THE SORROWING MAN
A WOMAN in Vladikavkaz, being told she could not live long, grew so much
in love with the idea of death that she ordered her coffin in advance,
and lay in it in her bedroom and had a mock funeral, just to see what it
felt like. That was an incident rather typical of the life of the
_intelligentia_ of the place. There are many nerveless, sad, despairing
people there, people with no apparent means of happiness, people of
morbid imagination and a will to be unhappy. All around them Nature has
outdone herself with seductive charm; the sun flashes on the mountains,
the myriad flowers smile in the valleys, the happy peasantry flood the
town with jovial, laughing faces, but all in vain. “The fact is,” as I
said to Ivan Savilief, “Adam was only the first modern man; the peasants
are still living in their Edens. All your modern Adam and Eves have got
to get saved somehow.” The Baptist, who, it must be remembered, was
still a peasant, and by no means one of the educated classes, was very
happy. And his notion was that the sad people needed to believe; they
needed faith. They got as near to happiness as it was possible for them.
They got as far as feet could carry them, but for the last gulf they
needed wings.
Here is a story of a Russian man, one who failed to accomplish his
happiness.
A certain man had great possessions and great happiness. He had
inherited broad lands and gold; he was young and strong and able to
enjoy riches; and he had friends and the good opinion of the world. The
cup of his happiness was broad and deep and brimming. Behold what
happened to him; there came a time when he achieved the summit of
earthly bliss, and then suddenly he lost all and became a man of sorrow.
He was a good man. He had kept the laws of God and of man; no one could
reproach him. His mind was young and fresh and open to the influences of
beauty. His heart and mind were in communion. God looked upon him and
smiled, and then suddenly there came a time when, as it were, God turned
away His face.
This is the story of the change. The man’s life, with its wealth and its
adornment, its pillars and its towers, its sumptuous chambers and domes
of pleasure was as a precious palace just completed. Within the hall the
glories of his youth lay, the crowns and the laurels, the shields and
the swords. They were cast there, and upon all there was erected a
throne. And then the most beautiful maiden his world could give was
seated upon the throne. The palace as perfection throbbed—dared to
exist. The young man realised for a minute the dizziest heights of
happiness.
But on his marriage eve he fell.
It had been a saying of his boyhood that the condition of happiness is
that one follow unfalteringly one’s highest hope. It had always seemed
to him that Hope must go on before, that however happy one became there
would always be the prospect of further happiness, that one never could
catch up hope. And now, behold, he stood _at one_ with his ideal, and he
felt that earth had no more to give.
On his marriage eve he communed with his heart, and having given thanks
to God, as was his wont, he fell into a trance. For a space time ceased
to exist for him, whilst his soul was borne away from him to unknown
powers. When he awoke he was changed. The trouble and doubt that excess
of joy had brought him had given way to a sort of exaltation. His light
blue eyes were gentle, as if they had looked long upon the soft plumage
of wings, and there was a strange radiance within them. It was the light
of inspiration, the gleam of the knowledge of God. He walked as one
might, having news of a great deliverance.
“The condition of happiness is that one follow unfalteringly one’s
highest hope,” said he. “And when one comes level with one’s highest
hope, God will destroy the old hope and give a new one. There is a dark
moment at the summit of one’s mountain, and then suddenly, when the last
inch upward is achieved, God gives His perfect revelation. The old cup
of happiness is dashed to pieces on the rocks when one sees the Grail.”
It had come to the knowledge of the man that a greater joy than that
afforded by earthly things was possible. He dimly apprehended the coming
of a new fortune, of a new opportunity. Some voice within him seemed to
cry, “Behold _the_ opportunity comes; the white horse comes riding past
your gate; jump on it and ride away! Something comes for which this
present happiness is only a preparation. There comes an adventure worth
your sword, and a true bride for your heart. There is a narrow portal to
be reached, and now, even now, riseth the tide which takes you there.
Only once in a lifetime comes the tide that lifts you and puts you on
the high seas.”
What did it mean?
He knelt and communed With his heart. He tried to understand the Voice
which spoke to him. He composed his fluttering spirit, and then prayed
to God. He prayed, “What must I do, oh, God, to win eternal joy?” He
prayed and waited, and his soul grew calm as a broad lake at eve. There
came no answer to his prayer, but whilst he waited he became conscious
of a new power. The deep silence of the world seemed to have congealed,
and before him stood a great grey door.
“For each man there is a door to happiness,” said the voice in his
heart; “the door is shut, but the key is in the door.”
“Yes, the key is in the door,” said he. “I could not have seen the key
had I not power to open.”
Suddenly, in the calm of his heart, the young man willed to behold God
and to attain supreme joy, and he knew that the Vision would be
vouchsafed to him. But just as he was about to see that which he desired
to behold, the Devil, in the shape of a crow, flew across the sky of his
soul and alighted in his heart. The lake at eve was ruffled, and a
whisper like a cold night breeze from the east sped along the surface of
it and said, “You will find the true bride for your heart, but does not
that mean you must renounce this earthly beauty who has just crowned the
happiness of your youth? You will become as a little child and begin
life again, and forego all the honour that your years and wealth have
brought you. If you see God once, nothing less than God will ever
satisfy you, and your eyes, having looked on that radiance, will find
the world intolerably grey.”
Then a great terror sprang up in him like two contrary winds born
together in a wood, and it shook his spirit. His soul was stirred up
from the bottom so that it lost all its purity, and he prayed, “Oh,
Lord, do not show thyself lest nothing hereafter give me joy: it is my
will, take this cup from me.” The prayer was heard, and the white robe
of his transfiguration was caught up into the heavens again.
He saw not the Vision.
He saw not the Vision, but since that day he cannot be satisfied by
anything other than it.
So it happened that on his marriage eve he fell from the dizzy heights
of happiness and became a man of sorrow. He passed, as it were, out of
the favour of God. His estate decayed a little, but even the great
wealth which remained was but barren gold. His mind and body grew
infirm. With his bride he had no happiness. He lost the good opinion of
the world, and those who once were friends pointed at him and said,
“There goes a failure, a man not yet of middle age, but disillusioned
and crusty.”
The man is now spending the rest of his days and he goes sadly indeed.
No other opportunity has come, and he knows in himself he will never be
so near again. He has become a lonely man, one who prefers his own
company, and likes to look upon the sky, or at the wild things in the
woods. He always appears as if he were looking for something he has
lost. His eyes are wistful and sorrow—charged, his step heavy, his
thoughts slow. He comes nearest to happiness on cloudy days of autumn
when he attunes himself to Nature. Then he has quiet moments and little
pleasures, and accidentally looking at some mouse or shrew scurrying
among the yellow leaves, he laughs to himself or smiles a little. Then
suddenly one might see him check himself as he catches sight of the red
October sun or some dark, threatening cloud. He remembers his
renunciation, his supreme denial, and is again appalled. Conscience and
life will not let him forget, and he sees ever before him the reverse
side of the great silent door—the door which is locked, but for which
there is no key....
The man searches, the man waits. He is like a ghost that may not rest,
until a mistake of the old has been set right in the new. Men become his
enemies. He desperately hates the circumstances of life, the things that
made up his former happiness. The face in the picture hates the frame
which does not suit.
Is it not all in vain! The lost opportunity never returns; the tide
never rises the second time; the White Horse never comes past the gate
again. “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle
than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” “With man it is
impossible, but with God all things are possible.”
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