{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_34910/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_34910","id":"gutenberg_34910","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34910","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Essays","Nobel Prizes in Literature"],"text":"Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Martin Pettit and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n_The Inner Beauty_\n\n_By_\n\n_Maurice Maeterlinck_\n\n[Illustration: Decoration]\n\n_New York_\n\n_A. L. Chatterton Company_\n\n\n\n\nTHE INNER BEAUTY\n\n\nNothing in the whole world is so athirst for beauty as the soul, nor is\nthere anything to which beauty clings so readily.\n\nThere is nothing in the world capable of such spontaneous uplifting, of\nsuch speedy ennoblement; nothing that offers more scrupulous obedience\nto the pure and noble commands it receives.\n\nThere is nothing in the world that yields deeper submission to the\nempire of a thought that is loftier than other thoughts. And on this\nearth of ours there are but few souls that can withstand the dominion\nof the soul that has suffered itself to become beautiful.\n\nIn all truth might it be said that beauty is the unique aliment of our\nsoul, for in all places does it search for beauty, and it perishes not\nof hunger even in the most degraded of lives. For indeed nothing of\nbeauty can pass by and be altogether unperceived. Perhaps does it never\npass by save only in our unconsciousness, but its action is no less\npuissant in gloom of night than by light of day; the joy it procures may\nbe less tangible, but other difference there is none.\n\nLook at the most ordinary of men, at a time when a little beauty has\ncontrived to steal into their darkness. They have come together, it\nmatters not where, and for no special reason; but no sooner are they\nassembled than their very first thought would seem to be to close the\ngreat doors of life. Yet has each one of them, when alone, more than\nonce lived in accord with his soul. He has loved perhaps, of a surety he\nhas suffered. Inevitably must he, too, have heard the sounds that come\nfrom the distant country of Splendor and Terror, and many an evening has\nhe bowed down in silence before laws that are deeper than the sea. And\nyet when these men are assembled it is with the basest of things that\nthey love to debauch themselves. They have a strange indescribable fear\nof beauty, and as their number increases so does this fear become\ngreater, resembling indeed their dread of silence or of a verity that is\ntoo pure. And so true is this that, were one of them to have done\nsomething heroic in the course of the day, he would ascribe wretched\nmotives to his conduct, thereby endeavoring to find excuses for it, and\nthese motives would lie readily to his hand in that lower region where\nhe and his fellows were assembled.\n\nAnd yet listen: a proud and lofty word has been spoken, a word that has\nin a measure undammed the springs of life. For one instant has a soul\ndared to reveal itself, even such as it is in love and sorrow, such as\nit is in face of death and in the solitude that dwells around the stars\nof night. Disquiet prevails, on some faces there is astonishment, others\nsmile. But have you never felt at moments such as those how unanimous is\nthe fervor wherewith every soul admires, and how unspeakably even the\nvery feeblest, from the remotest depths of its dungeon, approves the\nword it has recognized as akin to itself? For they have all suddenly\nsprung to life again in the primitive and normal atmosphere that is\ntheir own; and could you but hearken with angels' ears, I doubt not but\nyou would hear mightiest applause in that kingdom of amazing radiance\nwherein the souls do dwell.\n\nDo you not think that even the most timid of them would take courage\nunto themselves were but similar words to be spoken every evening? Do\nyou not think that men would live purer lives? And yet though the word\ncome not again, still will something momentous have happened, that must\nleave still more momentous trace behind. Every evening will its sisters\nrecognize the soul that pronounced the word, and henceforth, be the\nconversation never so trivial, its mere presence will, I know not how,\nadd thereto something of majesty. Whatever else betide, there has been a\nchange that we cannot determine. No longer will such absolute power be\nvested in the baser side of things, and henceforth, even the most\nterror-stricken of souls will know that there is somewhere a place of\nrefuge....\n\nCertain it is that the natural and primitive relationship of soul to\nsoul is a relationship of beauty. For beauty is the only language of our\nsoul; none other is known to it. It has no other life, it can produce\nnothing else, in nothing else can it take interest. And therefore it is\nthat the most oppressed, nay, the most degraded of souls--if it may\ntruly be said that a soul can be degraded--immediately hail with\nacclamation every thought, every word or deed, that is great and\nbeautiful.\n\nBeauty is the only element wherewith the soul is organically connected,\nand it has no other standard of judgment. This is brought home to us at\nevery moment of our life, and is no less evident to the man by whom\nbeauty may more than once have been denied than to him who is ever\nseeking it in his heart. Should a day come when you stand in profoundest\nneed of another's sympathy, would you go to him who was wont to greet\nthe passage of beauty with a sneering smile? Would you go to him whose\nshake of the head had sullied a generous action or a mere impulse that\nwas pure? Even though perhaps you had been of those who commended him,\nyou would none the less, when it was truth that knocked at your door,\nturn to the man who had known how to prostrate himself and love. In its\nvery depths had your soul passed its judgment, and it is the silent and\nunerring judgment that will rise to the surface, after thirty years\nperhaps, and send you towards a sister who shall be more truly you than\nyou are yourself, for that she has been nearer to beauty.... There needs\nbut so little to encourage beauty in our soul; so little to awaken the\nslumbering angels; or perhaps is there no need of awakening--it is\nenough that we lull them not to sleep.\n\nIt requires more effort to fall, perhaps, than to rise.\n\nCan we, without putting constraint upon ourselves, confine our thoughts\nto everyday things at times when the sea stretches before us, and we are\nface to face with the night? And what soul is there but knows that it\nis ever confronting the sea, ever in presence of an eternal night?\n\nDid we but dread beauty less it would come about that nought else in\nlife would be visible; for in reality it is beauty that underlies\neverything, it is beauty alone that exists. There is no soul but is\nconscious of this, none that is not in readiness; but where are those\nthat hide not their beauty? And yet must one of them \"begin.\" Why not\ndare to be the one to \"begin.\" The others are all watching eagerly\naround us like little children in front of a marvelous place. They press\nupon the threshold, whispering to each other and peering through every\ncrevice, but there is not one who dares put his shoulder to the door.\nThey are all waiting for some grown-up person to come and fling it\nopen. But hardly ever does such a one pass by.\n\nAnd yet what is needed to become the grown-up person for whom they lie\nin wait? So little! The soul is not exacting. A thought that is almost\nbeautiful--a thought that you speak not, but that you cherish within you\nat this moment, will irradiate you as though you were a transparent\nvase. They will see it and their greeting to you will be very different\nthan had you been meditating how best to deceive your brother.\n\nWe are surprised when certain men tell us that they have never come\nacross real ugliness, that they cannot conceive that a soul can be base.\n\nYet need there be no cause for surprise. These men had \"begun.\" They\nthemselves had been the first to be beautiful, and had therefore\nattracted all the beauty that passed by, as a lighthouse attracts the\nvessels from the four corners of the horizon. But there are those who\ncomplain of women, for instance, never dreaming that, the first time a\nman meets a woman, a single word or thought that denies the beautiful or\nprofound will be enough to poison for ever his existence in her soul.\n\"For my part,\" said a sage to me one day, \"I have never come across a\nsingle woman who did not bring to me something that was great.\" He was\ngreat himself first of all; therein lay his secret.\n\nThere is one thing only that the soul can never forgive; it is to have\nbeen compelled to behold, or share, or pass close to an ugly action,\nword, or thought. It cannot forgive, for forgiveness here were but the\ndenial of itself.\n\nAnd yet with the generality of men, ingenuity, strength and skill do but\nimply that the soul must first of all be banished from their life, and\nthat every impulse that lies too deep must be carefully brushed aside.\nEven in love do they act thus, and therefore, it is that the woman, who\nis so much nearer the truth, can scarcely ever live a moment of the true\nlife with them. It is as though men dreaded the contact of their soul,\nand were anxious to keep its beauty at immeasurable distance. Whereas,\non the contrary, we should endeavor to move in advance of ourselves.\n\nIf at this moment you think or say something that is too beautiful to be\ntrue in you--if you have but endeavored to think or say it to-day, on\nthe morrow it will be true. We must try to be more beautiful than\nourselves; we shall never distance our soul.\n\nWe can never err when it is question of silent or hidden beauty.\nBesides, so long as the spring within us be limpid, it matters but\nlittle whether error there be or not. But do any of us ever dream of\nmaking the slightest unseen effort? And yet in the domain where we are\neverything is effective, for that everything is waiting.\n\nAll the doors are unlocked, we have but to push them open, and the\npalace is full of manacled queens.\n\nA single word will very often suffice to clear the mountain of refuse.\n\nWhy not have the courage to meet a base question with a noble answer? Do\nyou imagine it would pass quite unnoticed or merely arouse surprise? Do\nyou not think it would be more akin to the discourse that would\nnaturally be held between two souls? We know not where it may give\nencouragement, where freedom. Even he who rejects your word will, in\nspite of himself, have taken a step towards the beauty that is within\nhim.\n\nNothing of beauty dies without having purified something, nor can aught\nof beauty be lost. Let us not be afraid of sowing it along the road. It\nmay remain there for weeks or years, but like the diamond it cannot\ndissolve, and finally there will pass by some one whom its glitter will\nattract; he will pick it up and go his way, rejoicing. Then why keep\nback a lofty, beautiful word, for that you doubt whether others will\nunderstand? An instant of higher goodness was impending over you; why\nhinder its coming, even though you believe not that those about you will\nprofit thereby? What if you are among men of the valley, is that\nsufficient reason for checking the instinctive movement of your soul\ntowards the mountain peaks? Does darkness rob deep feeling of its power?\n\nHave the blind nought but their eyes wherewith to distinguish those who\nlove them from those who love them not? Can the beauty not exist that is\nnot understood, and is there not in every man something that does\nunderstand--in regions far beyond what he seems to understand, far\nbeyond, too, what he believes he understands? \"Even to the very\nwretchedest of all,\" said to me one day the loftiest minded creature it\nhas ever been my happiness to know, \"even to the very wretchedest of\nall I never have the courage to say anything in reply that is ugly or\nmediocre.\" I have for a long time followed that man's life, and have\nseen the inexplicable power he exercised over the most obscure, the most\nunapproachable, the blindest, even the most rebellious of souls. For no\ntongue can tell the power of a soul that strives to live in an\natmosphere of beauty, and is actively beautiful in itself. And indeed is\nit not the quality of this activity that renders life either miserable\nor divine?\n\nIf we could but probe to the root of things it might well be discovered\nthat it is by the strength of some souls that are beautiful that others\nare sustained in life.\n\nIs it not the idea we each form of certain chosen ones that constitutes\nthe only living, effective morality? But in this idea how much is there\nof the soul that is chosen, how much of him who chooses?\n\nDo not these things blend very mysteriously, and does not this ideal\nmorality lie infinitely deeper than the morality of the most beautiful\nbooks? A far-reaching influence exists therein whose limits it is indeed\ndifficult to define, and a fountain of strength whereat we all of us\ndrink many times a day. Would not any weakness in one of those creatures\nwhom you thought perfect, and loved in the region of beauty, at once\nlessen your confidence in the universal greatness of things, and would\nyour admiration for them suffer?\n\nAnd again, I doubt whether anything in the world can beautify a soul\nmore spontaneously, more naturally, than the knowledge that somewhere in\nits neighborhood there exists a pure and noble being whom it can\nunreservedly love. When the soul has veritably drawn near to such a\nbeing, beauty is no longer a lovely, lifeless thing, that one exhibits\nto the stranger, for it suddenly takes unto itself an imperious\nexistence, and its activity becomes so natural as to be henceforth\nirresistible. Wherefore you will do well to think it over, for none are\nalone, and those who are good must watch.\n\nPlotinus, in the eighth book of the fifth \"Ennead,\" after speaking of\nthe beauty that is \"intelligible\"--_i. e._ divine--concludes thus: \"As\nregards ourselves, we are beautiful when we belong to ourselves, and\nugly when we lower ourselves to our inferior nature. Also are we\nbeautiful when we know such knowledge.\" Bear it in mind, however, that\nhere we are on the mountains, where not to know oneself means far more\nthan mere ignorance of what takes place within us at moments of jealousy\nor love, fear or envy, happiness or unhappiness. Here not to know\noneself means to be unconscious of all the divine that throbs in man.\n\nAs we wander from the gods within us so does ugliness enwrap us; as we\ndiscover them, so do we become more beautiful. But it is only by\nrevealing the divine that is in us that we may discover the divine in\nothers.\n\nNeeds must one god beckon to another, and no signal is so imperceptible\nbut they will every one of them respond. It cannot be said too often\nthat, be the crevice never so small, it will yet suffice for all the\nwaters of heaven to pour into our soul.\n\nEvery cup is stretched out to the unknown spring, and we are in a\nregion where none think of aught but beauty.\n\nIf we could ask of an angel what it is that our souls do in the shadow,\nI believe the angel would answer, after having looked for many years\nperhaps, and seen far more than the things the soul seems to do in the\neyes of men, \"They transform into beauty all the little things that are\ngiven to them.\" Ah! we must admit that the human soul is possessed of\nsingular courage! Resignedly does it labor, its whole life long, in the\ndarkness whither most of us relegate it, where it is spoken to by none.\nThere, never complaining, does it do all that in its power lies,\nstriving to tear from out the pebbles we fling to it the nucleus of\neternal light that peradventure they contain. And in the midst of its\nwork it is ever lying in wait for the moment when it may show, to a\nsister who is more tenderly cared for, or who chances to be nearer, the\ntreasures it has so toilfully amassed.\n\nBut thousands of existences there are that no sister visits; thousands\nof existences wherein life has infused such timidity into the soul that\nit departs without saying a word, without even once having been able to\ndeck itself with the humblest jewels of its humble crown....\n\nAnd yet, in spite of all, does it watch over everything from out its\ninvisible heaven. It warns and loves, it admires, attracts, repels. At\nevery fresh event does it rise to the surface, where it lingers till it\nbe thrust down again, being looked upon as wearisome and insane. It\nwanders to and fro, like Cassandra at the gates of the Atrides. It is\never giving utterance to words of shadowy truth, but there are none to\nlisten. When we raise our eyes it yearns for a ray of sun or star, that\nit may weave into a thought, or, haply, an impulse, which shall be\nunconscious and very pure. And if our eyes bring it nothing, still will\nit know how to turn its pitiful disillusion into something ineffable,\nthat it will conceal even till its death.\n\nWhen we love, how eagerly does it drink in the light from behind the\nclosed door--keen with expectation, it yet wastes not a minute, and the\nlight that steals through the apertures becomes beauty and truth to the\nsoul. But if the door open not (and how many lives are there wherein it\ndoes open?) it will go back into its prison, and its regret will\nperhaps be a loftier verity that shall never be seen, for we are now in\nthe region of transformations whereof none may speak; and though nothing\nborn this side of the door can be lost, yet does it never mingle with\nour life....\n\nI said just now that the soul changed into beauty the little things we\ngave to it. It would even seem, the more we think of it, that the soul\nhas no other reason for existence, and that all its activity is consumed\nin amassing, at the depths of us, a treasure of indescribable beauty.\nMight not everything naturally turn into beauty, were we not unceasingly\ninterrupting the arduous labors of our soul? Does not evil itself become\nprecious so soon as it has gathered therefrom the deep lying diamond of\nrepentance? The acts of injustice whereof you have been guilty, the\ntears you have caused to flow, will not these end too by becoming so\nmuch radiance and love in your soul? Have you ever cast your eyes into\nthis kingdom of purifying flame that is within you?\n\nPerhaps a great wrong may have been done you to-day, the act itself\nbeing mean and disheartening, the mode of action of the basest, and\nugliness wrapped you round as your tears fell. But let some years\nelapse, then give one look into your soul, and tell me whether, beneath\nthe recollection of that act, you see not something that is already\npurer than thought; an indescribable, unnameable force that has nought\nin common with the forces of this world; a mysterious inexhaustible\nspring of the other life, whereat you may drink for the rest of your\ndays.\n\nAnd yet will you have rendered no assistance to the untiring queen;\nother thoughts will have filled your mind, and it will be without your\nknowledge that the act will have been purified in the silence of your\nbeing, and will have flown into the precious waters that lie in the\ngreat reservoir of truth and beauty, which, unlike the shallower\nreservoir of true or beautiful thoughts, has an ever unruffled surface,\nand remains for all time out of reach of the breath of life.\n\nEmerson tells us that there is not an act or event in our life but,\nsooner or later, casts off its outer shell, and bewilders us by its\nsudden flights from the very depths of us, on high into the empyrean.\nAnd this is true to a far greater extent than Emerson had foreseen, for\nthe further we advance in these regions, the diviner are the spheres we\ndiscover.\n\nWe can form no adequate conception of what this silent activity of the\nsouls that surround us may really mean. Perhaps you have spoken a pure\nword to one of your fellows by whom it has not been understood. You look\nupon it as lost and dismiss it from your mind. But one day,\nperadventure, the word comes up again extraordinarily transformed, and\nrevealing the unexpected fruit it has borne in the darkness; then\nsilence once more falls over all. But it matters not; we have learned\nthat nothing can be lost in the soul, and that even to the very pettiest\nthere come moments of splendor.\n\nIt is unmistakably borne home to us that even the unhappiest and the\nmost destitute of men have at the depths of their being and in spite of\nthemselves a treasure of beauty that they cannot despoil. They have but\nto acquire the habit of dipping into this treasurer. It suffices not\nthat beauty should keep solitary festival in life; it has to become a\nfestival of every day.\n\nThere needs no great effort to be admitted into the ranks of those\n\"whose eyes no longer behold earth in flower and sky in glory in\ninfinitesimal fragments, but indeed in sublime masses,\" and I speak here\nof flowers and sky that are purer and more lasting than those that we\nbehold.\n\nThousands of channels there are through which the beauty of our soul may\nsail even unto our thoughts. Above all is there the wonderful, central\nchannel of love.\n\nIs it not in love that are found the purest elements of beauty that we\ncan offer to the soul?\n\nSome there are who do thus in beauty love each other. And to love thus\nmeans that, little by little, the sense of ugliness is lost; that one's\neyes are closed to all the littlenesses of life, to all but the\nfreshness and virginity of the very humblest of souls. Loving thus, we\nhave no longer even the need to forgive. Loving thus, we can no longer\nhave anything to conceal, for that the ever-present soul transforms all\nthings into beauty. It is to behold evil in so far only as it purifies\nindulgence, and teaches us no longer to confound the sinner with his\nsin. Loving thus do we raise on high within ourselves all those about\nus who have attained an eminence where failure has become impossible;\nheights whence a paltry action has so far to fall that, touching earth,\nit is compelled to yield up its diamond soul.\n\nIt is to transform, though all unconsciously, the feeblest intention\nthat hovers about us into illimitable movement. It is to summon all that\nis beautiful in earth, heaven or soul, to the banquet of love.\n\nLoving thus, we do indeed exist before our fellows as we exist before\nGod. It means that the least gesture will call forth the presence of the\nsoul with all its treasure. No longer is there need of death, disaster\nor tears for that the soul shall appear; a smile suffices.\n\nLoving thus, we perceive truth in happiness as profoundly as some of\nthe heroes perceived it in the radiance of greatest sorrow. It means\nthat the beauty that turns into love is undistinguishable from the love\nthat turns into beauty. It means to be able no longer to tell where the\nray of a star leaves off and the kiss of an ordinary thought begins. It\nmeans to have come so near to God that the angels possess us.\n\nLoving thus, the same soul will have been so beautified by us all that\nit will become, little by little, the \"unique angel\" mentioned by\nSwedenborg. It means that each day will reveal to us a new beauty in\nthat mysterious angel, and that we shall walk together in a goodness\nthat shall ever become more and more living, loftier and loftier. For\nthere exists also a lifeless beauty, made up of the past alone; but the\nveritable love renders the past useless, and its approach creates a\nboundless future of goodness, without disaster and without tears.\n\nTo love thus is but to free one's soul, and to become as beautiful as\nthe soul thus freed. \"If, in the emotion that this spectacle cannot fail\nto awaken in thee,\" says the great Plotinus, when dealing with kindred\nmatters--and of all the intellects known to me that of Plotinus draws\nthe nearest to the divine--\"If in the emotion that this spectacle cannot\nfail to awaken in thee, thou proclaimest not that it is beautiful; and\nif, plunging thine eyes into thyself, thou dost not then feel the charm\nof beauty, it is in vain that, thy disposition being such, thou shouldst\nseek the intelligible beauty; for thou wouldst seek it only with that\nwhich is ugly and impure. Therefore it is that the discourse we hold\nhere is not addressed to all men. But if thou hast recognized beauty\nwithin thyself, see that thou rise to the recollection of the\nintelligible beauty.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE INVISIBLE GOODNESS\n\n\nIt is a thing, said to me one evening the sage I had chanced to meet by\nthe sea shore, whereon the waves were breaking almost noiselessly--it is\na thing that we scarcely notice, that none seem to take into account,\nand yet do I conceive it to be one of the forces that safeguard mankind.\nIn a thousand diverse ways do the gods from whom we spring reveal\nthemselves within us, but it may well be that this unnoticed secret\ngoodness, to which sufficiently direct allusion has never yet been made,\nis the purest token of their eternal life. Whence it comes we know not.\nIt is there in its simplicity, smiling on the threshold of our soul;\nand those in whom its smiles lies deepest, or shine forth most\nfrequently, may make us suffer day and night and they will, yet shall it\nbe beyond our power to cease to love them....\n\nIt is not of this world, and still are there few agitations of ours in\nwhich it takes not part. It cares not to reveal itself even in look or\ntear. Nay, it seeks concealment, for reasons one cannot divine. It is as\nthough it were afraid to make use of its power. It knows that its most\ninvoluntary movement will cause immortal things to spring to life about\nit; and we are miserly with immortal things. Why are we so fearful lest\nwe exhaust the heaven within us? We dare not act upon the whisper of the\nGod who inspires us. We are afraid of everything that cannot be\nexplained by word or gesture; and we shut our eyes to all that we do,\nourselves notwithstanding, in the empire where explanations are vain!\n\nWhence comes the timidity of the divine in man? For truly might it be\nsaid that the nearer a movement of our soul approaches the divine, so\nmuch the more scrupulously do we conceal it from the eyes of our\nbrethren. Can it be that man is nothing but a frightened god? Or has the\ncommand been laid upon us that the superior powers must not be betrayed?\nUpon all that does not form part of this too visible world there rests\nthe tender meekness of the little ailing girl, for whom her mother will\nnot send when strangers come to the house.\n\nAnd therefore it is that this secret goodness of ours has never yet\npassed through the silent portals of our soul. It lives within us like a\nprisoner forbidden to approach the barred window of her cell. But\nindeed, what matter though it do not approach? Enough that it be there.\nHide as it may, let it but raise its head, move a link of its chain or\nopen its hand, and the prison is illumined, the pressure of radiance\nfrom within bursts open the iron barrier, and then, suddenly, there\nyawns a gulf between words and beings, a gulf peopled with agitated\nangels; silence falls over all: the eyes turn away for a moment and two\nsouls embrace tearfully on the threshold....\n\nIt is not a thing that comes from this earth of ours, and all\ndescriptions can be of no avail. They who would understand must have, in\nthemselves too, the same point of sensibility. If you have never in\nyour life felt the power of your invisible goodness, go no further; it\nwould be useless. But are there really any who have not felt this power,\nand have the worst of us never been invisibly good? I know not: of so\nmany in this world does the aim seem to be the discouragement of the\ndivine in their soul. And yet there needs but one instant of respite for\nthe divine to spring up again, and even the wickedest are not\nincessantly on their guard; and hence doubtless has it arisen that so\nmany of the wicked are good, unseen of all, whereas divers saints and\nsages are not invisibly good....\n\nMore than once have I been the cause of suffering, he went on, even as\neach being is the cause of suffering about him.\n\nI have caused suffering because we are in a world where all is held\ntogether by invisible threads, in a world where none are alone, and\nwhere the gentlest gesture of love or kindliness may so often wound the\ninnocence by our side!--\n\nI have caused suffering, too, because there are times when the best and\ntenderest are impelled to seek I know not what part of themselves in the\ngrief of others. For, indeed, there are seeds that only spring up in our\nsoul beneath the rain of tears shed because of us, and none the less do\nthese seeds produce good flowers and salutary fruit. What would you? It\nis no law of our making, and I know not whether I would dare to love the\nman who had made no one weep.\n\nFrequently, indeed, will the greatest suffering be caused by those\nwhose love is greatest, for a strange, timid, tender cruelty is most\noften the anxious sister of love. On all sides does love search for the\nproofs of love, and the first proofs--who is not prone to discover them\nin the tears of the beloved?\n\nEven death could not suffice to reassure the lover who dared to give ear\nto the unreasoning claims of love; for to the intimate cruelty of love,\nthe instant of death seems too brief; over beyond death there is yet\nroom for a sea of doubts, and even in those who die together may\ndisquiet still linger as they die. Long, slowly falling tears are needed\nhere. Grief is love's first food, and every love that has not been fed\non a little pure suffering must die like the babe that one had tried to\nnourish on the nourishment of a man. Will the love inspired by the\nwoman who always brought the smile to your lips be quite the same as the\nlove you feel for her who at times called forth your tears? Alas! needs\nmust love weep, and often indeed is it at the very moment when the sobs\nburst forth that love's chains are forged and tempered for life....\n\nThus, he continued, I have caused suffering because I loved, and also\nhave I caused suffering because I did not love--but how great was the\ndifference in the two cases! In the one the slowly dropping tears of\nwell-tried love seemed already to know, at the depths of them, that they\nwere bedewing all that was ineffable in our united souls; in the other\nthe poor tears knew that they were falling in solitude on a desert. But\nit is at those very moments when the soul is all ear--or, haply, all\nsoul--that I have recognized the might of an invisible goodness that\ncould offer to the wretched tears of an expiring love the divine\nillusions of a love on the eve of birth. Has there never come to you one\nof those sorrowful evenings when dejection lay heavy upon your unsmiling\nkisses, and it at length dawned upon your soul that it had been\nmistaken? With direst difficulty did your words ring forth in the cold\nair of the separation that was to be final; you were about to part for\never, and your almost lifeless hands were outstretched for the farewell\nof a departure that should know no return, when suddenly your soul made\nan imperceptible movement within itself. On that instant did the soul by\nthe side of you awake on the summits of its being; something sprang to\nlife in regions loftier far than the love of jaded lovers; and for all\nthat the bodies might shrink asunder, henceforth would the souls never\nforget that for an instant they had beheld each other high above\nmountains they had never seen, and that for a second's space they had\nbeen good with a goodness they had never known until that day....\n\nWhat can this be, this mysterious movement that I speak of here in\nconnection with love only, but which may well take place in the smallest\nevents of life? Is it I know not what sacrifice or inner embrace, is it\nthe profoundest desire to be soul for a soul, or the consciousness, ever\nquickening within us, of the presence of a life that is invisible, but\nequal to our own? Is it all that is admirable and sorrowful in the mere\nact of living that, at such moments, floods our being--is it the aspect\nof life, one and indivisible? I know not; but in truth it is then that\nwe feel that there lurks, somewhere, an unknown force; it is then that\nwe feel that we are the treasures of an unknown God who loves all, that\nnot a gesture of this God may pass unperceived, and that we are at\nlength in the regions of things that do not betray themselves....\n\nCertain it is that, from the day of our birth to the day of our death,\nwe never emerge from this clearly defined region, but wander in God like\nhelpless sleep-walkers, or like the blind who despairingly seek the very\ntemple in which they do indeed befind themselves. We are there in life,\nman against man, soul against soul, and day and night are spent under\narms. We never see each other, we never touch each other. We see\nnothing but bucklers and helmets, we touch nothing but iron and brass.\nBut let a tiny circumstance, come from the simpleness of the sky, for\none instant only cause the weapons to fall, are there not always tears\nbeneath the helmet, childlike smiles behind the buckler, and is not\nanother verity revealed?\n\nHe thought for a moment, then went on, more sadly: A woman--as I believe\nI told you just now--a woman to whom I had caused suffering against my\nwill--for the most careful of us scatter suffering around them without\ntheir knowledge--a woman to whom I had caused suffering against my will,\nrevealed to me one evening the sovereign power of this invisible good.\nTo be good we must needs have suffered; but perhaps it is necessary to\nhave caused suffering before we can become better. This was brought\nhome to me that evening. I felt that I had arrived, alone, at that sad\nzone of kisses when it seems to us that we are visiting the hovels of\nthe poor, while she, who had lingered on the road, was still smiling in\nthe palace of the first days. Love, as men understand it, was dying\nbetween us like a child stricken with a disease come one knows not\nwhence, a disease that has no pity. We said nothing. It would be\nimpossible for me to recall what my thoughts were at that earnest\nmoment. They were doubtless of no significance. I was probably thinking\nof the last face I had seen, of the quivering gleam of a lantern at a\ndeserted street corner; and, nevertheless, everything took place in a\nlight a thousand times purer, a thousand times higher, than had there\nintervened all the forces of pity and love which I command in my\nthoughts and my heart. We parted, and not a word was spoken, but at one\nand the same moment had we understood our inexpressible thought. We know\nnow that another love had sprung to life, a love that demands not the\nwords, the little attentions and smiles of ordinary love. We have never\nmet again. Perhaps centuries will elapse before we ever do meet again.\n\n\n       \"Much is to learn, much to forget,\n       Through worlds I shall traverse not a few.\"\n\n     before we shall again find ourselves in the same movement of the\n     soul as on that evening: but we can well afford to wait....\n\n\nAnd thus, ever since that day, have I greeted, in all places, even in\nthe very bitterest of moments, the beneficent presence of this\nmarvellous power. He who has but once clearly seen it, shall never again\nfind it possible to turn away from its face. You will often behold it\nsmiling in the last retreat of hatred, in the depths of the cruellest\ntears. And yet does it not reveal itself to the eyes of the body. Its\nnature changes from the moment that it manifests itself by means of an\nexterior act; and we are no longer in the truth according to the soul,\nbut in a kind of falsehood as conceived by man. Goodness and love that\nare self-conscious have no influence on the soul, for they have departed\nfrom the kingdoms where they have their dwelling; but, do they only\nremain blind, they can soften Destiny itself. I have known more than\none man who performed every act of kindness and mercy without touching a\nsingle soul; and I have known others; who seemed to live in falsehood\nand injustice, yet were no souls driven from them nor did any for an\ninstant even believe that these men were not good. Nay, more, even those\nwho do not know you, who are merely told of your acts of goodness and\ndeeds of love--if you be not good according to the invisible goodness,\nthese, even, will feel that something is lacking, and they will never be\ntouched in the depths of their being. One might almost believe that\nthere exists, somewhere, a place where all is weighed in the presence of\nthe spirits, or perhaps, out yonder, the other side of the night, a\nreservoir of certitudes whither the silent herd of souls flock every\nmorning to slake their thirst.\n\nPerhaps we do not yet know what the word \"to love\" means. There are\nwithin us lives in which we love unconsciously. To love thus means more\nthan to have pity, to make inner sacrifices, to be anxious to help and\ngive happiness; it is a thing that lies a thousand fathoms deeper, where\nour softest, swiftest, strongest words cannot reach it. At moments we\nmight believe it to be a recollection, furtive, but excessively keen, of\nthe great primitive unity. There is in this love a force that nothing\ncan resist. Which of us--and he question himself the side of the light,\nfrom which our gaze is habitually averted--which of us but will find in\nhimself the recollection of certain strange workings of this force?\nWhich of us, when by the side of the most ordinary person perhaps, but\nhas suddenly become conscious of the advent of something that none had\nsummoned? Was it the soul, or perhaps life, that had turned within\nitself like a sleeper on the point of awakening? I know not; nor did you\nknow, and no one spoke of it; but you did not separate from each other\nas though nothing had happened.\n\nTo love thus is to love according to the soul; and there is no soul that\ndoes not respond to this love. For the soul of man is a guest that has\ngone hungry these centuries back, and never has it to be summoned twice\nto the nuptial feast.\n\nThe souls of all our brethren are ever hovering about us, craving for a\ncaress, and only waiting for the signal. But how many beings there are\nwho all their life long have not dared make such a signal!\n\nIt is the disaster of our entire existence that we live thus away from\nour soul, and stand in such dread of its slightest movement. Did we but\nallow it to smile frankly in its silence and its radiance, we should be\nalready living an eternal life. We have only to think for an instant how\nmuch it succeeds in accomplishing during those rare moments when we\nknock off its chains--for it is our custom to enchain it as though it\nwere distraught--what it does in love, for instance, for there we do\npermit it at times to approach the lattices of external life. And would\nit not be in accordance with the primal truth if all men were to feel\nthat they were face to face with each other, even as the woman feels\nwith the man she loves?\n\nThis invisible and divine goodness, of which I only speak here because\nof its being one of the surest and nearest signs of the unceasing\nactivity of our soul, this invisible and divine goodness ennobles, in\ndecisive fashion, all that it has unconsciously touched. Let him who has\na grievance against his fellow, descend into himself and seek out\nwhether he never has been good in the presence of that fellow.\n\nFor myself, I have never met any one by whose side I have felt my\ninvisible goodness bestir itself, without he has become, at that very\ninstant, better than myself. Be good at the depths of you, and you will\ndiscover that those who surround you will be good even to the same\ndepths.\n\nNothing responds more infallibly to the secret cry of goodness than the\nsecret cry of goodness that is near.\n\nWhile you are actively good in the invisible, all those who approach you\nwill unconsciously do things that they could not do by the side of any\nother man.\n\nTherein lies a force that has no name; a spiritual rivalry that knows no\nresistance. It is as though this were the actual place where is the\nsensitive spot of our soul; for there are souls that seem to have\nforgotten their existence and to have renounced everything that enables\nthe being to rise; but, once touched here, they all draw themselves\nerect; and in the divine plains of the secret goodness, the most humble\nof souls cannot endure defeat.\n\nAnd yet it is possible that nothing is changing in the life one sees;\nbut is it only that which matters, and is our existence indeed confined\nto actions we can take in our hand like stones on the highroad? If you\nask yourself, as we are told we should ask every evening, \"what of\nimmortal have I done to-day?\" Is it always on the material side that we\ncan count, weigh and measure unerringly; is it there that you must begin\nyour search? It is possible for you to cause extraordinary tears to\nflow; it is possible that you may fill a heart with unheard-of\ncertitudes, and give eternal life unto a soul, and no one shall know of\nit, nor shall you even know yourself. It may be that nothing is\nchanging; it may be that were it put to the test all would crumble, and\nthat this goodness we speak of would yield to the smallest fear. It\nmatters not. Something divine has happened; and somewhere must our God\nhave smiled.\n\nMay it not be the supreme aim of life thus to bring to birth the\ninexplicable within ourselves; and do we know how much we add to\nourselves when we awake something of the incomprehensible that slumbers\nin every corner? Here you have awakened love which will not fall asleep\nagain. The soul that your soul has regarded, that has wept with you the\nholy tears of the solemn joy that none may behold, will bear you no\nresentment, not even in the midst of torture. It will not even feel the\nneed of forgiving. So convinced is it of one knows not what, that\nnothing can henceforth dim or efface the smile that it wears within; for\nnothing can ever separate two souls which, for an instant, \"have been\ngood together.\"\n\n\n\n\nSILENCE\n\n\nAs we advance through life, it is more and more brought home to us that\nnothing takes place that is not in accord with some curious,\npreconceived design: and of this we never breathe a word, we scarcely\ndare to let our minds dwell upon it, but of its existence, somewhere\nabove our heads, we are absolutely convinced. The most fatuous of men\nsmiles, at the first encounters, as though he were the accomplice of the\ndestiny of his brethren. And in this domain, even those who can speak\nthe most profoundly realise--they, perhaps, more than others--that words\ncan never express the real, special relationship that exists between two\nbeings.\n\nWere I to speak to you at this moment of the gravest things of all--of\nlove, death or destiny--it is not love, death or destiny that I should\ntouch; and, my efforts notwithstanding, there would always remain\nbetween us a truth which had not been spoken, which we had not even\nthought of speaking; and yet it is this truth only, voiceless though it\nhas been, which will have lived with us for an instant, and by which we\nshall have been wholly absorbed. For that truth, was our truth as\nregards death, destiny or love, and it was in silence only that we could\nperceive it. And nothing save only the silence will have had any\nimportance. \"My sisters,\" says a child in the fairy-story, \"you have\neach of you a secret thought--I wish to know it.\" We, too, have\nsomething that people wish to know, but it is hidden far above the\nsecret thought--it is our secret silence.\n\nBut all questions are useless. When our spirit is alarmed, its own\nagitation becomes a barrier to the second life that lives in this\nsecret; and, would we know what it is that lies hidden there, we must\ncultivate silence among ourselves, for it is then only that for one\ninstant the eternal flowers unfold their petals, the mysterious flowers\nwhose form and colour are ever changing in harmony with the soul that is\nby their side. As gold and silver are weighed in pure water, so does the\nsoul test its weight in silence, and the words that we let fall have no\nmeaning apart from the silence that wraps them round. If I tell someone\nthat I love him--as I may have told a hundred others--my words will\nconvey nothing to him; but the silence which will ensue, if I do indeed\nlove him, will make clear in what depths lie the roots of my love, and\nwill in its turn give birth to a conviction, that shall itself be\nsilent; and in the course of a lifetime, this silence and this\nconviction will never again be the same....\n\nIs it not silence that determines and fixes the savour of love? Deprived\nof it, love would lose its eternal essence and perfume. Who has not\nknown those silent moments which separated the lips to reunite the\nsouls? It is these that we must ever seek. There is no silence more\ndocile than the silence of love, and it is indeed the only one that we\nmay claim for ourselves alone. The other great silences, those of death,\ngrief or destiny, do not belong to us. They come towards us at their\nown hour, following in the track of events, and those whom they do not\nmeet need not reproach themselves. But we can all go forth to meet the\nsilence of love. They lie in wait for us, night and day, at our\nthreshold, and are no less beautiful than their brothers. And it is\nthanks to them that those who have seldom wept may know the life of the\nsoul almost as intimately as those to whom much grief has come: and\ntherefore it is that such of us as have loved deeply have learnt many\nsecrets that are unknown to others: for thousands and thousands of\nthings quiver in silence on the lips of true friendship and love, that\nare not to be found in the silence of other lips, to which friendship\nand love are unknown....","title":"The Inner Beauty","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":8338}