The Quest. Frederik van Eeden

saw his deceased companions in the stars – or of the May-bug who was one day older than the other, and who had said so much about a calling. And he heard tales which made him think of Kribblegauw, the hero of the spiders; or of the eel who did nothing, and yet was fed because a fat king was most desired. He likened himself to the young May-bug who did not know what a calling was, and who flew into the light. He felt as if he also were creeping over the carpet, helpless and maimed, with a string around his body – a cutting string that Pluizer was pulling and twitching.

      Ah! he would never again find the garden! When would the heavy foot come and crush him?

      Pluizer ridiculed him whenever he spoke of Windekind, and, gradually, he began to believe that Windekind had never existed.

      "But, Pluizer, is there then no little key? Is there nothing at all?"

      "Nothing, nothing. Men and figures. They are all real – they exist – no end of figures!"

      "Then you have deceived me, Pluizer! Let me leave off – do not make me seek any more – let me alone!"

      "Have you forgotten what Death said? You were to become a man – a complete man."

      "I will not – it is dreadful!"

      "You must – you have made your choice. Just look at Doctor Cijfer. Does he find it dreadful? Grow to be like him."

      It was quite true. Doctor Cijfer always seemed calm and happy. Untiring and imperturbable, he went his way – studying and instructing, contented and even-tempered.

      "Look at him," said Pluizer. "He sees all, and yet sees nothing. He looks at men as if he himself were another kind of being who had no concern about them. He goes amid disease and misery like one invulnerable, and consorts with Death like one immortal. He longs only to understand what he sees, and he thinks everything equally good that comes to him in the way of knowledge. He is satisfied with everything, as soon as he understands it. You ought to become so, too."

      "But I never can."

      "That is true, but it is not my fault."

      In this hopeless way their discussions always ended. Johannes grew dull and indifferent, seeking and seeking – what for or why, he no longer knew. He had become like the many to whom Wistik had spoken.

      The winter came, but he scarcely observed it.

      One chilly, misty morning, when the snow lay wet and dirty in the streets, and dripped from trees and roofs, he went with Pluizer to take his daily walk.

      In a city square he met a group of young girls carrying school-books. They stopped to throw snow at one another – and they laughed and romped. Their voices rang clearly over the snowy square. Not a footstep was to be heard, nor the sound of a vehicle – only the tinkling bells of the horses, or the rattling of a shop door; and the joyful laughing rang loudly through the stillness.

      Johannes saw that one of the girls glanced at him, and then kept looking back. She had on a black hat, and wore a gay little cloak. He knew her face very well, but could not think who she was. She nodded to him – and then again.

      "Who is that? I know her."

      "That is possible. Her name is Maria. Some call her Robinetta."

      "No, that cannot be. She is not like Windekind. She is like any other girl."

      "Ha, ha, ha! She cannot be like nobody. But she is what she is. You have been longing to see her, and now I will take you to her."

      "No! I do not want to go. I would rather have seen her dead, like the others."

      And Johannes did not look round again, but hurried on, muttering:

      "This is the last! There is nothing – nothing!"

      XIII

      The clear warm sunlight of an early spring morning streamed over the great city. Bright rays entered the little room where Johannes lived, and on the low ceiling there quivered and wavered a great splash of light, reflected from the water rippling in the moat.

      Johannes sat before the window in the sunshine, gazing out over the town. Its aspect was entirely altered. The grey fog had floated away, and a lustrous blue vapor enfolded the end of the long street and the distant towers. The slopes of the slate roofs glistened – silver-white. All the houses showed clear lines and bright surfaces in the sunlight, and there was a warm pulsing in the pale blue air. The water seemed alive. The brown buds of the elm trees were big and glossy, and clamorous sparrows were fluttering among the branches.

      As he gazed at all this, Johannes fell into a strange mood. The sunshine brought to him a sweet stupor – a blending of real luxury and oblivion. Dreamily he gazed at the glittering ripples – the swelling elm-tree buds, and he listened to the chirping of the sparrows. There was gladness in their notes.

      Not in a long time had he felt so susceptible to subtle impressions – nor so really happy.

      This was the old sunshine that he remembered. This was the sun that used to call him out-of-doors to the garden, where he would lie down on the warm ground, looking at the grasses and green things in front of him. There, nestled in the lee of an old wall, he could enjoy at his ease the light and heat.

      It was just right in that light! It gave that safe-at-home feeling – such as he remembered long ago, in his mother's arms. His mind was full of memories of former times, but he neither wept for nor desired them. He sat still and dreamed – wishing only that the sun would continue to shine.

      "What are you moping about there, Johannes?" cried Pluizer. "You know I do not approve of dreaming."

      Johannes raised his pensive eyes, imploringly.

      "Let me stay a little longer," said he. "The sun is so good."

      "What do you find in the sun?" asked Pluizer. "It is nothing but a big candle; it does not make a bit of difference whether you are in candle-light or sunlight. Look! see those shadows and dashes of light on the street. They are nothing but the varied effect of one little light that burns steadily – without a flicker. And that light is really a tiny flame, which shines upon a mere speck of the earth. There, beyond that blue – above and beneath us – it is dark – cold and dark! It is night there – now and ever."

      But his words had no effect on Johannes. The still warm sunshine penetrated him, and filled his whole being with light and peace.

      Pluizer led him away to the chilly house of Doctor Cijfer. For a little while the image of the sun hovered before his vision, then slowly faded away; and by the middle of the day all was dark again.

      When the evening came and he passed through the town once more, the air was sultry and full of the stuffy smells of spring. Everything was reeking, and he felt oppressed in the narrow streets. But in the open squares he smelled the grass and the buds of the country beyond; and he saw the spring in the tranquil little clouds above it all – in the tender flush of the western sky.

      The twilight spread a soft grey mist, full of delicate tints, over the town. It was quiet everywhere – only a street-organ in the distance was playing a mournful tune. The buildings seemed black spectres against the crimson sky – their fantastic pinnacles and chimneys reaching up like countless arms.

      When the sun threw its last rays out over the great town, it seemed to Johannes that it gave him a kind smile – kind as the smile that forgives a folly. And the sweet warmth stroked his cheeks, caressingly.

      Then a great sadness came into Johannes' heart – so great that he could go no farther. He took a deep breath, and lifted up his face to the wide heavens. The spring was calling him, and he heard it. He would answer – he would go. He was all contrition and love and forgiveness.

      He looked up longingly, and tears fell from his sorrowful eyes.

      "Come, Johannes! Do not act so oddly – people are looking at you," said Pluizer.

      Long, monotonous rows of houses stretched out on both sides – dark and gloomy – offensive in the soft spring air, discordant in the springtime melody.

      People sat at their doors and on the stoops to enjoy the season. To Johannes it was a mockery. The dirty