The Quest. Frederik van Eeden

pale-blue plants were growing there. Still another high range of hills, a long narrow stretch of sand, and then the wide, awful sea.

      That great expanse was blue as far as the horizon, but below the sun flashed a narrow streak of glittering, blinding red.

      A long, fleecy margin of white foam encircled the sea, like an ermine border upon blue velvet.

      And at the horizon, sky and water were separated by an exquisite, wonderful line. It seemed miraculous; straight, and yet curved, sharp, yet undefined – visible, yet inscrutable. It was like the sound of a harp that echoes long and dreamfully, seeming to die away and yet remaining.

      Then little Johannes sat down upon the top of the hill and gazed – gazed long, in motionless silence, until it seemed to him as if he were about to die – as if the great golden doors of the universe were majestically unfolding, and his little soul were drifting toward the first light of Infinity.

      And then the tears welled in his wide-open eyes till they shrouded the glory of the sun, and obscured the splendor of heaven and earth in a dim and misty twilight.

      "That is the way to pray," said Windekind.

      V

      Did you ever wander through the woods on a beautiful autumn day, when the sun was shining, calm and bright, upon the richly tinted foliage; when the boughs creaked, and the dry leaves rustled about your feet?

      The woods seem so weary. They can only meditate, and live in old remembrances. A blue haze, like a dream, surrounds them with a mysterious beauty, and glistening gossamer floats through the air in idle undulations – like futile, aimless meditations.

      Yet, suddenly and unaccountably, out of the damp ground, between moss and dry leaves, rise up the marvelous toadstools; some thick, deformed, and fleshy; others tall and slender with ringed stems and bright-colored hoods. Strange dream-figures of the woods are they!

      There may be seen also, on moldering tree-trunks, countless, small white growths with little black tops, as if they had been burnt. Some wise folk consider them a kind of fungus. But Johannes learned better.

      "They are little candles. They burn in still autumn nights, and the goblin mannikins sit beside them, and read in little books."

      Windekind taught him that, on such a still autumn day, while Johannes dreamily inhaled the faint odor of the forest soil.

      "What makes the leaves of the sycamore so spotted with black?"

      "Oh, the goblins do that, too," said Windekind. "When they have been writing nights, they throw out in the morning, over the leaves, what is left in their ink bottles. They do not like this tree. Crosses, and poles for contribution bags, are made out of sycamore wood."

      Johannes was inquisitive about the busy little goblins, and he made Windekind promise to take him to one of them.

      He had already been a long time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret over his promise to forget all he had left behind. There were no times of anxiety or of loneliness – times when remorse wakens. Windekind never left him, and with him he was at home in any place. He slept peacefully, in the rocking nest of the reed-bird that hung among the green stalks, although the bittern roared and the raven croaked so ominously. He felt no fear on account of pouring rains nor shrieking winds. At such times he took shelter in hollow trees or rabbit-holes, and crept close under Windekind's mantle, and listened to the voice which was telling him stories.

      And now he was going to see the goblins.

      It was a good day for the visit – so very still. Johannes fancied he could already hear their light little voices, and the tripping of their tiny feet, although it was yet midday.

      The birds were nearly all gone – the thrushes alone were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There it hung with outstretched wings, struggling until the tightly pinioned little foot was nearly severed. Johannes quickly released it, and with a joyful chirp the bird flew swiftly away.

      The toadstools were having a chatty time together.

      "Just look at me," said one fat devil-fungus. "Did you ever see anything like it? See how thick and white my stem is, and see how my hood shines! I am the biggest of all. And that in one night!"

      "Bah!" said the red fly-fungus. "You are very clumsy – so brown and rough. I sway on my slender stalk like a grass stem. I am splendidly red, like the thrush-berry and gorgeously speckled. I am handsomer than any of you."

      "Be still!" said Johannes, who had known them well in former days. "You are both poisonous."

      "That is a virtue," said the red fungus.

      "Do you happen to be a human being?" grumbled the big fellow, scornfully. "If so, I would like to have you eat me up!"

      Johannes did not do that, however. He took little dry twigs, and stuck them into his clumsy hood. That made him look silly, and all the others laughed – among them, a little group of tiny toadstools with small, brown heads, who in a couple of hours had sprung up together, and were jostling one another to get a peep at the world. The devil-fungus was blue with rage. That brought to light his poisonous nature.

      Puff-balls raised their round, inflated little heads on four-pointed pedestals. From time to time a cloud of brown powder, of the utmost fineness, flew out of the opening in the round head. Wherever on the moist ground that powder fell, tiny rootlets would interlace in the black earth, and the following year hundreds of new puff-balls would spring up.

      "What a beautiful existence!" said they to one another. "The very acme of attainment is to puff powder. What a joy to be able to puff, as long as one lives!"

      And with devout consecration they drove the small dust-clouds into the air.

      "Are they right, Windekind?"

      "Why not? For them, what can be higher? It is fortunate that they long for nothing more, when they can do nothing else."

      When night fell, and the shadows of the trees were intermingled in one general obscurity, that mysterious forest life did not cease. The branches cracked and snapped, the dry leaves rustled hither and thither over the grass and in the underwood, and Johannes felt the draft from inaudible wing-strokes, and was conscious of the presence of invisible beings. And now he heard, clearly, whispering voices and tripping footsteps. Look! There, in the dusky depths of the bushes, a tiny blue spark just twinkled, and then went out. Another one, and another! Hush! Listening attentively, he could hear a rustling in the leaves close beside him, by the dark tree-trunk. The blue lights appeared from behind this, and held still at the top.

      Everywhere, now, Johannes saw glimmering lights. They floated through the foliage, danced and skipped along the ground; and yonder was a great, glowing mass like a blue bonfire.

      "What kind of fire is that?" asked Johannes. "How splendidly it burns!"

      "That is a decayed tree-trunk," said Windekind. Then they went up to a bright little light, which was burning steadily.

      "Now I will introduce you to Wistik.3 He is the oldest and wisest of the goblins."

      Having come up closer, Johannes saw him sitting beside his little candle. By the blue light of this, one could plainly distinguish the wrinkled, grey-bearded face. He was reading aloud, and his eyebrows were knit. On his head he wore a little acorn cap with a tiny feather in it. Before him sat a spider – listening to the reading.

      Without lifting his head, the goblin glanced up from the book as the two approached, and raised his eyebrows. The spider crept away. "Good evening," said the goblin. "I am Wistik. Who are you?"

      "My name is Johannes. I am very happy to make your acquaintance. What are you reading?"

      "This is not intended for your ears," said Wistik. "It is only for spiders."

      "Let me have just a peep at it, dear Wistik!" said Johannes.

      "I must not. It is the Sacred Book of the spiders. It is in my keeping, and I must never let it out of my hands. I have the Sacred Book of the beetles and the butterflies and the hedgehogs and the moles, and of everything

3

Wistik = Would that I knew.