XXIV
Already they had been twice to the hospital, on visitors’ days—Wednesday and Saturday—but they had not been permitted to see Markus.
He still lay unconscious, and the doctor did not yet know whether an operation would be necessary.
And when Johannes implored that they might only look upon the face of their friend, to know if he was still alive, it availed nothing. Their acquaintance with Dr. Cijfer or with Professor Bommeldoos had no influence here. There was no disposition to be indulgent. The feeling of hostility toward his Brother was general, and permeated the humane, scientific atmosphere of the hospital to such an extent that Johannes also was received more coldly because he appeared to be a relative of this man. For not even doctors and nurses are exempt from the suspicion of being sensitive to the opinions of others.
The strain of their sorrow was so great that Johannes and Marjon each feared lest the other would be ill—they ate so little and looked so worn, and their cheeks, although never very round and blooming, grew so pale and sunken.
At last—at last, they might go, for their third call, and join the stream of callers on Wednesday afternoon, from two o’clock until four. Marjon carried some white and purple asters; Johannes, a bunch of grapes bought with money carefully saved, cent by cent.
Entering the ward, they looked in great anxiety over the two long rows of beds. They searched for the face they knew so well, but did not find it. Timidly, they made inquiry of the nurse who sat writing, in the middle of the ward, at a little table covered with bandages and remedies. Without replying, she pointed to a bed. Then they saw the dark eyes, turned toward them with a kind smile.
They had not recognized him, for his beard was gone, his head enveloped with wrappings, and his face covered with plasters.
He beckoned them, and extended his emaciated white hand. They flew to him.
Two young men stood beside his bed. They were students. One of them, who seemed to have just made an examination of Markus, was rather gross in appearance, and had a flushed, uneasy face. The perspiration stood in drops on his forehead. The other stood by, indifferently, his hands in his pockets.
“Have you got at it?” asked the latter.
“Confound it, no,” replied the other, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “It’s a thundering complicated case. There’s a fracture of the skull; but the paralysis I can’t account for. It’s a mean trick of Snijman’s to pick out such a business for me, just to pester me. I’ll be sure to fail in the examination.
“Come, come, old fellow, you’re in a pet. It’s a pretty little chance for you—one to brag about. Come to-night to the quiz, and go through the brain anatomy again with me. Bring your Henle along. I’ll give you such a lift you’ll astonish them, old man. But we must be off now, for it’s visiting-day.”
And, taking the arm of his comrade, who sighed and packed up his instruments, he led him out of the ward.
“What do you think of the way they have fixed me up, children?” asked Markus, cheerfully, as he took Marjon’s flowers—with his left hand, because he could not move the other.
But neither Marjon nor Johannes could speak. They stood with trembling lips, swallowing back their tears. Then they sat down, one each side of the bed, and Marjon rested her forehead on his helpless hand.
Johannes held out to him the grapes, and tried to greet him in words; but he could not.
“Children,” said Markus, gently, yet with a rebuke in his tones, “I notice that you cry altogether too much. Do you remember, Johannes, when you sat down in the street beside the scissors’-wheel, and how I reproved you? When one cries so readily, it looks as if the great sorrow of mankind were not felt. He who has once realized that, weeps no more over his own little troubles; for the greater grief should hold him bathed in tears, both day and night.”
At these words the two controlled themselves in some degree, and Marjon said:
“But this is not a trifling thing that they have done to you.”
“It is not a trifling thing that the world is so that this could happen. That is frightful; but it remains equally frightful whether this befell me or not. And that it has been done to me, and I have submitted, is cause for joyfulness, not for weeping.”
Then said Johannes:
“But, dear Markus, what has it availed, and what will be the good of it? No one is sorry for it. No one will ever perceive the significance of it. No one, at this instant, has any further thought of you, nor of your words.”
Markus, regarding him attentively, with an earnest expression, as if to urge upon him a deeper reflection, said:
“But, Johannes, do you not remember the story of that little seed—the most diminutive of all seeds? It falls to the ground—is trodden under foot—no one sees it—it appears to be completely lost and dead. But in good time it begins to germinate, and grows to be a plant. And the plant bears new seeds, which are scattered by the wind. And the new seeds become new plants, and the whole terrestrial globe becomes too small for the might of what proceeds from that insignificant seed. Has Johannes forgotten me and my words?”
Johannes shook his head.
“Well, then, Johannes and Marjon are not the only ones with ears to hear, are they? The spark has fallen, and shines in secret. The seed lies in the dark ground, and waits its time.”
Gradually the ward began to fill with visitors. Relatives were now sitting beside each bed. There were wives and mothers with children, little and big, and some had babes at the breast. A subdued murmuring filled the place, where the smell of old and long-worn clothing mingled with the sharp scent of the disinfectants.
“Stay with me, children, as long as is permitted. The instrument is broken, and will soon cease to sound. Listen to it so long; as it vibrates.”
“Are you going to leave us, Markus?” asked Johannes, setting his teeth to keep command of himself.
“I have performed my task,” said Markus.
“Already? Already?” they both asked. “We cannot spare you. We might for a little while, but not for always.”
“Where is your memory, Johannes? You possess me always, and some time I shall be still closer to you than I now am.”
“But, Markus, how can I, without you, help people in their sorrow? Indeed, I am far from knowing the way yet. It seems as though I ought to be asking the way, for weeks to come, day and night.”
“Dear Johannes, I have said enough. To ask day and night would help you no more than to think day and night upon what I have already said to you. It seems—does it not—as if I had spoken little, and done little, among men. But recall how the same was said of old, and how it has never, through many words, become clearer, but always more dim. Where the plain commandments have not enough weight, much speaking has not a particle of effect. Has not the best already been said—two thousand years ago? Millions have torn and martyred one another on account of additions, because of misinterpretations, explanations, and commentaries; but the simple commandment, known of all, they have not kept. Concerning the swaddling-cloths they have fought bitterly; but the babe itself they have left to the swine and the dogs.”
They were permitted to stay throughout the time of visiting, and Johannes related where he had been during the night of his betrothal.
Marjon, having listened, asked:
“Markus, if he really saw the whole world as it is to be, why did he neither see nor hear anything of Markus himself?”
But Markus closed his eyes, as if weary of listening, laid back his head with a contented smile, and said, gently:
“The faithful architect is not concerned about his own renown, but about the work itself.”
Then he indicated that he wished to rest; and, exchanging looks, they slowly stood up, and with reluctant steps, absorbed in deep thought, they turned away.
On Saturday, when they came again, they looked straight over to Markus’ bed, for now they knew where he lay. But an icy fear came upon them when they caught sight of his face, below the white swathing-cloths. It was like sallow wax, with insunken eyes, and lay pressed into the pillow. They thought he was dead.
And when they stopped, hesitating and trembling, the patient in the cot next that of Markus motioned to them to come nearer.
“Come on, you,” said the man, a disreputable old fellow with a bandage around his bald head, a crooked nose, and a shaggy beard stained a yellow-brown with tobacco-juice. “He isn’t cold yet, but he’s snoozin’ away’s steady’s a new-born babe. Isn’t that so, Sjaak?”
And Sjaak, the patient on the other side—a drunkard with a broken leg, and a face full of red pimples—cried out: “Hear me! I couldn’t sleep better meself—after a couple o’ drinks.”
“Just make yerselves easy,” said the old fellow. “Don’t be upset about it. He’d be sorry if you went away again.”
“A little less noise, number eight,” called the nurse. “Talk quietly.”
“Is he your brother?” asked Sjaak, in a whisper this time. Johannes nodded.
“They’ve given him the very devil,” said the old man, “just as they gave it to me. Though I believe they served me about right.”
“I’m askin’ a great deal,” said Sjaak; “but if we’ve both always got to stay in this here boardin’-house—him and me—why, then, I’d like to ask the good Lord not to let him kick the bucket before I kicks it. Because if I’ve got to stay here alone with that old red-nose there, and my own damn wicked carcass, then—hi! hi! hi!”
Then came a sudden outburst of maudlin sobs, due, no doubt, to a condition of enforced abstinence.
“Silence!” called the Sister, sternly.
Markus waked up and greeted his two loved ones. Then he looked at his neighbors, right and left, and asked:
“Have you been childish again, Sjaak? I heard you, indeed. No one is forever doomed, I tell you, neither you nor old Bram—if you take care from now on to drink water only, and not gin.”
“I swear I will, Marrakus—swear it by God!” said Sjaak, striking himself on the breast.
“You cannot do that, Sjaak; neither would it help. After a half-glass of beer you will have forgotten all your vows.”
“No beer, either,” said Sjaak. “So help....”
“Be quiet now, Sjaak. Do not talk about it, but let it alone.”
“Mar-r-akus,” said Old Bram, in a hoarse, quaking voice, at the same time sitting up, with his griffin-like knuckles stretched out over the woollen covers, “tell me now, the honest truth: can it be possible for such a old hulk as me to escape eternal damnation? I’m shy of the priest, but I was brought up a Christian: and now that I can’t get no booze here, I settle down in me bed o’ nights with the jim-jams, and shake like an earthquake. But if I don’t have to go to the devil, they can go to blazes with their bloomin’ damnation! They can use their fires to dry the shirts of the angels, or to bake butter-cakes!—it’s all the same to me.”
“Listen, my man,” said Markus, kindly. “I am going to speak to you from my heart. Will you believe me?”
“That I will, Marrakus,” replied the old man, seriously, holding up a withered talon.
“When I stand before the Father above—if He let me into heaven—I shall say, I will not enter in until Old Bram also is redeemed from hell—even if he be the very last one.”
For a time the old fellow continued to gaze into the earnest eyes of Markus. Then his grotesque face assumed a whimsical grin, and he let himself fall back on his pillow, with a thud. There he lay, dumbfounded, staring at the ceiling—grinning, mumbling, and shaking his head. Johannes heard him whisper, “God-a-mighty!—Jesus Christ—Jesus Mary—God-a-mighty forever—” and so on and on.
Gently, yet not without some bitterness, Marjon asked:
“But, Markus, is he worthy of that? The fellow is half-witted.”
Markus replied, “And Keesje, then? Have you not shed tears over him? There is more need for them here.”
Thereat the two lapsed into thoughtful silence. At length Johannes, sighing deeply, exclaimed, “Oh, how many enigmas there are! The golden key seems farther away than ever.”
“Yet it is nearer,” said Markus. “Because you have chosen Me and Life, instead of Windekind and Death.
“The lily of eternal wisdom is a tender flower, which needs to grow slowly, and of itself.
“The Father hath sent us all forth to search for it; but no one findeth it alone.
“Eternal wisdom is like a bashful maiden: she flees from him who pursues too recklessly; but that one who turns aside, and first follows after love—him she coyly comes to find.”
When Markus had said this, Marjon blurted out:
“Johannes and I are husband and wife.”
Markus nodded, without appearing at all surprised.
“Will you join us in truth, Markus?” asked Johannes.
“Can I give truth, Johannes, where it is not?” asked Markus.
“That is not what I mean,” said Johannes, in confusion; “but I will promise to be true to her, in the sense you mean.”
“Consider your words, Johannes. A promise is a prophecy. Who can prophesy without full knowledge? This man beside me here promised not to drink. He intended not to; but what is his promise worth, without knowledge? Have you knowledge of your lasting faith? Then say, ‘I desire to be true,’ and show it. But make no promises; for whoever makes an idle promise is guilty; and whoever keeps a false promise is more guilty than he who breaks it.”
Then said Marjon to Johannes: “I do not wish you to make any promises, but I want your loyalty. If you will not remain true without promises, I do not wish them. Can you love only because you have promised to? For such love as that I would not thank you.”
“Then I will say that I feel true, so far as I know myself,” said Johannes, “and I will promise that I will do everything in my power to remain true.”
“That is more considerately said,” added Markus.
“But where we are to set up housekeeping I cannot yet see—he a piccolo, and I only a housemaid! That doesn’t bring in much. I think we shall yet fetch up in a tingel-tangel.”1
“It cannot make any difference to me where we find ourselves, if only I know I am contributing something toward the good life—toward the happiness of all those fine and dear people whom I have seen. But there will be small chance of that, either as piccolo or in a tingel-tangel.”
“Children,” said Markus, “out of the word springs the deed, and out of the deed springs life. And every one who speaks the good word creates the deed and fosters life.”
“Good,” said Johannes. “We will speak the word to all who have ears, so long as we shall live; and even if in prison, we shall speak it. And I have not only a mouth, but hands also that are willing to do.”
“Such hands will always find something to do—with more to follow; for the word and the deed are like the forest and the rain: the forest attracts the rain, and the rain makes the forest grow.”
“But how, then,” cried Johannes, “how? I see no way, no opportunity for my deeds.”
“Do you remember what I told you about the field-laborers? That tells it all. And this I say to you, Johannes: constant love makes one invincible; love, a sure memory, and patience. For him who draws nigh to the Father, and who forgets not, who remains always the same,—for such a one, although he still be weak, God always opens the way through every obstruction and perplexity. He is like one who continues to urge gently, in one direction, through throngs that go—they know not whither. He will make progress where others lag behind. And think of it, children, the highest and noblest thing you can long for is still only sad and inferior compared with what you can attain through a calm and steadfastly determined love.”
The bell which warned the visitors that it was four o’clock, and time to leave, had sounded some time ago, and the ward was nearly empty. The head nurse softly clapped her hands, to indicate to Johannes and Marjon that they must pass on. They were obliged to rise.
Then the door opened, and Professor Snijman came in with two assistants. The professor was a tall man, with a beardless face, and brown hair which curled behind his ears and about his carefully shaven neck. He had a hard and haughty look, with an assumption of stately condescension. With short steps he walked up to Markus’ bed, followed by the two young men—his assistants—with little pointed, blonde beards, and in spotless white linen coats.
“Well, well! Come! Visitors still? Not getting on very fast, are you?” said the professor.
At the same time he studied Markus with the cool calculation of a gardener considering whether he will uproot the shrub or let it remain. Then he took Markus’ paralyzed hand in his own, and moved it meditatively.
“It seems to me, gentlemen—don’t you think?—that we’ll have to try what the knife can do here. Don’t you think so? It’s a casus perditus, anyway, isn’t it? And who knows?... removal of the bone splinter—relieving the pressure on the motor-centre.... Possibly splendid results, don’t you think?”
The assistants nodded, and whispered to each other and to the professor. Markus said:
“Professor, will you not let me rest in peace? I am quite resigned to my condition. I know that it will be labor lost; and I am not willing to be made unconscious.”
“Come, come,” said the professor, half commanding, half in pretended kindness. “Not so gloomy, not so crest-fallen. We’ll just see if you can’t have the use of this arm again, shall we not? You need not be afraid. Everything is safe, and no pain. Would you not like to be able again to draw on your own blouse, to cut your meat, and to fill your pipe? Come, come! Keep up courage—keep up courage. Sister, to-morrow—ten o’clock—on the operating-table.”
Then to Marjon and Johannes:
“Hello, young folks, it’s after four. Out of the ward, quick!”
Markus put out his hand, which they both kissed, and said: “Till I see you again.”
Notes
1 A kind of cheap music-hall.