The Quest. Frederik van Eeden
understand?"
Everybody looked at him coldly and unkindly—as in his dream the night before. Johannes looked around him in distress.
"Robinetta! Where is Robinetta?"
"Well, indeed! Corrupt my child? If you ever speak to her again, look out!"
"No, let me go to her! I will not leave her. Robinetta!" cried Johannes.
But she sat in a corner, frightened, and did not look up.
"Out, you rascal! Do you hear? Take care, if you have the boldness to come back again."
The painful grip led him through the sounding corridor—the glass door rattled, and Johannes stood outside, under the dark, lowering clouds.
He did not cry now, but gazed quietly out in front of him as he slowly walked on. The sorrowful wrinkles were deeper above his eyes, and they stayed there.
The little redbreast sat in a linden hedge and peered at him. He stood still and silently returned the look. But there was no trust now in the timid, peeping little eyes; and when he took a step nearer, the quick little creature whirred away from him.
"Away, away! A human being!" chirped the sparrows, sitting together in the garden path. And they darted away in all directions.
The open flowers did not smile, but looked serious and indifferent; as they do with every stranger.
Johannes did not heed these signs, but was thinking of what the cruel men had done to him. He felt as if his inmost being had been violated by a hard, cold touch. "They shall believe me!" thought he. "I will get my little key and show it to them."
"Johannes! Johannes!" called a light, little voice. There was a bird's nest in a holly tree, and Wistik's big eyes peeped over the brim of it. "Where are you bound for?"
"It is all your fault, Wistik," said Johannes. "Let me alone."
"How did you come to talk about it to human beings? They do not understand. Why do you tell them these things? It is very stupid of you."
"They laughed at me, and hurt me. They are miserable creatures. I hate them!"
"No, Johannes, you love them."
"No! No!"
"If you did not, you would not mind it so much that they are not like yourself; and it would not matter what they said. You must concern yourself less about human beings."
"I want my key. I want to show it to them."
"You must not do that; they would not believe you even if you did. What would be the use of it?"
"I want my little key—under the rose-bush. Do you know how to find it?"
"Yes, indeed! Near the pond, is it not? Yes, I know."
"Then take me to it, Wistik."
Wistik climbed up to Johannes' shoulder, and pointed out the way. They walked the whole day long. The wind blew, and now and then showers fell; but at evening the clouds ceased driving, and lengthened themselves out into long bands of gray and gold.
When they came to Johannes' own dunes, he felt deeply moved, and he whispered again and again: "Windekind! Windekind!"
There was the rabbit-hole, and the slope against which he had once slept. The grey reindeer-moss was tender and moist, and did not crackle beneath his feet. The roses were withered, and the yellow primroses with their faint, languid fragrance held up their cups by hundreds. Higher still rose the tall, proud torch-plants, with their thick, velvety leaves.
Johannes tried to trace the delicate, brownish leaves of the wild-rose.
"Where is it, Wistik? I do not see it."
"I know nothing about it," said Wistik. "You hid the key—I didn't."
The field where the rose had blossomed was full of primroses, staring vacantly. Johannes questioned them, and also the torch-plants. They were much too proud, however, for their tall flower-clusters reached far up above him; so he asked the small, tri-colored violets on the sandy ground.
But no one knew anything of the wild-rose. They all were newly-come flowers—even the arrogant torch-plant, tall though it was.
"Oh! where is it? Where is it?"
"Have you, too, served me a trick?" cried Wistik. "I expected it—that is always the way with human beings!"
He slipped down from Johannes' shoulder, and ran away into the tall grass.
Johannes looked hopelessly around. There stood a small rose-bush.
"Where is the big rose?" asked Johannes, "the big one that used to stand here?"
"We do not speak to human beings," said the little bush.
That was the last sound he heard. Every living thing kept silence. Only, the reeds rustled in the soft, evening wind.
"Am I a human being?" thought Johannes. "No, that cannot—cannot be. I will not be a human being. I hate human beings."
He was tired and faint-hearted, and went to the border of the little field to lie down upon the soft, grey moss with its humid, heavy fragrance.
"I cannot turn back now, nor ever see Robinetta again. Shall I not die without her? Shall I keep on living, and be a man—a man like those who laughed at me?"
Then, all at once, he saw again the two white butterflies that flew up to him from the way of the setting sun. In suspense, he followed their flight. Would they show him the way? They hovered above his head—then floated apart to return again—whirling about in fickle play. Little by little they left the sun, and finally fluttered beyond the border of the dunes—away to the woods. There, only the highest tips were still touched by the evening glow that shone out red and vivid from under the long files of sombre clouds.
Johannes followed the butterflies. But when they had flown above the nearest trees, he saw a dark shadow swoop toward them in noiseless flight, and then hover over them. It pursued and overtook them. The next moment they had vanished. The black shadow darted swiftly up to him, and he covered his face with his hands, in terror.
"Well, little friend, why do you sit here, crying?" rang a sharp, taunting voice close beside him.
Johannes had seen a huge bat coming toward him, but when he looked up, a swarthy mannikin, not much taller than himself, was standing on the dunes. It had a great head, with big ears, that stood out—dark—against the bright evening sky, and a lean little body with slim legs. Of his face Johannes could see only the small, glittering eyes.
"Have you lost anything, little fellow? If so, I will help you seek it," said he. But Johannes silently shook his head.
"Look! Would you like these?" he began again, opening his hand. Johannes saw there something white, that from time to time barely stirred. It was the two white butterflies—dead—with the torn and broken little wings still quivering. Johannes shivered, as though some one had blown on the back of his neck, and he looked up in alarm at the strange being.
"Who are you?" he asked.
"Would you like to know my name, Chappie? Well, just call me Pluizer[1]—simply Pluizer. I have still prettier names, but that you do not yet understand."
"Are you a human being?"
"Better yet! Still, I have arms and legs and a head—just see what a head! And yet the boy asks if I'm a human being! Well, Johannes, Johannes!" And the mannikin laughed with a shrill, piercing sound.
"How do you know who I am?" asked Johannes.
"Oh, that is a trifle for me! I know a great deal more. I know where you came from, and what you came here to do. I know an astonishing lot—almost everything."
"Ah! Mr. Pluizer.