The Quest

Aunt Seréna's voice grew so broken and hoarse that she stopped speaking, and began to rummage in her work-basket.

Johannes felt very tenderly toward her, but it seemed to him as if, in two seconds, he had become much older and wiser; yes, as if he had even grown, visibly, and was taller than a moment before. Never yet had he spoken with such dignity.

"My dear Aunt, I really am not ungrateful. I think you are good. More than almost any other you have been kind to me. But yet I must go. My conscience tells me so. I would be willing to stay, you see; but still I am going because it is best. If you say, 'You must not,' then I cannot help it; I think, though, that I will quietly run away. I am truly sorry to cause you sadness, but you will soon hear of an – another boy, or a girl, who will make you happier. I must find my friend – my conscience tells me so. Are you going to say, Aunt Seréna, that I must not?"

Aunt Seréna had taken out her worsted work, and appeared to be comparing colors. Then, very slowly, she replied:

"No, I shall not say that, my dear boy; at least, if you have thought it all over well."

"I have, Aunt Seréna," said Johannes.

Being deeply anxious, he wished to go instantly to learn where Markus had been taken. After that he would return to "Vrede-best."

He mounted the stone steps of the police station with dread and distaste. The officers, who were sitting outside on chairs, received him, according to their wont, with scant courtesy. The chief eyed Johannes, after the latter's bashful inquiry, with a scornful expression, which seemed to say: "What business is it of yours, and where have I seen you before?"

Johannes learned, however, that "the prisoner" had been set free. What use he had made of his freedom Johannes must find out for himself.

As he could give no other reason for his interest in the prisoner than that he was his friend, and as this reason was not enough to exalt him in the esteem of police authority, none of the functionaries felt called upon to put him on the track. They supposed that the scissors-grinder had very likely gone back to the Fair. That was all the help they gave.

Johannes returned to his aunt's baffled and in dismay. There, happily, he found relief; for the good aunt had already discovered that Markus had been led out of the town, and that, with his cart, he had taken the road to Utrecht. Already, lying in plain sight, he saw a large, old-fashioned satchel of hairy leather (a sort of bag which could be hung about one), full of neatly packed sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. And in the inside of a waistcoat Aunt Seréna had sewed a small pocket. Within that pocket was a purse containing five little gold-pieces.

"I do not give you more, Johannes, for by the time this is gone you will surely know if you really wish to stay away for good or to come back again. Do not be ashamed to return. I will not say anything to you about it."

"I will be honest, and give it back to you when I have earned it," said Johannes. He spoke in sober earnest; but he had, no more than had his aunt, any clear expectation that it would be possible.

Johannes took just a run into the garden to say good-by to his favorite places – his paths and his flowers. Swiftly and shyly, so as not to be seen, he ran past the kitchen where Daatje, loudly singing hymns the while, stood chopping spinach. After that, he embraced Aunt Seréna in the vestibule for the first and for the last time. "Cuckoo! Cuckoo!" came insultingly and triumphantly from the little trap-door, as the clock struck two. Then the stately green front door closed between him and Aunt Seréna.

That was a painful moment; yet there quickly followed in Johannes' heart a delightful glow – a feeling of freedom such as he had never yet known. He almost felt himself a man. He had extricated himself from soft and perilous ways; he was going out into the wide world; he would find his beloved brother again; he had a bagful of rolls, and in his waistcoat were five gold-pieces. These last were only lent to him; he would earn as much, and give them back again.

It was a still, humid, August day, and Johannes, full of gladness, saw his beautiful native land lying in white light under a canopy of delicate grey. He saw thickly wooded dikes, black and white cattle, and brown boats in water without a ripple. He walked briskly, inquiring everywhere for Markus the scissors-grinder. In front of an inn, not far from the city, sat three little gentlemen. They were apparently government or post-office clerks, who had taken their midday stroll and their glass of bitters.

Johannes asked information of the waiter who brought drinks, but received no answer.

One of the little dandies, who had heard his question, said to his companions:

"Jerusalem! but did you chaps hear that kicker? The fellow went into the new church yesterday morning, and talked back at the dominie."

"What fellow?" asked the others.

"Good Lord! Don't you know him? That half-luny fellow with the black curly-pate? He does that now and then."

"Gee! That's rich. And what did the dominie say?"

"Well, he found it no joke, for the fellow knew all about it – as darned well as he did himself. But the gypsy had his trouble for his pains; for that time the dominie wouldn't have anything to do with such a dirty competitor!"

And the three friends laughed at the top of their voices.

"How did it end?"

"He had him walked clean out of the church, by the sexton and two cops."

"That's confounded silly. 'Twould have been better to see who could crow the loudest. It's the loudest cock that wins."

"The idea! You'd have me believe you mean it? Suppose they gave the prize to the wrong fellow?"

"Whether you are cheated by a fool of a preacher, or by a scissors-grinder, what's the difference?"

Johannes reflected a moment and wondered if it would not be commendable to do what he ached to do – fly at these people and rain blows upon their heads. But he controlled himself and passed on, convinced that in doing so he was escaping some hard work.

For five hours he walked on without being much the wiser for his inquiries. Some people thought they had seen Markus; others knew positively nothing about him.

Johannes began to fear he had passed him; for by this time he ought to have overtaken him.

It began to grow dark, and before him lay a wide river which he must cross by means of a ferry-boat. On the farther side were hills covered with an underwood of oak, and tall, purple-flowered heather.

The ferryman was positive that he had not that day taken over a scissors-grinder; but in yonder town, an hour's distance from the river, a Fair was to begin in the morning. Very likely Markus also would be there.

Johannes sat down by the roadside in the midst of the dark broom, with its millions of small purple flowers. The setting sun cast a glorious coloring over land and mist, and over the lustrous, flowing water. He was tired but not depressed, and he ate his bread contentedly, certain that he should find Markus. The road had become quiet and lonely. It was fun to be so free – so alone and independent – at home in the open country. Rather than anywhere else he should like to sleep out-of-doors – in the underwood.

But just as he was about to lay himself down, he saw the figure of a man with his hands in his pockets, and his cap pushed back. Johannes sat up, and waited until he came closer. Then he recognized him.

"Good evening, Director!" said Johannes.

"Good evening to you, my friend!" returned the other. "What are you doing here? Are you lost?"

"No; I am looking for friends. Is Markus with you?"

The man was the director of a Flea-Theatre; a little fellow, with a husky voice, and eyes inflamed by his fine work.

"Markus? I'm not sure. But come along – there's no knowing but he might be there."

"Are you looking for new apprentices?" asked Johannes.

"Do you happen to have any? They're worth a pretty penny, you know!"

They walked together to the camp of gypsy wagons, near the town. Johannes found there all the old acquaintances. There was the fat lady, who could rest a plate upon her bosom and thus eat out of it. Now, however, she was eating simply from a box, like the others, because there were no spectators. There were the mother and daughter who represented the living mermaid, taking turns because one could not hold out very long. There was the exhibitor of the collection of curiosities – a poor, humpbacked knave whose entire possessions consisted of a stuffed alligator, a walrus-tooth, and a seven-months baby preserved in alcohol. There were the two wild men, who, growling horribly, could eat grass and live rabbits, and who might come out of the wagon only at night, when the street boys were away; but who, far from savage now, were sitting in the light of a flickering lantern, "shaving" one another with exceedingly dirty cards.

The flea-tamer brought Johannes at last to Marjon's wagon.

"Bless me!" cried Lorum, who seemed to be in a good humor as he sat by the road smoking his pipe. "Here is our runaway young gentleman again! Now the girls will be glad!"

From behind the wagon came the soft tones of a voice, singing to a zither accompaniment. Johannes could hear the song distinctly, in the dreamlike stillness of the hour. It was sung in a whining, melancholy, street-organ style, but with unusual emotion:

"They have broken my heart —Ah, the tears I have shed!They have torn us apart —His dear voice is now dead.Alas! Alas!How could you forsake me?Alas! Alas!How you have deceived me!"

It was a ditty that Johannes thought he had often heard the nurse-maids sing. But, because he recognized that dear voice, and perhaps even because he was worried over the applicability to himself, he was greatly touched by it.

"Hey, there!" cried Lorum to one behind him. "The kid has come back! Stop your squalling!"

Then Marjon appeared from behind the wagon, and ran up to Johannes. Also, the door of the wagon flew back, and Johannes saw Marjon's sister standing in the bright opening. Her fat arms were bare, and she was in her night-gown.

XI

Since that first night in the dunes with Windekind, Johannes had slept many a time in the open air, and he did not see why he should not now do so. He would lie down under the wagon, upon some hay. He was tired, and so would sleep well.

But sleep did not come to him very promptly. Adventures in the world of people proved to be even more exciting than those in Windekind's land of elves. He was full of the important and unusual situation in which he was placed; the strange human life that surrounded him claimed his attention. Above him, feet were shuffling over the wagon floor, and he could see the people crawling around one another inside the warm, dirty wagons. He was obliged to listen to the talking, singing, laughing and quarreling that frequently broke out here and there. A solitary ocarina continued to whistle awhile; then all was still.

It grew cold. He had with him only a thin cloak of Aunt Seréna's; and, as a horse-blanket could not be spared, he found a couple of empty oat-bags; but they were too short.

When all were asleep, and he was still lying awake, shivering, his spirits already inclined to droop, he heard the door of the wagon open. A voice called him, in a whisper. Johannes scrambled out into sight, and recognized Marjon's dark sister.

"Why don't you come in here, Kiddie?" she asked.

The truth was that Johannes, above all else, feared the closeness and the fleas. But he would not offer these insulting reasons, so he replied – intending to be very courteous and praiseworthy: "But that would not do for me – to be with you!"

Now, formality is not a very strong point in a house-wagon. In the very stateliest, a curtain does indeed sometimes define two sleeping-rooms at night, thus denoting regard for the proprieties. But in most cases the custom is to do as do the birds which change their suits but once a year, and not too much, at that; and as do the mice which also have no separate bedrooms.

"Aw! Come, Boy! You're silly. Just come on! It's all right."

And when Johannes, perplexed and very bashful, hesitated, he felt a fat, heavy arm around his neck, and a soft, broad, cold mouth upon his cheek.

"Come on, Youngster! Don't be afraid. Surely you are not so green! Hey? It's time for me to make you wiser."

Now there was nothing Johannes had learned more to value than wisdom, and he never willingly neglected a chance of becoming wiser. But this time there came to him a very clear idea of the existence of an undesirable wisdom.

He had no time to deliberate over this wonderful discovery; for, happily, there came to the help of his immature thoughts a very strong feeling of aversion, so that for once he knew betimes what he ought to do.

He said loudly, and firmly: "I will not! I rest better here." And he crept back under the wagon. The swarthy jade appeared not to like that, for she uttered an oath as she turned away, and said: "Clear out, then!" Johannes did not take it greatly to heart, although it did appear to him unfair. He slept, however, no more than before; and the sensation of the recent touches, and the wretched odor of poor perfumery which the woman had brought with her, remained with him, to his distress.

As soon as it began to grow light, the door of the wagon was again opened. Johannes, surprised, looked up. Marjon came softly out in her bare feet, with an old purple shawl thrown over her thin little shoulders. She went up to Johannes and sat down on the ground beside him.

"What did she do?" she asked, in a whisper.

"Who?" asked Johannes, in return. But that was from embarrassment, for he well knew whom she meant.

"Now, you know well enough. Did you think I was sleeping? Did she give you a kiss?"

Johannes nodded.

"Where? On your mouth?"

"No. On my cheek."

"Thank God!" said Marjon. "You will not let her do it again? She is a common thing!"

"I could not help it," said Johannes.

Marjon looked at him thoughtfully a few moments, with her clear, light grey eyes.

"Do you dare steal?" she asked then, abruptly.

"No," said Johannes. "I dare to, but it's wrong."

"Indeed it isn't!" said Marjon, very emphatically. "Indeed, it is not! It's only a question of who from. Stealing from one another is mean, but from the public is allowable. I must not steal from that woman any more than from Lorum. But you may steal from the huzzy, if you only dared."

"Then can you steal from me, too?" asked Johannes. Marjon looked at him in sudden surprise, and gave a pretty laugh, showing her white, even teeth.

"A while ago I could, but not now. Now you belong to me. But that woman has a lot of money and you have not."

"I have some money, too – fifty guldens. Aunt Seréna gave it to me."

Marjon drew in the air with her lips as if sipping something delicious. Her pale face shone with pleasure.

"Five little golden Teners! Is it truly so? But, Johannes, then we are well off! We'll have a good time with them. Shan't we?"

"To be sure," assented Johannes, recovering himself. "But I want to find Markus."

"That's good," said Marjon. "That's the best thing to do. We'll both go looking for him."

"Right away?" asked Johannes.

"No, you stupid! We should be nabbed in no time. We'll start in the evening. Then, during the night, we can get a good way off. I'll give you the signal."

It was morning – clear and cool, yet growing warmer with the early August sunshine. Everywhere over the dark heather the dew-covered cobwebs were shining like clusters of sparkling stars. The fires of the foregoing evening were still smouldering in the camp; and there was a smell of wood coals and of honey.

Johannes was well pleased. There was a glowing little flame also within himself. He felt that it was good to be alive, and a joy to strive. It was a long, strange day, but he was patient and happy in the thought of fleeing with Marjon. The dark woman was friendly toward him again. He was helping her in the circus the entire day, and had no chance to speak with Marjon. But now and then they gave each other a look full of complete understanding. That was delightful! Never before in his every-day life had Johannes experienced anything so delightful.

That evening there was an exhibition, and Marjon performed her tricks. Johannes felt very proud and important because he belonged to the troupe, and was looked upon by the public as an athlete or an equestrian. He might stand, in topboots and with a whip, at the entrance to the stall, but he must not perform a single trick, nor once crack his whip.

When it was good and dark, and everybody was asleep again, Marjon came to summon him. He could scarcely distinguish her figure; but he knew by a soft, grunting sound, that she carried Kees, her monkey, on her arm. She thrust her guitar into Johannes' hand, and said in a low tone: "Move on, now!"

They set out hastily and in silence, Marjon taking the lead. First they went by the highway; then they took a footpath along the river; and then, at a ferry, they softly unfastened a small boat, and pushed out into the current.

"Keep your wits about you, Jo, and be on the lookout!"

"We shall be overtaken," said Johannes, not quite at his ease.

"Are you afraid?"

"No, not afraid," said Johannes, although the truth was that he was trying not to be; "but where are we going to bring up? And how can we keep out of the way if a boat should come along? We have no oars!"

"I wish a boat would come. Then we'd go on with it."

"Where do you want to go, Marjon?"

"Well, over the frontier, of course. Otherwise they'll catch us.

"But Markus!"

"We'll find him, by and by – only come on now."

In silence the two children drifted out over the still, black water, which here and there bubbled past a floating log, or a barrel. Everything was mysterious. It was pitch dark, and there was no wind. The reeds, even, scarcely sighed. Keesje whined, complainingly, not liking the cold.

"But who is Markus, Marjon? Do you know?"

"You must not ask that, Jo. You must trust him. I do."

Then they heard a dull, fitfully throbbing sound that slowly drew nearer from the distance, and Johannes saw red and white lanterns ahead of them.

"A steamboat!" he cried. "What are we going to do now?"

"Sing!" said Marjon, without a moment's hesitation.

The boat came very gradually, and Johannes saw in the rear of her a long file of little lights, like a train of twinkling stars. It was a steam-tug with a heavy draught of Rhine-boats. It seemed to be panting and toiling with its burden, against the powerful current.

They stayed a boat's length away from the tug, but its long, unwieldy train – swinging out in a great curve at the rear – came nearer and nearer.

Marjon took her guitar and began to sing, and suddenly, with the sound of lapping water and throbbing engines, the music was ringing out in the still night – exquisite and clear. She sang a well-known German air, but with the following words:

"Tho' on dark depths of watersI fear not and am strong,For I know who will guard meAnd guide me all life long."

"Are you tipsy, there, or tired of life? What do you put yourself across the channel for – and without a light?" rang out over the water from one of the vessels.

"Help! Throw a line!" cried Marjon.

"Help! help!" cried Johannes, after her.

Then a rope came wabbling across their oarless craft. By good luck Johannes caught it, and pulled himself, hand over hand, up to the vessel. The helmsman, standing beside the great, high-arched rudder, looked overboard, with a lantern in his hand.

"What wedding do you hail from?"

Johannes and Marjon climbed into the boat and Marjon pushed off their own little shallop.

"Two boys!" exclaimed the helmsman.

"And a monkey!" subjoined Marjon.

Johannes looked round at her. By the light of the lantern he saw a little figure that he hardly recognized – a slip of a boy wearing a cap on his closely cropped head. She had sacrificed for the flight her silky blonde hair. Keesje's head was sticking up out of her jacket, and he was blinking briskly in the glare of the lantern.

"Oh, that's it! Fair-folk!" grumbled the skipper. "What's to become of that boat?"

"It knows the way home!" said Marjon.

XII

I will simply tell you, without delay, in order that you may be able to read what follows in peace of mind, that Johannes and Marjon became husband and wife ere the ending of the story. But at the time the old skipper pointed out to them a comfortable sleeping-corner in the deck-house of the long Rhine-boat, they had not the least idea of it. Being very tired, they were soon lying, like two brothers, in deep sleep, with Keesje, now warm and contented, between them.

When it grew light, the whole world seemed to have vanished. Johannes had been wakened by the rattling of the anchor-chains, and when he looked out, he saw on all sides nothing but white, foggy light; no sky, no shore – only, just under the little windows, the yellow river current. But he heard the striking of the town clocks, and even the crowing of cocks. Therefore the world was still there, as fine as ever, only hidden away under a thick white veil.

The boats lay still, for they could not be navigated. So long as the waters of the Rhine could not be seen frothing about the anchor-chains, so long must they wait for a chance to know the points of the compass. Thus they remained for hours in the still, thick white light, listening to the muffled sounds of the town coming from the shore.

The two children ran back and forth over the long, long vessel, and had a fine time. They had already become good friends of the skipper, especially since he had learned that they could pay for their passage. They ate their bread and sausage, peering into the fog in suspense, for fear that Lorum and the dark woman might be coming in a boat to overtake them. They knew that they could not yet be very far away from their last camping-place.

At last the mists grew thinner and thinner, and fled from before the shining face of the sun; and, although the earth still remained hidden beneath swirling white, up above began to appear the glorious blue.

And this was the beginning of a fine day for Johannes.

Sighing and groaning, as if with great reluctance, the tugboat began again its toilful course up the stream. The still, summer day was warm, the wide expanse of water sparkled in the sun, and on both sides the shores were gliding gently by – their grey-green reeds, and willows and poplars, all fresh and dewy, peeping through the fog.

Johannes lay on the deck, gazing at land and water, while Marjon sat beside him. Keesje amused himself with the tackle rope, chuckling with satisfaction every now and then, as he sprang back and forth, with a serious look, after a flitting bird or insect.

"Marjon," said Johannes, "how did you know so certainly yesterday that there was nothing to be afraid of?"

"Some one watches over me," said Marjon.

"Who?" asked Johannes.

"Father."

Johannes looked at her, and asked, softly:

"Do you mean your own father?"

But Marjon made a slight movement of her head toward the green earth, the flowing water, the blue sky and the sunshine, and said, with peculiar significance, as if now it was quite clear to her:

"No! I mean The Father."

"The Father Markus speaks about?"

"Yes. Of course," said Marjon.

Johannes was silent a while, gazing at the rapid flow of the water, and the slower and slower course of things according to their distance in the rear. His head was full of ideas, each one eager for utterance. But it is delightful to lie thus and view a passing country spread out under the clear light – letting the thoughts come very calmly, and selecting carefully those worthy of being clad in speech. Many are too tender and sensitive to be accorded that honor, but yet they may not be meanest ones.

Johannes first selected a stray thought.

"Is that your own idea?" he asked. Marjon was not quick with an answer, herself, this time.

"My own? No. Markus told me it. But I knew it myself, though. I knew it, but he said it. He drew it out of me. I remember everything he says – everything – even although I don't catch on."