The Little Pilgrim: Further Experiences. - Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant
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
color and mists, and travelling shadows fleet as the breath, and the
sweet steadfast shining of the sun, was there, but with a ten-fold
splendor. 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 downwards 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
recognized 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 license, 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
endeavor 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 neighbor 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 awhile. 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 upwards 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 succor, 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 succor 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.