The Quest

In solemn state swim our two souls,
Like night-black, mystic swans.
O'er passion-seas profoundly deep —
Of briny, melancholy tears.

Oh! Thou supremely bitter ocean!
All wingless, bear we with us, thro' the sky's dark courses,
Thy ceaseless, lily-sorrow —
And the fell weight of this sad world's woe.

Entwine with mine thy slender throat, my brother,
That, swooning, we may farther swim,
And with our song the dazzled race amaze.

Let us, in sensuous tenderness,
Like faded lilies intertwine,
With a death-sob of supremest ecstasy.

Would not your friend be able to compose music for this? And I hope soon to know her better.

Your soul's kinsman,

    Walter v. L. T. D.

Kurhotel, 8th Sept. (Van Lieverlee tot Endegeest).

Just here, I wish I could say that Johannes immediately let Marjon read both the letter and the verses, and that, with her, he made merry over them. But that, alas! the truth will not permit. And now, for the sake of my small hero, I confess I should be heartily ashamed if I thought that none of you, in reading the above, would be as ingenuous as he was, in regarding the poem with the utmost seriousness – even hesitating, like himself, to doubt its quality, concluding that it must indeed be fine though a little too high for understanding, and, for that very reason, not at first sight so very striking and intelligible.

Are you certain that none of you would have been so stupid as to be deceived by it? Quite certain? Well, then, please do not forget how youthful Johannes still was; and consider, also, the wonderful progress of the age, due, no doubt, to the zealous and untiring efforts of our numerous literary critics.

Johannes did not mention the letter; but when he saw Marjon, he said:

"I saw somebody, yesterday. Can you think who it was?"

Marjon's pale, dull face lighted up suddenly, and she stared at Johannes with fixed, bright eyes.

"Markus!" said she. Johannes nodded assent, and she continued:

"Thank God! I felt it. I heard that the laborers about here were soon to go on a strike, and then I supposed-well – Now everything will be all right again!"

Then she was silent, eating her bread contentedly. A little later, she asked:

"Where are you going? Is it far? What have you agreed to do?"

"I have settled nothing," said Johannes. "But I will go to him with you before long. It is not far." Then, affecting to make light of it, he said: "I have had an invitation to the hotel."

"Gracious!" said Marjon, under her breath. "The deuce is to pay again."

In the park Johannes met Mijnheer van Lieverlee. He stood on the grass in front of a thicket of withered shrubs, gazing at the mountains; and was clad in cream-white flannel, with a bright-purple silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. One hand rested upon his ebony walking-stick; with the other – thumb and forefinger pressed together, and little finger extended – he was making rhythmical movements in the air.

When he saw Johannes, he greeted him with a nod and a wink, as if there were a secret understanding between them.

"Superb! Is it not? Superb!"

Johannes did not exactly know what he meant – the verses he had received, the mountains opposite, or the fine, September morning. He selected the most obvious, and said:

"Yes, sir! Glorious weather!"

Van Lieverlee gave him a keen look, as if uncertain whether or not he was being made sport of, and then leisurely remarked:

"You do not appear to be impressed by the combination of white, mauve, and golden brown."

Johannes thought himself very sensitive to the effect of color; so he felt ashamed of not having noticed the color-composition. He saw it now, fully – the white flannel, the purple pocket-handkerchief, and the faded, yellow-brown shrub. That Van Lieverlee should thus include himself in this symphony of color seemed to him in the highest degree pertinent.

"I was engaged in making a 'pantoem' in harmony with that color-scheme," said Van Lieverlee; and then, seeing the blank look on Johannes' face, he added, "Do you know what a 'pantoem' is?"

"I do not, sir."

"Oh, boy! boy! and you call yourself a poet! What did you receive this morning? Do you know what that is?"

"A sonnet," said Johannes, eagerly.

"Is that so? Did you think it a fine one?"

That was a disquieting question. Johannes was quite at a loss about it; but it seemed that poets were wont to ask such questions, so he overcame what he considered his childishness, and said:

"I think it is splendid!"

"You think so! Well, I know it. There is no need to make a secret of it. I call what is good, good, whether it was I who made it, or somebody else."

That seemed both just and true to Johannes. Now that he was again with Van Lieverlee, and heard him talk in such a grand style, with that easy, fluent enunciation, and those elegant gestures, he found him, on the whole, not bad, but, on the contrary, attractive and admirable. He knew that Marjon would think otherwise; but his confidence in her judgment declined as his confidence in Van Lieverlee augmented.

"Now, Johannes, I have something for you which ought to make you very happy," said Van Lieverlee, at the same time taking from a pretty, red portfolio, that smelled delightfully like Russia leather, a note embellished with a crown and sealed with blue wax. "This was written by Countess Dolores with her own hand, and I know what it contains. Treat it with respect."

Before handing it over to him, Van Lieverlee, with a sweeping flourish, pressed it to his own lips. Johannes felt himself to be a dolt; for he knew it would be an impossibility for him to imitate that.

The note contained a very brief, though cordial, invitation to stay at her home sometime, when she should be with her children, at her country-seat in England. There was, too, within the note, a pretty bit of paper. Johannes had never seen its like. It meant money.

"How kind of her!" he exclaimed rapturously. He felt greatly honored. Immediately, however, his thoughts turned toward Markus – toward Marjon and Keesje. How about them? Something must be done about it; to decline was impossible.

"Well?" said Van Lieverlee. "You do not appear to be half pleased about it. Or do not you believe it yet? It really is not a joke!"

"Oh, no!" said Johannes. "I know it is not … but…"

"Your friend may go with you, you know; or does she not care to?"

"I have not asked her yet," said Johannes, "for, you see, we have … we have finally found him."

"What do you mean? w hat are you talking about? Speak out plainly, boy. You need never keep secrets from me.