THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE

Here is a tale by Andersen that I like and that has sadly been overlooked for decades: one of my favourites, the highly symbolic story of the Philosopher's Stone.

THE PHILOSOPHER'S STONE

All right, let us begin, starting as we must at the start, and, when this tale has come to an end, we shall know much more than what we know already!
For years, lustrums, decades, centuries, millennia, there had been abroad over the Earth, through every land and every nation, a whisper that a Deliverer was about to arise: a Deliverer who had been promised from the earliest ages of the wide world. Someone who would bring back lost justice, goodness, and happiness to the suffering race, which are called Homo sapiens, humans, or people, and begin a reign of everlasting peace.
And the hearts of all whom the whisper reached, caught fire at the thought; for who so dull as not to know their own wretchedness, or not see that things around them might be better than they were? Ah! everyone knew it but too well. Death, sickness, the necessity of labour, labour bestowed in vain, wronged affections, the triumph of might over right, wars and tumults, household divisions, and the thousand other miseries of life, had from year to year in every age unfolded to each person in succession, as they awoke to reason, the strange, sad fact, that some prevailing disorder existed in the world in their own particular day; while at the same time a strong instinct in each soul, told them, that it had not always been so,–would not be so for evermore.
So the whisper of a Deliverer stole into all hearts with a promise of better things in store; but, obscure and indefinite, it was interpreted by many minds in as many different ways, according to the bent of different wishes and feelings. Only in one thing all agreed, namely, that at the advent of this Mighty One, sorrow and evil should flee away, and joy and peace be spread over the earth as the waters cover the shore in the evening when the full moon is the greatest.
A Deliverer!–what should He or She deliver them from, if not from the death so abhorrent to every instinct of their being; from the grinding sicknesses which made life a burden even to the young in those darkest days; from the toil that kept the strong back from ease and enjoyment; from the disappointments which racked the tenderest and best emotions of their hearts; from the chains of unjust oppression; from the strife of parties and of tongues; from the weakness of their own souls, which left them a prey to evil imaginations from within and a thousand temptations from without?
Truly such life was but a weariness, an ennui, at the best: and "Oh for a Deliverer!" was the cry that went up from each person's heart as their own particular burden bore them down. Oh that the everlasting doors were lifted up, that the King of Glory might come in, and touch the earth with some magic sceptre, restoring all things to order and joy!
But the name of the Mighty One was to be called "The Prince of Peace." And the government was to be upon His or Her shoulders, although He or She was to be born a child. Where, then, but in palaces could He or She be expected, or looked for; where but in palaces brought forth and nurtured? Surely, kings must be His or Her nursing fathers and their queens his nursing mothers. Oh happy parents of a happy child!–who great enough, who high enough to be so favoured? Yet the child of these great ones was to be greater and mightier than all, to rule and triumph over all!– Well might the longing eyes of hope be fixed on palaces and courts and regal halls! Well might the murmured question arise, "Can this be He or She?" when the cry of a new-born prince or princess was heard within their walls! What wonder if Sybil and Poet sang, by anticipation of His or Her fame!
But ever as the children of these great ones grew up to adulthood, they merged by the common lot of suffering and sin into common men and women, and hope was darkened: yet though darkened not extinguished–and the Deliverer was still looked for as before.
But year after year the wise sage died as the fool, and his children followed him, and neither among them had the Deliverer arisen, but must be looked for as before.
Again: "Prince of Peace!" mused others. In this, all is comprehended. The conquering spoken of is but the overcoming of all wish for strife; the rule in store, the sovereignty of love, suppressing all desires but that for universal joy.
Ah! surely, when the Deliverer came it would be to make all people happy alike, and pour a healing balsam into every wound! Then would all the old griefs be buried and forgotten, and the soothed minds of the contented would trouble themselves no more with struggle and labour.
Oh for the dawning of that morn when each one should be king or queen and realm to themselves, and the world resound once more to the songs of rejoicing which gladdened the golden age! Had not the Sybils so spoken, and had not the Poet so sung? Then should every person sit under their own grapevine and their own fig-tree, and poor and rich alike cease from the land, for all should be equal and all happy.
But whence should such a Deliverer be looked for–where be expected to arise?–Ah! surely only in some happy spot of Nature, some valley peaceful and beautiful as that of Cashmere, among a race of pastoral simplicity in some perfect household, where disturbance was never known, and one mind prevailed. Thence alone could come He or She who would cause the cruel swords of war to be turned into ploughshares, and spears into reaping-hooks, and animate and inanimate Nature to join in one general song of joy.
So these looked to the lovely valleys and the quiet nooks of Nature for the magic spot where discord had never entered. But they, too, looked and waited in vain–yet looked and waited on as before, and called upon Nature herself to confirm their hopes; yea, when the lovers of pleasure hoped for a Deliverer in scenes of earthly enjoyment... lo and behold, by craven clergy and power-thirsty weaklings, base things of the world, and things which are despised, were chosen, that no flesh should glory in the presence of the Powers that Be.
For that valley peaceful and beautiful where disturbance was never known, which resounds still to the songs of rejoicing which gladdened the golden age; that realm of the overcoming of all wish for strife, the sovereignty of love, and the desire for universal joy; those scenes of earthly enjoyment hoped for in vain by the lovers of pleasure, the magic spot where discord had never entered... still remain concealed so well that no common person in the wide outside world, whether lover of pleasure (like Yours Truly) or Puritan is highly-minded enough to have it within their reach.
In the Far East, where the sun has its cradle, there is a rainforest whose beauty, flora, and fauna equal those of no other place on Earth, and the heart of that forest is a palace of vegetable crystal, with huge lilies for towers, not unlike Rivendell or Lothlórien. The whole realm, a pocket dimension, is known as the Land of Childhood, and secluded from the outside world. (I have the suspicion that this realm, which reminds me of Lothlórien, is none other than the fabled Shamballa, or Shangri-La).
This keep is powered by the light of the sun by day, and by that of the other stars by night. There is no need for newspapers, for the mirrors that line the walls of the great hall display the events happening at the same time in the outside world, whether battles or peace conferences, a play being staged or poetry being written, affairs of state or everyday concerns. (Yes, we have Andersen, decades before Verne, foretelling both solar/stellar power and TV/the screen revolution!)
The library of this palace is the most assorted one on Earth, and here lives the wisest of all sages, who knows everything a mortal person can attain knowledge about, with his five foster children, four boys and a visually impaired girl, children as clever and learned as the sharpest adults are in the outside world.
Their names are so long and so hard to pronounce that I have omitted them in this story for your convenience, dear readers.
In a secret wing of the library stands the most precious book of them all, the Book of Truth, which only the Wisest Sage can read in its entirety (anyone else can read but a few snippets of the text before the letters scramble before their eyes, as if that person had dyslexia). Yet there is one single chapter that remains entirely blank: the chapter on the afterlife. He often meditates about the concept. Seasons change and days become nights, which in turn become days, which become nights... but what happens to human consciousness at the end of its day?
He has seen far into space, and beheld that ours is a paltry blue planet orbiting around a middling yellow star in the outer reaches of an ordinary spiral galaxy. He can speak and understand every language, human and animal, extant and extinct. He knows which plants and minerals can heal in which fashion... and also which ones can hurt in which fashion too. But the afterlife remains a mystery. Having read all the sacred texts and all the works of philosophers, he is not sure of which one of them all is right: what goes on when the time to die comes? Is there heaven and hell? Purgatory? Reincarnation? Or simply nothing? Thus, he wants to read it in the Book of Truth, and there is not a single word there about the afterlife. No matter how much sunlight and nightstar light and bioluminescent light and radioactive light is concentrated and shed upon those pages, there is not the slightest clue on the blank canvas to be seen except the title of the chapter, which of course is simply "The Afterlife, or Life After Death."
We should get back to the five children he has reared as his own: four clever, strong boys... and a maiden who cannot see properly, but whose heart is full of kindness and intelligence. Neither of them has ever left the lily-palace, and they have been taught by their foster father philosophy and such things in the form of tales (don't forget that they are as clever and learned as the sharpest adults are in the outside world). The siblings have often looked into the screens of the Great Hall and seen the outside world in all its glory and diversity, wishing to partake in its history, but their foster father has told them that life out there is harsh and difficult, not the way it appears from watching the moving pictures on the magic mirrors.
One day, he tells them that the world is held together by beauty, truth, and goodness, craftily hidden in low amounts and scattered around it. Gather all these three ingredients, unite them, and you get a gemstone purer and clearer than spring water, brighter than any star in the universe: this is the fabled Philosopher's Stone of alchemy. And the Wisest of Sages is sure that this stone, as long as there are humans, will someday be found. By knowing that there are people and there is human nature, it is certain that this Stone exists as well. An ordinary child will rarely understand these words, but these five are as clever as the learned adults of the outside world. All day long and all night long, the thoughts of the children revolve around nothing else than the precious Stone.
That night, all four young brothers have the same dream. A dream of venturing forth into the wide world, finding the Stone, and bringing it home to light up the Book of Truth. The sister stays awake all night, thinking about the dangers of the quest and full of concern, and thus, she doesn't have the same dream.
And so, after this prelude, the story proper begins...

The next day at dawn, the eldest brother gathered his family and told them that he would go forth into the wide world and search for the Philosopher's Stone:
"I will make my way through the realms on Earth, and live among humans! I will teach them how to find truth and goodness, and thus beauty will appear by itself! Yes, I'm going to change the way things are!"
He spoke as the youth he was, as hopefully as any young person, heedless of the obstacles that would lie in his way, the storms and the thorns, and the unexpected.
His relatives kissed him goodbye and his pet deer looked worried for once.
The eldest brother had the gift of foresight, and he could see deep into the hearts and minds, through cheeks that grew pale or ruddy, and through the look and the shimmer in people's eyes, as if the chests of those people were transparent panes of glass.
In the wide world, far from the Land of Childhood, there was quite much to see, but the young lad realized that there is far more to real life than to pictures on a screen. He saw that what the others called "beauty" was always kitsch, fake, shallow. And that being mediocre and attaining five minutes of fame was all that was needed to be "good". People paid attention to one's reputation, but not to one's real character. They looked at appearances, and not beyond them. It couldn't have been in any other way.
And thus, he thought: "It's about time for me to change all this!" And he set off in pursuit of the Truth, which he would soon find as well, or so he thought.
But there was the Evil One, who is the father of all lies and wickedness there is, and saw this clever youth as a threat to his reign. And he employed a ruse in his usual fashion: shattering a magic mirror, which only showed the dark side of reality, he cast two tiny shards of the enchanted glass into the eyes of the brave young reformer. And from on then, he could only see in black and white, without the shades of gray. There he stood, blinded by prejudice, in the middle of the wide world. Thus, he lost all confidence in himself and cast aside all of his good thoughts about the world, yielding to despair. And, when someone forsakes both the world and oneself, then that person is gone.
And then there were four...
The young man's siblings and guardian watched his demise in one of the screens. Then, the second brother spoke: "He may have been wrong, but I will fare better and bring my brother back home!"
He was a telepath, who could hear the heartbeat of every person, their wishes and fears... that was a great talent, the lad thought, but the wide world would prove otherwise.
Of course, the whole outside world was to him a room full of clocks, some hearts beating steadily and others throbbing as quickly as they could. But he kept calm in the heat of all that chaos that would, if he didn't give in, turn his useful blessing into a fatal curse.
He steeled himself, he made an effort to stay uninfluenced by all the chaos and turmoil around him. But, in the end, it was too much for a single person: there were naughty boys and girls way into their fifties (age does not matter), loud liars holding the highest ranks, jesters' jingle bells played the pealing from church towers. In the end, it all was too crazy, too nonsensical. The youth plugged both his ears with his index fingers, but still he could hear nothing more than nonsense, non sequitur, irony, paradox, blasphemy, insults, lies, and chaos. There was sound and there was fury, there was hustle and bustle, within him and without him... So the young man could hold no longer, it all was too screwed up, he thrust his index fingers deeper into his ears, deeper, deeper... until he burst both his eardrums.
And then, he could hear no longer any sounds or thoughts, not even the pulse of his own reckless heart. Not even did he perceive a fragment of beauty, truth, or goodness: his hopes to find them, and the Stone with them, had he shattered all by himself. Now there was no use in trying to find the Stone, and thus, he gave up entirely. He became restless and reserved, suspicious of everyone and not willing at all to trust anyone. In the end, he ceased to believe in himself, despairing entirely, and that was the worst that could ever happen.
And then there were three...
"Now it's my turn!", the third brother said. He was cheerful and sensitive, and also a poet, a true poet, who could sing or write all that he couldn't say. He always picked up knowledge faster than his siblings, and his mind was always quick and creative.
"Every person has a different view of the realm of beauty", he said. Thus, he spoke about what the wide world was like before stepping into it. It was as if he had lived in the wide world before, and known its diverse people, but he had that cleverness within his wit, it was his privilege and his talent, the gift of self-expression.
After having taken a fond farewell in lovely verse to his foster father, his younger sister, and the only brother he had left, he took his leave of the homeland, he flew over the vast oceans and endless woods into strange lands, and wherever he appeared, flowers, bushes, and even trees were in bloom regardless of the season, knowing that they had before them a friend and protector who could perceive and appreciate them. In the cold midwinter, dried-up rose bushes shot up green leaves and firmly shut buds, and finally, a burst of splendid crimson velvet roses. But snails were also awakened from their hibernation, and they left their shimmering trail on the petals and leaves of the rose bushes.
The young poet thus thought: "So this is how most of the world views true beauty!"
And thus, he composed a charming poem, which he read out loud in several public places, without any people paying any attention to him. So he gathered young clowns, harlequins, and colourful minstrels, whom he gave a generous pay, and these rainbow messengers sang about the streets, the halls, the inns, every public place in the wide world, the poem "Of Roses and Snails", to a baroque tune which the poet himself had composed. Crowds gathered around the flashy shows, and they found the verses sublime. Everyone understood them and talked about their depth of meaning.
Now our young poet composed more songs, both the lyrics and the melodies, in praise of beauty, truth, and goodness. And on the open fields, in stately palace halls, on the seashores and on high peaks, on sailing ships and in shady inns, in clover meadows and pine woods, people sharpened their ears to listen to his verses. This youth had got more luck than his two older brothers, and everyone was sure that he would succeed...
But the Evil One could not stand such a person, and thus he gathered several powders, many varied drugs and incenses, and mixed them all together with care... thus obtaining a substance that could even make angels feel light-headed, so why not a poor composer? And thus, the Evil One (who surely knows how to get every person) set this powder on fire before the poet, to surround him with a charming cloud of these perfumes, which would go to his head. Thus, the young poet breathed in the air laced with this cloud, he felt his own heart fill with elation, and he forgot his siblings, his homeland, and his quest, and everything else... intoxicated, he was only full of admiration towards himself. And, when the vapours faded away, he was gone as well, having vanished into thin air.
And then there were two...
At home, in the land of the sun, no news from the poet had come ever since his disappearance. The last sight the mirror screens displayed was of him disappearing into that thick mist. The land was in mourning for three days, which seemed endless and bereft of glee.
"Now I'm the only one left, and the one destined to find the Stone, and to bring my wayward brothers home! I've always had the conviction that I could be the lucky youngest son...", the fourth brother said. He was the cheerful one, always a little of a clown, always keeping the family in high spirits (which were surely needed, after those three disappearances), and no day was to him what we call a bad day.
He had once seen, on the screens in the throne room, how some Frenchmen took to the sky in a strange spherical contraption, that could fly successfully. And he thought that maybe he could use this device instead of what we call enchantment to venture out into the wide world.
"I'm leaving right now, Father, Sister. But I'd like to travel in a different style. Something like... a Montgolfière?"
Imagine the faces of the sage and the maiden!
"All right, then I'm leaving in one which you will make by hand for me, not to raise any suspicions. Humans must have grown accustomed to their flight."
The lad had his way, his guardian and the girl were soon finished with the hot-air balloon, and soon he was soaring up in the bright day sky, looking at the lily palace from above, as his loved ones waved him goodbye. And a flock of Arctic turns, which migrate all the way from the North Pole to the South one, were soon clustered around him, thinking this must have been a new species of the athmosphere, or a rare unidentified phenomenon. The currents of the athmosphere also carried the contraption around like a leaf in the wind (never better said), until, in the end, it was pricked and stranded on a cathedral spire, that overlooked a vast public square below (was it in Cologne, Prague, or maybe Vienna?). The tower was too high for any firetruck ladder to reach it, and the very spire was so steep and so high that the bell ringers could not reach it either. A gentle breeze rocked the basket to and fro, like a swing. The young man felt it stroke his cheeks, and he was greatly pleased. He looked down into the crowd below and fixed his eyes on every passer-by. This one was proud of her purse, that one of the medal on his chest. And those ones over there were so proud of their slightly torn holiday best, and of their bodies misshapen by corsets!
"Vanity of vanities!", he said. "Everyone has such a bad taste! It's time for me to reform humankind from within... but this will be a hard and long task, so tiresome... Let me, before I start, have a little rest in this cozy basket, with this playful breeze that tickles me so pleasantly! All I want is a little peace! All right, laziness is a deadly sin, I know. But my family are not sinners at all! So I'll be sitting here and swinging to and fro... for I like it!"
And there he remained, swinging to and fro from the church spire.
But in the Land of Childhood, where the sun has its cradle, there was now emptiness and silence, for all the brothers had disappeared, one after the other. Loneliness and sorrow now filled the halls of the crystal palace.
"They will never bring the light of the Philosopher's Stone", said their foster father, the Wisest of Sages. "It does no longer exist for me... they are gone... lost... forever!" He pored over the Book of Truth, over the chapter on the afterlife, but he could not distinguish a single clue.
And then there was one...
The blind maiden had become her guardian's only solace, and his only joy. So powerful was the love that bound them together: she was always wishing for the precious gem to be brought right where it belonged. She was ready to give her life in exchange for the Stone and for her beloved brothers. She longed for her brothers time after time... where were they, and what had become of them? That did she think without ceasing. She wished in her heart of hearts to encounter them in a dream, but alas! They did not appear even in her dreams.
Until the night when she lay in bed and dreamt that she heard their voices calling to her, desperately, from the wide world, far far away, and still she seemed to have remained within the crystal keep, not having left it. And then she dreamt that she went forth into the world herself, not coming across her brothers at all, but she felt suddenly, in her clenched left hand, like a warm and soft ember that did not sear her flesh, but instead throb like a living heart, she held it in her hand and brought it in haste to her foster father. When she woke up, she thought that she was still holding the Philosopher's Stone.
She was holding her spindle, instead.
For all those days, ever since her eldest brother went forth, the maiden had been spinning her dreams, entwined with her tears. And thus, she had obtained a long and winding thread, thinner than spider silk, nearly invisible to human eyes, yet as strong as an anchor chain.
She rose up and dressed herself, determined as she was to make her dreams come true. It was midnight, the Wisest of Sages was still fast asleep as he received a dozen warm kisses, a few honest tears, and a little letter in which his ward had written heartfelt words of solace. Soon, she was at the palace gates, picking up a four-leaf clover that had sprung up at the threshold and tying one end of her spool of thread around one of the branches/arches that hung above the gate, in order to find her way home: for she had heard of a Cretan princess who once had used such a spool of thread to show the way out of an endless labyrinth.
She took the four-leaf clover with her, having decided to entrust the four leaves to the winds to bring them to her brothers, as a message and as a greeting: if she didn't find them out there in the wide world, the leaves would awaken the young men's memories and help them find their home and loved ones.
Once she had left the utmost reach of the land, the maiden felt her heart waver, but only for an instant. How would a poor blind girl fare on her own in a hostile world? Soon she regained her usual confidence, for she had her invisible thread to guide herself: she relied on that thread, as well as on herself and others. And she had inside her the greatest of gifts: that of affection, and it was like if she had eyes deep within her heart of hearts. The most piercing eyes couldn't have guided her better.
Then, at the edge of the realm, a splendid rainbow suddenly appeared at a waterfall. Still holding on to her spindle, she climbed onto the rainbow and found out that she could walk on it across the Earth, like a seven-coloured bridge. And so she did, without even doubting.
There we have her in our world, on Earth, amidst all the hustle and bustle and wonder and chaos, always holding on to her guiding thread through storms, fire, and ice... and, whenever she comes, the sky, no matter whether it's day or night, becomes clear and cloudless, she can feel the warm radiation of the sun and all the other stars, rainbows become bridges between dark clouds on no longer stormy days. She can hear the twitter of songbirds, the song of frogs and that of crickets, she can sense the scent of gardens and of orchards, so strongly that she feels like she's tasting their fruit. Lovely songs and warming melodies reach her, but also screams and howling... Rarely, she hears thoughts and dreams of various kinds clashing with each other within the same heart.
In the depths of hearts, she can probe the feelings and thoughts of humankind, sounding in chorus:
"Our life is nothing but a stormy night of tears and gloom!"
but also the following song:
"Our life is nothing else but sunshine, full of glee, in bloom!"
And, if the following chant resounds:
"Everyone thinks only of themselves, that's obvious and that's true!"
so does the response:
"A stream of love pervades this life, there's me but also you!"
And our heroine can hear these words as well:
"Everything's petty and has a dark side, that's all that is there!"
but also:
"So many great things happen here, yet no one seems to care!"
And, all around her, they sing in a roaring chorus:
"Leave everything, mock everything, while deep inside you bleed!"
but a stronger voice resounds within the heart of the maiden:
"Hold yourself true to whom you are, never despair, indeed!"
Thus, the maiden finds every tiny fragment of goodness, of truth, and of beauty easily with her hope, kindness, and purity.
And wherever she goes among the humans, men and women, adults and children, all of them feel their hearts lit up with the knowledge of goodness, truth, and beauty. Wherever she appears, in the ateliers of artists, in the grand halls of the powerful, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of factories, in royal palaces and lowly cottages, everyone feels the entrance into their hearts of a warm and heartfelt ray of sunlight, the chords of unearthly strings, the scent of their favourite flowers, and a refreshing drop of water fallen on thirsty ground.
But the Evil One is obviously at his wits' end, and he has acquired the cleverness of more than ten thousand learned men, combined with his own wickedness. And this is what he does to hold on to his empire:
he goes to a marsh, where he takes up a nice portion of mud, which he mixes with poisonous make-up and tears of envy, and then he makes a beautiful female figure, the spitting image of the blind maiden, and then he brings the replicate to life by reciting for her lucrative offensive verses and speeches full of the great lies told by statesmen, as many as he can find.
The evil replicate is the spitting image of the pure and charming maiden, the so-called "Pure Angel of Affection", who carries away every heart in her wake and gives them all notice of goodness, beauty, and truth: every gesture of both girls is the same.
So humankind is soon confused and shocked, for no one can tell the pure angel from the pretending temptress. The world can't tell the true one from the false one, and why should anyone know the difference? And thus, the Evil One has won this game... or hasn't he?
For the Tainted Temptress of Contempt sings, not fully sure of what she's saying:
"Leave everything, mock everything, while deep inside you bleed!"
while the Pure Angel of Affection sings, full of confidence and conviction:
"Hold yourself true to whom you are, never despair, indeed!"
The Doppelgängerin, seeing her power dwindle and, of course, desperate to make her opponent waver, made one last attempt, as an ultima ratio, to try and win the Pure Angel over to the dark side:
"Yet once more hear me, and be just," the sinister maiden persisted. "Not the breath of the dying only overwhelms me with this wild desire to be at rest. The breath of the living who suffer on is even worse. The sigh of natural grief, which none can blame; the moanings of the afflicted in mind, body, or estate; the outcries of the oppressed and desperate; the shrieks of madness and of pain, the groanings of despair; all, all are outpoured on me! Those dreadful voices haunt me from all sides. This mass of human woe corrodes my soul. I meet it in the cottage, and pass through to find it in the palace; I rush from the battlefield to the cloister, but in vain! for no seclusion can shut out man or woman from sorrow. Wherever the chosen creature is found, there must I gather up the voices of grief; for lo! as the sparks fly upwards, so one is born to trouble. Oh that I might pass away for ever, and cease to know the wretchedness I have no power to avert!"
For an instant as rapid as a blinking of an eye, the angelic girl seemed to flinch, to waver, ere she regained her usual poise and resolve. The Doppelgängerin remained tense, on tenterhooks, to see if her rant had really worked its dark magic.
"Yet wait, wait, wait," implored the Pure Angel in a whisper. "What, if in human sorrow may be found an answer to the riddle of human guilt? What, if amidst its saddest cries, thou carriest up the voice of heartfelt penitence on high? Wilt thou not weigh against the transient earthly grief the joy in heaven for one repenting sinner? Or, if amidst the mortal agony of the righteous, the triumph-songs of faith grow loud? wouldst thou not fear to take away the one, lest the other perchance should fail from off the Earth? Watch well the balance between suffering and its fruits; but while these rise acceptable on thee, well mayst thou rest contented in thy work, and rejoice both to labour and to be."
"Tsk-tsk-tsk-tsk..." the temptress sneered. "Yet each and every person must purchase happiness with pain."
"Unjust! unjust!" expostulated the radiant damsel. "Thou keepest record of mortals' sighs, hast thou no consciousness of the unceasing breathings of simple, natural joys? Yet, number the one by thousands, and by tens of thousands of the other will I answer and refute thy words. The peaceful respirations of health, unnoticed and, alas! how often unthankfully enjoyed through years, count them if thou canst! Count them as they float to thee, while the night hours pass over the sleeper's head: count them when he or she wakes with the young daylight to a fresh existence. Count the laughs of frolic childhood. Count the murmurs of happy love. Count the stars if thou wilt, but thou canst never count the daily outpourings of common earthly joys. Alas for those who judge of life only by startling periods, and are deaf to the still small voices, which tell of hourly mercies, hour by hour!"
"Yet once more listen," her opponent ranted. "for more and worse remains behind. The utterances of vice–oh innocent Earth, in whom the glory of Nature is yet left visible to all!–I sicken at the thought of what I know; of what I bear unwillingly about. The loathsome words of sin–the lies of the deceivers–the prating of the fools–the seductions of the dissolute–the shouts of drunken revelry–the songs of the indecent– long story short, the gifts of speech and thought misused to evil:–those voices horrible to everyone..."
"Be they as dust before thee, and thou scattering them!" shouted the Pure Angel in indignation. "Yet wait, wait, wait! For thyself, be thou still contented to labour and to be. Watch the balance as before, and weigh the evil and the good. And so long as the prayers which the faithful pour outvalue the words of the scorners; so long as the blessings of the righteous float above the curses of the blasphemers; so long as the voice of penitence follows close upon the utterances of sin; so long as earnest regret makes harmony of the cries of grief; so long as there is daily thanksgiving for unnumbered daily mercies: so long be thou contented to have patience and tolerance, and labour and be."
By now, the Doppelgängerin felt that her counterpart was rubbing salt on her wounds, and replying to her in words anything but soothing to an evil temptress. Now all her hopes hung from a thin, narrow thread that could snap at any given instant:
"But should the day ever come," she shouted in return, risking it all at one turn of pitch-and-toss, "when the balance is reversed; when vice, only tolerated now, becomes triumphant; when sin reigns on the altars, and no one pulls it down; when the voice of the good ones' worship is drowned in the bad ones' scorn, and I cannot lift it to the skies; when the wretched curse their gods or destiny and die, and all people have forgotten to be thankful;–then, then at last wilt thou acknowledge the justice of my complaints, and help me to pass away in peace? Promise this, and till then I will watch the struggle, and be contented to labour and to be."
And the Pure Angel of Affection paused and consented, as her opponent flew satisfied away.
And the Doppelgängerin is still careening round the wide world; still gathering the dark voices of the Earth; still watching the struggle between good and evil. In our public walks she meets us face to face. In our private chambers she is with us still. There is no secret corner where she cannot come; no whisper which is not breathed into her ears. It behoves us well, then, to be careful, lest, by thoughtlessness or sin, we add weight to the wrong side of the scales. For if the balance should ever incline to evil, and the winds cease to blow,–what would become of the world?
So no one lost and no one won that battle, and both of the maidens did as well. 
And thus, let us now return to the Pure Angel of Affection, and, after we know how she vanquished and was vanquished without the slightest violence in deed or word, let us finally get to know how she carries on on her quest.
Having not found her brothers, she kisses the four leaves and entrusts them to the winds, to bring a message and a greeting to the brothers, fully convinced that they'll receive them, as fully convinced as she is that the jewel will be found, and there it is, irradiating above all earthly splendour, rising from the hearts and minds of humankind.
"I return home", the maiden says, as she winds up the trail of thread she had been leaving. "The jewel is found on this little blue world, and I carry more than proof of its existence! Every tiny grain of truth, though it be microscopic, have I caught in the air and gathered, let the scent of beauty purify it, for our Earth is just so full of beauty, no matter if one is differently abled! Then, I added every good heartbeat I could sense within a person to what I had gathered. I bring nothing more than a powder similar to stardust, it is true, but yet it's a great quantity of Philosopher's Stone powder! I've got my left hand full of it!" And, in her clenched left hand, she feels that same fire-warmth from her dreams, rising to her heart and filling her with extraordinary life. Rapidly winding her thread up, she soon finds herself, fast as lightning, back in the crystal palace. With what she believes to be the Stone in her left hand to her foster father, whom she thus addresses:
"I have brought the Philosopher's Stone, but I don't bring it whole in one piece. Rather, I have my hand full of it as stardust. I have gathered every grain of truth, even the tiniest ones, I have penetrated them with reflections of beauty, and vibrated them to the movements of goodness produced by the hearts of virtuous humans. Now let's go to the sanctuary where the Book of Truth awaits."
There, as soon as the chapter on the afterlife is opened once more, the forces of Evil rush with the strength of typhoons into the peaceful library. The storming infernal hosts are led by four great warriors: one on an icy white steed, one on a blood red steed, one on a pitch black steed, and the last one on a green steed, as green as poison. They breach the door to the sanctuary with a loud crash, and rush forth in their intent to scatter the precious powder across the world once more. But their effort is powerless against the girl-child's virtue of affection. Not even a grain of the Stone is lost.
"They're storming!", the Wisest of Sages tries to protect his most precious treasures.
"No", the maiden replies, certain to the core. "The Stone cannot be scattered. I feel its rays warm the depths of my soul!"
And then, a warm light blazes in her left hand, and the glittering powder falls out of her hand into the blank pages, to read the key to what happens after life comes to an end. In dazzling light there stands on the paper a short writing, a single seven-letter word:
BELIEVE.
And there they stand in awe, contemplating those letters that blaze in the brightest of lights, when the four leaders of the infernal host suddenly stop, as if they were paralyzed, entranced by the light, and each one of them receives a still fresh clover leaf on the middle of his chest, right above his heart. The four brothers are now the ones they once were again, seized by nostalgia and regret as the leaves fall on their hearts, and they have returned home with their loved ones at last, bending the knee before their wise foster father and their loving sister, whose feelings for them have restored hope to their broken hearts, kneeling before the revelation that the young maiden had received long before them.
And how often have we seen a ray of light, full of swirling dust, through a door or a gap in some curtains? Such a ray of light, so dazzling and colourful that it's not even second to a rainbow, rises from the hitherto blank chapter of the Book of Truth, from the light-filled word BELIEVE: every fragment of truth, every flash of beauty, and every note of goodness blazing brighter than a pillar of fire in the darkest night.
From the word BELIEVE, the bridge of hope reaches out towards universal love, into eternity and infinity.