{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_4349/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_4349","id":"gutenberg_4349","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/4349","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","Fate and fatalism","Nobel Prizes in Literature","Wisdom"],"text":"Produced by Steve Harris, Charles Franks and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team. HTML version by Al Haines.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nWISDOM AND DESTINY\n\n\nBy\n\nMAURICE MAETERLINCK\n\n\nTranslated by ALFRED SUTRO\n\n\n\n\nTO\n\nGEORGETTE LEBLANC\n\nI OFFER THIS BOOK, WHEREIN HER THOUGHT BLENDS WITH MINE\n\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\nThis essay on Wisdom and Destiny was to have been a thing of some\ntwenty pages, the work of a fortnight; but the idea took root, others\nflocked to it, and the volume has occupied M. Maeterlinck continuously\nfor more than two years. It has much essential kinship with the\n\"Treasure of the Humble,\" though it differs therefrom in treatment; for\nwhereas the earlier work might perhaps be described as the eager\nspeculation of a poet athirst for beauty, we have here rather the\nendeavour of an earnest thinker to discover the abode of truth. And if\nthe result of his thought be that truth and happiness are one, this was\nby no means the object wherewith he set forth. Here he is no longer\ncontent with exquisite visions, alluring or haunting images; he probes\ninto the soul of man and lays bare all his joys and his sorrows. It is\nas though he had forsaken the canals he loves so well--the green, calm,\nmotionless canals that faithfully mirror the silent trees and\nmoss-covered roofs--and had adventured boldly, unhesitatingly, on the\nbroad river of life.\n\nHe describes this book himself, in a kind of introduction that is\nalmost an apology, as \"a few interrupted thoughts that entwine\nthemselves, with more or less system, around two or three subjects.\" He\ndeclares that there is nothing it undertakes to prove; that there are\nnone whose mission it is to convince. And so true is this, so\nabsolutely honest and sincere is the writer, that he does not shrink\nfrom attacking, qualifying, modifying, his own propositions; from\nadvancing, and insisting on, every objection that flits across his\nbrain; and if such proposition survive the onslaught of its\nadversaries, it is only because, in the deepest of him, he holds it for\nabsolute truth. For this book is indeed a confession, a naive,\noutspoken, unflinching description of all that passes in his mind; and\neven those who like not his theories still must admit that this mind is\nstrangely beautiful.\n\nThere have been many columns filled--and doubtless will be again--with\ningenious and scholarly attempts to place a definitive label on M.\nMaeterlinck, and his talent; to trace his thoughts to their origin,\nclearly denoting the authors by whom he has been influenced; in a\nmeasure to predict his future, and accurately to establish the place\nthat he fills in the hierarchy of genius. With all this I feel that I\nhave no concern. Such speculations doubtless have their use and serve\ntheir purpose. I shall be content if I can impress upon those who may\nread these lines, that in this book the man is himself, of untrammelled\nthought; a man possessed of the rare faculty of seeing beauty in all\nthings, and, above all, in truth; of the still rarer faculty of loving\nall things, and, above all, life.\n\nNor is this merely a vague and, at bottom, a more or less meaningless\nstatement. For, indeed, considering this essay only, that deals with\nwisdom and destiny, at the root of it--its fundamental principle, its\nguiding, inspiring thought--is love. \"Nothing is contemptible in this\nworld save only scorn,\" he says; and for the humble, the foolish, nay,\neven the wicked, he has the same love, almost the same admiration, as\nfor the sage, the saint, or the hero. Everything that exists fills him\nwith wonder, because of its existence, and of the mysterious force that\nis in it; and to him love and wisdom are one, \"joining hands in a\ncircle of light.\" For the wisdom that holds aloof from mankind, that\ndeems itself a thing apart, select, superior, he has scant sympathy--it\nhas \"wandered too far from the watchfires of the tribe.\" But the wisdom\nthat is human, that feeds constantly on the desires, the feelings, the\nhopes and the fears of man, must needs have love ever by its side; and\nthese two, marching together, must inevitably find themselves, sooner\nor later, on the ways that lead to goodness. \"There comes a moment in\nlife,\" he says, \"when moral beauty seems more urgent, more penetrating,\nthan intellectual beauty; when all that the mind has treasured must be\nbathed in the greatness of soul, lest it perish in the sandy desert,\nforlorn as the river that seeks in vain for the sea.\" But for\nunnecessary self-sacrifice, renouncement, abandonment of earthly joys,\nand all such \"parasitic virtues,\" he has no commendation or approval;\nfeeling that man was created to be happy, and that he is not wise who\nvoluntarily discards a happiness to-day for fear lest it be taken from\nhim on the morrow. \"Let us wait till the hour of sacrifice sounds--till\nthen, each man to his work. The hour will sound at last--let us not\nwaste our time in seeking it on the dial of life.\"\n\nIn this book, morality, conduct, life are Surveyed from every point of\nthe compass, but from an eminence always. Austerity holds no place in\nhis philosophy; he finds room even \"for the hours that babble aloud in\ntheir wantonness.\" But all those who follow him are led by smiling\nwisdom to the heights where happiness sits enthroned between goodness\nand love, where virtue rewards itself in the \"silence that is the\nwalled garden of its happiness.\"\n\nIt is strange to turn from this essay to Serres Chaudes and La\nPrincesse Maleine, M. Maeterlinck's earliest efforts--the one a\ncollection of vague images woven into poetical form, charming, dreamy,\nand almost meaningless; the other a youthful and very remarkable effort\nat imitation. In the plays that followed the Princesse Maleine there\nwas the same curious, wandering sense of, and search for, a vague and\nmystic beauty: \"That fair beauty which no eye can see, Of that sweet\nmusic which no ear can measure.\" In a little poem of his, Et s'il\nrevenait, the last words of a dying girl, forsaken by her lover, who is\nasked by her sister what shall be told to the faithless one, should he\never seek to know of her last hours:\n\n   \"Et s'il m'interroge encore\n   Sur la derniere heure?--\n   Dites lui que j'ai souri\n   De peur qu'il ne pleure ...\"\n\ntouch, perhaps, the very high-water mark of exquisite simplicity and\ntenderness blent with matchless beauty of expression. Pelleas et\nMelisande was the culminating point of this, his first, period--a\nsimple, pathetic love-story of boy and girl--love that was pure and\nalmost passionless. It was followed by three little plays--\"for\nmarionettes,\" he describes them on the title-page; among them being La\nMort de Tintagiles, the play he himself prefers of all that he has\nwritten. And then came a curious change: he wrote Aglavaine et\nSelysette. The setting is familiar to us; the sea-shore, the ruined\ntower, the seat by the well; no less than the old grandmother and\nlittle Yssaline. But Aglavaine herself is strange: this woman who has\nlived and suffered; this queenly, majestic creature, calmly conscious\nof her beauty and her power; she whose overpowering, overwhelming love\nis yet deliberate and thoughtful. The complexities of real life are\nvaguely hinted at here: instead of Golaud, the mediaeval, tyrannous\nhusband, we have Selysette, the meek, self-sacrificing wife; instead of\nthe instinctive, unconscious love of Pelleas and Melisande, we have\ngreat burning passion. But this play, too, was only a stepping-stone--a\nlink between the old method and the new that is to follow. For there\nwill probably be no more plays like Pelleas et Melisande, or even like\nAglavaine et Selysette. Real men and women, real problems and\ndisturbance of life--it is these that absorb him now. His next play\nwill doubtless deal with a psychology more actual, in an atmosphere\nless romantic; and the old familiar scene of wood, and garden, and\npalace corridor will be exchanged for the habitual abode of men.\n\nI have said it was real life that absorbed him now, and yet am I aware\nthat what seems real to him must still appear vague and visionary to\nmany. It is, however, only a question of shifting one's point of view,\nor, better still, of enlarging it. Material success in life, fame,\nwealth--these things M. Maeterlinck passes indifferently by. There are\ncertain ideals that are dear to many on which he looks with the vague\nwonder of a child. The happiness of which he dreams is an inward\nhappiness, and within reach of successful and unsuccessful alike. And\nso it may well be that those content to buffet with their fellows for\nwhat are looked on as the prizes of this world, will still write him\ndown a mere visionary, and fail to comprehend him. The materialist who\ncomplacently defines the soul as the \"intellect plus the emotions,\"\nwill doubtless turn away in disgust from M. Maeterlinck's constant\nreferences to it as the seat of something mighty, mysterious,\ninexhaustible in life. So, too, may the rigid follower of positive\nreligion, to whom the Deity is a power concerned only with the\njudgment, reward, and punishment of men, protest at his saying that\n\"God, who must be at least as high as the highest thoughts He has\nimplanted in the best of men, will withhold His smile from those whose\nsole desire has been to please Him; and they only who have done good\nfor sake of good, and as though He existed not; they only who have\nloved virtue more than they loved God Himself, shall be allowed to\nstand by His side.\" But, after all, the genuine seeker after truth\nknows that what seemed true yesterday is to-day discovered to be only a\nmilestone on the road; and all who value truth will be glad to listen\nto a man who, differing from them perhaps, yet tells them what seems\ntrue to him. And whereas in the \"Treasure of the Humble\" he looked on\nlife through a veil of poetry and dream, here he stands among his\nfellow-men, no longer trying to \"express the inexpressible,\" but, in\nall simplicity, to tell them what he sees.\n\n\"Above all, let us never forget that an act of goodness is in itself an\nact of happiness. It is the flower of a long inner life of joy and\ncontentment; it tells of peaceful hours and days on the sunniest\nheights of our soul.\" This thought lies at the root of his whole\nphilosophy--goodness, happiness, love, supporting each other,\nintertwined, rewarding each other. \"Let us not think virtue will\ncrumble, though God Himself seem unjust. Where could the virtue of man\nfind more everlasting foundation than in the seeming injustice of God?\"\nStrange that the man who has written these words should have spent all\nhis school life at a Jesuit college, subjected to its severe,\nsemi-monastic discipline; compelled, at the end of his stay, to go,\nwith the rest of his fellows, through the customary period of\n\"retreat,\" lasting ten days, when the most eloquent of the fathers\nwould, one after the other, deliver sermons terrific to boyish\nimagination, sermons whose unvarying burden was Hell and the wrath of\nGod--to be avoided only by becoming a Jesuit priest. Out of the\neighteen boys in the \"rhetorique\" class, eleven eagerly embraced this\nchance of escape from damnation. As for M. Maeterlinck\nhimself--fortunately a day-boarder only--one can fancy him wandering\nhome at night, along the canal banks, in the silence broken only by the\npealing of church bells, brooding over these mysteries ... but how long\na road must the man have travelled who, having been taught the God of\nFra Angelico, himself arrives at the conception of a \"God who sits\nsmiling on a mountain, and to whom our gravest offences are only as the\nnaughtiness of puppies playing on the hearth-rug.\"\n\nHis environment, no less than his schooling, helped to give a mystic\ntinge to his mind. The peasants who dwelt around his father's house\nalways possessed a peculiar fascination for him; he would watch them as\nthey sat by their doorway, squatting on their heels, as their custom\nis--grave, monotonous, motionless, the smoke from their pipes almost\nthe sole sign of life. For the Flemish peasant is a strangely inert\ncreature, his work once done--as languid and lethargic as the canal\nthat passes by his door. There was one cottage into which the boy would\noften peep on his way home from school, the home of seven brothers and\none sister, all old, toothless, worn--working together in the daytime\nat their tiny farm; at night sitting in the gloomy kitchen, lit by one\nsmoky lamp--all looking straight before them, saying not a word; or\nwhen, at rare intervals, a remark was made, taking it up each in turn\nand solemnly repeating it, with perhaps the slightest variation in\nform. It was amidst influences such as these that his boyhood was\npassed, almost isolated from the world, brooding over lives of saints\nand mystics at the same time that he studied, and delighted in,\nShakespeare and the Elizabethans, Goethe and Heine. For his taste has\nbeen catholic always; he admires Meredith as he admires Dickens, Hello\nand Pascal no less than Schopenhauer. And it is this catholicity, this\nopen mind, this eager search for truth, that have enabled him to emerge\nfrom the mysticism that once enwrapped him to the clearer daylight of\nactual existence; it is this faculty of admiring all that is admirable\nin man and in life that some day, perhaps, may take him very far.\n\nIt will surprise many who picture him as a mere dreamy decadent, to be\ntold that he is a man of abiding and abundant cheerfulness, who finds\nhappiness in the simplest of things. The scent of a flower, the flight\nof sea-gulls around a cliff, a cornfield in sunshine--these stir him to\nstrange delight. A deed of bravery, nobility, or of simple devotion; a\nmere brotherly act of kindness, the unconscious sacrifice of the\npeasant who toils all day to feed and clothe his children--these awake\nhis warm and instant sympathy. And with him, too, it is as with De\nQuincey when he says, \"At no time of my life have I been a person to\nhold myself polluted by the touch or approach of any creature that wore\na human shape\"; and more than one unhappy outcast, condemned by the\nstern law of man, has been gladdened by his ready greeting and welcome.\nBut, indeed, all this may be read of in his book--I desired but to make\nit clear that the book is truly a faithful mirror of the man's own\nthoughts, and feelings, and actions. It is a book that many will\nlove--all those who suffer, for it will lighten their suffering; all\nthose who love, for it will teach them to love more deeply. It is a\nbook with its faults, doubtless, as every book must be; but it has been\nwritten straight from the heart, and will go to the heart of many ...\n\nAlfred Sutro\n\n\n\n\nWISDOM AND DESTINY\n\n1. In this book there will often be mention of wisdom and destiny, of\nhappiness, justice, and love. There may seem to be some measure of\nirony in thus calling forth an intangible happiness where so much real\nsorrow prevails; a justice that may well be ideal in the bosom of an\ninjustice, alas! only too material; a love that eludes the grasp in the\nmidst of palpable hatred and callousness. The moment may seem but\nill-chosen for leisurely search, in the hidden recess of man's heart,\nfor motives of peace and tranquillity; occasions for gladness,\nuplifting, and love; reasons for wonder and gratitude--seeing that the\nvast bulk of mankind, in whose name we would fain lift our voice, have\nnot even the time or assurance to drain to the dregs the misery and\ndesolation of life. Not to them is it given to linger over the inward\nrejoicing, the profound consolation, that the satisfied thinker has\nslowly and painfully acquired, that he knows how to prize. Thus has it\noften been urged against moralists, among them Epictetus, that they\nwere apt to concern themselves with none but the wise alone. In this\nreproach is some truth, as some truth there must be in every reproach\nthat is made. And indeed, if we had only the courage to listen to the\nsimplest, the nearest, most pressing voice of our conscience, and be\ndeaf to all else, it were doubtless our solitary duty to relieve the\nsuffering about us to the greatest extent in our power. It were\nincumbent upon us to visit and nurse the poor, to console the\nafflicted; to found model factories, surgeries, dispensaries, or at\nleast to devote ourselves, as men of science do, to wresting from\nnature the material secrets which are most essential to man. But yet,\nwere the world at a given moment to contain only persons thus actively\nengaged in helping each other, and none venturesome enough to dare\nsnatch leisure for research in other directions, then could this\ncharitable labour not long endure; for all that is best in the good\nthat at this day is being done round about us, was conceived in the\nspirit of one of those who neglected, it may be, many an urgent,\nimmediate duty in order to think, to commune with themselves, in order\nto speak. Does it follow that they did the best that was to be done? To\nsuch a question as this who shall dare to reply? The soul that is\nmeekly honest must ever consider the simplest, the nearest duty to be\nthe best of all things it can do; but yet were there cause for regret\nhad all men for all time restricted themselves to the duty that lay\nnearest at hand. In each generation some men have existed who held in\nall loyalty that they fulfilled the duties of the passing hour by\npondering on those of the hour to come. Most thinkers will say that\nthese men were right. It is well that the thinker should give his\nthoughts to the world, though it must be admitted that wisdom befinds\nitself sometimes in the reverse of the sage's pronouncement. This\nmatters but little, however; for, without such pronouncement, the\nwisdom had not stood revealed; and the sage has accomplished his duty.\n\n2. To-day misery is the disease of mankind, as disease is the\nmisery of man. And even as there are physicians for disease, so should\nthere be physicians for human misery. But can the fact that disease is,\nunhappily, only too prevalent, render it wrong for us ever to speak of\nhealth? which were indeed as though, in anatomy--the physical science\nthat has most in common with morals--the teacher confined himself\nexclusively to the study of the deformities that greater or lesser\ndegeneration will induce in the organs of man. We have surely the right\nto demand that his theories be based on the healthy and vigorous body;\nas we have also the right to demand that the moralist, who fain would\nsee beyond the present hour, should take as his standard the soul that\nis happy, or that at least possesses every element of happiness, save\nonly the necessary consciousness.\n\nWe live in the bosom of great injustice; but there can be, I imagine,\nneither cruelty nor callousness in our speaking, at times, as though\nthis injustice had ended, else should we never emerge from our circle.\n\nIt is imperative that there should be some who dare speak, and think,\nand act as though all men were happy; for otherwise, when the day comes\nfor destiny to throw open to all the people's garden of the promised\nland, what happiness shall the others find there, what justice, what\nbeauty or love? It may be urged, it is true, that it were best, first\nof all, to consider the most pressing needs, yet is this not always\nwisest; it is often of better avail from the start to seek that which\nis highest. When the waters beleaguer the home of the peasant in\nHolland, the sea or the neighbouring river having swept down the dyke\nthat protected the country, most pressing is it then for the peasant to\nsafeguard his cattle, his grain, his effects; but wisest to fly to the\ntop of the dyke, summoning those who live with him, and from thence\nmeet the flood, and do battle. Humanity up to this day has been like an\ninvalid tossing and turning on his couch in search of repose; but\ntherefore none the less have words of true consolation come only from\nthose who spoke as though man were freed from all pain. For, as man was\ncreated for health, so was mankind created for happiness; and to speak\nof its misery only, though that misery be everywhere and seem\neverlasting, is only to say words that fall lightly and soon are\nforgotten. Why not speak as though mankind were always on the eve of\ngreat certitude, of great joy? Thither, in truth, is man led by his\ninstinct, though he never may live to behold the long-wished-for\nto-morrow. It is well to believe that there needs but a little more\nthought, a little more courage, more love, more devotion to life, a\nlittle more eagerness, one day to fling open wide the portals of joy\nand of truth. And this thing may still come to pass. Let us hope that\none day all mankind will be happy and wise; and though this day never\nshould dawn, to have hoped for it cannot be wrong. And in any event, it\nis helpful to speak of happiness to those who are sad, that thus at\nleast they may learn what it is that happiness means. They are ever\ninclined to regard it as something beyond them, extraordinary, out of\ntheir reach. But if all who may count themselves happy were to tell,\nvery simply, what it was that brought happiness to them, the others\nwould see that between sorrow and joy the difference is but as between\na gladsome, enlightened acceptance of life and a hostile, gloomy\nsubmission; between a large and harmonious conception of life, and one\nthat is stubborn and narrow. \"Is that all?\" the unhappy would cry. \"But\nwe too have within us, then, the elements of this happiness.\" Surely\nyou have them within you! There lives not a man but has them, those\nonly excepted upon whom great physical calamity has fallen. But speak\nnot lightly of this happiness. There is no other. He is the happiest\nman who best understands his happiness; for he is of all men most fully\naware that it is only the lofty idea, the untiring, courageous, human\nidea, that separates gladness from sorrow. Of this idea it is helpful\nto speak, and as often as may be; not with the view of imposing our own\nidea upon others, but in order that they who may listen shall, little\nby little, conceive the desire to possess an idea of their own. For in\nno two men is it the same. The one that you cherish may well bring no\ncomfort to me; nor shall all your eloquence touch the hidden springs of\nmy life. Needs must I acquire my own, in myself, by myself; but you\nunconsciously make this the easier for me, by telling of the idea that\nis yours. It may happen that I shall find solace in that which brings\nsorrow to you, and that which to you speaks of gladness may be fraught\nwith affliction for me. But no matter; into my grief will enter all\nthat you saw of beauty and comfort, and into my joy there will pass all\nthat was great in your sadness, if indeed my joy be on the same plane\nas your sadness. It behoves us, the first thing of all, to prepare in\nour soul a place of some loftiness, where this idea may be lodged; as\nthe priests of ancient religions laid the mountain peak bare, and\ncleared it of thorn and of root for the fire to descend from heaven.\nThere may come to us any day, from the depths of the planet Mars, the\ninfallible formula of happiness, conveyed in the final truth as to the\naim and the government of the universe. Such a formula could only bring\nchange or advancement unto our spiritual life in the degree of the\ndesire and expectation of advancement in which we might long have been\nliving. The formula would be the same for all men, yet would each one\nbenefit only in the proportion of the eagerness, purity, unselfishness,\nknowledge, that he had stored up in his soul. All morality, all study\nof justice and happiness, should truly be no more than preparation,\nprovision on the vastest scale--a way of gaining experience, a\nstepping-stone laid down for what is to follow. Surely, desirable day\nof all days were the one when at last we should live in absolute truth,\nin immovable logical certitude; but in the meantime it is given us to\nlive in a truth more important still, the truth of our soul and our\ncharacter; and some wise men have proved that this life can be lived in\nthe midst of gravest material errors.\n\n3. Is it idle to speak of justice, happiness, morals, and all\nthings connected therewith, before the hour of science has\nsounded--that definitive hour, wherein all that we cling to may\ncrumble? The darkness that hangs over our life will then, it may be,\npass away; and much that we do in the darkness shall be otherwise done\nin the light. But nevertheless do the essential events of our moral and\nphysical life come to pass in the darkness as completely, as\ninevitably, as they would in the light, Our life must be lived while we\nwait for the word that shall solve the enigma, and the happier, the\nnobler our life, the more vigorous shall it become; and we shall have\nthe more courage, clear-sightedness, boldness, to seek and desire the\ntruth. And happen what may, the time can be never ill-spent that we\ngive to acquiring some knowledge of self. Whatever our relation may\nbecome to this world in which we have being, in our soul there will yet\nbe more feelings, more passions, more secrets unchanged and unchanging,\nthan there are stars that connect with the earth, or mysteries fathomed\nby science. In the bosom of truth undeniable, truth all absorbing, man\nshall doubtless soar upwards; but still, as he rises, still shall his\nsoul unerringly guide him; and the grander the truth of the universe,\nthe more solace and peace it may bring, the more shall the problems of\njustice, morality, happiness, love, present to the eyes of all men the\nsemblance they ever have worn in the eyes of the thinker. We should\nlive as though we were always on the eve of the great revelation; and\nwe should be ready with welcome, with warmest and keenest and fullest,\nmost heartfelt and intimate welcome. And whatever the form it shall\ntake on the day that it comes to us, the best way of all to prepare for\nits fitting reception is to crave for it now, to desire it as lofty, as\nperfect, as vast, as ennobling as the soul can conceive. It must needs\nbe more beautiful, glorious, and ample than the best of our hopes; for,\nwhere it differ therefrom or even frustrate them, it must of necessity\nbring something nobler, loftier, nearer to the nature of man, for it\nwill bring us the truth. To man, though all that he value go under, the\nintimate truth of the universe must be wholly, preeminently admirable.\nAnd though, on the day it unveils, our meekest desires turn to ashes\nand float on the wind, still shall there linger within us all we have\nprepared; and the admirable will enter our soul, the volume of its\nwaters being as the depth of the channel that our expectation has\nfashioned.\n\n4. Is it necessary that we should conceive ourselves to be superior\nto the universe? Our reason may prove what it will: our reason is only\na feeble ray that has issued from Nature; a tiny atom of that whole\nwhich Nature alone shall judge. Is it fitting that the ray of light\nshould desire to alter the lamp whence it springs?\n\nThat loftiness within us, from whose summit we venture to pass judgment\non the totality of life, to absolve or condemn it, is doubtless the\nmerest pin-prick, visible to our eye alone, on the illimitable sphere\nof life. It is wise to think and to act as though all that happened to\nman were all that man most required. It is not long ago--to cite only\none of the problems that the instinct of our planet is invited to\nsolve--that a scheme was on foot to inquire of the thinkers of Europe\nwhether it should rightly be held as a gain or a loss to mankind if an\nenergetic, strenuous, persistent race, which some, through prejudice\ndoubtless, still regard as inferior to the Aryan in qualities of heart\nand of soul--if the Jews, in a word, were to vanish from the face of\nthe earth, or to acquire preponderance there. I am satisfied that the\nsage might answer, without laying himself open to the charge of\nindifference or undue resignation, \"In what comes to pass will be\nhappiness.\" Many things happen that seem unjust to us; but of all the\nachievements of reason there has been none so helpful as the discovery\nof the loftier reason that underlies the misdeeds of nature. It is from\nthe slow and gradual vindication of the unknown force that we deemed at\nfirst to be pitiless, that our moral and physical life has derived its\nchief prop and support. If a race disappears that conforms with our\nevery ideal, it will be only because our ideal still falls short of the\ngrand ideal, which is, as we have said, the intimate truth of the\nuniverse.\n\nOur own experience has taught us that even in this world of reality\nthere exist dreams and desires, thoughts and feelings of beauty, of\njustice, and love, that are of the noblest and loftiest. And if there\nbe any that shrink from the test of reality--in other words, from the\nmysterious, nameless power of life--it follows that these must be\ndifferent, but not that their beauty is less, or their vastness, or\npower to console. Till reality confront us, it is well, it may be, to\ncherish ideals that we hold to surpass it in beauty; but once face to\nface with reality, then must the ideal flame that has fed on our\nnoblest desires be content to throw faithful light on the less fragile,\nless tender beauty of the mighty mass that crushes these desires. Nor\ndoes this seem to me to imply a mere drowsy fatalism, or servile\nacquiescence, or optimism shrinking from action. The sage no doubt must\nmany a time forfeit some measure of the blind, the head-strong,\nfanatical zeal that has enabled some men, whose reason was fettered and\nbound, to achieve results that are nigh superhuman; but therefore none\nthe less is it certain that no man of upright soul should go forth in\nsearch of illusion or blindness, of zeal or vigour, in a region\ninferior to that of his noblest hours. To do our true duty in life, it\nmust ever be done with the aid of all that is highest in our soul,\nhighest in the truth that is ours. And even though it be permissible at\ntimes in actual, every-day life to compromise with events, and not\nfollow impulse to the ruthless end--as did St. Just, for instance, who\nin his admirable and ardent desire for universal peace, happiness,\njustice, in all good faith sent thousands to the scaffold--in the life\nof thought it is our unvarying duty to pursue our thought right to the\nend.\n\nAgain, the knowledge that our actions still await the seal of final\ntruth can deter from action those only who would have remained no less\ninert had no such knowledge been theirs. Thought that rises encourages\nwhere it disheartens. And to those of a loftier vision, prepared in\nadvance to admire the truth that will nullify all they have done, it\nseems only natural still to endeavour with all might and main to\nenhance what yet may be termed the justice, the beauty, the reason of\nthis our earth. They know that to penetrate deeper, to understand, to\nrespect--all this is enhancement. Above all, they have faith in \"the\nidea of the universe.\" They are satisfied that every effort that tends\nto improvement approaches the secret intention of life; they are taught\nby the failure of their noblest endeavours, by the resistance of this\nmighty world, to discover anew fresh reasons for wonder, for ardour,\nfor hope.\n\nAs you climb up a mountain towards nightfall, the trees and the houses,\nthe steeple, the fields and the orchards, the road, and even the river,\nwill gradually dwindle and fade, and at last disappear in the gloom\nthat steals over the valley. But the threads of light that shine from\nthe houses of men and pierce through the blackest of nights, these\nshine on undimmed. And every step that you take to the summit reveals\nbut more lights, and more, in the hamlets asleep at your foot. For\nlight, though so fragile, is perhaps the one thing of all that yields\nnaught of itself as it faces immensity. Thus it is with our moral light\ntoo, when we look upon life from some slight elevation. It is well that\nreflection should teach us to disburden our soul of base passions; but\nit should not discourage, or weaken, our humblest desire for justice,\nfor truth, and for love.\n\nWhence comes this rule that I thus propound? Nay, I know not myself. To\nme it seems helpful and requisite; nor could I give reasons other than\nspring from the feelings alone. Such reasons, however, at times should\nby no means be treated too lightly. If I should ever attain a summit\nwhence this law seemed useless to me, I would listen to the secret\ninstinct bidding me not linger, but climb on still higher, till its\nusefulness should once again be clearly apparent to me.\n\n5. This general introduction over, let us speak more particularly\nof the influence that wisdom can have upon destiny. And, the occasion\npresenting itself here, I shall do well perhaps to state now, at the\nvery beginning, that in this book it will be vain to seek for any\nrigorous method. For indeed it is but composed of oft-interrupted\nthoughts, that entwine themselves with more or less system around two\nor three subjects. Its object is not to convince; there is nothing it\nprofesses to prove. Besides, in life books have by no means the\nimportance that writers and readers claim for them. We should regard\nthem as did a friend of mine, a man of great wisdom, who listened one\nday to the recital of the last moments of the Emperor Antoninus Pius.\nAntoninus Pius--who was perhaps truly the best and most perfect man\nthis world has known, better even than Marcus Aurelius; for in addition\nto the virtues, the kindness, the deep feeling and wisdom of his\nadopted son, he had something of greater virility and energy, of\nsimpler happiness, something more real, spontaneous, closer to everyday\nlife--Antoninus Pius lay on his bed, awaiting the summons of death, his\neyes dim with unbidden tears, his limbs moist with the pale sweat of\nagony. At that moment there entered the captain of the guard, come to\ndemand the watchword, such being the custom. AEQUANIMITAS--EVENNESS OF\nMIND, he replied, as he turned his head to the eternal shadow. It is\nwell that we should love and admire that word, said my friend. But\nbetter still, he added, to have it in us to sacrifice, unknown to\nothers, unknown even to ourselves, the time fortune accords us wherein\nto admire it, in favour of the first little useful, living deed that\nthe same fortune incessantly offers to every willing heart.\n\n6. \"It was doubtless the will of their destiny that men and events\nshould oppress them whithersoever they went,\" said an author of the\nheroes of his book. Thus it is with the majority of men; Indeed, with\nall those who have not yet learned to distinguish between exterior and\nmoral destiny. They are like a little bewildered stream that I chanced\nto espy one evening as I stood on the hillside. I beheld it far down in\nthe valley, staggering, struggling, climbing, falling: blindly groping\nits way to the great lake that slumbered, the other side of the forest,\nin the peace of the dawn. Here it was a block of basalt that forced the\nstreamlet to wind round and about four times; there, the roots of a\nhoary tree; further on still, the mere recollection of an obstacle now\ngone for ever thrust it back to its source, bubbling in impotent fury,\ndivided for all time from its goal and its gladness. But, in another\ndirection, at right angles almost to the distraught, unhappy, useless\nstream, a force superior to the force of instinct had traced a long,\ngreenish canal, calm, peaceful, deliberate; that flowed steadily across\nthe country, across the crumbling stones, across the obedient forest,\non its clear and unerring, unhurrying way from its distant source on\nthe horizon to the same tranquil, shining lake. And I had at my feet\nbefore me the image of the two great destinies offered to man.\n\n7. Side by side with those whom men and events oppress, there are\nothers who have within them some kind of inner force, which has its\nwill not only with men, but even with the events that surround them. Of\nthis force they are fully aware, and indeed it is nothing more than a\nknowledge of self that has far overstepped the ordinary limits of\nconsciousness.\n\nOur consciousness is our home, our refuge from the caprice of fate, our\ncentre of happiness and strength. But these things have been said so\noften that we need do no more than refer to them, and indicate them as\nour starting-point. Ennoblement comes to man in the degree that his\nconsciousness quickens, and the nobler the man has become, the\nprofounder must consciousness be. Admirable exchange takes place here;\nand even as love is insatiable in its craving for love, so is\nconsciousness insatiable in its craving for growth, for moral\nuplifting; and moral uplifting for ever is yearning for consciousness.\n\n8. But this knowledge of self is only too often regarded as\nimplying no more than a knowledge of our defects and our qualities,\nwhereas it does indeed extend infinitely further, to mysteries vastly\nmore helpful. To know oneself in repose suffices not, nor does it\nsuffice to know oneself in the past or the present. Those within whom\nlies the force that I speak of know themselves in the future too.\nConsciousness of self with the greatest of men implies consciousness up\nto a point of their star or their destiny. They are aware of some part\nof their future, because they have already become part of this future.\nThey have faith in themselves, for they know in advance how events will\nbe received in their soul. The event in itself is pure water that flows\nfrom the pitcher of fate, and seldom has it either savour or perfume or\ncolour. But even as the soul may be wherein it seeks shelter, so will\nthe event become joyous or sad, become tender or hateful, become deadly\nor quick with life. To those round about us there happen incessant and\ncountless adventures, whereof every one, it would seem, contains a germ\nof heroism; but the adventure passes away, and heroic deed is there\nnone. But when Jesus Christ met the Samaritan, met a few children, an\nadulterous woman, then did humanity rise three times in succession to\nthe level of God.\n\n9. It might almost be said that there happens to men only that they\ndesire. It is true that on certain external events our influence is of\nthe feeblest, but we have all-powerful action on that which these\nevents shall become in ourselves--in other words, on their spiritual\npart, on what is radiant, undying within them. There are thousands of\nmen within whom this spiritual part, that is craving for birth in every\nmisfortune, or love, or chance meeting, has known not one moment of\nlife--these men pass away like a straw on the stream. And others there\nare within whom this immortal part absorbs all; these are like islands\nthat have sprung up in the ocean; for they have found immovable\nanchorage, whence they issue commands that their destiny needs must\nobey. The life of most men will be saddened or lightened by the thing\nthat may chance to befall them--in the men whom I speak of, whatever\nmay happen is lit up by their inward life. When you love, it is not\nyour love that forms part of your destiny; but the knowledge of self\nthat you will have found, deep down in your love--this it is that will\nhelp to fashion your life. If you have been deceived, it is not the\ndeception that matters, but the forgiveness whereto it gave birth in\nyour soul, and the loftiness, wisdom, completeness of this\nforgiveness--by these shall your life be steered to destiny's haven of\nbrightness and peace; by these shall your eyes see more clearly than if\nall men had ever been faithful. But if, by this act of deceit, there\nhave come not more simpleness, loftier faith, wider range to your love,\nthen have you been deceived in vain, and may truly say nothing has\nhappened.\n\n10. Let us always remember that nothing befalls us that is not of the\nnature of ourselves. There comes no adventure but wears to our soul the\nshape of our everyday thoughts; and deeds of heroism are but offered to\nthose who, for many long years, have been heroes in obscurity and\nsilence. And whether you climb up the mountain or go down the hill to\nthe valley, whether you journey to the end of the world or merely walk\nround your house, none but yourself shall you meet on the highway of\nfate. If Judas go forth to-night, it is towards Judas his steps will\ntend, nor will chance for betrayal be lacking; but let Socrates open\nhis door, he shall find Socrates asleep on the threshold before him,\nand there will be occasion for wisdom. Our adventures hover around us\nlike bees round the hive when preparing to swarm. They wait till the\nmother-idea has at last come forth from our soul, and no sooner has she\nappeared than they all come rushing towards her. Be false, and\nfalsehoods will haste to you; love, and adventures will flock to you,\nthrobbing with love. They seem to be all on the watch for the signal we\nhoist from within: and if the soul grow wiser towards evening, the\nsorrow will grow wiser too that the soul had fashioned for itself in\nthe morning.\n\n11. No great inner event befalls those who summon it not; and yet is\nthere germ of great inner event in the smallest occurrence of life. But\nevents such as these are apportioned by justice, and to each man is\ngiven of the spoil in accord with his merits. We become that which we\ndiscover in the sorrows and joys that befall us; and the least expected\ncaprices of fate soon mould themselves on our thoughts. It is in our\npast that destiny finds all her weapons, her vestments, her jewels.\nWere the only son of Thersites and Socrates to die the same day,\nSocrates' grief would in no way resemble the grief of Thersites.\nMisfortune or happiness, it seems, must be chastened ere it knock at\nthe door of the sage; but only by stooping low can it enter the\ncommonplace soul.\n\n12. As we become wiser we escape some of our instinctive destinies.\nThere is in us all sufficient desire for wisdom to transform into\nconsciousness most of the hazards of life. And all that has thus been\ntransformed can belong no more to the hostile powers. A sorrow your\nsoul has changed into sweetness, to indulgence or patient smiles, is a\nsorrow that shall never return without spiritual ornament; and a fault\nor defect you have looked in the face can harm you no more, or even be\nharmful to others.\n\nInstinct and destiny are for ever conferring together; they support one\nanother, and rove, hand in hand, round the man who is not on his guard.\nAnd whoever is able to curb the blind force of instinct within him, is\nable to curb the force of external destiny also. He seems to create\nsome kind of sanctuary, whose inviolability will be in the degree of\nhis wisdom and the consciousness he has acquired becomes the centre of\na circle of light, within which the passer-by is secure from the\ncaprice of fate. Had Jesus Christ or Socrates dwelt in Agamemnon's\npalace among the Atrides, then had there been no Oresteia; nor would\nOedipus ever have dreamed of destroying his sight if they had been\ntranquilly seated on the threshold of Jocasta's abode. Fatality shrinks\nback abashed from the should that has more than once conquered her;\nthere are certain disasters she dare not send forth when this soul is\nnear; and the sage, as he passes by, intervenes in numberless tragedies.\n\n13. The mere presence of the sage suffices to paralyse destiny; and of\nthis we find proof in the fact that there exists scarce a drama wherein\na true sage appears; when such is the case, the event needs must halt\nbefore reaching bloodshed and tears. Not only is there no drama wherein\nsage is in conflict with sage, but indeed there are very few whose\naction revolves round a sage. And truly, can we imagine that an event\nshall turn into tragedy between men who have earnestly striven to gain\nknowledge of self? But the heroes of famous tragedies do not question\ntheir souls profoundly; and it follows therefrom that the beauty the\ntragic poet presents is only a captive thing, is fettered with chains;\nfor were his heroes to soar to the height the real hero would gain,\ntheir weapons would fall to the ground, and the drama itself become\npeace--the peace of enlightenment. It is only in the Passion of Christ,\nthe Phaedo, Prometheus, the murder of Orpheus, the sacrifice of\nAntigone--it is only in these that we find the drama of the sage, the\nsolitary drama of wisdom. But elsewhere it is rarely indeed that tragic\npoets will allow a sage to appear on the scene, though it be for an\ninstant. They are afraid of a lofty soul; for they know that events are\nno less afraid, and that a murder committed in the presence of the sage\nseems quite other than the murder committed in the presence of those\nwhose soul still knows not itself. Had Oedipus possessed the inner\nrefuge that Marcus Aurelius, for instance, had been able to erect in\nhimself--a refuge whereto he could fly at all times--had he only\nacquired some few of the certitudes open to every thinker--what could\ndestiny then have done? What would she have entrapped in her snares?\nWould they have contained aught besides the pure light that streams\nfrom the lofty soul, as it grows more beautiful still in misfortune?\n\nBut where is the sage in Oedipus? Is it Tiresias? He reads the future,\nbut knows not that goodness and forgiveness are lords of the future. He\nknows the truth of the gods, but not the truth of mankind. He ignores\nthe wisdom that takes misfortune to her arms and would fain give it of\nher strength. Truly they who know still know nothing if the strength of\nlove be not theirs; for the true sage is not he who sees, but he who,\nseeing the furthest, has the deepest love for mankind. He who sees\nwithout loving is only straining his eyes in the darkness.\n\n14. We are told that the famous tragedies show us the struggle of man\nagainst Fate. I believe, on the contrary, that scarcely a drama exists\nwherein fatality truly does reign. Search as I may, I cannot find one\nwhich exhibits the hero in conflict with destiny pure and simple. For\nindeed it is never destiny that he attacks; it is with wisdom he is\nalways at war. Real fatality exists only in certain external\ndisasters-as disease, accident, the sudden death of those we love; but\nINNER FATALITY there is none. Wisdom has will power sufficient to\nrectify all that does not deal death to the body; it will even at times\ninvade the narrow domain of external fatality. It is true that we must\nhave amassed considerable and patient treasure within us for this will\npower to find the resources it needs.\n\n15. The statue of destiny casts a huge shadow over the valley, which it\nseems to enshroud in gloom; but this shadow has clearest outline for\nsuch as look down from the mountain. We are born, it may be, with the\nshadow upon us; but to many men is it granted to emerge from beneath\nit; and even though infirmity or weakness keep us, till death, confined\nin these sombre regions, still we can fly thence at times on the wings\nof our hopes and our thoughts. There may well be some few over whom\nFate exerts a more tyrannous power, by virtue of instinct, heredity and\nother laws more relentless still, more profound and obscure; but even\nwhen we writhe beneath unmerited, crushing misfortune; even when\nfortune compels us to do the thing we should never have done, had our\nhands been free; even then, when the deed has been done, the misfortune\nhas happened, it still rests with ourselves to deny her the least\ninfluence on that which shall come to pass in our soul. She may strike\nat the heart that is eager for good, but still is she helpless to keep\nback the light that shall stream to this heart from the error\nacknowledged, the pain undergone. It is not in her power to prevent the\nsoul from transforming each single affliction into thoughts, into\nfeelings and treasure she dare not profane. Be her empire never so\ngreat over all things external, she always must halt when she finds on\nthe threshold a silent guardian of the inner life. And if it be granted\nher then to pass through to the hidden dwelling, it is but as a\nbountiful guest she will enter, bringing with her new pledges of peace:\nrefreshing the slumberous air, and making still clearer the light, the\ntranquillity deeper--illumining all the horizon.\n\n16. Let us ask once again: what had destiny done if she had, by some\nblunder, lured Epicurus, or Marcus Aurelius, or Antoninus Pius into the\nsnares that she laid around Oedipus? I will even assume that she might\nhave compelled Antoninus, for instance, to murder his father, and, all\nunwittingly, to profane the couch of his mother. Would that noble\nsovereign's soul have been hopelessly crushed? Would the end of it all\nnot have been as the end of all dramas must be wherein the sage is\nattacked--great sorrow surely, but also great radiance that springs\nfrom this sorrow, and already is partly triumphant over the shadow of\ngrief? Needs must Antoninus have wept as all men must weep; but tears\ncan quench not one ray in the soul that shines with no borrowed light.\nTo the sage the road is long that leads from grief to despair; it is a\nroad untravelled by wisdom. When the soul has attained such loftiness\nas the life of Antoninus shows us that his had acquired, then is each\nfalling tear illumined by beautiful thought and by generous feeling. He\nwould have taken calamity to him, to all that was purest, most vast, in\nhis soul; and misfortune, like water, espouses the form of the vase\nthat contains it. Antoninus, we say, would have brought resignation to\nbear; but this is a word that too often conceals the true working of a\nnoble heart. There is no soul so petty but what it too may believe that\nit is resigned. Alas! it is not resignation that comforts us, raises\nand chastens; but indeed the thoughts and the feelings in whose name we\nembrace resignation; and it is here that wisdom doles out the rewards\nthey have earned to her faithful.\n\nSome ideas there are that lie beyond the reach of any catastrophe. He\nwill be far less exposed to disaster who cherishes ideas within him\nthat soar high above the indifference, selfishness, vanities of\neveryday life. And therefore, come happiness or sorrow, the happiest\nman will be he within whom the greatest idea shall burn the most\nardently. Had fate so desired it, Antoninus also, perhaps, had been\nguilty of incest and parricide; but his inward life would not have been\ncrushed thereby, as was that of Oedipus; nay, these very catastrophes\nwould have given him mightier strength, and destiny would have fled in\ndespair, strewing the ground by the emperor's palace with her nets and\nher blunted weapons; for even as triumph of dictators and consuls could\nbe celebrated only in Rome, so can the true triumph of Fate take place\nnowhere save in our soul.\n\n17. Where do we find the fatality in \"Hamlet,\" \"King Lear,\" in\n\"Macbeth\"? Is its throne not erected in the very centre of the old\nking's madness, on the lowest degree of the young prince's imagination,\nat the very summit of the Thane's morbid cravings? Macbeth we may well\npass by; not need we linger over Cordelia's father, for his absence of\nconsciousness is all too manifest; but Hamlet, Hamlet the thinker--is\nhe wise? Is the elevation sufficient wherefrom he looks down on the\ncrimes of Elsinore? He seems to regard them from the loftiest heights\nof his intellect; but in the light-clad mountain range of wisdom there\nare other peaks that tower far above the heights of the intellect--the\npeaks of goodness and confidence, of indulgence and love. If he could\nhave surveyed the misdeeds of Elsinore from the eminence whence Marcus\nAurelius or Fenelon, for instance, had surely surveyed them, what would\nhave resulted then? And, first of all, does it not often happen that a\ncrime which is suddenly conscious of the gaze of a mightier soul will\npause, and halt, and at last crawl back to its lair; even as bees cease\nfrom labour when a gleam of sunshine steals into the hive?\n\nThe real destiny, the inner destiny would in any event have followed\nits course in the souls of Claudius and Gertrude; for these sinful ones\nhad delivered themselves into its hands, as must needs be the case with\nthose whose ways are evil; but would it have dared to spread its\ninfluence abroad if one of those sages had been in the palace? Would it\nhave dared to overstep the shining, denouncing barrier that his\npresence would have imposed, and maintained, in front of the palace\ngates? When the sage's destiny blends with that of men of inferior\nwisdom, the sage raises them to his level, but himself will rarely\ndescend. Neither on earth nor in the domain of fatality do rivers flow\nback to their source. But to return: let us imagine a sovereign,\nall-powerful soul--that of Jesus, in Hamlet's place at Elsinore; would\nthe tragedy then have flown on till it reached the four deaths at the\nend? Is that conceivable? A crime may be never so skilfully\nplanned--when the eyes of deep wisdom rest on it, it becomes like a\ntrivial show that we offer to very small children at nightfall: some\nmagic-lantern performance, whose tawdry imposture a last gleam of\nsunshine lays bare. Can you conceive Jesus Christ--nay, any wise man\nyou have happened to meet--in the midst of the unnatural gloom that\noverhung Elsinore? Is not every action of Hamlet induced by a fanatical\nimpulse, which tells him that duty consists in revenge alone? and does\nit need superhuman effort to recognise that revenge never can be a\nduty? I say again that Hamlet thinks much, but that he is by no means\nwise. He cannot conceive where to look for the weak spot in destiny's\narmour. Lofty thoughts suffice not always to overcome destiny; for\nagainst these destiny can oppose thoughts that are loftier still; but\nwhat destiny has ever withstood thoughts that are simple and good,\nthoughts that are tender and loyal? We can triumph over destiny only by\ndoing the very reverse of the evil she fain would have us commit. For\nno tragedy can be inevitable. At Elsinore there is not a soul but\nrefuses to see, and hence the catastrophe; but a soul that is quick\nwith life will compel those around it to open their eyes. Where was it\nwritten that Laertes, Ophelia, Hamlet, Claudius, Gertrude, should\ndie--where, save in Hamlet's pitiful blindness? But was this blindness\ninevitable? Why speak of destiny when a simple thought had sufficed to\narrest all the forces of murder? The empire of destiny is surely\nsufficiently vast. I acknowledge her might when a wall crashes down on\nmy head, when the storm drives a ship on the rocks, when disease\nattacks those whom I love; but into man's soul she never will come,\nuncalled. Hamlet is unhappy because he moves in unnatural darkness; and\nhis ignorance puts the seal upon his unhappiness. We have but to issue\ncommands and fate will obey--there is nothing in the world that will\noffer such long and patient submission. Horatio, up to the last, could\nhave issued commands; but his master's shadow lay on him, and he lacked\nthe courage to shake himself free. Had there been but one soul\ncourageous enough to cry out the truth, then had the history of\nElsinore not been shrouded in tears of hatred and horror. But\nmisfortune, that bends beneath the fingers of wisdom like the cane that\nwe cut from the tree, becomes iron, and murderously rigid, in the hand\nof unconsciousness. Once again, all depended here, not on destiny, but\non the wisdom of the wisest, and this Hamlet was; therefore did he, by\nhis presence, become the centre of the drama of Elsinore; and on\nhimself only did the wisdom of Hamlet depend.\n\n18. And if you look distrustfully on imaginary tragedies, you have only\nto investigate some of the greatest dramas of authentic history to find\nthat in these too the destinies of men are no different: that their\nways are the same, and their petulance, their revolt and submission.\nYou will discover that there too it is a force of man's own creating\nthat plays the most active part in what if pleases us to term\n\"fatality.\" This fatality, it is true, is enormous, but rarely\nirresistible. It does not leap forth at a given moment from an\ninexorable, inaccessible, unfathomable abyss. It is build up of the\nenergy, the desires and suffering, the thoughts and passions of our\nbrothers; and these passions should be well known to us, for they\ndiffer not from our own. In our most inexplicable moments, in our most\nmysterious, unexpected misfortunes, we rarely find ourselves struggling\nwith an invisible enemy, or one that is entirely foreign to us. Why\nstrive of our own free will to enlarge the domain of the inevitable?\nThey who are truly strong are aware that among the forces that oppose\ntheir schemes there are some that they know not; but against such as\nthey do know they fight on as bravely as though no others existed; and\nthese men will be often victorious. We shall have added most strangely\nto our safety and happiness and peace the day that our sloth and our\nignorance shall have ceased to term fatal. What should truly be looked\non as human and natural by our intelligence and our energy.\n\n19. Let us consider one noteworthy victim of destiny, Louis XVI. Never,\nit would seem, did relentless fatality clamour so loudly for the\ndestruction of an unfortunate man; of one who was gentle, and good, and\nvirtuous, and honourable. And yet, as we look more closely into the\npages of history, do we not find that fatality distils her poison from\nthe victim's own wavering feebleness, his own trivial duplicity,\nblindness, unreason, and vanity? And if it be true that some kind of\npredestination governs every circumstance of life, it appears to be no\nless true that such predestination exists in our character only; and to\nmodify character must surely be easy to the man of unfettered will, for\nis it not constantly changing in the lives of the vast bulk of men? Is\nyour own character, at thirty, the same as it was when you were ten\nyears younger? It will be better or worse in the measure that you have\nbelieved that disloyalty, wickedness, hatred and falsehood have\ntriumphed in life, or goodness, and truth, and love. And you will have\nthought that you witnessed the triumph of hatred or love, of truth or\nof falsehood, in exact accord with the lofty or baser idea as to the\nhappiness and aim of your life that will slowly have arisen within you.\nFor it is our most secret desire that governs and dominates all. If\nyour eyes look for nothing but evil, you will always see evil\ntriumphant; but if you have learned to let your glance rest on\nsincerity, simpleness, truth, you will ever discover, deep down in all\nthings, the silent overpowering victory of that which you love.\n\n20. It is scarcely from this point of view, however, that Louis XVI.\nshould be Judged. Let us rather imagine ourselves in his place, in the\nmidst of his doubt and bewilderment, his darkness and difficulties. Now\nthat we know all that happened it is easy enough to declare what should\nhave been done; but are we ourselves, at this moment, aware of what is\nour duty? Are we not contending with troubles and doubts of our own?\nand were it not well that they who one day shall pass judgment upon us\nshould seek out the track that our footsteps have left on the sands of\nthe hillock we climbed, hoping thence to discover the future? Louis\nXVI. was bewildered: do we know what ought to be done? Do we know what\nwe best had abandon, what we best had defend? Are we wiser than he as\nwe waver betwixt the rights of human reason and those that circumstance\nclaims? And when hesitation is conscientious, does it not often possess\nall the elements of duty? There is one most important lesson to be\nlearned from the example of this unfortunate king: and it is that when\ndoubt confronts us which in itself is noble and great, it is our duty\nto march bravely onwards, turning neither to right nor to left of us,\ngoing infinitely further than seems to be reasonable, practical, just.\nThe idea that we hold to-day of duty, and justice, and truth, may seem\nclear to us now, and advanced and unfettered; but how different will it\nappear a few years, a few centuries later! Had Louis XVI. done what we\nshould have done--we who now are aware of what had been the right thing\nto do--had he frankly renounced all the follies of royal prerogative,\nand loyally adopted the new truth and loftier justice that had sprung\ninto being, then should we to-day be admiring his genius. And the king\nhimself, perhaps--for he was not a foolish man, or wicked--may have for\none instant beheld his own situation with the clear eye of an impartial\nphilosopher. That at least is by no means impossible, historically or\npsychologically. Even in our most solemn hours of doubt it is rare that\nwe know not where we should look for the fixed point of duty, its\nunalterable summit; but we feel that there stretches a distance too\nwide to be travelled between the actual thing to be done and this\nmountain-peak, that glitters afar in its solitude. And yet it is proved\nby man's whole history--by the life of each one of us--that it is on\nthe loftiest summit that right has always its dwelling; and that to\nthis summit we too at the end must climb, after much precious time has\nbeen lost on many an intermediate eminence. And what is a sage, a great\nman, a hero, if not one who has dared to go, alone and ahead of the\nothers, to the deserted table-land that lay more or less within sight\nof all men?\n\n21. We do not imply that Louis XVI. should necessarily have been a man\nof this stamp, a man of genius; although to have genius seems almost\nthe duty of him who sways in his hands the destiny of vast numbers of\nmen. Nor do we claim that the best men among us to-day would have been\nable to escape his errors, or the misfortunes to which they gave rise.\nAnd yet there is one thing certain: that of all these misfortunes none\nhad super-human origin; not one was supernaturally, or too\nmysteriously, inevitable. They came not from another world; they were\nlaunched by no monstrous god, capricious and incomprehensible. They\nwere born of an idea of justice that men failed to grasp; an idea of\njustice that suddenly had wakened in life, but never had lain asleep in\nthe reason of man. And is there a thing in this world can be more\nreassuring, or nearer to us, more profoundly human, than an idea of\njustice? Louis XVI. may well have regretted that this idea, that\nshattered his peace, should have awakened during his reign; but this\nwas the only reproach he could level at fate; and when we murmur at\nfate ourselves our complaints have much the same value. For the rest,\nit is legitimate enough to suppose that there needed but one single act\nof energy, absolute loyalty, disinterested, clear-sighted wisdom, to\nchange the whole course of events. If the flight to Varennes--in itself\nan act of duplicity and culpable weakness--had only been arranged a\nlittle less childishly, foolishly (as any man would have arranged it\nwho was accustomed to the habits of life), there can be not a doubt\nthat Louis XVI. would never have died on the scaffold. Was it a god, or\nhis blind reliance on Marie Antoinette, that led him to entrust de\nFersen--a stupid, conceited, and tactless creature--with the\npreparations and control of this disastrous journey? Was it a force\ninstinct with great mystery, or only his own unconsciousness,\nheedlessness, thoughtlessness, and a kind of strange apathetic\nsubmission--such as the weak and the idle will often display at moments\nof danger, when they seem almost to challenge their star--that induced\nhim again and again, at each change of horses, to put his head out of\nthe carriage window, and thus be recognised three or four times? And at\nthe moment that decided all, in that throbbing and sinister night of\nVarennes--a night indeed when fatality should have been an immovable\nmountain governing all the horizon--do we not see this fatality\nstumbling at every step, like a child that is learning to walk and\nwonders, is it this white pebble or that tuft of grass that will cause\nit to fall to right or to left of the path? And then, at the tragic\nhalt of the carriage, in that black night: at the terrible cry sent\nforth by young Drouet, \"In the name of the Nation!\" there had needed\nbut one order from the king, one lash of the whip, one pull at the\ncollar--and you and I would probably not have been born, for the\nhistory of the world had been different. And again, in presence of the\nmayor, who stood there, respectful, disconcerted, hesitating, ready to\nfling every gate open had but one imperious word been spoken; and at\nthe shop of M. Sauce, the worthy village grocer; and, last of all, when\nGoguelat and de Choiseul had arrived with their hussars, bringing\nrescue, salvation--did not all depend, a hundred times over, on a mere\nyes or no, a step, a gesture, a look? Take any ten men with whom you\nare intimate, let them have been King of France, you can foretell the\nissue of their ten nights. Ah, it was that night truly that heaped\nshame on fatality, that laid bare her weakness! For that night revealed\nto all men the dependence, the wretched and shivering poverty of the\ngreat mysterious force that, in moments of undue resignation, seems to\nweigh so heavily on life! Never before has she been beheld so\ncompletely despoiled of her vestments, of her imposing, deceptive\nrobes, as she incessantly came and went that night, from death to life,\nfrom life to death; throwing herself at last, like a woman distraught,\ninto the arms of an unhappy king, whom she besought til dawn for a\ndecision, an existence, that she herself never can find save only in\nthe depths of the will and the intellect of man.\n\n22. And yet this is not the entire truth. It is helpful to regard\nevents in this fashion, thus seeking to minimise the importance of\nfatality, looking upon it as some vague and wandering creature that we\nhave to shelter and guide. We gain the more courage thereby, the more\nconfidence, initiative; and these are qualities essential to the doing\nof anything useful; and they shall stand us in good stead, too, when\nour own hour of danger draws nigh. But for all that, we do not pretend\nthat there truly is no other force--that all things can be governed by\nour will and our intellect. These must be trained to act like the\nsoldiers of a conquering army; they must learn to thrive at the cost of\nall that opposes them; they must find sustenance even in the unknown\nthat towers above them. Those who desire to emerge from the ordinary\nhabits of life, from the straitened happiness of mere pleasure-seeking\nmen, must march with deliberate conviction along the path that is known\nto them, yet never forget the unexplored regions through which this\npath winds. We must act as though we were masters--as though all things\nwere bound to obey us; and yet let us carefully tend in our soul a\nthought whose duty it shall be to offer noble submission to the mighty\nforces we may encounter. It is well that the hand should believe that\nall is expected, foreseen; but well, too, that we should have in us a\nsecret idea, inviolable, incorruptible, that will always remember that\nwhatever is great most often must be unforeseen. It is the unforeseen,\nthe unknown, that fulfil what we never should dare to attempt; but they\nwill not come to our aid if they find not, deep down in our heart, an\naltar inscribed to their worship. Men of the mightiest will--men like\nNapoleon--were careful, in their most extraordinary deeds, to leave\nopen a good share to fate. Those within whom there lives not a generous\nhope will keep fate closely confined, as they would a sickly child; but\nothers invite her into the limitless plains man has not yet the\nstrength to explore, and their eyes follow her every movement.\n\n23. These feverish hours of history resemble a storm that we see on the\nocean; we come from far inland; we rush to the beach, in keen\nexpectation; we eye the enormous waves with curious eagerness, with\nalmost childish intensity. And there comes one along that is three\ntimes as high and as fierce as the rest. It rushes towards us like some\nmonster with diaphanous muscles. It uncoils itself in mad haste from\nthe distant horizon, as though it were bearer of some urgent, complete\nrevelation. It ploughs in its wake a track so deep that we feel that\nthe sea must at last be yielding up one of her secrets; but all things\nhappen the same as on a breathless and cloudless day, when languid\nwavelets roll to and fro in the limpid, fathomless water; from the\nocean arises no living thing, not a blade of grass, not a stone.\n\nIf aught could discourage the sage--though he is not truly wise whose\nastonishment is not enlightened, and his interest quickened, by the\nunforeseen thing that discourages--it would be the discovery, in this\nFrench Revolution, of more than one destiny that is infinitely sadder,\nmore overwhelming, more inexplicable, than that of Louis XVI. I refer\nto the Girondins: above all, to the admirable Vergniaud. To-day even,\nthough we know all that the future kept hidden from him, and are able\nto divine what it was that was sought by the instinctive desire of that\nexceptional century--to-day even it were surely not possible to act\nmore nobly, more wisely, than he. Let fortune hurl any man into the\nburning centre of a movement that had swept every barrier down, it were\nsurely not possible to reveal a finer character or loftier spirit.\nCould we fashion, deep down in our heart, out of all that is purest\nwithin us, out of all our wisdom and all our love, some beautiful,\nspotless creature with never a thought of self, without weakness or\nerror--such a being would desire a place by the side of Vergniaud, on\nthose deserted Convention seats, \"whereon the shadow of death seemed\nalready to hover,\" that he might think as Vergniaud thought, and so\nspeak, and act. He saw the infallible, eternal, that lay the other side\nof that tragical moment; he knew how to be humane and benevolent still,\nthrough all those terrible days when humanity and benevolence seemed\nthe bitterest enemies of the ideal of justice, whereto he had\nsacrificed all; and in his great and noble doubt he marched bravely\nonwards, turning neither to right nor to left of him, going infinitely\nfurther than seemed to be reasonable, practical, just. The violent\ndeath that was not unexpected came towards him, with half his road yet\nuntravelled; to teach us that often in this strange conflict between\nman and his destiny, the question is not how to save the life of our\nbody, but that of our most beautiful feelings, of our loftiest thoughts,\n\n\"Of what avail are my loftiest thoughts if I have ceased to exist?\"\nthere are some will ask; to whom others, it may be, will answer, \"What\nbecomes of myself if all that I love in my heart and my spirit must\ndie, that my life may be saved?\" And are not almost all the morals, and\nheroism, and virtue of man summed up in that single choice?\n\n24. But what may this wisdom be that we rate thus highly? Let us not\nseek to define it too closely; that were but to enchain it. If a man\nwere desirous to study the nature of light, and began by extinguishing\nall the lights that were near, would not a few cinders, a smouldering\nwick, be all he would ever discover? And so has it been with those who\nessayed definition. \"The word wise,\" said Joubert, \"when used to a\nchild, is a word that each child understands, and that we need never\nexplain.\" Let us accept it even as the child accepts it, that it may\ngrow with our growth. Let us say of wisdom what Sister Hadewijck, the\nmysterious enemy of Ruijsbroeck the Admirable, said of love: \"Its\nprofoundest abyss is its most beautiful form.\" Wisdom requires no form;\nher beauty must vary, as varies the beauty of flame. She is no\nmotionless goddess, for ever couched on her throne. She is Minerva who\nfollows us, soars to the skies with us, falls to the earth with us,\nmingles her tears with our tears, and rejoices when we rejoice. Truly\nwise you are not unless your wisdom be constantly changing from your\nchildhood on to your death. The more the word means to you, the more\nbeauty and depth it conveys, the wiser must you become; and each step\nthat one takes towards wisdom reveals to the soul ever-widening space,\nthat wisdom never shall traverse.\n\n25. He who knows himself is wise; yet have we no sooner acquired real\nconsciousness of our being than we learn that true wisdom is a thing\nthat lies far deeper than consciousness. The chief gain of increased\nconsciousness is that it unveils an ever-loftier unconsciousness, on\nwhose heights do the sources lie of the purest wisdom. The heritage of\nunconsciousness is for all men the same; but it is situate partly\nwithin and partly without the confines of normal consciousness. The\nbulk of mankind will rarely pass over the border; but true lovers of\nwisdom press on, till they open new routes that cross over the\nfrontier. If I love, and my love has procured me the fullest\nconsciousness man may attain, then will an unconsciousness light up\nthis love that shall be quite other than the one whereby commonplace\nlove is obscured. For this second unconsciousness hedges the animal\nround, whereas the first draws close unto God; but needs must it lose\nall trace of the second ere it become aware of itself. In\nunconsciousness we ever must dwell; but are able to purify, day after\nday, the unconsciousness that wraps us around.\n\n26. We shall not become wise through worshipping reason alone; and\nwisdom means more than perpetual triumph of reason over inferior\ninstincts. Such triumphs can help us but little if our reason be not\ntaught thereby to offer profoundest submission to another and different\ninstinct--that of the soul. These triumphs are precious, because they\nreveal the presence of diviner instinct, that grows ever diviner still.\nAnd their aim is not in themselves; they serve but to clear the way for\nthe destiny of the soul, which is a destiny, always, of purification\nand light.\n\n27. Reason flings open the door to wisdom; but the most living wisdom\nbefinds itself not in reason. Reason bars the gate to malevolent\ndestiny; but wisdom, away on the horizon, throws open another gate to\npropitious destiny. Reason defends and withdraws; forbids, rejects, and\ndestroys. Wisdom advances, attacks, and adds; increases, creates, and\ncommands. Reason produces not wisdom, which is rather a craving of\nsoul. It dwells up above, far higher than reason; and thus is it of the\nnature of veritable wisdom to do countless things whereof reason\ndisapproves, or shall but approve hereafter. So was it that wisdom one\nday said to reason, It were well to love one's enemies and return good\nfor evil. Reason, that day, tiptoe on the loftiest peak in its kingdom,\nat last was fain to agree. But wisdom is not yet content, and seeks\never further, alone.\n\n28. If wisdom obeyed reason only, and sought nothing more than to\novercome instinct, then would wisdom be ever the same. There would be\nbut one wisdom for all, and its whole range would be known to man, for\nreason has more than once explored its entire domain.\n\nCertain fixed points there well may be that are common to all classes\nof wisdom; but there exists none the less the widest possible\ndifference between the atmospheres that enwrapped the wisdom of Jesus\nChrist and of Socrates, of Aristides and Marcus Aurelius, of Fenelon\nand Jean Paul. Let the same event befall these men on the self-same\nday: if it fall into the running waters of their wisdom, it will\nundergo complete transformation, becoming different in every one; if it\nfall into the stagnant water of their reason, it will remain as it was,\nunchanged. If Jesus Christ and Socrates both were to meet the\nadulterous woman, the words that their reason would prompt them to\nspeak would vary but little; but belonging to different worlds would be\nthe working of the wisdom within them, far beyond words and far beyond\nthoughts. For differences such as these are of the very essence of\nwisdom. There is but one starting-point for the wise--the threshold of\nreason. But they separate one from the other as soon as the triumphs of\nreason are well understood; in other words, as soon as they enter\nfreely the domain of the higher unconsciousness.\n\n29. To say \"this is reasonable\" is by no means the same as to say \"this\nis wise.\" The thing that is reasonable is not of necessity wise, and a\nthing may be very wise and yet be condemned by over-exacting reason. It\nis from reason that justice springs, but goodness is born of wisdom;\nand goodness, we are told by Plutarch, \"extends much further than\njustice.\" Is it to reason or wisdom that heroism should be ascribed?\nWisdom, perhaps, is only the sense of the infinite applied to our moral\nlife. Reason, it is true, has the sense of the infinite also, but dare\nnot do more than accord it bare recognition. It would seem opposed to\nthe very instinct of reason to regard the sense of the infinite as\nbeing of importance in life; but wisdom is wise in the measure that the\nInfinite governs all she procures to be done.\n\nIn reason no love can be found--there is much love in wisdom; and all\nthat is highest in wisdom entwines around all that is purest in love.\nLove is the form most divine of the infinite, and also, because most\ndivine, the form most profoundly human. Why should we not say that\nwisdom is the triumph of reason divine over reason of man?\n\n30. We cannot cultivate reason too fully, but by wisdom only should\nreason be guided. The man is not wise whose reason has not yet been\ntaught to obey the first signal of love. What would Christ, all the\nheroes, have done had their reason not learned to submit? Is each deed\nof the hero not always outside the boundary of reason? and yet, who\nwould venture to say that the hero is not wiser by far than the\nsluggard who quits not his chair because reason forbids him to rise?\nLet us say it once more--the vase wherein we should tend the true\nwisdom is love, and not reason. Reason is found, it is true, at the\nroot-springs of wisdom, yet is wisdom not reason's flower. For we speak\nnot of logical wisdom here, but of wisdom quite other, the favourite\nsister of love.\n\nReason and love battle fiercely at first in the soul that begins to\nexpand; but wisdom is born of the peace that at last comes to pass\nbetween reason and love; and the peace becomes the profounder as reason\nyields up still more of her rights to love.\n\n31. Wisdom is the lamp of love, and love is the oil of the lamp. Love,\nsinking deeper, grows wiser; and wisdom that springs up aloft comes\never the nearer to love. If you love, you must needs become wise; be\nwise, and you surely shall love. Nor can any one love with the\nveritable love but his love must make him the better; and to grow\nbetter is but to grow wiser. There is not a man in the world but\nsomething improves in his soul from the moment he loves--and that\nthough his love be but vulgar; and those in whom love never dies must\nneeds continue to love as their soul grows nobler and nobler. Love is\nthe food of wisdom; wisdom the food of love; a circle of light within\nwhich those who love, clasp the hands of those who are wise. Wisdom and\nlove are one; and in Swedenborg's Paradise the wife is \"the love of the\nwisdom of the wise.\"\n\n32. \"Our reason,\" said Fenelon, \"is derived from the clearness of our\nideas.\" But our wisdom, we might add--in other words, all that is best\nin our soul and our character, is to be found above all in those ideas\nthat are not yet clear. Were we to allow our clear ideas only to govern\nour life, we should quickly become undeserving of either much love or\nesteem. For, truly, what could be less clear than the reasons that bid\nus be generous, upright, and just; that teach us to cherish in all\nthings the noblest of feelings and thoughts? But it happily so comes to\npass that the more clear ideas we possess, the more do we learn to\nrespect those that as yet are still vague. We must strive without\nceasing to clarify as many ideas as we can, that we may thus arouse in\nour soul more and more that now are obscure. The clear ideas may at\ntimes seem to govern our external life, but the others perforce must\nmarch on at the head of our intimate life, and the life that we see\ninvariably ends by obeying the invisible life. On the quality, number,\nand power of our clear ideas do the quality, number, and power depend\nof those that are vague; and hidden away in the midst of these vague\nones, patiently biding their hour, there may well lurk most of the\ndefinite truths that we seek with such ardour. Let us not keep them\nwaiting too long; and indeed, a beautiful crystal idea we awaken within\nus shall not fail, in its turn, to arouse a beautiful vague idea; which\nlast, growing old, and having itself become clear (for is not perfect\nclearness most often the sign of decrepitude in the idea?), shall also\ngo forth, and disturb from its slumber another obscure idea, but\nloftier, lovelier far than it had been itself in its sleep; and thus,\nit may be, treading gently, one after the other, and never\ndisheartened, in the midst of those silent ranks--some day, by mere\nchance, a small hand, scarce visible yet, shall touch a great truth.\n\n33. Clear ideas and obscure ideas; heart, intellect, will, and reason,\nand soul--truly these words that we use do but mean more or less the\nsame thing: the spiritual riches of man. The soul may well be no more\nthan the most beautiful desire of our brain, and God Himself be only\nthe most beautiful desire of our soul. So great is the darkness here\nthat we can but seek to divide it; and the lines that we trace must be\nblacker still than the sections they traverse. Of all the ideals that\nare left to us, there is perhaps only one that we still can accept; and\nthat one is to gain full self-knowledge; but to how great an extent\ndoes this knowledge truly depend on our reason--this knowledge that at\nfirst would appear to depend on our reason alone? Surely he who at last\nhad succeeded in realising, to the fullest extent, the place that he\nfilled in the universe--surely he should be better than others, be\nwiser and truer, more upright; in a word, be more moral? But can any\nman claim, in good faith, to have grasped this relation; and do not the\nroots of the most positive morals lie hidden beneath some kind of\nmystic unconsciousness? Our most beautiful thought does no more than\npass through our intelligence; and none would imagine that the harvest\nmust have been reaped in the road because it is seen passing by. When\nreason, however precise, sets forth to explore her domain, every step\nthat she takes is over the border. And yet is it the intellect that\nlends the first touches of beauty to thought; the rest lies not wholly\nwith us; but this rest will not stir into motion until intellect\ntouches the spring. Reason, the well-beloved daughter of intellect,\nmust go take her stand on the threshold of our spiritual life, having\nfirst flung open the gates of the prison beneath, where the living,\ninstinctive forces of being lie captive, asleep. She must wait, with\nthe lamp in her hand; and her presence alone shall suffice to ward off\nfrom the threshold all that does not yet conform with the nature of\nlight. Beyond, in the regions unlit by her rays, obscure life\ncontinues. This troubles her not; indeed, she is glad. ... She knows\nthat, in the eyes of the God she desires all that has not yet crossed\nher arcade of light--be it dream, be it thought, even act--can add\nnothing to, can take nothing from, the ideal creature she is craving to\nmould. She watches the flame of her lamp; needs must it burn brightly,\nand remain at its post, and be seen from afar. She listens, untroubled,\nto the murmur of inferior instincts out there in the darkness. But the\nprisoners slowly awake; there are some who draw nigh to the threshold,\nand their radiance is greater than hers. There flows from them a light\nless material, softer and purer than that of the bold, hard flame which\nher hand protects. They are the inscrutable powers of goodness and\nlove; and others follow behind, more mysterious still, and more\ninfinite, seeking admission. What shall she do? If, at the time that\nshe took her stand there on the threshold, she had still lacked the\ncourage to learn that she could not exist alone, then will she be\ntroubled, afraid; she will make fast the gates; and should these be\never reopened, she would find only quivering cinders at the foot of the\ngloomy stairs. But if her strength be unshaken; if from all that she\ncould not learn she has learned, at least, that in light there can\nnever be danger, and that reason itself may be freely staked where\ngreater brightness prevails--then shall ineffable changes take place on\nthe threshold, from lamp unto lamp. Drops of an unknown oil will blend\nwith the oil of the wisdom of man; and when the white strangers have\npassed, the flame of her lamp shall rise higher, transformed for all\ntime; shall shed purer and mightier radiance amidst the columns of the\nloftier doorway.\n\n34. So much for isolated wisdom; now let us return to the wisdom that\nmoves to the grave in the midst of the mighty crowd of human destinies;\nfor the destiny of the sage holds not aloof from that of the wicked and\nfrivolous. All destinies are for ever commingling; and the adventure is\nrare in whose web the hempen thread blends not with the golden. There\nare misfortunes more gradual, less frightful of aspect, than those that\nbefell Oedipus and the prince of Elsinore; misfortunes that quail not\nbeneath the gaze of truth or justice or love. Those who speak of the\nprofit of wisdom are never so wise as when they freely admit, without\npride or heart-burning, that wisdom grants scarcely a boon to her\nfaithful that the foolish or wicked would prize. And indeed, it may\noften take place that the sage, as he moves among men, shall pass\nalmost unnoticed, shall affect them but slightly; be this that his stay\nis too brief, that he comes too late, that he misses true contact; or\nperchance that he has to contend with forces too overwhelming, amassed\nby myriad men from time immemorial. No miracles can he perform on\nmaterial things; he can save only that which life's ordinary laws still\nallow to be saved; and himself, it may be, shall be suddenly seized in\na great inexorable whirlwind. But, though he perish therein, still does\nhe escape the fate that is common to most; for at least he will die\nwithout having been forced--for weeks, or it may be for years, before\nthe catastrophe--to be the helpless, despairing witness of the ruin of\nhis soul. And to save some one--if we admit that in life there are\ntruly two lives--does not of necessity mean that we save him from death\nand disaster; but indeed that we render him happier, inasmuch as we try\nto improve him. Moral salvation is the greatest salvation; and yet,\nwhat a trifle this seems, as everything seems that is done on the\nloftiest summits of soul. Was the penitent thief not saved; and that\nnot alone in the Christian sense of the word, but in its fullest, most\nperfect meaning? Still had he to die, and at that very hour; but he\ndied eternally happy; because at the very last moment he too had been\nloved, and a Being of infinite wisdom had declared that his soul had\nnot been without value; that his soul, too, had been good, and had not\npassed through the world unperceived of all men.\n\n35. As we go deeper down into life we discover the secret of more and\nmore sorrow and helplessness. We see that many souls round us lead idle\nand foolish lives, because they believe they are useless, unnoticed by\nall, unloved, and convinced they have nothing within them that is\nworthy of love. But to the sage the hour must come when every soul that\nexists claims his glance, his approval, his love--if only because it\npossesses the mysterious gift of existence. The hour must come when he\nsees that falsehood and weakness and vice are but on the surface; when\nhis eye shall pierce through, and discover the strength, and the truth,\nand the virtue that lie underneath. Happy and blessed hour, when\nwickedness stands forth revealed as goodness bereft of its guide; and\ntreachery is seen to be loyalty, for ever astray from the highway of\nhappiness; and hatred becomes only love, in poignant despair, that is\ndigging its grave. Then, unsuspected of any, shall it be with all those\nwho are near the good man as it was with the penitent thief; into the\nhumblest soul that will thus have been saved by a look, or a word, or a\nsilence, shall the true happiness fall--the happiness fate cannot\ntouch; that brings to all men the oblivion it gave unto Socrates, and\ncauses each one to forget, until nightfall, that the death--giving cup\nhad been drained ere the sun went down.\n\n36. The inner life, perhaps, is not what we deem it to be. There are as\nmany kinds of inner lives as there are of external lives. Into these\ntranquil regions the smallest may enter as readily as he who is\ngreatest, for the gate that leads thither is not always the gate of the\nintellect. It often may happen that the man of vast knowledge shall\nknock at this gate in vain, reply being made from within by the man who\nknows nothing. The inner life that is surest, most lasting, possessed\nof the uttermost beauty, must needs be the one that consciousness\nslowly erects in itself, with the aid of all that is purest in the\nsoul. And he is wise who has learned that this life should be nourished\non every event of the day: he to whom deceit or betrayal serves but to\nenhance his wisdom: he in whom evil itself becomes fuel for the flame\nof love. He is wise who at last sees in suffering only the light that\nit sheds on his soul; and whose eyes never rest on the shadow it casts\nupon those who have sent it towards him. And wiser still is the man to\nwhom sorrow and joy not only bring increase of consciousness, but also\nthe knowledge that something exists superior to consciousness even. To\nhave reached this point is to reach the summit of inward life, whence\nat last we look down on the flames whose light has helped our ascent.\nBut not many can climb so high; and happiness may be achieved in the\nless ardent valley below, where the flames spring darkly to life. And\nthere are existences still more obscure which yet have their places of\nrefuge. There are some that instinctively fashion inward lives for\nthemselves. There are some that, bereft of initiative or of\nintelligence, never discover the path that leads into themselves, and\nare never aware of all that their refuge contains; and yet will their\nactions be wholly the same as the actions of those whose intellect\nweighs every treasure. There are some who desire only good, though they\nknow not wherefore they desire it, and have no suspicion that goodness\nis the one fixed star of loftiest consciousness. The inner life begins\nwhen the soul becomes good, and not when the intellect ripens. It is\nsomewhat strange that this inner life can never be formed out of evil.\nNo inner life is for him whose soul is bereft of all nobleness. He may\nhave full knowledge of self; he may know, it may be, wherefore he shuns\ngoodness; and yet shall he seek in vain for the refuge, the strength,\nthe treasure of invisible gladness, that form the possessions of him\nwho can fearlessly enter his heart. For the inward life is built up of\na certain rejoicing of soul; and the soul can never be happy if it\npossess not, and love not, something that is pure. It may perhaps err\nin its choice, but then even will it be happier than the soul to which\nit has never been given to choose.\n\n37. And thus are we truly saving a man if we bring about that he loves\nevil somewhat less than he loved it before; for we are helping that man\nto construct, deep down in his soul, the refuge where--against destiny\nshall brandish her weapons in vain. This refuge is the monument of\nconsciousness, or, it may be, of love; for love is nothing but\nconsciousness, still vaguely in search of itself; and veritable\nconsciousness nothing but love that at last has emerged from the\nshadow. And it is in the deepest recess of this refuge that the soul\nshall kindle the wondrous fire of her joy. And this joy of the soul is\nlike unto no other joy; and even as material fire will chase away\ndeadly disease from the earth, so will the joy of the soul scatter\nsorrow that malevolent destiny brings. It arises not from exterior\nhappiness; it arises not from satisfied self-love; for the joy that\nself-love procures becomes less as the soul becomes nobler, but the joy\nof pure love increases as nobility comes to the soul. Nor is this joy\nborn of pride; for to be able to smile at its beauty is not enough to\nbring joy to the soul. The soul that has sought in itself has the right\nto know of its beauty; but to brood on this beauty too much, to become\nover-conscious thereof, were perhaps to detract somewhat from the\nunconsciousness of its love. The joy that I speak of takes not from\nlove what it adds unto consciousness; for in this joy, and in this joy\nalone, do consciousness and love become one, feeding each on the other,\neach gaining from that which it gives. The striving intellect may well\nknow happiness beyond the reach of the satisfied body; but the soul\nthat grows nobler has joys that are often denied to the striving\nintellect. These two will often unite and labour together at building\nthe house within. But still it will happen at times that both work\napart, and widely different then are the structures each will erect.\nAnd were this to be so, and the being I loved best of all in the world\ncame and asked me which he should choose--which refuge I held to be\nmost unattackable, sweetest, profoundest--I would surely advise him to\nshelter his destiny in the refuge of the soul that grows nobler.\n\n38. Is the sage never to suffer? Shall no storm ever break on the roof\nof his dwelling, no traps be laid to ensnare him? Shall wife and\nfriends never fail him? Must his father not die, and his mother, his\nbrothers, his sons--must all these not die like the rest? Shall angels\nstand guard at each highway through which sorrow can pass into man? Did\nnot Christ Himself weep as He stood before Lazarus' tomb? Had not\nMarcus Aurelius to suffer--from Commodus, the son who already showed\nsigns of the monster he was to become; from Faustina, the wife whom he\nloved, but who cared not for him? Was not destiny's hand laid heavy on\nPaulus Aemilius, who was fully as wise as Timoleon? did not both his\nsons die, one five days before his triumph in Rome, and the other but\nthree days after? What becomes of the refuge, then, where wisdom keeps\nwatch over happiness? Must we take back all we have said? and is wisdom\nyet one more illusion, by whose aid the soul would fain conciliate\nreason, and justify cravings that experience is sure to reject as being\nopposed to reason?\n\n39. Nay, In truth, the sage too must suffer. He suffers; and suffering\nforms a constituent part of his wisdom. He will suffer, perhaps, more\nthan most men, for that his nature is far more complete. And being\nnearer to all mankind, as the wise ever must be, his suffering will be\nbut the greater, for the sorrows of others are his. He will suffer in\nhis flesh, in his heart, in his spirit; for there are sides in all\nthese that no wisdom on earth can dispute against destiny. And so he\naccepts his suffering, but is not discouraged thereby; not for him are\nthe chains that it fastens on those who cringe down before it, unaware\nthat it is but a messenger sent by a mightier personage, whom a bend in\nthe road hides from view. Needs must the sage, like his neighbour, be\nstartled from sleep by the shouts of the truculent envoy, by the blows\nat the door that cause the whole house to tremble. He, too, must go\ndown and parley. But yet, as he listens, his eyes are not fixed on this\nbringer of evil tidings; his glance will at times be lifted over the\nmessenger's shoulder, will scan the dust on the horizon in search of\nthe mighty idea that perhaps may be near at hand. And indeed, when our\nthoughts rest on fate, at such times as happiness enfolds us, we feel\nthat no great misfortune can be suddenly burst upon us. The proportions\nwill change, it is true, when the blow falls; but it is equally true\nthat before the misfortune can wholly destroy the abiding courage\nwithin us, it first must triumph in our heart over all we adore, over\nall we admire, and love. And what alien power can expel from our soul a\nfeeling and thought that we hurl not our selves from its throne?\nPhysical suffering apart, not a single sorrow exists that can touch us\nexcept through our thoughts; and whence do our thoughts derive the\nweapons wherewith they attack or defend us? We suffer but little from\nsuffering itself; but from the manner wherein we accept it overwhelming\nsorrow may spring. \"His unhappiness was caused by himself,\" said a\nthinker of one whose eyes never looked over the brutal messenger's\nshoulder--\"his unhappiness was caused by himself; for all misery is\ninward, and caused by ourselves. We are wrong in believing that it\ncomes from without. For indeed we create it within us, out of our very\nsubstance.\"\n\n40. It is only in the manner of our facing the event that its active\nforce consists. Assemble ten men who, like Paulus Aemilius, have lost\nboth their sons at the moment when life seemed sweetest, then will the\nmisfortune appear to vary in every one. Misfortune enters within us,\nbut must of necessity yield obedience to all our commands. Even as the\norder may be that it finds inscribed on the threshold, so will it sow,\nor destroy, or reap. If my neighbour, a commonplace man, were to lose\nhis two sons at the moment when fate had granted his dearest desires,\nthen would darkness steal over all, unrelieved by a glimmer of light;\nand misfortune itself, contemptuous of its too facile success, would\nleave naught behind but a handful of colourless cinders. Nor is it\nnecessary for me to see my neighbour again to be aware that his sorrow\nwill have brought to him pettiness only; for sorrow does merely restore\nto us that which our soul had lent in happier days.\n\n41. But this was the misfortune that befell Paulus Aemilius. Rome,\nstill aglow with his triumph, waited, dismayed, wondering what was to\nhappen. Were the gods defying the sage, and how would the sage reply?\nWould the hero be crushed by his sorrow, or would sorrow acknowledge\nits master? Mankind, at moments like these, seems aware that destiny is\nyet once again making trial of the strength of her arm, and that change\nof some kind must befall if her blow crush not where it alights. And\nsee with what eagerness men at such moments will question the eyes of\ntheir chiefs for the password against the invisible.\n\nBut Paulus Aemilius has gathered together an assembly of the people of\nRome; he advances gravely towards them, and thus does he speak: \"I, who\nnever yet feared anything that was human, have, amongst such as were\ndivine, always had, a dread of fortune as faithless and inconstant;\nand, for the very reason that in this war she had been as a favourable\ngale in all my affairs, I still expected some change and reflux of\nthings. In one day I passed the Ionian Sea, and reached Corcyra from\nBrundisium; thence in five more I sacrificed at Delphi, and in other\nfive days came to my forces in Macedonia, where, after I had finished\nthe usual sacrifices for the purifying of the army, I entered on my\nduties, and in the space of fifteen days put an honourable period to\nthe war. Still retaining a jealousy of fortune, even from the smooth\ncurrent of my affairs, and seeing myself secure and free from the\ndanger of any enemy, I chiefly dreaded the change of the goddess at\nsea, whilst conveying home my victorious army, vast spoils, and a\ncaptive king. Nay, indeed, after I was returned to you safe, and saw\nthe city full of joy, congratulating, and sacrifices, yet still I\ndistrusted, well knowing that fortune never conferred any great\nbenefits that were unmixed and unattended with probabilities of\nreverse. Nor could my mind, that was still as it were in labour, and\nalways foreseeing something to befall this city, free itself from this\nfear, until this great misfortune befell me in my own family, and till,\nin the midst of those days set apart for triumph, I carried two of the\nbest of sons, my only destined successors, one after another to their\nfunerals. Now therefore, I am myself safe from danger, at least as to\nwhat was my greatest care; and I trust and am verily persuaded that,\nfor the time to come, fortune will prove constant and harmless unto\nyou; since she has sufficiently wreaked her jealousy at our great\nsuccesses on me and mine, and has made the conqueror as marked an\nexample of human instability as the captive whom he led in triumph,\nwith this only difference, that Perseus, though conquered, does yet\nenjoy his children, while the conqueror Aemilius is deprived of his.\"\n\n42. This was the Roman fashion of accepting the greatest sorrow that\ncan befall a man at the moment when sorrow is felt the most keenly--at\nthe moment of his greatest happiness. And there are many ways of\naccepting misfortune--as many, indeed, as there are generous feelings\nor thoughts to be found on the earth; and every one of those thoughts,\nevery one of those feelings, has a magic wand that transforms, on the\nthreshold, the features and vestments of sorrow. Job would have said,\n\"The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the\nLord\"; and Marcus Aurelius perhaps, \"If it be no longer allowed me to\nlove those I loved high above all, it is doubtless that I may learn to\nlove those whom I love not yet.\"\n\n43. And let us not think that these are mere empty words wherewith they\nconsole themselves, words that in vain seek to hide the wound that\nbleeds but the more for the effort. But if it were so, if empty words\ncould console, that surely were better than to be bereft of all\nconsolation. And further, if we have to admit that all this is\nillusion, must we not, in mere justice, also admit that illusion is the\nsolitary thing that the soul can possess; and in the name of what other\nillusion shall we venture to rate this illusion so lightly? Ah, when\nthe night falls and the great sages I speak of go back to their lonely\ndwelling, and look on the chairs round the hearth where their children\nonce were, but never shall be again--then, truly, can they not escape\nsome part of the sorrow that comes, overwhelming, to those whose\nsuffering no noble thought chastens. For it were wrong to attribute to\nbeautiful feeling and thought a virtue they do not possess. There are,\nexternal tears that they cannot restrain; there are holy hours when\nwisdom cannot yet console. But, for the last time let us say it,\nsuffering we cannot avoid for suffering there ever must be; still does\nit rest with ourselves to choose what our suffering shall bring. And\nlet us not think that this choice, which the eye cannot see, is truly a\nvery small matter, and helpless to comfort a sorrow whose cause the\neyes never cease to behold. Out of small matters like these are all\nmoral joys built up, and these are profounder far than intellectual or\nphysical joys. Translate into words the feeling that spurs on the hero,\nand how trivial it seems! Insignificant too does the idea of duty\nappear that Cato the younger had formed, when compared with the\nenormous disturbance it caused in a mighty empire, or the terrible\ndeath it brought on. And yet, was not Cato's idea far greater than the\ndisturbance, or death, that ensued? Do we not feel, even now, that Cato\nwas right? And was not his life rendered truly and nobly happy, thanks\nto this very idea, that the reason of man will not even consider, so\nunreasonable does it appear? All that ennobles our life, all that we\nrespect in ourselves, the mainsprings of our virtue, the limits that\nfeeling will even impose upon vices or crimes--all these appear veriest\ntrifles when viewed by the cold eye of reason; and yet do they fashion\nthe laws that govern every man's life. Would life be endurable if we\ndid not obey many truths that our reason rejects? The wretchedest even\nobeys one of these; and the more truths there are that he yields to,\nthe less wretched does he become. The assassin will tell you, \"I\nmurder, it is true, but at least do not steal.\" And he who has stolen\nsteals, but does not betray; and he who betrays would at least not\nbetray his brother. And thus does each one cling for refuge to his last\nfragment of spiritual beauty. No man can have fallen so low but he\nstill has a retreat in his soul, where he ever shall find a few drops\nof pure water, and be girt up anew with the strength that he needs to\ngo on with his life. For here again reason is helpless, unable to\ncomfort; she must halt on the threshold of the thief's last asylum,\neven as she must halt on the threshold of Job's resignation, of the\nlove of Marcus Aurelius, of the sacrifice made by Antigone. She halts,\nis bewildered, she does not approve; and yet knows full well that to\nrise in revolt were only to combat the light whereof she is shadow; for\namidst all this she is but as one who stands with the sun full upon\nhim. His shadow is there at his feet; as he moves, it will follow; as\nhe rises or stoops, its outline will alter; but this shadow is all he\ncommands, that he masters, possesses, of the dazzling light that\nenfolds him. And so has reason her being, too, beneath a superior\nlight, and the shadow cannot affect the calm, unvarying splendour. Far\ndistant as Marcus Aurelius may be from the traitor, it is still from\nthe selfsame well that they both draw the holy water that freshens\ntheir soul; and this well is not to be found in the intellect. For,\nstrangely enough, it is not in our reason that moral life has its\nbeing; and he who would let reason govern his life would be the most\nwretched of men. There is not a virtue, a beautiful thought, or a\ngenerous deed, but has most of its roots hidden far away from that\nwhich can be understood or explained. Well might man be proud could he\ntrace every virtue, and joy, and his whole inward life, to the one\nthing he truly possesses, the one thing on which he can depend--in a\nword, to his reason. But do what he will, the smallest event that\narrives will quickly convince him that reason is wholly unable to offer\nhim shelter; for in truth we are beings quite other than merely\nreasonable creatures.\n\n44. But if it be not our reason that chooses what suffering shall bring\nus, whereby is the choice then made? By the life we have lived till\nthen, the life that has moulded our soul. Wisdom matures but slowly;\nher fruits shall not quickly be gathered. If my life has not been as\nthat of Paulus Aemilius, there shall be no comfort for me in the\nthoughts whereby he was consoled, not though every sage in the world\nwere to come and repeat them to me. The angels that dry our eyes bear\nthe form and the features of all we have said and thought--above all,\nof what we have done, prior to the hour of misfortune. When Thomas\nCarlyle (a sage, although somewhat morbid) lost the wife he had\ntenderly loved, with whom he had lived forty years, then did his sorrow\ntoo, with marvellous exactness, become as had been the bygone life of\nhis love. And therefore was this sorrow of his majestic and vast;\nconsoling and torturing alike in the midst of his self-reproach, his\nregret, and his tenderness--as might be meditation or prayer on the\nshore of a gloomy sea. In the sorrow that floods our heart we have, as\nit were, a synthetic presentment of all the days that are gone; and as\nthese were, so shall our sorrow be poignant, or tender and gentle. If\nthere be in my life no noble or generous deeds that memory can bring\nback to me, then, at the inevitable moment when memory melts into\ntears, must these tears, too, be bereft of all that is generous or\nnoble. For tears in themselves have no colour, that they may the better\nreflect the past life of our soul; and this reflection becomes our\nchastisement or our reward. There is but one thing that never can turn\ninto suffering, and that is the good we have done. When we lose one we\nlove, our bitterest tears are called forth by the memory of hours when\nwe loved not enough. If we always had smiled on the one who is gone,\nthere would be no despair in our grief; and some sweetness would cling\nto our tears, reminiscent of virtues and happiness. For our\nrecollections of veritable love--which indeed is the act of virtue\ncontaining all others--call from our eyes the same sweet, tender tears\nas those most beautiful hours wherein memory was born. Sorrow is just,\nabove all; and even as the cast stands ready awaiting the molten\nbronze, so is our whole life expectant of the hour of sorrow, for it is\nthen we receive our wage.\n\n45. Here, standing close to the mightiest pillar of destiny's throne,\nwe may see once again how restricted her power becomes on such as\nsurpass her in wisdom. For she is barbarian still, and many men tower\nabove her. The commonplace life still supplies her with weapons, which\ntoday are old-fashioned and crude. Her mode of attack, in exterior\nlife, is as it always has been, as it was in Oedipus' days. She shoots\nlike a blear-eyed bow-man, aiming straight ahead of her; but if the\ntarget be raised somewhat higher than usual, her arrows fall harmless\nto earth.\n\nSuffering, sorrow, tears, regrets--these words, that vary so slightly\nin meaning, are names that we give to emotions which in no two men are\nalike. If we probe to the heart of these words, these emotions, we find\nthey are only the track that is left by our faults; and there where\nthese faults were noble (for there are noble faults as there are mean\nor trivial virtues) our sorrow will be nearer akin to veritable\nhappiness than the happiness of those whose consciousness still is\nconfined within narrowest limits. Would Carlyle have desired to\nexchange the magnificent sorrow that flooded his soul, and blossomed so\ntenderly there, for the conjugal joys, superficial and sunless, of his\nhappiest neighbour in Chelsea? And was not Ernest Renan's grief, when\nHenriette, his sister, died, more grateful to the soul than the absence\nof grief in the thousands of others who have no love to give to a\nsister? Shall our pity go forth to him who, at times, will weep on the\nshore of an infinite sea, or to the other who smiles all his life,\nwithout cause, alone in his little room? \"Happiness, sorrow\"--could we\nonly escape from ourselves for one instant and taste of the hero's\nsadness, would there be many content to return to their own superficial\ndelights?\n\nDo happiness and sorrow, then, only exist in ourselves, and that even\nwhen they seem to come from without? All that surrounds us will turn to\nangel or devil, according as our heart may be. Joan of Arc held\ncommunion with saints, Macbeth with witches, and yet were the voices\nthe same. The destiny whereat we murmur may be other, perhaps, than we\nthink. She has only the weapons we give her; she is neither just nor\nunjust, nor does it lie in her province to deliver sentence on man. She\nwhom we take to be goddess, is a disguised messenger only, come very\nsimply to warn us on certain days of our life that the hour has sounded\nat last when we needs must judge ourselves.\n\n46. Men of inferior degree, it is true, are not given to judging\nthemselves, and therefore is it that fate passes judgment upon them.\nThey are the slaves of a destiny of almost unvarying sternness, for it\nis only when man has been judged by himself that destiny can be\ntransformed. Men such as these will not master, or alter within them,\nthe event that they meet; nay, they themselves become morally\ntransformed by the very first thing that draws near them. If misfortune\nbefall them, they grovel before it and stoop down to its level; and\nmisfortune, with them, would seem always to wear its poorest and\ncommonest aspect. They see the finger of fate in every least thing that\nmay happen--be it choice of profession, a friendship that greets them,\na woman who passes, and smiles. To them chance and destiny always are\none; but chance will be seldom propitious if accepted as destiny.\nHostile forces at once take possession of all that is vacant within us,\nnor filled by the strength of our soul; and whatever is void in the\nheart or the mind becomes a fountain of fatal influence. The Margaret\nof Goethe and Ophelia of Shakespeare had perforce to yield meekly to\nfate, for they were so feeble that each gesture they witnessed seemed\nfate's own gesture to them. But yet, had they only possessed some\nfragment of Antigone's strength--the Antigone of Sophocles--would they\nnot then have transformed the destinies of Hamlet and Faust as well as\ntheir own? And if Othello had taken Corneille's Pauline to wife and not\nDesdemona, would Desdemona's destiny then, all else remaining\nunchanged, have dared to come within reach of the enlightened love of\nPauline? Where was it, in body or soul, that grim fatality lurked? And\nthough the body may often be powerless to add to its strength, can this\never be true of the soul? Indeed, the more that we think of it, the\nclearer does it become that there could be one destiny only that might\ntruly be said to triumph over man, the one that might have the power\nloudly to cry unto all, \"From this day onward there shall come no more\nstrength to thy soul, neither strength nor ennoblement.\" But is there a\ndestiny in the world empowered to hold such language?\n\n47. And yet virtue often is chastised, and the advent of misfortune\nhastened, by the soul's very strength; for the greater our love may be,\nthe greater the surface becomes we expose to majestic sorrow; wherefore\nnone the less does the sage never cease his endeavours to enlarge this\nbeautiful surface. Yes, it must be admitted, destiny is not always\ncontent to crouch in the darkness; her ice-cold hands will at times go\nprowling in the light, and seize on more beautiful victims. The tragic\nname of Antigone has already escaped me; and there will, doubtless, be\nmany will say, \"She surely fell victim to destiny, all her great force\nnotwithstanding; and is she not the instance we long have been seeking\nin vain?\" It cannot be gainsaid: Antigone fell into the hands of the\nruthless goddess, for the reason that there lay in her soul three times\nthe strength of any ordinary woman. She died; for fate had contrived it\nso that she had to choose between death and what seemed to her a\nsister's imperative duty. She suddenly found herself wedged between\ndeath and love--love of the purest and most disinterested kind, its\nobject being a shade she would never behold on earth. And if destiny\nthus has enabled to lure her into the murderous angle that duty and\ndeath had formed, it was only because her soul, that was loftier far\nthan the soul of the others, saw, stretching before it, the\ninsurmountable barrier of duty--that her poor sister Ismene could not\nsee, even when it was shown her. And, at that moment, as they both\nstood there on the threshold of the palace, the same voices spoke to\nthem; Antigone listening only to the voice from above, wherefore she\ndied; Ismene unconscious of any save that which came from below--and\nshe lived. But instil into Antigone's soul something of the weakness\nthat paralysed Ophelia and Margaret, would destiny then have thought it\nof service to beckon to death as the daughter of Oedipus issued from\nthe doorway of Creon's palace? It was, therefore, solely because of the\nstrength of her soul that destiny was able to triumph. And, indeed, it\nis this that consoles the wise and the just--the heroes; destiny can\nvanquish them only by the good she compels them to do. Other men are\nlike cities with hundred gates, that she finds unguarded and open; but\nthe upright man is a fortified city, with the one gate only--of light;\nand this gate remains closed till love be induced to knock, and to\ncrave admission. Other men she compels to obey her; and destiny, doing\nher will, wills nothing but evil; but would she subdue the upright, she\nneeds must desire noble acts. Darkness then will no longer enwrap her\napproach. The upright man is secure in the light that enfolds him; and\nonly by a light more radiant still can she hope to prevail. Destiny\nthen will become more beautiful still than her victim. Ordinary men she\nwill place between personal sorrow and the misfortune of others; but to\nmaster the hero or saint, she must cause him to choose between the\nhappiness of others and the grief that shall fall on himself. Ordinary\nmen she lays siege to with the aid of all that is ugly; against the\nothers she perforce must enlist whatever is noblest on earth. Against\nthe first she has thousands of weapons, the very stones in the road\nbecoming engines of mischief; but the others she can only attack with\none irresistible sword, the gleaming sword of duty and truth. In\nAntigone's story is found the whole tale of destiny's empire on wisdom.\nJesus who died for us, Curtius who leaped into the gulf, Socrates who\nrefused to desist from his teaching, the sister of charity who yields\nup her life to tending the sick, the humble wayfarer who perishes\nseeking to rescue his fellows from death--all these have been forced to\nchoose, all these bear the mark of Antigone's glorious wound on their\nbreast. For truly those who live in the light have their magnificent\nperils also; and wisdom has danger for such as shrink from\nself-sacrifice, though it may be that they who shrink from\nself-sacrifice are perhaps not very wise.\n\n48. Pronounce the word \"destiny,\" and in the minds of all men an image\narises of gloom and of terror--of death. In their thoughts they regard\nit, instinctively, as the lane that leads straight to the tomb. Most\noften, indeed, it is only the name that they give unto death, when its\nhand is not visible yet. It is death that looms in the future, the\nshadow of death upon life. \"None can escape his destiny\" we often\nexclaim when we hear of death lying in wait for the traveller at the\nbend of the road. But were the traveller to encounter happiness\ninstead, we would never ascribe this to destiny; if we did, we should\nhave in our mind a far different goddess. And yet, are not joys to be\nmet with on the highways of life that are greater than any misfortune,\nmore momentous even than death? May a happiness not be encountered that\nthe eye cannot see? and is it not of the nature of happiness to be less\nmanifest than misfortune, to become ever less apparent to the eye as it\nreaches loftier heights? But to this we refuse to pay heed. The whole\nvillage, the town, will flock to the spot where some wretched adventure\ntakes place; but there are none will pause for an instant and let their\neyes rest on a kiss, or a vision of beauty that gladdens the soul, a\nray of love that illumines the heart. And yet may the kiss be\nproductive of joy no less great than the pain that follows a wound. We\nare unjust; we never associate destiny with happiness; and if we do not\nregard it as being inseparable from death, it is only to connect it\nwith disaster even greater than death itself.\n\n49. Were I to refer to the destiny of OEdipus, Joan of Arc, Agamemnon,\nyou would give not a thought to their lives, but only behold the last\nmoments of all, the pathway of death. You would stoutly maintain that\ntheir destiny was of the saddest, for that their end was sad. You\nforget, however, that death can never be happy; but nevertheless it is\nthus we are given to judging of life. It is as though death swallowed\nall; and should accident suddenly end thirty years Lot unclouded joy,\nthe thirty years would be hidden away from our eyes by the gloom of one\nsorrowful hour.\n\n50. It is wrong to think of destiny only in connection with death and\ndisaster. When shall we cease to believe that death, and not life, is\nimportant; that misfortune is greater than happiness? Why, when we try\nto sum up a man's destiny, keep our eyes fixed only on the tears that\nhe shed, and never on the smiles of his joy? Where have we learned that\ndeath fixes the value of life, and not life that of death? We deplore\nthe destiny of Socrates, Duncart, Antigone, and many others whose lives\nwere noble; we deplore; their destiny because their end was sudden and\ncruel; and we are fain to admit that misfortune prevails over wisdom\nand virtue alike. But, first of all, you yourself are neither just nor\nwise if you seek in wisdom and justice aught else but wisdom and\njustice alone. And further, what right have we thus to sum up an entire\nexistence in the one hour of death? Why conclude, from the fact that\nSocrates and Antigone met with unhappy ends, that it was their wisdom\nor virtue brought unhappiness to them? Does death occupy more space in\nlife than birth? Yet do you not take the sage's birth into account as\nyou ponder over his destiny. Happiness or unhappiness arises from all\nthat we do from the day of our birth to the day of our death; and it is\nnot in death, but indeed in the days and the years that precede it,\nthat we can discover a man's true happiness or sorrow--in a word, his\ndestiny. We seem to imagine that the sage, whose terrible death is\nwritten in history, spent all his life in sad anticipation of the end\nhis wisdom prepared; whereas in reality, the thought of death troubles\nthe wise far less than it troubles the wicked. Socrates had far less\ncause than Macbeth to dread an unhappy end. And unhappy as his death\nmay have been, it at least had not darkened his life; he had not spent\nall his days in dying preliminary deaths, as did the Thane of Cawdor.\nBut it is difficult for us not to believe that a wound, that bleeds a\nfew hours, must crumble away into nothingness all the peace of a\nlifetime.\n\n51. I do not pretend that destiny is just, that it rewards the good and\npunishes the wicked. What soul that were sure of reward could ever\nclaim to be good? But we are less just than destiny even, when it is\ndestiny that we judge. Our eyes see only the sage's misfortune, for\nmisfortune is known to us all; but we see not his happiness, for to\nunderstand the happiness of the wise and the just whose destinies we\nendeavour to gauge, we must needs be possessed of wisdom and justice\nthat shall be fully equal to theirs. When a man of inferior soul\nendeavours to estimate a great sage's happiness, this happiness flows\nthrough his fingers like water; yet is it heavy as gold, and as\nbrilliant as gold, in the hand of a brother sage. For to each is the\nhappiness given that he can best understand. The sage's misfortune may\noften resemble the one that befalls other men; but his happiness has\nnothing in common with that which he who is not wise terms happiness.\nIn happiness there are far more regions unknown than there are in\nmisfortune. The voice of misfortune is ever the same; happiness becomes\nthe more silent as it penetrates deeper.\n\nWhen we put our misfortunes into one scale of the balance, each of us\nlays, in the other, all that he deems to be happiness. The savage\nflings feathers, and powder, and alcohol into the scale; civilised men\nsome gold, a few days of delirium; but the sage will deposit therein\ncountless things our eyes cannot see--all his soul, it may be, and even\nthe misfortune that he will have purified.\n\n52. There is nothing in all the world more just than happiness, nothing\nthat will more faithfully adopt the form of our soul, or so carefully\nfill the space that our wisdom clings open. Yet is it most silent of\nall that there is in the world. The Angel of Sorrow can speak every\nlanguage--there is not a word but she knows; but the lips of the Angel\nof Happiness are sealed, save when she tells of the savage's joys. It\nis hundreds of centuries past that misfortune was cradled, but\nhappiness seems even now to have scarcely emerged from its infancy.\nThere are some men have learned to be happy; why are there none whose\ngreat gladness has urged them to lift up their voice in the name of the\nsilent Archangel who has flooded their soul with light? Are we not\nalmost teaching happiness if we do only speak of it; invoking it, if we\nlet no day pass without pronouncing its name? And is it not the first\nduty of those who are happy to tell of their gladness to others? All\nmen can learn to be happy; and the teaching of it is easy. If you live\namong those who daily call blessing on life, it shall not be long ere\nyou will call blessing on yours. Smiles are as catching as tears; and\nperiods men have termed happy, were periods when there existed some who\nknew of their happiness. Happiness rarely is absent; it is we that know\nnot of its presence. The greatest felicity avails us nothing if we know\nnot that we are happy; there is more joy in the smallest delight\nwhereof we are conscious, than in the approach of the mightiest\nhappiness that enters not into our soul. There are only too many who\nthink that what they have cannot be happiness; and therefore is it the\nduty of such as are happy, to prove to the others that they only\npossess what each man possesses deep down in the depths of his heart.\nTo be happy is only to have freed one's soul from the unrest of\nhappiness. It were well if, from time to time, there should come to us\none to whom fortune had granted a dazzling, superhuman felicity, that\nall men regarded with envy; and if he were very simply to say to us,\n\"All is mine that you pray for each day: I have riches, and youth, and\nhealth; I have glory, and power, and love; and if to-day I am truly\nable to call myself happy, it is not on account of the gifts that\nfortune has deigned to accord me, but because I have learned from these\ngifts to fix my eyes far above happiness. If my marvellous travels and\nvictories, my strength and my love, have brought me the peace and the\ngladness I sought, it is only because they have taught me that it is\nnot in them that the veritable gladness and peace can be found. It was\nin myself they existed, before all these triumphs; and still in myself\nare they now, after all my achievement; and I know full well that had\nbut a little more wisdom been mine, I might have enjoyed all I now\nenjoy without the aid of so much good fortune. I know that today I am\nhappier still than I was yesterday, because I have learned at last that\nI stand in no need of good fortune in order to free my soul, to bring\npeace to my thoughts, to enlighten my heart.\"\n\n53. Of this the sage is fully aware, though no superhuman happiness may\nhave descended upon him. The upright man knows it too, though he be\nless wise than the sage, and his consciousness less fully developed;\nfor an act of goodness or justice brings with it a kind of inarticulate\nconsciousness that often becomes more effective, more faithful, more\nloving, than the consciousness that springs into being from the very\ndeepest thought. Acts of this nature bring, above all, a special\nknowledge of happiness. Strive as we may, our loftiest thoughts are\nalways uncertain, unstable; but the light of a goodly deed shines\nsteadily on, and is lasting. There are times when deep thought is no\nmore than merely fictitious consciousness; but an act of charity, the\nheroic duty fulfilled--these are true consciousness; in other words,\nhappiness in action. The happiness of Marcus Aurelius, who condones a\nmortal affront; of Washington, giving up power when he feared that his\nglory was leading his people astray--the happiness of these will differ\nby far from that of some mean-souled, venomous creature who might (if\nsuch a thing may be assumed) by mere chance have discovered some\nextraordinary natural law. Long is the road that leads from the\nsatisfied brain to the heart at rest, and only such joys will nourish\nthere as are proof against winter's storms. Happiness is a plant that\nthrives far more readily in moral than in intellectual life.\nConsciousness--the consciousness of happiness, above all--will not\nchoose the intellect as a hiding-place for the treasure it holds most\ndear. At times it would almost seem as if all that is loftiest in\nintellect, fraught with most comfort, is transformed into consciousness\nonly when passed through an act of virtue. It suffices not to discover\nnew truths in the world of thought or of fact. For ourselves, a truth\nonly lives from the moment it modifies, purifies, sweetens something we\nhave in our soul. To be conscious of moral improvement is of the\nessence of consciousness. Some beings there are, of vigorous intellect,\nwhose intellect never is used to discover a fault, or foster a feeling\nof charity. And this happens often with women. In cases where a man and\na woman have equal intellectual power, the woman will always devote far\nless of this power to acquiring moral self-knowledge. And truly the\nintellect that aims not at consciousness is but beating its wings in\nthe void. Loss and corruption needs must ensue if the force of our\nbrain be not at once gathered up in the purest vase of our heart. Nor\ncan such an intellect ever know happiness; nay, it seems to invite\nmisfortune. For intellect may be of the loftiest, mightiest, and yet\nperhaps never draw near unto joy; but in the soul that is gentle, and\npure, and good, sorrow cannot for ever abide. And even though the\nboundary line between intellect and consciousness be not always as\nclearly defined as here we seem to assume, even though a beautiful\nthought in itself may be often a goodly action--yet, none the less will\na beautiful thought, that springs not from noble deed, or wherefrom\nnoble deed shall not spring, add but little unto our felicity; whereas\na good deed, though it father no thought, will ever fall like soft\nbountiful rain on our knowledge of happiness.\n\n54. \"How final must his farewell to happiness have been,\" exclaims\nRenan, speaking of the renouncement of Marcus Aurelius--\"how final must\nhis farewell to happiness have been, for him to be capable of such\nexcess! None will ever know how great was the suffering of that poor,\nstricken heart, or the bitterness the waxen brow concealed, calm\nalways, and even smiling. It is true that the farewell to happiness is\nthe beginning of wisdom, and the surest road to happiness. There is\nnothing sweeter than the return of joy that follows the renouncement of\njoy, as there is nothing more exquisite, of keener, deeper delight,\nthan the enchantment of the disenchanted.\"\n\nIn these terms does a sage describe a sage's happiness; but is it true\nthat the happiness of Marcus Aurelius, as of Renan himself, arose only\nfrom the return of joy that followed the renouncement of joy, and from\nthe enchantment of the disenchanted? For then were it better that\nwisdom be less, that we be the less disenchanted. But what can the\nwisdom desire that declares itself thus disenchanted? Was it not truth\nthat it sought? and is there a truth that can stifle the love of truth\nin the depths of a loyal heart? The truth that has taught you that man\nis wicked and nature unjust; that justice is futile, and love without\npower, has indeed taught you nothing if it have not at the same time\nrevealed a truth that is greater still, one that throws on these\ndisillusions a light more brilliant, more ample, than the myriad\nflickering beams it has quenched all around you, For there lurks\nunspeakable pride, and pride of the poorest kind, in thus declaring\nourselves satisfied because we can find satisfaction in nothing that\nis. Such satisfaction, in truth, is discontent only, too sluggish to\nlift its head; and they only are discontented who no longer would\nunderstand.\n\nDoes not the man who conceives it his duty to forswear all happiness\nrenounce something as well that, as yet, has not turned into happiness?\nAnd besides, what are the joys to which we bid this somewhat affected\nfarewell? It must surely be right to discard all happiness injurious to\nothers; but happiness that injures others will not long wear the\nsemblance of happiness in the eyes of the sage. And when his wisdom at\nlength has revealed the profounder joys, will it not be in all\nunconsciousness that he renounces those of lesser worth?\n\nLet us never put faith in the wisdom or gladness that is based on\ncontempt of a single existing thing; for contempt and renouncement, its\nsickly offspring, offer asylum to none but the weak and the aged. We\nhave only the right to scorn a joy when such scorn is wholly\nunconscious. But so long as we listen to the voice of contempt or\nrenouncement, so long as we suffer these to flood our heart with\nbitterness, so long must the joy we discard be a joy that we still\ndesire.\n\nWe must beware lest there enter our soul certain parasitic virtues. And\nrenouncement, often, is only a parasite. Even if it do not enfeeble our\ninward life, it must inevitably bring disquiet. Just as bees cease from\nwork at the approach of an intruder into their hive, so will the\nvirtues and strength of the soul into which contempt or renouncement\nhas entered, forsake all their tasks, and eagerly flock round the\ncurious guest that has come in the wake of pride; for so long as\nrenouncement be conscious, so long will the happiness found therein\nhave its origin truly in pride. And he who is bent on renouncement had\nbest, first of all, forswear the delights of pride, for these are\nwholly vain and wholly deceptive.\n\n55. Within reach of all, demanding neither boldness nor energy, is this\n\"enchantment of the disenchanted!\" But what name shall we give to the\nman who renounces that which brought happiness to him, and rather would\nsurely lose it to-day than live in fear lest fortune haply deprive him\nthereof on the morrow? Is the mission of wisdom only to peer into the\nuncertain future, with ear on the stretch for the footfall of sorrow\nthat never may come--but deaf to the whirr of the wings of the\nhappiness that fills all space?\n\nLet us not look to renouncement for happiness till we have sought it\nelsewhere in vain. It is easy to be wise if we be content to regard as\nhappiness the void that is left by the absence of happiness. But it was\nnot for unhappiness the sage was created; and it is more glorious, as\nwell as more human, to be happy and still to be wise. The supreme\nendeavour of wisdom is only to seek in life for the fixed point of\nhappiness; but to seek this fixed point in renouncement and farewell to\njoy, is only to seek it in death. He who moves not a limb is persuaded,\nperhaps, he is wise; but was this the purpose wherefor mankind was\ncreated? Ours is the choice--whether wisdom shall be the honoured wife\nof our passions and feelings, our thoughts and desires, or the\nmelancholy bride of death. Let the tomb have its stagnant wisdom, but\nlet there be wisdom also for the hearth where the fire still burns.\n\n56. It is not by renouncing the joys that are near us that we shall\ngrow wise; but as we grow wise we unconsciously abandon the joys that\nnow are beneath us. Even so does the child, as years come to him, give\nup one by one without thinking the games that have ceased to amuse. And\njust as the child learns far more from his play than from work that is\ngiven him, so does wisdom progress far more quickly in happiness than\nin misfortune. It is only one side of morality that unhappiness throws\ninto light; and the man whom sorrow has taught to be wise, is like one\nwho has loved and never been loved in return. There must always be\nsomething unknown to the love whereto no other love has made answer;\nand this, too, will remain unknown to him whose wisdom is born of\nsorrow.\n\n\"Is happiness truly as happy as people imagine?\" was asked of two happy\nones once by a philosopher whom protracted injustice had saddened. No;\nit is a thing more desirable far, but also much less to be envied, than\npeople suppose; for it is in itself quite other than they can conceive\nwho have never been perfectly happy. To be gay is not to be happy, nor\nwill he who is happy always be gay. It is only the little ephemeral\npleasures that forever are smiling; and they die away as they smile.\nBut some loftiness once obtained, lasting happiness becomes no less\ngrave than majestic sorrow. Wise men have said it were best for us not\nto be happy, so that happiness thus might be always the one thing\ndesired. But how shall the sage, to whom happiness never has come, be\naware that wisdom is the one thing alone that happiness neither can\nsadden nor weary? Those thinkers have learned to love wisdom with a far\nmore intimate love whose lives have been happy, than those whose lives\nhave been sad. The wisdom forced into growth by misfortune is different\nfar from the wisdom that ripens beneath happiness. The first, where it\nseeks to console, must whisper of happiness; the other tells of itself.\nHe who is sad is taught by his wisdom that happiness yet may be his; he\nwho is happy is taught by his wisdom that he may become wiser still.\nThe discovery of happiness may well be the great aim of wisdom; and we\nneeds must be happy ourselves before we can know that wisdom itself\ncontains all.\n\n57. There are some who are wholly unable to support the burden of joy.\nThere is a courage of happiness as well as a courage of sorrow. It may\neven be true that permanent happiness calls for more strength in man\nthan permanent sorrow; for the heart wherein wisdom is not delights\nmore in the expectation of that which it has not yet, than in the full\npossession of all it has ever desired. He in whom happiness dwells is\namazed at the heart that finds aliment only in fear or in hope, and\nthat cannot be nourished on what it possesses, though it possess all it\never desired.\n\nWe often see men who are strong and morally prudent whom happiness yet\novercomes. Not finding therein all they sought, they do not defend it,\nor cling to it, with the energy needful in life. We must have already\nacquired some not inconsiderable wisdom to be undismayed at perceiving\nthat happiness too has its sorrow, and to be not induced by this sorrow\nto think that ours cannot be the veritable happiness. The most precious\ngift that happiness brings is the knowledge that springs up within us\nthat it is not a thing of mere ecstasy, but a thing that bids us\nreflect. It becomes far less rare, far less inaccessible, from the\nmoment we know that its greatest achievement is to give to the soul\nthat is able to prize it an increase of consciousness, which the soul\ncould elsewhere never have found. To know what happiness means is of\nfar more importance to the soul of man than to enjoy it. To be able\nlong to love happiness great wisdom needs must be ours; but a wisdom\nstill greater for us to perceive, as we lie in the bosom of cloudless\njoy, that the fixed and stable part of that joy is found in the force\nwhich, deep down in our consciousness, could render us happy still\nthough misfortune wrapped us around. Do not believe you are happy till\nyou have been led by your happiness up to the heights whence itself\ndisappears from your gaze, but leaving you still, unimpaired, the\ndesire to live.\n\n58. There are some profound thinkers, such as Pascal, Schopenhauer,\nHello, who seem not to have been happy, for all that the sense of the\ninfinite, universal, eternal, was loftily throned in their soul. But it\nmay well be an error to think that he who gives voice to the\nmultitude's sorrow must himself always be victim to great personal\ndespair. The horizon of sorrow, surveyed from the height of a thought\nthat has ceased to be selfish, instinctive, or commonplace, differs but\nlittle from the horizon of happiness when this last is regarded from\nthe height of a thought of similar nature, but other in origin. And\nafter all, it matters but little whether the clouds be golden or gloomy\nthat yonder float over the plain; the traveller is glad to have reached\nthe eminence whence his eye may at last repose on illimitable space.\nThe sea is not the less marvellous and mysterious to us though white\nsails be not for ever flitting over its surface; and neither tempest\nnor day that is radiant and calm is able to bring enfeeblement unto the\nlife of our soul. Enfeeblement comes through our dwelling, by night and\nby day, in the airless room of our cold, self-satisfied, trivial,\nungenerous thoughts, at a time when the sky all around our abode is\nreflecting the light of the ocean.\n\nBut there is a difference perhaps between the sage and the thinker. It\nmay be that sorrow will steal over the thinker as he stands on the\nheight he has gained; but the sage by his side only smiles--and this\nsmile is so loyal, so human and natural, that the humblest creature of\nall must needs understand, and will gladly welcome it to him, as it\nfalls like a flower to the foot of the mountain. The thinker throws\nopen the road \"which leads from the seen to the unseen;\" the sage\nthrows open the highway that takes us from that which we love to-day to\nthat which we yet shall love, and the paths that ascend from that which\nhas ceased to console to that which, for long time to come, shall be\nladen with deep consolation. It is needful, but not all-sufficient, to\nhave reflected deeply and boldly on man, and nature, and God; for the\nprofoundest thought is of little avail if it contain no germ of\ncomfort. Indeed, it is only thought that the thinker, as yet, does nor\nwholly possess; as the other thoughts are, too, that remain outside our\nnormal, everyday life. It is easier far to be sad and dwell in\naffliction than at once to do what time in the end will always compel\nus to do: to shake ourselves free from affliction. He who spends his\ndays gloomily, in constant mistrust of his fellows, will often appear a\nprofounder thinker than the other, who lives in the faith and honest\nsimplicity wherein all men should dwell. Is there a man can believe he\nhas done all it lay in his power to do if, as he meditates thus, in the\nname of his brethren, on the sorrows of life, he hides from\nthem--anxious, perhaps, not to weaken his grandiose picture of\nsorrow--the reasons wherefore he accepts life, reasons that must be\ndecisive, since he himself continues to live? The thought must be\nincomplete surely whose object is not to console. It is easier for you\nto tell me the cause of your sorrow than, very simply, to speak of the\ndeeper, the weightier reasons that induce your instinct to cling to\nthis life whose distress you bemoan. Which of us finds not, unsought,\nmany thousands of reasons for sorrow? It is doubtless of service that\nthe sage should point out those that are loftiest, for the loftiest\nreasons for sorrow must be on the eve of becoming reasons for gladness\nand joy. But reasons that have not within them these germs of greatness\nand happiness--and in moral life open spaces abound where greatness and\nhappiness blend--these are surely not worthy of mention. Before we can\nbring happiness to others, we first must be happy ourselves; nor will\nhappiness abide within us unless we confer it on others. If there be a\nsmile upon our lips, those around us will soon smile too; and our\nhappiness will become the truer and deeper as we see that these others\nare happy. \"It is not seemly that I, who, willingly, have brought\nsorrow to none, should permit myself to be sad,\" said Marcus Aurelius,\nin one of his noblest passages. But are we not saddening ourselves, and\nlearning to sadden others, if we refuse to accept all the happiness\noffered to man?\n\n59. The humble thought that connects a mere satisfied glance, an\nordinary, everyday act of simple kindness, or an insignificant moment\nof happiness, with something eternal, and stable, and beautiful, is of\nfar greater value, and infinitely nearer to the mystery of life, than\nthe grand and gloomy meditation wherein sorrow, love, and despair blend\nwith death and destiny and the apathetic forces of nature. Appearances\noften deceive us. Hamlet, bewailing his fate on the brink of the gulf,\nseems profounder, imbued with more passion, than Antoninus Pius, whose\ntranquil gaze rests on the self-same forces, but who accepts them and\nquestions them calmly, instead of recoiling in horror and calling down\ncurses upon them. Our slightest gesture at nightfall seems more\nmomentous by far than all we have done in the day; but man was created\nto work in the light, and not to burrow in darkness.\n\n60. The smallest consoling idea has a strength of its own that is not\nto be found in the most magnificent plaint, the most exquisite\nexpression of sorrow. The vast, profound thought that brings with it\nnothing but sadness is energy burning its wings in the darkness to\nthrow light on the walls of its prison; but the timidest thought of\nhope, or of cheerful acceptance of inevitable law, in itself already is\naction in search of a foothold wherefrom to take flight into life. It\ncannot be harmful for us to acknowledge at times that action begins\nwith reality only, though our thoughts be never so large and\ndisinterested and admirable in themselves. 'For all that goes to build\nup what is truly our destiny is contained in those of our thoughts\nwhich, hurried along by the mass of ideas still obscure, indistinct,\nincomplete, have had strength sufficient--or been forced, it may be--to\nturn into facts, into gestures, into feelings and habits. We do not\nimply by this that the other thoughts should be neglected. Those that\nsurround our actual life may perhaps be compared with an army besieging\na city. The city once taken, the bulk of the troops would probably not\nbe permitted to pass through the gates. Admission would be doubtless\nwithheld from the irregular part of the army--barbarians, mercenaries,\nall those, in a word, whose natural tendencies would lead them to\ndrunkenness, pillage, or bloodshed. And it might also very well happen\nthat fully two-thirds of the troops would have taken no part in the\nfinal decisive battle. But there often is value in forces that appear\nto be useless; and the city would evidently not have yielded to panic\nand thrown open her gates, had the well-disciplined force at the foot\nof the walls not been flanked by the hordes in the valley. So is it in\nmoral life, too. Those thoughts are not wholly vain that have been\nunable to touch our actual life; they have helped on, supported, the\nothers; yet is it these others alone that have fully accomplished their\nmission And therefore does it behove us to have in our service, drawn\nup in front of the crowded ranks of our sad and bewildered thoughts, a\ngroup of ideas more human and confident, ready at all times to\npenetrate vigorously into life.\n\n61. Even when our endeavour to emerge from reality is due to the purest\ndesire for immaterial good, one gesture must still be worth more than a\nthousand intentions; nor is this that intentions are valueless, but\nthat the least gesture of goodness, or courage, or justice, makes\ndemands upon us far greater than a thousand lofty intentions.\nChiromantists pretend that the whole of our life is engraved on our\npalm; our life, according to them, being a certain number of actions\nwhich imprint ineffaceable marks on our flesh, before or after\nfulfilment; whereas not a trace will be left by either thoughts or\nintentions. If I have for many long days cherished projects of murder\nor treachery, heroism or sacrifice, my hand will tell nothing of these;\nbut if I have killed some one--involuntarily perhaps, imagining he was\nabout to attack me; or if I have rescued a child from the flames that\nenwrapped it--my hand will bear, all my life, the infallible sign of\nlove or of murder. Chiromancy maybe delusion or not--it matters but\nlittle; here we are concerned with the great moral truth that underlies\nthis distinction. The place that I fill in the universe will never be\nchanged by my thought; I shall be as I was to the day of my death; but\nmy actions will almost invariably move me forwards or backwards in the\nhierarchy of man. Thought is a solitary, wandering, fugitive force,\nwhich advances towards us today and perhaps on the morrow will vanish,\nwhereas every deed presupposes a permanent army of ideas and desires\nwhich have, after lengthy effort, secured foot-hold in reality.\n\n62. But we find ourselves here far away from the noble Antigone and the\neternal problem of unproductive virtue. It is certain that\ndestiny--understood in the ordinary sense of the word as meaning the\nroad that leads only to death--is wholly disregardful of virtue. This\nis the gulf, to which all systems of morality must come, as to a\ncentral reservoir, to be purified or troubled for ever; and here must\neach man decide whether he will justify fate or condemn it. Antigone's\nsacrifice may well be regarded as the type of all such as are made in\nthe cause of duty. Do we not all of us know of heroic deeds whose\nreward has been only misfortune? A friend of my own, one day, as he lay\non the bed he was never to leave save for that other one only which is\neternal, pointed out to me, one after the other, the different\nstratagems fate had contrived to lure him to the distant city, where\nthe draught of poisonous water awaited him that he was to swallow,\nwherefrom he must die. Strangely clear were the countless webs that\ndestiny had spun round this life; and the most trivial event seemed\nendowed with marvellous malice and forethought. Yet had my friend\njourneyed forth to that city in fulfilment of one of those duties that\nonly the saint, or the hero, the sage, detects on the horizon of\nconscience. What can we say? But let us leave this point for the\nmoment, to return to it later. My friend, had he lived, would on the\nmorrow have gone to another city, called thither by another duty; nor\nwould he have paused to inquire whether it was indeed duty that\nsummoned him. There are beings who do thus obey the commands that their\nheart whispers low. They fret not at fortune's injustice; they care not\nthough virtue be thankless; theirs it is only to fight the injustice of\nmen, which is the only injustice whereof they, as yet, seem aware.\n\nOught we never to hesitate, then? and is our duty most faithfully done\nwhen we ourselves are wholly unconscious that this thing that we do is\na duty? Is it most essential of all that we should attain a height\nwhence duty no longer is looked on as the choice of our noblest\nfeelings, but as the silent necessity of all the nature within us?\n\n63. There are some who wait and question themselves, who ponder,\nconsider, and then at length decide. They too are right, for it matters\nbut little whether the duty fulfilled be result of instinct or\nintellect. The gestures of instinct will often recall the delicate,\nnaive and vague, unexpected beauty that clings to the child's least\nmovement, and touches us deeply; but the gestures of matured resolve\nhave a beauty, too, of their own, more earnest and statelier, stronger.\nIt is given to very few hearts to be naively perfect, nor should we go\nseek in them for the laws of duty. And besides, there is many a\nsober-hued duty that instinct will fail to perceive, that yet will be\nclearly espied by mature resolution, bereft though this be of illusion;\nand man's moral value is doubtless established by the number of duties\nhe sees and sets forth to accomplish.\n\nIt is well that the bulk of mankind should listen to the instinct that\nprompts them to sacrifice self on the altar of duty, and that without\ntoo close self-questioning; for long must the questioning be ere\nconsciousness will give forth the same answer as instinct. And those\nwho do thus close their eyes, and in all meekness follow their\ninstinct, are in truth following the light that is borne at their head,\nthough they know it not, see it not, by the best of their ancestors.\nBut still this is not the ideal; and he who gives up the least thing of\nall for the sake of his brother, well knowing what it is he gives up\nand wherefore he does it, stands higher by far in the scale of morality\nthan the other, who flings away life without throwing one glance behind.\n\n64. In this world there are thousands of weak, noble creatures who\nfancy that sacrifice always must be the last word of duty; thousands of\nbeautiful souls that know not what should be done, and seek only to\nyield up their life, holding that to be virtue supreme. They are wrong;\nsupreme virtue consists in the knowledge of what should be done, in the\npower to decide for ourselves whereto we should offer our life. The\nduty each holds to be his is by no means his permanent duty. The\nparamount duty of all is to throw our conception of duty into clearest\npossible light. The word duty itself will often contain far more error\nand moral indifference than virtue. Clytemnestra devoted her life to\nrevenge--she murdered her husband for that he had slain Iphigenia;\nOrestes sacrificed his life in avenging Agamemnon's death on\nClytemnestra. And yet it has only needed a sage to pass by, saying,\n\"pardon your enemies,\" for all duties of vengeance to be banished for\never from the conscience of man. And so may it one day suffice that\nanother sage shall pass by for many a duty of sacrifice too to be\nexiled. But in the meanwhile there are certain ideas that prevail on\nrenouncement, resignation, and sacrifice, that are far more destructive\nto the most beautiful moral forces of man than great vices, or even\nthan crimes.\n\n65. There are some occasions in life, inevitable and of general\nbearing, that demand resignation, which is necessary then, and good;\nbut there are many occasions when we still are able to fight; and at\nsuch times resignation is no more than veiled helplessness, idleness,\nignorance. So is it with sacrifice too, which indeed is most often the\nwithered arm resignation still shakes in the void. There is beauty in\nsimple self-sacrifice when its hour has come unsought, when its motive\nis happiness of others; but it cannot be wise, or of use to mankind, to\nmake sacrifice the aim of one's life, or to regard its achievement as\nthe magnificent triumph of the spirit over the body. (And here let us\nadd that infinitely too great importance is generally ascribed to the\ntriumph of spirit over body, these pretended triumphs being most often\nthe total defeat of life.) Sacrifice may be a flower that virtue will\npluck on its road, but it was not to gather this flower that virtue set\nforth on its travels. It is a grave, error to think that the beauty of\nsoul is most clearly revealed by the eager desire for sacrifice; for\nthe soul's fertile beauty resides in its consciousness, in the\nelevation and power of its life. There are some, it is true, that awake\nfrom their sleep at the call of sacrifice only; but these lack the\nstrength and the courage to seek other forms of moral existence. It is,\nas a rule, far easier to sacrifice self--to give up, that is, our moral\nexistence to the first one who chooses to take it--than to fulfil our\nspiritual destiny, to accomplish, right to the end, the task for which\nwe were created. It is easier far, as a rule, to die morally, nay, even\nphysically, for others, than to learn how best we should live for them.\nThere are too many beings who thus lull to sleep all initiative,\npersonal life, and absorb themselves wholly in the idea that they are\nprepared and ready for sacrifice. The consciousness that never succeeds\nin travelling beyond this idea, that is satisfied ever to seek an\noccasion for giving all that which it has, is a consciousness whose\neyes are sealed, and that crouches be-numbed at the foot of the\nmountain. There is beauty in the giving of self, and indeed it is only\nby giving oneself that we do, at the end, begin to possess ourselves\nsomewhat; but if all that we some day shall give to our brethren is the\ndesire to give them ourselves, then are we surely preparing a gift of\nmost slender value. Before giving, let us try to acquire; for this last\nis a duty where from we are not relieved by the fact of our giving. Let\nus wait till the hour of sacrifice sounds; till then, each man to his\nwork. The hour will sound at last; but let us not waste all our time in\nseeking it on the dial of life.\n\n66. There are many ways of sacrifice; and I speak not here of the\nself-sacrifice of the strong, who know, as Antigone knew, how to yield\nthemselves up when destiny, taking the form of their brothers' manifest\nhappiness, calls upon them to abandon their own happiness and their\nlife. I speak of the sacrifice here that is made by the feeble; that\nleans for support, with childish content, on the staff of its own\ninanity--that is as an old blind nurse, who would rock us in the\npalsied arms of renouncement and useless suffering. On this point let\nus note what John Ruskin says, one of the best thinkers of our time:\n\"The will of God respecting us is that we shall live by each other's\nhappiness and life; not by each other's misery or death. A child may\nhave to die for its parents; but the purpose of Heaven is that it shall\nrather live for them; that not by sacrifice, but by its strength, its\njoy, its force of being, it shall be to them renewal of strength; and\nas the arrow in the hand of the giant. So it is in all other right\nrelations. Men help each other by their joy, not by their sorrow. They\nare not intended to slay themselves for each other, but to strengthen\nthemselves for each other. And among the many apparently beautiful\nthings which turn, through mistaken use, to utter evil, I am not sure\nbut that the thoughtlessly meek and self-sacrificing spirit of good men\nmust be named as one of the fatallest. They have so often been taught\nthat there is a virtue in mere suffering, as such . . . that they\naccept pain and defeat as if these were their appointed portion; never\nunderstanding that their defeat is not the less to be mourned because\nit is more fatal to their enemies than to them.\"\n\n67. You are told you should love your neighbour as yourself; but if you\nlove yourself meanly, childishly, timidly, even so shall you love your\nneighbour. Learn therefore to love yourself with a love that is wise\nand healthy, that is large and complete. This is less easy than it\nwould seem. There is more active charity in the egoism of a strenuous\nclairvoyant soul than in all the devotion of the soul that is helpless\nand blind. Before you exist for others it behoves you to exist for\nyourself; before giving, you first must acquire. Be sure that, if\ndeeply considered, more value attaches to the particle of consciousness\ngained than to the gift of your entire unconsciousness. Nearly all the\ngreat things of this world have been done by men who concerned\nthemselves not at all with ideas of self-sacrifice. Plato's thoughts\nflew on--he paused not to let his tears fall with the tears of the\nmourners in Athens; Newton pursued his experiments calmly, nor left\nthem to search for objects of pity or sorrow; and Marcus Aurelius above\nall (for here we touch on the most frequent and dangerous form of\nself-sacrifice) Marcus Aurelius essayed not to dim the brightness of\nhis own soul that he might confer happiness on the inferior soul of\nFaustina. And if this was right in the lives of these men, of Plato and\nNewton and Marcus Aurelius, it is equally right in the life of every\nsoul; for each soul has, in its sphere, the same obligations to self as\nthe soul of the greatest. We should tell ourselves, once and for all,\nthat it is the first duty of the soul to become as happy, complete,\nindependent, and great as lies in its power.' Herein is no egoism, or\npride. To become effectually generous and sincerely humble there must\nbe within us a confident, tranquil, and clear comprehension of all that\nwe owe to ourselves. To this end we may sacrifice even the passion for\nsacrifice; for sacrifice never should be the means of ennoblement, but\nonly the sign of our being ennobled.\n\n68. Let us be ready to offer, when necessity beckons, our wealth, and\nour time, and our life, to our less fortunate brethren, making them\nthus an exceptional gift of a few exceptional hours; but the sage is\nnot bound to neglect his happiness, and all that environs his life, in\nsole preparation for these few exceptional hours of greater or lesser\ndevotion. The truest morality tells us to cling, above all, to the\nduties that return every day, to acts of inexhaustible brotherly\nkindness. And, thus considered, we find that in the everyday walk of\nlife the solitary thing we can ever distribute among those who march by\nour side, be they joyful or sad, is the confidence, strength, the\nfreedom and peace, of our soul. Let the humblest of men, therefore,\nnever cease to cherish and lift up his soul, even as though he were\nfully convinced that this soul of his should one day be called to\nconsole or gladden a God. When we think of preparing our soul, the\npreparation should never be other than befits a mission divine. In this\ndomain only, and on this condition, can man truly give himself, can\nthere be pre-eminent sacrifice. And think you that when the hour sounds\nthe gift of a Socrates or Marcus Aurelius--who lived many lives, for\nmany a time had they compassed their whole life around--do you think\nsuch a gift is not worth a thousand times more than what would be given\nby him who had never stepped over the threshold of consciousness? And\nif God there be, will He value sacrifice only by the weight of the\nblood in our body; and the blood of the heart--its virtue, its\nknowledge of self, its moral existence--do you think this will all go\nfor nothing?\n\n69. It is not by self-sacrifice that loftiness comes to the soul; but\nas the soul becomes loftier, sacrifice fades out of sight, as the\nflowers in the valley disappear from the vision of him who toils up the\nmountain. Sacrifice is a beautiful token of unrest; but unrest should\nnot be nurtured within us for sake of itself. To the soul that is\nslowly awakening all appears sacrifice; but few things indeed are so\ncalled by the soul that at last lives the life whereof self-denial,\npity, devotion, are no longer indispensable roots, but only invisible\nflowers. For in truth too many do thus feel the need of\ndestroying--though it be without cause--a happiness, love, or a hope\nthat is theirs, thereby to obtain clearer vision of self in the light\nof the consuming flame. It is as though they held in their hand a lamp\nof whose use they know nothing; as though, when the darkness comes on,\nand they are eager for light, they scatter its substance abroad on the\nfire of the stranger.\n\nLet us beware lest we act as he did in the fable, who stood watch in\nthe lighthouse, and gave to the poor in the cabins about him the oil of\nthe mighty lanterns that served to illumine the sea. Every soul in its\nsphere has charge of a lighthouse, for which there is more or less\nneed. The humblest mother who allows her whole life to be crushed, to\nbe saddened, absorbed, by the less important of her motherly duties, is\ngiving her oil to the poor; and her children will suffer, the whole of\ntheir life, from there not having been, in the soul of their mother,\nthe radiance it might have acquired. The immaterial force that shines\nin our heart must shine, first of all, for itself; for on this\ncondition alone shall it shine for the others as well; but see that you\ngive not away the oil of your lamp, though your lamp be never so small;\nlet your gift be the flame, its crown.\n\n70. In the soul that is noble altruism must, without doubt, be always\nthe centre of gravity; but the weak soul is apt to lose itself in\nothers, whereas it is in others that the strong soul discovers itself.\nHere we have the essential distinction. There is a thing that is\nloftier still than to love our neighbour as we love ourselves; it is to\nlove ourselves in our neighbour. Some souls there are whom goodness\nwalks before, as there are others that goodness follows. Let us never\nforget that, in communion of soul, the most generous by no means are\nthey who believe they are constantly giving. A strenuous soul never\nceases to take, though it be from the poorest; a weak soul always is\ngiving, even to those that have most; but there is a manner of giving\nwhich truly is only the gesture of powerless greed; and we should find,\nit may be, if reckoning were kept by a God, that in taking from others\nwe give, and in giving we take away. Often indeed will it so come about\nthat the very first ray of enlightenment will descend on the\ncommonplace soul the day it has met with another which took all that it\nhad to give.\n\n71. Why not admit that it is not our paramount duty to weep with all\nthose who are weeping, to suffer with all who are sad, to expose our\nheart to the passer-by for him to caress or stab? Tears and suffering\nand wounds are helpful to us only when they do not discourage our life.\nLet us never forget that whatever our mission may be in this world,\nwhatever the aim of our efforts and hopes, and the result of our joys\nand our sorrows, we are, above all, the blind custodians of life.\nAbsolutely, wholly certain is that one thing only; it is there that we\nfind the only fixed point of human morality. Life has been given\nus--for a reason we know not--but surely not for us to enfeeble it, or\ncarelessly fling it away. For it is a particular form of life that we\nrepresent on this planet--the life of feeling and thought; whence it\nfollows perhaps that all that inclines to weaken the ardour of feeling\nand thought is, in its essence, immoral. Our task let it be then to\nfoster this ardour, to enhance and embellish it; let us constantly\nstrive to acquire deeper faith in the greatness of man, in his strength\nand his destiny; or, we might equally say, in his bitterness, weakness,\nand wretchedness; for to be loftily wretched is no less soul-quickening\nthan it is to be loftily happy. After all, it matters but little\nwhether it be man or the universe that we admire, so long as something\nappear truly admirable to us, and exalt our sense of the infinite.\nEvery new star that is found in the sky will lend of its rays to the\npassions, and thoughts, and the courage, of man. Whatever of beauty we\nsee in all that surrounds us, within us already is beautiful; whatever\nwe find in ourselves that is great and adorable, that do we find too in\nothers. If my soul, on awaking this morning, was cheered, as it dwelt\non its love, by a thought that drew near to a God--a God, we have said,\nwho is doubtless no more than the loveliest desire of our soul--then\nshall I behold this same thought astir in the beggar who passes my\nwindow the moment thereafter; and I shall love him the more for that I\nunderstand him the better. And let us not think that love of this kind\ncan be useless; for indeed, if one day we shall know the thing that has\nto be done, it will only be thanks to the few who love in this fashion,\nwith an ever-deepening love. From the conscious and infinite love must\nthe true morality spring, nor can there be greater charity than the\neffort to ennoble our fellows. But I cannot ennoble you if I have not\nbecome noble myself; I have no admiration to give you if there be\nnaught in myself I admire. If the deed I have done be heroic, its\ntruest reward will be my conviction that of an equal deed you are\ncapable too; this conviction ever will tend to become more spontaneous\nwithin me, and more unconquerable. Every thought that quickens my heart\nbrings quickening, too, to the love and respect that I have for\nmankind. As I rise aloft, you rise with me. But if, the better to love\nyou, I deem it my duty to tear off the wings from my love, your love\nbeing wingless as yet; then shall I have added in vain to the plaints\nand the tears in the valley, but brought my own love thereby not one\nwhit nearer the mountain. Our love should always be lodged on the\nhighest peak we can attain. Let our love not spring from pity when it\ncan be born of love; let us not forgive for charity's sake when justice\noffers forgiveness; nor let us try to console there where we can\nrespect. Let our one never-ceasing care be to better the love that we\noffer our fellows. One cup of this love that is drawn from the spring\non the mountain is worth a hundred taken from the stagnant well of\nordinary charity. And if there be one whom you no longer can love\nbecause of the pity you feel, or the tears that he sheds; and if he\nignore to the end that you love him because you ennobled him at the\nsame time you ennobled yourself, it matters but little after all; for\nyou have done what you held to be best, and the best is not always most\nuseful. Should we not invariably act in this life as though the God\nwhom our heart desires with its highest desire were watching our every\naction?\n\n72. In a terrible catastrophe that took place but a short time\nago,[Footnote: The fire at the Bazar de la Charite in Paris.] destiny\nafforded yet another, and perhaps the most startling instance of what\nit pleases men to term her injustice, her blindness, or her\nirresponsibility. She seemed to have singled out for especial\nchastisement the solitary external virtue that reason has left us--our\nlove for our fellow-man. There must have been some moderately righteous\nmen amongst the victims, and it seems almost certain that there was at\nleast one whose virtue was wholly disinterested and sincere. It is the\npresence of this one truly good man that warrants our asking, in all\nits simplicity, the terrible question that rises to our lips. Had he\nnot been there we might have tried to believe that this act of\nseemingly monstrous injustice was in reality composed of particles of\nsovereign justice. We might have whispered to ourselves that what they\ntermed charity, out yonder, was perhaps only the arrogant flower of\npermanent injustice.\n\nWe seem unwilling to recognise the blindness of the external forces,\nsuch as air, fire, water, the laws of gravity and others, with which we\nmust deal and do battle. The need is heavy upon us to find excuses for\nfate; and even when blaming her, we seem to be endeavouring still to\nexplain the causes of her past and her future action, conscious the\nwhile of a feeling of pained surprise, as though a man we valued highly\nhad done some dreadful deed. We love to idealise destiny, and are wont\nto credit her with a sense of justice loftier far than our own; and\nhowever great the injustice whereof she may have been guilty, our\nconfidence will soon flow back to her, the first feeling of dismay\nover; for in our heart we plead that she must have reasons we cannot\nfathom, that there must be laws we cannot divine. The gloom of the\nworld would crush us were we to dissociate morality from fate. To doubt\nthe existence of this high, protecting justice and virtue, would seem\nto us to be denying the existence of all justice and of all virtue.\n\nWe are no longer able to accept the narrow morality of positive\nreligion, which entices with reward and threatens with punishment; and\nyet we are apt to forget that, were fate possessed of the most\nrudimentary sense of justice, our conception of a lofty, disinterested\nmorality would fade into thin air. What merit in being just ourselves\nif we be not convinced of the absolute injustice of fate? We no longer\nbelieve in the ideals once held by saints, and we are confident that a\nwise God will hold of as little account the duty done through hope of\nrecompense, as the evil done for sake of gain; and this even though the\nrecompense hoped for be nothing but the self-ensuing peace of mind. We\nsay that God, who must be at least as high as the highest thoughts He\nhas implanted in the best of men, will withhold His smile from those\nwho have desired but to please Him; and that they only who have done\ngood for the sake of good and as though He existed not, they only who\nhave loved virtue more than they loved God Himself, shall be allowed to\nstand by His side. And yet, and for all this, no sooner does the event\nconfront us, than we discover that we still are guided by the \"moral\nmaxims\" of our childhood. Of more avail would be a \"List of chastised\nvirtues.\" The soul that is quick with life would find its profit\ntherein; the cause of virtue would gain in vigour and in majesty. Let\nus not forget that it is from the very nonmorality of destiny that a\nnobler morality must spring into life; for here, as everywhere, man is\nnever so strong with his own native strength as when he realises that\nhe stands entirely alone. As we consider the crowning injustice of\nfate, it is the negation of high moral law that disturbs us; but from\nthis negation there at once arises a moral law that is higher still. He\nwho no longer believes in reward or punishment must do good for the\nsake of good. Even though a moral law seem on the eve of disappearing,\nwe need have no cause for disquiet; its place will be speedily filled\nby a law that is greater still. To attribute morality to fate is but to\nlessen the purity of our ideal; to admit the injustice of fate is to\nthrow open before us the ever-widening fields of a still loftier\nmorality. Let us not think virtue will crumble, though God Himself seem\nunjust. Where shall the virtue of man find more everlasting foundation\nthan in the seeming injustice of God?\n\n73. Let us not cavil, therefore, at nature's indifference to the sage.\nIt is only because we are not yet wise enough that this indifference\nseems strange; for the first duty of wisdom is to throw into light the\nhumbleness of the place in the universe that is filled by man.\n\nWithin his sphere he seems of importance, as the bee in its cell of\nhoney; but it were idle to suppose that a single flower the more will\nblossom in the fields because the queen bee has proved herself a\nheroine in the hive. We need not fear that we depreciate ourselves when\nwe extol the universe. Whether it be ourselves or the entire world that\nwe consider great, still will there quicken within our soul the sense\nof the infinite, which is of the life-blood of virtue. What is an act\nof virtue that we should expect such mighty reward? It is within\nourselves that reward must be found, for the law of gravitation will\nnot swerve. They only who know not what goodness is are ever clamouring\nfor the wage of goodness. Above all, let us never forget that an act of\ngoodness is of itself always an act of happiness. It is the flower of a\nlong inner life of joy and contentment; it tells of peaceful hours and\ndays on the sunniest heights of our soul. No reward coming after the\nevent can compare with the sweet reward that went with it. The upright\nman who perished in the catastrophe I mentioned was there because his\nsoul had found a peace and strength in virtue that not happiness, love,\nor glory could have given him. Were the flames to retreat before such\nmen, were the waters to open and death to hesitate, what were\nrighteousness or heroism then? Would not the true happiness of virtue\nbe destroyed? virtue that is happy because it is noble and pure, that\nis noble and pure because it desires no reward? There may be human joy\nin doing good with definite purpose, but they who do good expecting\nnothing in return know a joy that is divine. Where we do evil our\nreasons mostly are known to us, but our good deed becomes the purer for\nour ignorance of its motive. Would we know how to value the righteous\nman, we have but to question him as to the motives of his\nrighteousness. He will probably be the most truly righteous who is\nleast ready with his answer. Some may suppose that as intellect widens\nmany a motive for heroism will be lost to the soul; but it should be\nborne in mind that the wider intellect brings with it an ideal of\nheroism loftier and more disinterested still. And this much at least is\ncertain: he who thinks that virtue stands in need of the approval of\ndestiny or of worlds, has not yet within him the veritable sense of\nvirtue. Truly to act well we must do good because of our craving for\ngood, a more intimate knowledge of goodness being all we expect in\nreturn. \"With no witness save his heart alone,\" said St. Just. In the\neyes of a God there must surely be marked distinction between the soul\nof the man who believes that the rays of a virtuous deed shall shine\nthrough furthest space, and the soul of the other who knows they\nillumine his heart alone. There may be greater momentary strength in\nthe overambitious truth, but the strength that is brought by the humble\nhuman truth is far more earnest and patient. Is it wiser to be as the\nsoldier who imagines that each blow he strikes brings victory nearer,\nor as the other who knows his little account in the combat but still\nfights sturdily on? The upright man would scorn to deceive his\nneighbour, but is ever unduly inclined to regard some measure of\nself-deception as inseparable from his ideal.\n\nIf there were profit in virtue, then would the noblest of men be\ncompelled to seek happiness elsewhere; and God would destroy their main\nobject in life were He to reward them often. Nothing is indispensable,\nperhaps, or even necessary; and it may be that if the joy of doing good\nfor sake of good were taken from the soul, it would find other, purer\njoys; but in the meantime, it is the most beautiful joy we know,\ntherefore let us respect it. Let us not resent the misfortunes that\nsometimes befall virtue, lest we at the same time disturb the limpid\nessence of its happiness. The soul that has this happiness dreams no\nmore of reward, than others expect punishment because of their\nwickedness. They only are ever clamouring for justice who know it not\nin their lives.\n\n74. There is wisdom in the Hindu saying: \"Work as they work, who are\nambitious. Respect life, as they respect it who desire it. Be happy, as\nthey are happy who live for happiness alone.\"\n\nAnd this is indeed the central point of human wisdom--to act as though\neach deed must bear wondrous, everlasting, fruit, and yet to realise\nthe insignificance of a just action before the universe; to grasp the\ndisproportion of things, and yet to march onwards as though the\nproportions were established by man; to keep our eyes fixed on the\ngreat sphere, and ourselves to move in the little sphere with as much\nconfidence and earnestness, with as much assurance and satisfaction, as\nthough the great sphere were contained within it.\n\nIs there need of illusion to keep alive our desire for good? then must\nthis desire stand confessed as foreign to the nature of man. It is a\nmistake to imagine that the heart will long cherish within it the ideas\nthat reason has banished; but within the heart there is much that\nreason may take to itself. And at last the heart becomes the refuge to\nwhich reason is apt to fly, ever more and more simply, each time that\nthe night steals upon it; for it is to the heart as a young,\nclairvoyant girl, who still at times needs advice from her blind, but\nsmiling, mother. There comes a moment in life when moral beauty seems\nmore urgent, more penetrating, than intellectual beauty; when all that\nthe mind has treasured must be bathed in the greatness of soul, lest it\nperish in the sandy desert, forlorn as a river that seeks in vain for\nthe sea.\n\n75. But let us exaggerate nothing when dealing with wisdom, though it\nbe wisdom itself. The external forces, we know, will not yield to the\nrighteous man; but still he is absolute lord of most of the inner\npowers; and these are for ever spinning the web of nearly all our\nhappiness and sorrow. We have said elsewhere that the sage, as he\npasses by, intervenes in countless dramas. Indeed his mere presence\nsuffices to arrest most of the calamities that arise from error or\nevil. They cannot approach him, or even those who are near him. A\nchance meeting with creature endowed with simple and loving wisdom has\nstayed the hands of men who else had committed countless acts of folly\nor wickedness; for in life most characters are subordinate, and it is\nchance alone that determines whether the track which they are to follow\nshall be that of suffering or peace. The atmosphere around Jean-Jacques\nRousseau was heavy with lamentation and treachery, delirium, deceit,\nand cunning; whereas Jean Paul moved in the midst of loyalty and\nnobility, the centre of peace and love. We subdue that in others which\nwe have learned to subdue in ourselves. Around the upright man there is\ndrawn a wide circle of peace, within which the arrows of evil soon\ncease to fall; nor have his fellows the power to inflict moral\nsuffering upon him. For indeed if our tears can flow because of our\nenemies' malice, it is only because we ourselves would fain make our\nenemies weep. If the shafts of envy can wound and draw blood, it is\nonly because we ourselves have shafts that we wish to throw; if\ntreachery can wring a groan from us, we must be disloyal ourselves,\nOnly those weapons can wound the soul that it has not yet sacrificed on\nthe altar of Love.\n\n76. The dramas of virtue are played on a stage whose mysteries not even\nthe wisest can fathom. It is only as the last word is spoken that the\ncurtain is raised for an instant; we know nothing of all that preceded,\nof the brightness or gloom that enwrapped it. But of one thing at least\nthe just man may be certain; it will be in an act of charity, or\njustice, that his destiny will meet him face to face. The blow must\ninevitably find him prepared, in a state of grace, as the Christian\ncalls it; in other words, in a state of inner happiness. And that in\nitself bars the door on evil destiny within us, and closes most of the\ngates by which external misfortune can enter. As our conception of duty\nand happiness gains in dignity, so does the sway of moral suffering\nbecome the more restricted and purer. And is not moral suffering the\nmost tyrannical weapon in the armoury of destiny? Our happiness mainly\ndepends on the freedom that reigns within us; a freedom that widens\nwith every good deed, and contracts beneath acts of evil. Not\nmetaphorically, but literally, does Marcus Aurelius free himself each\ntime he discovers a new truth in indulgence, each time that he pardons,\neach time he reflects. Still less of a metaphor is it to declare that\nMacbeth enchains himself anew with every fresh crime. And if this be\ntrue of the great crimes of kings and the virtues of heroes, it is no\nless true of the humblest faults and most hidden virtues of ordinary\nlife. Many a youthful Marcus Aurelius is still about us; many a\nMacbeth, who never stirs from his room. However imperfect our\nconception of virtue, still let us cling to it; for a moment's\nforgetfulness exposes us to all the malignant forces from without. The\nsimplest lie to myself, buried though it may be in the silence of my\nsoul, may yet be as dangerous to my inner liberty as an act of\ntreachery on the marketplace. And from the moment that my inner liberty\nis threatened, destiny prowls around my external liberty as stealthily\nas a beast of prey that has long been tracking its victim.\n\n77. Can we conceive a situation in life wherein a man who is truly wise\nand noble can be made to suffer as profoundly as the man who follows\nevil? In this world it is far more certain that vice will be punished,\nthan that virtue will meet with reward; yet we must bear in mind that\nit is the habit of crime to shriek aloud beneath its punishment,\nwhereas virtue rewards itself in the silence that is the walled garden\nof its happiness. Evil drags horrid catastrophe behind it; but an act\nof virtue is only a silent offering to the profoundest laws of life;\nand therefore, doubtless, does the balance of mighty justice seem more\nready to incline beneath deeds of darkness than beneath those of light.\nBut if we can scarcely believe that \"happiness in crime\" be possible,\nhave we more warrant for faith in the \"unhappiness of virtue\"? We know\nthat the executioner can stretch Spinoza on the rack, and that terrible\ndisease will spare Antoninus Pius no more than Goneril or Regan; but\npain such as this belongs to the animal, not the human, side of man.\nWisdom has indeed sent science, the youngest of her sisters, into the\nrealm of destiny, with the mission to bring the zone of physical\nsuffering within ever-narrowing limits; but there are inaccessible\nregions within that realm, where disaster ever will rule. Some stricken\nones there will always be, victims to irreducible injustice; and yet\nwill the true wisdom, in the midst of its sorrow, only be fortified\nthereby, only gain in self-reliance and humanity all that it, may lose\nin more mystic qualities. We become truly just only when it is finally\nborne home to us that we must search within ourselves for our model of\njustice. Again, it is the injustice of destiny that restores man to his\nplace in the universe. It is not well that he should for ever be\npasting anxious glances about him, like the child that has strayed from\nits mother's side. Nor need we believe that these disillusions must\nnecessarily give rise to moral discouragement; for the truth that seems\ndiscouraging does in reality only transform the courage of those strong\nenough to accept it; and, in any event, a truth that disheartens,\nbecause it is true, is still of far more value than the most\nstimulating of falsehoods. But indeed no truth can discourage, whereas\nmuch that passes as courage only bears the semblance thereof. The thing\nthat enfeebles the weak will but help to strengthen the strong. \"Do you\nremember the day,\" wrote a woman to her lover, \"when we sat together by\nthe window that looked on to the sea, and watched the meek procession\nof white-sailed ships as they followed each other into harbour? . . .\nAh! how that day comes back to me! . . . Do you remember that one ship\nhad a sail that was nearly black, and that she was the last to come in?\nAnd do you remember, too, that the hour of separation was upon us, and\nthat the arrival of the last boat of all was to be our signal for\ndeparture? We might perhaps have found cause for sadness in the gloomy\nsail that fluttered at her mast; but we who loved each other had\n'accepted' life, and we only smiled as we once more recognised the\nkinship of our thoughts.\" Yes, it is thus we should act; and though we\ncannot always smile as the black sail heaves in sight, yet is it\npossible for us to find in our life something that shall absorb us to\nthe exclusion of sadness, as her love absorbed the woman whose words I\nhave quoted. Complaints of injustice grow less frequent as the brain\nand the heart expand. It is well to remind ourselves that in this\nworld, whose fruit we are, all that concerns us must necessarily be\nmore conformable with our existence than the most beneficent law of our\nimagination. The time has arrived perhaps when man must learn to place\nthe centre of his joys and pride elsewhere than within himself. As this\nidea takes firmer root within us, so do we become more conscious of our\nhelplessness beneath its overwhelming force; yet is it at the same time\nborne home to us that of this force we ourselves form part; and even as\nwe writhe beneath it, we are compelled to admire, as the youthful\nTelemachus admired the power of his father's arm. Our own instinctive\nactions awaken within us an eager curiosity, an affectionate, pleased\nsurprise: why should we not train ourselves thus to regard the\ninstinctive actions of nature? We love to throw the dim light of our\nreason on to our unconsciousness: why not let it play on what we term\nthe unconsciousness of the universe? We are no less deeply concerned\nwith the one than the other. \"After he has become acquainted with the\npower that is in him,\" said a philosopher, \"one of the highest\nprivileges of man is to realise his individual powerlessness. Out of\nthe very disproportion between the infinite which kills us and this\nnothing that we are, there arises within us a sensation that is not\nwithout grandeur; we feel that we would rather be crushed by a mountain\nthan done to death by a pebble, as in war we would rather succumb\nbeneath the charge of thousands than fall victim to a single arm. And\nas our intellect lays bare to us the immensity of our helplessness, so\ndoes it rob defeat of its sting.\" Who knows? We are already conscious\nof moments when the something that has conquered us seems nearer to\nourselves than the part of us that has yielded. Of all our\ncharacteristics, self-esteem is the one that most readily changes its\nhome, for we are instinctively aware that it has never truly formed\npart of us. The self-esteem of the courtier who waits on the mighty\nking soon finds more splendid lodging in the king's boundless power;\nand the disgrace that may befall him will wound his pride the less for\nthat it has descended from the height of a throne. Were nature to\nbecome less indifferent, it would no longer appear so vast. Our\nunfettered sense of the infinite cannot afford to dispense with one\nparticle of the infinite, with one particle of its indifference; and\nthere will ever remain something within our soul that would rather weep\nat times in a world that knows no limit, than enjoy perpetual happiness\nin a world that is hemmed in.\n\nIf destiny were invariably just in her dealings with the wise, then\ndoubtless would the existence of such a law furnish sufficient proof of\nits excellence; but as it is wholly indifferent, it is better so, and\nperhaps even greater; for what the actions of the soul may lose in\nimportance thereby does but go to swell the dignity of the universe.\nAnd loss of grandeur to the sage there is none; for he is as profoundly\nsensitive to the greatness of nature as to the greatness that lurks\nwithin man. Why harass our soul with endeavour to locate the infinite?\nAs much of it as can be given to man will go to him who has learned to\nwonder.\n\n78. Do you know a novel of Balzac, belonging to the \"Celibataires\"\nseries, called Pierrette? It is not one of Balzac's masterpieces, but\nit has points of much interest for us. It is the story of an orphaned\nBreton girl, a sweet, innocent child, who is suddenly snatched away, by\nher evil star, from the grandparents who adore her, and transferred to\nthe care of an aunt and uncle. Monsieur Rogron and his sister Sylvia. A\nhard, gloomy couple, these two; retired shopkeepers, who live in a\ndreary house in the back streets of a dreary country town. Their\ncelibacy weighs heavily upon them; they are miserly, and absurdly vain;\nmorose, and instinctively full of hatred.\n\nThe poor inoffensive girl has hardly set foot in the house before her\nmartyrdom begins. There are terrible questions of money and economy,\nambitions to be gratified, marriages to be prevented, inheritances to\nbe turned aside: complications of every kind. The neighbours and\nfriends of the Rogrons behold the long and painful sufferings of the\nvictim with unruffled tranquillity, for their every natural instinct\nleads them to applaud the success of the stronger. And at last\nPierrette dies, as unhappily as she has lived; while the others all\ntriumph--the Rogrons, the detestable lawyer Vinet, and all those who\nhad helped them; and the subsequent happiness of these wretches remains\nwholly untroubled. Fate would even seem to smile upon them; and Balzac,\ncarried away in spite of himself by the reality of it all, ends his\nstory, almost regretfully, with these words: \"How the social villainies\nof this world would thrive under our laws if there were no God!\"\n\nWe need not go to fiction for tragedies of this kind; there are many\nhouses in which they are matters of daily occurrence. I have borrowed\nthis instance from Balzac's pages because the story lay there ready to\nhand; the chronicle, day by day, of the triumph of injustice. The very\nhighest morality is served by such instances, and a great lesson is\ntaught; and perhaps the moralists are wrong who try to weaken this\nlesson by finding excuses for the iniquities of fate. Some are\nsatisfied that God will give innocence its due reward. Others tell us\nthat in this case it is not the victim who has the greatest claim upon\nour sympathy. And these are doubtless right, from many points of view;\nfor little Pierrette, miserable though she was, and cruelly tormented,\ndid yet experience joys that her tyrants never would know. In the midst\nof her sorrow, she remained gentle, and tender, and loving; and therein\nlies greater happiness than in hiding cruelty, hatred, and selfishness\nbeneath a smile. It is sad to love and be unloved, but sadder still to\nbe unable to love. And how great is the difference between the petty,\nsordid desires, the grotesque delights, of the Rogrons, and the mighty\nlonging that filled the child's soul as she looked forward to the time\nwhen injustice at last should cease! Little wistful Pierrette was\nperhaps no wiser than those about her; but before such as must bear\nunmerited suffering there stretches a wide horizon, which here and\nagain takes in the joys that only the loftiest know; even as the\nhorizon of the earth, though not seen from the mountain peak, would\nappear at times to be one with the corner-stone of heaven. The\ninjustice we commit speedily reduces us to petty, material pleasures;\nbut, as we revel in these, we envy our victim; for our tyranny has\nthrown open the door to joys whereof we cannot deprive him--joys that\nare wholly beyond our reach, joys that are purely spiritual. And the\ndoor that opens wide to the victim is sealed in the tyrant's soul; and\nthe sufferer breathes a purer air than he who has made him suffer. In\nthe hearts of the persecuted there is radiance, where those who\npersecute have only gloom; and is it not on the light within us that\nthe wellbeing of happiness depends? He who brings sorrow with him\nstifles more happiness within himself than in the man he overwhelms.\nWhich of us, had he to choose, but would rather be Pierrette than\nRogron? The instinct of happiness within us needs no telling that he\nwho is morally right must be happier than he who is wrong, though the\nwrong be done from the height of a throne. And, even though the Rogrons\nbe unaware of their Injustice, it alters nothing; for, be we aware or\nunaware of the evil we commit, the air we breathe will still be heavily\ncharged. Nay, more--to him who knows he does wrong there may come,\nperhaps, the desire to escape from his prison; but the other will die\nin his cell, without even his thoughts having travelled beyond the\ngloomy walls that conceal from him the true destiny of man.\n\n79. Why seek justice where it cannot be? and where can it be, save in\nour soul? Its language is the natural language of the spirit of man;\nbut this spirit must learn new words ere it can travel in the universe.\nJustice is the very last thing of all wherewith the universe concerns\nitself. It is equilibrium that absorbs its attention; and what we term\njustice is truly nothing but this equilibrium transformed, as honey is\nnothing but a transformation of the sweetness found in the flower.\nOutside man there is no justice; within him injustice cannot be. The\nbody may revel in ill--gotten pleasure, but virtue alone can bring\ncontentment to the soul. Our inner happiness is measured out to us by\nan incorruptible Judge and the mere endeavour to corrupt him still\nfurther reduces the sum of the final, veritable happiness he lets fall\ninto the shining scale. It is lamentable enough that a Rogron should be\nable to torture a helpless child, and darken the few hours of life the\nchance of the world had given; but injustice there would be only if his\nwickedness procured him the inner happiness and peace, the elevation of\nthought and habit, that long years spent in love and meditation had\nprocured for Spinoza and Marcus Aurelius. Some slight intellectual\nsatisfaction there may be in the doing of evil; but none the less does\neach wrongful deed clip the wings of our thoughts, till at length they\ncan only crawl amidst all that is fleeting and personal. To commit an\nact of injustice is to prove we have not yet attained the happiness\nwithin our grasp. And in evil--reduce things to their primal elements,\nand you shall find that even the wicked are seeking some measure of\npeace, a certain up-lifting of soul. They may think themselves happy,\nand rejoice for such dole as may come to them; but would it have\nsatisfied Marcus Aurelius, who knew the lofty tranquillity, the great\nquickening of the soul? Show a vast lake to the child who has never\nbeheld the sea, it will clap its hands and be glad, and think the sea\nis before it; but therefore none the less does the veritable sea exist.\n\nIt may be that a man will find happiness in the puny little victories\nthat his vanity, envy, or indifference win for him day after day. Shall\nwe begrudge him such happiness, we, whose eyes can see further? Shall\nwe strive for his consciousness of life, for the religion that pleases\nhis soul, for the conception of the universe that justifies his cares?\nYet out of these things are the banks made between which happiness\nflows; and as they are, so shall the river be, in shallowness or in\ndepth. He may believe that there is a God, or that there is no God;\nthat all ends in this world, or that it is prolonged into the next;\nthat all is matter, or that all is spirit. He will believe these things\nmuch as wise men believe them; but do you think his manner of belief\ncan be the same? To look fearlessly upon life; to accept the laws of\nnature, not with meek resignation, but as her sons, who dare to search\nand question; to have peace and confidence within our soul--these are\nthe beliefs that make for happiness. But to believe is not enough; all\ndepends on how we believe. I may believe that there is no God, that I\nam self-contained, that my brief sojourn here serves no purpose; that\nin the economy of this world without limit my existence counts for as\nlittle as the evanescent hue of a flower--I may believe all this, in a\ndeeply religious spirit, with the infinite throbbing within me; you may\nbelieve in one all-powerful God, who cherishes and protects you, yet\nyour belief may be mean, and petty, and small. I shall be happier than\nyou, and calmer, if my doubt is greater, and nobler, and more earnest\nthan is your faith; if it has probed more deeply into my soul,\ntraversed wider horizons, if there are more things it has loved. And if\nthe thoughts and feelings on which my doubt reposes have become vaster\nand purer than those that support your faith, then shall the God of my\ndisbelief become mightier and of supremer comfort than the God to whom\nyou cling. For, indeed, belief and unbelief are mere empty words; not\nso the loyalty, the greatness and profoundness of the reasons wherefore\nwe believe or do not believe.\n\n80. We do not choose these reasons; they are rewards that have to be\nearned. Those we have chosen are only slaves we have happened to buy;\nand their life is but feeble; they hold themselves shyly aloof, ever\nwatching for a chance to escape. But the reasons we have deserved stand\nfaithfully by us; they are so many pensive Antigones, on whose help we\nmay ever rely. Nor can such reasons as these be forcibly lodged in the\nsoul; for indeed they must have dwelt there from earliest days, have\nspent their childhood there, nourished on our every thought and action;\nand tokens recalling a life of devotion and love must surround them on\nevery side. And as they throw deeper root--as the mists clear away from\nour soul and reveal a still wider horizon, so does the horizon of\nhappiness widen also; for it is only in the space that our thoughts and\nour feelings enclose that our happiness can breathe in freedom. It\ndemands no material space, but finds ever too narrow the spiritual\nfields we throw open; wherefore we must unceasingly endeavour to\nenlarge its territory, until such time as, soaring up on high, it finds\nsufficient aliment in the space which it does of itself fling open.\nThen it is, and then only, that happiness truly illumines the most\neternal, most human part of man; and indeed all other forms of\nhappiness are merely unconscious fragments of this great happiness,\nwhich, as it reflects and looks before it, is conscious of no limit\nwithin itself or in all that surrounds it.\n\n81. This space must dwindle daily in those who follow evil, seeing that\ntheir thoughts and feelings must of necessity dwindle also. But the man\nwho has risen somewhat will soon forsake the ways of evil; for look\ndeep down enough and you shall ever find its origin in straitened\nfeeling and stunted thought. He does evil no longer, because his\nthoughts are purer and higher; and now that he is incapable of evil,\nhis thoughts will become purer still. And thus do our thoughts and\nactions, having won their way into the placid heaven where no barrier\nrestrains the soul, become as inseparable as the wings of a bird; and\nwhat to the bird was only a law of equilibrium is here transformed into\na law of justice.\n\n82. Who can tell whether the satisfaction derived from evil can ever\npenetrate to the soul, unless there mingle with it a vague desire, a\npromise, a distant hope, of goodness or of pity?\n\nThe joy of the wretch whose victim lies in his power is perhaps\nunredeemed in its gloom and futility, save by the thought of mercy that\nflashes across him. Evil at times would seem compelled to beg a ray of\nlight from virtue, to shed lustre on its triumph. Is it possible for a\nman to smile in his hatred and not borrow the smile of love? But the\nsmile will be short-lived, for here, as everywhere, there is no inner\ninjustice. Within the soul the high-water mark of happiness is always\nlevel with that of justice or charity--which words I use here\nindifferently, for indeed what is charity or love but justice with\nnaught to do but count its jewels? The man who goes forth to seek his\nhappiness in evil does merely prove thereby that he is less happy than\nthe other who watches, and disapproves. And yet his object is identical\nwith that of the upright man. He too is in search of happiness, of some\nsort of peace and certainty. Of what avail to punish him? We do not\nblame the poor because their home is not a palace; it is sad enough to\nbe compelled to live in a hovel. He whose eyes can see the invisible,\nknows that in the soul of the most unjust man there is justice still:\njustice, with all her attributes, her stainless garments and holy\nactivity. He knows that the soul of the sinner is ever balancing peace\nand love, and the consciousness of life, no less scrupulously than the\nsoul of philosopher, saint, or hero; that it watches the smiles of\nearth--and sky, and is no less aware of all whereby those smiles are\ndestroyed, degraded, and poisoned. We are not wrong, perhaps, to be\nheedful of justice in the midst of a universe that heeds not at all; as\nthe bee is not wrong to make honey in a world that itself can make\nnone. But we are wrong to desire an external justice, since we know\nthat it does not exist. Let that which is in us suffice. All is for\never being weighed and judged in our soul. It is we who shall judge\nourselves; or rather, our happiness is our judge.\n\n83. It may be urged that virtue is subject to defeat and\ndisappointment, no less than vice; but the defeats and disappointments\nof virtue bring with them no gloom or distress, for they do but tend to\nsoothe and enlighten our thoughts. An act of virtue may sink into the\nvoid, but it is then, most of all, that we learn to gauge the depths of\nlife and of soul; and often will it fall into these depths like a\nradiant stone, beside which our thoughts loom pale. With every vicious\nscheme that fails before the innocence of Pierrette, Madame Rogron's\nsoul shrivels anew; whereas the clemency of Titus, falling on thankless\nsoil, docs but induce him to lift his eyes on high, far beyond love or\npardon. There is no gain in shutting out the world, though it be with\nwalls of righteousness. The last gesture of virtue should be that of an\nangel flinging open the door. We should welcome our disillusions; for\nwere it the will of destiny that our pardon should always transform an\nenemy into a brother, then should we go to our grave still unaware of\nall that springs to light within us beneath the act of unwise clemency,\nwhose unwisdom we never regret. We should die without once having\nmatched all that is best in our soul against the forces that hedge life\naround. The kindly deed that is wasted, the lofty or only loyal thought\nthat falls on barren ground--these too have their value, for the light\nthey throw differs far from the radiance triumphant virtue suffuses;\nand thus may we see many things in their differing aspect. There were\nsurely much joy in the thought that love must invariably triumph; but\ngreater joy is there still in tearing aside this illusion, am marching\nstraight on to the truth. \"Man has been but too prone,\" said a\nphilosopher, whom death carried off too soon--\"man has been but too\nprone, through all the course of his history, to lodge his dignity\nwithin his errors, and to look upon truth as a thing that depreciated\nhimself. It may sometimes seem less glorious than illusion, but it has\nthe advantage of being true. In the whole domain of thought there is\nnothing loftier than truth.\" And there is no bitterness herein, for\nindeed to the sage truth can never be bitter. He, too, has had his\nlongings in the past, has conceived that truth might move mountains,\nthat a loving act might for ever soften the hearts of men; but to-day\nhe has learned to prefer that this should not be so. Nor is it\noverweening pride that thus has changed him; he does not think himself\nmore virtuous than the universe; it is his insignificance in the\nuniverse that has been made clear to him. It is no longer for the\nspiritual fruit it bears that he tends the love of justice he has found\nimplanted in his soul, but for the living flowers that spring up within\nhim, and because of his deep respect for all created things. He has no\ncurses for the ungrateful friend, nor even for ingratitude itself. He\ndoes not say, \"I am better than that man,\" or \"I shall not fall into\nthat vice.\" But he is taught by ingratitude that benevolence contains\njoys that are greater than those that gratitude can bestow; joys that\nare less personal, but more in harmony with life as a whole. He finds\nmore pleasure in the attempt to understand that which is, than in the\nstruggle to believe that which he desires. For a long time he has been\nlike the beggar who was suddenly borne away from his hut and lodged in\na magnificent palace. He awoke and threw uneasy glances about him,\nseeking, in that immense hall, for the squalid things he remembered to\nhave had in his tiny room. Where were the hearth, the bed, the table,\nstool, and basin? The humble torch of his vigils still trembled by his\nside, but its light could not reach the lofty ceiling. The little wings\nof flame threw their feeble flicker on to a pillar close by, which was\nall that stood out from the darkness. But little by little his eyes\ngrew accustomed to his new abode. He wandered through room after room,\nand rejoiced as profoundly at all that his torch left in darkness as at\nall that it threw into light. At first he could have wished in his\nheart that the doors had been somewhat less lofty, the staircases not\nquite so ample, the galleries less lost in gloom; but as he went\nstraight before him, he felt all the beauty and grandeur of that which\nwas yet so unlike the home of his dream. He rejoiced to discover that\nhere bed and table were not the centre round which all revolved, as it\nhad been with him in his hut. He was glad that the palace had not been\nbuilt to conform with the humble habits his misery had forced upon him.\nHe even learned to admire the things that defeated his hopes, for they\nenabled his eyes to see deeper. The sage is consoled and fortified by\neverything that exists, for indeed it is of the essence of wisdom to\nseek out all that exists, and to admit it within its circle.\n\n84. Wisdom even admits the Rogrons; for she holds life of profounder\ninterest than even justice or virtue; and where her attention is\ndisputed by a virtue lost in abstraction, and by a humble, walled-in\nlife, she will incline to the humble life, and not to the magnificent\nvirtue that holds itself proudly aloof. It is of the nature of wisdom\nto despise nothing; indeed, in this world there is perhaps only one\nthing truly contemptible, and that thing is contempt itself. Thinkers\ntoo often are apt to despise those who go through life without\nthinking. Thought is doubtless of high value; our first endeavour\nshould be to think as often and as well as we can; but, for all that,\nit is somewhat beside the mark to believe that the possession, or lack,\nof a certain faculty for handling general ideas can interpose an actual\nbarrier between men. After all, the difference between the greatest\nthinker and the smallest provincial burgher is often only the\ndifference between a truth that can sometimes express itself and a\ntruth that can never crystallise into form. The difference is\nconsiderable--a gap, but not a chasm. The higher our thoughts ascend,\nthe vainer and the more arbitrary seems the distinction between him who\nis thinking always and him who thinks not yet. The little burgher is\nfull of prejudice and of passions at which we smile; his ideas are\nsmall and petty, and sometimes contemptible enough; and yet, place him\nside by side with the sage, before essential circumstance of life,\nbefore love, grief, death, before something that calls for true\nheroism, and it shall happen more than once that the sage will turn to\nhis humble companion as to the guardian of a truth no less profound, no\nless deeply human, than his own. There are moments when the sage\nrealises, that his spiritual treasures are naught; that it is only a\nfew words, or habits, that divide him from other men; there are moments\nwhen he even doubts the value of those words. Those are the moments\nwhen wisdom flowers and sends forth blossom. Thought may sometimes\ndeceive; and the thinker who goes astray must often retrace his\nfootsteps to the spot whence those who think not have never moved away,\nwhere they still remain faithfully seated round the silent, essential\ntruth. They are the guardians of the watch-fires of the tribe; the\nothers take lighted torches and go wandering abroad; but when the air\ngrows heavy and threatens the feeble flame, then is it well to turn\nback and draw close to the watch-fires once more. These fires seem\nnever to stir from the spot where they always have been; but in truth\nthey ever are moving, keeping time with the worlds; and their flame\nmarks the hour of humanity on the dial of the universe. We know exactly\nhow much the inert forces owe to the thinker; we forget the deep\nindebtedness of the thinker to inert force. In a world where all were\nthinkers, more than one indispensable truth might perhaps for ever be\nlost. For indeed the thinker must never lose touch with those who do\nnot think, as his thoughts would then quickly cease to be just or\nprofound. To disdain is only too easy, not so to understand; but in him\nwho is truly wise there passes no thought of disdain, but it will,\nsooner or later, evolve into full comprehension. The thought that can\ntravel scornfully over the heads of that great silent throng without\nrecognising its myriad brothers and sisters that are slumbering there\nin its midst, is only too often merely a sterile, vicious dream. We do\nwell to remind ourselves at times that the spiritual, no less than the\nphysical, atmosphere demands more nitrogen than oxygen for the air to\nbe breathed by man.\n\n85. It need not surprise us that thinkers like Balzac should have loved\nto dwell on these humble lives. Eternal sameness runs through them, and\nyet does each century mark profoundest change in the atmosphere that\nenwraps them. The sky above has altered, but these simple lives have\never the self-same gestures; and it is these unchanging gestures that\ntell of the altered sky. A great deed of heroism fascinates us; our eye\ncannot travel beyond the act itself; but insignificant thoughts and\ndeeds lead us on to the horizon beyond them; and is not the shining\nstar of human wisdom always situate on the horizon? If we could see\nthese things as nature sees them, with her thoughts and feelings, we\nshould realise that the uniform mediocrity that runs through these\nlives cannot truly be mediocre, from the mere fact of its uniformity.\nAnd indeed this matters but little; we can never judge another soul\nabove the high-water mark of our own; and however insignificant a\ncreature may seem to us at first, as our own soul emerges from shadow,\nso does the shadow lift from him. There is nothing our eyes behold that\nis too small to deserve our love; and there where we cannot love, we\nhave only to raise our lamp till it reaches the level of love, and then\nthrow its light around. Let only one ray of this light go forth every\nday from our soul, we may then be content. It matters not where the\nlight falls. There is not a thing in this world whereupon your glance\nor your thought can rest but contains within it more treasure than\neither of these can fathom; nor is there a thing so small but it has a\nvastness within that the light that a soul can spare can, at best, but\nfaintly illumine.\n\n86. Is not the very essence of human destiny, stripped of the details\nthat bewilder us, to be found in the most ordinary lives? The mighty\nstruggle of morality on the heights is glorious to witness; but so will\na keen observer profoundly admire a magnificent tree that stands alone\nin a desert, and, his contemplation over, once more go back to the\nforest, where there are no marvellous trees, but trees in countless\nabundance. The immense forest is doubtless made up of ordinary branches\nand stems; but is it not vast, is it not as it should be, seeing that\nit is the forest? Not by the exceptional shall the last word ever be\nspoken; and indeed what we call the sublime should be only a clearer,\nprofounder insight into all that is perfectly normal. It is of service,\noften, to watch those on the peaks who do battle; but it is well, too,\nnot to forget those in the valley below, who fight not at all. As we\nsee all that happens to these whose life knows no struggle; as we\nrealise how much must be conquered in us before we can rightly\ndistinguish their narrower joys from the joy known to them who are\nstriving on high, then perhaps does the struggle itself appear to\nbecome less important; but, for all that, we love it the more. And the\nreward is the sweeter to us for the silence that enwraps its coming;\nnor is this from a desire to keep our happiness secret--such as a\ncrafty courtier might feel who hugs fortune's favours to him--but,\nperhaps, because it is only when happiness thus whispers low in our\near, and no other men know, that it is not according us joys that are\nfilched from our brother's share. Then do we no longer say to\nourselves, as we look on those brothers: \"How great is the distance\nbetween such as these and myself,\" but in all simplicity do we murmur\nat last to ourselves: \"The loftier my thoughts become, the less is\nthere to divide me from the humblest of my fellow-creatures, from those\nwho are most plentiful on earth; and every step that I take towards an\nuncertain ideal, is a step that brings me the nearer to those whom I\nonce despised, in the vanity and ignorance of my earliest days.\"\n\nAfter all, what is a humble life? It is thus we choose to term the life\nthat ignores itself, that drains itself dry in the place of its\nbirth--a life whose feelings and thoughts, whose desires and passions,\nentwine themselves around the most insignificant things. But it\nsuffices to look at a life for that life to seem great. A life in\nitself can be neither great nor small; the largeness is all in the eye\nthat surveys it; and an existence that all men hold to be lofty and\nvast, is one that has long been accustomed to look loftily on itself\nfrom within. If you have never done this, your life must be narrow; but\nthe man who watches you live will discern, in the very obscurity of the\ncorner you fill, an element of horizon, a foothold to cling to, whence\nhis thoughts will rise with surer and more human strength. There is not\nan existence about us but at first seems colourless, dreary, lethargic:\nwhat can our soul have in common with that of an elderly spinster, a\nslow-witted ploughman, a miser who worships his gold? Can any\nconnection exist between such as these and a deep-rooted feeling, a\nboundless love for humanity, an interest time cannot stale? But let a\nBalzac step forward and stand in the midst of them, with his eyes and\nears on the watch; and the emotion that lived and died in an\nold-fashioned country parlour shall as mightily stir our heart, shall\nas unerringly find its way to the deepest sources of life, as the\nmajestic passion that ruled the life of a king and shed its triumphant\nlustre from the dazzling height of a throne. \"There are certain little\nagitations,\" says Balzac in the Cure de Tours, the most admirable of\nall his studies of humble life--\"there are certain little agitations\nthat are capable of generating as much passion within the soul as would\nsuffice to direct the most important social interests. Is it not a\nmistake to imagine that time only flies swiftly with those whose hearts\nare devoured by mighty schemes, which fret and fever their life? Not an\nhour sped past the Abbe Troubert but was as animated, as laden with its\nburden of anxious thought, as lined with pleading hope and deep\ndespair, as could be the most desperate hour of gambler, plotter, or\nlover. God alone can tell how much energy is consumed in the triumphs\nwe achieve over men, and things, and ourselves. We may not be always\naware whither our steps are leading, but are only too fully conscious\nof the wearisomeness of the Journey. And yet--if the historian may be\npermitted to lay aside, for one moment, the story he is telling, and to\nassume the role of the critic--as you cast your eyes on the lives of\nthese old maids and these two priests, seeking to learn the cause of\nthe sorrow which twisted their heartstrings, it will be revealed to\nyou, perhaps, that certain passions must be experienced by man for\nthere to develop within him the qualities that make a life noble, that\nwiden its area, and stifle the egoism natural to all.\"\n\nHe speaks truly. Not for its own sake, always, should we love the\nlight, but for the sake of what it illumines. The fire on the mountain\nshines brightly, but there are few men on the mountain; and more\nservice may often be rendered by the torchlight, there where the crowd\nis. It is in the humble lives that is found the substance of great\nlives; and by watching the narrowest feelings does enlargement come to\nour own. Nor is this from any repugnance these feelings inspire, but\nbecause they no longer accord with the majestic truth that controls us.\nIt is well to have visions of a better life than that of every day, but\nit is the life of every day from which elements of a better life must\ncome. We are told we should fix our eyes on high, far above life; but\nperhaps it is better still that our soul should look straight before\nit, and that the heights whereupon it should yearn to lay all its hopes\nand its dreams should be the mountain peaks that stand clearly out from\nthe clouds that gild the horizon.\n\n87. This brings us back once again to external destiny; but the tears\nthat external suffering wrings from us are not the only tears known to\nman. The sage whom we love must dwell in the midst of all human\npassions, for only on the passions known to the heart can his wisdom\nsafely be nourished. They are nature's artisans, sent by her to help us\nconstruct the palace of our consciousness--of our happiness, in other\nwords; and he who rejects these workers, deeming that he is able,\nunaided, to raise all the stones of life, will be compelled for ever to\nlodge his soul in a bare and gloomy cell. The wise man learns to purify\nhis passions; to stifle them can never be proof of wisdom. And, indeed,\nthese things are all governed by the position we take as we stand on\nthe stairs of time. To some of us moral infirmities are so many stairs\ntending downwards; to others they represent steps that lead us on high.\nThe wise man perchance may do things that are done by the unwise man\nalso; but the latter is forced by his passions to become the abject\nslave of his instincts, whereas the sage's passions will end by\nillumining much that was vague in his consciousness. To love madly,\nperhaps, is not wise; still, should he love madly, more wisdom will\ndoubtless come to him than if he had always loved wisely. It is not\nwisdom, but the most useless form of pride that can flourish in vacancy\nand inertia. It is not enough to know what should be done, not though\nwe can unerringly declare what saint or hero would do. Such things a\nbook can teach in a day. It is not enough to intend to live a noble\nlife and then retire to a cell, there to brood over this intention. No\nwisdom thus acquired can truly guide or beautify the soul; it is of as\nlittle avail as the counsels that others can offer. \"It is in the\nsilence that follows the storm,\" says a Hindu proverb, \"and not in the\nsilence before it, that we should search for the budding flower.\"\n\n88. The earnest wayfarer along the paths of life does but become the\nmore deeply convinced, as his travels extend, of the beauty, the\nwisdom, and truth of the simplest and humblest laws of existence. Their\nuniformity, the mere fact of their being so general, such matter of\nevery day, are in themselves enough to compel his admiration. And\nlittle by little he holds the abnormal ever less highly, and neither\nseeks nor desires it; for it is soon borne home to him, as he reflects\non the vastness of nature, with her slow, monotonous movement, that the\nridiculous pretensions our ignorance and vanity put forth are the most\ntruly abnormal of all. He no longer vexes the hours as they pass with\nprayer for strange or marvellous adventure; for these come only to such\nas have not yet learned to have faith in life and themselves. He no\nlonger awaits, with folded arms, the chance for superhuman effort; for\nhe feels that he exists in every act that is human. He no longer\nrequires that death, or friendship, or love should come to him decked\nout with garlands illusion has woven, or escorted by omen, coincidence,\npresage; but they come in their bareness and simpleness, and are always\nsure of his welcome. He believes that all that the weak, and the idle,\nand thoughtless consider sublime and exceptional, that the fall\nequivalent for the most heroic deed, can be found in the simple life\nthat is bravely and wholly faced. He no longer considers himself the\nchosen son of the universe; but his happiness, consciousness, peace of\nmind, have gained all that his pride has lost. And, this point once\nattained, then will the miraculous adventures of a St. Theresa or\nJean-de-la-Croix, the ecstasy of the mystics, the supernatural\nincidents of legendary loves, the star of an Alexander or a\nNapoleon--then will all these seem the merest childish illusions\ncompared with the healthy wisdom of a loyal, earnest man, who has no\ncraving to soar above his fellows so as to feel what they cannot feel,\nbut whose heart and brain find the light that they need in the\nunchanging feelings of all. The truest man will never be he who desires\nto be other than man. How many there are that thus waste their lives,\nscouring the heavens for sight of the comet that never will come; but\ndisdaining to look at the stars, because these can be seen by all, and,\nmoreover, are countless in number! This craving for the extraordinary\nis often the special weakness of ordinary men, who fail to perceive\nthat the more normal, and ordinary, and uniform events may appear to\nus, the more are we able to appreciate the profound happiness that this\nuniformity enfolds, and the nearer are we drawn to the truth and\ntranquillity of the great force by which we have being. What can be\nless abnormal than the ocean, which covers two-thirds of the globe; and\nyet, what is there more vast? There is not a thought or a feeling, not\nan act of beauty or nobility, whereof man is capable, but can find\ncomplete expression in the simplest, most ordinary life; and all that\ncannot be expressed therein must of necessity belong to the falsehoods\nof vanity, ignorance, or sloth.\n\n89. Does this mean that the wise man should expect no more from life\nthan other men; that he should love mediocrity and limit his desires;\ncontent himself with little and restrict the horizon of his happiness,\nbecause of the fear lest happiness escape him? By no means; for the\nwisdom is halting and sickly that can too freely renounce a legitimate\nhuman hope. Many desires in man may be legitimate still,\nnotwithstanding the disapproval of reason, sometimes unduly severe. But\nthe fact that our happiness does not seem extraordinary to those about\nus by no means warrants our thinking that we are not happy. The wiser\nwe are, the more readily do we perceive that happiness lies in our\ngrasp; that it has no more enviable gift than the uneventful moments it\nbrings. The sage has learnt to quicken and love the silent substance of\nlife. In this silent substance only can faithful joys be found, for\nabnormal happiness never ventures to go with us to the tomb. The day\nthat comes and goes without special whisper of hope or happiness should\nbe as dear to us, and as welcome, as any one of its brothers. On its\nway to us it has traversed the same worlds and the self-same space as\nthe day that finds us on a throne or enthralled by a mighty love. The\nhours are less dazzling, perhaps, that its mantle conceals; but at\nleast we may rely more fully on their humble devotion. There are as\nmany eternal minutes in the week that goes by in silence, as in the one\nthat tomes boldly towards us with mighty shout and clamour. And indeed\nit is we who tell ourselves all that the hour would seem to say; for\nthe hour that abides with us is ever a timid and nervous guest, that\nwill smile if its host be smiling, or weep if his eyes be wet. It has\nbeen charged with no mission to bring happiness to us; it is we who\nshould comfort the hour that has sought refuge within our soul. And he\nis wise who always finds words of peace that he can whisper low to his\nguest on the threshold. We should let no opportunity for happiness\nescape us, and the simplest causes of happiness should be ever stored\nin our soul. It is well, at first, to know happiness as men conceive\nit, so that, later, we may have good reason for preferring the\nhappiness of our choice. For, herein, it is not unlike what we are told\nof love. To know what real love should be we must have loved\nprofoundly, and that first love must have fled. It is well to know\nmoments of material happiness, since they teach us where to look for\nloftier joys; and all that we gain, perhaps, from listening to the\nhours that babble aloud in their wantonness is that we are slowly\nlearning the language of the hours whose voice is hushed. And of these\nthere are many; they come in battalions, so close on the heels of each\nother that treachery and flight cannot be; wherefore it is on them\nalone that the sage should depend. For he will be happy whose eyes have\nlearned to detect the hidden smile and mysterious jewels of the myriad,\nnameless hours; and where are these jewels to be found, if not in\nourselves?\n\n90. But there is a kind of ignoble discretion that has least in common,\nof all things, with the wisdom we speak of here; for we had far better\nspend our energy round even fruitless happiness, than slumber by the\nfireside awaiting joys that never may come. Only the joys that have\nbeen offered to all, and none have accepted, will knock at his door who\nrefuses himself to stir forth. Nor is the other man wise who holds the\nreins too tight on his feelings, and halts them when reason commands,\nor experience whispers. The friend is not wise who will not confide in\nhis friend, remembering always that friendships may come to an end; nor\nthe lover, who draws back for fear lest he may find shipwreck in love.\nFor here, were we twenty times unfortunate, it is still only the\nperishable portion of our energy for happiness that suffers; and what\nis wisdom after all but this same energy for happiness cleansed of all\nthat is impure? To be wise we must first learn to be happy, that we may\nattach ever smaller importance to what happiness may be in itself. We\nshould be as happy as possible, and our happiness should last as long\nas is possible; for those who can finally issue forth from self by the\nportal of happiness, know infinitely wider freedom than those who pass\nthrough the gate of sadness. The joy of the sage illumines his heart\nand his soul alike, whereas sadness most often throws light on the\nheart alone. One might almost compare the man who had never been happy\nwith a traveller whose every journey had been taken by night. Moreover,\nthere is in happiness a humility deeper and nobler, purer and wider,\nthan sorrow can ever procure. There is a certain humility that ranks\nwith parasitic virtues, such as sterile self-sacrifice, arbitrary\nchastity, blind submission, fanatic renouncement, penitence, false\nshame, and many others, which have from time immemorial turned aside\nfrom their course the waters of human morality, and forced them into a\nstagnant pool, around which our memory still lingers. Nor do I speak of\na cunning humility that is often mere calculation, or, taken at its\nbest, a timidity that has its root in pride--a loan at usury that our\nvanity of to-day extends to our vanity of to-morrow. And even the sage\nat times conceives it well to lower himself in his own self-esteem, and\nto deny superior merits that are his when comparing himself with other\nmen. Humility of this kind may throw a charm around our ways of life,\nbut yet, sincere as it doubtless may be, it nevertheless attacks the\nloyalty due to ourselves, which we should value high above all. And it\nsurely implies a certain timidity of conscience; whereas the conscience\nof the sage should harbour neither timidity nor shame. But by the side\nof this too personal humility there exists another humility that\nextends to all things, that is lofty and strong, that has fed on all\nthat is best in our brain and our heart and our soul. It is a humility\nthat defines the limit of the hopes and adventures of men; that lessens\nus only to add to the grandeur of all we behold; that teaches us where\nwe should look for the true importance of man, which lies not in that\nwhich he is, but in that which his eyes can take in, which he strives\nto accept and to grasp. It is true that sorrow will also bring us to\nthe realm of this humility; but it hastens us through, branching off on\nthe road to a mysterious gate of hope, on whose threshold we lose many\ndays; whereas happiness, that after the first few hours has nothing\nelse left to do, will lead us in silence through path after path till\nwe reach the most unforeseen, inaccessible places of all. It is when\nthe sage knows he possesses at last all man is allowed to possess, that\nhe begins to perceive that it is his manner of regarding what man may\nnever possess, that determines the value of such things as he truly may\ncall his own. And therefore must we long have sunned ourselves in the\nrays of happiness before we can truly conceive an independent view of\nlife. We must be happy, not for happiness' sake, but so that we may\nlearn to see distinctly that which vain expectation of happiness would\nfor ever hide from our gaze.\n\n91. Economy avails us nothing in the region of the heart, for it is\nthere that men gather the harvest of life's very substance, it were\nbetter that nothing were done there than that things should be done by\nhalves; and that which we have not dared to risk is most surely lost of\nall. To limit our passions is only to limit ourselves, and we are the\nlosers by just so much as we hoped to gain. There are certain\nfastnesses within our soul that lie buried so deep that love alone dare\nventure down; and it returns laden with undreamed-of jewels, whose\nlustre can only be seen as they pass from our open hand to the hand of\none we love. And indeed it would seem that so clear a light springs\nfrom our hands as they open thus to give, that it penetrates substance\ntoo opaque to yield to the mysterious rays just discovered.\n\n92. It avails us nothing unduly to bemoan our errors or losses. For\nhappen what may to the man of simple faith, still, at the last minute\nof the sorrow-laden hour, at the end of the week or year, still will he\nfind some cause for gladness as he turns his eyes within. Little by\nlittle he has learned to regret without tears. He is as a father might\nbe who returns to his home in the evening, his day's work done. He may\nfind his children in tears perhaps, or playing dangerous, forbidden\ngames; the furniture scattered, glasses broken, a lamp overturned; but\nshall he therefore despair? It would certainly have been better had the\nchildren been more obedient, had they quietly learned their\nlessons---this would have been more in keeping with every moral theory;\nbut how unreasonable the father who, in the midst of his harsh rebuke,\ncould withhold a smile as he turned his head away! The children have\nacted unwisely, perhaps, in their exuberance of life; but why should\nthis distress him? All is well, so long as he return home at night, so\nlong as he ever keep about him the key of the guardian dwelling. As we\nlook into ourselves, and pass in review what our heart, and brain, and\nsoul have attempted and carried through while we were away, the benefit\nlies far more in the searching glance itself than in the actual\ninspection. And if the hours have not once let fall their mysterious\ngirdle on their way past our threshold; if the rooms be as empty as on\nthe day of departure, and those within have but sat with folded arms\nand worked not at all---still, as we enter, shall something be learned\nfrom our echoing footsteps, of the extent, and the clearness, and the\nfidelity, of our home.\n\n93. No day can be uneventful, save in ourselves alone; but in the day\nthat seems most uneventful of all, there is still room for the loftiest\ndestiny; for there is far more scope for such destiny within ourselves\nthan on the whole continent of Europe. Not by the extent of empire is\nthe range of destiny governed, but, indeed, by the depth of our soul.\nIt is in our conception of life that real destiny is found; when at\nlast there is delicate balance between the insoluble questions of\nheaven and the wavering response of our soul. And these questions\nbecome the more tranquil as they seem to comprise more and more; and to\nthe sage, whatever may happen will still widen the scope of the\nquestions, still give deeper confidence to the reply. Speak not of\ndestiny when the event that has brought you joy or sadness has still\naltered nothing in your manner of regarding the universe. All that\nremains to us when love and glory are over, when adventures and\npassions have faded into the past, is but a deeper and ever-deepening\nsense of the infinite; and if we have not that within us, then are we\ndestitute indeed. And this sense of the infinite is more than a mere\nassemblage of thoughts, which, indeed, are but the innumerable steps\nthat thither lead. There is no happiness in happiness itself, unless it\nhelp our comprehension of the rest, unless it help us in some measure\nto conceive that the very universe itself must rejoice in existence.\nThe sage who has attained a certain height will find peace in all\nthings that happen; and the event that saddens him, as other men,\ntarries but an instant ere it goes to strengthen his deep perception of\nlife. He who has learned to see in all things only matter for unselfish\nwonder, can be deprived of no satisfaction whatever without there\nspring to sudden life within him, from the mere feeling that this joy\ncan be dispensed with, a high protecting thought that enfolds him in\nits light. That destiny is beautiful wherein each event, though charged\nwith joy or sadness, has brought reflection to us, has added something\nto our range of soul, has given us greater peace wherewith to cling to\nlife. And, indeed, the accident that robs us of our love, that leads us\nalong in triumph, or even that seats us on a throne, reveals but little\nof the workings of destiny; which, indeed, lie far more in the thoughts\nthat arise in our mind as we look at the men around us, at the woman we\nlove; as we dwell on the feelings within us; as we fix our eyes on the\nevening sky with its crown of indifferent stars.\n\n94. A woman of extraordinary beauty and talent, possessed of the rarest\nqualities of mind and soul, was one day asked by a friend, to whom she\nseemed the most perfect creature on earth: \"What are your plans? Can\nany man be worthy of your love? Your future puzzles me. I cannot\nconceive a destiny that shall be lofty enough for a soul such as\nyours.\" He knew but little of destiny. To him, as to most men, it meant\nthrones, triumphs, dazzling adventures: these things seemed to him the\nsum of a human destiny; whereby he did but prove that he knew not what\ndestiny was. And, in the first place, why this disdain of to-day? To\ndisdain to-day is to prove that yesterday has been misunderstood. To\ndisdain to-day is to declare oneself a stranger, and what can you hope\nto do in a world where you shall ever pass as a stranger? To-day has\nthis advantage over yesterday, that it exists and was made for us. Be\nto-day what it will, it has wider knowledge than yesterday; and by that\nalone does it become more beautiful, and vaster. Why should we think\nthat the woman I speak of would have known a more brilliant destiny in\nVenice, Florence, or Rome? Her presence might have been sought at\nmagnificent festival, and her beauty have found a fitting surrounding\nin exquisite landscape. She might have had princes and kings, the elect\nof the world, at her feet; and perhaps it had needed but one of her\nsmiles to add to a great nation's gladness, to ennoble or chasten the\nthought of an epoch. Whereas here all her life will be spent among four\nor five people--four or five souls that know of her soul, and love her.\nIt may be that she never shall stir from her dwelling; that of her\nlife, of her thoughts, and the strength that is in her, there will\nremain not a trace among men. It may be that her beauty, her force and\nher instinct for good, will be buried within her: in her heart and the\nhearts of the few who are near. And even then, and if this be so, the\nsoul of this woman doubtless shall find its own thing to do. The mighty\ngates through which we must pass to a helpful and noteworthy life no\nlonger grate on their hinges with the deafening clamour of old. They\nare smaller, perhaps, than they were; less vast and imposing; but their\nnumber is greater to-day, and they admit us, in silence, to paths that\nextend very far. And even though the home of this woman be not\nbrightened by one single gleam from without, will she have failed to\nfulfil her destiny because her life is lived in the shade? Cannot\ndestiny be beautiful and complete in itself, without help from without?\nAs the soul that has truly conquered surveys the triumphs of the past,\nit is glad of those only that brought with them a deeper knowledge of\nlife and a nobler humility; of those that lent sweeter charm to the\nmoments when love, glory, and enthusiasm having faded away, the fruit\nthat a few hours of boiling passion had ripened was gathered in\nmeditation and silence. When the feasting is over: when charity,\nkindness and valorous deed all lie far behind us: what is there left to\nthe soul but some stray recollections, a gain of some consciousness,\nand a feeling that helps us to look on our place in the world with more\nknowledge and less apprehension--a feeling blent with some wisdom, from\nthe numberless things it has learned? When the hour for rest has\nsounded--as it must sound every night and at every moment of\nsolitude--when the gaudy vestments of love, and glory, and power fall\nhelplessly round us; what is it we can take with us as we seek refuge\nwithin ourselves, where the happiness of each day is measured by the\nknowledge the day has brought us, by the thoughts and the confidence it\nhas helped us to acquire? Is our true destiny to be found in the things\nwhich take place about us, or in that which abides in our soul? \"Be a\nman's power or glory never so great,\" said a philosopher, \"his soul\nsoon learns how to value the feelings that spring from external events;\nand as he perceives that no increase has come to his physical\nfaculties, that these remain wholly unchanged, neither altered nor\nadded to, then does the sense of his nothingness burst full upon him.\nThe king who should govern the world must still, like the rest of his\nbrothers, revolve in a limited circle, whose every law must be obeyed;\nand on his impressions and thoughts must his happiness wholly depend.\"\nThe impressions his memory retains, we might add, because they have\nchastened his mind; for the souls that we deal with here will retain\nsuch impressions only as have quickened their sense of goodness, as\nhave made them a little more noble. Is it impossible to find--it\nmatters not where, nor how great be the silence--the same undlssolvable\nmatter that lurks in the cup of the noblest external existence? and\nseeing that nothing is truly our own till it faithfully follow us into\nthe darkness and silence, why should the thing that has sprung to life\nthere be less faithful in silence and darkness? But we will pursue this\nno farther, for it leads to a wisdom of over-much theory. For all that\na brilliant exterior destiny is not indispensable, still should we\nalways regard it as wholly desirable, and pursue it as keenly as though\nwe valued it highly. It behoves the sage to knock at the door of every\ntemple of glory, of every dwelling where happiness, love, and activity\nare to be found. And if his strenuous effort and long expectation\nremain unrewarded, if no door fly open, still may he find, perhaps, in\nthe mere expectation and effort an equivalent for all the emotions and\nlight that he sought. \"To act,\" says Barres, \"is to annex to our\nthoughts vaster fields of experience.\" It is also, perhaps, to think\nmore quickly than thought, as more completely; for we no longer think\nwith the brain alone, but with every atom of life. It is to wrap round\nwith dream the profoundest sources of thought, and then to confront\nthem with fact. But to act is not always to conquer. To attempt, to be\npatient, and wait--these, too, may be action; as also, to hear, to\nwatch, and be silent.\n\nIf the lot of the woman we speak of had been cast in Athens, or\nFlorence, or Rome, there had been, in her life, certain motives of\ngrandeur, occasions for beauty and happiness, that she may well never\nmeet with to-day. And she is the poorer for lacking the efforts she\nmight have put forth, the memory of what might have been done; for in\nthese lies a force that is precious and vital, that often indeed will\ntransform many more things within us, than a thought which is morally,\nmentally worth many thousand such efforts and memories. And indeed it\nis therefore alone that we should desire a brilliant, feverish destiny;\nbecause it summons to life certain forces and feelings that would\notherwise never emerge from the slumberous peace of an over-tranquil\nexistence. But from the moment we know, or even suspect, that these\nfeelings lie dormant within us, we are already giving life to all that\nis best in those feelings; and it is as though we were, for one brief\nmoment, looking down upon a glorious external destiny from heights such\ndestiny shall only attain at the end of its days; as though we were\nprematurely gathering the fruit of the tree, which it shall itself\nstill find barren until many a storm has passed.\n\n95. Last night, re-reading Saint-Simon--with whom we seem to ascend a\nlofty tower, whence our gaze rests on hundreds of human destinies,\nastir in the valley below--I understood what a beautiful destiny meant\nto the instinct of man. It would doubtless have puzzled Saint-Simon\nhimself to have told what it was that he loved and admired in some of\nhis heroes, whom he enwraps in a sort of resigned, and almost\nunconscious, respect. Thousands of virtues that he esteemed highly have\nceased to exist to-day, and many a quality now seems petty indeed that\nhe commended in some of his great ones. And yet are there, unperceived\nas it were by him, four or five men in the midst of the glittering\ncrowd hard by the monarch's throne, four or five earnest benevolent\nfaces on whom our eye still rests gladly; though Saint-Simon gives them\nno special attention or thought, for in his heart he looks with\ndisfavour on the ideas that govern their life. Fenelon is there; the\nDukes of Chevreuse and Beauvilliers; there is Monsieur le Dauphin.\nTheir happiness is no greater than that of the rest of mankind. They\nachieve no marked success, they gain no resplendent victory, They live\nas the others live--in the fret and expectation of the thing that we\nchoose to call happiness, because it has yet to come. Fenelon incurs\nthe displeasure of the crafty, bigoted king, who, for all his pride,\nwould resent the most trivial offence with the humbleness of humblest\nvanity; who was great in small things, and petty in all that was\ngreat--for such was Louis XIV. Fenelon is condemned, persecuted,\nexiled. The Dukes of Chevreuse and Beauvilliers continue to hold\nimportant office at Court, but none the less deem it prudent to live in\na kind of voluntary retirement. The Dauphin is not in favour with the\nKing; a powerful, envious clique are for ever intriguing against him,\nand they finally succeed in crushing his youthful military glory. He\nlives in the midst of disgrace, misadventure, disaster, that seem\nirreparable in the eyes of that vain and servile Court; for disgrace\nand disaster assume the proportions the manners of the day accord.\nFinally he dies, a few days after the death of the wife he had loved so\ntenderly. He dies--poisoned, perhaps, as she too; the thunderbolt\nfalling just as the very first rays of kingly favour, whereon he had\nalmost ceased to count, were stealing over his threshold. Such were the\ntroubles and misfortunes, the sorrows and disappointments, that wrapped\nthese lives round; and yet, as we look on this little group, standing\nfirm and silent in the midst of the feverish, intermittent glitter of\nthe rest, then do these four destinies seem truly beautiful to us, and\nenviable. Through all their vicissitudes one common light shines\nthrough them. The great soul of Fenelon illumines them all. Fenelon is\nfaithful to his loftiest thoughts of piety, meekness, wonder, justice,\nand love; and the other three are faithful to him, who was their master\nand friend. And what though the mystic ideas of Fenelon be no longer\nshared by us: what though the ideas that we cling to ourselves, and\ndeem the profoundest and noblest--the ideas that live at the root of\nour every conviction of life, that have served as the basis of all our\nmoral happiness--what though these should one day fall in ruins behind\nus, and only arouse a smile among such as believe that they have found\nother thoughts still, which to them seem more human, and final?\nThought, of itself, is possessed of no vital importance; it is the\nfeelings awakened within us by thought that ennoble and brighten our\nlife. Thought is our aim, perhaps; but it may be with this as with many\na journey we take--the place we are bound for may interest us less than\nthe journey itself, the people we meet on the road, the unforeseen that\nmay happen. Here, as everywhere, it is only the sincerity of human\nfeeling that abides. As for a thought, we know not, it may be\ndeceptive; but the love, wherewith we have loved it, will surely return\nto our soul; nor can a single drop of its clearness or strength be\nabstracted by error. Of that perfect ideal that each of us strives to\nbuild up in himself, the sum total of all our thoughts will help only\nto model the outline; but the elements that go to construct it, and\nkeep it alive, are the purified passion, unselfishness, loyalty,\nwherein these thoughts have had being. The extent of our love for the\nthing which we hold to be true is of greater importance than even the\ntruth itself. Does not love bring more goodness to us than thought can\never convey? Loyally to love a great error may well be more helpful\nthan meanly to serve a great truth; for in doubt, no less than in\nfaith, are passion and love to be found. Some doubts are as generous\nand passionate as the very noblest convictions. Be a thought of the\nloftiest, surest, or of the most profoundly uncertain, the best that it\nhas to offer is still the chance that it gives us of loving some one\nthing wholly, without reserve. Whether it be to man, or a God; to\ncountry, to world or to error, that I truly do yield myself up, the\nprecious ore that shall some day be found buried deep in the ashes of\nlove will have sprung from the love itself, and not from the thing that\nI loved. The sincerity of an attachment, its simplicity, firmness, and\nzeal--these leave a track behind them that time can never efface. All\npasses away and changes; it may be that all is lost, save only the glow\nof this ardour, fertility, and strength of our heart.\n\n96. \"Never did man possess his soul in such peace as he,\" says\nSaint-Simon of one of them, who was surrounded on all sides by malice,\nand scheming, and snares. And further on he speaks of the \"wise\ntranquillity\" of another, and this \"wise tranquillity\" pervades every\none of those whom he terms the \"little flock.\" The \"little flock,\"\ntruly, of fidelity to all that was noblest in thought; the \"little\nflock\" of friendship, loyalty, self-respect, and inner contentment,\nthat pass along, radiant with peace and simplicity, in the midst of the\nlies and ambitions, the follies and treacheries, of Versailles. They\nare not saints, in the vulgar sense of the word. They have not fled to\nthe depths of forest or desert, or sought egotistic shelter in narrow\ncells. They are sages, who remain within life and the things that are\nreal. It is not their piety that saves them; it is not in God alone\nthat their soul has found strength. To love God, and to serve Him with\nall one's might, will not suffice to bring peace and strength to the\nsoul of man. It is only by means of the knowledge and thought we have\ngained and developed by contact with men that we can learn how God\nshould be loved; for, notwithstanding all things, the human soul\nremains profoundly human still. It may be taught to cherish the\ninvisible, but it will ever find far more actual nourishment in the\nvirtue or feeling that is simply and wholly human, than in the virtue\nor passion divine. If there come towards us a man whose soul is truly\ntranquil and calm, we may be certain that human virtues have given him\nhis tranquillity and his calmness. Were we permitted to peer into the\nsecret recesses of hearts that are now no more, we might discover,\nperhaps, that the fountain of peace whereat Fenelon slaked his thirst\nevery night of his exile lay rather in his loyalty to Madame Guyon in\nher misfortune, in his love for the slandered, persecuted Dauphin, than\nin his expectation of eternal reward; rather in the irreproachable\nhuman conscience within him, overflowing with fidelity and tenderness,\nthan in the hopes he cherished as a Christian.\n\n97. Admirable indeed is the serenity of this \"little flock!\" No virtue,\nhere, to kindle dazzling fires on the mountain, but heart and soul that\nare alive with flame. No heroism but that of love, of confidence and\nsincerity, that remember and are content to wait. Some men there are\nwhose virtue issues from them with a noise of clanging gates; in others\nit dwells as silent as the maid who never stirs from home, who sits\nthoughtfully by the fireside, always ready to welcome those who enter\nfrom the cold without. There is less need of heroic hours, perhaps, in\na beautiful life, than of weeks that are grave, and uniform, and pure.\nIt may be that the soul that is loyal and perfectly just is more\nprecious than the one that is tender or full of devotion It will enter\nless wholly perhaps, and with less exaltation, into the more exuberant\nadventures of life; but in the events that occur every day we can trust\nit more fully, rely more completely upon it; and is there a man, after\nall, no matter how strange and delirious and brilliant his life may\nhave been, who has not spent the great bulk of his time in the midst of\nmost ordinary incident? In our very sublimest hour, as we stand in the\nmidst of the dazzling circles it throws, are we not startled to find\nthat the habits and thoughts of our soberest hour are whirling around\nwith the rest? We must always come back to our normal life, that is\nbuilt on the solid earth and primitive rock. We are not called upon to\ncontest each day with dishonour, despair, or death; but it is\nimperative, perhaps, that I should be able to tell myself, at every\nhour of sadness, that there exists, somewhere, an unchangeable,\nunconquerable soul that has drawn near to my soul--a soul that is\nfaithful and silent, blind to all that it deems not conformable with\nthe truth. We can only have praise for heroism, and for surpassingly\ngenerous deeds; but more praise still--as it demands a more vigilant\nstrength--for the man who never allows an inferior thought to seduce\nhim; who leads a less glorious life, perhaps, but one of more uniform\nworth. Let us sometimes, in our meditations, bring our desire for moral\nperfection to the level of daily truth, and be taught how far easier it\nis to confer occasional benefit than never to do any harm; to bring\noccasional happiness than never be cause of tears.\n\n98. Their refuge, their \"firm rock,\" as Saint-Simon calls it, lay in\neach other, and, above all, in themselves; and all that was blameless\nwithin their soul became steadfastness in the rock. A thousand\nsubstances go to form the foundations of this \"firm rock,\" but all that\nwe hold to be blameless within us will sink to its centre and base. It\nis true that our standard of conduct may often be sadly at fault; and\nthe vilest of men has a moment each night when he proudly surveys some\ndetestable thought, that seems wholly blameless to him. But I speak of\na virtue, here, that is higher than everyday virtue; and the most\nordinary man is aware what a virtue becomes, when it is ordinary virtue\nno longer. Moral beauty, indeed, though it be of the rarest kind, never\npasses the comprehension of the most narrow-minded of men; and no act\nis so readily understood as the act that is truly sublime. We may\nadmire a deed profoundly, perhaps, and yet not rise to its height; but\nit is imperative that we should not abide in the darkness that covers\nthe thing we blame. Many a happiness in life, as many a disaster, is\ndue to chance alone; but the peace within us can never be governed by\nchance. Some souls, I know, for ever are building; others have\npreference for ruins; and others, still, will wander, their whole life\nthrough, seeking shelter beneath strange roofs. And difficult as it may\nbe to transform the instincts that dwell in the soul, it is well that\nthose who build not should be made aware of the joy that the others\nexperience as they incessantly pile stone upon stone. Their thoughts,\nand attachments, and love; their convictions, deceptions, and even\ntheir doubts--all stand in good service; and when the passing storm has\ndemolished their mansion, they build once again with the ruins, a\nlittle distance away, something less stately perhaps, but better\nadapted to all the requirements of life. What regret, disillusion, or\nsadness can shatter the homestead of him who, in choosing the stones\nfor his dwelling, Was careful to keep all the wisdom and strength that\nregret, disillusion, and sadness contain? Or might we not say that it\nis with the roots of the happiness we cherish within as with roots of\ngreat trees? The oaks that are subject the most to the stress of the\nstorm thrust their roots the most staunchly and firmly, deep down in\neternal soil; and the fate that unjustly pursues us is no more aware of\nwhat comes to pass in our soul, than the wind is aware of what happens\nbelow in the earth.\n\n99. Here let us note how great is the power, how mysterious the\nattraction, of veritable happiness. Something of a hush comes over\nSaint-Simon's stirring narrative as one of the members of the \"little\nflock\" passes through the careless, triumphant crowd, unceasingly busy\nwith intrigue and salutation, petty love and petty triumph, amidst the\nmarble staircases and magnificent halls of Versailles. Saint-Simon goes\ncalmly on with his story; but for one second we seem to have compared\nall this jubilant vanity and ephemeral rejoicing, this brazen-tongued\nfalsehood that secretly trembles, with the serene, unvarying loftiness\nof those strenuous, tranquil souls. It is as though there should\nsuddenly appear in the midst of a band of children--who are plucking\nflowers, it may be, stealing fruit, or playing forbidden games--a\npriest or an aged man, who should go on his way, letting fall not one\nword of rebuke. The games are suddenly stopped; startled conscience\nawakens; and unbidden thoughts of duty, reality, truth, rush in on the\nmind; but with men no more than with children are impressions of long\nduration, though they spring from the priest, or the sage, or only the\nthought that has passed and gone on its way. But it matters not, they\nhave seen; and the human soul, for all that the eyes are only too\nwilling to close or turn away, is nobler than most men would wish it to\nbe, for it often troubles their peace; and the soul is quick to declare\nits preference for that it has seen, and fain would abandon its\nenforced and wearisome idleness. And although we may smile and make\nmerry as the sage disappears in the distance, he has, though he know it\nnot, left a clear track in the midst of our error and folly, where,\nhaply, it still will abide for a long time to come. And when the sudden\nhour of tears bursts upon us, then most of all shall we see it\nenwrapped in light. We find again and again, in Saint-Simon's story,\nthat sorrow no sooner invades a soul somewhat loftier than others,\nsomewhat nearer to life perhaps, than it speedily flies for comfort to\none it has thus seen pass by in the midst of the uneasy silence and\nalmost malevolent wonder, that in this world too often attend the\nfootsteps of a blameless life. It is not our wont to question happiness\nclosely in the days when we deem ourselves happy; but when sorrow draws\nnigh, our memory flies to the peace that somewhere lies hidden: the\npeace that depends not on the rays of the sun, or the kiss that has\nbeen withheld, or the disapproval of kings. At such moments we go not\nto those who are happy, as we once were happy; for we know that this\nhappiness melts away before the first fretful gesture of fate. Would\nyou learn where true happiness dwells, you have only to watch the\nmovements of those who are wretched, and seek consolation. Sorrow is\nlike the divining-rod that used to avail the seekers of treasure or of\nclear running water; for he who may have it about him unerringly makes\nfor the house where profoundest peace has its home. And this is so true\nthat we should be wise, perhaps, not to dwell with too much\nsatisfaction on our own peace of mind and tranquillity, on the\nsincerity of our own acquiescence in the great laws of life, or rely\ntoo complacently on the duration of our own happiness, until such time\nas the instinct of those who suffer impels them to knock at our door,\nand their eyes can behold, shining bright on the threshold, the steady,\nunwavering flame of the lamp that burns on for ever. Yes; only they, it\nmay be, have the right to deem themselves safe to whose arms there come\nto weep those whose eyes are heavy with tears. And indeed there are not\na few in this world whose inner smile we can only behold when our eyes\nhave been cleansed by the tears that lay bare the mysterious sources of\nvision; and then only do we begin to detect the presence of happiness\nthat springs not from the favour or gleam of an hour, but from widest\nacceptance of life. Here, as in much beside, desire and necessity\nquicken our senses. The hungry bee will discover the honey, be it hid\nnever so deep in the cavern; and the soul that mourns will spy out the\njoy that lies hidden in its retreat, or in most impenetrable silence.\n\n100. Destiny begins when consciousness wakes, and bestirs itself within\nman; not the passive, impoverished consciousness of most souls, but the\nactive consciousness that will accept the event, whatever it may be, as\nan imprisoned queen will accept a gift that is offered to her in her\ncell. If nothing should happen, your consciousness yet may create\nimportant event from the manner in which it regards the mere dearth of\nevent; but perhaps to each man there occurs vastly more than is needed\nto satisfy the thirstiest, most indefatigable consciousness. I have at\nthis moment before me the history of a mighty and passionate soul, whom\nevery adventure that makes for the sorrow or gladness of man would seem\nto have passed by with averted head. It is of Emily Bronte I speak,\nthan whom the first fifty years of this century produced no woman of\ngreater or more incontestable genius. She has left but one book behind\nher, a novel, called \"Wuthering Heights,\" a curious title, which seems\nto suggest a storm on a mountain peak. She was the daughter of an\nEnglish clergyman, the Rev. Patrick Bronte, who was the most\ninsignificant, selfish, lethargic, pretentious creature the mind can\nconceive. There were only two things in life that seemed of importance\nto him--the purity of his Greek profile, and solicitude for his\ndigestion. As for Emily's unfortunate mother, her whole life would seem\nto have been spent in admiring this Greek profile and in studying this\ndigestion. But there is scarcely need to dwell upon her existence, for\nshe died only two years after Emily's birth. It is of interest to note,\nhowever--if only to prove once again that, in ordinary life, the woman\nis usually superior to the man she has had to accept--that long after\nthe death of the patient wife a bundle of letters was found, wherein it\nwas clearly revealed that she who had always been silent was fully\nalive to the indifference and fatuous self-love of her vain and\nindolent husband. We may, it is true, be conscious of faults in others\nfrom which we are ourselves not exempt; although to discover a virtue,\nperhaps, we must needs have a germ of it in us. Such were Emily's\nparents. Around her, four sisters and one brother gravely watched the\nmonotonous flight of the hours. The family dwelling, where Emily's\nwhole life was spent, was in the heart of the Yorkshire Moors, at a\nplace called Haworth, a gloomy, desolate village; barren, forsaken, and\nlonely.\n\nThere can never have been a childhood and youth so friendless,\nmonotonous, and dreary as that of Emily and her sisters. There came to\nthem none of those happy little adventures, bright gleams from the\nunexpected, which we broider and magnify as the years go by, and store\nat last in our soul as the one inexhaustible treasure acquired by the\nsmiling memory of life. Each day was the same, from first to\nlast--lessons, meals, household duties, work beside an old aunt, and\nlong solitary walks that these grave little girls would take hand in\nhand, speaking but seldom, across the heather now gay with blossom, now\nwhite beneath the snow. At home the father they scarcely saw, who was\nwholly indifferent, who took his meals in his room, and would come down\nat night to the rectory parlour and read aloud the appallingly dreary\ndebates of the House of Commons: without, the silence of the adjoining\ngraveyard, the great treeless desert, and the moors that from autumn to\nsummer were swept by the pitiless wind from the north.\n\nThe hazard of life--for in every life some effort is put forth by\nfate--the hazard of life removed Emily three or four times from the\ndesert she had grown to love, and to consider--as will happen to those\nwho remain too long in one spot--the only place in the world where the\nplants, and the earth, and the sky were truly real and delightful. But\nafter a few weeks' absence the light would fade from her ardent,\nbeautiful eyes; she pined for home; and one or another of the sisters\nmust hasten to bring her back to the lonely vicarage.\n\nIn 1843--she was then twenty-five--she returned once again, never more\nto go forth until summoned by death. Not an event, or a smile, or a\nwhisper of love in the whole of her life to the day of this final\nreturn. Nor was her memory charged with one of those griefs or\ndeceptions, which enable the weaklings, or those who demand too little\nof life, to imagine that passive fidelity to something that has of\nitself collapsed is an act of virtue; that inactivity is justified by\nthe tears wherein it is bathed; and that the duty of life is\naccomplished when suffering has been made to yield up all its\nresignation and sorrow.\n\nHere, in this virgin soul, whose past was a blank, there was nothing\nfor memory or resignation to cling to; nothing before that last\njourney, as nothing after; unless it be mournful vigils by the side of\nthe brother she nursed--the almost demented brother, whose life was\nwrecked by his idleness and a great unfortunate passion; who became an\nincurable opium-eater and drunkard. Then, shortly before her\ntwenty-ninth birthday, on a December afternoon, as she sat in the\nlittle whitewashed parlour combing her long black hair, the comb\nslipped from the fingers that were too weak to retain it, and fell into\nthe fire; and death came to her, more silent even than life, and bore\nher away from the pale embraces of the two sisters whom fortune had\nleft her.\n\n101. \"No touch of love, no hint of fame, no hours of ease lie for you\nacross the knees of fate,\" exclaims Miss Mary Robinson, who has\nchronicled this existence, in a fine outburst of sorrow. And truly,\nviewed from without, what life could be more dreary and colourless,\nmore futile and icily cold, than that of Emily Bronte? But where shall\nwe take our stand, when we pass such a life in review, so as best to\ndiscover its truth, to judge it, approve it, and love it? How different\nit all appears as we leave the little parsonage, hidden away on the\nmoors, and let our eyes rest on the soul of our heroine! It is rare\nindeed that we thus can follow the life of a soul in a body that knew\nno adventure; but it is less rare than might be imagined that a soul\nshould have life of its own, which hardly depends, if at all, on\nincident of week or of year. In \"Wuthering Heights\"--wherein this soul\ngives to the world its passions, desires, reflections, realisations,\nideals, which is, in a word, its real history--in \"Wuthering Heights\"\nthere is more adventure, more passion, more energy, more ardour, more\nlove, than is needed to give life or fulfilment to twenty heroic\nexistences, twenty destinies of gladness or sorrow. Not a single event\never paused as it passed by her threshold; yet did every event she\ncould claim take place in her heart, with incomparable force and\nbeauty, with matchless precision and detail. We say that nothing ever\nhappened; but did not all things really happen to her much more\ndirectly and tangibly than unto most of us, seeing that everything that\ntook place about her, everything that she saw or heard, was transformed\nwithin her into thoughts and feelings, into indulgent love, admiration,\nadoration of life? What matter whether the event fall on our\nneighbour's roof or our own? The rain-drops the cloud brings with it\nare for him who will hold out his vessel; and the gladness, the beauty,\nthe peace, or the helpful disquiet that is found in the gesture of\nfate, belongs only to him who has learned to reflect. Love never came\nto her: there fell never once on her ear the lover's magical footfall;\nand, for all that, this virgin, who died in her twenty-ninth year, has\nknown love, has spoken of love, has penetrated its most impenetrable\nsecrets to such a degree, that those who have loved the most deeply\nmust sometimes uneasily wonder what name they should give to the\npassion they feel, when she pours forth the words, exaltation and\nmystery of a love beside which all else seems pallid and casual. Where,\nif not in her heart, has she heard the matchless words of the girl, who\nspeaks to her nurse of the man who is hated and harassed by all, but\nwhom she wholly adores? \"My great miseries in this world have been\nHeathcliff's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning;\nmy great thought in living is himself. If all else perished, and HE\nremained, _I_ should still continue to be; and if all else remained,\nand he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger;\nI should not seem a part of it. My love for Linton is like the foliage\nin the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes\nthe trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks\nbeneath--a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I AM\nHeathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more\nthan I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. ... I do\nnot love him because he's handsome, but because he's more myself than I\nam. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.\" ...\n\nShe has but little acquaintance with the external realities of love,\nand these she handles so innocently at times as almost to provoke a\nsmile; but where can she have acquired her knowledge of those inner\nrealities, that are interwoven with all that is profoundest and most\nillogical in passion, with all that is most unexpected, most\nimpossible, and most eternally true? We feel that one must have lived\nfor thirty years beneath burning chains of burning kisses to learn what\nshe has learned; to dare so confidently set forth, with such\nminuteness, such unerring certainty, the delirium of those two\npredestined lovers of \"Wuthering Heights\"; to mark the self-conflicting\nmovements of the tenderness that would make suffer and the cruelty that\nwould make glad, the felicity that prayed for death and the despair\nthat clung to life; the repulsion that desired, the desire drunk with\nrepulsion--love surcharged with hatred, hatred staggering beneath its\nload of love. ...\n\nAnd yet it is known to us--for in this poor life of hers all lies\nopen--that she neither loved nor was loved. May it be true then that\nthe last word of an existence is only a word that destiny whispers low\nto what lies most hidden in our heart? Have we indeed an inner life\nthat yields not in reality to the outer life; that is no less\nsusceptible of experience and impression? Can we live, it matters not\nwhere, and love, and hate, listening for no footfall, spurning no\ncreature? Is the soul self-sufficient; and is it always the soul that\ndecides, a certain height once gained? Is it only to those whose\nconscience still slumbers that events can seem sad or sterile? Did not\nlove and beauty, happiness and adventure--did not all that we go in\nsearch of along the ways of life congregate in Emily Bronte's heart?\nDay after day passed by, with never a joy or emotion; never a smile\nthat the eye could see or the hand could touch; wherefore none the less\ndid her destiny find its fulfilment, for the confidence within her, the\neagerness, hope, animation, all were astir; and her heart was flooded\nwith light, and radiant with silent gladness. Of her happiness none can\ndoubt. Not in the soul of the best of all those whose happiness has\nlasted the longest, been the most active, diversified, perfect, could\nmore imperishable harvest be found than in the soul Emily Bronte lays\nbare. If to her there came nothing of all that passes in joy and in\nlove, in sorrow, passion, and anguish, still did she possess all that\nabides when emotion has faded away. Which of the two will know more of\nthe marvellous palace--the blind man who lives there, or the other,\nwith wide-open eyes, who perhaps only enters it once? \"To live, not to\nlive\"--we must not let mere words mislead us. It is surely possible to\nlive without thought, but not to think, without active life. The\nessence of the joy or sorrow the event contains lies in the idea the\nevent gives birth to: our own idea, if we are strong; that of others,\nif we are weak. On your way to the grave there may come a thousand\nexternal events towards you, whereof not one, it may be, shall find\nwithin you the force that it needs to turn to moral event. Then may you\ntruthfully say, and then only, \"I have perhaps not lived.\" The intimate\nhappiness of our heroine, as of every human being, was in exact\nproportion to her morality and her sense of the universe; and these\nindeed are the clearings in the forest of accidents whose area it is\nwell we should know when we seek to measure the happiness a life has\nexperienced. Who that had gained the altitude of peace and\ncomprehension whereon her soul reposed would still be wrought to\nfeeble, bitter, unrefreshing tears by the cares and troubles and\ndeceptions of ordinary life? Who would not then understand why it was\nthat she shed no tears, unlike so many of her sisters, who spend their\nlives in plaintive wanderings from one broken joy to another? The joy\nthat is dead weighs heavy, and bids fair to crush us, if we cause it to\nbe with us for ever; which is as though a wood-cutter should refuse to\nlay down his load of dead wood. For dead wood was not made to be\neternally borne on the shoulder, but indeed to be burned, and give\nforth brilliant flame. And as we behold the names that soar aloft in\nEmily's soul, then are we as heedless as she was of the sorrows of the\ndead wood. No misfortune but has its horizon, no sadness but shall know\ncomfort, for the man who in the midst of his suffering, in the midst of\nthe grief that must come to him as to all, has learned to espy Nature's\nample gesture beneath all sorrow and suffering, and has become aware\nthat this gesture alone is real. \"The sage, who is lord of his life,\ncan never truly be said to suffer.\" wrote an admirable woman, who had\nknown much sorrow herself. \"It is from the heights above that he looks\ndown on his life, and if to-day he should seem to suffer, it is only\nbecause he has allowed his thoughts to incline towards the less perfect\npart of his soul.\" Emily Bronte not only breathes life into tenderness,\nloyalty, and love, but into hatred and wickedness also; nay, into the\nvery fiercest revengeful ness, the most deliberate perfidy; nor does\nshe deem it incumbent upon her to pardon, for pardon implies only\nincomplete comprehension. She sees, she admits, and she loves. She\nadmits the evil as well as the good, she gives life to both; well\nknowing that evil, when all is said, is only righteousness strayed from\nthe path. She reveals to us--not with the moralist's arbitrary formula,\nbut as men and years reveal the truths we have wit to grasp--the final\nhelplessness of evil, brought face to face with life; the final\nappeasement of all things in nature as well as in death, \"which is only\nthe triumph of life over one of its specialised forms.\" She shows how\nthe dexterous lie, begotten of genius and strength, is forced to bow\ndown before the most ignorant, puniest truth; she shows the\nself-deception of hatred that sows, all unwilling, the seeds of\ngladness and love in the life that it anxiously schemes to destroy. She\nis, perhaps, the first to base a plea for indulgence on the great law\nof heredity; and when, at the end of her book, she goes to the village\nchurchyard and visits the eternal resting-place of her heroes, the\ngrass grows green alike over grave of tyrant and martyr; and she\nwonders how \"any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the\nsleepers in that quiet earth.\"\n\n102. I am well aware that here we are dealing with a woman of genius;\nbut genius only throws into bolder relief all that can, and actually\ndoes, take place in the lives of all men; otherwise were it genius no\nlonger, but incoherence or madness. It becomes clear to us, after a\ntime, that genius is by no means confined to the extraordinary; and\nthat veritable superiority is composed of elements that every day\noffers to every man. But we are not considering literature now; and\nindeed, not by her literary gifts, but by her inner life, was Emily\nBronte comforted; for it by no means follows that moral activity waits\non brilliant literary powers. Had she remained silent, nor ever grasped\na pen, still had there been no diminution of the power within her, of\nthe smile and the fulness of love; still had she worn the air of one\nwho knew whither her steps were tending; and the profound certainty\nthat dwelt within her still had proclaimed that she had known how to\nmake her peace, far up on the heights, with the great disquiet and\nmisery of the world. We should never have known of her--that is all.\n\nThere is much to be learned from this humble life, and yet were it\nperhaps not well to hold it forth as an example to such as already\nincline overmuch to resignation, for these it might mislead. It is a\nlife that would seem to have been wholly passive--and to be passive is\nnot good for all. She died a virgin in her twenty-ninth year: and it is\nsad to die a virgin. Is it not the paramount duty of every human being\nto offer to his destiny all that can be offered to the destiny of man?\nAnd indeed we had far better leave behind us work unfinished than life\nitself incomplete. It is good to be indifferent to vain or idle\npleasures; but we have no right almost voluntarily to neglect the most\nimportant chances of indispensable happiness. The soul that is unhappy\nmay have within it cause for noble regret. To look largely on the\nsadness of one's life is to make essay, in the darkness, of the wings\nthat shall one day enable us to soar high above this sadness. Effort\nwas lacking, perhaps, in Emily Bronte's life. (In her soul there was\nwealth of passion and freedom and daring, but in her life timidity,\nsilence, inertness, conventions, and prejudice; the very things that in\nthought she despised.) This is the history often of the too-meditative\nsoul. But it is difficult to pass judgment on an entire existence; and\nhere there were much to be said of the devotion wherewith she\nsacrificed the best years of her youth to an undeserving, though\nunfortunate, brother. Our remarks then, in a case such as this, must be\nunderstood generally only; but still, how long and how narrow is the\npath that leads from the soul to life! Our thoughts of love, of justice\nand loyalty, our thoughts of bold ambition--what are all these but\nacorns that fall from the oak in the forest? and must not thousands and\ntens of thousands be lost and rot in the lichen ere a single tree\nspring to life? \"She had a beautiful soul,\" said, speaking of another\nwoman, the woman whose words I quoted above, \"a wide intellect, and\ntender heart, but ere these qualities could issue forth into life they\nhad perforce to traverse a straitened character. Again and again have I\nwondered at this want of self-knowledge, of return to self. The man who\nwould wish us to see the deepest recess of his life will begin by\ntelling us all that he thinks and he feels, will lead as to his point\nof view; we are conscious, perhaps, of much elevation of soul; then, as\nwe enter with him still further into his life, he tells of his conduct,\nhis joys and his sorrows; and in these we detect not a gleam of the\nsoul that had shone through his thoughts and desires. When the trumpet\nis sounded for action, the instincts rush in, the character hastens\nbetween; but the soul stands aloof: the soul, which is man's very\nhighest, being like the princess who elects to live on in arrogant\npenury rather than soil her hands with ordinary labour.\" Yes, alas, all\nis useless till such time as we have learned to harden our hands; to\ntransform the gold and silver of thought into a key that shall open,\nnot the ivory gate of our dreams, but the very door of this our\ndwelling--into a cup that shall hold, not only the wondrous water of\ndreams, but the living water that falls, drop by drop, on our\nroof--into scales, not content vaguely to balance schemes for the\nfuture, but that record, with unerring accuracy, what we have done\nto-day. The very loftiest ideal has taken no root within us, so long as\nit penetrate not every limb, so long as it palpitate not at our\nfinger-tip. Some there are whose intellect profits by this return to\nself; with others, the character gains. The first have clearest vision\nfor all that concerns not themselves, that calls them not to action;\nbut it is above all when stern reality confronts them, and time for\naction has come, that the eyes of the others glow bright. One might\nalmost believe in there being an intellectual consciousness, languidly\nresting for ever upon an immovable throne, whence she issues commands\nto the will through faithless or indolent envoys, and a moral\nconsciousness, incessantly stirring, afoot, at all times ready to\nmarch. It may be that this latter consciousness depends on the\nformer--indeed who shall say that she is not the former, wearied from\nlong repose, wherein she has learned all that was to be learned; that\nhas at last determined to rise, to descend the steps of inactivity and\nsally forth into life? And all will be well, if only she have not\ntarried so long that her limbs refuse their office. Is it not\npreferable sometimes to act in opposition to our thoughts than never\ndare to act in accord with them? Rarely indeed is the active error\nirremediable; men and things are quickly on the spot, eager to set it\nright; but they are helpless before the passive error that has shunned\ncontact with the real. Let all this, however, by no means be construed\ninto meaning that the intellectual consciousness must be starved, or\nits growth arrested, for fear lest it outpace the moral consciousness.\nWe need have no fear; no ideal conceived by man can be too admirable\nfor life to conform with it. To float the smallest act of justice or\nlove requires a very torrent of desire for good. For our conduct only\nto be honest we must have thoughts within us ten times loftier than our\nconduct. Even to keep somewhat clear of evil bespeaks enormous craving\nfor good. Of all the forces in the world there is none melts so quickly\naway as the thought that has to descend into everyday life; wherefore\nwe must needs be heroic in thought for our deeds to pass muster, or at\nthe least be harmless.\n\n103. Let us once again, and for the last time, return to obscure\ndestinies. They teach us that, physical misfortune apart, there is\nremedy for all; and that to complain of destiny is only to expose our\nown feebleness of soul. We are told in the history of Rome how a\ncertain Julius Sabinus, a senator from Gaul, headed a revolt against\nthe Emperor Vespasian, and was duly defeated. He might have sought\nrefuge among the Germans, but only by leaving his young wife, Eponina,\nbehind him, and he had not the heart to forsake her. At moments of\ndisaster and sorrow we learn the true value of life; nor did Julius\nSabinus welcome the idea of death. He possessed a villa, beneath which\nthere stretched vast subterranean caverns, known only to him and two\nfreedmen. This villa he caused to be burned, and the rumour was spread\nthat he had sought death by poison, and that his body was consumed by\nthe flames. Eponina herself was deceived, says Plutarch, whose story I\nfollow, with the additions made thereto by the Comte de Champagny, the\nhistorian of Antoninus; and when Martialis the freedman told her of her\nhusband's self-slaughter, she lay for three days and three nights on\nthe ground, refusing all nourishment. When Sabinus heard of her grief,\nhe took pity and caused her to know that he lived. She none the less\nmourned and shed floods of tears, in the daytime, when people were\nnear, but when night fell she sought him below in his cavern. For seven\nlong months did she thus confront the shades, every night, to be with\nher husband; she even attempted to help him escape; she shaved off his\nhair and his beard, wrapped his head round with fillets, disguised him,\nand then had him sent, in a bundle of clothes, to her own native city.\nBut his stay there becoming unsafe, she soon brought him back to his\ncavern; and herself divided her stay between town and the country,\nspending her nights with him, and from time to time going to town to be\nseen by her friends. She became big with child, and, by means of an\nunguent wherewith she anointed her body, her condition remained\nunsuspected by even the women at the baths, which at that time were\ntaken in common. And when her confinement drew nigh she went down to\nher cavern, and there, with no midwife, alone, she gave birth to two\nsons, as a lioness throws off her cubs. She nourished her twins with\nher milk, she nursed them through childhood; and for nine years she\nstood by her husband in the gloom and the darkness. But Sabinus at last\nwas discovered and taken to Rome. He surely would seem to have merited\nVespasian's pardon. Eponina led forth the two sons she had reared in\nthe depths of the earth, and said to the Emperor, \"These have I brought\ninto the world and fed on my milk, that we might one day be more to\nimplore thy forgiveness.\" Tears filled the eyes of all who were there;\nbut Caesar stood firm, and the brave Gaul at last was reduced to demand\npermission to die with her husband. \"I have known more happiness with\nhim in the darkness,\" she cried, \"than thou ever shalt know, O Caesar,\nin the full glare of the sunshine, or in all the splendour of thy\nmighty empire.\"\n\nWho that has a heart within him can doubt the truth of her words, or\nthink without longing of the darkness that so great a love illumined?\nMany a dreary, miserable hour must have crawled by as they crouched in\ntheir hiding-place; but are there any, even among those who care only\nfor the pettiest pleasures of life, who would not rather love with such\ndepth and fervour in what was almost a tomb, than flaunt a frigid\naffection in the heat and light of the sun? Eponina's magnificent cry\nis the cry of all those whose hearts have been touched by love; as it\nis also the cry of those whose soul has discovered an interest, duty,\nor even a hope, in life. The flame that inspired Eponina inspires the\nsage also, lost in monotonous hours as she in her gloomy retreat. Love\nis the unconscious sun of our soul; and it is when its beams are most\nardent, and purest, that they bear most surprising resemblance to those\nthat the soul, aglow with justice and truth, with beauty and majesty,\nhas kindled within itself, and adds to, incessantly. Is not the\nhappiness that accident brought to the heart of Eponina within reach of\nevery heart, so the will to possess it be there? Is not all that was\nsweetest in this love of hers--the devotion of self, the transformation\nof regret into happiness, of pleasure renounced into joy that abides in\nthe heart for ever; the interest awakened each day by the feeblest\nglimmer of light, so it fall on a thing one admires; the immersion in\nradiance, in happiness susceptible of infinite expansion, for one has\nonly to worship the more--are not all these, and a thousand other\nforces no less helpful, no less consoling, to be found in the intensest\nlife of our soul, of our heart, of our thoughts? And was Eponina's love\nother than a sudden lightning flash from this life of the soul, come to\nher, all unconscious and unprepared? Love does not always reflect;\noften indeed does it need no reflection, no search into self, to enjoy\nwhat is best in thought; but, none the less, all that is best in love\nis closely akin to all that is best in thought. Suffering seemed ever\nradiant in aspect to Eponina, because of her love; but cannot this\nthing that love brings about, all unknowing, by fortunate accident, be\nalso achieved by thought, meditation, by the habit of looking beyond\nour immediate trouble, and being more joyous than fate would seem to\ndemand? To Eponina there came not a sorrow but kindled yet one more\ntorch in the gloom of her cavern; and does not the sadness that forces\nthe soul back into itself, to the retreat it has made, kindle deep\nconsolation there? And, as the noble Eponina has taken us back to the\ndays of persecution, may we not liken such sorrow to the pagan\nexecutioner who, suddenly touched by grace, or perhaps admiration, in\nthe very midst of the torture that he was inflicting, flung himself\ndown headlong at the feet of his victim, speaking words of tenderest\nsympathy; who demanded to share her suffering, and finally besought, in\na kiss, to be told the way to her heaven.\n\n104. Go where we will, the plentiful river of life flows on, beneath\nthe canopy of heaven. It flows between prison walls, where the sun\nnever gleams on its waters; as it flows by the palace steps, where all\nis gladness and glory. Not our concern the depth of this river, or its\nwidth, or the strength of its current, as it streams on for ever,\npertaining to all; but of deepest importance to us is the size and the\npurity of the cup that we plunge in its waters. For whatever of life we\nabsorb must needs take the form of this cup, as this, too, has taken\nthe form of our thoughts and our feelings; being modelled, indeed, on\nthe breast of our intimate destiny as the breast of a goddess once\nserved for the cup of the sculptor of old. Every man has the cup of his\nfashioning, and most often the cup he has learned to desire. When we\nmurmur at fate, let our grievance be only that she grafted not in our\nheart the wish for, or thought of, a cup more ample and perfect. For\nindeed in the wish alone does inequality lie, but this inequality\nvanishes the moment it has been perceived. Does the thought that our\nwish might be nobler not at once bring nobility with it; does not the\nbreast of our destiny throb to this new aspiration, thereby expanding\nthe docile cup of the ideal--the cup whose metal is pliable, still to\nthe cold stern hour of death? No cause for complaint has he who has\nlearned that his feelings are lacking in generous ardour, or the other\nwho nurses within him a hope for a little more happiness, a little more\nbeauty, a little more justice. For here all things come to pass in the\nway that they tell us it happens with the felicity of the elect, of\nwhom each one is robed in gladness, and wears the garment befitting his\nstature. Nor can he desire a happiness more perfect than the happiness\nwhich he possesses, without the desire wherewith he desired at once\nbringing fulfilment with it. If I envy with noble envy the happiness of\nthose who are able to plunge a heavier cup, and more radiant than mine,\nthere where the great river is brightest, I have, though I know it not,\nmy excellent share of all that they draw from the river, and my lips\nrepose by the side of their lips on the rim of the shining cup.\n\n105. It may be remembered perhaps that, before these digressions, we\nspoke of a woman whose friend asked her, wonderingly, \"Can any man be\nworthy of your love?\" The same question might have been asked of Emily\nBronte, as indeed of many others; and in this world there are thousands\nof souls, of loftiest intention, that do yet forfeit the best years of\nlove in constant self-interrogation as to the future of their\naffections. Nay, more--in the empire of destiny it is to the image of\nlove that the great mass of complaints and regrets come flocking; the\nimage of love around which hover sluggish desire, extravagant hope, and\nfears engendered of vanity. At root of all this is much pride, and\ncounterfeit poetry, and falsehood. The soul that is misunderstood is\nmost often the one that has made the least effort to gain some\nknowledge of self. The feeblest ideal, the one that is narrowest,\nstraitest, most often will thrive on deception and fear, on exaction\nand petty contempt. We dread above all lest any should slight, or pass\nby unnoticed, the virtues and thoughts, the spiritual beauty, that\nexist only in our imagination. It is with merits of this nature as it\nis with our material welfare--hope clings most persistently to that\nwhich we probably never shall have the strength to acquire. The cheat\nthrough whose mind some momentary thought of amendment has passed, is\namazed that we offer not instant, surpassing homage to the feeling of\nhonour that has, for brief space, found shelter within him. But if we\nare truly pure, and sincere, and unselfish; if our thoughts soar aloft\nof themselves, in all simpleness, high above vanity or instinctive\nselfishness, then are we far less concerned than those who are near us\nshould understand, should approve, or admire. Epictetus, Marcus\nAurelius, Antoninus Pius are not known to have ever complained that men\ncould not understand them. They hugged no belief to themselves that\nsomething extraordinary, incomprehensible, lay buried within them; they\nheld, on the contrary, that whatever was best in their virtue was that\nwhich it needed no effort for all men to grasp and admit. But there are\nsome morbid virtues that are passed by unnoticed, and not without\nreason--for there will almost always be some superior reason for the\npowerlessness of a feeling--morbid virtues to which we often ascribe\nfar too great an importance; and that virtue will surely be morbid that\nwe rate over highly and hold to deserve the respectful attention of\nothers. In a morbid virtue there is often more harm than there is in a\nhealthy vice; in any event it is farther removed from truth; and there\nis but little to hope for when we are divided from truth. As our ideal\nbecomes loftier so does it become more real; and the nobler our soul,\nthe less does it dread that it meet not a soul of its stature; for it\nmust have drawn near unto truth, in whose neighbourhood all things must\ntake of its greatness. When Dante had gained the third sphere, and\nstood in the midst of the heavenly lights, all shining with uniform\nsplendour, he saw that around him naught moved, and wondered was he\nstanding motionless there, or indeed drawing nearer unto the seat of\nGod? So he cast his eyes upon Beatrice; and she seemed more beautiful\nto him; wherefore he knew that he was approaching his goal. And so can\nwe too count the steps that we take on the highway of truth, by the\nincrease of love that comes for all that goes with us in life; the\nincrease of love and of glad curiosity, of respect and of deep\nadmiration.\n\n106. Men, as a rule, sally forth from their homes seeking beauty and\njoy, truth and love; and are glad to be able to say to their children,\non their return, that they have met nothing. To be for ever complaining\nargues much pride; and those who accuse love and life are the ones who\nimagine that these should bestow something more than they can acquire\nfor themselves. Love, it is true, like all else, claims the highest\npossible ideal; but every ideal that conforms not with some strenuous\ninward, reality is nothing but falsehood--sterile and futile,\nobsequious falsehood. Two or three ideals, that lie out of our reach,\nwill suffice to paralyse life. It is wrong to believe that loftiness of\nsoul is governed by the loftiness of desire or dream. The dreams of the\nweak will be often more numerous, lovelier, than are those of the\nstrong; for these dreams absorb all their energy, all their activity.\nThe perpetual craving for loftiness does not count in our moral\nadvancement if it be not the shadow thrown by the life we have lived,\nby the firm and experienced will that has come in close kinship with\nman. Then, indeed, as one places a rod at the foot of the steeple to\ntell of its height by the shadow, so may we lead forth this craving of\nours to the midst of the plain that is lit by the sun of external\nreality, that thus we may tell what relation exists between the shadow\nthrown by the hour and the dome of eternity.\n\n107. It is well that a noble heart should await a great love; better\nstill that this heart, all expectant, should cease not from loving; and\nthat, as it loves, it should scarcely be conscious of its desire for\nmore exquisite love. In love as in life, expectation avails us but\nlittle; through loving we learn to love; and it is the so-called\ndisillusions of pettier love that will, the most simply and faithfully,\nfeed the immovable flame of the mightier love that shall come, it may\nbe, to illumine the rest of our life.\n\nWe treat disillusions often with scantiest justice. We conceive them of\nsorrowful countenance, pale and discouraged; whereas they are really\nthe very first smiles of truth. Why should disillusion distress you, if\nyou are a man of honest intention, if you strive to be just, and of\nservice; if you seek to be happy and wise? Would you rather live on in\nthe world of your dreams and your errors than in the world that is\nreal? Only too often does many a promising nature waste its most\nprecious hours in the struggle of beautiful dream against inevitable\nlaw, whose beauty is only perceived when every vestige of strength has\nbeen sapped by the exquisite dream. If love has deceived you, do you\nthink that it would have been better for you all your life to regard\nlove as something it is not, and never can be? Would such an illusion\nnot warp your most significant actions; would it not for many days hide\nfrom you some part of the truth that you seek? Or if you imagine that\ngreatness lay in your grasp, and disillusion has taken you back to your\nplace in the second rank; have you the right, for the rest of your\nlife, to curse the envoy of truth? For, after all, was it not truth\nyour illusion was seeking, assuming it to have been sincere? We should\ntry to regard disillusions as mysterious, faithful friends, as\ncouncillors none can corrupt, And should there be one more cruel than\nthe rest, that for an instant prostrates you, do not murmur to yourself\nthrough your tears that life is less beautiful than you had dreamed it\nto be, but rather that in your dream there must have been something\nlacking, since real life has failed to approve. And indeed the\nmuch-vaunted strength of the strenuous soul is built up of disillusions\nonly, that this soul has cheerfully welcomed. Every deception and love\ndisappointed, every hope that has crumbled to dust, is possessed of a\nstrength of its own that it adds to the strength of your truth; and the\nmore disillusions there are that fall to the earth at your feet, the\nmore surely and nobly will great reality shine on you--even as the rays\nof the sun are beheld the more clearly in winter, as they pierce\nthrough the leafless branches of the trees of the forest.\n\n108. And if it be a great love that you seek, how can you believe that\na soul shall be met with of beauty as great as you dream it to be, if\nyou seek it with nothing but dreams? Have you the right to expect that\ndefinite words and positive actions shall offer themselves in exchange\nfor mere formless desire, and yearning, and vision? Yet thus it is most\nof us act. And if some fortunate chance at last accords our desire, and\nplaces us in presence of the being who is all we had dreamed her to\nbe--are we entitled to hope that our idle and wandering cravings shall\nlong be in unison with her vigorous, established reality? Our ideal\nwill never be met with in life unless we have first achieved it within\nus to the fullest extent in our power. Do you hope to discover and win\nfor yourself a loyal, profound, inexhaustible soul, loving and quick\nwith life, faithful and powerful, unconstrained, free: generous, brave,\nand benevolent--if you know less well than this soul what all these\nqualities mean? And how should you know, if you have not loved them and\nlived in their midst, as this soul has loved and lived? Most exacting\nof all things, unskilful, thick-sighted, is the moral beauty,\nperfection, or goodness that is still in the shape of desire. If it be\nyour one hope to meet with an ideal soul, would it not be well that you\nyourself should endeavour to draw nigh to your own ideal? Be sure that\nby no other means will you ever obtain your desire. And as you approach\nthis ideal it will dawn on you more and more clearly how fortunate and\nwisely ordained it has been that the ideal should ever be different\nfrom what our vague hopes were expecting. So too when the ideal takes\nshape, as it comes into contact with life, will it soften, expand, and\nlose its rigidity, incessantly growing more noble. And then will you\nreadily perceive, in the creature you love, all that which is eternally\ntrue in yourself, and solidly righteous, and essentially beautiful; for\nonly the good in our heart can advise us of the goodness that hides by\nour side. Then, at last, will the imperfections of others no longer\nseem of importance to you, for they will no longer be able to wound\nyour vanity, selfishness, and ignorance; imperfections, that is, which\nhave ceased to resemble your own; for it is the evil that lies in\nourselves that is ever least tolerant of the evil that dwells within\nothers.\n\n109. Let us have the same confidence in love that we have in life; for\nconfidence is of our essence; and the thought that works the most harm\nin all things is the one that inclines us to look with mistrust on\nreality. I have known more than one life that love broke asunder; but\nif it had not been love, these lives would no doubt have been broken no\nless by friendship or apathy, by doubt, hesitation, indifference,\ninaction. For that only which in itself is fragile can be rent in the\nheart by love; and where all is broken that the heart contains, then\nmust all have been far too frail. There exists not a creature but must\nmore than once have believed that his life was crushed; but they whose\nlife has indeed been shattered, and has fallen to ruin, owe their\nmisfortune often to some strange vanity of the very ruin. Fortunate and\nunfortunate hazards there must of necessity be in love as in all the\nrest of our destiny. It may so come about that one whose spirit and\nheart are abounding with tenderness, energy, and the noblest of human\ndesires, shall meet, on his first setting forth, all unsought, the soul\nthat shall satisfy each single craving of love in the ecstasy of\npermanent joy; the soul that shall content the loftiest yearning no\nless than the lowliest: the vastest, the mightiest no less than the\ndaintiest, sweetest: the most eternal no less than the most evanescent.\nHe, it may be, shall instantly find the heart whereto he can give--the\nheart which will ever receive--all that is best in himself. It may\nhappen that he shall at once have attained the soul that perchance is\nunique; the soul that is satisfied always, and always filled with\ndesire; the soul that can ever receive many thousand times more than is\ngiven, and that never fails to return many thousand times more than it\nreceives. For the love that the years cannot alter is built up of\nexchanges like these, of sweet inequality; and naught do we ever truly\npossess but that which we give in our love; and whatever our love\nbestows, we are no longer alone to enjoy.\n\n110. Destinies sometimes are met with that thus are perfectly happy;\nand each man, it may be, is entitled to hope that such may one day be\nhis; yet must his hope be never permitted to fasten chains on his life.\nAll he can do is to make preparation one day to deserve such a love;\nand he will be most patient and tranquil who incessantly strives to\nthis end. It might so have happened that he whom we spoke of just now\nshould, day after day, from youth to old age, have passed by the side\nof the wall behind which his happiness lay waiting, enwrapped in too\nsecret a silence. But if happiness lie yonder side of the wall, must\ndespair and disaster of necessity dwell on the other? Is not something\nof happiness to be found in our thus being able to pass by the side of\nour happiness? Is it not better to feel that a mere slender\nchance--transparent, one almost might call it--is all that extends\nbetween us and the exquisite love that we dream of, than to be divided\nfor ever therefrom by all that is worthless within us, undeserving,\ninhuman, abnormal? Happy is he who can gather the flower, and bear it\naway in his bosom; yet have we no cause to pity the other who walks\nuntil nightfall, steeped in the glorious perfume of the flower no eyes\ncan behold. Must the life be a failure, useless and valueless, that is\nnot as completely happy as it possibly might have been? It is you\nyourself would have brought what was best in the love you regret; and\nif, as we said, the soul at the end possess only what it has given,\ndoes not something already belong to us when we are incessantly seeking\nfor chances of giving? Ah yes--I declare that the joy of a perfect,\nabiding love is the greatest this world contains; and yet, if you find\nnot this love, naught will be lost of all you have done to deserve it,\nfor this will go to deepen the peace of your heart, and render still\nbraver and purer the calm of the rest of your days.\n\n111. And, besides, we always can love. If our own love be admirable,\nmost of the joys of admirable love will be ours. In the most perfect\nlove, the lovers' happiness will not be exactly the same, be their\nunion never so close; for the better of the two needs must love with a\nlove that is deeper; and the one that loves with a deeper love must be\nsurely the happier. Let your task be to render yourself worthy of\nlove--and this even more for your own happiness than for that of\nanother. For be sure that when love is unequal, and the hours come\nclouded with sorrow, it is not the wiser of the two who will suffer the\nmost--not the one that shows more generosity, justice, more high-minded\npassion. The one who is better will rarely become the victim deserving\nour pity. For, indeed, to be truly a victim it must be our own faults,\nour injustice, wrongdoing, beneath which we suffer. However imperfect\nyou be, you still may suffice for the love of a marvellous being; but\nfor your love, if you are not perfect, that being will never suffice.\nIf fortune one day should lead to your dwelling the woman adorned with\neach gift of heart and of intellect--such a woman as history tells of,\na heroine of glory, happiness, love--you will still be all unaware if\nyou have not learned, yourself, to detect and to love these gifts in\nactual life; and what is actual life to each man but the life that he\nlives himself? All that is loyal within you will flower in the loyalty\nof the woman you love; whatever of truth there abides in your soul will\nbe soothed by the truth that is hers; and her strength of character can\nbe only enjoyed by that which is strong in you. And when a virtue of\nthe being we love finds not, on the threshold of our heart, a virtue\nthat resembles it somewhat, then is it all unaware to whom it shall\ngive the gladness it brings.\n\n112. And whatever the fate your affections may meet with, do you never\nlose courage; above all, do not think that, love's happiness having\npassed by you, you will never, right up to the end, know the great joy\nof human life. For though happiness appear in the form of a torrent, or\na river that flows underground, of a whirlpool or tranquil lake, its\nsource still is ever the same that lies deep down in our heart; and the\nunhappiest man of all men can conceive an idea of great joy. It is true\nthat in love there is ecstasy that he doubtless never will know; but\nthis ecstasy would leave deep melancholy only in the earnest and\nfaithful heart, if there were not in veritable love something more\nstable than ecstasy, more profound and more steadfast; and all that in\nlove is profoundest, most stable and steadfast, is profoundest in noble\nlives too--is most stable and steadfast in them. Not to all men is it\ngiven to be hero or genius, victorious, admirable always, or even to be\nsimply happy in exterior things; but it lies in the power of the least\nfavoured among us to be loyal, and gentle, and just, to be generous and\nbrotherly; he that has least gifts of all can learn to look on his\nfellows without envy or hatred, without malice or futile regret; the\noutcast can take his strange, silent part (which is not always that of\nleast service) in the gladness of those who are near him; he that has\nbarely a talent can still learn to forgive an offence with an ever\nnobler forgiveness, can find more excuses for error, more admiration\nfor human word and deed; and the man there are none to love can love,\nand reverence, love. And, acting thus, he too will have drawn near the\nsource whither happy ones flock--oftener far than one thinks, and in\nthe most ardent hours of happiness even--the source over which they\nbend, to make sure that they truly are happy. Far down, at the root of\nlove's joys--as at the root of the humble life of the upright man from\nwhom fate has withheld her smile--it is confidence, sincerity,\ngenerosity, tenderness, that alone are truly fixed and unchangeable.\nLove throws more lustre still on these points of light, and therefore\nmust love be sought. For the greatest advantage of love is that it\nreveals to us many a peaceful and gentle truth. The greatest advantage\nof love is that it gives us occasion to love and admire in one person,\nsole and unique, what we should have had neither knowledge nor strength\nto love and admire in the many; and that thus it expands our heart for\nthe time to come, And at the root of the most marvellous love there\nnever is more than the simplest felicity, an adoration, a tenderness\nwithin the understanding of all, a security, faith, and fidelity all\ncan acquire an intensely human admiration, devotion--and all these the\neager, unfortunate heart could know too, in its sorrowful life, had it\nonly a little less impatience and bitterness, a little more initiative\nand energy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE END","title":"Wisdom and Destiny","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":55986}