mysteries that I would penetrate, all the unvisited places that I would
see. But at present I was too full of peace and quiet happiness to do
anything but stay in an infinite content where I was. All sense of
_ennui_ or restlessness had left me. I was utterly free, utterly
blest. I did, indeed, once send my thought to the home which I loved,
and saw a darkened house, and my dear ones moving about with grief
written legibly on their faces. I saw my mother sitting looking at
some letters which I perceived to be my own, and was aware that she
wept. But I could not even bring myself to grieve at that, because I
knew that the same peace and joy that filled me was also surely
awaiting them, and the darkest passage, the sharpest human suffering,
seemed so utterly little and trifling in the light of my new knowledge;
and I was soon back on my cliff-top again, content to wait, to rest, to
luxuriate in a happiness which seemed to have nothing selfish about it,
because the satisfaction was so perfectly pure and natural.
While I thus waited I became aware, with the same sort of sudden
perception, of a presence beside me. It had no outward form; but I
knew that it was a spirit full of love and kindness: it seemed to me to
be old; it was not divine, for it brought no awe with it; and yet it
was not quite human; it was a spirit that seemed to me to have been
human, but to have risen into a higher sphere of perception. I simply
felt a sense of deep and pure companionship. And presently I became
aware that some communication was passing between my consciousness and
the consciousness of the newly-arrived spirit. It did not take place
in words, but in thought; though only by words can I now represent it.
"Yes," said the other, "you do well to rest and to be happy: is it not
a wonderful experience? and yet you have been through it many times
already, and will pass through it many times again."
I suppose that I did not wholly understand this, for I said: "I do not
grasp that thought, though I am certain it is true: have I then died
before?"
"Yes," said the other, "many times. It is a long progress; you will
remember soon, when you have had time to reflect, and when the sweet
novelty of the change has become more customary. You have but returned
to us again for a little; one needs that, you know, at first; one needs
some refreshment and repose after each one of our lives, to be renewed,
to be strengthened for what comes after."
All at once I understood. I knew that my last life had been one of
many lives lived at all sorts of times and dates, and under various
conditions; that at the end of each I had returned to this joyful
freedom.
It was the first cloud that passed over my thought. "Must I return
again to life?" I said.
"Oh yes," said the other; "you see that; you will soon return
again--but never mind that now; you are here to drink your fill of the
beautiful things which you will only remember by glimpses and visions
when you are back in the little life again."
And then I had a sudden intuition. I seemed to be suddenly in a small
and ugly street of a dark town. I saw slatternly women run in and out
of the houses; I saw smoke-stained grimy children playing in the
gutter. Above the poor, ill-kept houses a factory poured its black
smoke into the air, and hummed behind its shuttered windows. I knew in
a sad flash of thought that I was to be born there, to be brought up as
a wailing child, under sad and sordid conditions, to struggle into a
life of hard and hopeless labour, in the midst of vice, and poverty,
and drunkenness, and hard usage. It filled me for a moment with a sort
of nauseous dread, remembering the free and liberal conditions of my
last life, the wealth and comfort I had enjoyed.
"No," said the other; for in a moment I was back again, "that is an
unworthy thought--it is but for a moment; and you will return to this
peace again."
But the sad thought came down upon me like a cloud. "Is there no
escape?" I said; and at that, in a moment, the other spirit seemed to
chide me, not angrily, but patiently and compassionately. "One
suffers," he said, "but one gains experience; one rises," adding more
gently: "We do not know why it must be, of course--but it is the Will;
and however much one may doubt and suffer in the dark world there, one
does not doubt of the wisdom or the love of it here." And I knew in a
moment that I did not doubt, but that I would go willingly wherever I
should be sent.
And then my thought became concerned with the spirit that spoke with
me, and I said, "And what is your place and work? for I think you are
like me and yet unlike." And he said: "Yes, it is true; I have to
return thither no more; that is finished for me, and I grudge no single
step of the dark road: I cannot explain to you what my work or place
is; but I am old, and have seen many things; each of us has to return
and return, not indeed till we are made perfect, but till we have
finished that part of our course; but the blessedness of this peace
grows and grows, while it becomes easier to bear what happens in that
other place, for we grow strong and simple and sincere, and then the
world can hurt us but little. We learn that we must not judge men; but
we know that when we see them cruel and vicious and selfish, they are
then but children learning their first lessons; and on each of our
visits to this place we see that the evil matters less and less, and
the hope becomes brighter and brighter; till at last we see." And I
then seemed to turn to him in thought, for he said with a grave joy:
"Yes, I have seen." And presently I was left alone to my happiness.
How long it lasted I cannot tell; but presently I seemed less free,
less light of heart; and soon I knew that I was bound; and after a
space I woke into the world again, and took up my burden of cares.
But for all that I have a sense of hopefulness left which I think will
not quite desert me. From what dim cell of the brain my vision rose, I
know not, but though it came to me in so precise and clear a form, yet
I cannot help feeling that something deep and true has been revealed to
me, some glimpse of pure heaven and bright air, that lies outside our
little fretted lives.
XLI
The Eternal Will
I have spoken above, I know well, of things in which I have no skill to
speak; I know no philosophy or metaphysics; to look into a
philosophical book is to me like looking into a room piled up with
bricks, the pure materials of thought; they have no meaning for me,
until the beautiful mind of some literary architect has built them into
a house of life; but just as a shallow pool can reflect the dark and
infinite spaces of night, pierced with stars, so in my own shallow mind
these perennial difficulties, which lie behind all that we do and say,
can be for a moment mirrored.
The only value that such thoughts can have in life is that they should
teach us to live in a frank and sincere mood, waiting patiently for the
Lord, as the old Psalmist said. My own philosophy is a very simple
one, and, if I could only be truer to it, it would bring me the
strength which I lack. It is this; that being what we are, such frail,
mysterious, inexplicable beings, we should wait humbly and hopefully
upon God, not attempting, nor even wishing, to make up our minds upon
these deep secrets, only determined that we will be true to the inner
light, and that we will not accept any solution which depends for its
success upon neglecting or overlooking any of the phenomena with which
we are confronted. We find ourselves placed in the world, in definite
relations with certain people, endowed with certain qualities, with
faults and fears, with hopes and joys, with likes and dislikes. Evil
haunts us like a shadow, and though it menaces our happiness, we fall
again and again under its dominion; in the depths of our spirit a voice
speaks, which assures us again and again that truth and purity and love
are the best and dearest things that we can desire; and that voice,
however imperfectly, I try to obey, because it seems the strongest and
clearest of all the voices that call to me. I try to regard all
experience, whether sweet or bitter, fair or foul, as sent me by the
great and awful power that put me where I am. The strongest and best
things in the world seem to me to be peace and tranquillity, and the
same hidden power seems to be leading me thither; and to lead me all
the faster whenever I try not to fret, not to grieve, not to despair.
"_Casting all your care upon him, for he careth for you,_" says the
Divine Word; and the more that I follow intuition rather than reason,
the nearer I seem to come to the truth. I have lately wasted much
fruitless thought over an anxious decision, weighing motives,
forecasting possibilities. I knew at the time how useless it all was,
and that my course would be made clear at the right moment; and I will
tell the story of how it was made clear, as testimony to the perfect
guidance of the divine hand. I was taking a journey, and the weary
process was going on in my mind; every possible argument for and
against the step was being reviewed and tested; I could not read, I
could not even look abroad upon the world. The train drew up at a dull
suburban station, where our tickets were collected. The signal was
given, and we started. It was at this moment that the conviction came,
and I saw how I must act, with a certainty which I could not gainsay or
resist. My reason had anticipated the opposite decision, but I had no
longer any doubt or hesitation. The only question was how and when to
announce the result; but when I returned home the same evening there
was the letter waiting for me which gave the very opportunity I
desired; and I have since learnt without surprise that the letter was
being penned at the very moment when the conviction came to me.
I have told this experience in detail, because it seems to me to be a
very perfect example of the suddenness with which conviction comes.
But neither do I grudge the anxious reveries which for many days had
preceded that conviction, because through them I learnt something of
the inner weakness of my nature. But the true secret of it all is that
we ought to live as far as we can in the day, the hour, the minute; to
waste no time in anxious forecasting and miserable regrets, but just do
what lies before us as faithfully as possible. Gradually, too, one
learns that the restricting of what is called religion to certain times
of prayer and definite solemnities is the most pitiful of all mistakes;
life lived with the intuition that I have indicated is all religion.
The most trivial incident has to be interpreted; every word and deed
and thought becomes full of a deep significance. One has no longer any
anxious sense of duty; one desires no longer either to impress or
influence; one aims only at guarding the quality of all one does or
says--or rather the very word "aims" is a wrong one; there is no longer
any aim or effort, except the effort to feel which way the gentle
guiding hand would have us to go; the only sorrow that is possible is
when we rather perversely follow our own will and pleasure.
The reason why I desire this book to say its few words to my brothers
and sisters of this life, without any intrusion of personality, is that
I am so sure of the truth of what I say, that I would not have any one
distracted from the principles I have tried to put into words, by being
able to compare it with my own weak practice. I am so far from having
attained; I have, I know, so many weary leagues to traverse yet, that I
would not have my faithless and perverse wanderings known. But the
secret waits for all who can throw aside convention and insincerity,
who can make the sacrifice with a humble heart, and throw themselves
utterly and fearlessly into the hands of God. Societies,
organisations, ceremonies, forms, authority, dogma--they are all
outside; silently and secretly, in the solitude of one's heart, must
the lonely path be found; but the slender track once beneath our feet,
all the complicated relations of the world become clear and simple. We
have no need to change our path in life, to seek for any human guide,
to desire new conditions, because we have the one Guide close to us,
closer than friend or brother or lover, and we know that we are set
where he would have us to be. Such a belief destroys in a flash all
our embarrassment in dealing with others, all our anxieties in dealing
with ourselves. In dealing with ourselves we shall only desire to be
faithful, fearless and sincere; in dealing with others we shall try to
be patient, tender, appreciative, and hopeful. If we have to blame, we
shall blame without bitterness, without the outraged sense of personal
vanity that brings anger with it. If we can praise, we shall praise
with generous prodigality; we shall not think of ourselves as a centre
of influence, as radiating example and precept; but we shall know our
own failures and difficulties, and shall realise as strongly that
others are led likewise, and that each is the Father's peculiar care,
as we realise it about ourselves. There will be no thrusting of
ourselves to the front, nor an uneasy lingering upon the outskirts of
the crowd, because we shall know that our place and our course are
defined. We may crave for happiness, but we shall not resent sorrow.
The dreariest and saddest day becomes the inevitable, the true setting
for our soul; we must drink the draught, and not fear to taste its
bitterest savour; it is the Father's cup. That a Christian, in such a
mood, can concern himself with what is called the historical basis of
the Gospels, is a thought which can only be met by a smile; for there
stands the record of perhaps the only life ever lived upon earth that
conformed itself, at every moment, in the darkest experiences that life
could bring, entirely and utterly to the Divine Will. One who walks in
the light that I have spoken of is as inevitably a Christian as he is a
human being, and is as true to the spirit of Christ as he is
indifferent to the human accretions that have gathered round the august
message.
The possession of such a secret involves no retirement from the world,
no breaking of ties, no ecclesiastical exercises, no endeavour to
penetrate obscure ideas. It is as simple as the sunlight and the air.
It involves no protest, no phrase, no renunciation. Its protest will
be an unconcerned example, its phrase will be a perfect sincerity of
speech, its renunciation will be what it does, not what it abstains
from doing. It will go or stay as the inner voice bids it. It will
not attempt the impossible nor the novel. Very clearly, from hour to
hour, the path will be made plain, the weakness fortified, the sin
purged away. It will judge no other life, it will seek no goal; it
will sometimes strive and cry, it will sometimes rest; it will move as
gently and simply in unison with the one supreme will, as the tide
moves beneath the moon, piled in the central deep with all its noises,
flooding the mud-stained waterway, where the ships ride together, or
creeping softly upon the pale sands of some sequestered bay.
XLII
Until the Evening
I stop sometimes on a landing in an old house, where I often stay, to
look at a dusky, faded water-colour that hangs upon the wall. I do not
think its technical merit is great, but it somehow has the poetical
quality. It represents, or seems to represent, a piece of high open
ground, down-land or heath, with a few low bushes growing there,
sprawling and wind-brushed; a road crosses the fore-ground, and dips
over to the plain beyond, a forest tract full of dark woodland, dappled
by open spaces. There is a long faint distant line of hills on the
horizon. The time appears to be just after sunset, when the sky is
still full of a pale liquid light, before objects have lost their
colour, but are just beginning to be tinged with dusk. In the road
stands the figure of a man, with his back turned, his hand shading his
eyes as he gazes out across the plain. He appears to be a wayfarer,
and to be weary but not dispirited. There is a look of serene and
sober content about him, how communicated I know not. He would seem to
have far to go, but yet to be certainly drawing nearer to his home,
which indeed he seems to discern afar off. The picture bears the
simple legend, _Until the evening_.
This design seems always to be charged for me with a beautiful and
grave meaning. Just so would I draw near to the end of my pilgrimage,
wearied but tranquil, assured of rest and welcome. The freshness and
blithe eagerness of the morning are over, the solid hours of sturdy
progress are gone, the heat of the day is past, and only the gentle
descent among the shadows remains, with cool airs blowing from darkling
thickets, laden with woodland scents, and the rich fragrance of rushy
dingles. Ere the night falls the wayfarer will push the familiar gate
open, and see the lamplit windows of home, with the dark chimneys and
gables outlined against the green sky. Those that love him are
awaiting him, listening for the footfall to draw near.
Is it not possible to attain this? And yet how often does it seem to
be the fate of a human soul to stumble, like one chased and hunted,
with dazed and terrified air, and hurried piteous phrase, down the
darkening track. Yet one should rather approach God, bearing in
careful hands the priceless and precious gift of life, ready to restore
it if it be his will. God grant us so to live, in courage and trust,
that, when he calls us, we may pass willingly and with a quiet
confidence to the gate that opens into tracts unknown!
CONCLUSION
_And now I will try if I can in a few words to sum up what the purpose
of this little volume has been, these pages torn from my book of life,
though I hope that some of my readers may, before now, have discerned
it for themselves. _The Thread of Gold_ has two chief qualities. It
is bright, and it is strong; it gleams with a still and precious light
in the darkness, glowing with the reflected radiance of the little lamp
that we carry to guide our feet, and adding to the ray some rich tinge
from its own goodly heart; and it is strong too; it cannot easily be
broken; it leads a man faithfully through the dim passages of the cave
in which he wanders, with the dark earth piled above his head._
_The two qualities that we should keep with us in our journey through a
world where it seems that so much must be dark, are a certain rich
fiery essence, a glowing ardour of spirit, a mind of lofty temper,
athirst for all that is noble and beautiful. That first; and to that
we must add a certain soberness and sedateness of mood, a smiling
tranquillity, a true directness of aim, that should lead us not to form
our ideas and opinions too swiftly and too firmly; for then we suffer
from an anxious vexation when experience contradicts hope, when things
turn out different from what we had desired and supposed. We should
deal with life in a generous and high-hearted mood, giving men credit
for lofty aims and noble imaginings, and not be cast down if we do not
see these purposes blazing and glowing on the surface of things; we
should believe that such great motives are there even if we cannot see
them; and then we should sustain our lively expectations with a deep
and faithful confidence, assured that we are being tenderly and wisely
led, and that the things which the Father shows us by the way, if they
bewilder, and disappoint, and even terrify us, have yet some great and
wonderful meaning, if we can but interpret them rightly. Nay, that the
very delaying of these secrets to draw near to our souls, holds within
it a strong and temperate virtue for our spirits._
_Neither of these great qualities, ardour and tranquillity, can stand
alone; if we aim merely at enthusiasm, the fire grows cold, the world
grows dreary, and we lapse into a cynical mood of bitterness, as the
mortal flame turns low._
_Nor must we aim at mere tranquillity; for so we may fall into a mere
placid acquiescence, a selfish inaction; our peace must be heartened by
eagerness, our zest calmed by serenity. If we follow the fire alone,
we become restless and dissatisfied; if we seek only for peace, we
become like the patient beasts of the field._
_I would wish, though I grow old and grey-haired, a hundred times a day
to ask why things are as they are, and to desire that they were
otherwise; and again a hundred times a day I would thank God that they
are as they are, and praise him for showing me his will rather than my
own. For the secret lies in this; that we must not follow our own
impulses, and thus grow pettish and self-willed: neither must we float
feebly upon the will of God, like a branch that spins in an eddy;
rather we must try to put our utmost energy in line with the will of
God, hasten with all our might where he calls us, and turn our back as
resolutely as we can when he bids us go no further; as an eager dog
will intently await his master's choice, as to which of two paths he
may desire to take; but the way once indicated, he springs forward,
elate and glad, rejoicing with all his might._
_He leads me. He leads me; but He has also given me this wild and
restless heart, these untamed desires: not that I may follow them and
obey them, but that I may patiently discern His will, and do it to the
uttermost._
_Father, be patient with me, for I yield myself to Thee; Thou hast
given me a desirous heart, and I have a thousand times gone astray
after vain shadows, and found no abiding joy. I have been weary many
times, and sad often; and I have been light of heart and very glad; but
my sadness and my weariness, my lightness and my joy have only blessed
me, whenever I have shared them with Thee. I have shut myself up in a
perverse loneliness, I have closed the door of my heart, miserable that
I am, even upon Thee. And Thou hast waited smiling, till I knew that I
had no joy apart from Thee. Only uphold me, only enfold me in Thy
arms, and I shall be safe; for I know that nothing can divide us,
except my own wilful heart; we forget and are forgotten, but Thou alone
rememberest; and if I forget Thee, at least I know that Thou forgettest
not me._
End of Project Gutenberg's The Thread of Gold, by Arthur Christopher Benson