our soul? Its language is the natural language of the spirit of man;
but this spirit must learn new words ere it can travel in the universe.
Justice is the very last thing of all wherewith the universe concerns
itself. It is equilibrium that absorbs its attention; and what we term
justice is truly nothing but this equilibrium transformed, as honey is
nothing but a transformation of the sweetness found in the flower.
Outside man there is no justice; within him injustice cannot be. The
body may revel in ill--gotten pleasure, but virtue alone can bring
contentment to the soul. Our inner happiness is measured out to us by
an incorruptible Judge and the mere endeavour to corrupt him still
further reduces the sum of the final, veritable happiness he lets fall
into the shining scale. It is lamentable enough that a Rogron should be
able to torture a helpless child, and darken the few hours of life the
chance of the world had given; but injustice there would be only if his
wickedness procured him the inner happiness and peace, the elevation of
thought and habit, that long years spent in love and meditation had
procured for Spinoza and Marcus Aurelius. Some slight intellectual
satisfaction there may be in the doing of evil; but none the less does
each wrongful deed clip the wings of our thoughts, till at length they
can only crawl amidst all that is fleeting and personal. To commit an
act of injustice is to prove we have not yet attained the happiness
within our grasp. And in evil--reduce things to their primal elements,
and you shall find that even the wicked are seeking some measure of
peace, a certain up-lifting of soul. They may think themselves happy,
and rejoice for such dole as may come to them; but would it have
satisfied Marcus Aurelius, who knew the lofty tranquillity, the great
quickening of the soul? Show a vast lake to the child who has never
beheld the sea, it will clap its hands and be glad, and think the sea
is before it; but therefore none the less does the veritable sea exist.
It may be that a man will find happiness in the puny little victories
that his vanity, envy, or indifference win for him day after day. Shall
we begrudge him such happiness, we, whose eyes can see further? Shall
we strive for his consciousness of life, for the religion that pleases
his soul, for the conception of the universe that justifies his cares?
Yet out of these things are the banks made between which happiness
flows; and as they are, so shall the river be, in shallowness or in
depth. He may believe that there is a God, or that there is no God;
that all ends in this world, or that it is prolonged into the next;
that all is matter, or that all is spirit. He will believe these things
much as wise men believe them; but do you think his manner of belief
can be the same? To look fearlessly upon life; to accept the laws of
nature, not with meek resignation, but as her sons, who dare to search
and question; to have peace and confidence within our soul--these are
the beliefs that make for happiness. But to believe is not enough; all
depends on how we believe. I may believe that there is no God, that I
am self-contained, that my brief sojourn here serves no purpose; that
in the economy of this world without limit my existence counts for as
little as the evanescent hue of a flower--I may believe all this, in a
deeply religious spirit, with the infinite throbbing within me; you may
believe in one all-powerful God, who cherishes and protects you, yet
your belief may be mean, and petty, and small. I shall be happier than
you, and calmer, if my doubt is greater, and nobler, and more earnest
than is your faith; if it has probed more deeply into my soul,
traversed wider horizons, if there are more things it has loved. And if
the thoughts and feelings on which my doubt reposes have become vaster
and purer than those that support your faith, then shall the God of my
disbelief become mightier and of supremer comfort than the God to whom
you cling. For, indeed, belief and unbelief are mere empty words; not
so the loyalty, the greatness and profoundness of the reasons wherefore
we believe or do not believe.
80. We do not choose these reasons; they are rewards that have to be
earned. Those we have chosen are only slaves we have happened to buy;
and their life is but feeble; they hold themselves shyly aloof, ever
watching for a chance to escape. But the reasons we have deserved stand
faithfully by us; they are so many pensive Antigones, on whose help we
may ever rely. Nor can such reasons as these be forcibly lodged in the
soul; for indeed they must have dwelt there from earliest days, have
spent their childhood there, nourished on our every thought and action;
and tokens recalling a life of devotion and love must surround them on
every side. And as they throw deeper root--as the mists clear away from
our soul and reveal a still wider horizon, so does the horizon of
happiness widen also; for it is only in the space that our thoughts and
our feelings enclose that our happiness can breathe in freedom. It
demands no material space, but finds ever too narrow the spiritual
fields we throw open; wherefore we must unceasingly endeavour to
enlarge its territory, until such time as, soaring up on high, it finds
sufficient aliment in the space which it does of itself fling open.
Then it is, and then only, that happiness truly illumines the most
eternal, most human part of man; and indeed all other forms of
happiness are merely unconscious fragments of this great happiness,
which, as it reflects and looks before it, is conscious of no limit
within itself or in all that surrounds it.
81. This space must dwindle daily in those who follow evil, seeing that
their thoughts and feelings must of necessity dwindle also. But the man
who has risen somewhat will soon forsake the ways of evil; for look
deep down enough and you shall ever find its origin in straitened
feeling and stunted thought. He does evil no longer, because his
thoughts are purer and higher; and now that he is incapable of evil,
his thoughts will become purer still. And thus do our thoughts and
actions, having won their way into the placid heaven where no barrier
restrains the soul, become as inseparable as the wings of a bird; and
what to the bird was only a law of equilibrium is here transformed into
a law of justice.
82. Who can tell whether the satisfaction derived from evil can ever
penetrate to the soul, unless there mingle with it a vague desire, a
promise, a distant hope, of goodness or of pity?
The joy of the wretch whose victim lies in his power is perhaps
unredeemed in its gloom and futility, save by the thought of mercy that
flashes across him. Evil at times would seem compelled to beg a ray of
light from virtue, to shed lustre on its triumph. Is it possible for a
man to smile in his hatred and not borrow the smile of love? But the
smile will be short-lived, for here, as everywhere, there is no inner
injustice. Within the soul the high-water mark of happiness is always
level with that of justice or charity--which words I use here
indifferently, for indeed what is charity or love but justice with
naught to do but count its jewels? The man who goes forth to seek his
happiness in evil does merely prove thereby that he is less happy than
the other who watches, and disapproves. And yet his object is identical
with that of the upright man. He too is in search of happiness, of some
sort of peace and certainty. Of what avail to punish him? We do not
blame the poor because their home is not a palace; it is sad enough to
be compelled to live in a hovel. He whose eyes can see the invisible,
knows that in the soul of the most unjust man there is justice still:
justice, with all her attributes, her stainless garments and holy
activity. He knows that the soul of the sinner is ever balancing peace
and love, and the consciousness of life, no less scrupulously than the
soul of philosopher, saint, or hero; that it watches the smiles of
earth--and sky, and is no less aware of all whereby those smiles are
destroyed, degraded, and poisoned. We are not wrong, perhaps, to be
heedful of justice in the midst of a universe that heeds not at all; as
the bee is not wrong to make honey in a world that itself can make
none. But we are wrong to desire an external justice, since we know
that it does not exist. Let that which is in us suffice. All is for
ever being weighed and judged in our soul. It is we who shall judge
ourselves; or rather, our happiness is our judge.
83. It may be urged that virtue is subject to defeat and
disappointment, no less than vice; but the defeats and disappointments
of virtue bring with them no gloom or distress, for they do but tend to
soothe and enlighten our thoughts. An act of virtue may sink into the
void, but it is then, most of all, that we learn to gauge the depths of
life and of soul; and often will it fall into these depths like a
radiant stone, beside which our thoughts loom pale. With every vicious
scheme that fails before the innocence of Pierrette, Madame Rogron's
soul shrivels anew; whereas the clemency of Titus, falling on thankless
soil, docs but induce him to lift his eyes on high, far beyond love or
pardon. There is no gain in shutting out the world, though it be with
walls of righteousness. The last gesture of virtue should be that of an
angel flinging open the door. We should welcome our disillusions; for
were it the will of destiny that our pardon should always transform an
enemy into a brother, then should we go to our grave still unaware of
all that springs to light within us beneath the act of unwise clemency,
whose unwisdom we never regret. We should die without once having
matched all that is best in our soul against the forces that hedge life
around. The kindly deed that is wasted, the lofty or only loyal thought
that falls on barren ground--these too have their value, for the light
they throw differs far from the radiance triumphant virtue suffuses;
and thus may we see many things in their differing aspect. There were
surely much joy in the thought that love must invariably triumph; but
greater joy is there still in tearing aside this illusion, am marching
straight on to the truth. "Man has been but too prone," said a
philosopher, whom death carried off too soon--"man has been but too
prone, through all the course of his history, to lodge his dignity
within his errors, and to look upon truth as a thing that depreciated
himself. It may sometimes seem less glorious than illusion, but it has
the advantage of being true. In the whole domain of thought there is
nothing loftier than truth." And there is no bitterness herein, for
indeed to the sage truth can never be bitter. He, too, has had his
longings in the past, has conceived that truth might move mountains,
that a loving act might for ever soften the hearts of men; but to-day
he has learned to prefer that this should not be so. Nor is it
overweening pride that thus has changed him; he does not think himself
more virtuous than the universe; it is his insignificance in the
universe that has been made clear to him. It is no longer for the
spiritual fruit it bears that he tends the love of justice he has found
implanted in his soul, but for the living flowers that spring up within
him, and because of his deep respect for all created things. He has no
curses for the ungrateful friend, nor even for ingratitude itself. He
does not say, "I am better than that man," or "I shall not fall into
that vice." But he is taught by ingratitude that benevolence contains
joys that are greater than those that gratitude can bestow; joys that
are less personal, but more in harmony with life as a whole. He finds
more pleasure in the attempt to understand that which is, than in the
struggle to believe that which he desires. For a long time he has been
like the beggar who was suddenly borne away from his hut and lodged in
a magnificent palace. He awoke and threw uneasy glances about him,
seeking, in that immense hall, for the squalid things he remembered to
have had in his tiny room. Where were the hearth, the bed, the table,
stool, and basin? The humble torch of his vigils still trembled by his
side, but its light could not reach the lofty ceiling. The little wings
of flame threw their feeble flicker on to a pillar close by, which was
all that stood out from the darkness. But little by little his eyes
grew accustomed to his new abode. He wandered through room after room,
and rejoiced as profoundly at all that his torch left in darkness as at
all that it threw into light. At first he could have wished in his
heart that the doors had been somewhat less lofty, the staircases not
quite so ample, the galleries less lost in gloom; but as he went
straight before him, he felt all the beauty and grandeur of that which
was yet so unlike the home of his dream. He rejoiced to discover that
here bed and table were not the centre round which all revolved, as it
had been with him in his hut. He was glad that the palace had not been
built to conform with the humble habits his misery had forced upon him.
He even learned to admire the things that defeated his hopes, for they
enabled his eyes to see deeper. The sage is consoled and fortified by
everything that exists, for indeed it is of the essence of wisdom to
seek out all that exists, and to admit it within its circle.
84. Wisdom even admits the Rogrons; for she holds life of profounder
interest than even justice or virtue; and where her attention is
disputed by a virtue lost in abstraction, and by a humble, walled-in
life, she will incline to the humble life, and not to the magnificent
virtue that holds itself proudly aloof. It is of the nature of wisdom
to despise nothing; indeed, in this world there is perhaps only one
thing truly contemptible, and that thing is contempt itself. Thinkers
too often are apt to despise those who go through life without
thinking. Thought is doubtless of high value; our first endeavour
should be to think as often and as well as we can; but, for all that,
it is somewhat beside the mark to believe that the possession, or lack,
of a certain faculty for handling general ideas can interpose an actual
barrier between men. After all, the difference between the greatest
thinker and the smallest provincial burgher is often only the
difference between a truth that can sometimes express itself and a
truth that can never crystallise into form. The difference is
considerable--a gap, but not a chasm. The higher our thoughts ascend,
the vainer and the more arbitrary seems the distinction between him who
is thinking always and him who thinks not yet. The little burgher is
full of prejudice and of passions at which we smile; his ideas are
small and petty, and sometimes contemptible enough; and yet, place him
side by side with the sage, before essential circumstance of life,
before love, grief, death, before something that calls for true
heroism, and it shall happen more than once that the sage will turn to
his humble companion as to the guardian of a truth no less profound, no
less deeply human, than his own. There are moments when the sage
realises, that his spiritual treasures are naught; that it is only a
few words, or habits, that divide him from other men; there are moments
when he even doubts the value of those words. Those are the moments
when wisdom flowers and sends forth blossom. Thought may sometimes
deceive; and the thinker who goes astray must often retrace his
footsteps to the spot whence those who think not have never moved away,
where they still remain faithfully seated round the silent, essential
truth. They are the guardians of the watch-fires of the tribe; the
others take lighted torches and go wandering abroad; but when the air
grows heavy and threatens the feeble flame, then is it well to turn
back and draw close to the watch-fires once more. These fires seem
never to stir from the spot where they always have been; but in truth
they ever are moving, keeping time with the worlds; and their flame
marks the hour of humanity on the dial of the universe. We know exactly
how much the inert forces owe to the thinker; we forget the deep
indebtedness of the thinker to inert force. In a world where all were
thinkers, more than one indispensable truth might perhaps for ever be
lost. For indeed the thinker must never lose touch with those who do
not think, as his thoughts would then quickly cease to be just or
profound. To disdain is only too easy, not so to understand; but in him
who is truly wise there passes no thought of disdain, but it will,
sooner or later, evolve into full comprehension. The thought that can
travel scornfully over the heads of that great silent throng without
recognising its myriad brothers and sisters that are slumbering there
in its midst, is only too often merely a sterile, vicious dream. We do
well to remind ourselves at times that the spiritual, no less than the
physical, atmosphere demands more nitrogen than oxygen for the air to
be breathed by man.
85. It need not surprise us that thinkers like Balzac should have loved
to dwell on these humble lives. Eternal sameness runs through them, and
yet does each century mark profoundest change in the atmosphere that
enwraps them. The sky above has altered, but these simple lives have
ever the self-same gestures; and it is these unchanging gestures that
tell of the altered sky. A great deed of heroism fascinates us; our eye
cannot travel beyond the act itself; but insignificant thoughts and
deeds lead us on to the horizon beyond them; and is not the shining
star of human wisdom always situate on the horizon? If we could see
these things as nature sees them, with her thoughts and feelings, we
should realise that the uniform mediocrity that runs through these
lives cannot truly be mediocre, from the mere fact of its uniformity.
And indeed this matters but little; we can never judge another soul
above the high-water mark of our own; and however insignificant a
creature may seem to us at first, as our own soul emerges from shadow,
so does the shadow lift from him. There is nothing our eyes behold that
is too small to deserve our love; and there where we cannot love, we
have only to raise our lamp till it reaches the level of love, and then
throw its light around. Let only one ray of this light go forth every
day from our soul, we may then be content. It matters not where the
light falls. There is not a thing in this world whereupon your glance
or your thought can rest but contains within it more treasure than
either of these can fathom; nor is there a thing so small but it has a
vastness within that the light that a soul can spare can, at best, but
faintly illumine.
86. Is not the very essence of human destiny, stripped of the details
that bewilder us, to be found in the most ordinary lives? The mighty
struggle of morality on the heights is glorious to witness; but so will
a keen observer profoundly admire a magnificent tree that stands alone
in a desert, and, his contemplation over, once more go back to the
forest, where there are no marvellous trees, but trees in countless
abundance. The immense forest is doubtless made up of ordinary branches
and stems; but is it not vast, is it not as it should be, seeing that
it is the forest? Not by the exceptional shall the last word ever be
spoken; and indeed what we call the sublime should be only a clearer,
profounder insight into all that is perfectly normal. It is of service,
often, to watch those on the peaks who do battle; but it is well, too,
not to forget those in the valley below, who fight not at all. As we
see all that happens to these whose life knows no struggle; as we
realise how much must be conquered in us before we can rightly
distinguish their narrower joys from the joy known to them who are
striving on high, then perhaps does the struggle itself appear to
become less important; but, for all that, we love it the more. And the
reward is the sweeter to us for the silence that enwraps its coming;
nor is this from a desire to keep our happiness secret--such as a
crafty courtier might feel who hugs fortune's favours to him--but,
perhaps, because it is only when happiness thus whispers low in our
ear, and no other men know, that it is not according us joys that are
filched from our brother's share. Then do we no longer say to
ourselves, as we look on those brothers: "How great is the distance
between such as these and myself," but in all simplicity do we murmur
at last to ourselves: "The loftier my thoughts become, the less is
there to divide me from the humblest of my fellow-creatures, from those
who are most plentiful on earth; and every step that I take towards an
uncertain ideal, is a step that brings me the nearer to those whom I
once despised, in the vanity and ignorance of my earliest days."
After all, what is a humble life? It is thus we choose to term the life
that ignores itself, that drains itself dry in the place of its
birth--a life whose feelings and thoughts, whose desires and passions,
entwine themselves around the most insignificant things. But it
suffices to look at a life for that life to seem great. A life in
itself can be neither great nor small; the largeness is all in the eye
that surveys it; and an existence that all men hold to be lofty and
vast, is one that has long been accustomed to look loftily on itself
from within. If you have never done this, your life must be narrow; but
the man who watches you live will discern, in the very obscurity of the
corner you fill, an element of horizon, a foothold to cling to, whence
his thoughts will rise with surer and more human strength. There is not
an existence about us but at first seems colourless, dreary, lethargic:
what can our soul have in common with that of an elderly spinster, a
slow-witted ploughman, a miser who worships his gold? Can any
connection exist between such as these and a deep-rooted feeling, a
boundless love for humanity, an interest time cannot stale? But let a
Balzac step forward and stand in the midst of them, with his eyes and
ears on the watch; and the emotion that lived and died in an
old-fashioned country parlour shall as mightily stir our heart, shall
as unerringly find its way to the deepest sources of life, as the
majestic passion that ruled the life of a king and shed its triumphant
lustre from the dazzling height of a throne. "There are certain little
agitations," says Balzac in the Cure de Tours, the most admirable of
all his studies of humble life--"there are certain little agitations
that are capable of generating as much passion within the soul as would
suffice to direct the most important social interests. Is it not a
mistake to imagine that time only flies swiftly with those whose hearts
are devoured by mighty schemes, which fret and fever their life? Not an
hour sped past the Abbe Troubert but was as animated, as laden with its
burden of anxious thought, as lined with pleading hope and deep
despair, as could be the most desperate hour of gambler, plotter, or
lover. God alone can tell how much energy is consumed in the triumphs
we achieve over men, and things, and ourselves. We may not be always
aware whither our steps are leading, but are only too fully conscious
of the wearisomeness of the Journey. And yet--if the historian may be
permitted to lay aside, for one moment, the story he is telling, and to
assume the role of the critic--as you cast your eyes on the lives of
these old maids and these two priests, seeking to learn the cause of
the sorrow which twisted their heartstrings, it will be revealed to
you, perhaps, that certain passions must be experienced by man for
there to develop within him the qualities that make a life noble, that
widen its area, and stifle the egoism natural to all."
He speaks truly. Not for its own sake, always, should we love the
light, but for the sake of what it illumines. The fire on the mountain
shines brightly, but there are few men on the mountain; and more
service may often be rendered by the torchlight, there where the crowd
is. It is in the humble lives that is found the substance of great
lives; and by watching the narrowest feelings does enlargement come to
our own. Nor is this from any repugnance these feelings inspire, but
because they no longer accord with the majestic truth that controls us.
It is well to have visions of a better life than that of every day, but
it is the life of every day from which elements of a better life must
come. We are told we should fix our eyes on high, far above life; but
perhaps it is better still that our soul should look straight before
it, and that the heights whereupon it should yearn to lay all its hopes
and its dreams should be the mountain peaks that stand clearly out from
the clouds that gild the horizon.