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Title: The Land of Darkness

Author: Margaret Oliphant

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                         _By the same Author._

                           A LITTLE PILGRIM:

                            In the Unseen.

                          Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.

                      MACMILLAN AND CO., LONDON.




                         THE LAND OF DARKNESS

                       [Illustration: colophon]




                                  THE

                           LAND OF DARKNESS

                            ALONG WITH SOME

                  FURTHER CHAPTERS IN THE EXPERIENCES

                                  OF

                          THE LITTLE PILGRIM

                                London

                           MACMILLAN AND CO.

                             AND NEW YORK
                                 1888

                         _All rights reserved_




CONTENTS


                                              PAGE

THE LAND OF DARKNESS                             1

THE LITTLE PILGRIM                             127

ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS                          177




I

THE LAND OF DARKNESS


I found myself standing on my feet, with the tingling sensation of
having come down rapidly upon the ground from a height. There was a
similar feeling in my head, as of the whirling and sickening sensation
of passing downward through the air, like the description Dante gives of
his descent upon Geryon. My mind, curiously enough, was sufficiently
disengaged to think of that, or at least to allow swift passage for the
recollection through my thoughts. All the aching of wonder, doubt, and
fear which I had been conscious of a little while before was gone. There
was no distinct interval between the one condition and the other, nor
in my fall (as I supposed it must have been) had I any consciousness of
change. There was the whirling of the air, resisting my passage, yet
giving way under me in giddy circles, and then the sharp shock of once
more feeling under my feet something solid, which struck yet sustained.
After a little while the giddiness above and the tingling below passed
away, and I felt able to look about me and discern where I was. But not
all at once: the things immediately about me impressed me first--then
the general aspect of the new place.

First of all the light, which was lurid, as if a thunderstorm were
coming on. I looked up involuntarily to see if it had begun to rain; but
there was nothing of the kind, though what I saw above me was a lowering
canopy of cloud, dark, threatening, with a faint reddish tint diffused
upon the vaporous darkness. It was, however, quite sufficiently clear to
see everything, and there was a good deal to see. I was in a street of
what seemed a great and very populous place. There were shops on either
side, full apparently of all sorts of costly wares. There was a
continual current of passengers up and down on both sides of the way,
and in the middle of the street carriages of every description, humble
and splendid. The noise was great and ceaseless, the traffic continual.
Some of the shops were most brilliantly lighted, attracting one’s eyes
in the sombre light outside, which, however, had just enough of day in
it to make these spots of illumination look sickly; most of the places
thus distinguished were apparently bright with the electric or some
other scientific light; and delicate machines of every description,
brought to the greatest perfection, were in some windows, as were also
many fine productions of art, but mingled with the gaudiest and coarsest
in a way which struck me with astonishment. I was also much surprised by
the fact that the traffic, which was never stilled for a moment, seemed
to have no sort of regulation. Some carriages dashed along, upsetting
the smaller vehicles in their way, without the least restraint or order,
either, as it seemed, from their own good sense, or from the laws and
customs of the place. When an accident happened, there was a great
shouting, and sometimes a furious encounter--but nobody seemed to
interfere. This was the first impression made upon me. The passengers on
the pavement were equally regardless. I was myself pushed out of the
way, first to one side, then to another, hustled when I paused for a
moment, trodden upon and driven about. I retreated soon to the doorway
of a shop, from whence with a little more safety I could see what was
going on. The noise made my head ring. It seemed to me that I could not
hear myself think. If this were to go on for ever, I said to myself, I
should soon go mad.

‘Oh no,’ said some one behind me, ‘not at all; you will get used to it;
you will be glad of it. One does not want to hear one’s thoughts; most
of them are not worth hearing.’

I turned round and saw it was the master of the shop, who had come to
the door on seeing me. He had the usual smile of a man who hoped to sell
his wares; but to my horror and astonishment, by some process which I
could not understand, I saw that he was saying to himself, ‘What a d----
d fool! here’s another of those cursed wretches, d---- him!’ all with
the same smile. I started back, and answered him as hotly, ‘What do you
mean by calling me a d----d fool?--fool yourself, and all the rest of
it. Is this the way you receive strangers here?’

‘Yes,’ he said, with the same smile, ‘this is the way; and I only
describe you as you are, as you will soon see. Will you walk in and look
over my shop? Perhaps you will find something to suit you if you are
just setting up, as I suppose.’

I looked at him closely, but this time I could not see that he was
saying anything beyond what was expressed by his lips, and I followed
him into the shop, principally because it was quieter than the street,
and without any intention of buying--for what should I buy in a strange
place where I had no settled habitation, and which probably I was only
passing through?

‘I will look at your things,’ I said, in a way which I believe I had, of
perhaps undue pretension. I had never been over-rich, or of very
elevated station; but I was believed by my friends (or enemies) to have
an inclination to make myself out something more important than I was.
‘I will look at your things, and possibly I may find something that may
suit me; but with all the _ateliers_ of Paris and London to draw from,
it is scarcely to be expected that in a place like this----’

Here I stopped to draw my breath, with a good deal of confusion; for I
was unwilling to let him see that I did not know where I was.

‘A place like this,’ said the shopkeeper, with a little laugh which
seemed to me full of mockery, ‘will supply you better, you will find,
than--any other place. At least you will find it the only place
practicable,’ he added. ‘I perceive you are a stranger here.’

‘Well--I may allow myself to be so--more or less. I have not had time to
form much acquaintance with--the place: what--do you call the
place?--its formal name, I mean,’ I said, with a great desire to keep up
the air of superior information. Except for the first moment I had not
experienced that strange power of looking into the man below the surface
which had frightened me. Now there occurred another gleam of insight,
which gave me once more a sensation of alarm. I seemed to see a light of
hatred and contempt below his smile, and I felt that he was not in the
least taken in by the air which I assumed.

‘The name of the place,’ he said, ‘is not a pretty one. I hear the
gentlemen who come to my shop say that it is not to be named to ears
polite; and I am sure your ears are very polite.’ He said this with the
most offensive laugh, and I turned upon him and answered him, without
mincing matters, with a plainness of speech which startled myself, but
did not seem to move him, for he only laughed again. ‘Are you not
afraid,’ I said, ‘that I will leave your shop and never enter it more?’

‘Oh, it helps to pass the time,’ he said; and without any further
comment began to show me very elaborate and fine articles of furniture.
I had always been attracted to this sort of thing, and had longed to buy
such articles for my house when I had one, but never had it in my power.
Now I had no house, nor any means of paying so far as I knew, but I felt
quite at my ease about buying, and inquired into the prices with the
greatest composure.

‘They are just the sort of thing I want. I will take these, I think;
but you must set them aside for me, for I do not at the present moment
exactly know----’

‘You mean you have got no rooms to put them in,’ said the master of the
shop. ‘You must get a house directly, that’s all. If you’re only up to
it, it is easy enough. Look about until you find something you like, and
then--take possession.’

‘Take possession’--I was so much surprised that I stared at him with
mingled indignation and surprise--‘of what belongs to another man?’ I
said.

I was not conscious of anything ridiculous in my look. I was indignant,
which is not a state of mind in which there is any absurdity; but the
shopkeeper suddenly burst into a storm of laughter. He laughed till he
seemed almost to fall into convulsions, with a harsh mirth which
reminded me of the old image of the crackling of thorns, and had neither
amusement nor warmth in it; and presently this was echoed all around,
and looking up, I saw grinning faces full of derision, bent upon me
from every side, from the stairs which led to the upper part of the
house and from the depths of the shop behind--faces with pens behind
their ears, faces in workmen’s caps, all distended from ear to ear, with
a sneer and a mock and a rage of laughter which nearly sent me mad. I
hurled I don’t know what imprecations at them as I rushed out, stopping
my ears in a paroxysm of fury and mortification. My mind was so
distracted by this occurrence that I rushed without knowing it upon some
one who was passing, and threw him down with the violence of my exit;
upon which I was set on by a party of half a dozen ruffians, apparently
his companions, who would, I thought, kill me, but who only flung me,
wounded, bleeding, and feeling as if every bone in my body had been
broken, down on the pavement--when they went away, laughing too.

I picked myself up from the edge of the causeway, aching and sore from
head to foot, scarcely able to move, yet conscious that if I did not get
myself out of the way one or other of the vehicles which were dashing
along would run over me. It would be impossible to describe the
miserable sensations, both of body and mind, with which I dragged myself
across the crowded pavement, not without curses and even kicks from the
passers-by; and, avoiding the shop from which I still heard those
shrieks of devilish laughter, gathered myself up in the shelter of a
little projection of a wall, where I was for the moment safe. The pain
which I felt was as nothing to the sense of humiliation, the
mortification, the rage with which I was possessed. There is nothing in
existence more dreadful than rage which is impotent, which cannot punish
or avenge, which has to restrain itself and put up with insults showered
upon it. I had never known before what that helpless, hideous
exasperation was; and I was humiliated beyond description, brought
down--I, whose inclination it was to make more of myself than was
justifiable--to the aspect of a miserable ruffian beaten in a brawl,
soiled, covered with mud and dust, my clothes torn, my face bruised and
disfigured: all this within half an hour or thereabout of my arrival in
a strange place where nobody knew me or could do me justice! I kept
looking out feverishly for some one with an air of authority to whom I
could appeal. Sooner or later somebody must go by, who, seeing me in
such a plight, must inquire how it came about, must help me and
vindicate me. I sat there for I cannot tell how long, expecting every
moment that, were it but a policeman, somebody would notice and help me.
But no one came. Crowds seemed to sweep by without a pause--all
hurrying, restless: some with anxious faces, as if any delay would be
mortal; some in noisy groups intercepting the passage of the others.
Sometimes one would pause to point me out to his comrades, with a shout
of derision at my miserable plight; or if by a change of posture I got
outside the protection of my wall, would kick me back with a coarse
injunction to keep out of the way. No one was sorry for me--not a look
of compassion, not a word of inquiry was wasted upon me; no
representative of authority appeared. I saw a dozen quarrels while I lay
there, cries of the weak, and triumphant shouts of the strong; but that
was all.

I was drawn after a while from the fierce and burning sense of my own
grievances by a querulous voice quite close to me. ‘This is my corner,’
it said. ‘I’ve sat here for years, and I have a right to it. And here
you come, you big ruffian, because you know I haven’t got the strength
to push you away.’

‘Who are you?’ I said, turning round horror-stricken; for close beside
me was a miserable man, apparently in the last stage of disease. He was
pale as death, yet eaten up with sores. His body was agitated by a
nervous trembling. He seemed to shuffle along on hands and feet, as
though the ordinary mode of locomotion was impossible to him, and yet
was in possession of all his limbs. Pain was written in his face. I drew
away to leave him room, with mingled pity and horror that this poor
wretch should be the partner of the only shelter I could find within so
short a time of my arrival. I who---- It was horrible, shameful,
humiliating; and yet the suffering in his wretched face was so evident
that I could not but feel a pang of pity too. ‘I have nowhere to go,’ I
said. ‘I am--a stranger. I have been badly used, and nobody seems to
care.’

‘No,’ he said; ‘nobody cares--don’t you look for that. Why should they?
Why, you look as if you were sorry for _me_! What a joke!’ he murmured
to himself--‘what a joke! Sorry for some one else! What a fool the
fellow must be!’

‘You look,’ I said, ‘as if you were suffering horribly; and you say you
have come here for years.’

‘Suffering! I should think I was,’ said the sick man; ‘but what is that
to you? Yes; I’ve been here for years--oh, years!--that means
nothing,--for longer than can be counted. Suffering is not the
word--it’s torture--it’s agony. But who cares? Take your leg out of my
way.’

I drew myself out of his way from a sort of habit, though against my
will, and asked, from habit too, ‘Are you never any better than now?’

He looked at me more closely, and an air of astonishment came over his
face. ‘What d’ye want here,’ he said, ‘pitying a man! That’s something
new here. No; I’m not always so bad, if you want to know. I get better,
and then I go and do what makes me bad again, and that’s how it will go
on; and I choose it to be so, and you needn’t bring any of your d----d
pity here.’

‘I may ask, at least, why aren’t you looked after? Why don’t you get
into some hospital?’ I said.

‘Hospital!’ cried the sick man, and then he too burst out into that
furious laugh, the most awful sound I ever had heard. Some of the
passers-by stopped to hear what the joke was, and surrounded me with
once more a circle of mockers. ‘Hospitals! perhaps you would like a
whole Red Cross Society, with ambulances and all arranged?’ cried one.
‘Or the _Misericordia_!’ shouted another. I sprang up to my feet,
crying, ‘Why not?’ with an impulse of rage which gave me strength. Was I
never to meet with anything but this fiendish laughter? ‘There’s some
authority, I suppose,’ I cried in my fury. ‘It is not the rabble that is
the only master here, I hope.’ But nobody took the least trouble to hear
what I had to say for myself. The last speaker struck me on the mouth,
and called me an accursed fool for talking of what I did not
understand; and finally they all swept on and passed away.

I had been, as I thought, severely injured when I dragged myself into
that corner to save myself from the crowd; but I sprang up now as if
nothing had happened to me. My wounds had disappeared, my bruises were
gone. I was, as I had been when I dropped, giddy and amazed, upon the
same pavement, how long--an hour?--before? It might have been an hour,
it might have been a year, I cannot tell. The light was the same as
ever, the thunderous atmosphere unchanged. Day, if it was day, had made
no progress; night, if it was evening, had come no nearer: all was the
same.

As I went on again presently, with a vexed and angry spirit, regarding
on every side around me the endless surging of the crowd, and feeling a
loneliness, a sense of total abandonment and solitude, which I cannot
describe, there came up to me a man of remarkable appearance. That he
was a person of importance, of great knowledge and information, could
not be doubted. He was very pale, and of a worn but commanding aspect.
The lines of his face were deeply drawn, his eyes were sunk under high
arched brows, from which they looked out as from caves, full of a fiery
impatient light. His thin lips were never quite without a smile; but it
was not a smile in which any pleasure was. He walked slowly, not
hurrying, like most of the passengers. He had a reflective look, as if
pondering many things. He came up to me suddenly, without introduction
or preliminary, and took me by the arm. ‘What object had you in talking
of these antiquated institutions?’ he said.

And I saw in his mind the gleam of the thought, which seemed to be the
first with all, that I was a fool, and that it was the natural thing to
wish me harm,--just as in the earth above it was the natural thing,
professed at least, to wish well--to say, Good morning, good day, by
habit and without thought. In this strange country the stranger was
received with a curse, and it woke an answer not unlike the hasty ‘Curse
you, then, also!’ which seemed to come without any will of mine through
my mind. But this provoked only a smile from my new friend. He took no
notice. He was disposed to examine me--to find some amusement
perhaps--how could I tell?--in what I might say.

‘What antiquated things?’

‘Are you still so slow of understanding? What were they? hospitals: the
pretences of a world that can still deceive itself. Did you expect to
find them here?’

‘I expected to find--how should I know?’ I said, bewildered--‘some
shelter for a poor wretch where he could be cared for--not to be left
there to die in the street. Expected! I never thought. I took it for
granted----’

‘To die in the street!’ he cried, with a smile, and a shrug of his
shoulders. ‘You’ll learn better by and by. And if he did die in the
street, what then? What is that to you?’

‘To me!’ I turned and looked at him amazed; but he had somehow shut his
soul, so that I could see nothing but the deep eyes in their caves, and
the smile upon the close-shut mouth. ‘No more to me than to any one. I
only spoke for humanity’s sake, as--a fellow-creature.’

My new acquaintance gave way to a silent laugh within himself, which was
not so offensive as the loud laugh of the crowd, but yet was more
exasperating than words can say. ‘You think that matters? But it does
not hurt you that he should be in pain. It would do you no good if he
were to get well. Why should you trouble yourself one way or the other?
Let him die--if he can---- That makes no difference to you or me.’

‘I must be dull indeed,’ I cried,--‘slow of understanding, as you say.
This is going back to the ideas of times beyond knowledge--before
Christianity----’ As soon as I had said this I felt somehow--I could
not tell how--as if my voice jarred, as if something false and unnatural
was in what I said. My companion gave my arm a twist as if with a shock
of surprise, then laughed in his inward way again.

‘We don’t think much of that here; nor of your modern pretences in
general. The only thing that touches you and me is what hurts or helps
ourselves. To be sure, it all comes to the same thing--for I suppose it
annoys you to see that wretch writhing: it hurts your more delicate,
highly-cultivated consciousness.’

‘It has nothing to do with my consciousness,’ I cried, angrily; ‘it is a
shame to let a fellow-creature suffer if we can prevent it.’

‘Why shouldn’t he suffer?’ said my companion. We passed as he spoke some
other squalid wretched creatures shuffling among the crowd, whom he
kicked with his foot, calling forth a yell of pain and curses. This he
regarded with a supreme contemptuous calm which stupefied me. Nor did
any of the passers-by show the slightest inclination to take the part of
the sufferers. They laughed, or shouted out a gibe, or, what was still
more wonderful, went on with a complete unaffected indifference, as if
all this was natural. I tried to disengage my arm in horror and dismay,
but he held me fast, with a pressure that hurt me. ‘That’s the
question,’ he said. ‘What have we to do with it? Your fictitious
consciousness makes it painful to you. To me, on the contrary, who take
the view of nature, it is a pleasurable feeling. It enhances the amount
of ease, whatever that may be, which I enjoy. I am in no pain. That
brute who is’--and he flicked with a stick he carried the uncovered
wound of a wretch upon the roadside--‘makes me more satisfied with my
condition. Ah! you think it is I who am the brute? You will change your
mind by and by.’

‘Never!’ I cried, wrenching my arm from his with an effort, ‘if I should
live a hundred years.’

‘A hundred years--a drop in the bucket!’ he said, with his silent laugh.
‘You will live for ever, and you will come to my view; and we shall meet
in the course of ages, from time to time, to compare notes. I would say
good-bye after the old fashion, but you are but newly arrived, and I
will not treat you so badly as that.’ With which he parted from me,
waving his hand, with his everlasting horrible smile.

‘Good-bye!’ I said to myself, ‘good-bye--why should it be treating me
badly to say good-bye----’

I was startled by a buffet on the mouth. ‘Take that!’ cried some one,
‘to teach you how to wish the worst of tortures to people who have done
you no harm.’

‘What have I said? I meant no harm I repeated only what is the
commonest civility, the merest good manners.’

‘You wished,’ said the man who had struck me,--‘I won’t repeat the
words: to me, for it was I only that heard them, the awful company that
hurts most--that sets everything before us, both past and to come, and
cuts like a sword and burns like fire. I’ll say it to yourself, and see
how it feels. God be with you! There! it is said, and we all must bear
it, thanks, you fool and accursed, to you.’

And then there came a pause over all the place--an awful
stillness--hundreds of men and women standing clutching with desperate
movements at their hearts as if to tear them out, moving their heads as
if to dash them against the wall, wringing their hands, with a look upon
all their convulsed faces which I can never forget. They all turned to
me, cursing me, with those horrible eyes of anguish. And everything was
still--the noise all stopped for a moment--the air all silent, with a
silence that could be felt. And then suddenly out of the crowd there
came a great piercing cry; and everything began again exactly as before.

While this pause occurred, and while I stood wondering, bewildered,
understanding nothing, there came over me a darkness, a blackness, a
sense of misery such as never in all my life, though I have known
troubles enough, I had felt before. All that had happened to me
throughout my existence seemed to rise pale and terrible in a hundred
scenes before me, all momentary, intense, as if each was the present
moment. And in each of these scenes I saw what I had never seen before.
I saw where I had taken the wrong instead of the right step--in what
wantonness, with what self-will it had been done; how God (I shuddered
at the name) had spoken and called me, and even entreated, and I had
withstood and refused. All the evil I had done came back, and spread
itself out before my eyes; and I loathed it, yet knew that I had chosen
it, and that it would be with me for ever. I saw it all in the twinkling
of an eye, in a moment, while I stood there, and all men with me, in the
horror of awful thought. Then it ceased as it had come, instantaneously,
and the noise and the laughter, and the quarrels and cries, and all the
commotion of this new bewildering place, in a moment began again. I had
seen no one while this strange paroxysm lasted. When it disappeared, I
came to myself emerging as from a dream, and looked into the face of the
man whose words, not careless like mine, had brought it upon us. Our
eyes met, and his were surrounded by curves and lines of anguish which
were terrible to see.

‘Well,’ he said, with a short laugh, which was forced and harsh, ‘how do
you like it? that is what happens when---- If it came often, who could
endure it?’ He was not like the rest. There was no sneer upon his face,
no gibe at my simplicity. Even now, when all had recovered, he was still
quivering with something that looked like a nobler pain. His face was
very grave, the lines deeply drawn in it, and he seemed to be seeking no
amusement or distraction, nor to take any part in the noise and tumult
which was going on around.

‘Do you know what that cry meant?’ he said. ‘Did you hear that cry? It
was some one who saw--even here once in a long time, they say, it can be
seen----’

‘What can be seen?’

He shook his head, looking at me with a meaning which I could not
interpret. It was beyond the range of my thoughts. I came to know after,
or I never could have made this record. But on that subject he said no
more. He turned the way I was going, though it mattered nothing what way
I went, for all were the same to me. ‘You are one of the new-comers?’
he said; ‘you have not been long here----’

‘Tell me,’ I cried, ‘what you mean by _here_. Where are we? How can one
tell who has fallen--he knows not whence or where? What is this place? I
have never seen anything like it. It seems to me that I hate it already,
though I know not what it is.’

He shook his head once more. ‘You will hate it more and more,’ he said;
‘but of these dreadful streets you will never be free, unless----’ And
here he stopped again.

‘Unless--what? If it is possible, I will be free of them, and that
before long.

He smiled at me faintly, as we smile at children, but not with derision.

‘How shall you do that? Between this miserable world and all others
there is a great gulf fixed. It is full of all the bitterness and tears
that come from all the universe. These drop from them, but stagnate
here. We, you perceive, have no tears, not even at moments----’ Then,
‘You will soon be accustomed to all this,’ he said. ‘You will fall into
the way. Perhaps you will be able to amuse yourself, to make it
passable. Many do. There are a number of fine things to be seen here. If
you are curious, come with me and I will show you. Or work--there is
even work. There is only one thing that is impossible--or if not
impossible----’ And here he paused again, and raised his eyes to the
dark clouds and lurid sky overhead. ‘The man who gave that cry! if I
could but find him--he must have seen----’

‘What could he see?’ I asked. But there rose in my mind something like
contempt. A visionary! who could not speak plainly, who broke off into
mysterious inferences, and appeared to know more than he would say. It
seemed foolish to waste time when evidently there was still so much to
see, in the company of such a man. And I began already to feel more at
home. There was something in that moment of anguish which had wrought a
strange familiarity in me with my surroundings. It was so great a relief
to return out of the misery of that sharp and horrible self-realisation,
to what had come to be, in comparison, easy and well known. I had no
desire to go back and grope among the mysteries and anguish so suddenly
revealed. I was glad to be free from them, to be left to myself, to get
a little pleasure perhaps like the others. While these thoughts passed
through my mind, I had gone on without any active impulse of my own, as
everybody else did; and my latest companion had disappeared. He saw, no
doubt, without any need for words, what my feelings were. And I
proceeded on my way. I felt better as I got more accustomed to the
place, or perhaps it was the sensation of relief after that moment of
indescribable pain. As for the sights in the streets, I began to grow
used to them. The wretched creatures who strolled or sat about with
signs of sickness or wounds upon them disgusted me only, they no longer
called forth my pity. I began to feel ashamed of my silly questions
about the hospital. All the same, it would have been a good thing to
have had some receptacle for them, into which they might have been
driven out of the way. I felt an inclination to push them aside as I saw
other people do, but was a little ashamed of that impulse too; and so I
went on. There seemed no quiet streets, so far as I could make out, in
the place. Some were smaller, meaner, with a different kind of
passengers, but the same hubbub and unresting movement everywhere. I saw
no signs of melancholy or seriousness; active pain, violence, brutality,
the continual shock of quarrels and blows: but no pensive faces about,
no sorrowfulness, nor the kind of trouble which brings thought.
Everybody was fully occupied, pushing on as if in a race, pausing for
nothing.

The glitter of the lights, the shouts, and sounds of continual going,
the endless whirl of passers-by, confused and tired me after a while. I
went as far out as I could go to what seemed the outskirts of the place,
where I could by glimpses perceive a low horizon all lurid and glowing,
which seemed to sweep round and round. Against it in the distance stood
up the outline, black against that red glow, of other towers and
house-tops, so many and great that there was evidently another town
between us and the sunset, if sunset it was. I have seen a western sky
like it when there were storms about, and all the colours of the sky
were heightened and darkened by angry influences. The distant town rose
against it, cutting the firmament so that it might have been tongues of
flame flickering between the dark solid outlines; and across the waste
open country which lay between the two cities, there came a distant hum
like the sound of the sea, which was in reality the roar of that other
multitude. The country between showed no greenness or beauty; it lay
dark under the dark over-hanging sky. Here and there seemed a cluster of
giant trees scathed as if by lightning, their bare boughs standing up as
high as the distant towers, their trunks like black columns without
foliage; openings here and there, with glimmering lights, looked like
the mouths of mines: but of passengers there were scarcely any. A figure
here and there flew along as if pursued, imperfectly seen, a shadow only
a little darker than the space about. And in contrast with the sound of
the city, here was no sound at all, except the low roar on either side,
and a vague cry or two from the openings of the mine--a scene all drawn
in darkness, in variations of gloom, deriving scarcely any light at all
from the red and gloomy burning of that distant evening sky.

A faint curiosity to go forward, to see what the mines were, perhaps to
get a share in what was brought up from them, crossed my mind. But I was
afraid of the dark, of the wild uninhabited savage look of the
landscape: though when I thought of it, there seemed no reason why a
narrow stretch of country between two great towns should be alarming.
But the impression was strong and above reason. I turned back to the
street in which I had first alighted, and which seemed to end in a great
square full of people. In the middle there was a stage erected, from
which some one was delivering an oration or address of some sort. He
stood beside a long table, upon which lay something which I could not
clearly distinguish, except that it seemed alive and moved, or rather
writhed, with convulsive twitchings, as if trying to get free of the
bonds which confined it. Round the stage in front were a number of seats
occupied by listeners, many of whom were women, whose interest seemed to
be very great, some of them being furnished with note-books; while a
great unsettled crowd coming and going, drifted round--many, arrested
for a time as they passed, proceeding on their way when the interest
flagged, as is usual to such open-air assemblies. I followed two of
those who pushed their way to within a short distance of the stage, and
who were strong, big men, more fitted to elbow the crowd aside than I,
after my rough treatment in the first place, and the agitation I had
passed through, could be. I was glad, besides, to take advantage of the
explanation which one was giving to the other. ‘It’s always fun to see
this fellow demonstrate,’ he said, ‘and the subject to-day’s a capital
one. Let’s get well forward, and see all that’s going on.’

‘Which subject do you mean?’ said the other; ‘the theme or the example?’
And they both laughed, though I did not seize the point of the wit.

‘Well, both,’ said the first speaker; ‘the theme is nerves: and as a
lesson in construction and the calculation of possibilities, it’s fine.
He’s very clever at that. He shows how they are all strung to give as
much pain and do as much harm as can be; and yet how well it’s all
managed, don’t you know, to look the reverse. As for the example, he’s a
capital one--all nerves together, lying, if you like, just on the
surface, ready for the knife.’

‘If they’re on the surface I can’t see where the fun is,’ said the
other.

‘Metaphorically speaking: of course they are just where other people’s
nerves are; but he’s what you call a highly organised nervous specimen.
There will be plenty of fun. Hush! he is just going to begin.’

‘The arrangement of these threads of being,’ said the lecturer,
evidently resuming after a pause, ‘so as to convey to the brain the most
instantaneous messages of pain or pleasure, is wonderfully skilful and
clever. I need not say to the audience before me, enlightened as it is
by experiences of the most striking kind, that the messages are less of
pleasure than of pain. They report to the brain the stroke of injury far
more often than the thrill of pleasure: though sometimes that too, no
doubt, or life could scarcely be maintained. The powers that be have
found it necessary to mingle a little sweet of pleasurable sensation,
else our miserable race would certainly have found some means of
procuring annihilation. I do not for a moment pretend to say that the
pleasure is sufficient to offer a just counterbalance to the other. None
of my hearers will, I hope, accuse me of inconsistency. I am ready to
allow that in a previous condition I asserted somewhat strongly that
this was the case. But experience has enlightened us on that point. Our
circumstances are now understood by us all, in a manner impossible while
we were still in a condition of incompleteness. We are all convinced
that there is no compensation. The pride of the position, of bearing
everything rather than give in, or making a submission we do not feel,
of preserving our own will and individuality to all eternity, is the
only compensation. I am satisfied with it, for my part.’

The orator made a pause, holding his head high, and there was a certain
amount of applause. The two men before me cheered vociferously. ‘That is
the right way to look at it,’ one of them said. My eyes were upon them,
with no particular motive, and I could not help starting, as I saw
suddenly underneath their applause and laughter a snarl of cursing,
which was the real expression of their thoughts. I felt disposed in the
same way to curse the speaker, though I knew no reason why.

He went on a little further, explaining what he meant to do; and then
turning round, approached the table. An assistant, who was waiting,
uncovered it quickly. The audience stirred with quickened interest, and
I with consternation made a step forward, crying out with horror. The
object on the table, writhing, twitching, to get free, but bound down by
every limb, was a living man. The lecturer went forward calmly, taking
his instruments from their case with perfect composure and coolness.
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said: and inserted the knife in the
flesh, making a long clear cut in the bound arm. I shrieked out, unable
to restrain myself. The sight of the deliberate wound, the blood, the
cry of agony that came from the victim, the calmness of all the
lookers-on, filled me with horror and rage indescribable. I felt myself
clear the crowd away with a rush, and spring on the platform, I could
not tell how. ‘You devil!’ I cried, ‘let the man go. Where is the
police?--where is a magistrate?--let the man go this moment! fiends in
human shape! I’ll have you brought to justice!’ I heard myself shouting
wildly, as I flung myself upon the wretched sufferer, interposing
between him and the knife. It was something like this that I said. My
horror and rage were delirious, and carried me beyond all attempt at
control.

Through it all I heard a shout of laughter rising from everybody round.
The lecturer laughed, the audience roared with that sound of horrible
mockery which had driven me out of myself in my first experience. All
kinds of mocking cries sounded around me. ‘Let him a little blood to
calm him down.’ ‘Let the fool have a taste of it himself, doctor.’ Last
of all came a voice mingled with the cries of the sufferer whom I was
trying to shield--‘Take him instead; curse him! take him instead.’ I was
bending over the man with my arms outstretched, protecting him, when he
gave vent to this cry. And I heard immediately behind me a shout of
assent, which seemed to come from the two strong young men with whom I
had been standing, and the sound of a rush to seize me. I looked round,
half mad with terror and rage; a second more and I should have been
strapped on the table too. I made one wild bound into the midst of the
crowd, and struggling among the arms stretched out to catch me, amid
the roar of the laughter and cries--fled--fled wildly, I knew not
whither, in panic and rage and horror, which no words could describe.
Terror winged my feet. I flew, thinking as little of whom I met, or
knocked down, or trod upon in my way, as the others did at whom I had
wondered a little while ago.

No distinct impression of this headlong course remains in my mind, save
the sensation of mad fear such as I had never felt before. I came to
myself on the edge of the dark valley which surrounded the town. All my
pursuers had dropped off before that time, and I have the recollection
of flinging myself upon the ground on my face in the extremity of
fatigue and exhaustion. I must have lain there undisturbed for some
time. A few steps came and went, passing me; but no one took any notice,
and the absence of the noise and crowding gave me a momentary respite.
But in my heat and fever I got no relief of coolness from the contact
of the soil. I might have flung myself upon a bed of hot ashes, so much
was it unlike the dewy cool earth which I expected, upon which one can
always throw one’s self with a sensation of repose. Presently the
uneasiness of it made me struggle up again and look around me. I was
safe: at least the cries of the pursuers had died away, the laughter
which made my blood boil offended my ears no more. The noise of the city
was behind me, softened into an indefinite roar by distance, and before
me stretched out the dreary landscape in which there seemed no features
of attraction. Now that I was nearer to it, I found it not so unpeopled
as I thought. At no great distance from me was the mouth of one of the
mines, from which came an indication of subterranean lights: and I
perceived that the flying figures which I had taken for travellers
between one city and another, were in reality wayfarers endeavouring to
keep clear of what seemed a sort of pressgang at the openings. One of
them, unable to stop himself in his flight, adopted the same expedient
as myself, and threw himself on the ground close to me when he had got
beyond the range of pursuit. It was curious that we should meet there,
he flying from a danger which I was about to face, and ready to
encounter that from which I had fled. I waited for a few minutes till he
had recovered his breath, and then: ‘What are you running from?’ I said;
‘is there any danger there?’ The man looked up at me with the same
continual question in his eyes--Who is this fool?

‘Danger!’ he said. ‘Are you so new here, or such a cursed idiot, as not
to know the danger of the mines? You are going across yourself, I
suppose, and then you’ll see.’

‘But tell me,’ I said; ‘my experience may be of use to you afterwards,
if you will tell me yours now.’

‘Of use!’ he cried, staring; ‘who cares? Find out for yourself. If they
get hold of you, you will soon understand.’

I no longer took this for rudeness, but answered in his own way, cursing
him too for a fool. ‘If I ask a warning I can give one; as for
kindness,’ I said, ‘I was not looking for that.’

At this he laughed, indeed we laughed together--there seemed something
ridiculous in the thought: and presently he told me, for the mere relief
of talking, that round each of these pit-mouths there was a band to
entrap every passer-by who allowed himself to be caught, and send him
down below to work in the mine. ‘Once there, there is no telling when
you may get free,’ he said; ‘one time or other most people have a taste
of it. You don’t know what hard labour is if you have never been there.
I had a spell once. There is neither air nor light, your blood boils in
your veins from the fervent heat, you are never allowed to rest. You are
put in every kind of contortion to get at it, your limbs twisted, and
your muscles strained.’

‘For what?’ I said.

‘For gold!’ he cried with a flash in his eyes--‘gold! there it is
inexhaustible; however hard you may work there is always more, and
more!’

‘And to whom does all that belong?’ I said.

‘To whoever is strong enough to get hold and keep possession--sometimes
one, sometimes another. The only thing you are sure of is that it will
never be you.’

Why not I as well as another? was the thought that went through my mind,
and my new companion spied it with a shriek of derision.

‘It is not for you nor your kind,’ he cried. ‘How do you think you could
force other people to serve _you_? Can you terrify them or hurt them, or
give them anything? You have not learnt yet who are the masters here.’

This troubled me, for it was true. ‘I had begun to think,’ I said, ‘that
there was no authority at all--for every man seems to do as he pleases:
you ride over one, and knock another down; or you seize a living man and
cut him to pieces’--I shuddered as I thought of it--‘and there is nobody
to interfere.’

‘Who should interfere?’ he said. ‘Why shouldn’t every man amuse himself
as he can? But yet for all that we’ve got our masters,’ he cried, with a
scowl, waving his clenched fist in the direction of the mines; ‘you’ll
find it out when you get there.’

It was a long time after this before I ventured to move--for here it
seemed to me that for the moment I was safe--outside the city, yet not
within reach of the dangers of that intermediate space which grew
clearer before me as my eyes became accustomed to the lurid threatening
afternoon light. One after another the fugitives came flying past
me,--people who had escaped from the armed bands whom I could now see on
the watch near the pit’s mouth. I could see, too, the tactics of these
bands--how they retired, veiling the lights and the opening, when a
greater number than usual of travellers appeared on the way, and then
suddenly widening out, throwing out flanking lines, surrounded and drew
in the unwary. I could even hear the cries with which their victims
disappeared over the opening which seemed to go down into the bowels of
the earth. By and by there came flying towards me a wretch more dreadful
in aspect than any I had seen. His scanty clothes seemed singed and
burnt into rags; his hair, which hung about his face unkempt and uncared
for, had the same singed aspect; his skin was brown and baked. I got up
as he approached, and caught him and threw him to the ground, without
heeding his struggles to get on. ‘Don’t you see,’ he cried with a gasp,
‘they may get me again.’ He was one of those who had escaped out of the
mines; but what was it to me whether they caught him again or not? I
wanted to know how he had been caught, and what he had been set to do,
and how he had escaped. Why should I hesitate to use my superior
strength when no one else did? I kept watch over him that he should not
get away.

‘You have been in the mines?’ I said.

‘Let me go!’ he cried; ‘do you need to ask?’ and he cursed me as he
struggled, with the most terrible imprecations. ‘They may get me yet.
Let me go!’

‘Not till you tell me,’ I cried. ‘Tell me and I’ll protect you. If they
come near I’ll let you go. Who are they, man? I must know.’

He struggled up from the ground, clearing his hot eyes from the ashes
that were in them, and putting aside his singed hair. He gave me a
glance of hatred and impotent resistance (for I was stronger than he),
and then cast a wild terrified look back. The skirmishers did not seem
to remark that anybody had escaped, and he became gradually a little
more composed. ‘Who are they!’ he said hoarsely; ‘they’re cursed
wretches like you and me; and there are as many bands of them as there
are mines on the road: and you’d better turn back and stay where you
are. You are safe here.’

‘I will not turn back,’ I said.

‘I know well enough: you can’t. You’ve got to go the round like the
rest,’ he said, with a laugh which was like a sound uttered by a wild
animal rather than a human voice. The man was in my power, and I struck
him, miserable as he was. It seemed a relief thus to get rid of some of
the fury in my mind. ‘It’s a lie,’ I said; ‘I go because I please. Why
shouldn’t I gather a band of my own if I please, and fight those brutes,
not fly from them like you?’

He chuckled and laughed below his breath, struggling and cursing and
crying out, as I struck him again, ‘_You_ gather a band! What could you
offer them?--where would you find them? Are you better than the rest of
us? Are you not a man like the rest? Strike me you can, for I’m down.
But make yourself a master and a chief--you!’

‘Why not I?’ I shouted again, wild with rage and the sense that I had no
power over him, save to hurt him. That passion made my hands tremble: he
slipped from me in a moment, bounded from the ground like a ball, and
with a yell of derision escaped, and plunged into the streets and the
clamour of the city from which I had just flown. I felt myself rage
after him, shaking my fists with a consciousness of the ridiculous
passion of impotence that was in me, but no power of restraining it; and
there was not one of the fugitives who passed, however desperate he
might be, who did not make a mock at me as he darted by. The
laughing-stock of all those miserable objects, the sport of fate,
afraid to go forward, unable to go back, with a fire in my veins urging
me on! But presently I grew a little calmer out of mere exhaustion,
which was all the relief that was possible to me. And by and by,
collecting all my faculties, and impelled by this impulse, which I
seemed unable to resist, I got up and went cautiously on.

Fear can act in two ways: it paralyses and it renders cunning. At this
moment I found it inspire me. I made my plans before I started, how to
steal along under the cover of the blighted brushwood which broke the
line of the valley here and there. I set out only after long thought,
seizing the moment when the vaguely perceived band were scouring in the
other direction intercepting the travellers. Thus, with many pauses, I
got near to the pit’s mouth in safety. But my curiosity was as great as,
almost greater than, my terror. I had kept far from the road, dragging
myself sometimes on hands and feet over broken ground, tearing my
clothes and my flesh upon the thorns; and on that farther side all
seemed so silent and so dark in the shadow cast by some disused
machinery, behind which the glare of the fire from below blazed upon the
other side of the opening, that I could not crawl along in the darkness,
and pass, which would have been the safe way; but with a breathless hot
desire to see and know, dragged myself to the very edge to look down.
Though I was in the shadow, my eyes were nearly put out by the glare on
which I gazed. It was not fire; it was the lurid glow of the gold,
glowing like flame, at which countless miners were working. They were
all about like flies, some on their knees, some bent double as they
stooped over their work, some lying cramped upon shelves and ledges. The
sight was wonderful, and terrible beyond description. The workmen seemed
to consume away with the heat and the glow, even in the few minutes I
gazed. Their eyes shrank into their heads, their faces blackened. I
could see some trying to secrete morsels of the glowing metal, which
burned whatever it touched, and some who were being searched by the
superiors of the mines, and some who were punishing the offenders,
fixing them up against the blazing wall of gold. The fear went out of my
mind, so much absorbed was I in this sight. I gazed, seeing farther and
farther every moment, into crevices and seams of the glowing metal,
always with more and more slaves at work, and the entire pantomime of
labour and theft, and search and punishment, going on and on--the baked
faces dark against the golden glare, the hot eyes taking a yellow
reflection, the monotonous clamour of pick and shovel, and cries and
curses, and all the indistinguishable sound of a multitude of human
creatures. And the floor below, and the low roof which overhung whole
myriads within a few inches of their faces, and the irregular walls all
breached and shelved, were every one the same, a pandemonium of
gold,--gold everywhere. I had loved many foolish things in my life, but
never this: which was perhaps why I gazed and kept my sight, though
there rose out of it a blast of heat which scorched the brain.

While I stooped over, intent on the sight, some one who had come up by
my side to gaze too was caught by the fumes (as I suppose); for suddenly
I was aware of a dark object falling prone into the glowing interior
with a cry and crash which brought back my first wild panic. He fell in
a heap, from which his arms shot forth wildly as he reached the bottom,
and his cry was half anguish yet half desire. I saw him seized by half a
dozen eager watchers, and pitched upon a ledge just under the roof, and
tools thrust into his hands. I held on by an old shaft, trembling,
unable to move. Perhaps I cried too in my horror--for one of the
overseers who stood in the centre of the glare looked up. He had the air
of ordering all that was going on, and stood unaffected by the blaze,
commanding the other wretched officials, who obeyed him like dogs. He
seemed to me, in my terror, like a figure of gold, the image, perhaps,
of wealth or Pluto, or I know not what: for I suppose my brain began to
grow confused, and my hold on the shaft to relax. I had strength enough,
however, for I cared not for the gold, to fling myself back the other
way upon the ground, where I rolled backward, downward, I knew not how,
turning over and over, upon sharp ashes and metallic edges, which tore
my hair and beard,--and for a moment I knew no more.

This fall saved me. I came to myself after a time, and heard the
pressgang searching about. I had sense to lie still among the ashes
thrown up out of the pit, while I heard their voices. Once I gave myself
up for lost. The glitter of a lantern flashed in my eyes, a foot passed,
crashing among the ashes so close to my cheek that the shoe grazed it. I
found the mark after, burned upon my flesh: but I escaped notice by a
miracle. And presently I was able to drag myself up and crawl away. But
how I reached the end of the valley I cannot tell. I pushed my way along
mechanically on the dark side. I had no further desire to see what was
going on in the openings of the mines. I went on, stumbling and stupid,
scarcely capable even of fear, conscious only of wretchedness and
weariness, till at last I felt myself drop across the road within the
gateway of the other town--and lay there, with no thought of anything
but the relief of being at rest.

When I came to myself, it seemed to me that there was a change in the
atmosphere and the light. It was less lurid, paler, gray, more like
twilight than the stormy afternoon of the other city. A certain dead
serenity was in the sky--a black paleness, whiteness, everything faint
in it. This town was walled, but the gates stood open, and I saw no
defences of troops or other guardians. I found myself lying across the
threshold, but pushed to one side, so that the carriages which went and
came should not be stopped or I injured by their passage. It seemed to
me that there was some thoughtfulness and kindness in this action, and
my heart sprang up in a reaction of hope. I looked back as if upon a
nightmare on the dreadful city which I had left, on its tumults and
noise, the wild racket of the streets, the wounded wretches who sought
refuge in the corners, the strife and misery that were abroad, and,
climax of all, the horrible entertainment which had been going on in the
square, the unhappy being strapped upon the table. How, I said to
myself, could such things be? Was it a dream? was it a nightmare? was it
something presented to me in a vision--a strong delusion to make me
think that the old fables which had been told concerning the end of
mortal life were true? When I looked back it appeared like an allegory,
so that I might have seen it in a dream; and still more like an allegory
were the gold-mines in the valley, and the myriads who laboured there.
Was it all true? or only a reflection from the old life, mingling with
the strange novelties which would most likely elude understanding, on
the entrance into this new? I sat within the shelter of the gateway, on
my awakening, and thought over all this. My heart was quite
calm--almost, in the revulsion from the terrors I had been through,
happy. I persuaded myself that I was but now beginning; that there had
been no reality in these latter experiences, only a curious succession
of nightmares, such as might so well be supposed to follow a wonderful
transformation like that which must take place between our mortal life
and--the world to come. The world to come! I paused and thought of it
all, until the heart began to beat loud in my breast. What was this,
where I lay? Another world; a world which was not happiness, not bliss?
Oh no--perhaps there was no world of bliss save in dreams. This, on the
other hand, I said to myself, was not misery: for was not I seated here,
with a certain tremulousness about me, it was true, after all the
experiences which, supposing them even to have been but dreams, I had
come through,--a tremulousness very comprehensible, and not at all
without hope?

I will not say that I believed even what I tried to think. Something in
me lay like a dark shadow in the midst of all my theories; but yet I
succeeded to a great degree in convincing myself that the hope in me was
real, and that I was but now beginning--beginning, with at least a
possibility that all might be well. In this half conviction, and after
all the troubles that were over (even though they might only have been
imaginary troubles), I felt a certain sweetness in resting there,
within the gateway, with my back against it. I was unwilling to get up
again, and bring myself in contact with reality. I felt that there was
pleasure in being left alone. Carriages rolled past me occasionally, and
now and then some people on foot; but they did not kick me out of the
way or interfere with my repose.

Presently as I sat trying to persuade myself to rise and pursue my way,
two men came up to me in a sort of uniform. I recognised with another
distinct sensation of pleasure that here were people who had authority,
representatives of some kind of government. They came up to me and bade
me come with them in tones which were peremptory enough; but what of
that?--better the most peremptory supervision than the lawlessness from
which I had come. They raised me from the ground with a touch, for I
could not resist them, and led me quickly along the street, into which
that gateway gave access, which was a handsome street with tall houses
on either side. Groups of people were moving about along the pavement,
talking now and then with considerable animation; but when my companions
were seen, there was an immediate moderation of tone, a sort of respect
which looked like fear. There was no brawling nor tumult of any kind in
the street. The only incident that occurred was this: when we had gone
some way, I saw a lame man dragging himself along with difficulty on the
other side of the street. My conductors had no sooner perceived him than
they gave each other a look and darted across, conveying me with them,
by a sweep of magnetic influence, I thought, that prevented me from
staying behind. He made an attempt with his crutches to get out of the
way, hurrying on--and I will allow that this attempt of his seemed to me
very grotesque, so that I could scarcely help laughing: the other
lookers-on in the street laughed too, though some put on an aspect of
disgust. ‘Look, the tortoise!’ some one said; ‘does he think he can go
quicker than the orderlies?’ My companions came up to the man while this
commentary was going on, and seized him by each arm. ‘Where were you
going? Where have you come from? How dare you make an exhibition of
yourself?’ they cried. They took the crutches from him as they spoke and
threw them away, and dragged him on until we reached a great grated door
which one of them opened with a key, while the other held the offender,
for he seemed an offender, roughly up by one shoulder causing him great
pain. When the door was opened, I saw a number of people within, who
seemed to crowd to the door as if seeking to get out. But this was not
at all what was intended. My second companion dragged the lame man
forward, and pushed him in with so much violence that I could see him
fall forward on his face on the floor. Then the other locked the door,
and we proceeded on our way. It was not till some time later that I
understood why.

In the meantime I was hurried on, meeting a great many people who took
no notice of me, to a central building in the middle of the town, where
I was brought before an official attended by clerks, with great books
spread out before him. Here I was questioned as to my name and my
antecedents, and the time of my arrival, then dismissed with a nod to
one of my conductors. He led me back again down the street, took me into
one of the tall great houses, opened the door of a room which was
numbered, and left me there without a word. I cannot convey to any one
the bewildered consternation with which I felt myself deposited here;
and as the steps of my conductor died away in the long corridor, I sat
down, and looking myself in the face, as it were, tried to make out what
it was that had happened to me. The room was small and bare. There was
but one thing hung upon the undecorated walls, and that was a long list
of printed regulations which I had not the courage for the moment to
look at. The light was indifferent, though the room was high up, and the
street from the window looked far away below. I cannot tell how long I
sat there thinking, and yet it could scarcely be called thought. I asked
myself over and over again, Where am I? is it a prison? am I shut in, to
leave this enclosure no more? what am I to do? how is the time to pass?
I shut my eyes for a moment and tried to realise all that had happened
to me; but nothing save a whirl through my head of disconnected thoughts
seemed possible, and some force was upon me to open my eyes again, to
see the blank room, the dull light, the vacancy round me in which there
was nothing to interest the mind, nothing to please the eye, a blank
wherever I turned. Presently there came upon me a burning regret for
everything I had left, for the noisy town with all its tumults and
cruelties, for the dark valley with all its dangers. Everything seemed
bearable, almost agreeable, in comparison with this. I seemed to have
been brought here to make acquaintance once more with myself, to learn
over again what manner of man I was. Needless knowledge, acquaintance
unnecessary, unhappy! for what was there in me to make me to myself a
good companion? Never, I knew, could I separate myself from that eternal
consciousness; but it was cruelty to force the contemplation upon me.
All blank, blank, around me, a prison! And was this to last for ever?

I do not know how long I sat, rapt in this gloomy vision; but at last it
occurred to me to rise and try the door, which to my astonishment was
open. I went out with a throb of new hope. After all, it might not be
necessary to come back; there might be other expedients: I might fall
among friends. I turned down the long echoing stairs, on which I met
various people, who took no notice of me, and in whom I felt no
interest save a desire to avoid them, and at last reached the street. To
be out of doors in the air was something, though there was no wind, but
a motionless still atmosphere which nothing disturbed. The streets,
indeed, were full of movement, but not of life--though this seems a
paradox. The passengers passed on their way in long regulated
lines--those who went towards the gates keeping rigorously to one side
of the pavement, those who came, to the other. They talked to each other
here and there; but whenever two men in uniform, such as those who had
been my conductors, appeared, silence ensued, and the wayfarers shrank
even from the looks of these persons in authority. I walked all about
the spacious town. Everywhere there were tall houses, everywhere streams
of people coming and going, but no one spoke to me, or remarked me at
all. I was as lonely as if I had been in a wilderness. I was indeed in a
wilderness of men, who were as though they did not see me, passing
without even a look of human fellowship; each absorbed in his own
concerns. I walked and walked till my limbs trembled under me, from one
end to another of the great streets, up and down, and round and round.
But no one said, How are you? Whence come you? What are you doing? At
length in despair I turned again to the blank and miserable room, which
had looked to me like a cell in a prison. I had wilfully made no note of
its situation, trying to avoid rather than to find it, but my steps were
drawn thither against my will. I found myself retracing my steps,
mounting the long stairs, passing the same people, who streamed along
with no recognition of me, as I desired nothing to do with them; and at
last found myself within the same four blank walls as before.

Soon after I returned I became conscious of measured steps passing the
door, and of an eye upon me. I can say no more than this. From what
point it was that I was inspected I cannot tell; but that I was
inspected, closely scrutinised by some one, and that not only
externally, but by a cold observation that went through and through me,
I knew and felt beyond any possibility of mistake. This recurred from
time to time, horribly, at uncertain moments, so that I never felt
myself secure from it. I knew when the watcher was coming by tremors and
shiverings through all my being: and no sensation so unsupportable has
it ever been mine to bear. How much that is to say, no one can tell who
has not gone through those regions of darkness, and learned what is in
all their abysses. I tried at first to hide, to fling myself on the
floor, to cover my face, to burrow in a dark corner. Useless attempts!
The eyes that looked in upon me had powers beyond my powers. I felt
sometimes conscious of the derisive smile with which my miserable
subterfuges were regarded. They were all in vain.

And what was still more strange was that I had not energy to think of
attempting any escape. My steps, though watched, were not restrained in
any way, so far as I was aware. The gates of the city stood open on all
sides, free to those who went as well as to those who came; but I did
not think of flight. Of flight! Whence should I go from myself? Though
that horrible inspection was from the eyes of some unseen being, it was
in some mysterious way connected with my own thinking and reflections,
so that the thought came ever more and more strongly upon me, that from
myself I could never escape. And that reflection took all energy, all
impulse from me. I might have gone away when I pleased, beyond reach of
the authority which regulated everything,--how one should walk, where
one should live,--but never from my own consciousness. On the other side
of the town lay a great plain, traversed by roads on every side. There
was no reason why I should not continue my journey there. But I did
not. I had no wish nor any power in me to go away.

In one of my long, dreary, companionless walks, unshared by any human
fellowship, I saw at last a face which I remembered; it was that of the
cynical spectator who had spoken to me in the noisy street in the midst
of my early experiences. He gave a glance round him to see that there
were no officials in sight, then left the file in which he was walking,
and joined me. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘you are here already,’ with the same
derisive smile with which he had before regarded me. I hated the man and
his sneer, yet that he should speak to me was something, almost a
pleasure.

‘Yes,’ said I, ‘I am here.’ Then, after a pause, in which I did not know
what to say--‘It is quiet here,’ I said.

‘Quiet enough. Do you like it better for that? To do whatever you please
with no one to interfere; or to do nothing you please, but as you are
forced to do it,--which do you think is best?’

I felt myself instinctively glance round, as he had done, to make sure
that no one was in sight. Then I answered, faltering, ‘I have always
held that law and order were necessary things; and the lawlessness of
that--that place--I don’t know its name--if there is such a place,’ I
cried, ‘I thought it was a dream.’

He laughed in his mocking way. ‘Perhaps it is all a dream--who knows?’
he said.

‘Sir,’ said I, ‘you have been longer here than I----’

‘Oh,’ cried he, with a laugh that was dry and jarred upon the air almost
like a shriek, ‘since before your forefathers were born!’ It seemed to
me that he spoke like one who, out of bitterness and despite, made every
darkness blacker still. A kind of madman in his way; for what was this
claim of age?--a piece of bravado, no doubt, like the rest.

‘That is strange,’ I said, assenting, as when there is such a
hallucination it is best to do. ‘You can tell me, then, whence all this
authority comes, and why we are obliged to obey.’

He looked at me as if he were thinking in his mind how to hurt me most.
Then, with that dry laugh, ‘We make trial of all things in this world,’
he said, ‘to see if perhaps we can find something we shall
like--discipline here, freedom in the other place. When you have gone
all the round like me, then, perhaps, you will be able to choose.’

‘Have you chosen?’ I asked.

He only answered with a laugh. ‘Come,’ he said, ‘there is amusement to
be had too, and that of the most elevated kind. We make researches here
into the moral nature of man. Will you come? But you must take the
risk,’ he added, with a smile which afterwards I understood.

We went on together after this till we reached the centre of the place,
in which stood an immense building with a dome, which dominated the
city, and into a great hall in the centre of that, where a crowd of
people were assembled. The sound of human speech, which murmured all
around, brought new life to my heart. And as I gazed at a curious
apparatus erected on a platform, several people spoke to me.

‘We have again,’ said one, ‘the old subject to-day.’

‘Is it something about the constitution of the place?’ I asked, in the
bewilderment of my mind.

My neighbours looked at me with alarm, glancing behind them to see what
officials might be near.

‘The constitution of the place is the result of the sense of the
inhabitants that order must be preserved,’ said the one who had spoken
to me first. ‘The lawless can find refuge in other places. Here we have
chosen to have supervision, nuisances removed, and order kept. That is
enough. The constitution is not under discussion.’

‘But man is,’ said a second speaker. ‘Let us keep to that in which we
can mend nothing. Sir, you may have to contribute your quota to our
enlightenment. We are investigating the rise of thought. You are a
stranger; you may be able to help us.’

‘I am no philosopher,’ I said, with a panic which I could not explain to
myself.

‘That does not matter. You are a fresh subject.’ The speaker made a
slight movement with his hand, and I turned round to escape in wild,
sudden fright, though I had no conception what could be done to me. But
the crowd had pressed close round me, hemming me in on every side. I was
so wildly alarmed that I struggled among them, pushing backwards with
all my force, and clearing a space round me with my arms. But my efforts
were vain. Two of the officers suddenly appeared out of the crowd, and
seizing me by the arms, forced me forward. The throng dispersed before
them on either side, and I was half dragged, half lifted up upon the
platform, where stood the strange apparatus which I had contemplated
with a dull wonder when I came into the hall. My wonder did not last
long. I felt myself fixed in it, standing supported in that position by
bands and springs, so that no effort of mine was necessary to hold
myself up, and none possible to release myself. I was caught by every
joint, sustained, supported, exposed to the gaze of what seemed a world
of upturned faces: among which I saw, with a sneer upon it, keeping a
little behind the crowd, the face of the man who had led me here. Above
my head was a strong light, more brilliant than anything I had ever
seen, and which blazed upon my brain till the hair seemed to singe and
the skin shrink. I hope I may never feel such a sensation again. The
pitiless light went into me like a knife; but even my cries were stopped
by the framework in which I was bound. I could breathe and suffer, but
that was all.

Then some one got up on the platform above me and began to speak. He
said, so far as I could comprehend in the anguish and torture in which
I was held, that the origin of thought was the question he was
investigating, but that in every previous subject the confusion of ideas
had bewildered them, and the rapidity with which one followed another.
‘The present example has been found to exhibit great persistency of
idea,’ he said. ‘We hope that by his means some clearer theory may be
arrived at.’ Then he pulled over me a great movable lens as of a
microscope, which concentrated the insupportable light. The wild,
hopeless passion that raged within my soul had no outlet in the
immovable apparatus that held me. I was let down among the crowd, and
exhibited to them, every secret movement of my being, by some awful
process which I have never fathomed. A burning fire was in my brain,
flame seemed to run along all my nerves, speechless, horrible,
incommunicable fury raged in my soul. But I was like a child--nay, like
an image of wood or wax in the pitiless hands that held me. What was
the cut of a surgeon’s knife to this? And I had thought _that_ cruel!
And I was powerless, and could do nothing--to blast, to destroy, to burn
with this same horrible flame the fiends that surrounded me, as I
desired to do.

Suddenly, in the raging fever of my thoughts, there surged up the
recollection of that word which had paralysed all around, and myself
with them. The thought that I must share the anguish did not restrain me
from my revenge. With a tremendous effort I got my voice, though the
instrument pressed upon my lips. I know not what I articulated save
‘God,’ whether it was a curse or a blessing. I had been swung out into
the middle of the hall, and hung amid the crowd, exposed to all their
observations, when I succeeded in gaining utterance. My God! my God!
Another moment and I had forgotten them and all my fury in the tortures
that arose within myself. What, then, was the light that racked my
brain? Once more my life from its beginning to its end rose up before
me--each scene like a spectre, like the harpies of the old fables
rending me with tooth and claw. Once more I saw what might have been,
the noble things I might have done, the happiness I had lost, the
turnings of the fated road which I might have taken,--everything that
was once so possible, so possible, so easy! but now possible no more. My
anguish was immeasurable; I turned and wrenched myself, in the strength
of pain, out of the machinery that held me, and fell down, down among
all the curses that were being hurled at me--among the horrible and
miserable crowd. I had brought upon them the evil which I shared, and
they fell upon me with a fury which was like that which had prompted
myself a few minutes before. But they could do nothing to me so
tremendous as the vengeance I had taken upon them. I was too miserable
to feel the blows that rained upon me, but presently I suppose I lost
consciousness altogether, being almost torn to pieces by the multitude.

While this lasted, it seemed to me that I had a dream. I felt the blows
raining down upon me, and my body struggling upon the ground; and yet it
seemed to me that I was lying outside upon the ground, and above me the
pale sky which never brightened at the touch of the sun. And I thought
that dull, persistent cloud wavered and broke for an instant, and that I
saw behind a glimpse of that blue which is heaven when we are on the
earth--the blue sky--which is nowhere to be seen but in the mortal life;
which is heaven enough, which is delight enough, for those who can look
up to it, and feel themselves in the land of hope. It might be but a
dream: in this strange world who could tell what was vision and what was
true?

The next thing I remember was, that I found myself lying on the floor of
a great room full of people, with every kind of disease and deformity,
some pale with sickness, some with fresh wounds, the lame, and the
maimed, and the miserable. They lay round me in every attitude of pain,
many with sores, some bleeding, with broken limbs, but all struggling,
some on hands and knees, dragging themselves up from the ground to stare
at me. They roused in my mind a loathing and sense of disgust which it
is impossible to express. I could scarcely tolerate the thought that
I--I! should be forced to remain a moment in this lazar-house. The
feeling with which I had regarded the miserable creature who shared the
corner of the wall with me, and who had cursed me for being sorry for
him, had altogether gone out of my mind. I called out, to whom I know
not, adjuring some one to open the door and set me free; but my cry was
answered only by a shout from my companions in trouble. ‘Who do you
think will let you out?’ ‘Who is going to help you more than the rest.’
My whole body was racked with pain; I could not move from the floor, on
which I lay. I had to put up with the stares of the curious, and the
mockeries and remarks on me of whoever chose to criticise. Among them
was the lame man whom I had seen thrust in by the two officers who had
taken me from the gate. He was the first to gibe. ‘But for him they
would never have seen me,’ he said. ‘I should have been well by this
time in the fresh air.’--‘It is his turn now,’ said another. I turned my
head as well as I could and spoke to them all.

‘I am a stranger here,’ I cried. ‘They have made my brain burn with
their experiments. Will nobody help me? It is no fault of mine, it is
their fault. If I am to be left here uncared for, I shall die.’

At this a sort of dreadful chuckle ran round the place. ‘If that is what
you are afraid of, you will not die,’ somebody said, touching me on my
head in a way which gave me intolerable pain. ‘Don’t touch me,’ I cried.
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ said the other, and pushed me again upon the
throbbing brain. So far as my sensations went, there were no coverings
at all, neither skull nor skin upon the intolerable throbbing of my
head, which had been exposed to the curiosity of the crowd, and every
touch was agony; but my cry brought no guardian, nor any defence or
soothing. I dragged myself into a corner after a time, from which some
other wretch had been rolled out in the course of a quarrel; and as I
found that silence was the only policy, I kept silent, with rage
consuming my heart.

Presently I discovered by means of the new arrivals which kept coming
in, hurled into the midst of us without thought or question, that this
was the common fate of all who were repulsive to the sight, or who had
any weakness or imperfection which offended the eyes, of the population.
They were tossed in among us, not to be healed, or for repose or safety,
but to be out of sight, that they might not disgust or annoy those who
were more fortunate, to whom no injury had happened; and because in
their sickness and imperfection they were of no use in the studies of
the place, and disturbed the good order of the streets. And there they
lay one above another, a mass of bruised and broken creatures, most of
them suffering from injuries which they had sustained in what would have
been called in other regions the service of the State. They had served
like myself as objects of experiments. They had fallen from heights
where they had been placed, in illustration of some theory. They had
been tortured or twisted to give satisfaction to some question. And
then, that the consequences of these proceedings might offend no one’s
eyes, they were flung into this receptacle, to be released if chance or
strength enabled them to push their way out when others were brought in,
or when their importunate knocking wearied some watchman, and brought
him angry and threatening to hear what was wanted. The sound of this
knocking against the door, and of the cries that accompanied it, and
the rush towards the opening when any one was brought in, caused a
hideous continuous noise and scuffle which was agony to my brain. Every
one pushed before the other; there was an endless rising and falling as
in the changes of a feverish dream, each man as he got strength to
struggle forward himself, thrusting back his neighbours, and those who
were nearest to the door beating upon it without cease, like the beating
of a drum without cadence or measure, sometimes a dozen passionate hands
together, making a horrible din and riot. As I lay unable to join in
that struggle, and moved by rage unspeakable towards all who could, I
reflected strangely that I had never heard when outside this horrible
continual appeal of the suffering. In the streets of the city, as I now
reflected, quiet reigned. I had even made comparisons on my first
entrance, in the moment of pleasant anticipation which came over me, of
the happy stillness here, with the horror and tumult of that place of
unrule which I had left.

When my thoughts reached this point I was answered by the voice of some
one on a level with myself, lying helpless like me on the floor of the
lazar-house. ‘They have taken their precautions,’ he said; ‘if they will
not endure the sight of suffering, how should they hear the sound of it?
Every cry is silenced there.’

‘I wish they could be silenced within too,’ I cried savagely; ‘I would
make them dumb had I the power.’

‘The spirit of the place is in you,’ said the other voice.

‘And not in you?’ I said, raising my head, though every movement was
agony; but this pretence of superiority was more than I could bear.

The other made no answer for a moment: then he said faintly, ‘If it is
so, it is but for greater misery.’

And then his voice died away, and the hubbub of beating, and crying, and
cursing, and groaning filled all the echoes. They cried, but no one
listened to them. They thundered on the door, but in vain. They
aggravated all their pangs in that mad struggle to get free. After a
while my companion, whoever he was, spoke again.

‘They would rather,’ he said, ‘lie on the roadside to be kicked and
trodden on, as we have seen; though to see that made you miserable.’

‘Made me miserable! You mock me,’ I said. ‘Why should a man be miserable
save for suffering of his own?’

‘You thought otherwise once,’ my neighbour said.

And then I remembered the wretch in the corner of the wall in the other
town, who had cursed me for pitying him. I cursed myself now for that
folly. Pity him! was he not better off than I? ‘I wish,’ I cried, ‘that
I could crush them into nothing, and be rid of this infernal noise they
make!’

‘The spirit of the place has entered into you,’ said that voice.

I raised my arm to strike him; but my hand fell on the stone floor
instead, and sent a jar of new pain all through my battered frame. And
then I mastered my rage, and lay still, for I knew there was no way but
this of recovering my strength,--the strength with which, when I got it
back, I would annihilate that reproachful voice, and crush the life out
of those groaning fools, whose cries and impotent struggles I could not
endure. And we lay a long time without moving, with always that tumult
raging in our ears. At last there came into my mind a longing to hear
spoken words again. I said, ‘Are you still there?’

‘I shall be here,’ he said, ‘till I am able to begin again.’

‘To begin! Is there here, then, either beginning or ending? Go on: speak
to me: it makes me a little forget my pain.’

‘I have a fire in my heart,’ he said; ‘I must begin and begin--till
perhaps I find the way.’

‘What way?’ I cried, feverish and eager; for though I despised him, yet
it made me wonder to think that he should speak riddles which I could
not understand.

He answered very faintly, ‘I do not know.’ The fool! then it was only
folly, as from the first I knew it was. I felt then that I could treat
him roughly, after the fashion of the place--which he said had got into
me. ‘Poor wretch!’ I said, ‘you have hopes, have you? Where have you
come from? You might have learned better before now.’

‘I have come,’ he said, ‘from where we met before. I have come by the
valley of gold. I have worked in the mines. I have served in the troops
of those who are masters there. I have lived in this town of tyrants,
and lain in this lazar-house before. Everything has happened to me, more
and worse than you dream of.’

‘And still you go on? I would dash my head against the wall and die.’

‘When will you learn,’ he said, with a strange tone in his voice, which,
though no one had been listening to us, made a sudden silence for a
moment--it was so strange: it moved me like that glimmer of the blue sky
in my dream, and roused all the sufferers round with an
expectation--though I know not what. The cries stopped, the hands beat
no longer. I think all the miserable crowd were still, and turned to
where he lay. ‘When will you learn--that you have died, and can die no
more?’

There was a shout of fury all round me. ‘Is that all you have to say?’
the crowd burst forth: and I think they rushed upon him and killed him:
for I heard no more: until the hubbub began again more wild than ever,
with furious hands beating, beating, against the locked door.

After a while I began to feel my strength come back. I raised my head. I
sat up. I began to see the faces of those around me, and the groups
into which they gathered; the noise was no longer so insupportable--my
racked nerves were regaining health. It was with a mixture of pleasure
and despair that I became conscious of this. I had been through many
deaths; but I did not die, perhaps could not, as that man had said. I
looked about for him, to see if he had contradicted his own theory. But
he was not dead. He was lying close to me, covered with wounds; but he
opened his eyes, and something like a smile came upon his lips. A
smile--I had heard laughter, and seen ridicule and derision, but this I
had not seen. I could not bear it. To seize him and shake the little
remaining life out of him was my impulse. But neither did I obey that.
Again he reminded me of my dream--was it a dream?--of the opening in the
clouds. From that moment I tried to shelter him, and as I grew stronger
and stronger, and pushed my way to the door, I dragged him along with
me. How long the struggle was I cannot tell, or how often I was
balked--or how many darted through before me when the door was opened.
But I did not let him go; and at the last, for now I was as strong as
before--stronger than most about me--I got out into the air and brought
him with me. Into the air! it was an atmosphere so still and motionless
that there was no feeling of life in it, as I have said; but the change
seemed to me happiness for the moment. It was freedom. The noise of the
struggle was over, the horrible sights were left behind. My spirit
sprang up as if I had been born into new life. It had the same effect, I
suppose, upon my companion, though he was much weaker than I, for he
rose to his feet at once with almost a leap of eagerness, and turned
instantaneously towards the other side of the city.

‘Not that way,’ I said; ‘come with me and rest.’

‘No rest--no rest--my rest is to go on;’ and then he turned towards me
and smiled and said ‘Thanks’--looking into my face. What a word to
hear! I had not heard it since---- A rush of strange and sweet and
dreadful thoughts came into my mind. I shrank and trembled, and let go
his arm, which I had been holding. But when I left that hold I seemed to
fall back into depths of blank pain and longing. I put out my hand again
and caught him. ‘I will go,’ I said, ‘where you go.’

A pair of the officials of the place passed as I spoke. They looked at
me with a threatening glance, and half paused, but then passed on. It
was I now who hurried my companion along. I recollected him now. He was
a man who had met me in the streets of the other city when I was still
ignorant, who had convulsed me with the utterance of that name which, in
all this world where we were, is never named but for punishment,--the
name which I had named once more in the great hall in the midst of my
torture, so that all who heard me were transfixed with that suffering
too. He had been haggard then, but he was more haggard now. His features
were sharp with continual pain, his eyes were wild with weakness and
trouble, though there was a meaning in them which went to my heart. It
seemed to me that in his touch there was a certain help, though he was
weak and tottered, and every moment seemed full of suffering. Hope
sprang up in my mind--the hope that where he was so eager to go there
would be something better, a life more liveable than in this place. In
every new place there is new hope. I was not worn out of that human
impulse. I forgot the nightmare which had crushed me before--the
horrible sense that from myself there was no escape--and holding fast to
his arm, I hurried on with him, not heeding where. We went aside into
less frequented streets, that we might escape observation. I seemed to
myself the guide, though I was the follower. A great faith in this man
sprang up in my breast. I was ready to go with him wherever he went,
anywhere--anywhere must be better than this. Thus I pushed him on,
holding by his arm, till we reached the very outmost limits of the city.
Here he stood still for a moment, turning upon me, and took me by the
hands.

‘Friend,’ he said, ‘before you were born into the pleasant earth I had
come here. I have gone all the weary round. Listen to one who knows: all
is harder, harder, as you go on. You are stirred to go on by the
restlessness in your heart, and each new place you come to the spirit of
that place enters into you. You are better here than you will be farther
on. You were better where you were at first, or even in the mines than
here. Come no farther. Stay--unless----’ but here his voice gave way.
He looked at me with anxiety in his eyes, and said no more.

‘Then why,’ I cried, ‘do you go on? Why do you not stay?’

He shook his head, and his eyes grew more and more soft. ‘I am going,’
he said, and his voice shook again. ‘I am going--to try--the most awful
and the most dangerous journey----’ His voice died away altogether, and
he only looked at me to say the rest.

‘A journey? Where?’

I can tell no man what his eyes said. I understood, I cannot tell how;
and with trembling all my limbs seemed to drop out of joint and my face
grow moist with terror. I could not speak any more than he, but with my
lips shaped, How? The awful thought made a tremor in the very air
around. He shook his head slowly as he looked at me--his eyes, all
circled with deep lines, looking out of caves of anguish and anxiety;
and then I remembered how he had said, and I had scoffed at him, that
the way he sought was one he did not know. I had dropped his hands in my
fear; and yet to leave him seemed dragging the heart out of my breast,
for none but he had spoken to me like a brother--had taken my hand and
thanked me. I looked out across the plain, and the roads seemed tranquil
and still. There was a coolness in the air. It looked like evening, as
if somewhere in those far distances there might be a place where a weary
soul might rest. And I looked behind me, and thought what I had
suffered, and remembered the lazar-house and the voices that cried and
the hands that beat against the door; and also the horrible quiet of the
room in which I lived, and the eyes which looked in at me and turned my
gaze upon myself. Then I rushed after him, for he had turned to go on
upon his way; and caught at his clothes, crying--‘Behold me, behold me!
I will go too!’

He reached me his hand and went on without a word; and I with terror
crept after him, treading in his steps, following like his shadow. What
it was to walk with another, and follow, and be at one, is more than I
can tell; but likewise my heart failed me for fear, for dread of what
we might encounter, and of hearing that name, or entering that presence,
which was more terrible than all torture. I wondered how it could be
that one should willingly face _that_ which racked the soul, and how he
had learned that it was possible, and where he had heard of the way. And
as we went on I said no word--for he began to seem to me a being of
another kind, a figure full of awe; and I followed as one might follow a
ghost. Where would he go? Were we not fixed here for ever, where our lot
had been cast? and there were still many other great cities where there
might be much to see, and something to distract the mind, and where it
might be more possible to live than it had proved in the other places.
There might be no tyrants there, nor cruelty, nor horrible noises, nor
dreadful silence. Towards the right hand, across the plain, there seemed
to rise out of the gray distance a cluster of towers and roofs like
another habitable place--and who could tell that something better might
not be there? Surely everything could not turn to torture and misery. I
dragged on behind him, with all these thoughts hurrying through my mind.
He was going--I dare to say it now, though I did not dare then--to seek
out a way to God; to try, if it was possible, to find the road that led
back--that road which had been open once to all. But for me, I trembled
at the thought of that road. I feared the name, which was as the
plunging of a sword into my inmost parts. All things could be borne but
that. I dared not even think upon that name. To feel my hand in another
man’s hand was much, but to be led into that awful presence, by awful
ways, which none knew--how could I bear it? My spirits failed me, and my
strength. My hand became loose in his hand: he grasped me still, but my
hold failed, and ever with slower and slower steps I followed, while he
seemed to acquire strength with every winding of the way. At length he
said to me, looking back upon me, ‘I cannot stop: but your heart fails
you. Shall I loose my hand and let you go?’

‘I am afraid; I am afraid!’ I cried.

‘And I too am afraid; but it is better to suffer more and to escape than
to suffer less and to remain.’

‘Has it ever been known that one escaped? No one has ever escaped. This
is our place,’ I said, ‘there is no other world.’

‘There are other worlds--there is a world where every way leads to One
who loves us still.’

I cried out with a great cry of misery and scorn. ‘There is no love!’ I
said.

He stood still for a moment and turned and looked at me. His eyes seemed
to melt my soul. A great cloud passed over them, as in the pleasant
earth a cloud will sweep across the moon; and then the light came out
and looked at me again. For neither did he know. Where he was going all
might end in despair and double and double pain. But if it were
possible that at the end there should be found that for which he longed,
upon which his heart was set! He said with a faltering voice--‘Among all
whom I have questioned and seen there was but one who found the way. But
if one has found it, so may I. If you will not come, yet let me go.’

‘They will tear you limb from limb--they will burn you in the endless
fires,’ I said. But what is it to be torn limb from limb, or burned with
fire? There came upon his face a smile, and in my heart even I laughed
to scorn what I had said.

‘If I were dragged every nerve apart, and every thought turned into a
fiery dart--and that is so,’ he said; ‘yet will I go, if but, perhaps, I
may see Love at the end.’

‘There is no love!’ I cried again, with a sharp and bitter cry; and the
echo seemed to come back and back from every side, No love! no love!
till the man who was my friend faltered and stumbled like a drunken
man; but afterwards he recovered strength and resumed his way.

And thus once more we went on. On the right hand was that city, growing
ever clearer, with noble towers rising up to the sky, and battlements
and lofty roofs, and behind a yellow clearness, as of a golden sunset.
My heart drew me there; it sprang up in my breast and sang in my ears,
Come, and Come. Myself invited me to this new place as to a home. The
others were wretched, but this will be happy: delights and pleasures
will be there. And before us the way grew dark with storms, and there
grew visible among the mists a black line of mountains, perpendicular
cliffs, and awful precipices, which seemed to bar the way. I turned from
that line of gloomy heights, and gazed along the path to where the
towers stood up against the sky. And presently my hand dropped by my
side, that had been held in my companion’s hand; and I saw him no more.

I went on to the city of the evening light. Ever and ever, as I
proceeded on my way, the sense of haste and restless impatience grew
upon me, so that I felt myself incapable of remaining long in a place,
and my desire grew stronger to hasten on and on; but when I entered the
gates of the city this longing vanished from my mind. There seemed some
great festival or public holiday going on there. The streets were full
of pleasure-parties, and in every open place (of which there were many)
were bands of dancers, and music playing; and the houses about were hung
with tapestries and embroideries and garlands of flowers. A load seemed
to be taken from my spirit when I saw all this--for a whole population
does not rejoice in such a way without some cause. And to think that,
after all I had found a place in which I might live and forget the
misery and pain which I had known, and all that was behind me, was
delightful to my soul. It seemed to me that all the dancers were
beautiful and young, their steps went gaily to the music, their faces
were bright with smiles. Here and there was a master of the feast, who
arranged the dances and guided the musicians, yet seemed to have a look
and smile for new-comers too. One of these came forward to meet me, and
received me with a welcome, and showed me a vacant place at a table, on
which were beautiful fruits piled up in baskets, and all the provisions
for a meal. ‘You were expected, you perceive,’ he said. A delightful
sense of well-being came into my mind. I sat down in the sweetness of
ease after fatigue, of refreshment after weariness, of pleasant sounds
and sights after the arid way. I said to myself that my past experiences
had been a mistake, that this was where I ought to have come from the
first, that life here would be happy, and that all intruding thoughts
must soon vanish and die away.

After I had rested, I strolled about, and entered fully into the
pleasures of the place. Wherever I went, through all the city, there
was nothing but brightness and pleasure, music playing, and flags
waving, and flowers and dancers and everything that was most gay. I
asked several people whom I met what was the cause of the rejoicing; but
either they were too much occupied with their own pleasures, or my
question was lost in the hum of merriment, the sound of the instruments
and of the dancers’ feet. When I had seen as much as I desired of the
pleasure out of doors, I was taken by some to see the interiors of
houses, which were all decorated for this festival, whatever it
was--lighted up with curious varieties of lighting, in tints of
different colours. The doors and windows were all open, and whosoever
would could come in from the dance or from the laden tables, and sit
down where they pleased and rest, always with a pleasant view out upon
the streets, so that they should lose nothing of the spectacle. And the
dresses, both of women and men, were beautiful in form and colour, made
in the finest fabrics, and affording delightful combinations to the eye.
The pleasure which I took in all I saw and heard was enhanced by the
surprise of it, and by the aspect of the places from which I had come,
where there was no regard to beauty nor anything lovely or bright.
Before my arrival here I had come in my thoughts to the conclusion that
life had no brightness in these regions, and that whatever occupation or
study there might be, pleasure had ended and was over, and everything
that had been sweet in the former life. I changed that opinion with a
sense of relief, which was more warm even than the pleasure of the
present moment; for having made one such mistake, how could I tell that
there were not more discoveries awaiting me, that life might not prove
more endurable, might not rise to something grander and more powerful?
The old prejudices, the old foregone conclusion of earth that this was a
world of punishment, had warped my vision and my thoughts. With so many
added faculties of being, incapable of fatigue as we were, incapable of
death, recovering from every wound or accident as I had myself done, and
with no foolish restraint as to what we should or should not do, why
might not we rise in this land to strength unexampled, to the highest
powers? I rejoiced that I had dropped my companion’s hand, that I had
not followed him in his mad quest. Some time, I said to myself, I would
make a pilgrimage to the foot of those gloomy mountains, and bring him
back, all racked and tortured as he was, and show him the pleasant place
which he had missed.

In the meantime the music and the dance went on. But it began to
surprise me a little that there was no pause, that the festival
continued without intermission. I went up to one of those who seemed the
masters of ceremony, directing what was going on. He was an old man,
with a flowing robe of brocade, and a chain and badge which denoted his
office. He stood with a smile upon his lips, beating time with his hand
to the music, watching the figure of the dance.

‘I can get no one to tell me,’ I said, ‘what the occasion of all this
rejoicing is.’

‘It is for your coming,’ he replied, without hesitation, with a smile
and a bow.

For the moment a wonderful elation came over me. ‘For my coming!’ But
then I paused and shook my head. ‘There are others coming besides me.
See! they arrive every moment.’

‘It is for their coming too,’ he said, with another smile and a still
deeper bow; ‘but you are the first as you are the chief.’

This was what I could not understand; but it was pleasant to hear, and I
made no further objection. ‘And how long will it go on?’ I said.

‘So long as it pleases you,’ said the old courtier.

How he smiled! His smile did not please me. He saw this, and distracted
my attention. ‘Look at this dance,’ he said; ‘how beautiful are those
round young limbs! Look how the dress conceals yet shows the form and
beautiful movements! It was invented in your honour. All that is lovely
is for you. Choose where you will, all is yours. We live only for this:
all is for you.’ While he spoke, the dancers came nearer and nearer till
they circled us round, and danced and made their pretty obeisances, and
sang: ‘All is yours; all is for you:’ then breaking their lines floated
away in other circles and processions and endless groups, singing and
laughing till it seemed to ring from every side, ‘Everything is yours;
all is for you.’

I accepted this flattery I know not why: for I soon became aware that I
was no more than others, and that the same words were said to every
new-comer. Yet my heart was elated, and I threw myself into all that was
set before me. But there was always in my mind an expectation that
presently the music and the dancing would cease, and the tables be
withdrawn, and a pause come. At one of the feasts I was placed by the
side of a lady very fair and richly dressed, but with a look of great
weariness in her eyes. She turned her beautiful face to me, not with any
show of pleasure, and there was something like compassion in her look.
She said, ‘You are very tired,’ as she made room for me by her side.

‘Yes,’ I said, though with surprise, for I had not yet acknowledged that
even to myself. ‘There is so much to enjoy. We have need of a little
rest.’

‘Of rest,’ said she, shaking her head, ‘this is not the place for rest.’

‘Yet pleasure requires it,’ I said, ‘as much as----’ I was about to say
pain; but why should one speak of pain in a place given up to pleasure?
She smiled faintly and shook her head again. All her movements were
languid and faint; her eyelids drooped over her eyes. Yet, when I
turned to her, she made an effort to smile. ‘I think you are also
tired,’ I said.

At this she roused herself a little. ‘We must not say so: nor do I say
so. Pleasure is very exacting. It demands more of you than anything
else. One must be always ready----’

‘For what?’

‘To give enjoyment, and to receive it.’ There was an effort in her voice
to rise to this sentiment, but it fell back into weariness again.

‘I hope you receive as well as give,’ I said.

The lady turned her eyes to me with a look which I cannot forget, and
life seemed once more to be roused within her. But not the life of
pleasure: her eyes were full of loathing, and fatigue, and disgust, and
despair. ‘Are you so new to this place,’ she said, ‘and have not learned
even yet what is the height of all misery and all weariness: what is
worse than pain and trouble, more dreadful than the lawless streets and
the burning mines, and the torture of the great hall and the misery of
the lazar-house----’

‘Oh, lady,’ I said, ‘have you been there?’

She answered me with her eyes alone; there was no need of more. ‘But
pleasure is more terrible than all,’ she said; and I knew in my heart
that what she said was true.

There is no record of time in that place. I could not count it by days
or nights: but soon after this it happened to me that the dances and the
music became no more than a dizzy maze of sound and sight, which made my
brain whirl round and round; and I too loathed what was spread on the
table, and the soft couches, and the garlands, and the fluttering flags
and ornaments. To sit for ever at a feast, to see for ever the
merry-makers turn round and round, to hear in your ears for ever the
whirl of the music, the laughter, the cries of pleasure! There were some
who went on and on, and never seemed to tire; but to me the endless
round came at last to be a torture from which I could not escape.
Finally, I could distinguish nothing--neither what I heard nor what I
saw: and only a consciousness of something intolerable buzzed and echoed
in my brain. I longed for the quiet of the place I had left; I longed
for the noise in the streets, and the hubbub and tumult of my first
experiences. Anything, anything rather than this! I said to myself; and
still the dancers turned, the music sounded, the bystanders smiled, and
everything went on and on. My eyes grew weary with seeing, and my ears
with hearing. To watch the new-comers rush in, all pleased and eager, to
see the eyes of the others glaze with weariness, wrought upon my
strained nerves. I could not think, I could not rest, I could not
endure. Music for ever and ever--a whirl, a rush of music, always going
on and on; and ever that maze of movement, till the eyes were feverish
and the mouth parched; ever that mist of faces, now one gleaming out of
the chaos, now another, some like the faces of angels, some miserable,
weary, strained with smiling, with the monotony, and the endless,
aimless, never-changing round. I heard myself calling to them to be
still--to be still! to pause a moment. I felt myself stumble and turn
round in the giddiness and horror of that movement without repose. And
finally, I fell under the feet of the crowd, and felt the whirl go over
and over me, and beat upon my brain, until I was pushed and thrust out
of the way lest I should stop the measure. There I lay, sick, satiate,
for I know not how long; loathing everything around me, ready to give
all I had (but what had I to give?) for one moment of silence. But
always the music went on, and the dancers danced, and the people
feasted, and the songs and the voices echoed up to the skies.

How at last I stumbled forth I cannot tell. Desperation must have moved
me, and that impatience which, after every hope and disappointment,
comes back and back, the one sensation that never fails. I dragged
myself at last by intervals, like a sick dog, outside the revels, still
hearing them, which was torture to me, even when at last I got beyond
the crowd. It was something to lie still upon the ground, though without
power to move, and sick beyond all thought, loathing myself and all that
I had been and seen. For I had not even the sense that I had been
wronged to keep me up, but only a nausea and horror of movement, a
giddiness and whirl of every sense. I lay like a log upon the ground.

When I recovered my faculties a little, it was to find myself once more
in the great vacant plain which surrounded that accursed home of
pleasure--a great and desolate waste upon which I could see no track,
which my heart fainted to look at, which no longer roused any hope in
me, as if it might lead to another beginning, or any place in which yet
at the last it might be possible to live. As I lay in that horrible
giddiness and faintness, I loathed life and this continuance which
brought me through one misery after another, and forbade me to die. Oh
that death would come--death which is silent and still, which makes no
movement and hears no sound! that I might end and be no more! Oh that I
could go back even to the stillness of that chamber which I had not been
able to endure! Oh that I could return--return! to what? to other
miseries and other pain, which looked less because they were past. But I
knew now that return was impossible until I had circled all the dreadful
round; and already I felt again the burning of that desire that pricked
and drove me on--not back, for that was impossible. Little by little I
had learned to understand, each step printed upon my brain as with
red-hot irons: not back, but on, and on. To greater anguish, yes; but
on: to fuller despair, to experiences more terrible: but on, and on, and
on. I arose again, for this was my fate. I could not pause even for all
the teachings of despair.

The waste stretched far as eyes could see. It was wild and terrible,
with neither vegetation nor sign of life. Here and there were heaps of
ruin, which had been villages and cities; but nothing was in them save
reptiles and crawling poisonous life, and traps for the unwary wanderer.
How often I stumbled and fell among these ashes and dust-heaps of the
past--through what dread moments I lay, with cold and slimy things
leaving their trace upon my flesh--the horrors which seized me, so that
I beat my head against a stone,--why should I tell? These were nought;
they touched not the soul. They were but accidents of the way.

At length, when body and soul were low and worn out with misery and
weariness, I came to another place, where all was so different from the
last, that the sight gave me a momentary solace. It was full of furnaces
and clanking machinery and endless work. The whole air round was aglow
with the fury of the fires, and men went and came like demons in the
flames, with red-hot melting metal, pouring it into moulds and beating
it on anvils. In the huge workshops in the background there was a
perpetual whir of machinery--of wheels turning and turning, and pistons
beating, and all the din of labour, which for a time renewed the anguish
of my brain, yet also soothed it; for there was meaning in the beatings
and the whirlings. And a hope rose within me that with all the forces
that were here, some revolution might be possible--something that would
change the features of this place and overturn the worlds. I went from
workshop to workshop, and examined all that was being done and
understood--for I had known a little upon the earth, and my old
knowledge came back, and to learn so much more filled me with new life.
The master of all was one who never rested, nor seemed to feel
weariness, nor pain, nor pleasure. He had everything in his hand. All
who were there were his workmen, or his assistants, or his servants. No
one shared with him in his councils. He was more than a prince among
them--he was as a god. And the things he planned and made, and at which
in armies and legions his workmen toiled and laboured, were like living
things. They were made of steel and iron, but they moved like the brains
and nerves of men. They went where he directed them, and did what he
commanded, and moved at a touch. And though he talked little, when he
saw how I followed all that he did, he was a little moved towards me,
and spoke and explained to me the conceptions that were in his mind,
one rising out of another, like the leaf out of the stem and the flower
out of the bud. For nothing pleased him that he did, and necessity was
upon him to go on and on.

‘They are like living things,’ I said--‘they do your bidding whatever
you command them. They are like another and a stronger race of men.’

‘Men!’ he said, ‘what are men? the most contemptible of all things that
are made--creatures who will undo in a moment what it has taken millions
of years, and all the skill and all the strength of generations to do.
These are better than men. They cannot think or feel. They cannot stop
but at my bidding, or begin unless I will. Had men been made so, we
should be masters of the world.’

‘Had men been made so, you would never have been--for what could genius
have done or thought?--you would have been a machine like all the rest.’

‘And better so!’ he said, and turned away; for at that moment, watching
keenly as he spoke the action of a delicate combination of movements,
all made and balanced to a hair’s-breadth, there had come to him
suddenly the idea of something which made it a hundredfold more strong
and terrible. For they were terrible these things that lived yet did not
live, which were his slaves, and moved at his will. When he had done
this, he looked at me, and a smile came upon his mouth: but his eyes
smiled not, nor ever changed from the set look they wore. And the words
he spoke were familiar words, not his, but out of the old life. ‘What a
piece of work is a man!’ he said; ‘how noble in reason, how infinite in
faculty! in form and moving how express and admirable! And yet to me
what is this quintessence of dust?’ His mind had followed another strain
of thought, which to me was bewildering, so that I did not know how to
reply. I answered like a child, upon his last word.

‘We are dust no more,’ I cried, for pride was in my heart--pride of him
and his wonderful strength, and his thoughts which created strength, and
all the marvels he did--‘those things which hindered are removed. Go on,
go on--you want but another step. What is to prevent that you should not
shake the universe, and overturn this doom, and break all our bonds?
There is enough here to explode this gray fiction of a firmament, and to
rend those precipices and to dissolve that waste--as at the time when
the primeval seas dried up, and those infernal mountains rose.’

He laughed and the echoes caught the sound and gave it back as if they
mocked it. ‘There is enough to rend us all into shreds,’ he said, ‘and
shake, as you say, both heaven and earth, and these plains and those
hills.’

‘Then why,’ I cried in my haste, with a dreadful hope piercing through
my soul--‘why do you create and perfect, but never employ? When we had
armies on the earth we used them. You have more than armies. You have
force beyond the thoughts of man: but all without use as yet.’

‘All,’ he cried, ‘for no use! All in vain!--in vain!’

‘O master!’ I said, ‘great, and more great, in time to come. Why?--why?’

He took me by the arm and drew me close.

‘Have you strength,’ he said, ‘to bear it if I tell you why?’

I knew what he was about to say. I felt it in the quivering of my veins,
and my heart that bounded as if it would escape from my breast. But I
would not quail from what he did not shrink to utter. I could speak no
word, but I looked him in the face and waited--for that which was more
terrible than all.

He held me by the arm, as if he would hold me up when the shock of
anguish came. ‘They are in vain,’ he said, ‘in vain--because God rules
over all.’

His arm was strong; but I fell at his feet like a dead man.

How miserable is that image, and how unfit to use! Death is still and
cool and sweet. There is nothing in it that pierces like a sword, that
burns like fire, that rends and tears like the turning wheels. O life, O
pain, O terrible name of God, in which is all succour and all torment!
What are pangs and tortures to that, which ever increases in its awful
power, and has no limit, nor any alleviation, but whenever it is spoken
penetrates through and through the miserable soul? O God, whom once I
called my Father! O Thou who gavest me being, against whom I have
fought, whom I fight to the end, shall there never be anything but
anguish in the sound of Thy great name?

When I returned to such command of myself as one can have who has been
transfixed by that sword of fire, the master stood by me still. He had
not fallen like me, but his face was drawn with anguish and sorrow like
the face of my friend who had been with me in the lazar-house, who had
disappeared on the dark mountains. And as I looked at him, terror seized
hold upon me, and a desire to flee and save myself, that I might not be
drawn after him by the longing that was in his eyes.

The master gave me his hand to help me to rise, and it trembled, but not
like mine.

‘Sir,’ I cried, ‘have not we enough to bear? Is it for hatred, is it for
vengeance, that you speak that name!’

‘O friend,’ he said, ‘neither for hatred nor revenge. It is like a fire
in my veins: if one could find Him again----!’

‘You, who are as a god--who can make and destroy--you, who could shake
His throne!’

He put up his hand. ‘I who am His creature, even here--and still His
child, though I am so far, so far----’ He caught my hand in his, and
pointed with the other trembling. ‘Look! your eyes are more clear than
mine, for they are not anxious like mine. Can you see anything upon the
way?’

The waste lay wild before us, dark with a faintly-rising cloud, for
darkness and cloud and the gloom of death attended upon that name. I
thought, in his great genius and splendour of intellect, he had gone
mad, as sometimes may be. ‘There is nothing,’ I said, and scorn came
into my soul; but even as I spoke I saw--I cannot tell what I saw--a
moving spot of milky whiteness in that dark and miserable
wilderness,--no bigger than a man’s hand, no bigger than a flower.
‘There is something,’ I said unwillingly; ‘it has no shape nor form. It
is a gossamer-web upon some bush, or a butterfly blown on the wind.’

‘There are neither butterflies nor gossamers here.’

‘Look for yourself then!’ I cried, flinging his hand from me. I was
angry with a rage which had no cause. I turned from him, though I loved
him, with a desire to kill him in my heart; and hurriedly took the
other way. The waste was wild: but rather that than to see the man who
might have shaken earth and hell thus turning, turning to madness and
the awful journey. For I knew what in his heart he thought, and I knew
that it was so. It was something from that other sphere--can I tell you
what? a child perhaps--oh, thought that wrings the heart! for do you
know what manner of thing a child is? There are none in the land of
darkness. I turned my back upon the place where that whiteness was. On,
on, across the waste! On to the cities of the night! On, far away from
maddening thought, from hope that is torment, and from the awful Name!

     The above narrative, though it is necessary to a full understanding
     of the experiences of the Little Pilgrim in the Unseen, does not
     belong to her personal story in any way, but is drawn from the
     Archives in the Heavenly City where all the records of the human
     race are laid up.




II

THE LITTLE PILGRIM

IN THE SEEN AND UNSEEN


The little Pilgrim, whose story has been told in another place, and who
had arrived but lately on the other side, among those who know trouble
and sorrow no more, was one whose heart was always full of pity for the
suffering. And after the first rapture of her arrival, and of the
blessed work which had been given to her to do, and all the wonderful
things she had learned of the new life, there returned to her in the
midst of her happiness so many questions and longing thoughts that They
were touched by them who have the care of the younger brethren, the
simple ones of heaven. These questions did not disturb her peace or joy,
for she knew that which is so often veiled on earth, that all is
accomplished by the will of the Father, and that nothing can happen but
according to His appointment and under His care. And she was also aware
that the end is as the beginning to Him who knows all, and that nothing
is lost that is in His hand. But though she would herself have willingly
borne the sufferings of earth ten times over for the sake of all that
was now hers, yet it pierced her soul to think of those who were
struggling in darkness, and whose hearts were stifled within them by all
the bitterness of the mortal life. Sometimes she would be ready to cry
out with wonder that the Lord did not hasten His steps and go down again
upon the earth to make all plain; or how the Father himself could
restrain His power and did not send down ten legions of angels to make
all that was wrong right, and turn all that was mournful into joy.

‘It is but for a little time,’ said her companions. ‘When we have
reached this place we remember no more the anguish.’--‘But to them in
their trouble it does not seem a little time,’ the Pilgrim said. And in
her heart there rose a great longing. Oh that He would send me! that I
might tell my brethren--not like the poor man in the land of darkness,
of the gloom and misery of that distant place, but, a happier message,
of the light and brightness of this, and how soon all pain would be
over. She would not put this into a prayer, for she knew that to refuse
a prayer is pain to the Father, if in His great glory any pain can be.
And then she reasoned with herself and said, ‘What can I tell them,
except that all will soon be well? and this they know, for our Lord has
said it: but I am like them, and I do not understand.’

One fair morning while she turned over these thoughts in her mind there
suddenly came towards her one whom she knew as a sage, of the number of
those who know many mysteries and search into the deep things of the
Father. For a moment she wondered if perhaps he came to reprove her for
too many questionings, and rose up and advanced a little towards him
with folded hands and a thankful heart, to receive the reproof if it
should be so--for whether it were praise, or whether it were blame, it
was from the Father, and a great honour and happiness to receive. But as
he came towards her he smiled and bade her not to fear. ‘I am come,’ he
said, ‘to tell you some things you long to know, and to show you some
things that are hidden to most. Little sister, you are not to be charged
with any mission----’

‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘oh no. I was not so presuming----’

‘It is not presuming to wish to carry comfort to any soul; but it is
permitted to me to open up to you, so far as I may, some of the secrets.
The secrets of the Father are all beautiful, but there is sorrow in them
as well as joy; and Pain, you know, is one of the great angels at the
door.’

‘Is his name Pain? and I took him for Consolation!’ the little Pilgrim
said.

‘He is not Consolation: he is the schoolmaster whose face is often
stern. But I did not come to tell you of him whom you know: I am going
to take you--back,’ the wise man said.

‘Back!’ She knew what this meant, and a great pleasure, yet mingled with
fear, came into her mind. She hesitated and looked at him, and did not
know how to accept, though she longed to do so, for at the same time she
was afraid. He smiled when he saw the alarm in her face.

‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that you are to go this journey on your own
charges? Had you insisted, as some do, to go at all hazards, you might
indeed have feared; and even now I cannot promise that you will not feel
the thorns of the earth as you pass: but you will be cared for, so that
no harm can come.’

‘Ah,’ she said wistfully, ‘it is not for harm----’ and could say
nothing more.

He laid his hand upon her arm and he said, ‘Do not fear; though they see
you not, it is yet sweet, for a moment, to be there--and as you pass, it
brings thoughts of you to their minds.’

For these two understood each other and knew that to see and yet not be
seen is only a pleasure for those who are most like the Father, and can
love without thought of love in return.

When he touched her it seemed to the little Pilgrim suddenly that
everything changed round her, and that she was no longer in her own
place but walking along a weary length of road. It was narrow and
rough, and the skies were dim. And as she went on by the side of her
guide she saw houses and gardens which were to her like the houses that
children build, and the little gardens in which they sow seeds and plant
flowers, and take them up again to see if they are growing. She turned
to the Sage, saying, ‘What are----?’ and then stopped and gazed again,
and burst out into something that was between laughing and tears. ‘For
it is home,’ she cried, ‘and I did not know it! dear home.’ Her heart
was remorseful, as if she had wounded the little diminished place.

‘This is what happens with those who have been living in the king’s
palaces,’ he said, with a smile.

‘But I love it dearly, I love it dearly,’ the little Pilgrim said,
stretching out her hands as if for pardon. He smiled at her, consoling
her: and then his face changed and grew very grave.

‘Little sister,’ he said, ‘you have come not to see happiness but pain.
We want no explanation of the joy, for that flows freely from the heart
of the Father and all is clear between us and Him; but that which you
desire to know is why trouble should be. Therefore you must think of Him
and be strong, for here is what will rend your heart.’

The little Pilgrim was seized once more with mortal fear. ‘O friend,’
she cried, ‘I have done with pain. Must I go and see others suffering
and do nothing for them?’

‘If anything comes into your heart to do or say, it will be well for
them,’ the Sage replied: and he took her by the hand and led her into a
house she knew. She began to know them all now as her vision became
accustomed to the atmosphere of the earth. She perceived that the sun
was shining though it had appeared so dim, and that it was a clear
summer morning, very early, with still the colours of the dawn in the
east. When she went indoors at first she saw nothing, for the room was
darkened, the windows all closed, and a miserable watch light only
burning. In the bed there lay a child whom she knew. She knew them
all--the mother at the bedside, the father near the door, even the nurse
who was flitting about disturbing the silence. Her heart gave a great
throb when she recognised them all, and though she had been glad for the
first moment to think that she had come just in time to give welcome to
a little brother stepping out of earth into the better country, a shadow
of trouble and pain enveloped her when she saw the others and remembered
and knew. For he was their beloved child--on all the earth there was
nothing they held so dear; they would have given up their home and all
they possessed, and become poor and homeless and wanderers, with joy, if
God, as they said, would have but spared their child. She saw into
their hearts and read all this there, and knowing them she knew it
without even that insight. Everything they would have given up and
rejoiced, if but they might have kept him. And there he lay, and was
about to die. The little Pilgrim forgot all but the pity of it, and
their hearts that were breaking, and the vacant place that was soon to
be. She cried out aloud upon the Father with a great cry. She forgot
that it was a grief to Him in His great glory to refuse.

There came no reply: but the room grew light as with a reflection out of
heaven, and the child in the bed, who had been moving restlessly in the
weariness of ending life, turned his head towards her, and his eyes
opened wide and he saw her where she stood. He cried out, ‘Look! mother,
mother!’ The mother, who was on her knees by the bedside, lifted her
head and cried, ‘What is it, what is it, O my darling?’ and the father,
who had turned away his face not to see the child die, came nearer to
the bed, hoping they knew not what. Their faces were paler than the face
of the dying, upon which there was light; but no light came to them out
of the hidden heaven. ‘Look! she has come for me,’ he said; but his
voice was so weak they could not hear him, nor take any comfort. At this
the little Pilgrim put out her arms to him, forgetting in her joy the
poor people who were mourning, and cried out, ‘Oh, but I must go with
him. I must take him home!’ For this was her own work, and she thought
of her wonderings and her questions no more.

Some one touched her on the shoulder and she looked round, and behind
her was a great company of the dear children from the better country,
whom the Father had sent, and not her--lest he should grieve for those
he had left behind--to come for the child and show him the way. She
paused for a moment, scarcely willing to give him up: but then her
companion touched her and pointed to the other side. Ah, that was
different! The mother lay by the side of the bed, her face turned only
to the little white body which her child had dropped from him as he came
out of his sickness--her eyes wild with misery, without tears; her
feverish mouth open, but no cry in it. The sword of the angel had gone
through and through her. She did not even writhe upon it, but lay
motionless, cut down, dumb with anguish. The father had turned round
again and leant his head upon the wall. All was over! All over! The love
and the hope of a dozen lovely years, the little sweet companion, the
daily joy, the future trust--all--over--as if a child had never been
born. Then there rose in the stillness a great and exceeding bitter cry,
‘God!’ that was all, pealing up to heaven, to the Father, whom they
could not see in their anguish, accusing Him, reproaching Him who had
done it. Was He their enemy that He had done it? No man was ever so
wicked, ever so cruel, but he would have spared them their boy--taken
everything and spared them their boy; but God, God! The little Pilgrim
stood by and wept. She could do nothing but weep, weep, her heart aching
with the pity and the anguish. How were they to be told that it was not
God, but the Father--that God was only His common name, His name in law,
and that He was the Father. This was all she could think of; she had not
a word to say. And the boy had shaken his little bright soul out of the
sickness and the weakness with such a look of delight! He knew in a
moment? but they--oh when, when would they know?

Presently she sat outside in the soft breathing airs and little morning
breezes, and dried her aching eyes. And the Sage who was her companion
soothed her with kind words. ‘I said you would feel the thorns as you
passed,’ he said. ‘We cannot be free of them, we who are of mankind.’

‘But oh,’ she cried amid her tears, ‘why--why? The air of the earth is
in my eyes, I cannot see. Oh what pain it is, what misery! Was it
because they loved him too much, and that he drew their hearts away?’

The Sage only shook his head at her, smiling. ‘Can one love too much?’
he said.

‘O brother, it is very hard to live and to see another---- I am confused
in my mind,’ said the little Pilgrim, putting her hand to her eyes. ‘The
tears of those that weep have got into my soul. To live and see another
die--that was what I was saying; but the child lives like you and me.
Tell me, for I am confused in my mind.’

‘Listen!’ said the Sage; and when she listened she heard the sound of
the children going back with a great murmur and ringing of pleasant
voices like silver bells in the air, and among them the voice of the
child asking a thousand questions, calling them by their names. The two
pilgrims listened and laughed to each other for love at the sound of the
children. ‘Is it for the little brother that you are troubled?’ the Sage
said in her ear.

Then she was ashamed, and turned from the joyful sounds that were
ascending ever higher and higher, to the little house that stood below
with all its windows closed upon the light. It was wrapped in darkness
though the sun was shining, the windows closed as if they never would
open more, and the people within turning their faces to the wall,
covering their eyes that they might not see the light of day. ‘O
miserable day!’ they were saying, ‘O dark hour!--O life that will never
smile again!’ She sat between earth and heaven, her eyes smiling, but
her mouth beginning to quiver once more. ‘Is it to raise their thoughts
and their hearts?’ she said.

‘Little sister,’ said he, ‘when the Father speaks to you, it is not for
me nor for another that He speaks. And what He says to you is----’

‘Ah,’ said the little Pilgrim with joy, ‘it is for myself, myself alone!
As if I were a great angel; as if I were a saint. It drops into my heart
like the dew. It is what I need, not for you though I love you, but for
me only. It is my secret between me and Him.’

Her companion bowed his head. ‘It is so. And thus has He spoken to the
little child. But what He said or why He said it, is not for you or me
to know. It is His secret; it is between the little one and his Father.
Who can interfere between these two? Many and many are there born on
earth whose work and whose life are ordained elsewhere; for there is no
way of entrance into the race of man which is the nature of the Lord,
but by the gates of birth: and the work which the Father has to do is so
great and manifold that there are multitudes who do but pass through
those gates to ascend to their work elsewhere. But the Father alone
knows whom He has chosen. It is between the child and Him. It is their
secret; it is as you have said.’

The little Pilgrim was silent for a moment, but then turned her head
from the bright shining of the skies and the voices of the children
which floated farther and farther off, and looked at the house in which
there was sorrow and despair. She pointed towards it, and looked at him
who was her instructor and had come to show her how these things were.

‘They are to blame,’ he said, ‘but none will blame them. The little life
is hard. The Father, though He is very near, seems far off: and
sometimes even His word is as a dream. It is to them as if they had
lost their child. Can you not remember?--that was what we said. We have
lost----’

Then the little Pilgrim musing began to smile, but wept again as she
thought of the father and the mother. ‘If we were to go,’ she said,
‘hand in hand, you and I, and tell them that the Father had need of him:
that it was not for the little life but for the great and beautiful
world above that the child was born; and that he had got great promotion
and was gone with the princes and the angels according as was ordained?
And why should they mourn? Let us go and tell them----’

He shook his head. ‘They could not see us; they would not know us; we
should be to them as dreams. If they do not take comfort from our Lord,
how could they take comfort from you and me? We could not bring them
back their child. They want their child, not only to know that all is
well with him,--for they know that all is well with him,--but what they
want is their child. They are to blame, but who shall blame them? Not
any one that is born of woman. How can we tell them what is the Father’s
secret and the child’s?’

‘And yet we could tell them why it must be so?’ said the little Pilgrim.
‘For they prayed and besought the Lord. O brother, I have no
understanding. For the Lord said, “Ask, and it shall be given you”; and
they asked: yet they are refused.’

‘Little sister, the Father must judge between His children: and he must
first be heard who is most concerned. While they were praying, the
Father and the child talked together and said what we know not: but this
we know that his heart was satisfied with that which was said to him.
Must not the Father do what is best for the child He loves, whatever the
other children may say? Nay, did not our own fathers do this on earth,
and we submitted to them: how much more He who sees all?’

The little Pilgrim stole softly from his side when he had done speaking
and went back into the darkened house, and saw the mother where she sat
weeping and refusing to be comforted, in her sorrow perceiving not
heaven nor any consolation, nor understanding that her child had gone
joyfully to his Father and her Father, as his soul had required, and as
the Lord had willed. Yet though she had not joy but only anguish in her
faith, and though her eyes were darkened that she could not see, yet the
woman ceased not to call upon God, God, and to hold by Him who had
smitten her. And the father of the child had gone into his chamber and
shut the door, and sat dumb, opening not his mouth, thinking upon his
delightsome boy, and how they had walked together and talked together,
and should do so again nevermore. And in their hearts they reproached
their God, the giver of all, and accused the Lord to His face, as if He
had deceived them: yet clung to Him still, weeping and upbraiding, and
would not let Him go. The little Pilgrim wept too, and said many things
to them which they could not hear. But when she saw that though they
were in darkness and misery God was in all their thoughts, she bethought
herself suddenly of what the poet had said in the celestial city, and of
the songs he sang, which were a wonder to the Angels and Powers, of the
little life and the sorrowful earth, where men endured all things, yet
overcame by the name of the Lord. When this came into her mind she rose
up again softly with a sacred awe, and wept not, but did them reverence;
for without any light or guidance in their anguish they yet wavered not,
died not, but endured, and in the end would overcome. It seemed to her
that she saw the great beautiful angels looking on, the great souls that
are called to love and to serve, but not to suffer like the little
brethren of the earth; and that among the princes of heaven there was
reverence and awe, and even envy of those who thus had their garments
bathed in blood, and suffered loss and pain and misery, yet never
abandoned their life and the work that had been given them to do.

As she came forth again comforted, she found the Sage standing with his
face lifted to heaven, smiling still at the sound, though faint and
distant, of the children all calling to each other and shouting together
as they reached the gate. ‘Oh hush,’ she said, ‘let not the mother hear
them! for it will make her heart more bitter to think she can never hear
again her child’s voice.’

‘But it is her child’s voice,’ he said: then very gently, ‘They are to
blame: but no one will be found to blame them either in earth or
heaven.’

The earth pilgrims went far after this, yet more softly than when they
first left their beautiful country: for then the little Pilgrim had
been glad, believing that as all had been made clear to her in her own
life, so that all that concerned the life of man should be made clear;
but this was more hard and encompassed with pain and darkness, as that
which is in the doing is always more hard to understand than that which
is accomplished. And she learned now what she had not understood, though
her companion warned her, how sharp are those thorns of earth that
pierce the wayfarer’s foot, and that those who come back cannot help but
suffer because of love and fellow-feeling. And she learned that though
she could smile and give thanks to the Father in the recollection of her
own griefs that were past, yet those that are present are too poignant,
and to look upon others in their hour of darkness makes His ways more
hard to comprehend than even when the sorrow is your own.

While she mused thus there was suddenly revealed to her another sight.
They had gone far before they came to this new scene. Night had crept
over the skies all gray and dark, and the sea came in with a whisper
which sounded to some like the hush of peace, and to some like the voice
of sorrow and moaning, and to some was but the monotony of endless
recurrence, in which was no soul. The skies were dark overhead, but
opened with a clear shining of light which had no colour, towards the
west, for the sun had long gone down and it was night. The two
travellers perceived a woman who came out of a house all lit with lamps
and firelight, and took the lonely path towards the sea. And the little
Pilgrim knew her as she had known the father and mother in the darkened
house, and would have joined her with a cry of pleasure: but she
remembered that the friend could not see her or hear her, being wrapped
still in the mortal body, and in a close enveloping mantle of thoughts
and cares. The Sage made her a sign to follow, and these two tender
companions accompanied her who saw them not, walking darkling by the
silent way. The heart of the woman was heavy in her breast; it was so
sore by reason of trouble, and for all the bitter wounds of the past,
and all the fears that beset her life to come, that she walked, not
weeping because of being beyond tears, but as it were bleeding, her
thoughts being in her little way like those of His upon whose brow there
once stood drops as it were of blood; and out of her heart there came a
moaning which was without words. If words had been possible, they would
have been as His also, who said, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know
not what they do.’ For those who had wounded her were those whom in all
the world she loved most dear: and the quivering of anguish was in her
as she walked, seeking the darkness and the silence, and to hide
herself, if that might be, from her own thoughts. She went along the
lonely path with the stinging of her wounds so keen and sharp that all
her body and soul were as one pain. Greater grief hath no man than
this, to be slain and tortured by those whom he loves. When her soul
could speak, this was what it said: ‘Father, forgive them. Father, save
them.’ She had no strength for more.

This the heavenly pilgrims saw, for they stood by her as in their own
country, where every thought is clear, and saw her heart. But as they
followed her and looked into her soul--with their hearts, which were
human too, wrung at the sight of hers in its anguish--there suddenly
became visible before them a strange sight such as they had never seen
before. It was like the rising of the sun, but it was not the sun.
Suddenly into the heart upon which they looked there came a great
silence and calm. There was nothing said that even they could hear, nor
done that they could see; but for a moment the throbbing was stilled,
and the anguish calmed, and there came a great peace. The woman in whom
this wonder was wrought was astonished, as they were. She gave a low cry
in the darkness for wonder that the pain had gone from her in an
instant, in the twinkling of an eye. There was no promise made to her
that her prayer would be granted, and no new light given to guide her
for the time to come. But her pain was taken away. She stood hushed and
lifted her eyes, and the gray of the sea, and the low cloud that was
like a canopy above, and the lightening of colourless light towards the
west, entered with their great quiet into her heart. ‘Is this the peace
that passeth all understanding?’ she said to herself, confused with the
sudden calm. In all her life it had never so happened to her before--to
be healed of her grievous wounds, yet without cause; and while no change
was wrought, yet to be put to rest.

‘It is our Brother,’ said the little Pilgrim, shedding tears of joy. ‘It
is the secret of the Lord,’ said the Sage; but not even they had seen
Him passing by.

They walked with her softly in the silence, in the sound of the sea,
till the wonder in her was hushed like the pain, and talked with her
though she knew it not. For very soon questions arose in her heart. ‘And
oh,’ she said, ‘is this the Lord’s reply?’ with thankfulness and awe;
but because she was human, and knew so little, and was full of
impatience, ‘Oh, and is this _all_?’ was what she next said, ‘I asked
for _them_, and Thou hast given to _me_----’ then the voice of her
heart grew louder, and she cried, with the sound of the pain coming
back, ‘I ask one thing, and Thou givest another. I asked no blessing for
me. I asked for them, my Lord, my God! Give it to them--to them!’ with
disappointment rising in her heart.

The little Pilgrim laid her hand upon the woman’s arm--for she was
afraid lest our Lord might be displeased, forgetting (for she was still
imperfect) that He sees all that is in the soul, and understands and
takes no offence--and said quickly, ‘Oh, be not afraid; He will save
them too. The blessing will come for them too.’

‘At His own time,’ said the Sage, ‘and in His own way.’

These thoughts rose in the woman’s soul. She did not know that they were
said to her, nor who said them, but accepted them as if they had come
from her own thoughts. For she said to herself, ‘This is what is meant
by the answer of prayer. It is not what we ask; yet what I ask is
according to Thy will, my Lord. It is not riches, nor honours, nor
beauty, nor health, nor long life, nor anything of this world. If I have
been impatient, this is my punishment--that the Lord has thought, not of
them, but of me. But I can bear all, O my Lord! that and a thousand
times more--if Thou wilt but think of them and not of me!’

Nevertheless she returned to her home stilled and comforted; for though
her trouble returned to her and was not changed, yet for a moment it had
been lifted from her, and the peace which passeth all understanding had
entered her heart.

‘But why, then,’ said the little Pilgrim to her companion, when the
friend was gone, ‘why will not the Father give to her what she asks? for
I know what it is; it is that those whom she loves should love Him and
serve Him: and that is His will too; for He would have all love Him, He
who loves all.’

‘Little sister,’ said her companion, ‘you asked me why He did not let
the child remain upon the earth.’

‘Ah, but that is different,’ she cried; ‘oh, it is different! When you
said that the secret was between the child and the Father I knew that it
was so; for it is just that the Father should consider us first one by
one, and do for us what is best. But it is always best to serve Him: it
is best to love Him: it is best to give up all the world and cleave to
Him, and follow wherever He goes. No man can say otherwise than this,
that to follow the Lord and serve Him, that is well for all, and always
the best!’

She spoke so hotly and hastily that her companion could find no room for
reply. But he was in no haste; he waited till she had said what was in
her heart. Then he replied, ‘If it were even so; if the Father heard all
prayers, and put forth His hand and forced those who were far off to
come near----’

The little Pilgrim looked up with horror in her face, as if he had
blasphemed, and said, ‘Forced! not so--not so.’

‘Yet it must be so,’ he said, ‘if it is against their desire and will.’

‘Oh, not so--not so!’ she cried, ‘but that He should change their
hearts.’

‘Yet that too against their will,’ he said.

The little Pilgrim paused upon the way, and her heart rose against her
companion, who spoke things so hard to be received, and that seemed to
dishonour the work of the Lord. But she remembered that it could not be
so, and paused before she spoke, and looked up at him with eyes that
were full of wonder and almost of fear. ‘Then must they perish?’ she
said, ‘and must her heart break?’ and her voice sank low for pity and
sorrow. Though she was herself among the blessed, yet the thorns and
briers of the earth caught at her garments and pierced her tender feet.

‘Little sister,’ said the Sage, ‘to us who are born of the earth it is
hard to remember that the child belongs not first to the parents, nor
the husband to the wife, nor the wife to the husband, but that all are
the children of the Father. And He is just; He will not neglect the
little one because of those prayers which the father and the mother pour
forth to Him, although they cry with anguish and with tears. Nor will He
break His great law and violate the nature He has made, and compel His
own child to what it wills not and loves not. The woman is comforted in
the breaking of her heart:--but those whom she loves, are not they also
the children of the Father who loves them more than she does? And each
is to Him as if there were not another in the world. Nor is there any
other in the world: for none can come between the Father and the child.’

A smile came upon the little Pilgrim’s face, yet she trembled. ‘It is
dim before me,’ she said, ‘and I cannot see clearly. Oh, if the time
would but hasten that our Lord might come, and all struggles be ended,
and the darkness vanish away!’

‘He will come when all things are ready,’ said the Sage; and as they
went upon their way he showed her other sights, and the mysteries of the
heart of man, and the great patience of our Lord.

It happened to them suddenly to perceive in their way a man returning
home. These are words that are sweet to all who have lived upon the
earth and known its ways; but far, far were they from that meaning which
is sweet. The dark hours had passed, and men had slept, and the night
was over. The sun was rising in the sky, which was keen and clear with
the pleasure of the morning. The air was fresh with the dew, and the
birds awaking in the trees, and the breeze so sweet that it seemed to
blow from heaven; and to the two travellers it seemed almost in the joy
of the new day as if the Lord had already come. But here was one who
proved that it was not so. He had not slept all the night, nor had night
been silent to him nor dark, but full of glaring light and noise and
riot; his eyes were red with fever and weariness, and his soul was sick
within him, and the morning looked him in the face and upbraided him as
a sister might have upbraided him, who loved him; and he said in his
heart, as One had said of old, that all was vanity--that it was vain to
live, and evil to have been born--that the day of death was better than
the day of birth, and all was delusion, and love but a word, and life a
lie. His footsteps on the road seemed to sound all through the sleeping
world, and when he looked the morning in the face he was ashamed and
cursed the light. The two went after him into a silent house, where
everybody slept. The light that had burned for him all night was sick
like a guilty thing in the eye of day, and all that had been prepared
for his repose was ghastly to him in the hour of awaking as if prepared
not for sleep but for death. His heart was sick like the watch-light,
and life flickered within him with disgust and disappointment. For why
had he been born, if this were all?--for all was vanity. The night and
the day had been passed in pleasure, and it was vanity; and now his soul
loathed his pleasures, yet he knew that was vanity too, and that next
day he would resume them as before. All was vain--the morning and the
evening, and the spirit of man and the ways of human life. He looked
himself in the face and loathed this dream of existence, and knew that
it was naught. So much as it had cost to be born, to be fed, and
guarded, and taught, and cared for, and all for this! He said to himself
that it was better to die than to live, and never to have been than to
be.

As these spectators stood by with much pity and tenderness looking into
the weariness and sickness of this soul, there began to be enacted
before them a scene such as no man could have seen, which no one was
aware of save he who was concerned, and which even to him was not clear
in its meanings, but rather like a phantasmagoria, a thing of the mists;
yet which was great and solemn as is the council of a king in which
great things are debated for the welfare of the nations. The air seemed
in a moment to be full of the sound of footsteps, and of something more
subtle which the Sage and the Pilgrim knew to be wings; and as they
looked there grew before them the semblance of a court of justice, with
accusers and defenders: but the judge and the criminal were one. Then
was put forth that indictment which he had been making up in his soul
against life and against the world: and again another indictment which
was against himself. And then the advocates began their pleadings.
Voices were there great and eloquent, such as are familiar in the courts
above, which sounded forth in the spectators’ ears earnest as those who
plead for life and death. And these speakers declared that sin only is
vanity, that life is noble and love sweet, and every man made in the
image of God, to serve both God and man; and they set forth their
reasons before the judge and showed him mysteries of life and death; and
they took up the counter-indictment and proved to him how in all the
world he had sought but himself, his own pleasure and profit, his own
will, not the will of God, nor even the good desire of humble nature,
but only that which pleased his sick fancies and his self-loving heart.
And they besought him with a thousand arguments to return and choose
again the better way. ‘Arise,’ they cried, ‘thou, miserable, and become
great; arise thou vain soul and become noble; take thy birthright, O
son, and behold the face of the Father.’ And then there came a
whispering of lower voices, very penetrating and sweet like the voices
of women and children who murmured and cried, ‘O father! O brother! O
love! O my child!’ The man who was the accused, yet who was the judge,
listened and his heart burned, and a longing arose within him for the
face of the Father and the better way. But then there came a clang and
clamour of sound on the other side; and voices called out to him as
comrade, as lover, as friend, and reminded him of the delights which
once had been so sweet to him, and of the freedom he loved; and boasted
the right of man to seek what was pleasant and what was sweet, and
flouted him as a coward whose aim was to save himself, and scorned him
as a believer in old wives’ tales and superstitions that men had
outgrown. And their voices were so vehement and full of passion that by
times they mastered the others, so that it was as if a tempest raged
round the soul which sat in the midst, and who was the offender and yet
the judge of all.

The two spectators watched the conflict, as those who watch the trial
upon which hangs a man’s life. It seemed to the little Pilgrim that she
could not keep silent, and that there were things which she could tell
him which no one knew but she. She put her hand upon the arm of the Sage
and called to him, ‘Speak you, speak you! he will hear you; and I too
will speak, and he will not resist what we say.’ But even as she said
this, eager and straining against her companion’s control, the strangest
thing ensued. The man who was set there to judge himself and his life,
he who was the criminal, yet august upon his seat, to weigh all and
give the decision--he before whom all those great advocates were
pleading--a haze stole over his eyes. He was but a man and he was weary,
and subject to the sway of the little over the great, the moment over
the life, which is the condition of man. While yet the judgment was not
given or the issue decided, while still the pleadings were in his ears,
in a moment his head dropped back upon his pillow and he fell asleep. He
slept like a child, as if there was no evil, nor conflict, nor danger,
nor questions, more than how best to rest when you are weary, in all the
world. And straightway all was silent in the place. Those who had been
conducting this great cause departed to other courts and tribunals,
having done all that was permitted them to do. And the man slept, and
when it was noon woke and remembered no more.

The Sage led the little Pilgrim forth in a great confusion, so that she
could not speak for wonder. But he said, ‘This sleep also was from the
Father; for the mind of the man was weary, and not able to form a
judgment. It is adjourned until a better day.’

The little Pilgrim hung her head and cried, ‘I do not understand. Will
not the Lord interfere? Will not the Father make it clear to him? Is he
the judge between good and evil? Is it all in his own hand?’

The Sage spoke softly as if with awe. He said ‘This is the burden of our
nature, which is not like the angels. There is none in heaven or on
earth that can take from him what is his right and great honour among
the creatures of God. The Father respects that which He has made. He
will force no child of His. And there is no haste with Him. Nor has it
ever been fathomed among us how long He will wait, or if there is any
end. The air is full of the coming and going of those who plead before
the sons of men; and sometimes in great misery and trouble there will be
a cause won and a judgment recorded which makes the universe rejoice.
And in everything at the end it is proved that our Lord’s way is the
best, and that all can be accomplished in His name.’

The little Pilgrim went on her way in silence, knowing that the longing
in her heart which was to compel them to come in, like that king who
sent to gather his guests from the highways and the hedges, could not be
right since it was not the Father’s way, yet confused in her soul, and
full of an eager desire to go back and wake that man and tell him all
that had been in her heart while she watched him sitting on his
judgment-seat. But there came recollections wafted across her mind as by
breezes of the past, of scenes in her earthly life when she had spoken
without avail, when she had said all that was in her heart and failed,
and done harm when she had meant to do good. And slowly it came upon her
that her companion spoke the truth, and that no man can save his
brother, but each must sit and hear the pleadings and pronounce that
judgment which is for life or death. ‘But oh,’ she cried, ‘how long! and
how bitter it is for those who love them, and must stand by and can give
no aid!’

Then her companion unfolded to her the patience of the Lord, and how He
is not discouraged, nor ever weary, but opens His great assizes year by
year and day by day: and how the cause was argued again, as she had seen
it, before the souls of men, sometimes again and again, and over and
over, till the pleadings of the advocates carried conviction and the
judge perceived the truth and consented to it. He showed her that this
was the great thing in human life, and that though it was not enough to
make a man perfect, yet that he who sinned against his will was
different from the man who sinned with his will: and how in all things
the choice of the man for good or evil was all in all. And he led her
about the world so that she could see how everywhere the heavenly
advocates were travelling, entering into the secret places of the souls
and pleading with each man to his face. And the little Pilgrim looked on
with pitying and tender eyes, and it seemed to her that the heart of the
judge, before whom that great question was debated, leant mostly to the
right, and acknowledged that the way of the Lord was the best way: but
either that sleep overpowered him and weariness, or the other voices
deafened his ears, or something betrayed him that he forgot the reasons
of the wise and the judgment of his own soul. At first it comforted her
to see how something nobler in every man would answer to the pleadings;
and then her heart failed her to perceive that notwithstanding this the
judge would leave his seat without a decision, and all would end in
vanity. ‘And oh, friend,’ she cried, ‘what shall be done to those who
see and yet refuse?’--her heart being wrung by the disappointment and
the failure. But her companion smiled still, and he said, ‘They are the
children of the Father. Can a woman forget her child that she should
not have compassion on the son of her womb? She may forget: yet will not
He forget.’ And thus they went on and on.

But time would not suffice to tell what these two pilgrims saw as they
wandered among the ways of men. They saw poverty and misery and pain,
which came of the evil which man had done upon the earth, and were his
punishment, and could be cured by nothing but by the return of each to
his Father, and the giving up of all self-worship and self-seeking and
sin. But amid all the confusion and among those who had fallen the
lowest they found not one who was forsaken, whose name the Father had
forgotten, or who was not made to pause in his appointed moment, and to
sit upon his throne and hear the pleadings before him of the great
advocates of God, reasoning of temperance and righteousness and judgment
to come.

But once before they returned to their home, a great thing befell them:
and they beheld that court sit, and the pleadings made, for the last
time upon earth, which was a sight more solemn and terrible than
anything they had yet seen. They found themselves in a chamber where sat
a man who had lived long and known both good and evil, and fulfilled
many great offices, so that he was famed and honoured among men. He was
a man who was wise in all the learning of the earth, standing but a
little way below those who have begun the higher learning in the world
beyond, and lifting up his head as if he would reach the stars. The
travellers stood by him in his beautiful house, which was as the palace
of wisdom, and saw him in the midst of all his honours. The lamps were
lit within, and the night was sweet without, breathing of rest and happy
ease, and riches and knowledge as if they would endure for ever. And the
man looked round on all he had, and all he had achieved, and everything
which he possessed, to enjoy it. For of wisdom and of glory he had his
fill, and his soul was yet strong to take pleasure in what was his, and
he looked around him like God, and said that everything was good--so
that the little Pilgrim gazed and wondered whether this could indeed be
one of the brethren of the earth, or if he was one who had wandered
hither from another sphere.

But as the thought arose, she heard, and lo! the steps of the pleaders
and the sound of their entry. They came slowly like a solemn procession,
more grave and awful in their looks than any she had seen, for they were
great and the greatest of all, such as come forth but rarely when the
last word is to be said. The words they said were few, but they stood
round him reminding him of all that had been, and of what must be: and
of many things which were known but to God and him alone: and calling
upon him yet once more before time should come to an end and life be
lost. But the sound of their voices in his ear was but as some great
strain of music which he had heard many times and knew and heeded not.
He turned to the goods which he had laid up for many years, and all the
knowledge he had stored, and said to himself, Soul, take thine ease. And
to the heavenly advocates he smiled and replied that life was strong and
wisdom the master of all. Then there came a chill and a shiver over all,
as if the earth had been stopped in her career or the sun fallen from
the sky; and the little Pilgrim, looking on, could see the heavenly
pleaders come forth with bowed heads and the door of hope shut to, and a
whisper which crept about from sea to sea and said, ‘In vain--in vain!’
And as they went forth from the gates an icy breath swept in, and the
voice of the Death-Angel saying, ‘Thou fool, this night thy soul shall
be required of thee!’ The sound went through her heart as if it had been
pierced by a sword, and she gave a cry of anguish, for she could not
bear that a brother should be lost. But when she looked up at the face
of her companion, though it was pale with the pity and the terror of
that which had been thus accomplished, there was still upon it a smile:
and he said, ‘Not yet--not yet. The Father loves not less, but more than
ever.’--‘O friend,’ she cried, ‘will there ever come a moment when the
Father will forget? is there any place where He cannot go?’

Then he who was wise turned towards her, and a great light came upon his
face: and he said, ‘We have searched the records, and heard all
witnesses from the beginnings of time: but we have never found the
boundary of His mercy, and there is no country known to man that is
without His presence. And never has it been known that He has shut His
ear to those who called upon Him, or forgotten one who is His. The
heavenly pleaders may be silenced, but never our Lord, who pleads for
all: and heaven and earth may forget, yet will He never forget who is
the Father of all. And every child of His is to Him as if there was
none other in the world.’

Then the little Pilgrim lifted her face and beheld that radiance which
is over all, which is the love that lights the world, both angels and
the great spheres above and the little brethren who stumble and struggle
and weep; and in that light there was no darkness at all, but everything
shone as in the morning, sweet yet terrible, but ever clear and fair.
And immediately, ere she was aware, the rough roads of the earth were
left far behind, and she had returned to her place, and to her peaceful
state, and to the work which had been given her--to receive the
wanderers and to bid them a happy welcome as the doors opened and they
entered into their inheritance. And thus her soul was satisfied, though
she knew now nothing more than she had known always, that the eye of the
Father is over all, and that He can neither forget nor forsake.




III

ON THE DARK MOUNTAINS


I

When the little Pilgrim had been thus permitted to see the secret
workings of God in earthly places, and among the brethren who are still
in the land of hope--these being things which the angels desire to look
into, and which are the subject of story and of song not only in the
little world below, but in the great realms above--her heart for a long
time reposed and was satisfied, and asked no further question. For she
had seen what the dealings of the Father were in the hearts of men, and
how till the end came He did not cease to send His messengers to plead
in every heart, and to hold a court of justice that no man might be
deceived, but each know whither his steps were tending, and what was the
way of wisdom. After this it was permitted to her to read in the
archives of the heavenly country the story of one who, neglecting all
that the advocates of God could say, had found himself, when the little
life was completed, not upon the threshold of a better country, but in
the midst of the Land of Darkness--that region in which the souls of men
are left by God to their own devices, and the Father stands aloof, and
hides His face and calls them not, neither persuades them more. Over
this story the little pilgrim had shed many tears: for she knew well,
being enlightened in her great simplicity by the heavenly wisdom, that
it was pain and grief to the Father to turn away His face; and that no
one who has but the little heart of a man can imagine to himself what
that sorrow is in the being of the great God. And a great awe came over
her mind at the thought, which seemed well-nigh a blasphemy, that He
could grieve: yet in her heart, being His child, she knew that it was
true. And her own little spirit throbbed through and through with
longing and with desire to help those who were thus utterly lost. ‘And
oh!’ she said, ‘if I could but go! There is nothing which could make a
child afraid, save to see them suffer. What are darkness and terror when
the Father is with you? I am not afraid--if I might but go!’ And by
reason of her often pleading, and of the thought that was ever in her
mind, it was at last said that one of those who knew might instruct her,
and show her by what way alone the travellers who come from that
miserable land could approach and be admitted on high.

‘I know,’ she said, ‘that between us and them there is a gulf fixed, and
that they who would come from thence cannot come, neither can any
one----’

But here she stopped in great dismay, for it seemed that she had thus
answered her own longing and prayer.

The guide who had come for her smiled upon her and said, ‘But that was
before the Lord had ended His work. And now all the paths are free:
wherever there is a mountain-pass or a river-ford: the roads are all
blessed, and they are all open, and no barriers for those who will.’

‘Oh,’ she cried, ‘dear friend, is that true for all?’

He looked away from her into the depths of the lovely air, and he
replied: ‘Little sister, our faith is without bounds, but not our
knowledge. I who speak to you am no more than a man. The princes and
powers that are in high places know more than I; but if there be any
place where a heart can stir and cry out to the Father and He take no
heed--if it be only in a groan--if it be only with a sigh--I know not
that place: yet many depths I know.’ He put out his hand and took hers,
after a pause, and then he said, ‘There are some who are stumbling upon
the dark mountains. Come and see.’

As they passed along there were many who paused to look at them, for he
had the mien of a great prince, a lord among men: and his face still
bore the trace of sorrow and toil, and there was about him an awe and
wonder which was more than could be put in words; so that those who saw
him understood as he went by, not who he was, nor what he had been, but
that he had come out of great tribulation, of sorrow beyond the sorrows
of men. The sweetness of the heavenly country had soothed away his care,
and taken the cloud from his face; but he was as yet unaccustomed to
smile--though when he remembered and looked round him, and saw that all
was well, his countenance lightened like the morning sky, and his eyes
woke up in splendour like the sun rising. The little pilgrim did not
know who her brother was, but yet gave thanks to God for him she knew
not why.

How far they went cannot be estimated in words, for distance matters
little in that place; but at the end they came to a path which sloped a
little downwards to the edge of a delightful moorland country, all
brilliant with the hues of the mountain flowers. It was like a flowery
plateau high among the hills, in a region where are no frosts to check
the glow of the flowers, or scorch the grass. It spread far around in
hollows and ravines and softly swelling hills, with the rush over them
of a cheerful breeze full of mountain scents and sounds; and high above
them rose the mountain-heights of the celestial world, veiled in those
blue breadths of distance which are heaven itself when man’s fancy
ascends to them from the low world at their feet. All the little earth
can do in colour and mists, and travelling shadows fleet as the breath,
and the sweet steadfast shining of the sun, was there, but with a
tenfold splendour. They rose up into the sky, every peak and jagged rock
all touched with the light and the smile of God, and every little
blossom on the turf rejoicing in the warmth and freedom and peace. The
heart of the little pilgrim swelled, and she cried out, ‘There is
nothing so glorious as the everlasting hills. Though the valleys and the
plains are sweet, they are not like them. They say to us, lift up your
heart!’

Her guide smiled, but he did not speak. His smile was full of joy, but
grave, like that of a man whose thoughts are bent on other things: and
he pointed where the road wound downward by the feet of these triumphant
hills. She kept her eyes upon them as she moved along. Those heights
rose into the very sky, but bore upon them neither snow nor storm. Here
and there a whiteness like a film of air rounded out over a peak, and
she recognised that it was one of those angels who travel far and wide
with God’s commissions, going to the other worlds that are in the
firmament as in a sea. The softness of these films of white was like the
summer clouds that she used to watch in the blue of the summer sky in
the little world which none of its children can cease to love: and she
wondered now whether it might not sometimes have been the same dear
angels whose flight she had watched unknowing, higher than thought could
soar or knowledge penetrate. Watching those floating heavenly
messengers, and the heights of the great miraculous mountains rising up
into the sky, the little pilgrim ceased to think whither she was going,
although she knew from the feeling of the ground under her feet that she
was descending, still softly, but more quickly than at first, until she
was brought to herself by the sensation of a great wind coming in her
face, cold as from a sudden vacancy. She turned her head quickly from
gazing above to what was before her, and started with a cry of wonder.
For below lay a great gulf of darkness, out of which rose at first some
shadowy peaks and shoulders of rock, all falling away into a gloom which
eyes accustomed to the sunshine could not penetrate. Where she stood was
the edge of the light--before her feet lay a line of shadow slowly
darkening out of daylight into twilight, and beyond into that
measureless blackness of night; and the wind in her face was like that
which comes from a great depth below of either sea or land--the sweep of
the current which moves a vast atmosphere in which there is nothing to
break its force. The little pilgrim was so startled by these unexpected
sensations that she caught the arm of her guide in her sudden alarm, and
clung to him, lest she should fall into the terrible darkness and the
deep abyss below.

‘There is nothing to fear,’ he said, ‘there is a way. To us who are
above there is no danger at all--and it is the way of life to those who
are below.’

‘I see nothing,’ she cried, ‘save a few points of rock, and the
precipice--the pit which is below. Oh, tell me what is it?--is it where
the fires are and despair dwells? I did not think that was true. Let me
go and hide myself and not see it, for I never thought that was true.’

‘Look again,’ said the guide.

The little pilgrim shrank into a crevice of the rock, and uncovering her
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?’

And they stood round him wondering, and troubled to find how little they
could do for him, and that the light entered so slowly into his soul.
And he lay on the bank like one left for death, so weary and so worn
with all the horrors of the way that his heart was faint within him, and
peace itself seemed to him but an illusion. He lay silent while they
watched and waited, then turned himself upon the grass, which was as
soft to the weary wayfarer as angels’ wings; and then the sunshine
caught his eye, as if he had been a new-born babe awakened to the light.
He put out his hand to it, and touched the ground that was golden with
those heavenly rays, and gathered himself up till he felt it upon his
face, and opened wide his dazzled eyes, then shaded them with trembling
hands, and said to himself, ‘It is the sun, it is the sun.’ But still he
did not dare to believe that the danger and the toil were over, nor
could he listen, nor understand what the brethren said. While they all
stood around and watched and waited, wondering each how the new-comer
should be satisfied, there suddenly arose a sound with which they were
all acquainted--the sound of One approaching. The faces of the blessed
were all around like the stars in the sky--multitudes whom none could
count or reckon; but He who came was seen of none, save him to whom He
came. The weary man rose up with a great cry, then fell again upon his
knees, and flung his arms wide in the wonder and the joy. And ‘Lord,’ he
cried, ‘was it Thou? Lord, it was Thou! Thine was the face. And Thou
hast brought me here!’

The watchers knew not what the other voice said, for what is said to
each new-comer is the secret of the Lord. But when they looked again the
man stood upright upon his feet, and his face was full of light; and
though he trembled with weakness and with weariness, and with exceeding
joy, yet the confusion and the fear were gone from him. And he had no
longer any suspicion of them, as if they might betray him, but held out
his trembling hands and cried, ‘Friends: you are friends? and you spoke
to me and called me brother? And am I here? And am I here?’ For to name
the name of that blessed country was not needful any longer, now that he
had seen the Lord.

Then a great band and guard of honour, of angels and principalities and
powers, surrounded him, and led him away to the holy city, and to the
presence of the Father, who had permitted and had not forbidden what the
Lord had done. And all the companies of the blessed followed after with
wonder and gladness and triumph, because the great love of the Lord had
drawn out of the darkness even those who were beyond hope.


II

The little pilgrim saw them depart from her with love and joy, and sat
down upon the rocky edge and sang her own song of peace; for her fear
was gone, and she was ready to do her service there upon the verge of
the precipice as among the flowers and the sunshine, where her own place
was. ‘From the depths,’ she said, ‘they come, they come!--from the land
of darkness, where no love is. For Thy love, O Lord, is more than the
darkness and the depths. And where hope is not, there Thy pity goes.’
She sat and sang to herself like a happy child, for her heart had
fathomed the awful gloom which baffles angels and men, and she had
learned that though hope comes to an end and light fails, and the feet
of the ambassadors are stayed on the mountains, and the voice of the
pleaders is silenced, and darkness swallows up the world, yet Love never
fails. As she sang, the pity in her heart grew so strong, and her desire
to help the lost, that she rose up and stepped forth into the awful
gloom, and, had it been permitted, in her gentleness and weakness would
have gone forth to the deeps and had no fear.

The ground gave way under her feet, so dreadful was the precipice; but
though her heart beat with the horror of it, and the whirl of the
descent and the darkness which blinded her eyes, yet had she no hurt;
and when her foot touched the rock, and that sinking sense of emptiness
and vacancy ceased, she looked around and saw the path by which that
traveller had come. For when the eyes are used to the darkness, the
horror of the gloom was no longer like a solid thing, but moved into
shades of darker and less dark, so that she saw where the rocks stood,
and how they sank with edges that cut like swords, down and ever down
into the abysses,--and how here a deep ravine was rent between them, and
there were breaks and scars as though some one had caught the jagged
points with wounded hand or foot struggling up the perpendicular surface
towards the little ray of light, like a tiny star which shone as on
immeasurable heights to show where life was. As she travelled deeper and
deeper, it was a wonder to see how far that little ray penetrated down
and down, through gulfs of darkness, blue and cold like the shimmer of a
diamond; and even when it could be seen no more, sent yet a shadowy
refraction, a line of something less black than the darkness, a
lightening amid the gloom, a something indefinable which was hope. The
rocks were more cruel than imagination could conceive--sometimes pointed
and sharp like knives, sometimes smooth and upright as a wall with no
hold for the climber, sometimes moving under the touch, with stones that
rolled and crushed the bleeding feet; and though the solid masses were
distinguishable from the lighter darkness of the air, yet it could only
be in groping that the travellers by that way could find where any
foothold was. The traveller who came from above, and who had the
privilege of her happiness, sank down as if borne on wings, yet needed
all her courage not to be afraid of the awful rocks that rose all above
and around her, perpendicular in the gloom. And the great blast of an
icy wind swept upward like something flying upon great wings, so
tremendous was the force of it, whirling from the depths below, sucked
upwards by the very warmth of the life above, so that the little pilgrim
herself caught at the rocks that she might not be swept again towards
the top, or dashed against the stony pinnacles that stood up on every
side. She was glad when she found a little platform under her feet for a
moment where she could rest, and also because she had come, not from
curiosity to see that gulf, but with the hope and desire to meet some
one to whom she could be of a little comfort or help in the terrors of
the way.

While she stood for a moment to get her breath, she became sensible that
some living thing was near, and putting out her hand she felt that there
was round her something that was like a bastion upon a fortified wall,
and immediately a hand touched hers, and a soft voice said, ‘Sister,
fear not! for this is the watch-tower, and I am one of those who keep
the way.’ She had started and trembled indeed, not that she feared, but
because the delicate fabric of her being was such that every movement of
the wind, and even those that were instinctive and belonged to the
habits of another life, betrayed themselves in her. And ‘Oh,’ she said,
‘I knew not that there were any watch-towers, or any one to help, but
came because my heart called me, if perhaps I might hold out my hand in
the darkness, and be of use where there was no light.’

‘Come and stand by me,’ said the watcher; and the little pilgrim saw
that there was a whiteness near to her, out of which slowly shaped the
face of a fair and tender woman, whom she knew not, but loved. And
though they could scarcely see each other, yet they knew each other for
sisters, and kissed, and took comfort together, holding each other’s
hands in the midst of the awful gloom. And the little pilgrim questioned
in low and hushed tones--‘Is it to help that you are here?’

‘To help when that may be; but rather to watch, and to send the news
and make it known that one is coming--that the bells of joy may be
sounded, and all the blessed may rejoice.’

‘Oh,’ said the little pilgrim, ‘tell me your name, that I may do you
honour: for to gain such high promotion can be given only to the great
who are made perfect, and to those who love most.’

‘I am not great,’ said the watcher; ‘but the Lord who considers all has
placed me here, that I may be the first to see when one comes who is in
the dark places below. And also because there are some who say that love
is idolatry, and that the Father will not have us long for our own:
therefore am I permitted to wait and watch and think the time not long
for the love I bear him. For he is mine; and when he comes I will ascend
with him to the dear country of the light, and some other who loves
enough will be promoted in my place.’

‘I am not worthy,’ said the little pilgrim. ‘It is a great promotion;
but oh, that we might be permitted to help, to put out a hand, or to
clear the way!’

‘Nay, my little sister,’ said the watcher, ‘but Patience must have its
perfect work; and for those who are coming help is secret. They must not
see it nor know it; for the land of darkness is beyond hope. The Father
will not force the will of any creature He has made, for He respects us
in our nature, which is His image. And when a man will not, and will not
till the day is over, what can be done for him? He is left to his will,
and is permitted to do it, as it seems good in his eyes. A man’s will is
great, for it is the gift of God. But the Lord, who cannot rest while
one is miserable, still goes secretly to them, for His heart yearns
after them. And by times they will see His face, or some thought of old
will seize upon them. And some will say, “To perish upon the dark
mountains is better than to live here.” And I have seen,’ said the
watcher, ‘that the Lord will go with them all the way--but secretly, so
that they cannot see Him. And though it grieves His heart not to help,
yet will He not; for they have become the creatures of their own will,
and by that must they attain.’ She put out her hand to the new-comer,
and drew her to the side of the rocky wall, so that they felt the sweep
of the wind in their faces, but were not driven before it. ‘And come,’
she said, ‘for two of us together will be like a great light to those
who are in the darkness. They will see us like a lamp, and it will cheer
them though they know not why we are here. Listen!’ she cried. And the
little pilgrim, holding fast the hand of the watcher, listened and
looked down upon the awful way; and underneath the sweep of the icy wind
was a small sharp sound as of a stone rolling or a needle of rock that
broke and fell, like the sounds that are in a wood when some creature
moves, though too far off for footstep to sound. ‘Listen!’ said the
watcher, and her face so shone with joy that the little pilgrim saw it
clearly, like the shining of the morning in the midst of the darkness.
‘He comes!’

‘Oh, sister!’ she cried, ‘is it he--whom you love above all the
rest?--is it he?’

The watcher smiled, and said, ‘If it is not he, yet is it a brother; if
it is not he now, yet his time will come. And in every one who passes, I
hope to see his face; and the more that come, the more certain it is
that he will come. And the time seems not long for the love I bear him.
And it is for this that the Lord has so considered me. Listen! for some
one comes.’

And there came to these watchers the strangest sight; for there flew
past them while they gazed a man, who seemed to be carried upon the
sweep of the wind. In the midst of the darkness they could see the faint
white in his face, with eyes of flame and lips set firm--whirled forward
upon the wind, which would have dashed him against the rocks; but as he
whirled past he caught with his hand the needles of the opposite peaks,
and was swung high over a great chasm, and landed upon a higher height,
high over their heads. And for a moment they could hear, like a
pulsation through the depths, the hard panting of his breath. Then, with
scarcely a moment for rest, they heard the sound of his progress onward,
as if he did battle with the mountain, and his own swiftness carried him
like another wind. It had taken less than a moment to sweep him past,
quicker than the flight of a bird, as sudden as a lightning flash. The
little pilgrim followed him with her eager ears, wondering if he would
leap thus into the country of light and take heaven by storm; or whether
he would fall upon the heavenly hills, and lie prostrate in weariness
and exhaustion, like him to whom she had ministered. She followed him
with her ears, for the sound of his progress was with crashing of rocks
and a swift movement in the air: but she was called back by the pressure
of the hand of the watcher who did not, like the little pilgrim, follow
him who thus rushed through space as far as there was sound or sight of
him, but had turned again to the lower side, and was gazing once more,
and listening for the little noises in the gulf below. The little
pilgrim remembered her friend’s hope, and said softly, ‘It was not he?’
And the watcher clasped her hand again, and answered, ‘It was a dear
brother. I have sounded the silver bells for him: and soon we shall hear
them answering from the heights above. And another time it will be he.’
And they kissed each other because they understood each the other in her
heart.

And then they talked together of the old life when all things began, and
of the wonderful things they had learned concerning the love of the
Father and the Son, and how all the world was held by them, and
penetrated through and through by threads of love, so that it could
never fail. And the darkness seemed light round them, and they forgot
for a little that the wind was not as a summer breeze. Then once more
the hand of the watcher pressed that of her companion, and bade her hush
and listen. And they sat together holding their breath, straining their
ears. Then heard they faint sounds which were very different from those
made by him who had been driven past them like an arrow from a
bow,--first as of something falling, but very far away, and a faint
sound as of a foot which slipped. The listeners did not say a word to
each other; they sat still and listened, scarcely drawing their breath.
The darkness had no voice; it could not be but that some traveller was
there, though hidden deep, deep in the gloom, only betrayed by the
sound. There was a long pause, and the watcher held fast the little
pilgrim’s hand, and betrayed to her the longing in her heart; for though
she was already blessed beyond all blessedness known on earth, yet had
she not forgotten the love that had begun on earth, but was for
evermore. She murmured to herself, and said, ‘If it is not he, it is a
brother. And the more that come the more sure it is that he will come.
Little sister, is there one for whom you watch?’

‘There is no one,’ the pilgrim said,--‘but all.’

‘And so care I for all,’ cried the watcher; and she drew her companion
with her to the edge of the abyss, and they sat down upon it low among
the rocks to escape the rushing of the wind, and they sang together a
soft song, ‘for if he should hear us,’ she said, ‘it may give him
courage.’ And there they sat and sang; and the white of their garments
and of their heavenly faces showed like a light in the deep gloom, so
that he who was toiling upward might see that speck above him, and be
encouraged to continue upon his way.

Sometimes he fell, and they could hear the moan he made, for every sound
came upward, however small and faint it might be; and sometimes dragged
himself along, so that they heard his movement up some shelf of rock.
And as the pilgrim looked, she saw other and other dim whitenesses along
the ravines of the dark mountains, and knew that she was not the only
one, but that many had come to watch and look for the coming of those
who had been lost.

Time was as nothing to these heavenly watchers: but they knew how long
and terrible were the moments to those upon the way. Sometimes there
would be silence like the silence of long years: and fear came upon them
that the wayfarer had turned back, or that he had fallen and lay
suffering at the bottom of some gulf, or had been swept by the wind upon
some icy peak and dashed against the rocks. Then anon, while they
listened and held their breath, a little sound would strike again into
the silence, bringing back hope. And again and again all would be still.
The little pilgrim held her companion’s hand, and the thought went
through her mind that were she watching for one whom she loved above the
rest, her heart would fail. But the watcher answered her as if she had
spoken, and said, ‘Oh no, oh no; for if it is not he, it is a brother:
and the Lord give them joy!’ But they sang no more, their hearts being
faint with suspense and with eagerness to hear every sound.

Then in the great chill of the silence, suddenly, and not far off, came
the sound of one who spoke. He murmured to himself, and said, ‘Who can
continue on this terrible way? The night is black like hell, and there
comes no morning. It was better in the land of darkness, for still we
could see the face of man, though not God.’ The muffled voice shook at
that word and then was still suddenly, as though it had been a flame and
the wind had blown it out. And for a moment there was silence: until
suddenly it broke forth once more--

‘What is this that has come to me that I can say the name of God? It
tortures no longer, it is as balm. But He is far off and hears nothing.
He called us and we answered not. Now it is we who call and He will not
hear. I will lie down and die. It cannot be that a man must live and
live for ever, in pain and anguish. Here will I lie and it will end. Oh
Thou whose face I have seen in the night, make it possible for a man to
die.’

The watcher loosed herself from her companion’s clasp, and stood upright
upon the edge of the cliff, clasping her hands together and saying low,
as to herself, Father, Father! as one who cannot refrain from that
appeal, but who knows the Father loves best, and that to intercede is
vain. And longing was in her face and joy. For it was he; and she knew
that he could not now fail, but would reach to the celestial country and
to the shining of the sun: yet that it was not hers to help him, nor any
man’s, nor angel’s. But the little pilgrim was ignorant, not having
been taught. And she committed herself to those depths, though she
feared them, and though she knew not what she could do. And once more
the dense air closed over her, and the vacancy swallowed her up, and
when she reached the rocks below, there lay something at her feet which
she felt to be a man; but she could not see him nor touch him, and when
she tried to speak, her voice died away in her throat, and made no
sound. Whether it was the wind that caught it, and swept it quite away,
or that the well of that depth profound sucked every note upward, or
whether because it was not permitted that either man or angel should
come out of their sphere, or help be given which was forbidden, the
little pilgrim knew not: for never had it been said to her that she
should stand aside where need was. And surprise which was stronger than
the icy wind, and for a moment a great dismay, took hold upon her, for
she understood not how it was that the bond of silence should bind her,
and that she should be unable to put forth her hand to help him whom she
heard moaning and murmuring, but could not see. And scarcely could her
feet keep hold of the awful rock, or her form resist the upward sweep of
the wind; but though he saw her not nor she him, yet could not she leave
him in his weakness and misery, saying to herself that even if she could
do nothing, it must be well that a little love should be near.

Then she heard him speak again, crouching under the rock at her feet,
and he said faintly to himself, ‘That was no dream. In the land of
darkness there are no dreams nor voices that speak within us. On the
earth they were never silent struggling and crying; but there--all blank
and still. Therefore it was no dream. It was One who came and looked me
in the face: and love was in His eyes. I have not seen love, oh, for so
long. But it was no dream. If God is a dream I know not, but love I
know. And He said to me, “Arise and go.” But to whom must I go? The
words are words that once I knew, and the face I knew. But to whom, to
whom?’

The little pilgrim cried aloud, so that she thought the rocks must be
rent by the vehemence of her cry, calling like the other, Father,
Father, Father! as if her heart would burst; and it was like despair to
think that she made no sound, and that the brother could not hear her
who lay thus fainting at her feet. Yet she could not stop, but went on
crying like a child that has lost its way; for to whom could a child
call but to her father, and all the more when she cannot understand? And
she called out and said that God was not His name save to strangers, if
there are any strangers, but that His name was Father, and it was to Him
that all must go. And all her being thrilled like a bird with its song,
so that the very air stirred, yet no voice came. And she lifted up her
face to the watcher above, and beheld, where she stood holding up her
hands, a little whiteness in the great dark. But though these two were
calling and calling, the silence was dumb. And neither of them could
take him by the hand nor lift him up, nor show him, far, far above the
little diamond of the light, but were constrained to stand still and
watch, seeing that he was one of those who are beyond hope.

After she had waited a long time, he stirred again in the dark, and
murmured to himself once more, saying low, ‘I have slept and am strong.
And while I was sleeping He has come again: He has looked at me again.
And somewhere I will find Him. I will arise and go--I will arise and
go----’

And she heard him move at her feet, and grope over the rock with his
hands. But it was smooth as snow with no holding, and slippery as ice.
And the watcher stood above and the pilgrim below, but could not help
him. He groped and groped, and murmured to himself, ever saying, ‘I
will arise and go.’ And their hearts were wrung that they could not
speak to him, nor touch him, nor help him. But at last in the dark there
burst forth a great cry, ‘Who said it?’ and then a sound of weeping, and
amid the weeping, words. ‘As when I was a child, as when hope was---- I
will arise and I will go--to my Father, to my Father! for now I
remember, and I know.’

The little pilgrim sank down into a crevice of the rocks in the weakness
of her great joy. And something passed her, mounting up and up--and it
seemed to her that he had touched her shoulder or her hand unawares, and
that the dumb cry in her heart had reached him, and that it had been
good for him that a little love stood by, though only to watch and to
weep. And she listened and heard him go on and on; and she herself
ascended higher to the watch-tower. And the watcher was gone who had
waited there for her beloved, for she had gone with him, as the Lord
had promised her, to be the one who should lead him to the holy city and
to see the Father’s face. And it was given to the little pilgrim to
sound the silver bells and to warn all the bands of the blessed, and the
great angels and lords of the whole world, that from out the land of
darkness and from the regions beyond hope another had come.

She remained not there long, because there were many who sought that
place that they might be the first to see if one beloved was among the
travellers by that terrible way, and to welcome the brother or sister
who was the most dear to them of all the children of the Father. But it
was thus that she learned the last lesson of all that is in heaven and
that is in earth, and in the heights above and in the depths below,
which the great angels desire to look into, and all the princes and
powers. And it is this: that there is that which is beyond hope yet not
beyond love. And that hope may fail and be no longer possible, but love
cannot fail. For hope is of men, but love is the Lord. And there is but
one thing which to Him is not possible, which is to forget. And that
even when the Father has hidden His face and help is forbidden, yet
there goes He secretly and cannot forbear.

But if there were any deep more profound, and to which access was not,
either from the dark mountains or by any other way, the pilgrim was not
taught, nor ever found any knowledge, either among the angels who know
all things, or among her brothers who were the children of men.


THE END

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.






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