Frederik van Eeden
The Quest
Finally, still higher up the incline, close beside the great middle temple which was the crown of the island, surrounded by the serious silences of dark laurel and myrtle groves, were the temples of music.
There was a variety of them. Some were lighter and more ornamental – of brighter stone, and with steep, golden roofs; others, massive and strong, of quiet grey limestone, with green and red granite pillars, and arched roofs of bronze.
Windekind pointed out that each temple was dedicated exclusively to one composer; and Johannes heard with joy names that were well known to him in his own day.
"Which one shall we choose?" asked Windekind. "Nowhere else upon earth can their works be heard as in any one of these temples."
While he hesitated, with the name Beethoven on his lips, Johannes saw coming over the grassy path between the rose-colored flowering oleanders, a group of five majestic persons. They were tall, powerful figures – four men and a woman. The men were all elderly, one of them having silver-white, the others thick grey hair. The woman was younger, and indescribably noble and beautiful. They each wore a mantle of the same amaranthine red, and upon the head a small wreath of green myrtle, and each one held a flower.
They walked slowly and with dignity, and wherever they went the people all greeted them. Those who had been chatting were respectfully silent; those sitting or lying down stood up; and those who were in their path hastily stepped aside.
"Who are those five people, Windekind?"
"They are the five kings. Do you not see that they carry my flower in their hands? It is the blue, white, and gold Lily of the Kings, which the people have evolved. Formerly it did not exist. These are the noblest, wisest, strongest, the purest and most worthy among human beings. In them are united, in most perfect harmony, all of the human faculties. They are poets, masters of speech, and sages, that purify and elevate morals. They are regulators of labor, directors in business, in taste, and in science. Not all are equally excellent, nor are there always so many. The best are sought for and elevated. But they bear no rank – they have no court, no palace, no army, no realm. Their throne is where they seat themselves; their kingdom is the whole world. Their power consists in the beauty of their words, in their wisdom, and in the love of their fellowmen. See how they are revered! Look at those adoring women – doing obeisance as ever. There are still the very same foolish ones among the young women."
And Windekind called Johannes' attention to the fair enthusiasts who attempted not only to kiss the hands of the Five, but also to touch them with their flowers, which, thereby made sacred as relics, were later to be cherished as mementoes. But the sages smilingly motioned these aside, and entered the largest of the music-temples – a mighty structure of smooth, cream-white marble, without ornament, but pure in line, and nobly harmonious in its proportions. It was round in form, having a bronze roof without side-windows, and lighted only from above. Over the entrance, in large gold letters, was the name "Bach."16 When the Five came in all the people stood up, and waited until they were seated in the chairs reserved for them.
And then Johannes heard exceedingly fine music. And Windekind said, "This fountain is not yet exhausted, nor will it be for ages to come."
When they were again out-of-doors, and Johannes saw the happiness of all those beautiful people, and the mood of solemn devotion into which the music had put them, he suddenly became depressed, and said: "Oh, Windekind, now that I have seen all this, and know what it is possible for people to be if only they are wise and good, what avails it all when I have to return to that pitiful land of ugliness and folly and injustice? And, alas, of what advantage is it to all those poor people who are perhaps preparing for this lovely life, but who yet are never to see it?"
Johannes looked imploringly at his friend, who was silently meditating while they slowly drifted still higher along a dense grove of dark laurel, through which the happy, high spirited people were proceeding to the great, the loftiest temple.
Said Windekind: "You do not yet comprehend the unity of life, Johannes. However beautiful all this appears to you, it is only a short step in advance. These are yet, and will continue to be, human beings – subject to illness and death, to quarrels and misunderstandings, to superstition and injustice. All that now seems to you elevated and marvelous is but a wisp of straw compared with the magnificence of the Father to whom we all return. The victory is not here, but higher. And whoever has made preparation, however humble, shall have his rightful part in the final triumph."
Johannes did not fully understand, but eagerly drank in the comfort of these mysterious words. Still musing upon them, he stepped out of the dark, leafy woods upon an extraordinary plain, and saw before him the great middle temple that formed the summit of the island.
The sight of it was overwhelming, for it was almost frightfully and oppressively grand; and he saw all the oncoming people stop, as though turned to stone. None ventured to speak unless in whispers.
The plain was so large that those who had just reached the border of the woods could not distinguish the hands nor the heads of those who were entering the temple. The plain was utterly bare – upon it was neither plant nor statue. It was the leveled top of the natural rock – a reddish-grey granite, smoothly polished, and rising gradually by low flights of steps each twelve paces wide and one foot high.
The base of the temple was sombrely grand. Its shape was oblong, the greatest length being from north to south, showing an endless series of massive lotus-columns, close together, and all of the same reddish-grey stone. The eye was bewildered by them, as if in a dark forest of pillars. The steady stream of dot-like human forms appeared to be engulfed in their shade.
These mighty columns, resting on straight and flat string-courses, supported a broad terrace that surrounded the entire temple. Upon this terrace was a layer of earth, whence sprang a luxuriant growth of trees and shrubs, wide-spreading sycamores, towering cypresses, and slender palms – all overgrown and bound together by a veil of flowers and leafy vines.
Then succeeded, higher up, a second series of pillars, supporting another terrace covered with smaller shrubs. And above that, still a third, whose columns were of brighter stone – light-green and grey. The topmost row was of pure white, against which the green of the plants was in clear relief.
And above these, delicate and daring, soared a convergence of groinings, with a maze of exquisite spires and pinnacles, resembling a forest of stalagmites. Together they formed an oval whose chief colors – steel-blue, dark and sparkling, light-grey, and silver – resembled a cloud or a glacier; yet all harmoniously fashioned by human hands. Above, on a colossal tripod, glowed the emblem of love and life – the Golden Flame!
Although thousands of people from every side were ceaselessly pouring into the temple, and disappearing amid the dark columns, it was very still there – so still that above the sound of moving feet one could distinctly hear the babbling of the brooks that, coursing through the verdant terraces, flowed thence to the four corners of the plain.
Johannes tried to follow the soft speech of the people, but he did not understand the language. Then Windekind, calling his attention to a trio of persons – a vigorous father about fifty years of age, and his two sons, slender, fine fellows not far from twenty – said, "Listen to them!" It was Dutch they were speaking – pure, mellifluous Dutch.
The father said: "Look, Gerbrand; the lowest columns are so large that ten men could not encircle them. But within the temple, in the great oval centre, there are a hundred columns, far larger, that reach to the floor of the third terrace. On the groined arches resting upon those columns stand twice as many smaller pillars, which, rising somewhat higher than the gallery of the third terrace, are attached thereto by a system of buttresses. On these two hundred smaller pillars rests the enormous middle dome which over-arches the oval hall. The dome is entirely of metal. The dark blue is steel; the grey, aluminium; the bright green, bronze. The pinnacles, arches, and ornamentations are all of silver or silver-plated steel. In the four corner-spaces, between square and oval, stand four towers, having small gold-covered cupolas. Within these, elevators move up and down, and through them the water also is raised for the terraces.
"The tall tripod at the top of the dome is of bronze, and the flame is gilded bronze. The flame itself is twelve metres long, and its tip is a hundred and eighty metres above the plain."
Gerbrand, the younger son, knitting his brows as he regarded the awe-inspiring spectacle, asked: "How many people have worked upon it, father?"
"Oh, more than a hundred thousand, for nearly a century. But if the temple should again collapse, as once it did, ten times as many more would eagerly come, to rebuild it in less than half that time."
Drawing nearer, Johannes discerned, on the stone band beneath the first terrace, colossal silver letters, in plain Roman form. On the front a portion of a proverb was legible. The rest of it probably ran around the entire temple. Johannes retained the majestic tenor of it, although he did not comprehend the full meaning. Facing him was:
REDEUNT SATURNIA REGNA
and on the eastern side he read the first words,
IAM NOVA PROGENIËS…
This was all he could distinguish.
They entered the forest of columns, and Johannes continued to follow the trio closely. Through the solemn semi-darkness all pressed gently on toward the steps that led to the higher terraces.
On the second terrace stood thousands of statues, representing the great and famous of all the ages. Johannes was delighted to hear what the sons and their father said about them. They seemed best acquainted with the composers, then with the dramatic poets, the sculptors, the painters, and the scholars. They were most at a loss concerning the statesmen.
Gerbrand said, "Here is a warrior, father – Bismarck is his name. When did he live, and what did he do?"
Then the father said to his elder son, "Do you not know when Bismarck lived, and what he did, Hugo?"
Hugo replied, "I think he lived in Bach's time, father; but what he did I do not know."
"Yes, he lived about the time of Bach, or rather, that of Brahms. He created the German Empire."
Said Gerbrand, "The German Empire, father! Where is that?"
"There is no longer a German Empire, Gerbrand, although there are millions of Germans. Such empires do not now exist; but in that day they were thought to be something very admirable."
And Hugo: "Was it as fine as the Chromatic Fantasie, father, or the Pyramids?"
"It was something very different, my boy, but certainly not so fine, for it was less lasting."
On the third and highest terrace, beneath the loftiest of the white marble columns, and running around the entire temple, was a frieze, sculptured in bas-relief. Upon it were groups of figures, cut with most wonderful art, giving representative scenes from the whole history of mankind. Among them, the spectacle of the battles held the youths the longest.
"Look, father! Here again is a man being killed. Why was that? What harm did he do?"
"That is Pertinax," replied the father, "a king of Rome, killed by his soldiers because he was just."
"A man killed for being just! What strange people!" said Hugo, smiling.
"They killed Socrates also, because he was wise, did they not, father? We saw that a little while ago," said Gerbrand.
"Yes, Gerbrand," said Hugo; "but indeed they also fought for good reasons, did they not, father? Socrates himself fought, and Sophocles."
"And Æschylus," added the father. "He lost his hand at Marathon. And Dante fought, and so did Byron."
"Shelley too, father?" asked Hugo.
"No, my boy."
"But, father," asked Gerbrand, "when is it right to fight, and when is it not?"
"It is right, my boys, when that which is the dearest and most sacred must be protected from attack – whatever is dearer to us than our lives. That is what Æschylus and Socrates and Dante conceived to be their duty. They fought for freedom – the greatest freedom of their time. And should any beings come now and try to attack what we term our liberty and our rights, we also would fight for them."
"I wish that would happen," said Gerbrand. – And the others laughed.
"Did Beethoven fight, father?" asked Hugo.
"No, although his life, as well as that of Shelley, was a struggle in the cause of true liberty – at least for what he held to be true liberty."
"But Beethoven wore a high, black hat, did he not, father? And Bach had his hair cut off, and wore a wig," said Gerbrand.
"Mozart also," added Hugo. "I do not understand how kings could do such queer things."
"How was it possible," exclaimed Gerbrand, "for these people in their high hats and silly black clothes to look at one another and not burst out laughing?"
"My dear boys," said the father, "there is not a thing so foolish, so ugly, or so bad, but even the best of men will do it, or tolerate it, if only many take part in it, and it is a common error of their time. But that was a very queer age. At the time such great and wise kings as Goethe, Shelley, and Beethoven lived, ninety out of every hundred men lived like the very beasts. Some never bathed their entire bodies…
"Think of it!" cried the youths.
"They wore soiled, hideous clothing, were rude and ill-mannered, and had no conception of music nor of poetry."
"How could that be?" exclaimed the two young men.
"Because it was thought that the best human living was possible for only an occasional exception – for one in a hundred, or one in a thousand. You think that very stupid, do you not? But at that time everybody felt so, even the kings."
"Not Shelley, though," exclaimed Hugo.
"No, not Shelley," said the father. "But it is now nearly noon. We must not miss the Hall of the Hundred Pillars. We agreed to go there, you remember, while we were still at home with mother and the children."
The halls were decorated with inscriptions in many languages – each with its own ornate characters. Johannes recognized Sanskrit, Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek. He could read only a few of the sentences; but these he retained, without understanding them:
"IN LA SUA VOLONTADE E NOSTRA PACE," and "MITE ET COGNATUM EST HOMINI DEUS."
The Hall of the Hundred Pillars had entrances from all sides, on the same level, through the lowest and heaviest colonnades, and also along stairways descending from all the terraces. The floor of the hall looked like a vast, snow-covered plain, so white was the marble, and the astronomical figures with which it was inlaid were all of silver. The hundred pillars that gave the hall its name were of red granite, and supported the central dome, which, spanning the imposing space by arch on arch, stood like a miracle of art. There were no windows, but the light streamed in through the open arches, and past the white and light blue pillarets of the dome. Yet it was not possible, from below, to see the sky.
The hall was already filled with people – thousands upon thousands. Whispering softly, all pressed forward, and at last stood still in silent expectation. Johannes followed his fellow-countrymen.
"Look, boys," whispered the father, "these pillars are of one piece – the largest stone columns in the world. In remote antiquity, when, also, men were able to build great structures, there were two like them in Rome; and we found another one, half hewn, on the coast of Corsica. Then we ourselves made ninety-seven others, and placed them all here, to the honor of God."
"Father," whispered Gerbrand, "surely we are now the happiest and the mightiest beings in the universe, are we not?"
But the father looked at him reprovingly, and said: "For shame, boy! We are only poor blind earth-worms, and all our happiness is misery, and all our magnificence is a sham, compared with the splendor of the Truth. It is but a feeble glimmering of the reality. To express this, we come hither yearly; and it was to teach you this that I brought you with me. Look up, and read what is written there."
Johannes' eyes followed the direction of the upraised hand, and he saw a Greek proverb that ran around the dome in colossal letters of gold. As interpreted by the father of the two youths it read thus: "To the only God, who alone is the Truth and the real Existence – our Father, whom we love with all our hearts and all our understanding, and for whose sake we love one another as we love ourselves."
Then the man showed his children a gold figure, at the northern end of the hall, at which the eyes of all the people were now directed, and said:
"Notice! There is the number of the hour; but beneath, it says: 'There is neither hour nor time.' Do you see? Remember that as long as you live. And now consider why we have come here to-day. For a few moments the sun stands at the summer solstice – its highest point. The temple is so built that just at that instant the sun's light comes through the opening in the dome and touches the golden figure of the hour. Then all of us – thousands on thousands from every region of the world – will again in song solemnly pledge ourselves to faithful love toward one another, and toward the Father of us all."
After this the boys were silent, gazing with all the people at the golden figure. And now that innumerable throng, in the whole, vast space, became as still as death – as still as some great forest before a storm, when not a leaf stirs.
Then, in mighty, resounding tones, a great bell began to strike the hour; while the people, all in the utmost suspense, counted the strokes. Before the last stroke fell, the golden figure burst into flame, in the bright light of the sun.
Then, in unison, without any pause, all joined in one mighty chorus, stately, solemn, and simple, that soared into the spacious vault like a song of thanks and of promise in one – a renewal for the year to come of the bond of love between God and man.
And so strong and deep was their emotion that some sank to their knees as if overcome, while others rested head or hands upon the shoulders of those standing in front of them. But the greater number stood erect, and sang loudly and clearly, regarding the scene with bright, joyful, and spirited looks.
Johannes himself felt thankful and happy beyond words – like a child under his Father's blessing, in the heart of his home.
Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt!!! went the alarm-clock on the black mantel-shelf above the Dutch oven in Marjon's small kitchen. The iron bed shuddered and creaked; and Marjon sprang up, with the sleepy, mechanical haste of one accustomed to begin work at dawn, to stop the alarm.
There stood the unpainted table, the oil-lamp, and the unwashed coffee-set, and Marjon began to put things in order.
And out from the stifling, dark alcove came, one by one, the seven children of Van Tijn – to wash themselves at the kitchen pump and to dry themselves with one and the same old hand-towel.
XXIV
Already they had been twice to the hospital, on visitors' days – Wednesday and Saturday – but they had not been permitted to see Markus.
He still lay unconscious, and the doctor did not yet know whether an operation would be necessary.
And when Johannes implored that they might only look upon the face of their friend, to know if he was still alive, it availed nothing. Their acquaintance with Dr. Cijfer or with Professor Bommeldoos had no influence here. There was no disposition to be indulgent. The feeling of hostility toward his Brother was general, and permeated the humane, scientific atmosphere of the hospital to such an extent that Johannes also was received more coldly because he appeared to be a relative of this man. For not even doctors and nurses are exempt from the suspicion of being sensitive to the opinions of others.
The strain of their sorrow was so great that Johannes and Marjon each feared lest the other would be ill – they ate so little and looked so worn, and their cheeks, although never very round and blooming, grew so pale and sunken.
At last – at last, they might go, for their third call, and join the stream of callers on Wednesday afternoon, from two o'clock until four. Marjon carried some white and purple asters; Johannes, a bunch of grapes bought with money carefully saved, cent by cent.
Entering the ward, they looked in great anxiety over the two long rows of beds. They searched for the face they knew so well, but did not find it. Timidly, they made inquiry of the nurse who sat writing, in the middle of the ward, at a little table covered with bandages and remedies. Without replying, she pointed to a bed. Then they saw the dark eyes, turned toward them with a kind smile.
They had not recognized him, for his beard was gone, his head enveloped with wrappings, and his face covered with plasters.
He beckoned them, and extended his emaciated white hand. They flew to him.
Two young men stood beside his bed. They were students. One of them, who seemed to have just made an examination of Markus, was rather gross in appearance, and had a flushed, uneasy face. The perspiration stood in drops on his forehead. The other stood by, indifferently, his hands in his pockets.
"Have you got at it?" asked the latter.
"Confound it, no," replied the other, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. "It's a thundering complicated case. There's a fracture of the skull; but the paralysis I can't account for. It's a mean trick of Snijman's to pick out such a business for me, just to pester me. I'll be sure to fail in the examination.
"Come, come, old fellow, you're in a pet. It's a pretty little chance for you – one to brag about. Come to-night to the quiz, and go through the brain anatomy again with me. Bring your Henle along. I'll give you such a lift you'll astonish them, old man. But we must be off now, for it's visiting-day."
And, taking the arm of his comrade, who sighed and packed up his instruments, he led him out of the ward.
"What do you think of the way they have fixed me up, children?" asked Markus, cheerfully, as he took Marjon's flowers – with his left hand, because he could not move the other.
But neither Marjon nor Johannes could speak. They stood with trembling lips, swallowing back their tears. Then they sat down, one each side of the bed, and Marjon rested her forehead on his helpless hand.
Johannes held out to him the grapes, and tried to greet him in words; but he could not.
"Children," said Markus, gently, yet with a rebuke in his tones, "I notice that you cry altogether too much. Do you remember, Johannes, when you sat down in the street beside the scissors'-wheel, and how I reproved you? When one cries so readily, it looks as if the great sorrow of mankind were not felt. He who has once realized that, weeps no more over his own little troubles; for the greater grief should hold him bathed in tears, both day and night."
At these words the two controlled themselves in some degree, and Marjon said:
"But this is not a trifling thing that they have done to you."
"It is not a trifling thing that the world is so that this could happen. That is frightful; but it remains equally frightful whether this befell me or not. And that it has been done to me, and I have submitted, is cause for joyfulness, not for weeping."
Then said Johannes:
"But, dear Markus, what has it availed, and what will be the good of it? No one is sorry for it. No one will ever perceive the significance of it. No one, at this instant, has any further thought of you, nor of your words."
Markus, regarding him attentively, with an earnest expression, as if to urge upon him a deeper reflection, said:
"But, Johannes, do you not remember the story of that little seed – the most diminutive of all seeds? It falls to the ground – is trodden under foot – no one sees it – it appears to be completely lost and dead. But in good time it begins to germinate, and grows to be a plant. And the plant bears new seeds, which are scattered by the wind. And the new seeds become new plants, and the whole terrestrial globe becomes too small for the might of what proceeds from that insignificant seed. Has Johannes forgotten me and my words?"
Johannes shook his head.
"Well, then, Johannes and Marjon are not the only ones with ears to hear, are they? The spark has fallen, and shines in secret. The seed lies in the dark ground, and waits its time."
Gradually the ward began to fill with visitors. Relatives were now sitting beside each bed. There were wives and mothers with children, little and big, and some had babes at the breast. A subdued murmuring filled the place, where the smell of old and long-worn clothing mingled with the sharp scent of the disinfectants.
"Stay with me, children, as long as is permitted. The instrument is broken, and will soon cease to sound. Listen to it so long; as it vibrates."
"Are you going to leave us, Markus?" asked Johannes, setting his teeth to keep command of himself.
"I have performed my task," said Markus.
"Already? Already?" they both asked. "We cannot spare you. We might for a little while, but not for always."
"Where is your memory, Johannes? You possess me always, and some time I shall be still closer to you than I now am."
"But, Markus, how can I, without you, help people in their sorrow? Indeed, I am far from knowing the way yet. It seems as though I ought to be asking the way, for weeks to come, day and night."
"Dear Johannes, I have said enough. To ask day and night would help you no more than to think day and night upon what I have already said to you. It seems – does it not – as if I had spoken little, and done little, among men. But recall how the same was said of old, and how it has never, through many words, become clearer, but always more dim. Where the plain commandments have not enough weight, much speaking has not a particle of effect. Has not the best already been said – two thousand years ago? Millions have torn and martyred one another on account of additions, because of misinterpretations, explanations, and commentaries; but the simple commandment, known of all, they have not kept. Concerning the swaddling-cloths they have fought bitterly; but the babe itself they have left to the swine and the dogs."
They were permitted to stay throughout the time of visiting, and Johannes related where he had been during the night of his betrothal.
Marjon, having listened, asked:
"Markus, if he really saw the whole world as it is to be, why did he neither see nor hear anything of Markus himself?"
But Markus closed his eyes, as if weary of listening, laid back his head with a contented smile, and said, gently:
"The faithful architect is not concerned about his own renown, but about the work itself."
Then he indicated that he wished to rest; and, exchanging looks, they slowly stood up, and with reluctant steps, absorbed in deep thought, they turned away.
On Saturday, when they came again, they looked straight over to Markus' bed, for now they knew where he lay. But an icy fear came upon them when they caught sight of his face, below the white swathing-cloths. It was like sallow wax, with insunken eyes, and lay pressed into the pillow. They thought he was dead.
And when they stopped, hesitating and trembling, the patient in the cot next that of Markus motioned to them to come nearer.
"Come on, you," said the man, a disreputable old fellow with a bandage around his bald head, a crooked nose, and a shaggy beard stained a yellow-brown with tobacco-juice. "He isn't cold yet, but he's snoozin' away's steady's a new-born babe. Isn't that so, Sjaak?"
And Sjaak, the patient on the other side – a drunkard with a broken leg, and a face full of red pimples – cried out: "Hear me! I couldn't sleep better meself – after a couple o' drinks."
"Just make yerselves easy," said the old fellow. "Don't be upset about it. He'd be sorry if you went away again."
"A little less noise, number eight," called the nurse. "Talk quietly."
"Is he your brother?" asked Sjaak, in a whisper this time. Johannes nodded.
"They've given him the very devil," said the old man, "just as they gave it to me. Though I believe they served me about right."
"I'm askin' a great deal," said Sjaak; "but if we've both always got to stay in this here boardin'-house – him and me – why, then, I'd like to ask the good Lord not to let him kick the bucket before I kicks it. Because if I've got to stay here alone with that old red-nose there, and my own damn wicked carcass, then – hi! hi! hi!"
Then came a sudden outburst of maudlin sobs, due, no doubt, to a condition of enforced abstinence.
"Silence!" called the Sister, sternly.
Markus waked up and greeted his two loved ones. Then he looked at his neighbors, right and left, and asked:
"Have you been childish again, Sjaak? I heard you, indeed. No one is forever doomed, I tell you, neither you nor old Bram – if you take care from now on to drink water only, and not gin."
"I swear I will, Marrakus – swear it by God!" said Sjaak, striking himself on the breast.
"You cannot do that, Sjaak; neither would it help. After a half-glass of beer you will have forgotten all your vows."
"No beer, either," said Sjaak. "So help…"
"Be quiet now, Sjaak. Do not talk about it, but let it alone."
"Mar-r-akus," said Old Bram, in a hoarse, quaking voice, at the same time sitting up, with his griffin-like knuckles stretched out over the woollen covers, "tell me now, the honest truth: can it be possible for such a old hulk as me to escape eternal damnation? I'm shy of the priest, but I was brought up a Christian: and now that I can't get no booze here, I settle down in me bed o' nights with the jim-jams, and shake like an earthquake. But if I don't have to go to the devil, they can go to blazes with their bloomin' damnation! They can use their fires to dry the shirts of the angels, or to bake butter-cakes! – it's all the same to me."
