The Quest

"Professor Johannes, let me introduce you to Professor von Pennewitz," rang suddenly in his ears. He rose to his feet startled. There stood Lady Crimmetart beside a diminutive man, whose scanty grey locks hung down to his coat-collar. The vision was little like Johannes' dream.

"This is a youthful prodigy, Professor von Pennewitz – a young poet who recites his own compositions. At the same time he is a famous medium. You certainly will have interesting things to say to each other."

Thereupon, Lady Crimmetart disappeared again among the other guests, leaving the two bowing to each other – Johannes abashed and perplexed, von Pennewitz bowing and rubbing his hands together, teetering up and down on his toes, and smiling.

"Now for the examination!" thought Johannes, waiting in mute patience – a victim to whatever wise questions the great man was to pillory him with.

"Have you – ah – known the family here for long?" asked von Pennewitz – opening and closing his thin lips with a sipping sound, while with fingers affectedly spread, he adjusted his eyeglasses, peering over the tops of them at Johannes.

"No, I do not know them at all!" replied Johannes, shaking his head.

"No?" said von Pennewitz, rubbing and wringing his hands, most cheerfully. And then he continued, in broken English:

"Well, well! That pleases me. Neither do I. Curious people! Do you not think so, young man?"

Johannes, somewhat encouraged by this affability, gave a hesitating assent.

"Have you such types in Holland, also? Surely upon a more modest scale? Ha! ha! ha! – These people are astonishingly rich! Have you tried their champagne? – No? Then you must just come with me to the buffet. It is worth the trouble, I can assure you."

Happy, now, to be at least walking with some one, Johannes followed the little man, who piloted him through the packed mass of people.

Arrived at the buffet they drank of the sparkling wine.

"But, sir," said Johannes, "I have heard that Lady Crimmetart is so very clever."

"Have you, indeed?" said the Professor, looking again at Johannes over the top of his glasses, and nodding his head. "I have nothing to say about that. Much traveled – papa a hoarding-house keeper – a smattering of almost everything. Nowadays one can get a good deal out of the newspapers. Do you read the papers, young man?"

"Not much, sir," said Johannes.

"Good! Be cautious about it. Let me give you some extra-good advice. Read few newspapers, and eat few oysters. Especially in Rome eat no oysters. I have just come from a fatal case of poisoning – a Roman student."

Johannes mentally resolved, on the spot, to eat anything in Rome rather than oysters.

"Is Lord Crimmetart also so clever, Professor?" asked Johannes.

"He is bright enough. In order to become a Lord and an arch-millionaire by means of patent pills alone, one needs to be a bright rascal. Just try it! Ha! ha! ha!"

The professor laughed heartily, snorted and sniffed, clicked his false teeth, and finished off his glass. Then he said:

"But take care, young man, that you do not marry before you have made your pile. That was a stupid move of his. He would be able to do very much better now. If he chose, he might win Countess Dolores."

The blood rushed to Johannes' head, and he flushed deeply,

"I am staying there, sir!" said he, considerably touched.

"Is that so? Is that so?" replied the professor, in a propitiatory tone. "But I said nothing about her, you know. A most charming woman. A perfect beauty. So she is your hostess? Well, well, well!"

"There is His Grace, the bishop!" cried the heavy voice of Lady Crimmetart, as she passed by, hurrying toward the entrance.

Johannes was on the qui vive for the white mitre and the gilded crozier, but he could see only a tall, ordinary gentleman in a black suit, and wearing gaiters. He had a smooth, good-looking face, that bore an affected smile; and in his hand he held a curious, flat hat, the brim of which was held up with cords, as if otherwise it might droop down over his nose. Lady Crimmetart received him quite as warmly as Aunt Seréna received the dominie. How Johannes wished he was still at his Aunt Seréna's!

"Sir!" said some one at his ear, "Milady wishes to know if you have brought your instrument, and if you will not begin now."

Johannes looked round, in a fright. He saw a portly personage with an upstroked moustache, in black satin short-clothes, and a red coat – evidently a master of ceremonies.

"I have no instrument," stammered Johannes. But he did have his castanets in his pocket. "I cannot do anything," he repeated – most miserable.

The pompous one glanced right and left, as if he had made some mistake. Then he stepped away a moment, to return soon, accompanied by Countess Dolores.

"What is it, my dear Johannes?" said the countess. "You must not disappoint us."

"But, Mevrouw, I really cannot."

The pompous one stood by, looking on in a cool, impassive way, as if quite accustomed to the sight of freaks who were considered youthful prodigies. Johannes' forehead was wet with perspiration.

"Indeed you can, Johannes! You are sure to do well."

"What shall I announce?" asked the pompous one. Johannes did not understand the question, but the countess replied, in his stead.

In a twinkling he was standing beside a piano encircled by guests, and he saw hundreds of eyes, with and without eyeglasses, fastened upon him. Straight in front – next Lady Crimmetart – sat the bishop, looking at him severely and critically, out of hard, cold, light-blue eyes.

The master of ceremonies called out, loudly and clearly:

"National Hymns of Holland." And then poor Little Johannes had to clap and sing – whatever he could. To keep up courage, he threw just a glance at the beautiful face of the countess, with its near-sighted eyes – and tried to think it was for her alone that he sang. He did his best, and sang in tremolo from "Oh, Mother, the Mariner!" and "We are going to America," to "The Hen from Japan," and "The Tiger of Timbuctoo" – his entire repertory.

They listened, and looked at him as if they thought him a queer specimen; but no one laughed. Neither the goggle-eyes of the hostess, nor the stern regard of the bishop, nor one of the hundreds of other pairs of eyes pertaining to these richly dressed and excellent ladies and gentlemen, evinced the slightest token of emotion, happy or otherwise. That was scarcely to be wondered at, since they did not understand the words; but it was not encouraging. Without loss of time, most of them turned away their attention, and began anew their laughing and chattering.

When he stopped, there sounded, to his astonishment, a lone hand-clapping, and Countess Dolores came up to him, gave her hand, and congratulated him upon his success. Lady Crimmetart, also, thundered out that it was "awfully interesting." A tall, thin young lady, in white satin, whose prominent collar bones were but slightly concealed by a ten-fold necklace of pearls, came, smiling sweetly, to press his hand. She was so happy, she said, to have heard the Carnival of Venice in the original, by a veritable resident of the city. "How peculiarly interesting! But it must be so nice, Professor … ah! I have lost your name!.. so nice to live in a city lying wholly under water, and where everybody wears wooden shoes!"

"Was that entirely your own composition, Professor Johannes?" inquired a plain, good-natured little lady, in a simple black gown. And several other women, of riper years, sought to introduce themselves. He really brightened up a little at these tokens of approval, although he rather mistrusted their sincerity. When, however, he found himself beside a group of tall, broad-shouldered Britishers, with high collars, florid, smooth-shaven cheeks, and trim, closely-cropped, wavy, blonde hair, who, one hand in the trousers' pocket, stood drinking champagne, he heard such expressions as "beastly," "rot," and "humbug," and he very well knew that the words were applied to himself.

Shortly after this it became clear to him what constitutes genuine success. A robust young lady, with very artfully arranged hair, and pretty white teeth, sang, accompanied by the piano, a German song. With her head swaying from side to side and occasionally tossed backward, and with her mouth open very wide, she threw out trills and runs, like a veritable music-box. The sound of it all pierced through to Johannes' very marrow. What her song was intended to say, it was hard to tell, for she spoke a remarkable kind of German. Apparently, she was exciting herself over a faithless lover, or mistress, and dying – out of sheer affection.

When she had ended, and made a sweet, smiling bow, a vigorous round of applause followed, with cries of "bis," and "encore." Johannes had not himself received such acclaim, nor would he now take part therein.

In his dejection, he went to find Countess Dolores. She was the only one there to whom he could turn for comfort. He asked if he might not take his leave, since he was tired, and did not feel at home where he was.

The countess herself appeared not to be very well satisfied; she had won no honors through him, nevertheless she said:

"Come, my boy, do not be discouraged! You have still other gifts. Have you spoken with Ranji-Banji-Singh?"

A little earlier, Johannes had seen the tall East-Indian, with head erect, and a courtly carriage, striding through the motley crowd. He had wide nostrils, large, handsome eyes with somewhat drooping lids, a light-brown complexion, splendid blue-black hair, and a sparse beard. He wore his white turban, and yellow silk clothing, with solemn ceremoniousness. When any one spoke to him, he smiled most condescendingly, and, closing his eyes, he laid his slender hand, with its pale nails and upturned finger-tips, upon his bosom, and made a profound and graceful bow.

Johannes had noticed him especially, as one to whom he felt more attracted than to any other; and he had visions of deep, blue skies, majestic elephants, rustling palms, and palace facades of pale marble, on the banks of the Sacred River. However, he had not dared to address him.

But now the countess and Johannes went to find him, and find him they did, beside Lady Crimmetart, in a circle of ladies to whom he appeared to be speaking in rotation, with a courtly smile.

"Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh," said Countess Dolores, "have you made the acquaintance of Professor Johannes, of Holland? He is a great medium, and you certainly will find him sympathetic."

The East-Indian showed his white teeth again, in a winning smile, and gave his hand to Johannes. The boy felt, however, that it was not given from the heart.

"But are you not also a medium, Mr. Singh?" asked one of the ladies, "such a great theosophist as you!"

Ranji-Banji-Singh threw back his head, made with his clasped hands a gesture as if warding off something, and smiling disdainfully, said, in broken English:

"Theosophists not mediums. Mediums is organ-grinders – theosophist, composer. Medium-tricks stand low; – street-jugglery for gold. Theosophist and Yogi can everything, all the same – can much more, but not show. That is meanness, unworthiness!"

The slender brown hand was shaken in Johannes' face, in an endeavor to express its owner's contempt, while the dark face of the East-Indian took on an expression of one compelled to drink something bitter.

That was too much for Johannes. Feeling himself misunderstood by the only one upon whom he cared to make a good impression, he said, angrily:

"I never perform tricks, sir. I exhibit nothing. I am not a medium."

"Not by profession – not a professional medium," said Countess Dolores, to save the situation.

"Then you do not practise table-tilting, nor slate-writing, nor flower-showering?" asked the East-Indian, while his face cleared.

"No, sir! Nothing whatever!" said Johannes, emphatically.

"If I had known that!" exclaimed Lady Crimmetart, while her eyes seemed almost rolling out of her head. "But, Mr. Singh, can you not, just for this one time, show us something? Let us see something wonderful? A spinning tambourine, or a violin that plays of itself? Do, now! When we ask you so pleadingly, and when I look at you so fondly! Come!"

And she cast sheep's eyes at Mr. Ranji-Banji-Singh in a manner which did not in the least arouse Johannes' envy.

The theosophist bowed again, smiling with closed eyes, but at the same time contracting his brows as if struggling with his aversion.

Then they went to a boudoir having glass walls and exotic plants – a kind of small conservatory, in a soft twilight. There they seated themselves at a table, with the East-Indian in the circle. Johannes was promptly excluded with the words: "Antipathetic! Bad influence!"

"That's Keesje, yet – surely!" thought Johannes.

Then there was writing upon slates held by Mr. Singh in one hand, under the table. The scratching of the pencil could be heard, and soon the slate reappeared – covered with writing in various languages – English, Latin, and Sanscrit. These sentences were translated by the East-Indian, and appeared to contain very wise and elevating lessons.

But Johannes had the misfortune to notice that the slate which should have been written upon was quickly exchanged by the theosophist the instant that he succeeded in diverting the attention of all the on-lookers. And Johannes added to his inauspicious observation the imprudent exclamation – loud and triumphant – "I see it all! He is exchanging slates!"

A regular riot ensued. Yet Ranji-Banji-Singh, with the utmost calmness, brought the exchanged slate to light again, and, with a triumphant smile, showed that it was without writing. Johannes looked baffled, yet he knew to a certainty that he had seen the deception, and he cried: "I saw it, nevertheless!"

"For shame!" thundered Lady Crimmetart. And all the other ladies cried indignantly, "Disgraceful!"

Ranji-Banji-Singh, with a taunting smile said: "I have compassion. Yogi know not hate, but pity evil-doer. Bad Karma. Unhappy person, this!"

That did not agree with what Herr van Lieverlee had said. He had commended Johannes' Karma. But Countess Dolores, now realizing that she was to have no further satisfaction out of her protégé, at once withdrew, and quite good-naturedly, so that he might not feel at all reproached. Indeed, she comforted him, with her friendly jests.

Johannes saw some daily papers lying in the hall of Countess Dolores' house. Against the advice of Professor von Pennewitz, he began running them through. His eyes remained glued to the page, for he saw there a communication from Germany, to the effect that the miners' strike had ended. The laborers had lost the battle.

The sleepless night that ensued seemed very long to him. Poor Heléne, also, was restless, and wailed and wailed without pause.

VII

Be brave now, for my story is going to be truly sombre and shuddery. Truth can sometimes appear very black; but if we only dare to look her straight in the eye, she smiles, in the end, brightly and blithely.

Only those who are afraid of her, and turn halfway back, will be caught and held fast in the meshes of gloom and misery.

You have, doubtless, known all along that there was something utterly amiss in Johannes' fine, new life – that he had made a pitiful mistake, and was all at sea. He, also, knew it now, although he would not admit it to himself. Those joyful expectations had not been prompted by the Father's voice, and he knew now that one could be misled by positive impressions.

However, he was not yet out of the scrape. To acknowledge again that he had made a mistake – to leave this life and return to Markus and Marjon, was a hard thing to do. Here were far greater attractions than Aunt Seréna's raspberries and fresh rolls. When he thought of the garden at Vrede-best, ah, how eagerly he longed to be there again! But that which held him here had a much stronger hold upon him, for he would not admit to himself that it would be better to leave it. That he should be an intimate little friend of this beautiful, distinguished woman —that, above all things – preoccupied him day and night.

Did you ever, late at night, when you ought to have been in bed, read a very captivating book? You knew then, did you not, that it was not good for you – that you would be sorry for it? Perhaps you even found the book to be dull or base. And yet you could not break off, but read on and on, just one more chapter, to see how it ended.

That was the way with Johannes, in the pretty villa of Countess Dolores.

He stayed on, week after week, month after month, writing nothing to Holland, nor to Aunt Seréna – nothing to his Brother, nor to Marjon, either because of he knew not what, or because he was ashamed.

One thought alone prevailed over all others; what would she say when he should have another talk with Countess Dolores, and what should he reply? Would she stroke his hair, or even press a kiss upon it, as once she had done – the same as with her two little daughters?

Perhaps you have never yet been in love. If you never have, you cannot know what all this means. But it is not a slight matter, and there is nothing in it to rail about.

Johannes himself did not quite know what had happened. He only felt that never yet in his life had anything so perplexing and distressing come to him.

It was so wonderful, too. It gave him pain – sharp pain – and yet it was sweet to him, and he welcomed it. It caused him anguish and anxiety, and yet he would not run away from it. It was so contradictory – so confounding!

One sultry, stormy evening he took a lonely walk over the cliffs, and followed a narrow path lying close to the grey steeps at the foot of which the breakers were pounding.

He saw the sun go down behind great masses of clouds, just as he had formerly done. But now how different it was! How cold and strange it seemed! He felt left out. Life – cruel, human life – with its passions and entanglements, now had him in its grasp.

It seemed agonizing and frightful, as if a great monster had pursued him to the shore of the sea, and were still close behind. And now Nature had become strange and inhospitable.

He stretched out his hand, and cried to the clouds:

"Oh, help me, clouds with the silver lining!" But the clouds rolled on as if wholly unconscious of the wonderful shapes they assumed at every turn – ever changing, and adorned anew with glittering gold and gleaming silver. And all the while the sea was roaring just as if it had no memory whatever of Johannes.

And when he had cried "Help me, clouds with the silver lining!" the words clung to his mind, and, like shining angels, they beckoned other, sister words, still lingering in the depths of his soul, to come and join them. And so they came – one after another, in twinkling file, and fell into line. Their faces seemed more serious than did ever those of his own words.

"Help, oh, help me, ye silver-lined clouds!Oh, save me, sun and stormy sea!To thee I fly from stifling haunts of men.Life, with its frightful, crimson-flaming hands,Has laid its hold on me.Once I was thy friend and confidant —At home in thy mysterious loneliness.I explored without fear thy boundless spaceAnd celestial mansions builded I thereWith the mere light of stars, and the waves of wind.Peace I found in thy grandeur stern,And rest in thy bright expanse.Now, life sweeps me on with its current swift,And a seething volcano I find where erstWas an ocean serene of exalted delights.Alas! thou doest rest in thy splendor immersed —As cool as a lion licking his paws.All slowly the cloud is transformed,Letting the light stream through,And the tossing main with sparks is clad,As if with a golden coat of mail.Ah, beautiful world! Untrue and unrealThou glidest away 'neath my anguished eyes.The ocean roars ever, and silent are sun and clouds.Sadly, I see the strange daylight fail.It leaves me alone with still stranger night.Oh! may I yet find there my Father's spirit,That dwells beyond sun and sea and clouds?Must I join with the hapless, hopeless throngAnd bind my sorrowful fate to theirs,Until the Great Leveler bring surcease?"

What Johannes meant by the "Great Leveler" he did not himself know at first. Neither did he at all realize that he had composed something better than formerly. But in the night he understood that it was Death he had meant. And he knew, also, that something within him had opened to the light, like an unfolding flower.

He felt that the verses might be sung like a song, but he could not hear the melody – or but faintly – like wind-wafted tones from the farthest distance. At night, he heard in his dreams the full strain, but in the morning he had entirely forgotten it. And Marjon was not there to help him.

You must remember that Little Johannes was no longer so very little. Nearly four years had passed since that morning when he had waked up in the dunes, with the little gold key.

He could not refrain from reading the poem to the countess on the following day. The making of it – the writing and rewriting – had calmed the unrest out of which it had come. He was curious, now, to learn what others would say of it – above all, the one who was ever in his thoughts.

"Ah, yes!" said she, after he had read it aloud, "life is fearful! And that 'surcease' is all that I long for. I fully agree with you."

This remark, however kind the intention of the speaker, gave Johannes, to his own astonishment, small pleasure. He would have preferred to hear something different.

"Do you think it good?" he asked, with a vague feeling that he really ought not to ask the question, because he had been so very much in earnest over the verses. And when one is deeply in earnest about anything one does not ask if it is good; no more than he would ask if he had wept beautifully. But yet he would have liked, so well, to know what she thought.

"I do not know, Johannes. You must not hope for a criticism from me. I think the idea very sympathetic, and the form seems to me also quite poetic. But whether or not it is good poetry, you must ask of Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He is a poet."

"Is Mijnheer van Lieverlee coming soon?"

"Yes; I expect him shortly."

One fine day Van Lieverlee put in an appearance. With him arrived a host of merrily creaking, yellow trunks, smelling delightfully like russia leather – ditto high-hat box, and a brisk, smooth-shaven, traveling-servant.

Van Lieverlee wore in his button-hole a dark-red rose, and pointed pale-green carnation leaves.

He was very much at his ease – contented and gay – and when he saw Johannes he did not appear to have a very clear remembrance of him.

That evening Johannes read to him the poem. Van Lieverlee listened, with an absent-minded expression of face, while he drummed on the arm of the low, easy-chair in which he lay indolently outstretched. It looked very much as if the verses bored him.

When it was over, and Johannes was waiting in painful suspense, he shook his head emphatically.

"All rhetoric, my worthy friend – mere bombast! 'Oh! Alas!' and 'Ah!' All those are impotent cryings which show that the business is beyond you. If you had full control of expression, you would not utter such cries – you would form, shape, knead, create, model —model! Plasticity, Johannes! That is the thing – vision, color, imagery! I see nothing in that poem. I want something to see and taste. Just think of that sonnet of mine! Every line full of form, of imagery, of real, actual things! With you, there is nothing but vague terms – weak swaggering – all about the spirit of your Father, and such things – none of them to be seen. And, to produce effect, you call upon the other words: 'Ah!' and 'Alas!' and 'Oh!' as if that helped, at all. Any cad could do that if he fell into the water. That is not poetry."

Johannes was completely routed. And although his hostess tried to console him with assurances that if he did his best things would go better with him by and by, when he was a little older, it was of no avail. Johannes already knew that it was quite in vain for him to attempt his best, so long as the inspiration he so much needed was withheld.

His night was a sad one; for the serious words of the poem were continually before him, and to think that they had been disdained was indeed torture. They would not be driven away, but remained to vindicate their worth. And then he wished that others, as well as he, should value them. But his powerlessness and his own mistrust, were a grievous vexation.