Frederik van Eeden
The Quest
VII
The morning was cold and grey. The black, glimmering boughs, all stripped by the storm, were weeping in the mist. Little Johannes ran hurriedly on over the wet, down-beaten grass – staring before him toward the edge of the woods where it was lighter, as if that were the end in view. His eyes were red from crying, and strained with fear and misery. He had been running back and forth the whole night, looking for the light. It had always been safe and home-like with Windekind. Now, in every dark spot lurked the ghost of forlornness, and he dared not look around.
At last, he left the woods and saw before him a meadow over which a fine, drizzling rain was falling. A horse stood in the middle of it near a leafless willow-tree, motionless and with drooping head, while the water dripped slowly from its shining sides, and out of its matted mane.
Johannes walked along by the woods. He looked with tired, anxious eyes toward the lonely horse and the grey, misty rain, and he whimpered softly.
"All is over now," he thought. "The sun will never come out again. After this it will always be with me as it is now – here."
But he dared not stand still in his despair; something more frightful yet would happen, he thought.
Then he saw the grand enclosure of a country-seat, and, under a linden tree with bright yellow foliage, a little cottage.
He went within the enclosure, and walked through broad avenues where the ground was thickly covered with layers of brown and yellow linden leaves. Purple asters grew along the grass-plots, and other brilliant autumn flowers were flaming there.
Then he came to a pond. Beside it stood a large house with low windows and glass doors. Rose-bushes and ivy grew against the wall. It was all shut up, and wore a gloomy look. Chestnut-trees, half stripped of their foliage, stood all around; and, amid their fallen leaves, Johannes saw the shining brown chestnuts.
Then that chill, deathly feeling passed away. He thought of his own home. There, too, were chestnut-trees, and at this season he always went to find the glossy nuts. Suddenly he began to feel a longing – as though he had heard the call of a familiar voice. He sat down upon a bench near the house, and gave vent to his feelings in tears.
A peculiar odor caused him to look up. A man stood near him with a white apron on, and a pipe in his mouth. About his waist were strips of linden bark for binding up the flowers. Johannes knew this scent so well; it made him think of his own garden, and of the gardener, who brought him pretty caterpillars, and showed him starlings' eggs.
He was not alarmed, although it was a human being who stood beside him. He told the man that he had been deserted and was lost, and he gratefully followed him to the small dwelling under the yellow-leaved linden-tree.
Indoors sat the gardener's wife, knitting black stockings. Over the peat fire in the fireplace hung a big kettle of boiling water. On the mat by the fire lay a cat with folded forepaws – just as Simon sat when Johannes left home.
Johannes was given a seat by the fire that he might dry his feet. "Tick, tack! – Tick, tack!" said the big, hanging clock. Johannes looked at the steam which rose, hissing, from the kettle, and to the little tongues of flame that skipped nimbly and whimsically over the peat.
"Now I am among human beings," thought he.
It was not bad. He felt calm and contented. They were good and kind, and asked what he would like best to do.
"I would like best to stay here," he replied.
Here he was at peace, but if he went home, sorrow and tears would follow. He would be obliged to maintain silence, and they would tell him that he had been naughty. He would have to see all the past over again, and think once more of everything.
He did long for his little room, for his father, for Presto – but he would rather endure the silent longing where he was, than the painful, racking return. It seemed as if here he might be thinking of Windekind, while at home he could not.
Windekind had surely gone away now – far away to the sunny land where the palms were bending over the blue seas. He would do penance here, and wait for him.
And so he implored the two good people to let him stay. He would be obedient and work for them. He would help care for the garden and the flowers, but only for this winter; – for he hoped in his heart that Windekind would return in the spring.
The gardener and his wife thought that Johannes had run away because he was not treated well at home. They sympathized with him, and promised to let him stay.
He remained, and helped them in the garden and among the flowers. He was given a little bedroom, with a blue wooden bedstead. From it, mornings, he could see the wet, yellow linden leaves slipping along the window-panes; and nights, the dark boughs rocking to and fro – with the stars playing hide-and-seek behind them. He gave names to the stars, and called the brightest Windekind.
He told his history to the flowers – almost all of which he had known at home; the big, serious asters, the gaudy zinias, and the white chrysanthemums which continued to bloom so late in the rude autumn. When all the other flowers were dead the chrysanthemums still stood – and even after the first snowfall, when Johannes came one morning early to look at them, they lifted their cheerful faces and said: "Yes, we are still here. You didn't think we would be, did you?" They were very brave, but two days later they were all dead.
But the palms and tree-ferns still flourished in the green-house, and the strange flower-clusters of the orchids hung in their humid, sultry air. Johannes gazed with wonder into the splendid cups, and thought of Windekind. On going out-of-doors, how cold and colorless everything looked – the black footsteps in the damp snow, and the rattling, dripping skeletons of trees!
Hour after hour, while the snowflakes were silently falling until the branches bowed beneath their weight of down, Johannes walked eagerly on in the violet dusk of the snow-shadowed woods. It was silence, but not death. And it was almost more beautiful than summer verdure; the interlocking of the pure white branches against the clear blue sky, or the descending clouds of glittering flakes when a heavily laden shrub let slide its snowy burden.
Once, on such a walk, when he had gone so far that nothing was to be seen save snow, and snow-covered branches – half white, half black – and all sound and life seemed smothered under its glistening covering, he thought he saw a tiny white animal run nimbly out in front of him. He followed it. It bore no likeness to any that he knew. Then he tried to grasp it, but it sped away and disappeared in a tree-trunk. Johannes peered into the round, black opening, and thought – "Could it be Wistik?"
He did not think much about him. It seemed mean to do so, and he did not wish to weaken in his doing of penance. And life with the two good people left him little to ask for. Evenings, he had to read aloud out of a thick book, in which much was said about God. But he knew that book, and read it absent-mindedly.
The night after his walk in the snow, however, he lay awake in bed, looking at the cold shining of the moonlight on the floor. Suddenly he saw two tiny hands close beside him – clinging fast to the bedside. Then the top of a little white fur cap appeared between the two hands, and at last he saw a pair of earnest eyes under high-lifted eyebrows.
"Good evening, Johannes," said Wistik. "I came to remind you of our agreement. You cannot have found the book yet, for the spring has not come. But are you keeping it in mind? What is the thick book I have seen you reading in? That cannot be the true book. Do not think that."
"I do not think so, Wistik," said Johannes. He turned over and tried to go to sleep again, but he could not get the little key out of his head.
And from this time on, as he read in the thick book, he kept thinking about it, and he saw clearly that it was not the true book.
VIII
"Now he will come," thought Johannes, the first time the snow had melted away, and here and there little clusters of snowdrops began to appear. "Will he not come now?" he asked the snowdrops. They could not tell, but remained with drooping heads looking at the earth as if they were ashamed of their haste, and wished to creep away again.
If they only could have done so! The numbing east winds soon began to blow again, and the poor, rash things were buried deep in the drifted snow.
Weeks later came the violets, their sweet perfume floating through the shrubbery. And when the sun had shone long and warmly on the mossy ground, the fair primulas opened out by hundreds and by thousands.
The shy violets, with their rich fragrance, were mysterious harbingers of coming magnificence, yet the cheerful primulas were gladness itself. The awakened earth had taken to herself the first sunbeams, and made of them a golden ornament.
"Now," thought Johannes, "now he is surely coming!" In suspense he watched the buds on the branches, as they swelled slowly day by day, and freed themselves from the bark, till the first pale-green points appeared among the brown scales. Johannes stayed a long time looking at those little green leaves, and never saw them stir. But even if he only just turned around they seemed to have grown bigger. "They do not dare while I am watching them," he thought.
The foliage had already begun to cast a shade, yet Windekind had not come. No dove had alighted near him – no little mouse had spoken to him. When he addressed the flowers they scarcely nodded, and made no reply whatever. "My penance is not over yet," he thought.
Then one sunny spring morning he passed the pond and the house. The windows were all wide open. He wondered if any of the people had come yet.
The wild cherry that stood by the pond was entirely covered with tender leaves. Every twig was furnished with little, delicate-green wings. On the grass beside the bush sat a young girl. Johannes saw only her light-blue frock and her blonde hair. A robin was perched on her shoulder, and pecked out of her hand. Suddenly, she turned her head around and saw Johannes.
"Good day, little boy," said she, nodding in a friendly way.
Again Johannes thrilled from head to foot. Those were Windekind's eyes – that was Windekind's voice!
"Who are you?" he asked, his lips quivering with feeling.
"I am Robinetta, and this is my bird. He will not be afraid of you. Do you like birds?"
The redbreast was not afraid of Johannes. It flew to his arm. That was like old times. And it must be Windekind – that azure being!
"Tell me your name, Laddie," said Windekind's voice.
"Do you not know me? Do you not know that I am Johannes?"
"How could I know that?"
What did that mean? Still, it was the well-known, sweet voice. Those were the dark, heavenly-deep, blue eyes.
"Why do you look at me so, Johannes? Have you ever seen me before?"
"Yes, I do believe so."
"Surely, you must have dreamed it!"
"Dreamed?" thought Johannes. "Can I have dreamed everything? Can I be dreaming now?"
"Where were you born?" he asked.
"A long way from here, in a great city."
"Among human beings?"
Robinetta laughed. It was Windekind's laugh. "I believe so. Were not you?"
"Alas, yes! I was too!"
"Are you sorry for that? Do you not like human beings?"
"No. Who could like them?"
"Who? Well, Johannes; but you are an odd child! Do you like animals better?"
"Oh, much better – and flowers."
"Really, I do, too – sometimes. But that is not right. Father says we must love our friends."
"Why is that not right? I like whom I choose whether it is right or not."
"Fie, Johannes! Have you no parents, then, nor any one who cares for you? Are you not fond of them?"
"Yes," said Johannes, remembering. "I love my father, but not because it is right, nor because he is a human being."
"Why, then?"
"I do not know – because he is not like other human beings – because he, too, is fond of birds and flowers."
"And so am I, Johannes. Look!" And Robinetta called the robin to her hand, and petted it.
"I know it," said Johannes. "And I love you very much, too.
"Already? That is very soon," laughed the girl. "Whom do you love best of all?"
"I love – " Johannes hesitated. Should he speak Windekind's name? The fear that he might let slip that name to human ears was never out of his thoughts. And yet, was not this fair-haired being in blue, Windekind himself? Who else could give him that feeling of rest and happiness?
"You!" said he, all at once, looking frankly into the deep blue eyes. Courageously, he ventured a full surrender. He was anxious, though, and eagerly awaited the reception of his precious gift.
Again Robinetta laughed heartily, but she pressed his hand, and her look was no colder, her voice no less cordial.
"Well, Johannes," said she, "what have I done to earn this so suddenly?"
Johannes made no reply, but stood looking at her with growing confidence.
Robinetta stood up, and laid her arm about Johannes' shoulders. She was taller than he.
Thus they strolled through the woods, and picked great clusters of cowslips, until they could have hidden under the mountain of sun-filled yellow flowers. The little redbreast went with them – flying from branch to branch, and peering at them with its shining little black eyes.
They did not speak much, but now and then looked askance at each other. They were both perplexed by this adventure, and uncertain what they ought to think of each other.
Much to her regret, Robinetta had soon to turn back.
"I must go now, Johannes, but will you not take another walk with me? I think you are a nice little boy," said she in taking her leave.
"Tweet! Tweet!" said the robin as he flew after her.
When she had gone, and her image alone remained to him, he doubted no more who she was. She was the very same to whom he had given his friendship. The name Windekind rang fainter, and became confused with Robinetta.
Everything about him was again the same as it had formerly been. The flowers nodded cheerfully, and their perfume chased away the melancholy longing for home which, until now, he had felt and encouraged. Amid the tender greenery, in the soft, mild, vernal air, he felt all at once at home, like a bird that had found its nest. He stretched out his arms and took in a full, deep breath – he was so happy! On his way home, wherever he looked he always saw gliding before him the figure in light blue with the golden hair. It was as though he had been looking at the sun, until its image was stamped upon everything he saw.
From this day on Johannes went to the pond every clear morning. He went early – as soon as he was wakened by the squabbling of the sparrows in the ivy about his window, and by the tedious chirping and chattering of the starlings, as they fluttered in the water-leader in the early sunshine. Then he hurried through the dewy grass, close to the house, and watched from behind the lilac-bush until he heard the glass door open, and saw the bright figure coming toward him.
Then they wandered through the woods, and over the hills which lay beyond. They talked about everything in sight; the trees, the plants, and the dunes. Johannes had a strange, giddy sensation as he walked beside her. Sometimes he felt light enough again to fly through the air. But he never could. He told the story of the flowers and of the animals, as Windekind had given it to him. But he forgot how he had learned it, and Windekind existed no more for him – only Robinetta. He was happy when she laughed with him, and he saw the friendship in her eyes; and he spoke to her as he had formerly done to his little dog – saying whatever came into his head, without hesitation or shyness. When he did not see her he spent the hours in thinking of her; and each thing he did was with the question whether Robinetta would find it good or beautiful.
And she, herself, appeared always so pleased to see him. She would smile and hasten her steps. She had told him that she would rather walk with him than with any one else.
"But, Johannes," she once asked, "how do you know all these things? How do you know what the May-bugs think, what the thrushes sing, and how it looks in a rabbit-hole, or on the bottom of the water?"
"They have told me," answered Johannes, "and I have myself been in a rabbit-hole and on the bottom of the water."
Robinetta knitted her delicate eyebrows and looked at him half mockingly. But his face was full of truth.
They were sitting under lilac trees, from which hung thick, purple clusters. Before them lay the pond with its reeds and duck-weed. They saw the black beetles gliding in circles over the surface, and little red spiders busily darting up and down. It swarmed with life and movement. Johannes, absorbed in remembrances, gazed into the depths, and said:
"I went down there once. I slipped down a reed to the very bottom. It is all covered with fallen leaves which make it so soft and smooth. It is always twilight there – a green twilight – for the light falls through the green duck-weed. And over my head I saw the long, white rootlets hanging down.
"The newts, which are very inquisitive, came swimming about me. It gives a strange feeling to have such great creatures swimming above one; and I could not see far in front, for it was dark there – yet green, too. And in that darkness the living things appeared like black shadows. There were paddle-footed water-beetles, and flat mussels, and sometimes, too, a little fish. I went a long way – hours away, I believe – and in the middle was a great forest of water-plants, where snails were creeping, and water-spiders were weaving their glistening nests. Minnows darted in and out, and sometimes they stayed with open mouths and quivering fins to look at me, they were so amazed. There I made the acquaintance of an eel whose tail I had the misfortune to step on. He told me about his travels. He had been as far as the sea, he said. Because of this, he had been made King of the Pond – for no one else had been so far. He always lay in the mud, sleeping, except when others brought him something to eat. He was a frightful eater. That was because he was a king. They prefer a fat king – one that is portly and dignified. Oh, it was splendid in that pond!"
"Then why can you not go there again – now?"
"Now?" asked Johannes, looking at her with great, pondering eyes. "Now? I can never go again. I should be drowned. But there is no need of it. I would rather be here by the lilacs, with you."
Robinetta shook her little blonde head wonderingly, and stroked Johannes' hair. Then she looked at her robin, which seemed to be finding all kinds of tid-bits at the margin of the pond. Just then it looked up, and kept watching the two with its bright little eyes.
"Do you understand anything about it, Birdling?"
The bird gave a knowing glance, and then went on with its hunting and pecking.
"Tell me something more, Johannes, of what you have seen."
Johannes gladly did so, and Robinetta listened attentively, believing all he said.
"But what is to prevent all that, now? Why can you not go again with me to all those places? I should love to go."
Johannes tried his best to remember, but a sunny haze obscured the dim distance over which he had passed. He could not exactly tell how he had lost his former happiness.
"I do not quite know – you must not ask about it. A silly little creature spoiled it all. But now it is all right again; still better than before."
The perfume of the lilacs settled gently down upon them; and the humming of the insects over the water, and the peaceful sunshine, filled them with a sweet drowsiness; until a shrill bell at the house began to ring, and Robinetta sped away.
That evening, when Johannes was in his little room, looking at the moon-shadows cast by the ivy leaves which covered the window-panes – there seemed to be a tapping on the glass. Johannes thought it was an ivy leaf fluttering in the night wind. Yet it tapped so plainly – always three taps at a time – that Johannes very gently opened the window and cautiously looked about. The ivy against the house gleamed in the blue light. Below, lay a dim world full of mystery. There were caverns and openings into which the moonlight cast little blue flecks – making the darkness still deeper.
After Johannes had been gazing a long time into this wonderful world of shadows, he saw the form of a mannikin close by the window, half hidden by a large ivy leaf. He recognized Wistik instantly, by his great, wonder-struck eyes under the uplifted brows. A tiny moonbeam just touched the tip of Wistik's long nose.
"Have you forgotten me, Johannes? Why are you not thinking about it now? It is the right time. Did you ask Robin Redbreast the way?"
"Ah, Wistik, why should I ask? I have everything I could wish for. I have Robinetta."
"But that will not last long. And you can be still happier – Robinetta, too. Must the little key stay where it is, then? Only think how grand it would be if you both should find the book! Ask Robin Redbreast about it. I will help you whenever I can."
"At least, I can ask about it," said Johannes.
Wistik nodded, and scrambled nimbly down the vines.
Before he went to bed, Johannes stayed a long time – looking at the dark shadows and the shining ivy leaves.
The next day he asked the redbreast if he knew the way to the golden chest. Robinetta listened, in astonishment. Johannes saw the robin nod, and peep askance at Robinetta.
"Not here, not here!" chirped the little bird.
"What do you mean, Johannes?" asked Robinetta.
"Do you not know about it, Robinetta, and where to find it? Are you not waiting for the little gold key?"
"No! no! Tell me – what is that?"
Johannes told her what he knew about the book.
"And I have the little key. I thought you had the golden chest. Is it not so, Birdie?"
But the bird feigned not to hear, and fluttered about among the fresh, bright beech leaves.
They were resting against a slope on which small beech and spruce trees were growing. A narrow green path ran slantingly by, and they sat at the border of it, on thick, dark-green moss. They could look over the tops of the lowest saplings upon a sea of green foliage billowing in sun and shade.
"I do believe, Johannes," said Robinetta, after a little, "that I can find what you are looking for. But what do you mean about the little key? How did you come by it?"
"Why! How did I? How was it?" murmured Johannes, gazing far away over the green expanse.
Suddenly, as though fledged in the sunny sky, two white butterflies met his sight. They whirled about with uncertain capricious flight – fluttering and twinkling in the sunlight. Yet they came closer.
"Windekind! Windekind!" whispered Johannes, suddenly remembering.
"Who is that? Who is Windekind?" asked Robinetta.
The redbreast flew up, chattering, and the daisies in the grass before him seemed suddenly to be staring at Johannes in great alarm with their white, wide-open eyes.
"Did he give you the little key?" continued the girl. Johannes nodded, in silence; but she wanted to know more.
"Who was it? Did he teach you all those things? Where is he?"
"He is not any more. It is Robinetta now – no one but Robinetta. Robinetta alone!" He clasped her arm, and pressed his little head against it.
"Silly boy!" she said, laughing. "I will find the book for you – I know where it is."
"But then I must go and get the key, and it is far away."
"No, no, you need not. I will find it without a key – to-morrow – I promise you."
On their way home, the little butterflies flitted back and forth in front of them.
Johannes dreamed of his father that night – of Robinetta, and of many others. They were all good friends, and they stood near looking at him cordially, and trustfully. Yet later, their faces changed. They grew cold and ironical. He looked anxiously around; on all sides were fierce, hostile faces. He felt a nameless distress, and waked up weeping.
