X
Johannes had one peculiarity which he could not excuse in himself. His good intentions and heroic resolves always came, according to his own opinion, a trifle too late. He might be a good boy yet, he thought, if only things did not happen so suddenly that he had not due time to think them over before he needed to act. Thus, sitting on the opposite side of the breakfast table from his Aunt Seréna, deliberating whether it would still be proper, after the agitating events of the morning, to spread his first roll, as usual, with sweet-milk cheese, and his second with Deventer cake, it suddenly dawned upon him what a mean, cowardly, perfidious boy he had been. He felt that any other brisk, faithful person in his place would have risen up instantly, and resisted with all his power of word and deed that shameful outrage against his beloved brother.
Of course, there had been something for him to do! He ought to have intervened, instead of walking home again with Aunt Seréna, as calmly and serenely as if he were not in the least concerned. How was it possible—how could it be possible, that he only now perceived this? He might not, perhaps, have accomplished anything; but that was not the question. Was it not his dearest friend who was concerned; and had he not, like a coward, left him alone? Was not that friend now sitting among thieves in a musty pen, enduring the insolence of policemen, while he himself was here in Aunt Seréna’s fine house, calmly drinking his coffee?
That must not be. He felt very sure of it, now. And since Johannes, as I have already remarked, was never afraid to do a thing if he was only first sure about it, not only the cake and cheese, but even the rolls and coffee, remained untouched. He suddenly stood up and said:
“Aunt Seréna!”
“What is it, my boy?”
“I want to go!”
Aunt Seréna threw back her head, that she might give him a good look through her spectacles. Her face took on a very grieved expression.
At last, after a long pause, she asked, in her gentle voice, “What do you mean?”
“I want to go away. I cannot stand it. I want to be with my friend.”
“Do you think he will take better care of you than I do, Johannes?”
“I do not believe that, Aunt Seréna, but he is being treated unfairly. He is in the right.”
“I will not take it upon myself....” said Aunt Seréna, hesitating, “to say that he is wrong. I am not clever enough for that. I am only an old woman, and have not studied much, although I have thought and experienced a great deal. I will readily admit that perhaps I was at fault without knowing it. I did my best, to the best of my belief. But how many there are, better than I am, Johannes, who think your friend in the wrong!”
“Are they also better than he is?” asked Johannes.
“Who can say? How long have you known this friend—and whom of the people have you known besides? But although your friend were right, how would it help me, and what would it matter to me? Must I, in my sixty-fourth year, give away all that I have, and go out house-cleaning? Do you mean that I ought to do that, Johannes?”
Johannes was perplexed. “I do not say that, dear Aunt Seréna.”
“But, what do you say, then? And what do you want of me?”
Johannes was silent.
“You see, Johannes....” continued Aunt Seréna, with a break in her voice—not looking at him now, but staring hard at her coffee-tray—“I never have had any children, and all the people whom I have been very fond of are either dead or gone away. My friends do, indeed, show me much cordiality. On my birthday I had forty-four calls, two hundred and eleven cards and notes, and about fifty presents; but that, however, is not for me true life. The life of the old is so barren if no young are growing near. I have not complained about it, and have submitted to God’s will. But since... for a few months... you... I thought it a blessing—a dispensation from God....”
Aunt Seréna’s voice grew so broken and hoarse that she stopped speaking, and began to rummage in her work-basket.
Johannes felt very tenderly toward her, but it seemed to him as if, in two seconds, he had become much older and wiser; yes, as if he had even grown, visibly, and was taller than a moment before. Never yet had he spoken with such dignity.
“My dear Aunt, I really am not ungrateful. I think you are good. More than almost any other you have been kind to me. But yet I must go. My conscience tells me so. I would be willing to stay, you see; but still I am going because it is best. If you say, ‘You must not,’ then I cannot help it; I think, though, that I will quietly run away. I am truly sorry to cause you sadness, but you will soon hear of an—another boy, or a girl, who will make you happier. I must find my friend—my conscience tells me so. Are you going to say, Aunt Seréna, that I must not?”
Aunt Seréna had taken out her worsted work, and appeared to be comparing colors. Then, very slowly, she replied:
“No, I shall not say that, my dear boy; at least, if you have thought it all over well.”
“I have, Aunt Seréna,” said Johannes.
Being deeply anxious, he wished to go instantly to learn where Markus had been taken. After that he would return to “Vrede-best.”
He mounted the stone steps of the police station with dread and distaste. The officers, who were sitting outside on chairs, received him, according to their wont, with scant courtesy. The chief eyed Johannes, after the latter’s bashful inquiry, with a scornful expression, which seemed to say: “What business is it of yours, and where have I seen you before?”
Johannes learned, however, that “the prisoner” had been set free. What use he had made of his freedom Johannes must find out for himself.
As he could give no other reason for his interest in the prisoner than that he was his friend, and as this reason was not enough to exalt him in the esteem of police authority, none of the functionaries felt called upon to put him on the track. They supposed that the scissors-grinder had very likely gone back to the Fair. That was all the help they gave.
Johannes returned to his aunt’s baffled and in dismay. There, happily, he found relief; for the good aunt had already discovered that Markus had been led out of the town, and that, with his cart, he had taken the road to Utrecht. Already, lying in plain sight, he saw a large, old-fashioned satchel of hairy leather (a sort of bag which could be hung about one), full of neatly packed sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. And in the inside of a waistcoat Aunt Seréna had sewed a small pocket. Within that pocket was a purse containing five little gold-pieces.
“I do not give you more, Johannes, for by the time this is gone you will surely know if you really wish to stay away for good or to come back again. Do not be ashamed to return. I will not say anything to you about it.”
“I will be honest, and give it back to you when I have earned it,” said Johannes. He spoke in sober earnest; but he had, no more than had his aunt, any clear expectation that it would be possible.
Johannes took just a run into the garden to say good-by to his favorite places—his paths and his flowers. Swiftly and shyly, so as not to be seen, he ran past the kitchen where Daatje, loudly singing hymns the while, stood chopping spinach. After that, he embraced Aunt Seréna in the vestibule for the first and for the last time. “Cuckoo! Cuckoo!” came insultingly and triumphantly from the little trap-door, as the clock struck two. Then the stately green front door closed between him and Aunt Seréna.
That was a painful moment; yet there quickly followed in Johannes’ heart a delightful glow—a feeling of freedom such as he had never yet known. He almost felt himself a man. He had extricated himself from soft and perilous ways; he was going out into the wide world; he would find his beloved brother again; he had a bagful of rolls, and in his waistcoat were five gold-pieces. These last were only lent to him; he would earn as much, and give them back again.
It was a still, humid, August day, and Johannes, full of gladness, saw his beautiful native land lying in white light under a canopy of delicate grey. He saw thickly wooded dikes, black and white cattle, and brown boats in water without a ripple. He walked briskly, inquiring everywhere for Markus the scissors-grinder. In front of an inn, not far from the city, sat three little gentlemen. They were apparently government or post-office clerks, who had taken their midday stroll and their glass of bitters.
Johannes asked information of the waiter who brought drinks, but received no answer.
One of the little dandies, who had heard his question, said to his companions:
“Jerusalem! but did you chaps hear that kicker? The fellow went into the new church yesterday morning, and talked back at the dominie.”
“What fellow?” asked the others.
“Good Lord! Don’t you know him? That half-luny fellow with the black curly-pate? He does that now and then.”
“Gee! That’s rich. And what did the dominie say?”
“Well, he found it no joke, for the fellow knew all about it—as darned well as he did himself. But the gypsy had his trouble for his pains; for that time the dominie wouldn’t have anything to do with such a dirty competitor!”
And the three friends laughed at the top of their voices.
“How did it end?”
“He had him walked clean out of the church, by the sexton and two cops.”
“That’s confounded silly. ’Twould have been better to see who could crow the loudest. It’s the loudest cock that wins.”
“The idea! You’d have me believe you mean it? Suppose they gave the prize to the wrong fellow?”
“Whether you are cheated by a fool of a preacher, or by a scissors-grinder, what’s the difference?”
Johannes reflected a moment and wondered if it would not be commendable to do what he ached to do—fly at these people and rain blows upon their heads. But he controlled himself and passed on, convinced that in doing so he was escaping some hard work.
For five hours he walked on without being much the wiser for his inquiries. Some people thought they had seen Markus; others knew positively nothing about him.
Johannes began to fear he had passed him; for by this time he ought to have overtaken him.
It began to grow dark, and before him lay a wide river which he must cross by means of a ferry-boat. On the farther side were hills covered with an underwood of oak, and tall, purple-flowered heather.
The ferryman was positive that he had not that day taken over a scissors-grinder; but in yonder town, an hour’s distance from the river, a Fair was to begin in the morning. Very likely Markus also would be there.
Johannes sat down by the roadside in the midst of the dark broom, with its millions of small purple flowers. The setting sun cast a glorious coloring over land and mist, and over the lustrous, flowing water. He was tired but not depressed, and he ate his bread contentedly, certain that he should find Markus. The road had become quiet and lonely. It was fun to be so free—so alone and independent—at home in the open country. Rather than anywhere else he should like to sleep out-of-doors—in the underwood.
But just as he was about to lay himself down, he saw the figure of a man with his hands in his pockets, and his cap pushed back. Johannes sat up, and waited until he came closer. Then he recognized him.
“Good evening, Director!” said Johannes.
“Good evening to you, my friend!” returned the other. “What are you doing here? Are you lost?”
“No; I am looking for friends. Is Markus with you?”
The man was the director of a Flea-Theatre; a little fellow, with a husky voice, and eyes inflamed by his fine work.
“Markus? I’m not sure. But come along—there’s no knowing but he might be there.”
“Are you looking for new apprentices?” asked Johannes.
“Do you happen to have any? They’re worth a pretty penny, you know!”
They walked together to the camp of gypsy wagons, near the town. Johannes found there all the old acquaintances. There was the fat lady, who could rest a plate upon her bosom and thus eat out of it. Now, however, she was eating simply from a box, like the others, because there were no spectators. There were the mother and daughter who represented the living mermaid, taking turns because one could not hold out very long. There was the exhibitor of the collection of curiosities —a poor, humpbacked knave whose entire possessions consisted of a stuffed alligator, a walrus-tooth, and a seven-months baby preserved in alcohol. There were the two wild men, who, growling horribly, could eat grass and live rabbits, and who might come out of the wagon only at night, when the street boys were away; but who, far from savage now, were sitting in the light of a flickering lantern, “shaving” one another with exceedingly dirty cards.
The flea-tamer brought Johannes at last to Marjon’s wagon.
“Bless me!” cried Lorum, who seemed to be in a good humor as he sat by the road smoking his pipe. “Here is our runaway young gentleman again! Now the girls will be glad!”
From behind the wagon came the soft tones of a voice, singing to a zither accompaniment. Johannes could hear the song distinctly, in the dreamlike stillness of the hour. It was sung in a whining, melancholy, street-organ style, but with unusual emotion:
“They have broken my heart—
Ah, the tears I have shed!
They have torn us apart—
His dear voice is now dead.
Alas! Alas!
How could you forsake me?
Alas! Alas!
How you have deceived me!”
It was a ditty that Johannes thought he had often heard the nurse-maids sing. But, because he recognized that dear voice, and perhaps even because he was worried over the applicability to himself, he was greatly touched by it.
“Hey, there!” cried Lorum to one behind him. “The kid has come back! Stop your squalling!”
Then Marjon appeared from behind the wagon, and ran up to Johannes. Also, the door of the wagon flew back, and Johannes saw Marjon’s sister standing in the bright opening. Her fat arms were bare, and she was in her night-gown.