V
“Well, well, Master Johannes!” said Daatje, the old servant, as she thrust the heated bed-pan between the fresh linen sheets. “Truly, that was a blessed escape for you; like getting out of purgatory into paradise—away from those vile people to be with our mistress. That was fortunate, indeed. My! My!”
Damp sheets are dangerous, even in midsummer, and Daatje had been drilled very strictly by her mistress in caring for the comfort of guests.
Daatje wore a snow-white cap and a purple cotton gown. Her face was wrinkled, and her hands and arms were still more so. She had been an astonishingly long time in Aunt Seréna’s service—perhaps forty years—and lost no opportunity clearly to prove to Johannes what an excellent being his aunt was: always polite and kind, always ready to assist, a blessing to the poor, a refuge for every one in the neighborhood, adored by all who knew her, and pure as an angel.
“She is converted,” said Daatje, “yes, truly converted. Ask whoever you please; like her there are not many living.”
Johannes perceived that “converted” meant “very good.” According to Daatje, the natural man was not good, and it was necessary for every one to be converted before he was fit for anything. For a long time before falling asleep, while looking around the big, quiet bedroom, Johannes lay thinking over these things. A night-light was spluttering in a glass filled with equal parts of water and oil. As soon as the flame was lighted, behind the milk-white, translucent shade appeared strange, dreamy landscapes—formed by the unequal thicknesses.
The chamber had an ancient, musty odor, and all the furniture bore an old-fashioned stateliness. There was a queer pattern upon the green bed-curtains, distressing to see; like half-opened eyes, alternately squinting. The big bed-tassel hung down from above in dogged dignity, like the tail of a lion keeping watch up above, on the canopy of the four-poster.
Johannes felt very comfortable, yet there was something uncanny around him that he did not quite relish. Once, it really seemed to be the ponderous linen-chest of dark wood, with its big, brass-handled drawers, upon which stood, under a bell-glass, a basket filled with wax fruit. What the pictures represented could not be seen in the dim light, but they were in the secret too, as was also the night-stand with its crocheted cover, and the fearfully big four-poster.
Every half-hour “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” rang through the house, as if those out in the hall and in the vestibule were also in the secret; the only one left out being the little fellow in clean underclothes and a night-gown much too big for him, who lay there, wide awake, looking around him. In the midst of all these solid, important, and dignified things, he was a very odd and out-of-place phenomenon. He felt that, in a polite way, he was being made sport of. Besides, it remained to be seen whether, after his more or less unmannerly adventures, he could ever be taken into confidence. Evidently the entire house was, if not precisely hostile, yet in a very unfriendly attitude. He kept his eye upon the bed-tassel, all ready to see the lion wag his tail. In order to do that, however, he must surely first become “converted,” just like Aunt Seréna.
When the day dawned, this new life became more pleasant than he had anticipated. Aunt Seréna presided at the breakfast, which consisted of tea, fresh rolls, currant buns, sweet, dark rye-bread, and pulverized aniseed. Upon the pier-tables, bright with sunshine, stood jars of Japanese blue-ware, filled with great, round bouquets of roses, mignonette, and variegated, ornamental grasses. The long glass doors stood open, and the odor of new-mown grass streamed in from the garden to the room, which was already deliciously fragrant with the roses and mignonette, and the fine tea.
Aunt Seréna made no allusion to the foregoing day, nor to the death of Johannes’ father. She was full of kindly attentions, and interrogated him affably, yet in a very resolute manner, concerning what he had learned at school, and asked who had given him religious instruction. It was now vacation time, and he might rest a little longer, and enjoy himself; but then would come the school again and the catechism.
Until now Johannes had had small satisfaction out of his solemn resolution to value men more highly in order to live with them in a well-disposed way. But this time he was more at ease. The nice, cool house, the sunshine, the sweet smells, the flowers, the fresh rolls, everything put him in good humor; and when Aunt Seréna herself was so in harmony with her surroundings, he was soon prepared to see her in the light of Daatje’s glorification. He gazed confidingly into the gleaming glasses of her spectacles, and he also helped her carry the big, standing work-basket, out of which she drew the bright-colored worsteds for her embroidery—a very extensive and everlasting piece of work.
But the garden! It was a wonder—the joy of his new life. After being released by his aunt until the hour for coffee, he raced into it like a young, unleashed hound—hunting out all the little lanes, paths, flower-plots, arbors, knolls, and the small pool; and then he felt almost as if in Windekind’s realm again. A shady avenue was there which made two turns, thus seeming to be very long. There were paths between thick lilac-bushes already in bloom; and there were mock-oranges, still entirely covered with exceedingly fragrant white flowers. There was a small, artificial hill in that garden, with a view toward the west, over the adjacent nursery. Aunt Seréna was fond of viewing a fine sunset, and often came to the seat on the hilltop. There was a plot of roses, very fragrant, and as big as a plate. There were vivid, fiery red poppies with woolly stems, deep blue larkspurs, purple columbines, tall hollyhocks, like wrinkled paper, with their strange, strong odor. There were long rows of saxifrage, a pair of dark brown beeches; and everywhere, as exquisite surprises, fruit trees—apples, pears, plums, medlars, dogberries, and hazel-nuts—scattered among the trees which bore no fruit.
Indeed, the world did not now seem so bad, after all. A human being—a creature admirably and gloriously perfect—a human dwelling filled with attractive objects, and, close beside, a charming imitation of Windekind’s realm, in which to repose. And all in the line of duty, with no departure from the prescribed path. Assuredly, Johannes had looked only on the dark side of life. To confess this was truly mortifying.
Towards twelve o’clock Daatje was heard in the cool kitchen, noisily grinding coffee, and Johannes ventured just a step into her domain, where, on all sides, the copper utensils were shining. In a little courtyard, some bird-cages were hanging against the ivy-covered walls. One large cage contained a skylark. He sat, with upraised beak and fixed gaze, on a little heap of grass. Above him, at the top of the cage, was stretched a white cloth.
“That’s for his head,” said Daatje, “if he should happen to forget he was in a cage, and try to fly into the air.”
Next to this, in tiny cages, were finches. They hopped back and forth, back and forth, from one perch to another. That was all the room they had; and there they cried, “Pink! Pink!” Now and then one of them would sing a full strain. Thus it went the whole day long.
“They are blind,” said Daatje. “They sing finer so.”
“Why?” asked Johannes.
“Well, boy, they can’t see, then, whether it is morning or evening, and so they keep on singing.”
“Are you converted, too, Daatje?” asked Johannes.
“Yes, Master Johannes, that grace is mine. I know where I’m going to. Not many can say that after me.”
“Who besides you?”
“Well, I, and our mistress, and Dominie Kraalboom.”
“Does a converted person keep on doing wrong?”
“Wrong? Now I’ve got you! No, indeed! I can do no more wrong. It’s more wrong even if you stand on your head to save your feet. But don’t run through the kitchen now with those muddy shoes. The foot-scraper is in the yard. This is not a runway, if you please.”
The luncheon was not less delicious: fresh, white bread, smoked beef, cake and cheese, and very fragrant coffee, whose aroma filled the entire house. Aunt Seréna talked about church-going, about the choosing of a profession, and about pure and honest living. Johannes, being in a kindly mood, and inclined to acquiescence, avoided argument.
In the afternoon, as he sat dreaming in the shady avenue of lindens, Aunt Seréna came bringing a tray, bearing a cooky and a glass of cherry-brandy.
At half-past five came dinner. Daatje was an excellent cook, and dishes which were continually recurring on stated days were particularly well prepared. Vermicelli soup, with forced-meat balls, minced veal and cabbage, middlings pudding with currant juice: that was the first meal, later often recalled. Aunt Seréna asked a blessing and returned thanks, and Johannes, with lowered eyes and head a little forward, appeared, from the movement of his lips, to be doing a little of the same thing.
Through the long twilight, Aunt Seréna and Johannes sat opposite each other, each one in front of a reflector. Aunt Seréna was thrifty, and, since the street lantern threw its light into the room, she was not in a hurry to burn her own oil. Only the unpretending little light for the making of the tea was glimmering behind the panes of milk-white glass—with landscapes not unlike those upon the night-light.
In complete composure, with folded hands, sat Aunt Seréna in the dusk, making occasional remarks, until Daatje came to inquire “if the mistress did not wish to make ready for the evening.” Then Daatje wound up the patent lamp, causing it to give out a sound as if it were being strangled. A quarter of an hour later it was regulated, and, as soon as the cozy, round ring of light shone over the red table-cover, Aunt Seréna said, in the most contented way: “Now we have the dear little lamp again!”
At half-past ten there was a sandwich and a glass of milk for Johannes. Daatje stood ready with the candle, and, upstairs, the night-light, the chest of drawers with the wax fruit, the green bed-curtains, and the impressive bed-tassel were waiting for him. Johannes also descried something new—a big Bible—upon his night-table. There was no appearance yet of any attempt at a reconciliation on the part of the furniture. The cuckoo continued to address himself exclusively to the stilly darkness, in absolute disregard of Johannes; but the latter did not trouble himself so very much about it, and soon fell fast asleep.
The morning differed but little from the foregoing one. Some Bibles were lying ready upon the breakfast-table. Daatje came in, took her place majestically, folded her half-bare wrinkled arms—and Aunt Seréna read aloud. The day before, Aunt Seréna had made a departure from this, her custom, uncertain how Johannes would take it; but, having found the boy agreeable and polite, she intended now to resume the readings. She read a chapter of Isaiah, full of harsh denunciations which seemed to please Daatje immensely. The latter wore a serious look, her lips pressed close together, occasionally nodding her head in approval, while she sniffed resolutely. Johannes found it very disconcerting, and could not, with his best endeavors, keep his attention fixed. He was listening to the twittering of the starlings on the roof, and the cooing of a wood-dove in the beech tree.
In front of him he saw a steel engraving, representing a young woman, clad in a long garment, clinging with outstretched arms to a big stone cross that stuck up out of a restless waste of waters. Rays of light were streaming down from above, and the young person was looking trustfully up into them. The inscription below the engraving read, “The Rock of Ages,” and Johannes was deep in speculation as to how the young lady had gotten there, and especially how she was to get away from there. It was not to be expected that she could long maintain herself in that uncomfortable position—surely not for ages. That refuge looked like a peculiarly precarious one; unless, indeed, something better might be done with those rays of light.
Upon the same wall hung a motto, drawn in colored letters, amid a superfluity of flowers and butterflies, saying: “The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want.”
This awakened irreverent thoughts in Johannes’ mind. When the Bible-reading was over, he was suddenly moved to make a remark.
“Aunt Seréna,” said he, conscious of a rising color, and feeling rather giddy on account of his boldness, “is it only because the Lord is your Shepherd that you do not lack for anything?”
But he had made a bad break.
Aunt Seréna’s face took on a severe expression, and adjusting her spectacles somewhat nervously, she said: “I willingly admit, dear Johannes, that in many respects I have been blessed beyond my deserts; but ought not you to know—you who had such a good and well-informed father—that it is very unbecoming in young people to pass judgment, thoughtlessly, upon the lives of older ones, when they know nothing either of their trials or of their blessings?”
Johannes sat there, deeply abashed, suddenly finding himself to be a silly, saucy boy.
But Daatje stood up, and in a manner peculiarly her own—bending a little, arms akimbo—said, with great emphasis: “I’ll tell you what, mistress! you’re too good. He ought to have a spanking—on the bare spanking place, too!” And forthwith she went to the kitchen.