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?"