IX
Among the visitors at Villa Dolores was a Roman prelate—a friend of Dolores’ deceased husband. He was heavy of build and always cheerful, and never talked on religious subjects. Sometimes he came sociably, as a table guest, and besides a fund of anecdotes he also had much to say that was instructive, to which Johannes listened eagerly.
He was a far more amiable person than Dominie Kraalboom, and Johannes liked him much better. He understood all about flowers and animals, about poetry, paintings, and music; and of special interest were his observations on beautiful Italy and holy Rome, where he had traveled and studied.
Of course he did not belong to the Pleiades; and if by rare exception the circle was referred to in his presence, he, being both cautious and courteous, remained silent.
Yet, after that first meeting of which I have told you in the preceding chapter, Johannes observed that he came oftener than before, and also at unconventional hours; and when Johannes came into the room he noticed that the conversation between the countess and the priest was suddenly broken off. He saw, also, that his hostess had more color in her cheeks, as if she had been speaking of weighty matters.
“Your Mahatma does not come,” said Dolores once, when, after such a time as this, the priest had just taken his leave. “He has turned his back upon us.”
“Yes, Mevrouw,” Johannes was forced to admit.
“I think myself very fortunate in having found a wise man who can help me.”
“Do you mean Father Canisius?”
“Yes. Do you know what he says? That we are on a dangerous road in the pursuit of our object. It is all the work of the devil, he declares. And everything he says agrees with what we heard that evening. Would you not like to have a chat with him?”
But Johannes hesitated. He had not yet spoken to Marjon, and was hoping to hear from her something concerning his brother.
Marjon evaded him, and he had not found an opportunity to meet her alone. Every morning he went to his room with a beating heart, hoping to find her there busied in putting it to rights; but generally it was already in order, and he found merely the traces of her care: his clothing brushed and folded, his linen looked over and nicely placed in the linen-press, and fresh flowers in the little vase on his table. He observed everything, and was deeply touched by it.
But she seemed careful to be always in company with the other servants, and to bear herself as stiffly and coldly as the most pert, demure, and well-trained chambermaid possibly could. Not a word nor a look nor a sign betrayed her acquaintance with Johannes; and he often heard the countess declare to her visitors that she had never before found so quickly a good Dutch servant.
Neither had Van Lieverlee recognized her, but was simply struck with her peculiar, somewhat alien manner, which led him to ask the lady of the house if she knew the origin of the girl.
“No,” said the countess; “she was recommended to me by an old friend, and apparently she deserves all that was said of her.”
But Johannes’ yearning for Markus grew stronger every day. He both dreaded and longed for his coming, and he wished that in some way he might be delivered from his uncertainty.
Therefore he was ever on the alert to seize an opportunity for speaking with Marjon alone. One evening he detained her in the hall under the pretense of inquiring about his shoes.
“Where did you leave Keesje?” he asked in a low voice.
“You know very well,” replied Marjon, curtly, and in the same low tone.
Johannes did indeed know, and for that very reason he had asked the question.
“Yes, but where is he who has Keesje?”
“I do not know; and even if I did, I would not tell you. He knows his time.”
At that moment Countess Dolores passed by.
“Johannes,” said she, “I am having a talk with Father Canisius. If you wish you may come, too.”
Johannes questioned Marjon with a look; but there fell before her eyes that impenetrable veil which always completely hid her inmost self from every stranger.
Father Canisius was in the parlor, seated in a low chair. His black soutane fitted tightly over his robust body, and his heavy feet in their buckled shoes were planted wide apart. He was polishing his spectacles with a handkerchief, and as Johannes entered the room he put them quickly in place, and turned his large eyes, full of interest, toward the door.
When Johannes came forward he took his hand in a kindly way and drew him nearer. Johannes looked into the broad, smooth-shaven face with its flat nose and sagacious eyes.
“Have you never had good guidance, my boy? Without it life is difficult and dangerous.”
“I have indeed had good guidance, Mijnheer,” said Johannes, “but I have more than once preferred to go my own way; and then I disregarded my guidance.”
“But was it good guidance?” asked the priest.
“I had a good father; later, I found a dear, good friend. But I left them both.”
“Why did you do that? Were you not satisfied with what they taught you? What was it that took you from them?”
Johannes hesitated.
“Were they too strict?”
Johannes shook his head.
“Then what was lacking that you found elsewhere but not with them?”
“I do not know, Mijnheer, what to call it. It is not pleasure, for I am willing to endure much suffering. And yet again it is the most glorious thing I know. I think it is what is meant by ‘the beautiful.’”
On saying this, he bethought himself that it was not merely “the beautiful” for which he had left his father, and that the emotion which had led him away from Markus, and which he had felt for the two little girls, might indeed be called love.
“Perhaps it is also called love,” said he.
Father Canisius considered a moment, and throwing a glance at the countess, he said:
“Then did you not find the love of that good father and the good friend enough for you?”
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Johannes, with spirit. “But it was from them I had learned that I ought to follow what seemed to me, in all sincerity, the most beautiful, and to do what I truly thought best.”
The priest dropped Johannes’ hand, and pressed his own fleshy palms together, while he slowly and sorrowfully shook his great head, gave a deep sigh, and continued to look at Countess Dolores with a very serious face.
“Poor boy!” said he then. “Poor, poor boy!”
Then, lifting his head and looking Johannes straight in the eyes, he said: “No, Johannes, they were not good guides. I do not know them, and I shall not judge them, but I assure you positively that with such teaching, such guidance, you are bound to be lost unless granted extraordinary grace.”
A long silence ensued. Johannes was touched, and even startled.
“What do you mean?” he finally stammered with trembling lips.
“Listen, Johannes,” said Countess Dolores. “Father Canisius is very wise—a man of large experience in life.”
“Do you believe in God, Johannes?” asked the priest.
“I know that I have a Father who understands me,” said Johannes, slowly.
“Do you mean a heavenly Father? Very well; so far, so good. But you must have observed also that there is an evil one—Satan—who goes about deceiving us.”
“Yes,” said Johannes, promptly, thinking of his many disappointments. “That is so. I have observed it.”
“Well, then, Satan is always lying in wait for us, like a wolf lurking near the sheep. One who trusts only in his own powers and his own opinion is like a sheep that strays from the fold. The wolf surely waits his opportunity, and, unless God perform a miracle, that sheep is lost.”
Johannes felt the fear strike to his heart, and he could not speak.
“We first notice the approach of this wolf by a terrible sensation. That is God’s warning to us. That feeling is doubt. Have you ever known what it was to doubt, Johannes?”
Johannes, with clenched fists and compressed lips, nodded in quick and utter dismay. Yes, yes, yes! He had known what it was to doubt.
“I thought so,” said Father Canisius, calmly. “It is a fearful feeling, is it not?” Raising his voice, he proceeded: “It is like the sound of howling wolves in the distance—to the wandering sheep. Let it not be in vain that you are warned, Johannes.”
After a pause he continued:
“Doubt itself is a sin. He who doubts is on an inclined plane that slopes toward a fall. Have you ever heard of the hideous octopus, Johannes—that soft sea-monster with the huge eyes, and eight long arms full of suckers which, one by one, he winds around the limbs of a swimmer, before dragging him down to the deeps? You have? Well, Satan is such an octopus. Unnoticed, he reaches out his long arms, and twines them about your limbs—holding them fast with his suckers until he can stab his sharp beak into your heart. Doubt is not only a warning but positive proof that Satan has already gripped you. It is the beginning of his power. The end is everlasting pain and damnation.”
Johannes raised his head and looked at the priest, who was watching the effect of his words.
In spite of his distress there was suddenly aroused in Johannes a feeling of resistance. He felt that an effort was being made to frighten him; and even if he was but a stripling he would not allow that.
“My Father does not condemn those who err in good faith,” said he.
Father Canisius observed that by bearing on too hard he had awakened a rebellious spirit. He therefore became more cautious, and resumed gently:
“Certainly, Johannes. God is infinitely good and merciful. But have you not remarked that there is a justice from which you cannot escape? And do you believe that one who has been led astray can plead, ‘I am not guilty, for I was deceived’? No, Johannes, you take this matter too lightly. Punishment attends sin. That is God’s inexorable law. And only if He had failed to warn us—only if He had not accurately revealed to us His will, could you call that cruel and unjust. But we are warned—are instructed—and may follow good guidance. If then we continue to stray, it is our own fault and we must not complain.”
“You mean the Bible, do you not, Mijnheer?”
“The Bible and the Church,” said the Father, not pleased at the tone of this question. “I very well comprehend, my boy, that you, with your poetic temperament and your craving for the beautiful, have not found peace in the cold, barren, and barbarous creed of Protestantism. But the Church gives you everything—beauty, warmth, love, and exalted poetry. In the Church alone can you find peace and perfect security. You know, however, do you not, that the flock has need of a Shepherd? And you know also who that Shepherd is?”
“Do you mean the Pope?”
“I mean Christ, Johannes—our Redeemer, of whom the Pope is merely a human representative. Do you know this Shepherd? Do you not know Jesus Christ?”
“No, Mijnheer,” replied Johannes, in all simplicity, “I do not know him at all.”
“I thought as much; and that is why I said to you, ‘Poor boy.’ But if you wish to learn to know him, I will gladly help you. Do you wish me to?”
“Why not, Mijnheer?” said Johannes.
“Very well. Begin, then, by accompanying the countess to the church she has promised me to attend—Have you, indeed, arranged to go?”
“Yes, Father,” replied the countess. “Oh, I am so happy that you take such an interest in us! Johannes will surely always be grateful to you.”
Father Canisius pressed very cordially the hands of both of his new disciples, and, with an expression of calm satisfaction on his face, he took his leave.
The children came in, and nothing further was said that day between Johannes and his friend concerning the matter; but the countess was much more animated than usual, and wonderfully kind toward Johannes. She even kissed him again when they said good-night, as once before she had done —when with her children.
Johannes could not sleep. He was full of anxiety, and in a state of high nervous tension. When the house grew still, and the lonely, mysterious night had come, came also fear and doubt and faint-heartedness. He doubted that he doubted, and feared the doubt of the doubt. He heard the howling of the wolf that lay in wait for the wandering sheep; he felt the slippery, slimy, crawling grasp of those terrible arms, that unnoticed, had fastened their suckers everywhere to his limbs; he saw the great yellow eyes of the octopus, with the narrow, slit-shaped pupil; and he felt the mouth searching and feeling about his body for his heart, that it might stab it with the sharp, parrot-like beak. With chattering teeth he lay wide awake between the sheets—shivering and shaking, while the perspiration poured from him.
Then he heard a faint, creaking sound on the stairs, followed by a light footfall at the doorway. His door was opened, and a slim, dark form came cautiously up to the bed.
He felt a soft, warm hand on his clammy forehead, and heard Marjon’s voice whispering:
“You must be faithful, Jo, and not let them make you afraid. The Father likes brave and loyal children.”
“Yes, Marjon,” said Johannes; and the shivering ceased, while a gentle warmth stole over and through his entire body. He dropped asleep so soon that he did not notice when she left the room.