A Little Glimpse of Heaven

What a wonderful afternoon it was! The sun, far down in the west, painted the eastern mountains with a lovely tint of orange. The warm air was balmy with the perfume of flowers and the birds were singing cheerfully as they flitted about.

All was quiet in Catalina’s bedroom, where Paula and I were seated. My sister was now on the road to a partial recovery, having passed the danger mark some days before. Another change also I noticed had come over her. Her impatience and irritability had gradually disappeared, day by day, and when she suffered more than ordinarily, she never seemed to complain. The expression of her face had sweetened also, and even a slight but quite natural smile would often illumine her thin features. Death had passed her by, but now seemingly a new influence gradually possessed her. This simple country maid of the Waldensian mountains had come smiling into her life, and although Catalina had frequently abused the kindness of our cousin, Paula never had lost patience with the poor invalid. Soon love had triumphed, and Catalina had begun to return the love of her little nurse, even though at times she still kept her tyrannical attitude.

One day Catalina said to Teresa, “Paula’s not a bit like the rest of us.”

“No,” she answered, “She’s a ‘Daughter of the good God!’ just as I said one day when she first arrived.” Teresa sighed as she added, “What would I give to be like her!”

One beautiful afternoon, the poor invalid lay there with her eyes on Paula as if she wished to say something.

“How do you feel now?” said Paula, as Catalina’s fixed gaze seemed to disturb her somewhat.

“Oh, I’m all right just now. I was thinking of your godmother’s letter. She remembered, she said, the hymns you used to sing. You’ve never sung any of them to us, Paula.”

I saw a mist in Paula’s eyes as she answered. “No, that’s true. I don’t think I’ve sung a note since my father’s death. Would you like to hear me sing?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Catalina, without noticing Paula’s emotion.

I was on the point of reminding them of Father’s formal prohibition relative to hymn singing, but an imperative sign from Catalina stopped me.

“What do you wish me to sing?” said Paula.

“Anything you care to. It’s all the same to me.”

“Then,” said Paula, “I will sing to you, ‘No Night There.’ ” And then to our unaccustomed ears came the glorious words:

“In the land of fadeless day
Lies the city foursqare;
It shall never pass away,
And there is no night there.

“God shall wipe away all tears,
There’s no death, no pain, nor fears,
And they count not time by years,
For there is no night there.”

Paula had that rare gift, the “golden” voice, a voice that seemed to penetrate to one’s very soul. Catalina was enchanted!

Suddenly, I heard the heavy steps of a man coming along the corridor. But as Paula began the second stanza, I heard them pause.

“All the gates of pearl are made,
In the city foursquare;
All the streets with gold are laid,
And there is no night there.

“And the gates shall never close
To the city foursquare;
There life’s crystal river flows,
And there is no night there.”

Paula’s voice trembled at the beginning. Then presently the sadness in her tones disappeared, and they seemed to swell out like an echo of radiant happiness. Catalina listened, hardly breathing. Involuntarily, I asked myself if Paula in heaven would be any different from the little country girl I saw seated near the window at this moment. I had an instant’s impression that a man was standing behind the door, but I felt this could not be, for I knew that my father would be at his office. A special light came over the expressive face of Paula as she continued:

“There they need no sunshine bright,
In the city foursquare,
For the Lamb is all the light,
And there is no night there.”

And then again the wonderful refrain:

“God shall wipe away all tears,
There’s no death, no pain, nor fears,
And they count not time by years,
For there is no night there.”

The sweet sounds died away, and Paula looked smilingly at Catalina as if asking her opinion of the song.

“What a marvelous song!” exclaimed the poor sick girl. “And, Paula, you have a voice like an angel!”

I did not hear my little companion’s reply. This time I was not mistaken; there was someone there behind that door. Impelled by curiosity I ran to open it. At first I saw no one in the darkened passage, but finally I could make out my father moving off down the hall. When he saw that I had discovered him, he stopped and put a finger to his lips, and made signs to me to keep silent, but in my surprise I cried, “Is it you, Father?”

“Yes,” he answered, “I came home earlier than I expected. Was that Paula who was singing in Catalina’s room?”

“I—I—don’t know,” I hesitated, not knowing what to say.

There was an instant of terrible silence, like a calm before the storm.

“You—don’t—know,” my father slowly repeated. “You dare to look at me and say you don’t know when you have just this moment come out of your sister’s room?”

“Oh, Father, please forgive me,” I exclaimed penitently. “It was indeed Paula that sang. But don’t punish her. She didn’t know that you had forbidden our singing hymns.”

“Who said I was going to punish her?” my father questioned. And I could see that his anger had cooled. “Come here!”

Taking me by the hand, we went back together to my sister’s room.

“Would it tire you, Catalina, to hear Paula sing again?” he asked.

“Why, no, Father,” Catalina answered, surprised.

“Then, Paula,” said my father, “sing again that same song.”

And once more we heard, “There is no night there.”

“Who taught you to sing?” my father asked.

“I think it was my father. But in our valley, everybody sings. On the roads, climbing the hills, caring for the animals, in the meetings; in fact, everywhere.”

Catalina looked at my father furtively, and noticed that his face remained serene, almost tender, and so she hastened to profit by the occasion.

“Dear Father,” she said in a low voice, “let her sing to us once in a while; will you? It’s such a joy to hear her.”

“Doesn’t it tire you?”

“On the contrary, I think it does me good.” And Catalina looked at Father appealingly.

“Let her sing,” he said, “but leave it to the nightingales to sing alone. There are so few of them.”

“And won’t you let the crows sing along with her too, if we care to?”

“There are too many crows,” said my father, shaking his head.

“You are right, Father, and your daughter Catalina is one of the number, for she’s only a poor, sick crow. But sometimes, Father, you know the crows envy the nightingales.”

The comparison made my father laugh heartily, and he let himself be persuaded by his elder daughter—that elder daughter whose voice was so like that of that dear wife of his, now forever silent.

“Well, crows and nightingales let them sing together,” he said; and embracing all three of us, he bid us goodnight. He disappeared, but not without turning for a moment to Paula with the remark, “Good night, my little Alpine nightingale.”

And Paula, who did not seem to comprehend a single word of this conversation, answered gravely, “Good night, uncle.”