The Quest. Frederik van Eeden
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– forget the blue heavens, good, kindly Nature, and even their fellow-beings. Sometimes they find beautiful and useful things, like lumps of gold. These they cast up out of their caves, on the sunny surface of the earth. Yet they do not concern themselves with these things – leaving them for others to enjoy. They dig and drudge in the darkness with eager expectancy. They are not seeking gold, but the book. Some grow feeble-minded with the toil, forget their object and their desire, and wander about in aimless idleness. The goblin has made them childish. They may be seen piling up little towers of sand, and reckoning how many grains are lacking before they tumble down. They make little waterfalls, and calculate precisely each bend and bay the flow will make. They dig little pits, and employ all their patience and genius in making them smooth and quite free from stones. If these poor, infatuated ones are disturbed in their labor, and asked what they are doing, they look at you seriously and importantly, shake their heads and mutter: 'Wistik! Wistik!' Yes, it is all the fault of that wicked little goblin. Look out for him, Johannes!"
But Johannes was staring before him at the swaying, creaking trees. Above his clear child-eyes wrinkles had formed in the tender flesh. Never before had he looked so grave.
"But yet – you have said it yourself, that there was such a book! Oh, I know – certainly – that there is something in it which you will not tell me concerning the Great Light."
"Poor, poor Johannes!" said Windekind. And above the rushing and roaring of the storm his voice was like a peaceful choral-song borne from afar. "Love me – love me with your whole being. In me you will find more than you desire. You will realize what you cannot now imagine, and you will yourself be what you have longed to know. Earth and heaven will be your confidants – the stars your next of kin – infinity your dwelling-place. Love me – love me! Cling to me as the hop-vine clings to the tree – be true to me as the lake is to its bed. In me alone will you find repose, Johannes."
Windekind's words were ended, but it seemed as though the choral-song continued. Out of the remote distance it seemed to be floating on – solemn and regular – above the rushing and soughing of the wind – peaceful as the moonlight shining between the driving clouds.
Windekind stretched out his arms, and Johannes slept upon his bosom, protected by the little blue mantle.
Yet in the night he waked up. A stillness had suddenly and imperceptibly come over the earth, and the moon had sunk below the horizon. The wearied leaves hung motionless, and silent darkness filled the forest.
Then those questions came back to Johannes' head again – in swift, ghostly succession – driving out the very recent trustfulness. Why were human beings as they were? Why must he leave them – forego their love? Why must the winter come? Why must the leaves fall, and the flowers die? Why? – Why?
There were the blue lights again – dancing in the depths of the underwood. They came and went. Johannes gazed after them expectantly. He saw the big, bright light shining on the dark tree-trunk. Windekind lay very still, and fast asleep.
"Just one question more," thought Johannes, and he slipped out from under the blue mantle.
"Here you are again!" said Wistik, nodding in a friendly way. "That gives me a great deal of pleasure. Where is your friend?"
"Over yonder. I only wanted to ask you one more question. Will you answer it?"
"You have been among human beings, have you not? Is it my secret you have come for?"
"Who will find that book, Wistik?"
"Ah, yes. That's it; that's it! Will you help me if I tell you?"
"If I can, certainly."
"Listen then, Johannes." Wistik opened his eyes amazingly wide, and lifted his eyebrows higher than ever. Then he whispered along the back of his little hand:
"Human beings have the golden chest, fairies have the golden key. The foe of fairies finds it not; fairies' friend only, opens it. A springtime night is the proper time, and Robin Redbreast knows the way."
"Is that true, really true?" cried Johannes, as he thought of his little key.
"Yes," said Wistik.
"Why, then, has no one yet found it?" asked Johannes. "So many people are seeking it!"
"I have told no human being what I have confided to you, I have never yet found the fairies' friend."
"I have it, Wistik! I can help you!" cried Johannes, clapping his hands. "I will ask Windekind."
Away he flew, over moss and dry leaves. Still, he stumbled now and then, and his step was heavy. Thick branches cracked under his feet where before not a grass-blade had bent.
There was the dense clump of ferns under which they had slept: how low it looked!
"Windekind!" he cried. But the sound of his own voice startled him.
"Windekind?" It sounded like a human voice! A frightened night-bird flew up with a scream.
There was no one under the ferns. Johannes could see nothing.
The blue lights had vanished. It was cold, and impenetrably dark all around him. Up above, he saw the black, spectral tree-tops against the starlight.
Once more he called. He dared not again. His voice seemed a profanation of the stillness, and Windekind's name a mocking sound.
Then poor little Johannes fell to the ground, and sobbed in contrite sorrow.
VII
The morning was cold and grey. The black, glimmering boughs, all stripped by the storm, were weeping in the mist. Little Johannes ran hurriedly on over the wet, down-beaten grass – staring before him toward the edge of the woods where it was lighter, as if that were the end in view. His eyes were red from crying, and strained with fear and misery. He had been running back and forth the whole night, looking for the light. It had always been safe and home-like with Windekind. Now, in every dark spot lurked the ghost of forlornness, and he dared not look around.
At last, he left the woods and saw before him a meadow over which a fine, drizzling rain was falling. A horse stood in the middle of it near a leafless willow-tree, motionless and with drooping head, while the water dripped slowly from its shining sides, and out of its matted mane.
Johannes walked along by the woods. He looked with tired, anxious eyes toward the lonely horse and the grey, misty rain, and he whimpered softly.
"All is over now," he thought. "The sun will never come out again. After this it will always be with me as it is now – here."
But he dared not stand still in his despair; something more frightful yet would happen, he thought.
Then he saw the grand enclosure of a country-seat, and, under a linden tree with bright yellow foliage, a little cottage.
He went within the enclosure, and walked through broad avenues where the ground was thickly covered with layers of brown and yellow linden leaves. Purple asters grew along the grass-plots, and other brilliant autumn flowers were flaming there.
Then he came to a pond. Beside it stood a large house with low windows and glass doors. Rose-bushes and ivy grew against the wall. It was all shut up, and wore a gloomy look. Chestnut-trees, half stripped of their foliage, stood all around; and, amid their fallen leaves, Johannes saw the shining brown chestnuts.
Then that chill, deathly feeling passed away. He thought of his own home. There, too, were chestnut-trees, and at this season he always went to find the glossy nuts. Suddenly he began to feel a longing – as though he had heard the call of a familiar voice. He sat down upon a bench near the house, and gave vent to his feelings in tears.
A peculiar odor caused him to look up. A man stood near him with a white apron on, and a pipe in his mouth. About his waist were strips of linden bark for binding up the flowers. Johannes knew this scent so well; it made him think of his own garden, and of the gardener, who brought him pretty caterpillars, and showed him starlings' eggs.
He was not alarmed, although it was a human being who stood beside him. He told the man that he had been deserted and was lost, and he gratefully followed him to the small dwelling under the yellow-leaved linden-tree.
Indoors