that external suffering wrings from us are not the only tears known to
man. The sage whom we love must dwell in the midst of all human
passions, for only on the passions known to the heart can his wisdom
safely be nourished. They are nature's artisans, sent by her to help us
construct the palace of our consciousness--of our happiness, in other
words; and he who rejects these workers, deeming that he is able,
unaided, to raise all the stones of life, will be compelled for ever to
lodge his soul in a bare and gloomy cell. The wise man learns to purify
his passions; to stifle them can never be proof of wisdom. And, indeed,
these things are all governed by the position we take as we stand on
the stairs of time. To some of us moral infirmities are so many stairs
tending downwards; to others they represent steps that lead us on high.
The wise man perchance may do things that are done by the unwise man
also; but the latter is forced by his passions to become the abject
slave of his instincts, whereas the sage's passions will end by
illumining much that was vague in his consciousness. To love madly,
perhaps, is not wise; still, should he love madly, more wisdom will
doubtless come to him than if he had always loved wisely. It is not
wisdom, but the most useless form of pride that can flourish in vacancy
and inertia. It is not enough to know what should be done, not though
we can unerringly declare what saint or hero would do. Such things a
book can teach in a day. It is not enough to intend to live a noble
life and then retire to a cell, there to brood over this intention. No
wisdom thus acquired can truly guide or beautify the soul; it is of as
little avail as the counsels that others can offer. "It is in the
silence that follows the storm," says a Hindu proverb, "and not in the
silence before it, that we should search for the budding flower."
88. The earnest wayfarer along the paths of life does but become the
more deeply convinced, as his travels extend, of the beauty, the
wisdom, and truth of the simplest and humblest laws of existence. Their
uniformity, the mere fact of their being so general, such matter of
every day, are in themselves enough to compel his admiration. And
little by little he holds the abnormal ever less highly, and neither
seeks nor desires it; for it is soon borne home to him, as he reflects
on the vastness of nature, with her slow, monotonous movement, that the
ridiculous pretensions our ignorance and vanity put forth are the most
truly abnormal of all. He no longer vexes the hours as they pass with
prayer for strange or marvellous adventure; for these come only to such
as have not yet learned to have faith in life and themselves. He no
longer awaits, with folded arms, the chance for superhuman effort; for
he feels that he exists in every act that is human. He no longer
requires that death, or friendship, or love should come to him decked
out with garlands illusion has woven, or escorted by omen, coincidence,
presage; but they come in their bareness and simpleness, and are always
sure of his welcome. He believes that all that the weak, and the idle,
and thoughtless consider sublime and exceptional, that the fall
equivalent for the most heroic deed, can be found in the simple life
that is bravely and wholly faced. He no longer considers himself the
chosen son of the universe; but his happiness, consciousness, peace of
mind, have gained all that his pride has lost. And, this point once
attained, then will the miraculous adventures of a St. Theresa or
Jean-de-la-Croix, the ecstasy of the mystics, the supernatural
incidents of legendary loves, the star of an Alexander or a
Napoleon--then will all these seem the merest childish illusions
compared with the healthy wisdom of a loyal, earnest man, who has no
craving to soar above his fellows so as to feel what they cannot feel,
but whose heart and brain find the light that they need in the
unchanging feelings of all. The truest man will never be he who desires
to be other than man. How many there are that thus waste their lives,
scouring the heavens for sight of the comet that never will come; but
disdaining to look at the stars, because these can be seen by all, and,
moreover, are countless in number! This craving for the extraordinary
is often the special weakness of ordinary men, who fail to perceive
that the more normal, and ordinary, and uniform events may appear to
us, the more are we able to appreciate the profound happiness that this
uniformity enfolds, and the nearer are we drawn to the truth and
tranquillity of the great force by which we have being. What can be
less abnormal than the ocean, which covers two-thirds of the globe; and
yet, what is there more vast? There is not a thought or a feeling, not
an act of beauty or nobility, whereof man is capable, but can find
complete expression in the simplest, most ordinary life; and all that
cannot be expressed therein must of necessity belong to the falsehoods
of vanity, ignorance, or sloth.
89. Does this mean that the wise man should expect no more from life
than other men; that he should love mediocrity and limit his desires;
content himself with little and restrict the horizon of his happiness,
because of the fear lest happiness escape him? By no means; for the
wisdom is halting and sickly that can too freely renounce a legitimate
human hope. Many desires in man may be legitimate still,
notwithstanding the disapproval of reason, sometimes unduly severe. But
the fact that our happiness does not seem extraordinary to those about
us by no means warrants our thinking that we are not happy. The wiser
we are, the more readily do we perceive that happiness lies in our
grasp; that it has no more enviable gift than the uneventful moments it
brings. The sage has learnt to quicken and love the silent substance of
life. In this silent substance only can faithful joys be found, for
abnormal happiness never ventures to go with us to the tomb. The day
that comes and goes without special whisper of hope or happiness should
be as dear to us, and as welcome, as any one of its brothers. On its
way to us it has traversed the same worlds and the self-same space as
the day that finds us on a throne or enthralled by a mighty love. The
hours are less dazzling, perhaps, that its mantle conceals; but at
least we may rely more fully on their humble devotion. There are as
many eternal minutes in the week that goes by in silence, as in the one
that tomes boldly towards us with mighty shout and clamour. And indeed
it is we who tell ourselves all that the hour would seem to say; for
the hour that abides with us is ever a timid and nervous guest, that
will smile if its host be smiling, or weep if his eyes be wet. It has
been charged with no mission to bring happiness to us; it is we who
should comfort the hour that has sought refuge within our soul. And he
is wise who always finds words of peace that he can whisper low to his
guest on the threshold. We should let no opportunity for happiness
escape us, and the simplest causes of happiness should be ever stored
in our soul. It is well, at first, to know happiness as men conceive
it, so that, later, we may have good reason for preferring the
happiness of our choice. For, herein, it is not unlike what we are told
of love. To know what real love should be we must have loved
profoundly, and that first love must have fled. It is well to know
moments of material happiness, since they teach us where to look for
loftier joys; and all that we gain, perhaps, from listening to the
hours that babble aloud in their wantonness is that we are slowly
learning the language of the hours whose voice is hushed. And of these
there are many; they come in battalions, so close on the heels of each
other that treachery and flight cannot be; wherefore it is on them
alone that the sage should depend. For he will be happy whose eyes have
learned to detect the hidden smile and mysterious jewels of the myriad,
nameless hours; and where are these jewels to be found, if not in
ourselves?
90. But there is a kind of ignoble discretion that has least in common,
of all things, with the wisdom we speak of here; for we had far better
spend our energy round even fruitless happiness, than slumber by the
fireside awaiting joys that never may come. Only the joys that have
been offered to all, and none have accepted, will knock at his door who
refuses himself to stir forth. Nor is the other man wise who holds the
reins too tight on his feelings, and halts them when reason commands,
or experience whispers. The friend is not wise who will not confide in
his friend, remembering always that friendships may come to an end; nor
the lover, who draws back for fear lest he may find shipwreck in love.
For here, were we twenty times unfortunate, it is still only the
perishable portion of our energy for happiness that suffers; and what
is wisdom after all but this same energy for happiness cleansed of all
that is impure? To be wise we must first learn to be happy, that we may
attach ever smaller importance to what happiness may be in itself. We
should be as happy as possible, and our happiness should last as long
as is possible; for those who can finally issue forth from self by the
portal of happiness, know infinitely wider freedom than those who pass
through the gate of sadness. The joy of the sage illumines his heart
and his soul alike, whereas sadness most often throws light on the
heart alone. One might almost compare the man who had never been happy
with a traveller whose every journey had been taken by night. Moreover,
there is in happiness a humility deeper and nobler, purer and wider,
than sorrow can ever procure. There is a certain humility that ranks
with parasitic virtues, such as sterile self-sacrifice, arbitrary
chastity, blind submission, fanatic renouncement, penitence, false
shame, and many others, which have from time immemorial turned aside
from their course the waters of human morality, and forced them into a
stagnant pool, around which our memory still lingers. Nor do I speak of
a cunning humility that is often mere calculation, or, taken at its
best, a timidity that has its root in pride--a loan at usury that our
vanity of to-day extends to our vanity of to-morrow. And even the sage
at times conceives it well to lower himself in his own self-esteem, and
to deny superior merits that are his when comparing himself with other
men. Humility of this kind may throw a charm around our ways of life,
but yet, sincere as it doubtless may be, it nevertheless attacks the
loyalty due to ourselves, which we should value high above all. And it
surely implies a certain timidity of conscience; whereas the conscience
of the sage should harbour neither timidity nor shame. But by the side
of this too personal humility there exists another humility that
extends to all things, that is lofty and strong, that has fed on all
that is best in our brain and our heart and our soul. It is a humility
that defines the limit of the hopes and adventures of men; that lessens
us only to add to the grandeur of all we behold; that teaches us where
we should look for the true importance of man, which lies not in that
which he is, but in that which his eyes can take in, which he strives
to accept and to grasp. It is true that sorrow will also bring us to
the realm of this humility; but it hastens us through, branching off on
the road to a mysterious gate of hope, on whose threshold we lose many
days; whereas happiness, that after the first few hours has nothing
else left to do, will lead us in silence through path after path till
we reach the most unforeseen, inaccessible places of all. It is when
the sage knows he possesses at last all man is allowed to possess, that
he begins to perceive that it is his manner of regarding what man may
never possess, that determines the value of such things as he truly may
call his own. And therefore must we long have sunned ourselves in the
rays of happiness before we can truly conceive an independent view of
life. We must be happy, not for happiness' sake, but so that we may
learn to see distinctly that which vain expectation of happiness would
for ever hide from our gaze.
91. Economy avails us nothing in the region of the heart, for it is
there that men gather the harvest of life's very substance, it were
better that nothing were done there than that things should be done by
halves; and that which we have not dared to risk is most surely lost of
all. To limit our passions is only to limit ourselves, and we are the
losers by just so much as we hoped to gain. There are certain
fastnesses within our soul that lie buried so deep that love alone dare
venture down; and it returns laden with undreamed-of jewels, whose
lustre can only be seen as they pass from our open hand to the hand of
one we love. And indeed it would seem that so clear a light springs
from our hands as they open thus to give, that it penetrates substance
too opaque to yield to the mysterious rays just discovered.
92. It avails us nothing unduly to bemoan our errors or losses. For
happen what may to the man of simple faith, still, at the last minute
of the sorrow-laden hour, at the end of the week or year, still will he
find some cause for gladness as he turns his eyes within. Little by
little he has learned to regret without tears. He is as a father might
be who returns to his home in the evening, his day's work done. He may
find his children in tears perhaps, or playing dangerous, forbidden
games; the furniture scattered, glasses broken, a lamp overturned; but
shall he therefore despair? It would certainly have been better had the
children been more obedient, had they quietly learned their
lessons---this would have been more in keeping with every moral theory;
but how unreasonable the father who, in the midst of his harsh rebuke,
could withhold a smile as he turned his head away! The children have
acted unwisely, perhaps, in their exuberance of life; but why should
this distress him? All is well, so long as he return home at night, so
long as he ever keep about him the key of the guardian dwelling. As we
look into ourselves, and pass in review what our heart, and brain, and
soul have attempted and carried through while we were away, the benefit
lies far more in the searching glance itself than in the actual
inspection. And if the hours have not once let fall their mysterious
girdle on their way past our threshold; if the rooms be as empty as on
the day of departure, and those within have but sat with folded arms
and worked not at all---still, as we enter, shall something be learned
from our echoing footsteps, of the extent, and the clearness, and the
fidelity, of our home.
93. No day can be uneventful, save in ourselves alone; but in the day
that seems most uneventful of all, there is still room for the loftiest
destiny; for there is far more scope for such destiny within ourselves
than on the whole continent of Europe. Not by the extent of empire is
the range of destiny governed, but, indeed, by the depth of our soul.
It is in our conception of life that real destiny is found; when at
last there is delicate balance between the insoluble questions of
heaven and the wavering response of our soul. And these questions
become the more tranquil as they seem to comprise more and more; and to
the sage, whatever may happen will still widen the scope of the
questions, still give deeper confidence to the reply. Speak not of
destiny when the event that has brought you joy or sadness has still
altered nothing in your manner of regarding the universe. All that
remains to us when love and glory are over, when adventures and
passions have faded into the past, is but a deeper and ever-deepening
sense of the infinite; and if we have not that within us, then are we
destitute indeed. And this sense of the infinite is more than a mere
assemblage of thoughts, which, indeed, are but the innumerable steps
that thither lead. There is no happiness in happiness itself, unless it
help our comprehension of the rest, unless it help us in some measure
to conceive that the very universe itself must rejoice in existence.
The sage who has attained a certain height will find peace in all
things that happen; and the event that saddens him, as other men,
tarries but an instant ere it goes to strengthen his deep perception of
life. He who has learned to see in all things only matter for unselfish
wonder, can be deprived of no satisfaction whatever without there
spring to sudden life within him, from the mere feeling that this joy
can be dispensed with, a high protecting thought that enfolds him in
its light. That destiny is beautiful wherein each event, though charged
with joy or sadness, has brought reflection to us, has added something
to our range of soul, has given us greater peace wherewith to cling to
life. And, indeed, the accident that robs us of our love, that leads us
along in triumph, or even that seats us on a throne, reveals but little
of the workings of destiny; which, indeed, lie far more in the thoughts
that arise in our mind as we look at the men around us, at the woman we
love; as we dwell on the feelings within us; as we fix our eyes on the
evening sky with its crown of indifferent stars.
94. A woman of extraordinary beauty and talent, possessed of the rarest
qualities of mind and soul, was one day asked by a friend, to whom she
seemed the most perfect creature on earth: "What are your plans? Can
any man be worthy of your love? Your future puzzles me. I cannot
conceive a destiny that shall be lofty enough for a soul such as
yours." He knew but little of destiny. To him, as to most men, it meant
thrones, triumphs, dazzling adventures: these things seemed to him the
sum of a human destiny; whereby he did but prove that he knew not what
destiny was. And, in the first place, why this disdain of to-day? To
disdain to-day is to prove that yesterday has been misunderstood. To
disdain to-day is to declare oneself a stranger, and what can you hope
to do in a world where you shall ever pass as a stranger? To-day has
this advantage over yesterday, that it exists and was made for us. Be
to-day what it will, it has wider knowledge than yesterday; and by that
alone does it become more beautiful, and vaster. Why should we think
that the woman I speak of would have known a more brilliant destiny in
Venice, Florence, or Rome? Her presence might have been sought at
magnificent festival, and her beauty have found a fitting surrounding
in exquisite landscape. She might have had princes and kings, the elect
of the world, at her feet; and perhaps it had needed but one of her
smiles to add to a great nation's gladness, to ennoble or chasten the
thought of an epoch. Whereas here all her life will be spent among four
or five people--four or five souls that know of her soul, and love her.
It may be that she never shall stir from her dwelling; that of her
life, of her thoughts, and the strength that is in her, there will
remain not a trace among men. It may be that her beauty, her force and
her instinct for good, will be buried within her: in her heart and the
hearts of the few who are near. And even then, and if this be so, the
soul of this woman doubtless shall find its own thing to do. The mighty
gates through which we must pass to a helpful and noteworthy life no
longer grate on their hinges with the deafening clamour of old. They
are smaller, perhaps, than they were; less vast and imposing; but their
number is greater to-day, and they admit us, in silence, to paths that
extend very far. And even though the home of this woman be not
brightened by one single gleam from without, will she have failed to
fulfil her destiny because her life is lived in the shade? Cannot
destiny be beautiful and complete in itself, without help from without?
As the soul that has truly conquered surveys the triumphs of the past,
it is glad of those only that brought with them a deeper knowledge of
life and a nobler humility; of those that lent sweeter charm to the
moments when love, glory, and enthusiasm having faded away, the fruit
that a few hours of boiling passion had ripened was gathered in
meditation and silence. When the feasting is over: when charity,
kindness and valorous deed all lie far behind us: what is there left to
the soul but some stray recollections, a gain of some consciousness,
and a feeling that helps us to look on our place in the world with more
knowledge and less apprehension--a feeling blent with some wisdom, from
the numberless things it has learned? When the hour for rest has
sounded--as it must sound every night and at every moment of
solitude--when the gaudy vestments of love, and glory, and power fall
helplessly round us; what is it we can take with us as we seek refuge
within ourselves, where the happiness of each day is measured by the
knowledge the day has brought us, by the thoughts and the confidence it
has helped us to acquire? Is our true destiny to be found in the things
which take place about us, or in that which abides in our soul? "Be a
man's power or glory never so great," said a philosopher, "his soul
soon learns how to value the feelings that spring from external events;
and as he perceives that no increase has come to his physical
faculties, that these remain wholly unchanged, neither altered nor
added to, then does the sense of his nothingness burst full upon him.
The king who should govern the world must still, like the rest of his
brothers, revolve in a limited circle, whose every law must be obeyed;
and on his impressions and thoughts must his happiness wholly depend."
The impressions his memory retains, we might add, because they have
chastened his mind; for the souls that we deal with here will retain
such impressions only as have quickened their sense of goodness, as
have made them a little more noble. Is it impossible to find--it
matters not where, nor how great be the silence--the same undlssolvable
matter that lurks in the cup of the noblest external existence? and
seeing that nothing is truly our own till it faithfully follow us into
the darkness and silence, why should the thing that has sprung to life
there be less faithful in silence and darkness? But we will pursue this
no farther, for it leads to a wisdom of over-much theory. For all that
a brilliant exterior destiny is not indispensable, still should we
always regard it as wholly desirable, and pursue it as keenly as though
we valued it highly. It behoves the sage to knock at the door of every
temple of glory, of every dwelling where happiness, love, and activity
are to be found. And if his strenuous effort and long expectation
remain unrewarded, if no door fly open, still may he find, perhaps, in
the mere expectation and effort an equivalent for all the emotions and
light that he sought. "To act," says Barres, "is to annex to our
thoughts vaster fields of experience." It is also, perhaps, to think
more quickly than thought, as more completely; for we no longer think
with the brain alone, but with every atom of life. It is to wrap round
with dream the profoundest sources of thought, and then to confront
them with fact. But to act is not always to conquer. To attempt, to be
patient, and wait--these, too, may be action; as also, to hear, to
watch, and be silent.
If the lot of the woman we speak of had been cast in Athens, or
Florence, or Rome, there had been, in her life, certain motives of
grandeur, occasions for beauty and happiness, that she may well never
meet with to-day. And she is the poorer for lacking the efforts she
might have put forth, the memory of what might have been done; for in
these lies a force that is precious and vital, that often indeed will
transform many more things within us, than a thought which is morally,
mentally worth many thousand such efforts and memories. And indeed it
is therefore alone that we should desire a brilliant, feverish destiny;
because it summons to life certain forces and feelings that would
otherwise never emerge from the slumberous peace of an over-tranquil
existence. But from the moment we know, or even suspect, that these
feelings lie dormant within us, we are already giving life to all that
is best in those feelings; and it is as though we were, for one brief
moment, looking down upon a glorious external destiny from heights such
destiny shall only attain at the end of its days; as though we were
prematurely gathering the fruit of the tree, which it shall itself
still find barren until many a storm has passed.