VIII
“It’s a downright shame!” said Daatje, snappishly, while unfastening the third shutter, which opened with a shriek and a rumble. “Half past-nine—on Saturday, at that—and the room to be tidied up! You’ll catch it from Aunt Seréna. Half-past nine! It’s a downright shame!”
Johannes was not pleased with this familiarity, as if he were still a mere child; and, in a rebellious spirit, without quite understanding his own object, he muttered: “This thing’s got to end.”
With Aunt Seréna, disapproval was expressed in a manner very different from that in a kermis-wagon. There was no swearing, nor scolding, nor any din; and no cooking utensils flew out of the window.
But Aunt Seréna would grow a little paler, her fine face become cold and severe like marble, and the very few words that fell from her lips would be short and spoken in a soft, low voice. She knew how, though, to make one so uncomfortable in this way, that he would rather she had thrown a piece of the tea-set at his head.
Johannes, however, neither felt, nor evinced, any remorse. On the contrary, he assumed an independent bearing. He was not saucy, but wonderfully indifferent; neither was he morose, but cheerful and obliging; for his thoughts were full of that beautiful land and its noble people, and of his good Father Pan. Aunt Seréna, herself, felt a little disconcerted.
That evening the circle of lady friends came in full force. There was Juffrouw Frederike—called Free—tall and bowed, with her grey hair in a net. There was Pietekoo, who was always laughing, and saying flattering things, but who could, also, show a tart side upon occasion. There was Suze, who had the name of being so musical, and who, pluming herself on that score, kept on taking piano lessons far on in her sixties though she was. There was the saintly Koos, who had once leaped into the water, in a religious frenzy, and who could repeat the sermons, word for word. There was the quiet Neeltje, a bit round-shouldered, and very negligent in her dress, who never said anything, and was always being teased about suitors. There was the widow Slot, who, in her deep voice, uttered short, sarcastic comments, mostly at the expense of poor Neeltje. There was Miebet, the beauty of the company, toward whom Johannes felt a special aversion. They all brought their hand-work, and were speedily deep in conversation. Johannes was greeted in a friendly way as “dear boy” and “good boy,” but, after that, as always, was left in peace.
It did seem, listening to their conversation, as if love and meekness reigned undisturbed in their hearts. It was an uninterrupted competition in generosity, each striving to be foremost in helping the others to the footstools, the cozy places, and the various delicacies. Miebet said that she had only one defect—this one, that she always thought of others first, and herself last. From this single defect one could perceive, by comparison, the nature and number of her virtues. To the saintliness of Koos, according to her own testimony, even Daatje and Aunt Seréna would have to yield precedence. She could repeat, word for word, the long, closing prayer of the previous Sunday, and stood alone in this proficiency. Johannes noticed that she could neither read nor write, nor even tell the time, but cunningly contrived to hide her ignorance. Juffrouw Frederike, who was wont to enumerate the excruciating pains that her poor health inflicted upon her, was not silent concerning the heavenly patience with which she endured these trials, and the indifference of the world toward her sufferings.
At seven o’clock came the dominie. He was greeted respectfully, and with a tender solicitude, while he made interested and condescending inquiries after health and circumstances. Also, he admired and praised the products of womanly industry, deducing therefrom weighty and forceful morals that were listened to in thoughtful silence.
Johannes had received a cold, limp hand-shake. He felt that he had been a long time in disfavor. Neither had Aunt Seréna’s stiffness relaxed, and she looked at him now and then, restlessly, as if wishing and expecting that he would show signs of repentance or submissiveness. And it seemed as if the entire circle concerned themselves less about him than ever.
He sat still in his corner, turning the leaves of his penny magazine, his little heart brave and not at all disquieted. But he did not see much of the engravings, and felt more than at other times constrained to listen to the talking.
Then, while all gave quiet attention, Aunt Seréna began an enumeration of all the petty trifles and knick-knacks which had been brought together this time for the “tombola”: “three napkin-rings, two corner-brackets, one waste-paper basket worked with worsted, seven anti-macassars, a knitting-needle holder, two sofa-pillows, one lamp-shade, the beautiful fire-screen made by Free, two picture-frames, four pin-cushions, one needle-book, one patchwork quilt, one pair of slippers, by Miebet, one reticule, one painted teacup, two flower-pieces made of bread, one cabinet of shells, one straw thread-winder, seventeen book-marks, eight pen-wipers, one small postage-stamp picture, two decorated cigar-cases, one ash-holder. That is all, I believe.”
“Aunt Seréna,” said Johannes, over the top of his penny magazine, “do you know what else you ought to count in?”
A moment of suspense followed. All eyes were turned upon him. Aunt Seréna looked surprised, but kindly inquisitive. The dominie suspected something, and his brows contracted.
“What, my dear boy!” asked Aunt Seréna.
“A couple of gold apples, from your little tree.”
There followed a moment of subdued silence. Then Aunt Seréna, with a self-restrained but severe manner, asked:
“What tree do you mean, Johannes?”
“The little tree you have in your chest, with the gold apples growing on it.”
Again silence, but all understood; that was clear. Pietekoo even tittered. The others exchanged significant glances. Aunt Seréna’s pale face flushed perceptibly, and she shot a glance at the dominie over her spectacles. The dominie took the affair very calmly, gave Johannes a cold, disdainful look, as much as to say that he had all along had his measure, and then, while his eyes narrowed in a smile, he signified to Aunt Seréna, by a quieting motion of the hand, that she ought not to bestow any thought upon such a matter. Thereupon, with assumed unprejudice, and in a sprightly tone, he said:
“This is, indeed, a fine ‘tombola’!”
But Aunt Seréna was not to be appeased in this way. She threw back her rustling, purple silk cap-strings with a nervous, trembling gesture (in her the betrayal of vehement emotion), and, standing up, motioned to Johannes to follow her into the vestibule.
Closing the door of the room behind her: “Johannes!” said she, in a voice not quite within control, “Johannes, I will not suffer this! To think of you making me appear ridiculous to others! For shame! And after all the good I thought to have done you! Ought you to have grieved your old aunt so? For shame, Johannes! It is mean and ungrateful of you!”
With a face almost as pale as that of his aunt, Johannes looked straight up into her glistening glasses. There were tears in her voice, and Johannes saw them appear from under the spectacles, and slowly trickle down along the delicate lines of her cheeks.
It was Johannes’ turn, now, to feel badly. He was utterly confounded. Who was right—Father Pan or Aunt Seréna? In such straits was he that he would rather be running the streets at such a pace as never to get back again.
The street door stood ajar, the autumn day was drawing to its close in a melancholy twilight, and a drizzling rain was falling. Daatje was standing outside, talking with some one.
“Aunt Seréna,” said Johannes, trying hard to control himself, “I know that I am wicked, but I really will be good—really—if only I knew....”
Just then there came from outside a sound which made him quiver with agitation. It thrilled through marrow and bone, and he felt his knees giving way. It was the sharp, rasping sound of steel being held against the whetstone; and through the door-crack he saw the glitter of that beautiful fountain of golden sparks.
It sounded to him like a blessed tidings—like the utterance of mercy to one condemned.
“That is Markus!” he cried, with heightened color and shining eyes.
Aunt Seréna went to the door and opened it. There, bowed over his work, stood Markus. Again, he was treading the wheel of the old cart, the one with the footboard. As before, the water was dripping from his old cap, down upon his faded raincoat. His face was sad, and there were deep lines about his mouth.
“Markus!” cried Johannes; and, springing forward, he threw his arms around him, and pressed his head caressingly against the wet clothing.
“For the love of Christ, Boy! What are you doing?” said Daatje. “What Romish freak is this?”
“Oh, Aunt Seréna!” cried Johannes. “May he not come indoors? He is so wet, and so tired! He is a good man—my best friend.”
Daatje placed her arms akimbo, and stepped angrily in front of Aunt Seréna and the doorway.
“Now, I’ll attend to that. The dear Lord preserve us! Such a dirty lout of a gypsy come into my clean marble hall! That’s altogether too much!”
But Aunt Seréna, in that earnest tone which had always been a command for Daatje—admitting no oppositions—said: “Daatje, go back to the kitchen. I will settle this matter myself.”
And turning toward Markus she asked: “Will you not come in and rest?”
Slowly straightening himself up, Markus replied: “I will, Madam.” And he laid down his scissors, took off his cap, and walked in.
This time Daatje was disobedient, for she did not return to the kitchen, but remained, arms still akimbo, repeatedly shaking her head, surveying the intruder with horror—especially his feet, and the old coat which he hung upon the hat-rack. And, when Aunt Seréna actually let him out of the vestibule into the room itself, she tarried behind the unclosed door, anxiously listening.
Within the room a dead stillness ensued. The dominie’s face took on an expression of utter amazement, while he lifted his eyebrows very high, and thrust out his pursed-up lips. Pietekoo tittered in her embarrassment, and then hid her face in her hands. The others looked, now with a puzzled mien at Markus, then in doubtful expectation at Aunt Seréna, with distrust at Johannes, with very expressive glances at one another, and finally, with pretended absorption in their hand-work. The silence was still unbroken.
“Will you take something?” asked Aunt Seréna.
“Yes, Madam, a bit of bread,” said Markus, in his calm, gentle voice.
“Would you not rather have a glass of wine, and some cake?”
“No, Madam, if you will excuse me; I prefer common bread.”
The dominie thought it time to intervene. He was stung by the censure conveyed in Markus’ refusal.
“The Scripture teaches, my friend, that we should eat what is set before us, when we are guests.”
“Do you take me for a theologian—or for an apostle?” asked Markus.
“He has the gift of gab,” said Mevrouw Slot, in her coarse voice.
In those pure accents which held Johannes breathlessly attentive, Markus continued: “I will even sit at table with witches, but not necessarily eat of their food.”
“Dear me! Dear me!” said the dominie, and the ladies cried: “Good gracious!” and other exclamations of disapproval and indignation. “Be a little less uncivil, friend; you are not with your own kind here.”
Markus continued, in a calm, friendly tone: “Theologians, however, thank God for many a rude truth, and know, also, how to take parables. Even when with cannibals, an apostle need not eat human flesh.”
Widow Slot, who alone of all in the circle seemed to have retained her coolness, here interposed: “We have not improved, yet.”
Markus turned toward her and said with great earnestness:
“Who are they who have their portion? Are not the poorest ones they who drink wine and eat cake, and yet produce not even bread? Every day they sink deeper into debt. I prefer to eat honest food.”
“You mistake, my man! I have no debts!” cried Aunt Seréna, with trembling lips.
“But, Aunt Seréna, he does not mean that,” said Johannes, as much moved as herself.
“Children must be silent, here!” cried the dominie, angrily.
“If the children are silent here, who is there to speak sense?” continued Markus. And then, with a gentle, penetrating voice, he addressed Aunt Seréna. “Whoever will not listen to children, the Father will not understand. I spoke in metaphor—in a simple way, for simple people. The whole world is a metaphor, and not a simple one. If we do not yet understand such a simple metaphor, then the world must indeed remain a sad riddle.”
The dominie held his peace, and smoked fiercely; but Aunt Seréna thought it over, looking in front of her, and said; “All understanding comes through the light of grace.”
Markus nodded, kindly. “Yes,” said he, “for those who unbolt the shutters and throw open the windows. And the sun will shine even through little windows.”
Then he ceased speaking and ate his bread. No one said anything more, unless in a whisper to his next neighbor.
When Markus had eaten he stood up and said: “Thank you. Good night!”
Johannes also stood up, and said anxiously: “Markus, You are not going away?”
“Yes, Johannes. Good-by till we meet again!”
Then he passed silently out of the door, took his cap and coat, and was let out by Daatje. Johannes heard her ask: “How much did you get?” And when Markus said simply: “Twopence,” he felt a twinge at his heart. Indoors, no one spoke so long as the creaking of the cart-wheel could be heard. Then the dominie, in a loud tone, and with assumed lightness, said:
“That was a venturesome deed, dear Madam. You ought to be more cautious in future with that altogether too-largely developed philanthropy of yours. That man is known as a very dangerous individual.”
Exclamations of astonishment and alarm followed this, and different ladies cried: “Goodness!” “It’s a sin!” “Do you know him?”
“Alas, indeed I do!” averred the dominie, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. “He is a well-known person—one of those fanatics who incite the people and poison their natures: a nihilist.”
“A nihilist!” echoed the ladies, frightened and horrified. Poor Johannes sat listening to Dominie Kraalboom with painful interest. The name “nihilist” did not make him afraid, but such notoriety was a bitter disappointment. It was as if thereby all the mysterious superiority of his beloved friend had been leveled. Had it, then, all been a fraud?
When the circle had taken their leave, and Aunt Seréna was going to bed, he saw Daatje very carefully counting the silver spoons!