eyes, gazed into the darkness; and because her nature was soft and timid
there came into her mind a momentary fear. Her heart flew to the
Father’s footstool, and cried out to Him, not any question or prayer,
but only ‘Father, Father!’ and this made her stand erect, and
strengthened her eyes, so that the gloom even of hell could no more make
her afraid. Her guide stood beside with a steadfast countenance, which
was grave yet full of a solemn light. And then all at once he lifted up
his voice, which was sonorous and sweet like the sound of an organ, and
uttered a shout so great and resounding that it seemed to come back in
echoes from every hollow and hill. What he said the little pilgrim could
not understand; but when the echoes had died away and silence followed,
something came up through the gloom--a sound that was far, far away, and
faint in the long distance, a voice that sounded no more than an echo.
When he who had called out heard it, he turned to the little pilgrim
with eyes that were liquid with love and pity--‘Listen,’ he said, ‘there
is some one on the way.’
‘Can we help them?’ cried the little pilgrim: her heart bounded forward
like a bird. She had no fear. The darkness and the horrible way seemed
as nothing to her. She stretched out her arms as if she would have
seized the traveller and dragged him up into the light.
He who was by her side shook his head, but with a smile. ‘We can but
wait,’ he said. ‘It is forbidden that any one should help. For this is
too terrible and strange to be touched even by the hands of angels. It
is like nothing that you know.’
‘I have been taught many things,’ said the little pilgrim, humbly. ‘I
have been taken back to the dear earth, where I saw the judgment-seat,
and the pleaders who spoke, and the man who was the judge--and how each
is judge for himself.’
‘You have seen the place of hope,’ said her guide, ‘where the Father is
and the Son, and where no man is left to his own ways. But there is
another country, where there is no voice either from God or from good
spirits, and where those who have refused are left to do as seems good
in their own eyes.’
‘I have read,’ said the little pilgrim, with a sob, ‘of one who went
from city to city and found no rest.’
Her guide bowed his head very gravely in assent. ‘They go from place to
place,’ he said, ‘if haply they might find one in which it is possible
to live. Whether it is order or whether it is licence, it is according
to their own will. They try all things, ever looking for something which
the soul may endure. And new cities are founded from time to time, and a
new endeavour ever and ever to live, only to live. For even when
happiness fails and content, and work is vanity and effort is naught, it
is something if a man can but endure to live.’
The little pilgrim looked at him with wistful eyes, for what he said was
beyond her understanding. ‘For us,’ she said, ‘life is nothing but joy.
Oh, brother, is there then condemnation?’
‘It is no condemnation, it is what they have chosen--it is to follow
their own way. There is no longer any one to interfere. The pleaders are
all silent: there is no voice in the heart. The Father hinders them not,
nor helps them: but leaves them.’ He shivered as if with cold; and the
little pilgrim felt that there breathed from the depths of darkness at
their feet an icy wind which touched her hands and feet and chilled her
heart. She shivered too, and drew close to the rock for shelter, and
gazed at the awful cliffs rising out of the gloom, and the paths that
disappeared at her feet, leading down, down into that abyss--and her
heart failed within her to think that below there were souls that
suffered, and that the Father and the Son were not there. He the
All-loving, the All-present--how could it be that He was not there?
‘It is a mystery,’ said the man who was her guide, and who answered to
her thought. ‘When I set my foot upon this blessed land I knew that
there, even there, He is. But in that country His face is hidden, and
even to name His name is anguish--for then only do men understand what
has befallen them, who can say that name no more.’
‘That is death indeed,’ she cried; and the wind came up silent with a
wild breath that was more awful than the shriek of a storm: for it was
like the stifled utterances of all those miserable ones who have no
voice to call upon God, and know not where He is nor how to pronounce
His name.
‘Ah,’ said he, ‘if we could have known what death was! We had believed
in death in the time of all great illusions, in the time of the gentle
life, in the day of hope. But in the land of darkness there are no
illusions, and every man knows that though he should fling himself into
the furnace of the gold, or be cut to pieces by the knives, or trampled
under the dancers’ feet, yet that it will be but a little more pain, and
that death is not, nor any escape that way.’
‘Oh, brother!’ she cried, ‘you have been there!’
He turned and looked upon her, and she read as in a book things which
tongue of man cannot say--the anguish and the rapture, the unforgotten
pang of the lost, the joy of one who has been delivered after hope was
gone.
‘I have been there: and now I stand in the light, and have seen the face
of the Lord, and can speak His blessed name.’ And with that he burst
forth into a great melodious cry, which was not like that which he had
sent into the dark depths below, but mounted up like the sounding of
silver trumpets and all joyful music, giving a voice to the sweet air
and the fresh winds which blew about the hills of God. But the words he
said were not comprehensible to his companion, for they were in the
sweet tongue which is between the Father and His child, and known to
none but to them alone. Yet only to hear the sound was enough to
transport all who listened, and to make them know what joy is and peace.
The little pilgrim wept for happiness to hear her brother’s voice. But
in the midst of it her ear was caught by another sound--a faint cry
which tingled up from the darkness like a note of a muffled bell--and
she turned from the joy and the light, and flung out her arms and her
little voice towards him who was stumbling upon the dark mountains. And
‘Come,’ she cried, ‘Come, come!’ forgetting all things save that one was
there in the darkness, while here was light and peace.
‘It is nearer,’ said her guide, hearing, even in the midst of his
triumph song, that faint and distant cry; and he took her hand and drew
her back, for she was upon the edge of the precipice gazing into the
black depths, which revealed nothing save the needles of the awful rocks
and sheer descents below. ‘The moment will come,’ he said, ‘when we can
help--but it is not yet.’
Her heart was in the depths with him who was coming, whom she knew not
save that he was coming, toiling upwards towards the light; and it
seemed to her that she could not contain herself, nor wait till he
should appear, nor draw back from the edge, where she might hold out her
hands to him and save him some single step, if no more. But presently
her heart returned to her brother who stood by her side, and who was
delivered, and with whom it was meet that all should rejoice, since he
had fought and conquered, and reached the land of light. ‘Oh,’ she said,
‘it is long to wait while he is still upon these dark mountains. Tell me
how it came to you to find the way.’
He turned to her with a smile, though his ear too was intent, and his
heart fixed upon the traveller in the darkness, and began to tell her
his tale to beguile the time of waiting, and to hold within bounds the
pity that filled her heart. He told her that he was one of many who came
from the pleasant earth together, out of many countries and tongues; and
how they had gone here and there each man to a different city, and how
they had crossed each other’s paths coming and going, yet never found
rest for their feet. And how there was a little relief in every change,
and one sought that which another left; and how they wandered round and
round over all the vast and endless plain, until at length, in revolt
from every other way, they had chosen a spot upon the slope of a hill,
and built there a new city, if perhaps something better might be found
there. And how it had been built with towers and high walls, and great
gates to shut it in, so that no stranger should find entrance. And how
every house was a palace, with statues of marble, and pillars so
precious with beautiful work, and arches so lofty and so fair, that they
were better than had they been made of gold; yet gold was not wanting,
nor diamond stones that shone like stars, and everything more beautiful
and stately than heart could conceive.
‘And while we built and labored,’ he said, ‘our hearts were a little
appeased. And it was called the city of Art, and all was perfect in it,
so that nothing had ever been seen to compare with it for beauty: and we
walked upon the battlements and looked over the plain and viewed the
dwellers there, who were not as we. And we went on to fill every room
and every hall with carved work in stone and beaten gold, and pictures
and woven tissues that were like the sun-gleams and the rainbows of the
pleasant earth. And crowds came around envying us and seeking to enter.
But we closed our gates and drove them away. And it was said among us
that life would now become as of old, and everything would go well with
us as in the happy days.’
The little pilgrim looked up into his face, and for pity of his pain
(though it was past) almost wished that _that_ could have come true.
‘But when the work was done,’ he said: and for a moment no more.
‘Oh, brother! when the work was done?’
‘You do not know what it is,’ he said, ‘to be ten times more powerful
and strong, to want no rest, to have fire in your veins, to have the
craving in your heart above everything that is known to man. When the
work was done, we glared upon each other with hungry eyes, and each man
wished to thrust forth his neighbour and possess all to himself. And
then we ceased to take pleasure in it, notwithstanding that it was
beautiful; and there were some who would have beaten down the walls and
built them anew--and some would have torn up the silver and gold, and
tossed out the fair statues and the adornments in scorn and rage to the
meaner multitudes below. And we, who were the workers, began to contend
one against another to satisfy the gnawings of the rage that was in our
hearts. For we had deceived ourselves, thinking once more that all would
be well: while all the time nothing was changed, and we were but as the
miserable ones that rushed from place to place.’
Though all this wretchedness was over and past, it was so terrible to
think of that he paused and was silent a while. And the little pilgrim
put her hand upon his arm in her great pity to soothe him, and almost
forgot that there was another traveller not yet delivered upon the way.
But suddenly at that moment there came up through the depths the sound
of a fall, as if the rocks had crashed from a hundred peaks, yet all
muffled by the great distance, and echoing all around in faint echoes,
and rumblings as in the bosom of the earth. And mingled with them were
far-off cries, so faint and distant that human ears could not have heard
them, like the cries of lost children, or creatures wavering and
straying in the midst of the boundless night. This time she who was
watching upon the edge of the gloom would have flung herself forward
altogether into it, had not her companion again restrained her. ‘One has
stumbled upon the mountains; but listen, listen, little sister, for the
voices are many,’ he said,--‘it is not one who comes, but many; and
though he falls he will rise again.’
And once more he shouted aloud, bending down against the rocks, so that
they caught his voice--and the sweet air from the skies came behind him
in a great gust like a summer storm, and carried it into all the echoing
hollows of the hills. And the little pilgrim knew that he shouted to all
who came to take courage and not to fear. And this time there rose
upward many faint and wavering sounds that did not stir the air, but
made it tingle with a vibration of the great distance and the unknown
depths; and then again all was still. They stood for a time intent upon
the great silence and darkness which swept up all sight and sound, and
then the little pilgrim once more turned her eyes towards her companion,
and he began again his wonderful tale.
‘He who had been the first to found the city, and who was the most wise
of any, though the rage was in him like all the rest, and the
disappointment and the anguish, yet would not yield. And he called upon
us for another trial, to make a picture which should be the greatest
that ever was painted. And each one of us, small or great, who had been
of that art in the dear life, took share in the rivalry and the
emulation, so that on every side there was a fury and a rush, each man
with his band of supporters about him struggling and swearing that his
was the best. Not that they loved the work or the beauty of the work,
but to keep down the gnawing in their hearts, and to have something for
which they could still fight and storm, and for a little forget.
‘I was one who had been among the highest.’ He spoke not with pride, but
in a low and deep voice which went to the heart of the listener, and
brought the tears to her eyes. It was not like that of the painter in
the heavenly city, who rejoiced and was glad in his work, though he was
but as a humble workman, serving those who were more great. But this man
had the sorrow of greatness in him, and the wonder of those who can do
much, to find how little they can do. ‘My veins,’ he said, ‘were filled
with fire, and my heart with the rage of a great desire to be first, as
I had been first in the days of the gentle life. And I made my plan to
be greater than all the rest, to paint a vast picture like the world,
filled with all the glories of life. In a moment I had conceived what I
should do, for my strength was as that of a hundred men: and none of us
could rest or breathe till it was accomplished, but flung ourselves upon
this new thing as upon water in the desert. Oh, my little sister, how
can I tell you--what words can show forth this wonderful thing? I stood
before my great canvas with all those who were of my faction pressing
upon me, noting every touch I made, shouting, and saying, “He will win!
he will win!” When lo! there came a mystery and a wonder into that
place. I had arranged men and women before me according to all the
devices of art, to serve as my models that nature might be in my
picture, and life: but when I looked I saw them not, for between them
and me had come a Face.’
The eyes of the little pilgrim dropped with tears. She held out her
hands towards him with a sympathy which no words could say.
‘Often had I painted that face in the other life,--sometimes with awe
and love, sometimes with scorn: for hire and for bread, and for pride
and for fame. It is pale with suffering, yet smiles; the eyes have tears
in them, yet light below, and all that is there is full of tenderness
and of love. There is a crown upon the brow, but it is made of thorns.
It came before me suddenly, while I stood there, with the men shouting
close to my ear urging me on, and fierce fury in my heart, and the rage
to be first, and to forget. Where my models were, there it came. I could
not see them, nor my groups that I had planned, nor anything but that
Face. I called out to my men, “Who has done this?” but they heard me
not, nor understood me, for to them there was nothing there save the
figures I had set--a living picture all ready for the painter’s hand.
‘I could not bear it, the sight of that face. I flung my tools away. I
covered my eyes with my hands. But those who were about me pressed on me
and threatened. They pulled my hands from my eyes. “Coward!” they cried,
and “Traitor, to leave us in the lurch. Now will the other side win and
we be shamed. Rather tear him limb from limb, fling him from the walls!”
The crowd came round me like an angry sea; they forced my pencils back
into my hands. “Work,” they cried, “or we will tear you limb from
limb.” For though they were upon my side, it was for rivalry, and not
out of any love for me.’ He paused for a moment, for his heart was yet
full of the remembrance, and of joy that it was past.
‘I looked again,’ he said, ‘and still it was there. O Face divine--the
eyes all wet with pity, the lips all quivering with love! And neither
pity nor love belonged to that place, nor any succour, nor the touch of
a brother, nor the voice of a friend. “Paint,” they cried, “or we will
tear you limb from limb!”--and fire came into my heart. I pushed them
from me on every side with the strength of a giant. And then I flung it
on the canvas, crying I know not what--not to them but to Him. Shrink
not from me, little sister, for I blasphemed. I called Him Impostor,
Deceiver, Galilean; and still with all my might, with all the fury of my
soul, I set Him there for every man to see, not knowing what I did.
Everything faded from me but that Face--I saw it alone. The crowd came
round me with shouts and threats to drag me away, but I took no heed;
they were silenced, and fled and left me alone, but I knew nothing; nor
when they came back with others and seized me, and flung me forth from
the gates, was I aware what I had done. They cast me out and left me
upon the wild without a shelter, without a companion, storming and
raving at them as they did at me. They dashed the great gates behind me
with a clang, and shut me out. And I turned and defied them, and cursed
them as they cursed me, not knowing what I had done.’
‘Oh, brother!’ murmured the little pilgrim, kneeling, as if she had
accompanied him all the way with her prayers, but could not now say
more.
‘Then I saw again,’ he went on, not hearing her in the great force of
that passion and wonder which was still in his mind--‘that vision in the
air. Wherever I turned, it was there: His eyes wet with pity, His
countenance shining with love. Whence came He? What did He in that
place, where love is not, where pity comes not?’
‘Friend,’ she cried, ‘to seek you there!’
Her companion bowed his head in deep humbleness and joy. And again he
lifted his great voice and intoned his song of praise. The little
pilgrim understood it, but by fragments--a line that was more simple
that came here and there. And it praised the Lord that where the face of
the Father was hidden, and where love was not, nor compassion, nor
brother had pity on brother, nor friend knew the face of friend, and all
succour was stayed, and every help forbidden--yet still in the depths of
the darkness and in the heart of the silence, He who could not forget
nor forsake was there. The voice of the singer was like that of one of
the great angels, and many of the inhabitants of the blessed country
began to appear, gathering in crowds to hear this great music, as the
little sister thought; and she herself listened with all her heart,
wondering and seeing on the faces of those dear friends whom she did not
know an expectation and a hope which were strange to her, though she
could always understand their love and their joy.
But in the middle of this great song there came again another sound to
her ear--a sound which pierced through the music like lightning through
the sky, though it was but the cry of one distraught and fainting,--a
cry out of the depths not even seeking help, a cry of distress too
terrible to be borne. Though it was scarcely louder than a sigh, she
heard it through all the music, and turned and flew to the edge of the
precipice whence it came. And immediately the darkness seemed to move as
with a pulse, in a great throb, and something came through the wind with
a rush, as if part of the mountain had fallen--and lo! at her feet lay
one who had flung himself forward, his arms stretched out, his face to
the ground, as if he had seized and grasped in an agony the very soil.
He lay there, half in the light and half in the shadow, gripping the
rocks with his hands, burrowing into the cool herbage above and the
mountain flowers; clinging, catching hold, despairing, yet seizing
everything he could grasp--the tender grass, the rolling stones. The
little pilgrim flung herself down upon her knees by his side, and
grasped his arm to help, and cried aloud for aid; and the song of the
singer ceased, and there was silence for a moment, so that the breath of
the fugitive could be heard panting, and his strong struggle to drag
himself altogether out of that abyss of darkness below. She thought of
nothing, nor heard nor saw anything, but the strain of that last effort
which seemed to shake the very mountains; until suddenly there seemed to
rise all around the hum and murmur as of a great multitude, and looking
up, she saw every little hill and hollow, and the glorious plain beyond
as far as eye could see, crowded with countless throngs; and on the high
peaks above, in the full shining of the sun, came bands of angels, and
of those great beings who are more mighty than men. And the eyes of all
were fixed upon the man who lay as one dead upon the ground, and from
the lips of all came a low murmur of rapture and delight, that spread
like the hum of the bees, like the cooing of the doves, like the voice
of a mother over her child; and the same sound came to her own lips
unawares, and she murmured ‘welcome’ and ‘brother’ and ‘friend,’ not
knowing what she said; and looking to the others, whispered, ‘Hush! for
he is weak’--and all of them answered with tears, with ‘hush,’ and
‘welcome,’ and ‘friend,’ and ‘brother,’ and ‘beloved,’ and stood smiling
and weeping for joy. And presently there came softly into the blessed
air the ringing of the great silver bells, which sound only for victory
and great happiness and gain. And there was joy in heaven,--and every
world was stirred. And throughout the firmament, and among all the lords
and princes of life, it was known that the impossible had become true,
and the name of the Lord had proved enough, and love had conquered even
despair.
‘Hush!’ she said, ‘for he is weak.’ And because it was her blessed
service to receive those who had newly arrived in that heavenly country,
and to soothe and help them so that like new-born children they should
be able to endure and understand the joy, she knelt by him on the ground
and tried to rouse him, though with trembling, for never before had she
stood by one who was newly come out of the land of despair. ‘Let the sun
come upon him,’ she said; ‘let him feel the brightness of the
light,’--and with her soft hands she drew him out of the shade of the
twilight to where the brightness of the day fell like a smile upon the
flowers. And then at last he stirred, and turned round and opened his
eyes, for the genial warmth had reached him. But his eyes were heavy and
dazzled with the light, and he looked round him as if confused from
beneath his heavy eyelids. ‘And where am I?’ he said; ‘and who are
you?’--‘Oh, brother!’ said the little pilgrim, and told him in his ear
the name of that heavenly place, and many comforting and joyful things.
But he understood her not, and still gazed about him with dazzled eyes,
for his face was still towards the darkness, and fear was upon him lest
this place should prove no more than a delusion, and the darkness
return, and the anguish and pain.
Then he who had been her guide, and told her his tale, came forward and
stood by the side of the newly come. And ‘Brother,’ he said, ‘look upon
me, for you know me, and know from whence I come.’
The stranger looked dimly with his heavy eyes. And he replied, ‘It is as
a dream that I know you, and know from whence you came. And the dream is
sweet to lie here, and think that I am at peace. Deceive me not--oh!
deceive me not, with dreams that are sweet--but let me go upon my way
and find the end; if there is any end, or if any good can be.’
‘What shall we do,’ cried the little pilgrim, ‘to persuade him that he
has arrived and is safe, and dreams no more?’