The Quest

"At court, Dirk Volders. See what a fine present I have brought away." And he pointed out the new cart.

"Surely, you've been sharpening the coupon-scissors again, haven't you?"

"No, the nail-scissors, Dirk, and it's time to do it here."

Wherever Markus went, a troop of children followed him Without apparent reason, or any expectation of delicacies, always several children tagged untiringly after him, an hour at a time, clinging fast, with their dirty little hands, to a shred of his coat or a fold of his trousers. With earnest faces they listened to his words and watched his movements, quietly managing the while to usurp one another's place at the front. Whoever could catch hold of his coat held on. Wherever he went, the ragged, unwashed little ones, from under wagons and behind boxes, put in an appearance – trotting after, so as to be on hand. There was always a chance of his suddenly throwing himself down and telling a story to a dozen dirty little listeners. Their small mouths, all smeared and stained, were wide open with interest, and their hands, furnished with a bread-crust or an old doll, hung down motionless, as they listened in suspense. And no one had ever surprised Markus in a peevish or impatient word to his troublesome little admirers. Not one of the surly, scolding parents had ever been able to admit to a child that it was naughty enough for Markus, even, to send it away.

Johannes observed this with great admiration. At first it seemed to him wonderful – supernatural. A whimpering, naughty child became submissive, a troublesome one tractable, and rude, unmannerly, and passionate children went away composed and quiet. And how could any one remain patient under such a continual din, and tagged after by the dirtiest and the worst-behaved children in the world? But, listening and keenly scrutinizing, Johannes gradually came to understand the apparently incomprehensible. It was the power of the interest in them which performed the miracle. There was nothing concerning those neglected little waifs in which Markus did not evidence the keenest interest, and he gave it his fullest attention – sparing no trouble nor exertion. Thus the roving mind of the child was at the same time pacified and restrained, and reduced to a state favorable for guidance. But, however he himself might explain it, the parents who were unable to control their children maintained that Markus had something in his eyes, or in his fingers – a "magic," they called it – by which he ruled the children. And these convictions grew still more settled through the knowledge of the willing and blessed help he gave to the sick.

There prevailed among these people a great distrust of physicians, and the one grievance they had against Markus was that he too often (according to their views) referred the sick to the doctor and the hospital. "He can do it better himself," they thought. "He surely is afraid of getting into jail." Yet they begrudged the police the satisfaction of seeing him there. But they tried to induce Markus to help them in every illness – even that of a broken bone – without their having recourse to doctor or hospital. In cases where the sick body could do without the relief of costly attendance and technical apparatus, Markus did not refuse to help with his simple expedients. It was said that he was a healer, yet no one had ever seen or heard him pray beside a sick person. He sometimes sat for a long time, deep in thought, by the side of a sufferer who was restless, or in pain. He would lay his hand upon the head, or the affected part, or take the hand of the patient. This he would sometimes do hour after hour, and he seldom left without having reduced the pain and restlessness.

Johannes had already heard this related by Marjon, and now he also saw mothers bringing their crying infants to him for advice, and he gave eager attention to what Markus would say.

A baby screamed and wriggled like a worm, resisting vehemently, for it dreaded the light, and wanted to hide its affected eyes in the mother's arms. But Markus insisted on examining the poor little eyes. They were all stuck together with foulness, and were red and swollen.

Johannes expected nothing else than that Markus would anoint them and command them to open. But Markus said:

"That's a loathsome lot of stuff, mother. There is a good eye-clinic in Leyden. But there is also a good one here. Go to it soon – now – to-day."

The mother, a strong, bony woman, looked at him through her straggling hair, in an irresolute, dissatisfied way.

"Curse 'em – those quacks! You do it instead. You can do it just as well."

"I'll not do it, mother, positively. And think of it! If you do not go quickly, your child will surely be stark blind. Go! It is your duty to."

"How is it, Markus? Can't you do it, or don't you dare to, that you send me off to those murderers?"

Markus regarded her several moments, and then said, gently: "Mother, it is your own fault – you know it very well. I may not give you help, but it is not on account of the police. There in the town they will give you good advice. But go now, quickly, or the blindness of your child will be upon your conscience."

With a sullen look the woman turned away, and Johannes asked in a whisper: "Are these doctors more clever than Markus?"

"They know enough for this," said Markus, abruptly.

IV

In the heat of the afternoon the Fair-folk went to sleep. They lay snoring everywhere – on straw or heaps of rags, in ugly, ungainly postures. But the children continued in motion, and often here and there the sound of their teasing and crying could be heard.

Johannes strolled around dejectedly. To go and lie calmly down, to sleep between those vile men, as Markus did, was impossible. Rank odors pervaded everything, and he was afraid, too, of vermin. Should he go walk in the town park, or between the sunny polders? Although he was ashamed to run away, he could not remain in peace. Again that frightful feeling arose, of unfitness for his great task. He was too weak – too sensitive.

He thought, with a painful longing, of the cool, stately, and peaceful parlors in the houses of the town, with furniture neatly dusted by tidy maids. He thought, too, of Aunt Seréna and her pretty, old-fashioned house, and of her large, shady garden, where surely the raspberries were now ripe.

Strolling moodily along, he came upon the green wagon, and behold, there was Marjon, lying in peaceful sleep. She lay on a shaggy, red-and-yellow horse-blanket, and her lean arms and scrawny neck were bare. She was so still – her knees drawn up and her cheek in her hand – that one could not tell whether she was really sleeping, or lying awake with closed eyes.

The monkey sat close beside her in the hot sun, contentedly playing with a cocoanut.

Johannes felt touched, and went to sit down against the wheel of the wagon. Looking intently at the dear little girl, he thought over her troubled, wandering life.

In thinking of that he forgot his own grief; and from the depths of his discontent he passed over to a mood of tender melancholy full of compassion. And then there awakened in him words which he was careful to remember. He thought of a butterfly that he had once seen flying seaward over the strand; and thinking of Marjon he said to himself:

"Out to the sea a white butterfly passed – It
looked at the sunshine, not at the shore;
Now it must flutter in every blast,
And may rest never more."

As he repeated those last words he was greatly moved, and tears coursed down his cheeks. He repeated the lines, over and over, adding new ones to them, and ended by losing himself wholly in this sweet play.

Thus the summer afternoon sped quickly, and Johannes went to the wagon for pencil and paper, to write down the thoughts which had come into his head. He was afraid they might escape.

"What are you doing?" asked Marjon, waking up. "Are you sketching me?"

"I am making verses," said Johannes.

Marjon had to see the verses, and when she had read them she wanted to sing them. Taking from the wagon a zither, she began to hum softly, while trying to find the chords. Johannes waited in suspense.

At last Marjon found a sad yet fervent melody, that sounded to Johannes like one well known to him of old; and together they sang the song:

"Out to the sea a white butterfly passed —
It looked at the sun, but at the shore, never;
Now it must flutter in every blast,
Nor may rest, ever.

"Oh, butterfly, little butterfly,
Seeking everywhere for your valley fair,
Never, ah, never again will you spy
The shady dell, where sweet flow'rs dwell.

"By wild winds driven out to sea,
Floating on sunshine far from the shore,
Evermore she a-wing now must be,
And can rest, never.

"Oh, butterfly, lovely butterfly!
Through sunny blue, or shadowy grey,
Never again shall you descry
That leafy dell where the roses dwell."

The children sang it once, twice, three times through; for those who had been awakened listened and asked for a repetition. Like a sudden illumination of sense and soul there came to Johannes the consciousness of having done something good. The poor, vile, neglected people – adults and children – had listened. He had made it, and it had given him happiness; now it seemed also to afford these sorrowful people some pleasure. This made him glad. It was not much, but then he could do something.

Night came; the air grew cooler, a fresh wind blew in from the sea over the grassy polders, and a rosy mist hung over the dunes. The broad canal along which the camp lay was sparkling in the sunset light. Everywhere noises awoke, and from the town came the twilight sounds of hand-organs and the rattling of carts.

The Fair-people formed a ring, and, eager for more music, besought Markus to play for them.

Markus took a harmonica, and played all kinds of tunes. Men and women, squatting down, or prone upon the ground, chin in hand, listened with great earnestness; and when the children, talking or loitering, and paying no attention to the music, came up to their parents, they were impatiently sent off.

When Markus stopped, a man cried out in a husky voice: "Come, boys, let's sing something – The Song of the Poor Customers."

Instantly, they all fell in obediently – Markus striking the key-note – and sang the following song: