"Had you children in the old time?"
She paused a little before she replied.
"I had children in love," she said, "but none that were born mine."
"It is the same," he said, "it is the same; and if one of them had sinned
against you, injured you, done wrong in any way, would you have cast him
off, or what would you have done?"
"Oh!" said the little Pilgrim again, with a vivid light of memory coming
into her face, which showed she had no need to think of this as a thing
that might have happened, but knew. "I brought him home. I nursed him
well again. I prayed for him night and day. Did you say cast him off?
when he had most need of me? then I never could have loved him," she
cried.
The painter nodded his head, and his hand with the pencil in it, for he
had turned from his picture to look at her.
"Then you think you love better than our Father?" he said; and turned to
his work, and painted a new fold in the robe, which looked as if a soft
air had suddenly blown into it, and not the touch of a skilful hand.
This made the Pilgrim tremble, as though in her ignorance she had done
something wrong. After that there came a great joy into her heart. "Oh,
how happy you have made me!" she cried. "I am glad with all my heart for
you and your son--" Then she paused a little and added, "But you said he
was still there."
"It is true; for the land of darkness is very confusing, they tell me,
for want of the true light, and our dear friends the angels are not
permitted to help: but if one follows them, that shows the way. You may
be in that land yet on your way hither. It was very hard to understand at
first," said the painter; "there are some sketches I could show you. No
one has ever made a picture of it, though many have tried; but I could
show you some sketches--if you wish to see."
To this the little Pilgrim's look was so plain an answer that the painter
laid down his pallet and his brush, and left his work, to show them to
her as he had promised. They went down from the balcony and along the
street until they came to one of the great palaces, where many were
coming and going. Here they walked through some vast halls, where
students were working at easels, doing every kind of beautiful work: some
painting pictures, some preparing drawings, planning houses and palaces.
The Pilgrim would have liked to pause at every moment to see one lovely
thing or another; but the painter walked on steadily till he came to a
room which was full of sketches, some of them like pictures in little,
with many figures,--some of them only a representation of a flower, or
the wing of a bird. "These are all the master's," he said; "sometimes the
sight of them will be enough to put something great into the mind of
another. In this corner are the sketches I told you of." There were two
of them hanging together upon the wall, and at first it seemed to the
little Pilgrim as if they represented the flames and fire of which she
had read, and this made her shudder for the moment. But then she saw that
it was a red light like a stormy sunset, with masses of clouds in the
sky, and a low sun very fiery and dazzling, which no doubt to a hasty
glance must have looked, with its dark shadows and high lurid lights,
like the fires of the bottomless pit. But when you looked down you saw
the reality what it was. The country that lay beneath was full of
tropical foliage, but with many stretches of sand and dry plains, and in
the foreground was a town, that looked very prosperous and crowded,
though the figures were very minute, the subject being so great; but no
one to see it would have taken it for anything but a busy and wealthy
place, in a thunderous atmosphere, with a storm coming on. In the next
there was a section of a street with a great banqueting hall open to the
view, and many people sitting about the table. You could see that there
was a great deal of laughter and conversation going on, some very noisy
groups, but others that sat more quietly in corners and conversed, and
some who sang, and every kind of entertainment. The little Pilgrim was
very much astonished to see this, and turned to the painter, who answered
her directly, though she had not spoken. "We used to think differently
once. There are some who are there and do not know it. They think only it
is the old life over again, but always worse, and they are led on in the
ways of evil; but they do not feel the punishment until they begin to
find out where they are and to struggle, and wish for other things."
The little Pilgrim felt her heart beat very wildly while she looked at
this, and she thought upon the rich man in the parable, who, though he
was himself in torment, prayed that his brother might be saved, and she
said to herself, "Our dear Lord would never leave him there who could
think of his brother when he was himself in such a strait." And when she
looked at the painter he smiled upon her, and nodded his head. Then he
led her to the other corner of the room where there were other pictures.
One of them was of a party seated round a table and an angel looking
on. The angel had the aspect of a traveller, as if he were passing
quickly by and had but paused a moment to look, and one of the men
glancing up suddenly saw him. The picture was dim, but the startled look
upon this man's face, and the sorrow on the angel's, appeared out of the
misty background with such truth that the tears came into the little
Pilgrim's eyes, and she said in her heart, "Oh that I could go to him and
help him!" The other sketches were dimmer and dimmer. You seemed to see
out of the darkness, gleaming lights, and companies of revellers, out of
which here and there was one trying to escape. And then the wide plains
in the night, and the white vision of the angel in the distance, and here
and there by different paths a fugitive striving to follow. "Oh, sir,"
said the little Pilgrim, "how did you learn to do it? You have never been
there."
"It was the master, not I; and I cannot tell you if he has ever been
there. When the Father has given you that gift, you can go to many
places, without leaving the one where you are. And then he has heard what
the angels say."
"And will they all get safe at the last? and even that great spirit, he
that fell from heaven--"
The painter shook his head and said, "It is not permitted to you and me
to know such great things. Perhaps the wise will tell you if you ask
them: but for me I ask the Father in my heart and listen to what he
says."
"That is best!" the little Pilgrim said; and she asked the Father in her
heart: and there came all over her such a glow of warmth and happiness
that her soul was satisfied. She looked in the painter's face and laughed
for joy. And he put out his hands as if welcoming some one, and his
countenance shone; and he said,--
"My son had a great gift. He was a master born, though it was not given
to me. He shall paint it all for us so that the heart shall rejoice; and
you will come again and see."
After that it happened to the little Pilgrim to enter into another great
palace where there were many people reading, and some sitting at their
desks and writing, and some consulting together, with many great volumes
stretched out open upon the tables. One of these who was seated alone
looked up as she paused wondering at him, and smiled as every one did,
and greeted her with such a friendly tone that the Pilgrim, who always
had a great desire to know, came nearer to him and looked at the book,
then begged his pardon, and said she did not know that books were needed
here. And then he told her that he was one of the historians of the city
where all the records of the world were kept, and that it was his
business to work upon the great history, and to show what was the meaning
of the Father in everything that had happened, and how each event came in
its right place.
"And do you get it out of books?" she asked; for she was not learned, nor
wise, and knew but little, though she always loved to know.
"The books are the records," he said; "and there are many here that were
never known to us in the old days; for the angels love to look into
these things, and they can tell us much, for they saw it; and in the
great books they have kept there is much put down that was never in the
books we wrote, for then we did not know. We found out about the kings
and the state, and tried to understand what great purposes they were
serving; but even these we did not know, for those purposes were too
great for us, not knowing the end from the beginning, and the hearts of
men were too great for us. We comprehended the evil sometimes, but never
fathomed the good. And how could we know the lesser things which were
working out God's way? for some of these even the angels did not know;
and it has happened to me that our Lord himself has come in sometimes to
tell me of one that none of us had discovered."
"Oh," said the little Pilgrim, with tears in her eyes, "I should like to
have been that one!--that was not known even to the angels, but only
to Himself!"
The historian smiled. "It was my brother," he said.
The Pilgrim looked at him with great wonder. "Your brother, and you did
not know him!"
And then he turned over the pages and showed her where the story was.
"You know," he said, "that we who live here are not of your time, but
have lived and lived here till the old life is far away and like a dream.
There were great tumults and fightings in our time, and it was settled by
the prince of the place that our town was to be abandoned, and all the
people left to the mercy of an enemy who had no mercy. But every day as
he rode out he saw at one door a child, a little fair boy, who sat on the
steps, and sang his little song like a bird. This child was never afraid
of anything,--when the horses pranced past him, and the troopers pushed
him aside, he looked up into their faces and smiled. And when he had
anything, a piece of bread, or an apple, or a plaything, he shared it
with his playmates; and his little face, and his pretty voice, and all
his pleasant ways, made that corner bright. He was like a flower growing
there; everybody smiled that saw him."
"I have seen such a child," the little Pilgrim said.
"But we made no account of him," said the historian. "The Lord of the
place came past him every day, and always saw him singing in the sun by
his father's door. And it was a wonder then, and it has been a wonder
ever since, why, having resolved upon it, that prince did not abandon the
town, which would have changed all his fortune after. Much had been made
clear to me since I began to study, but not this: till the Lord himself
came to me and told me. The prince looked at the child till he loved him,
and he reflected how many children there were like this that would be
murdered, or starved to death, and he could not give up the little
singing boy to the sword. So he remained; and the town was saved, and he
became a great king. It was so secret that even the angels did not know
it. But without that child the history would not have been complete."
"And is he here?" the little Pilgrim said.
"Ah," said the historian, "that is more strange still; for that which
saved him was also to his harm. He is not here. He is Elsewhere."
The little Pilgrim's face grew sad; but then she remembered what she had
been told.
"But you know," she said, "that he is coming?"
"I know that our Father will never forsake him, and that everything that
is being accomplished in him is well."
"Is it well to suffer? Is it well to live in that dark stormy country?
Oh, that they were all here, and happy like you!"