Part 2

Sorrow was a lovely slender child, with dark hair that framed her pale face. Her delicate lips were nearly always closed, her black eyes looked deadly weary, so that none could behold her without weeping. The poor child had no home, and wandered restlessly from place to place. Now she entered the hut of the poor, now the palace of the rich. She was so silent and sad that all received her, but, strange to tell, all who looked at her were attacked with a great woe. One lost his only child, another his honor, his property, a third was pursued by enemies without a cause. Again, another knew but grief from his children, so that he grew gray before his time. Or strife arose between married folk, or one of the family fell prone upon a sick bed and did not arise thence for years. People looked at one another astounded whence came so much affliction, and knew not that they themselves opened the doors to pale, silent Sorrow, and called her to their table. Sometimes the poor child came back by the same road and learnt what terrible gifts she had bestowed. Then she avoided for a long time visiting at the same houses; but she had grown to love some people, and longed to see them, and did not notice that she visited them too often. So grief upon grief befell them, until the sad child took up her staff and bade them farewell with heavy heart and streaming eyes. She went on her road quietly, not in haste, not hurriedly, and yet her step was faster than the mountain stream, faster than the west wind, so that at last she came to lodge with every human being. It was most terrible when she attached herself to children. Then the poor little things got long illnesses or even became orphans, and their pretty faces grew pale and delicate, like to Sorrow's face, and their eyes as sad and heavy. When Sorrow saw this she would weep bitterly, and for a long while would look at no child, ay, even turn her head aside when children were at play.

One day she lay beneath an apple-tree, and saw how the little apples had such merry red cheeks, that it made one glad to look at them.

"Oh, dear apple-tree," said Sorrow, "give me such merry red cheeks, then people will like better to look at me."

"No," said the apple-tree, "if you had merry red cheeks, people would no longer harbor you from pity."

She got up sadly and pursued her road. Then she came to a garden hard by a river, in which there was such song of birds that it made one's heart leap for joy.

"Oh, you dear little birds," cried Sorrow, "give me some of your lovely song, that I may make mankind glad."

"No, dear child," twittered the birds; "if you did not come so silently and go so quietly, men would not forget you so soon, and begin to notice that you are Sorrow, and bring them grief."

And yet further roamed poor Sorrow and came to a tall wood. Its scent was delicious, and it was so pleasant to walk on the thick moss beneath the trees. Here and there sun-gleams stole through the whispering foliage, and trembled and danced upon the moss, gilding the faded leaves. It was beautiful! The child leant wearily against a tree.

"Here I may lodge and bring no grief; here I may rest, and no one look himself ill at me."

A sunbeam came leaping through the leaves, looked into the dim, lovely eyes, sprang into them, illumined them brightly, and pierced down into Sorrow's very heart. The whole wood saw the wonderful gleaming of that tender girlish face, and rustled for pleasure and admiration. Sorrow did not know that she had grown more beautiful, but she felt the sunbeam tremble hot and joyous in her heart.

"Oh, dear wood," she cried, aloud, "give me but a single one of all your thousand sunbeams, and I shall be happy."

Of a sudden all grew deadly still in the wood; the trees looked at one another sadly, the sunbeam fled from Sorrow's eyes, touched a lustrous lizard, and then hid beneath tall ferns.

"You poor, poor child!" said an old oak; "a single sunbeam makes you too beautiful, men would call you too much and often, and then they would have to bear pains far beyond their strength. You must remain without cheer or warmth."

Slowly a hot tear fell upon the woodruff that grew at Sorrow's feet; it sent up sweet odors and whispered thanks for this dew.

But the restless maid went further, and she came to a large silent lake. Here nothing stirred, only Evening stepped across the waters, wrapped in shade, while round about him red rays darted through the lake, and here and there a star fell into it and remained unmoved on its quiet expanse. Sorrow dipped her hand into the waters and laid it on her brow. Evening came by and whispered, "Good-night; sleep dreamlessly, forget thy woe." She looked after him long, and sighed softly--

"Once I found rest in the wood; once I forgot my woe when the sunbeam was in my heart; but that is past."

Lost in dreams, the child gazed into the lake whence blew cool airs, while the nixes floated in mist across it.

Then Sorrow perceived that a red light fell into the lake, larger, fiercer than the stars, and it continued to gleam far into the night. As she lifted her eyes, she noticed that the light came from a house beside the water. It was thickly grown with ivy, and from its high-pointed window that stood open there shone this light.

"Strange," thought Sorrow, "I have never entered here, and yet there is some one watching yonder."

She made her way to the window. There sat a stately woman with snow-white locks, wrapped in a long soft gown. A delicate kerchief was bound round her forehead. She wrote sedulously, with firm characters, in a large book. Her brow was marked with a deep stern furrow, but about her delicate nostrils and lips there were signs of tender womanliness and nobility of heart. Sorrow stood sunk in contemplation. Then two wondrous gray eyes were uplifted and looked at her calmly, and a deep melodious voice said--

"Why do you not come in, child; I have waited for you long."

Sorrow entered amazed. She did not often hear this greeting. Of a sudden she found herself encircled by soft arms, and the wondrous woman took her on her lap, kissed her, and said--

"Dear Sorrow, you had to find me; I might not seek you, for I never come uncalled. I am Mother Patience, and I sit here and listen and watch. The lake bears to me the voices of all those who call me. Often and often have I stepped in your footprints, but alas! not ever."

The furrow in her brow deepened as she spoke these last words. Sorrow laid her head on this motherly breast.

"Oh, go with me, ever and ever," she craved, softly.

"No, child! when you call me then I will come, and when you are weary turn in here. I have to write the Book of Life; that gives me much to do."

Poor little Sorrow remained all night with the wise mother, and next morning she went on her journey refreshed and strengthened. The whole earth was blooming and green, for it was harvest time. Sorrow looked at the poppies and the corn flowers and thought--

"You poor things! now you are blooming so merrily and gleaming in the sunshine, and yet to-day you will all be mown down."

Then she perceived a burly maiden, who stood alone in a field, and mowed as fast as three men.

"Good morning, pale one," she called to Sorrow, in roguish tones. "Come here, and help me."

And so speaking she ran towards her, her locks flying and her blue eyes laughing like sunshine.

"But who are you?" she asked, amazed, when she saw Sorrow's dark eyes.

"I am Sorrow, and I must wander for ever. And who are you?"

"I am Work; cannot you see that? Do you not see how healthy I am, and what strong arms I have."

And with that she took up Sorrow like an infant upon her arms, and ran with her all over the field, and laughed and shouted gleefully. A faint tinge of red came over Sorrow's face as she said smiling--

"Come with me, do. I may never rest, and yet I am often so weary."

"That may not be, my little sister, for I must sleep in order to be fresh again in the day. But I am in all places, and must laugh, yet when I see your eyes my laughter is choked. But when you call me I will come, and remain behind whence you depart, to make the faces glad again."

Once more Sorrow stepped forth into the glittering morning and into the wide wide world. But Work and Patience kept faith and became her trusty companions. And many a time they met together of an evening in the house by the lake, and read out of the Book of Life or wrote in its pages.

_THE REALM OF PEACE._

The Realm of Peace.

Peace dwelt within a deep, silent mountain tarn that was unfathomable, yet reflected, notwithstanding, the sky's eternal blue. About it tall cliffs reared their heads, that shone at eve with rosy sheen, while beyond it was protected by a dense forest in which an ax had never sounded. Neither Sorrow nor Strife had ever come in here; even the wind could find no entry, for the rocks had pushed themselves forward so protectingly that Winter also had to rest content with shaking in lightly quite a few of his flakes, for there were warm springs in the tarn, so Frost had no power over it. It was ever green and flowering round about the shore, and the song of birds filled the air. When Peace lay floating on the quiet surface of the tarn all the flowering and singing streamed towards him. Then he would smile blissfully, and kiss the sunbeams that darted their warm arms towards him; ay, he would encircle them and draw them under the water and play hide-and-seek with them behind the trees and leaves. He was such a glorious youth that all things loved him; they loved his blue eyes, fathomless like the lake whence he arose, his ruddy lips, his wondrous voice, his happy laughter. No wonder that the sunbeams sought him, that the moss trembled with joy when he stepped lightly across it, that the leaf trembled that touched his brow, that the deer gazed long into the stream wherein he had seen his image, that the elves and nixes could only dream of him.

But one day a sound of weeping and sighing swept through the forest, as though the trees made plaint, and from their leaves fell drops and woke the fair sleeper whom the sunbeams had lulled to rest. Amazed, he gazed around him. A girlish figure came towards him, with pale face and long dark lashes and sad, sad eyes. She dragged her feet wearily across the moss and sank down beside him.

"Who are you?" he asked, astonished.

"I am Sorrow; Mother Patience sends me to you."

"Who is Mother Patience? and who is Sorrow? I have never heard of them."

"There is much you have not heard of, for you do not know the world."

Peace smiled. "Do you know it, then?"

Sorrow sighed and nodded her head.

"Look at me," she said, "am I beautiful?"

Peace looked at her long, until he had read the whole history of the world in the depths of her solemn eyes. Sorrow felt so blissful as she gazed at him, and every hour she spent with him the poor maiden felt warmer about her heart, and love entered into it with all its power and might. When evening came Peace had read every thing. He shuddered.

"No," he said, "you are not beautiful."

Sorrow felt her heart stand still. She said softly--

"Then you will not go with me?"

Peace trembled.

"Oh no," he said, "not with you. It is so lovely here."

"Yes, it is beautiful, but the wisest of women bids me tell you that your realm is too small; you are born to rule, and she has read in the Book of Life that a time will come when you shall reign over all things."

Peace looked thoughtfully down into the tarn.

"But if I am satisfied with my kingdom here?" he said. "I am not ambitious, I need no fame and no might, I have all I require."

"But if the whole world became like this holy spot, then it would be yet more beautiful, and you only need to show yourself as you are to carry off the victory and make it so."

"Do you think so?" said Peace, and he looked at her again with his lovely eyes, in whose depths dwelt rest and purity. Sorrow's heart stood still until Peace looked away from her into the water and continued thoughtfully. "I will go and see for myself whether the world wants me without having ever beheld my face. If she calls me I will come, for I will not fight with her. Farewell, Sorrow. I will test the world to see if I can found my kingdom in her."

Sorrow remained lost in wonder concerning him long after he had vanished from her gaze. A bird flew over her head towards the evening sky, flapping its wings as it went. Sorrow fell on her knees beside the tarn. The waters had grown dark, and through the forest went a sound as of sighs. The poor maid trembled like a leaf in the wind.

Here, in the realm of Peace, none understood the woe that shook her breast.

"You are not beautiful," were the words that sounded to her from all sides--out of the wood, the water, out of her own heart-beats. Night came by gently, and sought her darling whom she had ever kissed asleep. She only found Sorrow, and looked at her gloomily.

"What have you done to my Peace?" she asked, in threatening tones.

"I have fetched him away," moaned Sorrow, and wrung her hands.

Night frowned yet more darkly.

"In punishment," she said, "you shall ever seek him and never find him. Now go!"

Sorrow went forth like to a moaning wind that rushes through the trees. She wanted to seek for Peace in the world. For a long, long while she never visited Mother Patience, for she now only thought of one and had forgotten the good mother. Peace hovered over the world as a bird, and he beheld how Strife and his children had devastated it. He saw bloody battlefields, and at sight of the first corpse he grew so giddy that he was near to fall down with awe. When he beheld murder his heart grew sore in his breast, as though he had himself been wounded, and he flew on, away from the scene.

He flew over a great city. There he saw a light burning in an attic window. He looked in. A pale man sat there, and coughed and wrote with long white fingers.

"And I, too, shall be great, ay, surely," he murmured to himself. "I feel it in my breast like fire; there is a light in my brain that shall illumine the world."

"Poor fool," thought Peace; "Ambition is hunting you to death and you do not know it."

From out a vine-wreathed window there gazed a lovely girlish head.

Peace thought--"She is like my elves," and he flew in.

But how bitterly was he disenchanted. Flowers and dresses lay about in tardy confusion, and the fair one maintained that last evening she had exceeded in charm all others at the ball. Her sister scolded at all balls; ay, said the whole world was stupid.

"I wish I was that bird who has just come in," she added.

"He, oh, he will dirty every thing!" said the other, and chased him out again.

In a lonely house there sat an aged woman, and read out of a large Bible. Deadly pale her youngest son rushed into her room. He was the only one that remained to her this side the ocean, and he asked her for money; he must have money or he would shoot himself. The Bible fell from the old woman's hand, she could not help the reprobate any more; for though he knew it not she had already sacrificed to him all her little wealth and even the very house she dwelt in.

In a beautiful garden a nobleman tended his sickly daughter who needed air and light, a very angel of patience and beauty; meanwhile her callous mother preferred the idle pleasures of the drawing-room to the care of her sick child.

In a field Peace saw a number of lads and maidens cutting corn. They laughed and sang, and threw down their sickles and seated themselves beneath an apple-tree to enjoy their midday meal and rest. Peace flew above them and settled among the branches to listen to their prattle until the lads fell asleep, while the maidens continued to chatter softly. Then a man came across the field. He wore a broad brimmed hat, and under it loomed forth his dark, bad face. He woke the lads with kicks, he threatened the maidens with his stick, called them lazy and drove them to their work.

Again, further on he beheld a lovely girl given to wife to a rich monster, notwithstanding her pleadings and prayers. He saw sisters and brothers haggling over the coffin of a father; even among little children he witnessed strifes that showed him that they bore within them the seeds of future passions.

Peace flew towards the south, where lovely girls swung carelessly in hammocks, rocking themselves and torturing their slaves. He flew to the north, and beheld a large city full of light-minded women and unfaithful men, who rushed from one amusement to another--now on the ice, now in the ball-room, now in sledges, now on or behind the stage. He flew to the far west, and beheld a rushing and racing after gain--restless, endless. He flew to the east, and saw noble men and women working in exile like to day-laborers, heavy at heart with cold and home-sickness. He flew into the desert, and saw lonely travelers languishing for water. He flew all over and around the world, but every where he beheld the signs of pain and struggle. So he went back to his mountain tarn, and he resolved never to leave his little realm again. How amazed was he to behold on its shores a great monastery, built of huge solid stones, that made it appear as though it had stood there for ages.

"I must have been long absent," thought Peace, as he entered into the convent.

He stepped inside a wide stone cell, whose tall pointed windows looked out upon his lake and on the rosy shimmering cliffs beyond. A young monk sat by an organ, playing and singing in heart-moving tones, as if he would communicate to the walls the storm that shook his soul. An older monk had risen from a table, on which, as also on the floor, lay strewn open folios. He seated himself in the window-niche and covered his face with his hands. Of a sudden the door was opened, and there entered an emaciated monk with flaming eyes. His fierce regard rested sternly on the younger man. Then he turned his haggard form towards the man in the window-niche, and pointing to the door he said--

"For you, my son, these sounds are noxious poison, which only strict penance can remedy."

The man addressed bowed his head and went out.

"And you, my son, sin daily by your song. Your life becomes enjoyment in lieu of penitence, and you lead astray your brethren also. From to-day forward song and organ are forbidden you."

And he walked to the instrument, locked it, and, putting the key in his pocket, he went away. The younger man fell upon his knees before the organ and kissed it like a dead bride, and then went out into the church.

Peace leant against a beech-tree and wept passionately. "The whole world is a struggle, and they have taken from me my only home. Farewell, my silent lake!"

And once more he went out into the world.

He came past a churchyard and went in, going from grave to grave till he came to the chapel, where a woman knelt and sobbed.

"Not even here," said Peace, and turned to go further.

Then he saw a neglected grave, all overgrown with trailing ivy. Cross and inscription had long vanished, the mound had sunk, only the ivy wound its arms lovingly over the forgotten spot.

"Here is my kingdom," said Peace, and he sank down among the leaves.

* * * * *

But Sorrow yet roams the world in search of Peace, for she can never forget him. Yet, wherever she asked, wherever she sought, nowhere could she find him. Some had seen him go by, but none had been able to hold him. She passed through the churchyard, and stepped by the new graves, only the neglected one she did not visit.

_EARTHLY POWERS._

Earthly Powers.

"Where is Truth? I want to go to her," said Strife.

"She lives in a castle of rock crystal, high up above, on the highest mountain in the world, and looks out thence on all the lands, and knows every thing, and whosoever attains thither finds everlasting rest; but I do not know the road."

So spoke a golden eagle, flapped his wings, and disappeared into immeasurable heights.

But straight in front of Strife there stood of a sudden a little being, with turned-up nose, large, light, prominent eyes that only looked outwards, and a half-opened mouth, as though she had just spoken.

"Whence come you?" said Strife.

"I don't know."

"Whither are you going?"

"I don't know either."

"What do you want in the world?"

"I want to know, for my name is Query."

"Oh, you want to know? Then perhaps you know the road to Truth."

"Yes, I know it, and that is why I do not go on it, for I want to see that which I do not know."

"But Truth knows all."

"Oh no; how can she know? She sits up there in her castle, while I run about and ask and ask."

And she skipped about restlessly as she spoke. Seeing a flower, she stooped down and asked--

"Why do you grow here?"

"Bah," cried Strife, impatiently, and trod it down. "What do I care about that! You are to show me the road to Truth."

"That I will not," cried Query, and ran away.

With two long strides Strife caught her up, and seized her by the arm.

"I don't leave go of you till you have led me thither."

"But I don't know the whole way; I can only lead you as far as Doubt."

"Then lead me to Doubt."

"I will not," said Query, defiantly, and tugged at the arm that was captive.

Strife grew enraged. He tore up stinging nettles, and lashed her with them until she promised to do all that he desired. Then he slung his golden chain round her body, and said--

"Now lead me and I will follow."

Then she began to lead him astray, on rough paths, through shrubs and water, and over rocks, and across the desert. At last she stood still and laughed at him scornfully, pointing out with a titter the spot whence they had set forth. At this Strife grew so furious that even impertinent little Query began to tremble. And she had reason to tremble, for he chained her to the nearest tree and lashed at her with cords until she could cry no more.

"Now," he said, "explain to me how to reach as far as Doubt, for I will no longer go with you. But if you deceive me again I will strike you dead."

She pointed out the road to him, and he went away without looking back, leaving her tied to the tree. She begged and entreated and cried for help in vain. His mighty form grew smaller and smaller, the sun scorched her hotter and hotter. Poor little Query nearly perished. But the inquisitive swallows, who were her especial friends, saw her need, and brought her drops of water and crumbs of bread in their beaks. This lasted until autumn came, and they set forth on their wanderings. In her need she turned to the wind for aid. He began to blow stronger and stronger, till he had broken down the tree. Had little Query not been so lithe and supple, it would have cost her her life. At it was, she fell to the ground numb with fear and cold. But she soon roused herself, loosed herself free from the stump, and ran off as fast as her feet could bear her, to peer once more with curious eyes into the world.

Strife had reached Doubt, who lived at the foot of the mountain where stood the castle of Truth. His house was surrounded by a large bog, into which countless persons had sunk who had sought the road to Truth. Strife hewed down a whole forest and threw it into the bog, and then stepped across it to the dwelling of Doubt.

"Hold!" cried Doubt. "You don't escape from here without a struggle."

"That just suits me. I came here to wrestle with you."

So they began to tussle, and they fought together for the space of a whole year. Winter came; they strove upon the ice. Summer came; they still contended. The wood that Strife had thrown into the bog began to sink under the mighty bodies, and it sank deeper and deeper until it threatened to engulf them. Then, at last, Doubt gave way, and said--

"Well go, but it will not be for your happiness."