393
T h e K i n g ’ s B u s i n e s s
September 1932
C L s t a f f B y PETER PLOTK IN Los Angeles, California
Then I cried in
[Dr. Plotkin is a Russian Jew. He witnessed the massacre of his family when ten years o f age, was rescued by Tolstoy, edu cated by a rich Jew, and became a great painter. He was liberated from a life o f sin through the saving grace of God. The dark ness that preceded the great change is the subject o f this fascinat ing bit of allegory. Dr. Plotkin is now working in the interests of T he K ing ’ s BusiNESs.AiThe Editor.] A was born blind, and I lived in the country bf the blind. My parents, who were also blind, reared me and cared for me as best they could. When I l]ad reached a cer tain age, I decided to go to a great and beautiful city of which I had heard. The road to this city led through a vast wasteland, a desert fraught with perils, the haunt of wild beasts, and the scene of terrible hurricanes. The name of this desert was Chaos, and the bones of many travelers lay bleaching on its sands. I set out bravely, but after wandering blindly for many days, I discovered that I had lost my way. Blind and alone in this fearful and trackless wilderness, I was filled with terror, and began to cry loudly for guidance. “ Help, help!” I cried. “ Is there no one who can show me the path to the city ?” Suddenly the darkness about me was filled with the sounds of many voices calling to me from all directions, and I was glad that I was not alone in this awful place. “ Don’t be afraid, young man,” said the voices, “we will give you a staff to guide you on your journey.” “ Do you know the road to the city ?” I asked. “ No, we don’t,” answered the many voices, and there was a note of sadness and despair in their reply.. “ Then who are you?” I asked. “ I seem to hear hun dreds. What are you doing here in this desert of Chaos ?” “ We are many,” replied the voices, “ and we are blind, but we carry sticks which guide us and keep us from falling.” “What are your names ?” I questioned. A great confusion of sounds replied from far and near: And I heard the names of all of the great skeptics of the ages mentioned with reverence and trust, to comfort me. I took a staff which was given to me, and thanked them for their kindness. I grasped the staff tightly in my hand, as if it were the hand of a friend. But it was cold and lifeless and soulless, and again I was filled with fear. , “ Put me on the road,” I cried, “and then perhaps I shall be able to find my way with the help of the staff.” But the voices answered in a chorus, gloomy and hope less, “ We have not found the road.” “ I am Skepticism.” “ Doubt is my name.” “ I am called Freethinking.” “ I am Evolution.” “ My name is Materialism.”
despair,
“ Why are you not sure? Can you give me nothing better than a soul less stick ? What e m p t y comfort! Are you happy, blind leaders of the blind?”
P eter P lotkin “ As happy as one may be,” they said, “ for there is no sure happiness in this vale of tears. We exist, we have food for our stomachs ; we grope a while, and then we die.” “ And then what?” I asked. There was no answer, and the silence of the pathless desert thundered against my ears. Then I gripped my staff firmly and went forward on my journey, tapping, groping, feeling my pitiful way along as best I could. My feet were cut by the jagged stones, my body torn by the thickets, blistered by the heat of the sun, and the wind and hail, from which I could not find shelter because of my blindness. On and on I went, weary and bruised and hopeless. A year passed, two years, three, twenty, forty—and still I wandered. At last I stopped and, in despair, called out to the darkness around me, “Where am I now? Through thèse dark years, I have been marching. Am I not near the city ?” I waited and an answer came, “ You are at the place where you started.” Then I knew that I had been traveling in a circle, and that the staff had failed me. I remembered how, during my journey, I had often been conscious of an inner voice warning me of dangers. But I had not heeded it. “ There is a gulf ahead,” the inner voice would say. But refusing to listen, and trusting in my staff, I had many times been led to the brink of deep abysses and had barely escaped falling to my death. Now I remembered that warning voice, and, exhausted and despondent, I cried out the first prayer that had ever passed my lips, ‘‘O God, help me and save me ! Only by a miracle can my blindness be removed. Help me, O Lord, Master of the universe. Thy name is Wisdom ; give me Thy light !” I listened, and from the enveloping darkness, a voice like a chorus of angels answered, “ Throw away your staff, the pride and conceit of your puny and mortal strength.” I hurled it away with a shout of joy, and suddenly my sealed eyes began to open. Little by little they opened ; like the dawning of day, the light began to pour into my eyes.
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