The Two Roads by Jean Paul Richter

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jan 3, 1907

The Two Roads

By Jean Paul Richter

It was New-year’s night; and Von Arden, having fallen into an unquiet slumber, dreamed that he was an aged man standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes toward the deep-blue sky, where the stars were floating like white lilies on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few beings, more helpless than himself, moved toward their certain goal—the tomb.

Already, as it seemed to him, he had passed sixty of the stages which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey nothing but errors and remorse. His health was destroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

The days of his youth rose up in a vision before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his Father had placed him at the entrance of two roads—one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile forest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; the other leading the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue, where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

He looked toward the sky, and cried out in his agony, “O days of my youth, return! O my Father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may choose the better way!” But the days of his youth passed away.

He saw wandering lights floating away over dark marshes, and then disappear; these were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness: this was an emblem of himself; and the sharp unavailing remorse struck home to his heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and labor, were now honored and happy on this New-year’s night.

The clock in the high church tower struck, and the sound falling on his ear, recalled his parents’ early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look toward heaven; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and with one despairing effort he cried aloud, “Come back, my early days! come back!”

And his youth did return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on New-year’s night. He was still young; his faults alone were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests wave.

Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years have passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain: “O youth, return! O, give me back my early days!”—Jean Paul Richter.