I WANTED to find Truth. Then Sorrow took me by the hand, and said—

"Come with me, I will lead you to Truth, but you must not faint or fear by the way."

"I! I fear nothing; and I am so strong I could carry mountains."

Sorrow looked at me pityingly, and gave no answer, but led me into a hall that was vast and high and airy, filled with wondrous strains of music, glorious pictures, and statues. I wandered among them bewildered. There was nothing to fear here.

"See," said Sorrow, "here live the Arts; you may choose one of them. But of your own accord you must select that which suits you; and it will help you on the road to Truth."

Then I laid my hand on an instrument—

"Music tempts me," I said; "I will sing and play like a god, and it cost me my life and my happiness."

With what ardor, what fire did I begin to play! I followed music like an adored mistress. I besought her to lead me to Truth. But she ever went too fast or soared above my head, while I played till my hands failed me. Song sounded weak and small in my throat, instead of sobbing and storming. Then I ran into the Wood in my distress, and it comforted me.

One day Sorrow touched my shoulder.

"You still play badly, you still sing feebly; let us go further: you are no artist."

I laid aside my instrument and wept.

"Hush!" said Sorrow; "you wanted to carry a mountain."

And she led me into a large, solemn, dimly lit room, that was full of books from floor to ceiling.

"Here is food for your spirit," said Sorrow; "seek, seek; in Science lives Truth."

I seated myself in a tall, worn armchair, and began to learn. But I could only study slowly, for ever my thoughts would wander their own ways. Now the fire burned too brightly and told me fairy tales; now the wind howled round the old house, so that I thought I must away, and the letters grew dim to my eyes. I strove to check this hapless fantasy that held me back on the road to Truth; but it was stronger than I. Sometimes it pressed a pencil into my hand, and then I wrote secretly poor little verses, which I hid from the very books, from the very air of the room. At last I threw myself back in the chair and cried—

"Wisdom, too, is not for me. She seems to me dead and dusty, and I—I desire to live."

"Do you want that?" said Sorrow. "But then you must not fear."

"I do not fear, I want to live."

Then I stood beside a sick bed, where a lovely gifted boy struggled with Death. His sufferings exceeded the measure of the endurable, yet Sorrow would not quit him. But Courage, too, remained at his side. Two years the terrible struggle lasted, and I asked—

"Where is Truth? Is this to live?"

When he died I trembled, for the first time, for fear. Then Sorrow took me from one deathbed to another. How many fair maiden flowers that had grown up beside and with me did I see fade! And I wept till my eyes were dim.

"Is this to live?" I asked again.

Then Sorrow took me with her on long journeys to the North, South, East, and West. I saw all men, all arts, all treasures, the mighty sea, and the petty towns, till I grew homesick for the old house in which I had seen so many die, in which my father had now closed his eyes. For when I came back I found his armchair empty. Then I was ready to die of grief.

"What," said Sorrow, "die already? And you could carry a mountain? Why, you have not lived yet, for you have not loved."

While she said this she laid her hand on my heart, and like a mighty stream love entered in with song and rejoicing. Only the Wood saw it, and it rejoiced with me, and yet more secretly I wrote now and again a little poem.

But Truth was not in love, neither was it in renunciation, for I murmured and knew not why I should renounce. Sorrow's hand lay heavy on my arm, and for a long time my steps were weak and slow. I no longer sought after Truth. But at last I seemed to see that she must lie in Work, in great, rich Work. When Sorrow heard me say this, she raised my drooping head and pointed before me.

"Here stands a good man, and waits for you. Will you love him your life long? Here is your path, it is rough and stony, and leads past precipices to steep heights. Will you walk on it? And there lies work for you, mountains high. Will you carry it?"

"I will," I said.

Then Sorrow led me into marriage, and made me a mother, and laid great rich labors upon my shoulders. I groped about to find the right path, and we had to meet with mistrust and misunderstanding, and on the steep path stood hate and strife. But I did not fear, for I was a mother. But not many years was this high dignity mine, my child's fair eyes closed, and I laid his curly head in the grave. Yet I stood erect, notwithstanding the fire in my breast, and I asked of Sorrow—

"Where is Truth? Now that all earthly joy, all earthly hopes have been borne to the grave, there remains for me nothing but Truth; I have a right to find her."

Then Sorrow pressed into my hand a pencil, and said—"Seek."

And I wrote and wrote, and knew not that I exercised an art, for years since, I had with heavy heart renounced being an artist. I sought to do good where I could. I learnt to understand men and to think myself into their innermost being; but I did not find Truth. My steps once more grew heavy and weary, until at last, conquered by sickness, I had to lie down. And during this long illness I tasted all life's bitterness, all chagrin and despair that can reside in one poor human breast, and I desired to die. But Sorrow taught me to be well again, and ever faster flew my pencil, ever richer streamed my thoughts, ever wider grew my field of labor, ever sterner the care for others' weal.

Then the ground beneath our feet trembled and War drew nigh with his companions. His breath was thunder, his eye fire, his hand the lightning. The cloak that infolded him wrapped the whole heavens in black night. We staked life and wealth and honor, and our heart's blood fell to earth in the terrible struggle, from which our trusty ones, who stood by us as firmly as we stood by them, issued victorious. It was my part to heal the wounds and soften the sufferings. But neither was Truth here. True, we came forth from the strife fearless and purified, but already envy and jealousy lurked on our path, and made it slippery and unsafe.

"Oh, Truth, Truth," I cried, "my youth is past; I have fought the hardest fights and I still live, but I have not yet seen Truth."

"There she stands," said Sorrow, and when I raised my eyes I saw in the distance, besides a silent water, a little child whose eyes gleamed.

"Is that child Truth?" I asked.

Sorrow nodded.

"She is not to be feared, is she?"

But while Sorrow spoke thus, the child grew taller and taller, until she held the whole earth in her hand, and embraced the whole heavens.

"Do you see Truth," said Sorrow. "And now look within yourself; she is there too."

And as I gazed within, I cried—

"Wherefore have I suffered and fought? she was ever there, about me, and in me, and now I will die."

"Not yet," said Sorrow.

Then it grew misty before my eyes, and I saw nothing more. But Sorrow took me by the hand, and led me further.