from us, or whether we owe our being to them? Do we attract them, or
are we attracted by them? Do we mould them, or do they mould us? Are
they always unerring in their course? Why do they come to us like the
bee to the hive, like the dove to the cote; and where do they find a
resting-place when we are not there to meet them? Whence is it that
they come to us; and why are they shaped in our image, as though they
were our brothers? Are their workings in the past or in the future; and
are the more powerful of them those that are no longer, or those that
are not yet? Is it to-day or to-morrow that moulds us? Do we not all
spend the greater part of our lives under the shadow of an event that
has not yet come to pass? I have noticed the same grave gestures, the
footsteps that seemed to tend towards a goal that was all too near,
the presentiments that chilled the blood, the fixed, immovable look—I
have noticed all these in the men, even, whose end was to come about
by accident, the men on whom death would suddenly seize from without.
And yet were they as eager as their brethren, who bore the seeds of
death within them. Their faces were the same. To them, too, life was
fraught with more seriousness than to those who were to live their full
span. The same careful, silent watchfulness marked their actions. They
had no time to lose; they had to be in readiness at the same hour; so
completely had this event, which no prophet could have foretold, become
the very life of their life.
It is death that is the guide of our life, and our life has no goal but
death. Our death is the mould into which our life flows: it is death
that has shaped our features. Of the dead alone should portraits be
painted, for it is only they who are truly themselves, and who, for
one instant, stand revealed even as they are. What life is there but
becomes radiant when the pure, cold, simple light falls on it at the
last hour? It is, perhaps, the same light that floats around children’s
faces when they smile at us; and the silence that steals over us then
is akin to that of the chamber where there will be peace for evermore.
I have known many whom the same death was leading by the hand, and when
my memory dwells upon them I see a band of children, of youths and
maidens, who seem to be all coming forth from the same house. A strange
fraternity already unites them: it may be that they recognise each
other by birth-marks we cannot discover, that they furtively exchange
solemn signals of silence. They are the eager children of precocious
death. At school we were vaguely conscious of them. They seemed to be
at the same time seeking and avoiding each other, like people who are
afflicted with the same infirmity. They were to be seen together, in
remote corners of the garden, under the trees. Their mysterious smile
flew fitfully across their lips, and there lurked a gravity beneath, a
curious fear lest a secret should escape. Silence would almost always
fall upon them, when those who were to live drew near. Were they
already speaking of the event, or did they know that the event was
speaking through them, and in their despite? Were they forming a circle
round it, and trying to keep it hidden from indifferent eyes? There
were times when they seemed to be looking down upon us from a lofty
tower; and, for all that we were the stronger, we dared not molest
them. For truly there is nothing that can ever be really hidden; and
whosoever meets me knows all that I have done and shall do, all that I
have thought and do think—nay, he knows the very day on which I shall
die; but the means of telling what he knows is not given to him, though
he speak never so softly, and whisper to his heart. We pass heedlessly
by the side of all that our hands cannot touch; and perhaps too great
a knowledge would be ours if all that we do know were revealed to us.
Our real life is not the life we live, and we feel that our deepest,
nay, our most intimate thoughts are quite apart from ourselves, for we
are other than our thoughts and our dreams. And it is only at special
moments—it may be by merest accident—that we live our own life. Will
the day ever dawn when we shall be what we are?... In the meanwhile, we
felt that they were strangers in our midst. A sensation of awe crept
into our life. Sometimes they would walk with us along the corridor,
or in the courtyard, and we could scarcely keep pace with them.
Sometimes they would join us at our games, and the game would no longer
be the same. There were some who could not find their brethren. They
would wander in solitude in our midst, while we played and shouted:
they had no friends among those who were not about to die. And yet we
loved them, and the deepest friendliness shone from their eyes. What
was there that divided us from them? What is there that divides us
all? What is this sea of mysteries in whose depths we have our being?
The love that we felt was the love that seeks not to express itself,
because it is not of this world. It is a love, perhaps, that cannot
be put to the proof; it may seem feeble, uncertain, and the smallest,
most ordinary friendship may appear to triumph over it—but none
the less does its life lie deeper than our life, and none the less,
notwithstanding its seeming indifference, is it reserved for a time
when doubt and uncertainty shall be no longer....
Its voice does not make itself heard now because its moment for
speaking has not yet come; and it is never those whom we enfold in our
arms that we love the most deeply. For there is a side of life—and it
is the best, the purest, the noblest side—which never blends with the
ordinary life, and the eyes even of lovers themselves can seldom pierce
through the masonry that is built up of silence and love....
Or was it that we avoided them, because, though younger than ourselves,
they still were our elders?... Did we know that they were not of our
age, and did we fear them, as though they were sitting in judgment
upon us? A curious steadfastness already lurked in their eyes; and if,
in our moments of agitation, their glance rested upon us, it would
soothe and comfort us, we knew not why, and there would be an instant
of strangest silence. We would turn round: they were watching us and
smiling gravely. There were two for whom a violent death was lying in
wait—I remember their faces well. But almost all were timid, and tried
to pass by unperceived. They were weighed down by some deadly sense of
shame, they seemed to be ever beseeching forgiveness for a fault they
knew not of, but which was near at hand. They came towards us and our
eyes met; we drew asunder, silently, and all was clear to us, though we
knew nothing.
MYSTIC MORALITY
MYSTIC MORALITY
IT is only too evident that the invisible agitations of the kingdoms
within us are arbitrarily set on foot by the thoughts we shelter. Our
myriad intuitions are the veiled queens who steer our course through
life, though we have no words in which to speak of them. How strangely
do we diminish a thing as soon as we try to express it in words! We
believe we have dived down to the most unfathomable depths, and when
we reappear on the surface, the drop of water that glistens on our
trembling finger-tips no longer resembles the sea from which it came.
We believe we have discovered a grotto that is stored with bewildering
treasure; we come back to the light of day, and the gems we have
brought are false—mere pieces of glass—and yet does the treasure
shine on, unceasingly, in the darkness! There is something between
ourselves and our soul that nothing can penetrate; and there are
moments, says Emerson, ‘in which we court suffering, in the hope that
here at least we shall find reality, sharp peaks and edges of truth.’
I have said elsewhere that the souls of mankind seemed to be drawing
nearer to each other, and even if this be not a statement that can be
proved, it is none the less based upon deep-rooted, though obscure,
convictions. It is indeed difficult to advance facts in its support,
for facts are nothing but the laggards, the spies and camp followers
of the great forces we cannot see. But surely there are moments when
we seem to feel, more deeply than did our fathers before us, that we
are not in the presence of ourselves alone. Neither those who believe
in a God, nor those who disbelieve, are found to act in themselves as
though they were sure of being alone. We are watched, we are under
strictest supervision, and it comes from elsewhere than the indulgent
darknesses of each man’s conscience! Perhaps the spiritual vases are
less closely sealed now than in bygone days, perhaps more power has
come to the waves of the sea within us? I know not: all that we can
state with certainty is that we no longer attach the same importance to
a certain number of traditional faults, but this is in itself a token
of a spiritual victory.
It would seem as though our code of morality were changing—advancing
with timid steps towards loftier regions that cannot yet be seen. And
the moment has perhaps come when certain new questions should be
asked. What would happen, let us say, if our soul were suddenly to
take visible shape, and were compelled to advance into the midst of
her assembled sisters, stripped of all her veils, but laden with her
most secret thoughts, and dragging behind her the most mysterious,
inexplicable acts of her life? Of what would she be ashamed? Which are
the things she fain would hide? Would she, like a bashful maiden, cloak
beneath her long hair the numberless sins of the flesh? She knows not
of them, and those sins have never come near her. They were committed
a thousand miles from her throne; and the soul even of the prostitute
would pass unsuspectingly through the crowd, with the transparent smile
of the child in her eyes. She has not interfered, she was living her
life where the light fell on her, and it is this life only that she can
recall.
Are there any sins or crimes of which she could be guilty? Has she
betrayed, deceived, lied? Has she inflicted suffering or been the cause
of tears? Where was she while this man delivered over his brother to
the enemy? Perhaps, far away from him, she was sobbing; and from that
moment she will have become more beautiful and more profound. She will
feel no shame for that which she has not done; she can remain pure in
the midst of terrible murder. Often, she will transform into inner
radiance all the evil wrought before her. These things are governed
by an invisible principle; and hence, doubtless, has arisen the
inexplicable indulgence of the gods.
And our indulgence, too. Strive as we may, we are bound to pardon;
and when death, ‘the great Conciliator,’ has passed by, is there one
of us who does not fall on his knees and silently, with every token
of forgiveness, bend over the departing soul? When I stand before
the rigid body of my bitterest enemy: when I look upon the pale lips
that slandered me, the sightless eyes that so often brought the tears
to mine, the cold hands that may have wrought me so much wrong—do
you imagine that I can still think of revenge? Death has come and
atoned for all. I have no grievance against the soul of the man
before me. Instinctively do I recognise that it soars high above the
gravest faults and the cruellest wrongs (and how admirable and full of
significance is this instinct!). If there linger still a regret within
me, it is not that I am unable to inflict suffering in my turn, but it
is perhaps that my love was not great enough and that my forgiveness
has come too late....
One might almost believe that these things were already understood
by us, deep down in our soul. We do not judge our fellows by their
acts—nay, not even by their most secret thoughts; for these are not
always undiscernible, and we go far beyond the undiscernible. A man
shall have committed crimes reputed to be the vilest of all, and yet
it may be that even the blackest of these shall not have tarnished,
for one single moment, the breath of fragrance and ethereal purity
that surrounds his presence; while at the approach of a philosopher
or martyr our soul may be steeped in unendurable gloom. It may happen
that a saint or hero shall choose his friend from among men whose
faces bear the stamp of every degraded thought; and that, by the side
of others, whose brows are radiant with lofty and magnanimous dreams,
he shall not feel a ‘human and brotherly atmosphere’ about him. What
tidings do these things bring us? And wherein lies their significance?
Are there laws deeper than those by which deeds and thoughts are
governed? What are the things we have learned and why do we always
act in accordance with rules that none ever mention, but which are
the only rules that cannot err? For it may be boldly declared that,
appearances notwithstanding, neither hero nor saint has chosen wrongly.
They have but obeyed, and even though the saint be deceived and sold
by the man he has preferred, still will there abide with him something
imperishable, something by which he shall know that he was right and
that he has nothing to regret. The soul will ever remember that the
other soul was pure....
When we venture to move the mysterious stone that covers these
mysteries, the heavily charged air surges up from the gulf, and words
and thoughts fall around us like poisoned flies. Even our inner life
seems trivial by the side of these unchanging deepnesses. When the
angels stand before you, will you glory in never having sinned; and is
there not an inferior innocence? When Jesus read the wretched thoughts
of the Pharisees who surrounded the paralytic of Capernaum, are you
sure that as He looked at them, He judged their soul—and condemned
it—without beholding, far away behind their thoughts, a brightness
that was perhaps everlasting? And would He be a God if His condemnation
were irrevocable? But why does He speak as though He lingered on the
threshold? Will the basest thought or the noblest inspiration leave a
mark on the diamond’s surface? What god, that is indeed on the heights,
but must smile at our gravest faults, as we smile at the puppies on the
hearthrug? And what god would he be who would not smile? If you become
truly pure, do you think you will try to conceal the petty motives of
your great actions from the eyes of the angels before you? And yet are
there not in us many things that will look pitiful indeed before the
gods assembled on the mountain? Surely that must be, and our soul knows
full well that it will have to render its account. It lives in silence,
and the hand of a great judge is ever upon it, though his sentences are
beyond our ken. What accounts will it have to render? Where shall we
find the code of morality that can enlighten us? Is there a mysterious
morality that holds sway in regions far beyond our thoughts? Are our
most secret desires only the helpless satellites of a central star,
that is hidden from our eyes? Does a transparent tree exist within us,
and are all our actions and all our virtues only its ephemeral flowers
and leaves? Indeed we know not what are the wrongs that our soul can
commit, nor what there can be that should make us blush before a higher
intelligence or before another soul; and yet which of us feels that he
is pure and does not dread the coming of the judge? And where is there
a soul that is not afraid of another soul?
* * * * *
Here, we are no longer in the well-known valleys of human and psychic
life. We find ourselves at the door of the third enclosure: that of the
divine life of the mystics. We have to grope timidly, and make sure of
every footstep, as we cross the threshold. And even when the threshold
is crossed, where shall certainty be found? Where shall we discover
those marvellous laws that we are perhaps constantly disobeying: laws
of whose existence our conscience is ignorant, though our soul has been
warned? Whence comes the shadow of a mysterious transgression that at
times creeps over our life and makes it so hard to bear? What are the
great spiritual sins of which we can be guilty? Will it be our shame
to have striven against our soul, or is there an invisible struggle
between our soul and God? And is this struggle so strangely silent that
not even a whisper floats on the air? Is there a moment when we can
hear the queen whose lips are sealed? She is sternly silent when events
do but float on the surface; but there are others perhaps that we
scarcely heed, which have their roots deep down in eternity. Some one
is dying, some one looks at you, or cries, some other is coming towards
you for the first time, or an enemy is passing by—may she not perhaps
whisper then? And if you listened to her, while already you no longer
love, in the future, the friend at whom you now are smiling? But all
this is nothing, and is not even near to the outer lights of the abyss.
One cannot speak of these things—the solitude is too great. ‘In
truth,’ says Novalis, ‘it is only here and there that the soul bestirs
itself; when will it move as a whole, and when will humanity begin to
feel with one conscience?’ It is only when this takes place that some
will learn. We must wait in patience till this superior conscience be
gradually, slowly, formed. Then perhaps some one will come to whom it
will be given to express what it is that we all feel as regards this
side of the soul, which is like to the face of the moon, that none have
perceived since the world began.
ON WOMEN
ON WOMEN
IN these domains also are the laws unknown. Far above our heads, in the
very centre of the sky, shines the star of our destined love; and it is
in the atmosphere of that star, and illumined by its rays, that every
passion that stirs us will come to life, even to the end. And though we
choose to right or to left of us, on the heights or in the shallows;
though, in our struggle to break through the enchanted circle that is
drawn around all the acts of our life, we do violence to the instinct
that moves us, and try our hardest to choose against the choice of
destiny, yet shall the woman we elect always have come to us straight
from the unvarying star. And if, like Don Juan, we take a thousand and
three to our embraces, still shall we find, on that evening when arms
fall asunder and lips disunite, that it is always the same woman, good
or bad, tender or cruel, loving or faithless, that is standing before
us.
For indeed we can never emerge from the little circle of light that
destiny traces about our footsteps; and one might almost believe that
the extent and the hue of this impassable ring are known even to the
men who are furthest from us. It is the tinge of its spiritual rays
that they perceive first of all, and therefore will it come about that
they will either smilingly hold out their hand to us or draw it back in
fear. A superior atmosphere exists, in which we all know each other;
and there is a mysterious truth—deeper far than the material truth—to
which we at once have recourse, when we try to form a conception of a
stranger. Have we not all experienced these things, which take place
in the impenetrable regions of almost astral humanity? If you receive
a letter that has come to you from some far-away island lost in the
heart of the ocean, from a stranger whose very existence was unknown to
you, are you quite sure that it is really a stranger who has written
to you? And, as you read, do not certain deep-rooted, infallible
convictions—to which ordinary convictions are as nothing—come to you
concerning this soul that is thus meeting yours, in spheres known to
the gods alone? And, further, can you not understand that this soul,
that was dreaming of yours, heedless of time or space, that this soul,
too, had certitudes akin to your own? Strangest recognitions take
place on all sides, and we cannot hide our existence. Perhaps nothing
brings into broader daylight the subtle bonds that interconnect all
mankind than the little mysteries which attend the exchange of a few
letters between two strangers. This is perhaps one of the minute
crevices—wretchedly insignificant, no doubt, but so few there are
that the faintest glimmer of light must content us—this is perhaps
one of the minute crevices in the door of darkness, through which we
are allowed to peer for one instant, and so conceive to ourselves what
must be taking place in the grotto of treasures, undiscovered to this
day. Look through the passive correspondence of any man, and you shall
find in it an astonishing unity. I know neither of the two men who have
written to me this morning, yet am I already aware that my reply to
the one will differ in its essence from my reply to the other. I have
caught a glimpse of the invisible. And, in my turn, when some one,
whom I have never seen, writes to me, I know quite well that had he
been writing to the friend who is now before me, his letter had not
been exactly the same. A difference will there always be—but it is
spiritual and intangible. It is the invisible signal of the soul that
salutes its fellow. Doubtless must there be regions outside our ken
where none are unknown; a common fatherland whither we may go and meet
each other, and whence the return knows no hardship.
And it is in this common fatherland also that we chose the women we
loved, wherefore it is that we cannot have erred, nor can they have
erred either. The kingdom of love is, before all else, the great
kingdom of certitude, for it is within its bounds that the soul is
possessed of the utmost leisure. There, truly, they have naught to do
but to recognise each other, offer deepest admiration, and ask their
questions—tearfully, like the maid who has found the sister she had
lost—while, far away from them, arm links itself in arm and breaths
are mingling.... At last has a moment come when they can smile and
live their own life—for a truce has been called in the stern routine
of daily existence—and it is perhaps from the heights of this smile
and these ineffable glances that springs the mysterious perfume that
pervades love’s dreariest moments, that preserves for ever the memory
of the time when the lips first met....
Of the true, pre-destined love alone, do I speak here. When Fate
sends forth the woman it has chosen for us—sends her forth from
the fastnesses of the great spiritual cities in which we, all
unconsciously, dwell, and she awaits us at the crossing of the road
we have to traverse when the hour is come—we are warned at the first
glance. Some there are who attempt to force the hand of Fate. Wildly
pressing down their eyelids, so as not to see that which had to be
seen—struggling with all their puny strength against the eternal
forces—they will contrive perhaps to cross the road and go towards
another, sent thither but not for them. But, strive as they may, they
will not succeed in ‘stirring up the dead waters that lie in the great
tarn of the future.’ Nothing will happen; the pure force will not
descend from the heights, and those wasted hours and kisses will never
become part of the real hours and kisses of their life....
There are times when destiny shuts her eyes, but she knows full well
that, when evening falls, we shall return to her, and that the last
word must be hers. She may shut her eyes, but the time till she re-open
them is time that is lost....
It would seem that women are more largely swayed by destiny than
ourselves. They submit to its decrees with far more simplicity; nor is
there sincerity in the resistance they offer. They are still nearer to
God, and yield themselves with less reserve to the pure workings of
the mystery. And therefore is it, doubtless, that all the incidents in
our life in which they take part seem to bring us nearer to what might
almost be the very fountain-head of destiny. It is above all when by
their side that moments come, unexpectedly, when a ‘clear presentiment’
flashes across us, a presentiment of a life that does not always seem
parallel to the life we know of. They lead us close to the gates of
our being. May it not be during one of those profound moments, when
his head is pillowed on a woman’s breast, that the hero learns to know
the strength and steadfastness of his star? And indeed will any true
sentiment of the future ever come to the man who has not had his
resting-place in a woman’s heart?