When the little Pilgrim came out of the presence of the Father, she found
herself in the street of a great city. But what she saw and heard when
she was with Him it is not given to the tongue of mortal to say, for it
is beyond words, and beyond even thought. As the mystery of love is not
to be spoken but to be felt, even in the lower earth, so, but much less,
is that great mystery of the love of the Father to be expressed in sound.
The little Pilgrim was very happy when she went into that sacred place,
but there was a great awe upon her, and it might even be said that she
was afraid; but when she came out again she feared nothing, but looked
with clear eyes upon all she saw, loving them, but no more overawed by
them, having seen that which is above all. When she came forth again to
her common life--for it is not permitted save for those who have attained
the greatest heights to dwell there--she had no longer need of any guide,
but came alone, knowing where to go, and walking where it pleased her,
with reverence and a great delight in seeing and knowing all that was
around, but no fear. It was a great city, but it was not like the great
cities which she had seen. She understood as she passed along how it was
that those who had been dazzled but by a passing glance had described the
walls and the pavement as gold. They were like what gold is, beautiful
and clear, of a lovely color, but softer in tone than metal ever was, and
as cool and fresh to walk upon and to touch as if they had been velvet
grass. The buildings were all beautiful, of every style and form that it
is possible to think of, yet in great harmony, as if every man had
followed his own taste, yet all had been so combined and grouped by the
master architect that each individual feature enhanced the effect of the
rest. Some of the houses were greater and some smaller, but all of them
were rich in carvings and pictures and lovely decorations, and the effect
was as if the richest materials had been employed, marbles and beautiful
sculptured stone, and wood of beautiful tints, though the little Pilgrim
knew that these were not like the marble and stone she had once known,
but heavenly representatives of them, far better than they. There were
people at work upon them, building new houses and making additions, and a
great many painters painting upon them the history of the people who
lived there, or of others who were worthy that commemoration. And the
streets were full of pleasant sound, and of crowds going and coming, and
the commotion of much business, and many things to do. And this movement,
and the brightness of the air, and the wonderful things that were to be
seen on every side, made the Pilgrim gay, so that she could have sung
with pleasure as she went along. And all who met her smiled, and every
group exchanged greetings as they passed along, all knowing each other.
Many of them, as might be seen, had come there, as she did, to see the
wonders of the beautiful city; and all who lived there were ready to tell
them whatever they desired to know, and show them the finest houses and
the greatest pictures. And this gave a feeling of holiday and pleasure
which was delightful beyond description, for all the busy people about
were full of sympathy with the strangers, bidding them welcome, inviting
them into their houses, making the warmest fellowship. And friends were
meeting continually on every side; but the Pilgrim had no sense that she
was forlorn in being alone, for all were friends; and it pleased her to
watch the others, and see how one turned this way and one another, every
one finding something that delighted him above all other things. She
herself took a great pleasure in watching a painter, who was standing
upon a balcony a little way above her, painting upon a great fresco: and
when he saw this he asked her to come up beside him and see his work. She
asked him a great many questions about it, and why it was that he was
working only at the draperies of the figures, and did not touch their
faces, some of which were already finished and seemed to be looking at
her, as living as she was, out of the wall, while some were merely
outlined as yet. He told her that he was not a great painter to do this,
or to design the great work, but that the master would come presently,
who had the chief responsibility. "For we have not all the same genius,"
he said, "and if I were to paint this head it would not have the gift of
life as that one has; but to stand by and see him put it in, you cannot
think what a happiness that is; for one knows every touch, and just what
effect it will have, though one could not do it one's self; and it is a
wonder and a delight perpetual that it should be done."
The little Pilgrim looked up at him and said, "That is very beautiful to
say. And do you never wish to be like him--to make the lovely, living
faces as well as the other parts?"
"Is not this lovely too?" he said; and showed her how he had just put in
a billowy robe, buoyed out with the wind, and sweeping down from the
shoulders of a stately figure in such free and graceful folds that she
would have liked to take it in her hand and feel the silken texture; and
then he told her how absorbing it was to study the mysteries of color and
the differences of light. "There is enough in that to make one happy,"
he said. "It is thought by some that we will all come to the higher point
with work and thought: but that is not my feeling; and whether it is so
or not what does it matter, for our Father makes no difference: and all
of us are necessary to everything that is done: and it is almost more
delight to see the master do it than to do it with one's own hand. For
one thing, your own work may rejoice you in your heart, but always
with a little trembling because it is never so perfect as you would have
it--whereas in your master's work you have full content, because his idea
goes beyond yours, and as he makes every touch you can feel 'That is
right--that is complete--that is just as it ought to be.' Do you
understand what I mean?" he said, turning to her with a smile.
"I understand it perfectly," she cried, clasping her hands together with
the delight of accord. "Don't you think that is one of the things that
are so happy here? you understand at half a word."
"Not everybody," he said, and smiled upon her like a brother; "for we are
not all alike even here."
"Were you a painter?" she said, "in--in the other--"
"In the old times. I was one of those that strove for the mastery, and
sometimes grudged--We remember these things at times," he said gravely,
"to make us more aware of the blessedness of being content."
"It is long since then?" she said with some wistfulness; upon which he
smiled again.
"So long," he said, "that we have worn out most of our links to the world
below. We have all come away, and those who were after us for
generations. But you are a new-comer."
"And are they all with you? are you all--together? do you live--as in the
old time?"
Upon this the painter smiled, but not so brightly as before.
"Not as in the old time," he said, "nor are they all here. Some are still
upon the way, and of some we have no certainty, only news from time to
time. The angels are very good to us. They never miss an occasion to
bring us news; for they go everywhere, you know."
"Yes," said the little Pilgrim, though indeed she had not known it till
now; but it seemed to her as if it had come to her mind by nature and she
had never needed to be told.
"They are so tender-hearted," the painter said; "and more than that, they
are very curious about men and women. They have known it all from the
beginning, and it is a wonder to them. There is a friend of mine, an
angel, who is more wise in men's hearts than any one I know; and yet he
will say to me sometimes, 'I do not understand you,--you are wonderful.'
They like to find out all we are thinking. It is an endless pleasure to
them, just as it is to some of us to watch the people in the other
worlds."
"Do you mean--where we have come from?" said the little Pilgrim.
"Not always there. We in this city have been long separated from that
country, for all that we love are out of it."
"But not here?" the little Pilgrim cried again, with a little sorrow--a
pang that she knew was going to be put away--in her heart.
"But coming! coming!" said the painter, cheerfully; "and some were here
before us, and some have arrived since. They are everywhere."
"But some in trouble--some in trouble!" she cried, with the tears in her
eyes.
"We suppose so," he said, gravely; "for some are in that place which once
was called among us the place of despair."
"You mean--" and though the little Pilgrim had been made free of fear, at
that word which she would not speak, she trembled, and the light grew dim
in her eyes.
"Well!" said her new friend, "and what then? The Father sees through and
through it as he does here; they cannot escape him: so that there is Love
near them always. I have a son," he said, then sighed a little, but
smiled again, "who is there."
The little Pilgrim at this clasped her hands with a piteous cry.
"Nay, nay," he said, "little sister; my friend I was telling you of, the
angel, brought me news of him just now. Indeed there was news of him
through all the city. Did you not hear all the bells ringing? But perhaps
that was before you came. The angels who know me best came one
after another to tell me, and our Lord himself came to wish me joy. My
son had found the way."
The little Pilgrim did not understand this, and almost thought that the
painter must be mistaken or dreaming. She looked at him very anxiously
and said,--
"I thought that those unhappy--never came out any more."