The Quest

The lieutenant, frightened, tortured, and in the end roundly ridiculed, naturally became enraged; and an enraged German lieutenant was quite the most awful creature in human guise that Johannes had ever beheld. He expected nothing less than a beginning of the Judgment Day – the end of all things.

The precise details of that scrimmage he was never able to recall with accuracy. There was a general fracas, a clatter of iron chairs and stands, and vehement screeching from Keesje, who behaved himself like murdered innocence. From the lieutenant's highly flushed face Johannes heard at first a word indicating that he was suspected of having vermin. That left him cold, for he had been so glad to know that up to this time he had escaped them. Then he saw that it was not the shrieking Keesje, but Marjon herself, who had been nabbed and was being severely pommeled. She had hurriedly caught up the monkey, and was trying to flee with him.

Then his feelings underwent a sudden change, as if, in the theatre of his soul, "The Captivity" scene were suddenly shoved right and left to make place for "A Mountain View in a Thunder-storm."

The next moment he found himself on the back of the tall lieutenant, pounding away with all his might; at first on something which offered rather too much resistance – a shining black helmet – afterward, on more tender things – ears and neck, presumably. At the same time he felt himself, for several seconds, uncommonly happy.

In a trice there was another change in the situation, and he discovered himself in a grip of steel, to be flung down upon the dusty road in front of the terrace. Then he suddenly heard Marjon's voice:

"Has he hurt you? Can you run? Quick, then; run like lightning!"

Without understanding why, Johannes did as she said. The children ran swiftly down the mountain-side, slipped through the shrubbery of a little park, climbed over a couple of low, stone walls, and fled into a small house on the bank of the river, where an old woman in a black kerchief sat peacefully plucking chickens.

Johannes and Marjon had continually met with helpfulness and friendliness among poor and lowly people, and now they were not sent off, although they were obliged to admit that the police might be coming after them.

"Well, you young scamps," said the old woman, with a playful chuckle, "then you must stay till night in the pigsty. They'll not look for you there; it smells too bad. But take care, if you wake Rike up, or if that gorilla of yours gets to fighting with him!"

So there they sat in the pigsty with Rike the fat pig, who made no movement except with his ears, and welcomed his visitors with short little grunts. It began to rain, and they sat as still as mice – Keesje, also, who had a vague impression that he was to blame for this sad state of things. Marjon whispered:

"Who would have thought, Jo, that you cared so much for me? I was afraid this time, and you punched his head. It was splendid! Mayn't I give you a kiss, now?"

In silence, Johannes accepted her offer. Then Marjon went on:

"But we were both of us stupid; I, because I forgot all about Kees, in the music; and you, because you let out about me.

"Let out about you!" exclaimed Johannes, in amazement.

"Certainly," said Marjon, "by shouting out that I was a girl!"

"Did I do that?" asked Johannes. It had quite slipped out of his mind.

"Yes," said Marjon, "and now we're in a pickle again! Other togs! You can't do that in these parts. That's worse than hitting a lieutenant over the head, and we mustn't do any more of that."

"Did he hit you hard?" asked Johannes. "Does it hurt still?"

"Oh," said Marjon, lightly, "I've had worse lickings than that."

That night, after dark, the old woman's son – the vine-dresser – released them from Rike's hospitable dwelling, and took them, in a rowboat, across the Rhine.

XV

Bright and early one still, sunny morning they came to a small watering-place nestled in the mountains. It was not yet seven o'clock. A light mist clung around the dark-green summits, and the dew was sparkling on the velvety green grass, and over the flaming red geraniums, the white, purple-hearted carnations, and the fragrant, brown-green mignonette of the park. Fashionably dressed ladies and gentlemen were drinking, according to advice, the hot, saline waters of the springs; and later, while the cheerful music played, they promenaded up and down the marble-paved esplanade.

Marjon sought such places; for in them more was to be earned. Already a couple of competitors were there before them – a robust man and his little daughter. Both of them were dressed in flesh-colored tights, and in spangled, black velvet knickerbockers; but oh, how dusty and worn and patched they were! The little girl was much younger than Marjon, and had a vacant, impudent little face. She walked on her hands in such a way that her feet dangled down over her black, curly pate.

Johannes did not enjoy this encounter. Marjon and he belonged to the better class of Fair-people. Their caps and jackets just now were not, it is true, quite so fresh and well brushed as formerly, but all that they had on was whole – even their shoes. Johannes still wore his suit, which was that of a young gentleman, and Marjon was wearing the velvet stable-jacket of a circus-boy. They paid no attention to the shabby Hercules and his little daughter.

In Marjon's case this was only from vexation because of the competition; in Johannes', he well knew, it was pride. He pitied that rough man with the barbarous face, and that poor, dull child-acrobat; but it was not to his taste that he should be thought their colleague and equal, by all these respectable watering-place guests.

He was so vexed he would not sing; and he walked dreamily on amid the flowers, with vague fancies, and a deep melancholy, in his soul. He thought of his childhood home, and the kitchen-garden; of the dunes, and of the autumn day when he went to the gardener's, at Robinetta's country home; of Windekind, of Markus, and of Aunt Seréna's flower-garden.

The flowers looked at him with their wide-open, serious eyes – the pinks, the stiff, striped zinias, and the flaming yellow sunflowers. Apparently, they all pitied him, as if whispering to one another: "Look! Poor Little Johannes! Do you remember when he used to visit us in the land of elves and flowers? He was so young and happy then! Now he is sad and forsaken – a shabby circus-boy who must sing for his living. Is it not too bad?"

And the white, purple-hearted carnations rocked to and fro with compassion, and the great sunflowers hung their heads and looked straight down, with dismay in their eyes.

The sunshine was so calm and splendid, and the pointed heads of the mignonette smelled so sweet! And when Johannes came to a bed of drooping blue lobelias that seemed always to have shining drops of dewy tears in their eyes purely from sympathy, then he felt so sorry himself for poor Little Johannes that he had to go and sit down on a bench to cry. And there, just as if they understood the situation – in the music tent, concealed by the shrubbery – the portly band-master and his musicians, in their flat, gold-embroidered caps, were playing, very feelingly, a melancholy folksong. Marjon, however, who persistently kept business in mind, was on the marble esplanade, deep in jugglery with plates and eggs and apples. Johannes saw it, and was a little ashamed of himself. He began trying to make verses:

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!Ah, lovely lobelia blue!Why look those eyes so mournfully?For whom do you wear,In the morning bright,Those glistening tears of dew?"Ah! do you still know me?.."

But he got no further, because he found it too hard, and also because he had no paper with him.

Just then Marjon came up:

"Why do you sit there bungling, Jo, and let me do all the work? As soon as the bread and butter comes you'll be sure to be on hand."

She spoke rather tartly, and it was not surprising that Johannes retorted curtly:

"I am not always thinking of money, and something to eat, like you."

That hit harder than he thought; and now the sun was sparkling not only upon the dew-drops in the lobelia's eyes, but upon those in the two clear eyes of a little girl. However, Marjon was not angry, but said gently:

"Were you making verses?"

Johannes nodded, without speaking.

"Excuse me, Jo. May I hear them?"

And Johannes began:

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!Ah, lovely lobelia blue!Why look those eyes so earnestly?Why thus bedight,This morning brightWith glistening tears of dew?"Oh, do you still think of the olden days…"

Again he broke down, and gazed silently out before him, with sorrowful eyes.

"Are you going to finish it, Jo?" asked Marjon with quiet deference. "You just stay here, I shall get on very well alone. See if I don't!"

And she returned to the fashionable, general promenade, with Keesje, her plates, her eggs, and her apples.

Then Johannes looked up, and suddenly saw before him something so charming and captivating that he became conscious of an entirely new sensation. It was as if until now he had been living in a room whose walls were pictured with flowers and mountains and waterfalls and blue sky, and as if those walls had suddenly vanished, and he could see all about him the real blue heavens, and the real woods and rivers.

The sunny, flower-filled little park of the watering-place was bounded by steep rocks of porphyry. At the foot of them, by the side of a small stream of clear, dark water, was a rich growth of shadowy underwood. A small path led from the mountain, and two children were descending it, hand in hand, talking fast in their light, clear voices.

They were two little girls, about nine and ten years of age. They wore black velvet frocks confined at the waist by colored ribbons – one red, the other ivory-white. Each one had trim, smoothly drawn stockings of the same color as her sash, and fine, low shoes. They were bare-headed, and both had thick golden hair that fell down over the black velvet in heavy, glossy curls.

The musicians, as if aware of their presence, now played a charming dance-tune, and the two little girls, with both hands clasped together, began playfully keeping time with their slender limbs —One, two, three —one, two, three – or the "three-step," as children say. And what Johannes experienced when he saw and heard that, I am not going even to try to describe to you, for the reason that he has never been able himself to do it.

Only know that it was something very delightful and very mysterious, for it made him think of Windekind's fairyland. Why, was more than he could understand.

At first, it seemed as if something out of the glorious land of Windekind and Father Pan had been brought to him, and that it was those two little girls upon the mountain-path, keeping time to the music with their slim little feet.

Then, hand in hand, the two children went through the park, chatting as they went – now and then running, and sometimes laughing merrily as they stopped beside a flower or a butterfly, until, through the maze of promenaders, they disappeared in the halls of a large hotel.

Johannes followed after them, wondering what they were so much interested in, observing the while all their pretty little ways, their intonations and winsome gestures, their dainty dress, their beautiful hair and slender forms.

When he was again with Marjon, he could not help remarking how much less pretty she was – with her meagre form and pale face – her larger hands and feet, and short, ash-colored hair. Johannes said nothing about this little adventure, but was very quiet and introspective. Because of this, Marjon also was for a long time less merry than usual.

That afternoon, when they went the round of the place again, trying to collect money from the families who, according to the German custom, were taking cake and coffee in front of the hotels and the pavilions, Johannes felt himself getting very nervous in the neighborhood of the big hotel into which the two little girls had gone. His heart beat so fast he could not sing any more.

And sure enough, as they came nearer, he heard the very same two bird-like little voices which had been ringing in his ears the whole day long, shouting for joy. That was not on account of Little Johannes, but of Keesje. For the first time Johannes was fiercely jealous of him.

In a gentle, quieting way, a musical voice called out two names: "Olga! – Frieda!"

But Johannes was too much confused and undone to note clearly what he saw. It was they – the two lovely children whom he had first seen in the morning – and they came close up, and spoke to Keesje. Their mother called them again, and then the children coaxed and pleaded, in most supplicating tones, that the delightful monkey might be allowed to come a little nearer – that they might give him some cake, and that he might perform his tricks.

It seemed to Johannes as if he were in a dream – as if everything around him were hazy and indistinct. He had felt that way when he stood in Robinetta's house, confronted by those hostile men. But then everything was dismal and frightful, while now it was glad and glorious. He heard, vaguely, the confusing sounds of voices, and the clatter of cups and saucers, and silver utensils. He felt the touch of the children's gentle little hands, and was led to a small table whence the reproving voice had sounded. A lady and a gentleman were sitting there. Some dainties were given to Keesje.

"Can you sing?" asked a voice in German.

Then Johannes bethought him for the first time that the two little girls had been speaking in English. Marjon tuned her guitar and gave him a hard poke in the side with the neck of it, because she found him getting so flustered again. Then they sang the song that Johannes had completed that morning, and which Marjon had since put to music.

"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!Ah, lovely lobelia blue!Why gaze at me so mournfully?Why thus bedight,This morning brightWith glistening tears of dew?"Ah! is't remembrance of olden days,When the exquisite nightingale sung?When the fairies danced, over mossy ways,In the still moonlight,'Neath the stars so bright,When yet the world was young?"Ah, scarlet geranium, blossom true!Ah, lovely lobelia blue!The sun is grown dim, and the sky o'ercast,The winds grow cold,The world is old,And the Autumn comes fast – so fast!"

Johannes was singing clearly again. The lump in his throat had gone away as suddenly as it had come.

Then he heard the gentleman say in great astonishment: "They are singing in Dutch!" And then they had to repeat their song.

Johannes sang as he never yet had sung – with full fervor. All his sadness, all his indefinite longings, found voice in his song. Marjon accompanied him with soft, subdued guitar-strokes, and with her alto voice. Yet the music was entirely hers.

The effect upon the family at the table, moreover, was quite different from that which up to this time they had produced. The stylish lady uttered a prolonged "Ah!" in a soft, high voice, and closely scanned the pair through a long-handled, tortoise-shell lorgnette. The gentleman said in Dutch: "Fine! First rate! Really, that is unusually good!" The little girls clapped their hand, and shouted "Bravo! Bravo!"

Johannes felt his face glowing with pleasure and satisfaction. Then the stylish lady, placing her lorgnette in her lap, said:

"Come up nearer, boys." She, too, now spoke in Dutch, but with a foreign accent, that sounded very charming to Johannes.

"Tell me," she said kindly, "where did you come from, and where did you find that beautiful little song?"

"We came from Holland, Mevrouw," replied Johannes, still a trifle confused, "and we made the song ourselves."

"Made it yourselves!" exclaimed the lady, with affable astonishment, while she exchanged a glance with the gentleman beside her. "The words, or the music?"

"Both," said Johannes. "I made the words, and my friend the music."

"Well, well, well!" said the lady, smiling at his pretty air of self-satisfaction.

And then they both had to sit at the table and have some cake and coffee. Johannes was gloriously happy, but the two dear little girls had eyes only for Keesje, whom they tried cautiously to caress. When Keesje turned his head round rather too suddenly, and looked at them too sharply out of his piercing little brown eyes, they quickly withdrew their small white hands, making merry little shrieks of fright. How jealous Johannes was of Keesje! Marjon wore the serious, indifferent expression of face that was native to her.

"Now tell us a little more," said the charming lady. "Surely you are not common tramps, are you?"

Johannes looked into the refined face, and the eyes that were slightly contracted from near-sightedness. It seemed to him as if he never before had seen such a noble and beautiful lady. She was far from old yet – perhaps thirty years of age – and was very exquisitely dressed, with a cloud of lace about her shoulders and wrists, pearls around her neck, and wearing a profusion of sparkling rings and bracelets. An exquisite perfume surrounded her, and as she looked at Johannes, and addressed him so kindly, he was completely enchanted and bewildered. Acceding to her request he began, with joyful alacrity, to tell of himself and his life, of the death of his father, of his Aunt Seréna, and of his meeting with Marjon, and their flight together. But still he was discreet enough not to begin about Windekind and Pluizer, and his first meeting with Markus.

The circle gave close attention, while Marjon looked as dull and dejected as ever, and busied herself with Keesje.

"How extremely interesting!" said the children's mother, addressing the gentleman who sat next her. "Do you not think so, Mijnheer van Lieverlee? – Very, very interesting?"

"Yes, Mevrouw, I do, indeed – very peculiar! It is a find. What is your name, my boy?"

"Johannes, Mijnheer."

"Is that so? – But you are not Johannes, the friend of Windekind!"

Johannes blushed, and stammered in great confusion: "Yes, – I am he, Mijnheer!"

Suddenly Keesje gave an ugly screech, causing the lady and gentleman to start nervously. Evidently, Marjon had pinched his tail – a thing she rarely did.

XVI

See, now, what comes of not doing what I expressly desired! Mijnheer van Lieverlee knew very well that I did not wish Little Johannes to be taken in hand; and yet now it happened, and, as you are to hear, with disastrous consequences.

Mijnheer van Lieverlee was not more than six years the senior of Johannes. He had large blue eyes, a waxy white face with two spots of soft color, a scanty, flax-like, double-pointed beard, and a thick tuft of sandy hair artfully arranged above his forehead. A scarf-pin of blue sapphires was sparkling in his broad, dark-violet scarf, a high, snow-white collar reached from his modish coat-collar up to the hair in his neck, and his hands – covered with rings – were resting on the exquisitely carved, ivory head of an ebony walking-stick. On the table, in front of him, lay a fine, light-grey felt hat, and his pantaloons were of the same color.

All were silent for a moment after Johannes' acknowledgment. Then Mijnheer van Lieverlee pulled out a handsome pocket-book, bearing an ornamental monogram in small diamonds, made in it several entries, and said to the lady:

"We can say to a certainty that this is not an accident. Evidently, his 'karma' is favorable. That he should have come directly here to us who know his history, and comprehend his soul, is the work of the highest order of intelligences – those who are attending him. We must heed the suggestion."

"It surely is an important circumstance, and one to be considered," said the lady, irresolutely. "Where do you live?"

"Over there by the railway – in the lodging-house," replied Marjon.

Mevrouw looked rather coldly, and said: "Well, boys, you may go home now. Here are three marks for each of you. And, Johannes, will you not write out that little song for me? There really was a charming melancholy in it. 'Twas sympathetic."

"Yes, Mevrouw, I will do so. And then may I come and bring it to you myself?"

"Certainly, certainly!" said the lady; but, at the same time, she closely scrutinized his clothing, through her lorgnette.

When they had turned away, and were out of sight, Marjon ran straight back again to the rear of the hotel, and began making personal inquiries, and kept busy as long as she could find any one who knew anything about the household of the stately lady, and the two lovely little girls.

"Do you mean the Countess?" asked a conceited head-waiter, with scornful emphasis. "Do you perchance belong to the family?"

"Well, why not?" retorted Marjon, with great self-assurance. "All the same, there have been countesses who eloped with head-waiters."

The cook and the chambermaids laughed.

"Clear out, you rascal!" said the waiter.

"What country is she from?" asked Marjon, undeterred.

"She? She has no native country. The Count was a Pole, and the Countess came from America. At present she is living in Holland."

"Widow – or divorced?" asked one of the chambermaids.

"Divorced, of course! That's much more interesting."

"And that young Hollander? Is he related to her?"

"What! He's a fellow-traveler. They met there."

"Shall we not start out again, Jo?" asked Marjon, as they sat together eating their supper of brown bread and cheese, in the same cramped, smoky room where the humble Hercules and his little daughter were also sitting – dressed, at present, in shabby civilian clothes, and each provided with a glass of beer.

"I am going to take my song," said Johannes.

"Manage it some way, Jo; I'll have nothing to do with those people."

Johannes ate his supper in silence. But, secretly, his feeling toward Marjon grew cooler, and she dropped in his estimation. She was jealous, or insensitive to what was beautiful or noble in people. She had also lived so long among dirty and rude folk! Oh, those two dear little girls! They were nobler and more refined beings. Softly – fervently – Johannes repeated their names: "Olga! Frieda!"

Then, as true as you live, there came a gold-bebraided small boy from the big hotel, bearing a note so perfumed that the close little room was filled with its sweetness; and the beer drinkers sniffed it with astonishment.

It was from Mijnheer, requesting Johannes to come to him, but without the monkey.

"Go by yourself," said Marjon. "Kees mustn't go along because he has an odor of another sort. You may say that I prefer that of Kees."

Mijnheer van Lieverlee was drinking strong black coffee from small metal cups, and smoking a Turkish pipe with an amber mouthpiece. At each pull of the pipe the water gurgled. He wore black silk hose and polished shoes, and he invited Johannes to a seat beside him on the broad divan.

After a pause he addressed Johannes as follows: "There – that's it, Johannes! Sit quite still, and while we talk try to maintain yourself in the uppermost soul-sphere." Then, after a period of pipe-gurgling, Mijnheer van Lieverlee asked: "Are you there?"

Johannes was not quite sure about it, but he nodded assent, being very curious concerning what was to follow.

"I can ask you that, Johannes, because we understand each other instantly. You and I, you know – you and I! We knew each other before we were in the body. It is not necessary for us to make each other's acquaintance after the manner of ordinary, commonplace people. We can instantly do as you and Windekind did. We are not learning to know, but we recognize each other."

Johannes listened attentively to this interesting and extraordinary statement. He looked at the speaker respectfully, and tried indeed to recall him, but without success.

"You will already have wondered that I should know about your adventures. But that is not so very marvelous, for there is some one else to whom you appear to have told them. Do you know whom I mean?"

Johannes knew well whom he meant.

"Really, you ought not to have done it, Johannes. When I heard of it I said at once that it was a great pity. The world is too coarse and superficial in such matters. People do not comprehend them. You must not permit that which is rare and delicate to be desecrated and contaminated by the foul touch of the indifferent public – the stupid multitude. Do you understand?"