longer able to enjoy anything. I am not a human being, that gets bored after a few years. I am not weary of happiness."
"Never?" asked Johannes.
"That I do not know," answered Windekind; "but not yet. If life were to bore me, then I should die and return to my Father. He can never grow weary."
"And have you grown still wiser?"
Windekind looked tenderly and very seriously at Johannes.
"Do you see my flower?" he asked. "This is not my old iris. This is much more beautiful. Oh, Mother Earth is greatly changed; and so am I."
Johannes looked about him. But everything appeared as before: the long lines of delicate green dunes; the sky, all mottled with white clouds; the graceful sea-gulls rocking in the wind, with their cry of grand and lonely liberty. But on the water not a sail was to be seen, nor on the strand a person.
"How good it is to see you again," said Johannes. "I have been so sorry about Father Pan. And now I am very anxious about my poor Brother."
But as Johannes said this he felt quite calm and peaceful; and this puzzled him.
Windekind looked at him, and smiled mysteriously.
"That was a long time ago," he said.
And when Johannes gazed at him in amazement, he repeated:
"Long ago – quite a thousand years."
"A thousand years?" murmured Johannes, mistrustfully.
"Yes, truly a thousand years," said Windekind, positively. "I have grown old, although you cannot see it in me. But the longer those of my race live, the younger they grow, in nature and appearance. Learn that yourself, Johannes – it is well to. I have grown stronger with the centuries, and more elastic – wiser and more loving. That's the way. I have not now an enemy upon earth. I have made up with that small goblin Wistik. He is a right good fellow, after all."
"Is he not?" exclaimed Johannes, delighted. "I too have noticed that."
"Yes," said Windekind, "when he has a leader. I have also become reconciled to human beings."
"Oh, splendid, splendid!" cried Johannes. "I know who has done that!"
"Right!" said Windekind, nodding. "Your good Brother did it."
Then Johannes saw great numbers of sea-gulls flocking together from all sides, wheeling and screaming because of something in the distance that was drawing nearer from out over the sea. It was like a large bird soaring on vast, silently outspread wings. The fierce sunlight fell upon it, making it flash like burnished gold, or like some shining metal. As it came nearer Johannes saw that it had the pretty colors of a swallow, steel-blue, brown and white, but with gilded beak and claws, and that long, variegated feathers, or ribbons, were streaming out behind, because of its rapid flight. The exquisite white of the circling, screaming sea-gulls was in sharp contrast with the huge, dark-colored hulk. A soft, clear sound came from above, as of clinking glass attuned like bells.
"What is that immense creature?" asked Johannes; for the shadow of it moved over the sea like that of a cloud.
"That is not a creature," replied Windekind. "There are human beings in it, but they are not at all ugly now, nor ridiculous. Only look!"
And Johannes saw, from its immobility, that it was not a bird, but a colossal air-ship in the form of a bird. And also he could see, clearly, that lightly dressed figures were moving to and fro along the decks, tossing crumbs to the sea-gulls that, fluttering, and crying caught them up.
Then the great shining wings altered their course, and with a graceful movement the colossus dipped gently downward, skimming the level sandy beach for the distance of a hundred yards.
At last it was still, and Johannes could admire the splendid structure: the glittering gold, the gleaming steel-blue decorations, and the bright-hued banners and pennants with gold-lettered mottoes that fluttered in the breeze.
"Climb up," cried Windekind, "it is going away again. It will not stay a great while."
"Are you going along?" asked Johannes.
"Yes," replied Windekind. "I am at home with these people. But remember they cannot see us yet, any more than could those a thousand years ago. They are still only human beings."
Johannes, his hand in Windekind's, floated up to the air-ship, and nestled in the golden crown upon the head of the bird. Secluded there, they could see what the people were doing.
The people were strong and handsome, like those in the realms of Father Pan; but their hair was darker, and their faces, with thoughtful eyes, were more earnest. And they all resembled Johannes' Brother – as if they were all one large family, and akin to him.
The garments of all of them were much alike – exceedingly simple. They were of unfigured material, similar to linen, with the pretty, sober coloring of some birds – the wood-dove and the peregrine; and all were bordered with fine, bright-colored embroidery. Almost without exception the passengers carried flowers. And festoons of flowers hung in every part of the ship; but these were wilted, and diffused the sweet, keen fragrance of roses.
All went with heads uncovered, and their waving hair was thick, but not long. There was little to distinguish the dress of the men from that of the women; but the men all wore full beards, and the women braids of hair wound about their heads.
Now, leaving their vessel for a short time, they raced along the beach, laughing merrily, and glad of the exercise. Johannes saw that they wore sandals – just like the man in brown at Roodhuis'; and he had to laugh at the recollection. The younger ones were barefooted.
After they had bathed and played, they climbed into the ship again; and, taking their places, all facing the sea, they sang a song. Although Johannes did not understand the words, he knew the meaning of them. It sounded like a psalm, but was more fine and earnest than any he had ever heard.
"That is the song of thanks they always sing after a safe passage over the great water," said Windekind. "Yes, they mean it, for they all know the Father. See how they mean it."
And Johannes saw the deep emotion in their earnest faces, and the tears that glistened beneath the eyes of the younger women. And he heard the quiver of feeling in their full, pure voices.
Then the magnificent great bird, with a strange clatter of unfolding wings, with the whirring of unseen wheels, and the klink-klank of glass bells, rose slowly, and pointed its golden beak and its fixed, crystal eyes toward the land.
"But how does it move?" asked Johannes.
"Could you have explained to your forefathers how an electric vehicle of your own time was propelled?" asked Windekind. "Then do not ask that question, but rather, take a look at your native country, and see how beautiful it has become."
The long line of coast was visible as they ascended, and Johannes could see extending into the ocean at regular distances great dikes of dark-grey stone, over which the white foam of the waves was splashing.
"They are not handsome, but necessary," said Windekind. "But here are our dunes."
And behold! They were as fair and free as in the olden days – a wide, open wilderness without hedge or fence, without shavings or paper. The hollows were full of little green groves; and there the white hawthorn blossomed, and the singing of hundreds of nightingales ascended to their high position. Johannes saw, as of old, the little white tails of thousands of rabbits, flipping over the grey-green stretches of moss. And also he saw people – sometimes by twos or threes, then in large groups. But they did not disturb the harmony of the peaceful scene, and their delicate grey, soft brown, and subdued green clothing was quite in keeping with the tender tints of the landscape.
After that came the verdant country. And how excited Johannes was when, in his flight, he saw it looking like one great, flowery, tree-filled park!
The bright green fields were there, the straight ditches and canals; but everywhere were trees. Sometimes they stood alone – mighty giants casting broad shadows; sometimes in great forests, each one vast expanse of foliage, cool and rustling, where the wood-doves cooed, and golden thrushes whistled. Gorgeous blossoms and thickly flowered shrubs, such as Johannes had seen only in gardens, were everywhere – growing wild in such masses that, from above, they sometimes looked like carpets of glowing red or deepest blue.
And the small white houses of the people, looking as if some giant had sawed them out with supple hand, were dotted about in the midst of the verdure and flowers. But on the borders of the water, by lakes and rivers and canals, were they strewn most thickly. The shining blue waters appeared to be the magnet which had attracted the little square blocks.
"You see, indeed, Johannes," said Windekind, "it was their own fault that human beings seemed out of place in Nature. They had no reverence for her, and harmed her in their stupidity. They have now learned from Nature how beautiful and like unto her they themselves may be, and they have made friends with her. They have taught their children, from their earliest infancy, to do no needless damage to flower or leaf, and to kill no creature ruthlessly; taught them also to desire to be worthy of their place in the midst of all those beautiful and charming objects. Sacred reverence for all that is beautiful, and for everything that has life, is now strictly enjoined. Thus is peace preserved between man and Nature, and they live in intimate relations, neither annoying the other."
"But, Windekind, where are the cities? I see only scattered houses and churches. And where are the iron railways and their sooty stations? And where are the factories, with their tall chimneys and dirty smoke?"
"My dear Johannes, ought ugly things to be retained any longer than extreme need for them demands?"
"Are not, then, railroads and cities and factories necessities?"
"There are still factories, but they do not have to be ugly. There they are – finer than many palaces of a thousand years ago. And why tracks of iron, when the broad ways of the air are open and free to all? And why swarm in cramped quarters, high over one another, so long as there is dwelling-room amid the flowers and the verdure? Men were not so stupid but that they found a way to dispense with all that ugliness, and to drive their engines without the burning of dusty, deeply buried coal. But still some roads remain. Look!"
And Johannes saw that all the dwellings were connected by roads – some of them fourfold and broad, of a dark russet color; others like narrow white ribbons winding through the grass from house to house. And people were passing over them, afoot, or in small, swiftly moving vehicles.
"It is a holiday," said Windekind. "Such days are now really happy and holy days, without the deadly dreariness of the former ones."
Everywhere Johannes saw little churches having pointed spires in the old Dutch style; but now they were full of statuary and ornament. The doors stood open, and people were passing through. And now Johannes heard the sound of music coming out of those little churches – as pure and as fine as the best he had ever heard.
"Oh, Windekind, how I should love to go in and listen to that splendid music! I do so want to," said Johannes.
But Windekind put his finger to his lips, and said:
"Hush! We are going to hear still better. Our voyagers are going to a much larger church, where most beautiful music can be heard. They are pilgrims, such as go from all countries every year, at this time, to celebrate the great festival."
"Do I not see another air-ship, Windekind? And there – still another?" asked Johannes.
"Yes; perhaps, indeed, one may be going along with us," said Windekind. "That will make it lively."
And very soon there actually came a second air-ship – a big brother-bird, that flew up to them. Then the flags dipped, and wide dark-blue banners, bearing silver-lettered mottoes, were unfurled to the breeze. The people waved, and shouted aloud. And when the twin birds were so close together that the tips of their great bright wings nearly touched, the people on Johannes' ship struck up an anthem – a full and powerful song – that was immediately responded to by an antistrophe from the other ship. And thus they took turns, first one, then the other, for quite a time.
Johannes' heart was warmed by this sweet understanding among peoples wholly unknown to one another.
"Do all men now speak the same language?" he asked his friend.
"Do you not hear what they are singing? All people have chosen that language as the most beautiful and the most natural. It is Greek."
"I do not know Greek," said Johannes, regretfully.
"But just look at that pennant, then, on the other ship. What does it say?"
"That is Dutch, Windekind – ordinary Dutch," cried Johannes. And he read: "There is no Death," and "Gladness only endures." And he also read the name of the ship, "he Heron."
Then his own ship dropped down again, upon a level meadow close beside some large buildings of grey freestone, charmingly sculptured, and there, for some mysterious reason, the vessel lay a long while – to get up power, thought Johannes. And the pilgrims took advantage of the delay to dance over the meadows with graceful steps, and also to replace with fresh flowers the wilted festoons.
Then they rose again, and whizzed through the still, summer air toward the south. Johannes noticed that not much more than half the land was devoted to field and orchard and vegetable-garden, and that all the rest was forest and park and flower-garden; that there were no hedges nor fences, nor any walls, except those against which grapes and peaches were growing. He did indeed still see brown and white sails on lake and river – that beautiful and ever charming spectacle – but there were no more of the tall four-armed windmills. And that was a pity.
"One cannot demand everything," said Windekind.
Johannes saw colossal wheels, like anchored paddle-wheels, glistening in the sunlight – turning constantly, and moved by some mysterious force. That certainly was better than smoking chimneys.
And nowhere was it dirty, nowhere was there wan poverty, nowhere the deathly ugliness and monotonous melancholy of the cities. He saw no ragged nor wretched people, no unsightly regions of refuse and lumber. In the places where he knew the cities to have been, there were now verdant tracts vocal with the songs of birds, and fruitful, well-tilled fields and gardens.
"The housekeeping of the world is revolutionized, dear Johannes," said Windekind. "It lasted quite a while, and cost considerable bickering; but that is all over now, and everything is according to method. I myself take real pleasure in it."
And from his golden seat he gazed over the country, like a tiny pretty king, who, proud and well-satisfied, rules his domain with a floral sceptre.
"Watch, now: we are going higher. We have to fly over the mountains."
And the ship rose until the people below were no longer visible, and at last even the houses disappeared. It grew chilly as they cut through the white mists of the great clouds; and, as of old, Windekind threw his little blue mantle about Johannes. Thus they went on for hours, in fog and mist, and the mighty vessel quivered with the speed of its flight. The voyagers were still, and stayed, snug and safe, inside. On they rushed, through rain and through snow, catching occasional glimpses of wide tempestuous landscapes, with green fields, foaming rivers, snow-capped mountains, glaciers, and lakes of gleaming blue.
"Is the whole world as beautiful now, and as well cared for, as my own country?" asked Johannes.
"The work of men is never complete," replied Windekind, "and that is good for them, else they would become too proud. Asia and Africa are a long way yet from being in trim, possibly they never will be. But then it is all very well as it is – very well. A thousand years ago one could not have said that."
How long they had been speeding thus, Johannes could not say. It seemed to him many hours. Then the great billows of cloud grew more and more transparent, and again the green land beneath them became visible, and also a deep, deep blue sea.
"Is it Italy?" asked Johannes. Windekind nodded, and Johannes hoped they would stay still a while so that he might see the beautiful country of which the priest had told him. Then the ship descended until people and houses could again be distinguished, and Johannes saw a scene so grand, so rich, so overwhelming, that he was startled and almost speechless. He could only say, thinking of Marjon, "Oh, how shall I describe all this?"
For the scene was exhibited with a fulness and variety that left no time for close observation. It was a landscape and a world-city in one – an extraordinary valley, down which the vessel now drifted, full of trees, verdure, flowers, buildings, statues, and people. Just before him he saw a gigantic azalea-tree covered with red flowers; farther on, a long arcade, overgrown with ivy, extending down to the foot of the vale. Then a temple with tall, slender, white pillars, also overgrown with ivy. In the middle of the valley stood a colossal piece of sculpture – simply a head. Johannes saw the sun shining upon it. And farther on there were structures unending, and thousands and thousands of people. Altogether, it gave him an impression of happiness and of beauty indescribable. Johannes could only cry, "How splendid! How splendid!" doing his utmost to take in everything, that he might remember and describe it to Marjon. But he felt that it would be beyond his powers, and so deeply moved was he by the beauty of the scene that he cried out, "It is too glorious! I cannot bear it!" And he wondered if the ship was going to stop there.
It did not stop, but floated farther on – not far now from the ground – and followed the rocky coast. Johannes remembered the red rocks and the coast where he and Wistik had sat when the Devil appeared. This country, also, looked well-tilled and inhabited, after the manner of his own country.
Then they put out again, over the blue, deep sea, and observed how it was navigated by large, swift vessels, without either sail or steam. They seemed to glide over the water as sledges over the snow, and the white foam flew high up over the bows.
Then after a long voyage there loomed from the sea, like a violet shadow, a large island; and, although it was broad daylight, it seemed as if above that island a bright yellow-white star were sparkling.
"That is our goal," said Windekind. "Take heed, now, you are going to see something fine."
And when they came nearer, Johannes could not tell what it was: whether the island was Nature's work, or some marvel wrought by the hand of man.
For that whole great island, that from a distance had looked like a mountain, appeared, when approached, to be entirely covered with buildings – a piling up of pillars and roofs that soared one above another, and converged to an awe-inspiring dome. That crowning dome sparkled in the clear, sunlit air like an arrested cloud – with the silvery, light green, and dark blue splendor of a glacier covered with thousands of beautifully sculptured, inverted icicles; and upon the top shone the yellow-white light which, even in broad daylight, seemed to be a star.
So immense and so numerous were the structures, that one could not tell what the natural form of the island had been, nor what had been made by human hands.
Coming still nearer, one could see green masses of foliage filling all the spaces between the buildings, up to the very top. The whole island seemed a miracle of art and nature; of columns of pure white, of silver and silver-blue; of cupolas, bronze-green or golden; while amidst them all was the dark green of the dense groves and the shrubbery, above which rose the tufted palms on their slender, slightly curved stems.
"Oh, Windekind," cried Johannes, "is this a story?"
"This is a story," said Windekind, "as fine as any I ever told you. But this one is true. Human beings first heard of it through me, and then they resolved to build it as soon as they could find time, and housekeeping was systematized. It could have been somewhat finer, but still it came out very nicely, especially when you reflect that they have had merely a hundred years in which to work out the plan; considering, also, that, when half completed, an earthquake destroyed it."
"What is it that glitters on that high dome at the summit of the island? It looks like a distant star. Is it fire?"
"That is not fire, Johannes, but metal – a golden flame. It is a piece of gilded metal, that always glow's in the sunlight as if it were burning. By means of that flame the people wish to indicate their ardent love."
"Love for whom, Windekind – for one another, or for God?"
"They know no difference, Johannes," said Windekind.
With radiant faces the pilgrims stood gazing at the spectacle; and, shouting their joy, they sang again. Only a few of the older ones appeared to have seen the island before.
The sea was now covered with large white vessels speeding to and fro, and one could also see air-ships flying thither from all points of the compass, like herons to their nesting-place.
Then Johannes vessel settled down upon a great grassy plain close to the shore, and the pilgrims alighted. They were embarrassed and bewildered now by all that surrounded them – by the multitude of air-ships, and also by the people, among whom they felt shy and strange.
Hundreds of these ships were now at rest – a brilliant spectacle, all differently rigged and adorned, and patterned after various birds. There were hawks and eagles, and giant beetles, entirely of bronze, looking like gold. There were moths of green-reflecting metal; and dragon-flies with wings of iridescent glass; wasps with bodies ringed with black and yellow; butterflies having enormous yellow wings, marked with peacock-eyes of blue, from which long pennants, black and red, streamed out behind.
There was now considerable commotion throughout the grassy plain, among those who, just arrived, were trying to find their way.
On the coast, around the whole island, was an almost unbroken series of cool terraces beneath white colonnades shaded by the light lavender flowers of the glycine; and behind them were small, white-stuccoed recesses overlooking the sea. There the hundreds of thousands of pilgrims who annually came to the feast were lodged and fed.
Johannes saw them sitting at long tables on which were bread, fruit, and flowers. And above the sound of the foaming surf, as the crystalline blue water broke in white spray over the dull red rocks, cheerful talking and laughing could be heard, and also the music of guitars.
Higher up, the island was clear and open. Here were sunny parks with low flowering shrubs, and now and then a tall palm, and everywhere temples and buildings for various purposes.
With his hand in Windekind's, Johannes glided over this, unable to note all of the many things that met his gaze. He saw, beneath him, close to the shore, large arenas for the games and the races; also long buildings, with thousands of columns, for the display of useful and ingenious articles and implements.
A little higher were gardens with plants and animals, museums, observatories, immense libraries, and covered colonnades and assembly-rooms for scholars. After that came theatres, in Hellenic form – semicircular – with white marble seats. And every place was thronged with people, in their tasteful, charming dress. The brown and the yellow races were represented; also the very dark-colored ones, with their flashing eyes, haughty bearing, and vigorous frames. These wore brightly-colored silken garments, green and red, embroidered with gold; but all who were white or fair were soberly clad in soft, refined colors.
Still higher were collections of statues, marble and gilded – many of them outside in the park, among the flowers, the aloes, and the plashing fountains; others, beneath long porticoes; and in large, low buildings there were sketches and paintings, or statuettes wrought in metal or carved in wood.
