Ah! how true it is that, here, too, ‘the so-called psychology is a
hobgoblin that has usurped, in the sanctuary itself, the place reserved
for the veritable images of the gods.’ For it is not the surface that
always concerns us—nay, nor is it even the deepest of hidden thoughts.
Do you imagine that love knows only of thoughts, and acts, and words,
and that the soul never emerges from its dungeon? Do I need to be told
whether she whom I take in my arms to-day is jealous or faithful, gay
or sad, sincere or treacherous? Do you think that these wretched words
can attain the heights whereon our souls repose and where our destiny
fulfils itself in silence? What care I whether she speak of rain or
jewels, of pins or feathers; what care I though she appear not to
understand? Do you think that it is for a sublime word I thirst when I
feel that a soul is gazing into my soul? Do I not know that the most
beautiful of thoughts dare not raise their heads when the mysteries
confront them? I am ever standing at the sea-shore; and, were I Plato,
Pascal, or Michael Angelo, and the woman I loved merely telling me of
her earrings, the words I would say and the words she would say would
appear but the same as they floated on the waves of the fathomless
inner sea, that each of us would be contemplating in the other. Let
but my very loftiest thought be weighed in the scale of life or love,
it will not turn the balance against the three little words that the
maid who loves me shall have whispered of her silver bangles, her pearl
necklace, or her trinkets of glass....
It is we who do not understand, for that we never rise above the
earth-level of our intellect. Let us but ascend to the first snows of
the mountain, and all inequalities are levelled by the purifying hand
of the horizon that opens before us. What difference then between a
pronouncement of Marcus Aurelius and the words of the child complaining
of the cold? Let us be humble, and learn to distinguish between
accident and essence. Let not ‘sticks that float’ cause us to forget
the prodigies of the gulf. The most glorious thoughts and the most
degraded ideas can no more ruffle the eternal surface of our soul than,
amidst the stars of Heaven, Himalaya or precipice can alter the surface
of the earth. A look, a kiss, and the certainty of a great invisible
presence: all is said; and I know that she who is by my side is my
equal....
But truly this equal is admirable, and strange; and, when love comes
to her, even the lowest of wantons possesses that which we never have,
inasmuch as, in her thoughts, love is always eternal. Therefore it
is, perhaps, that, besides their primitive instincts, all women have
communications with the unknown that are denied to us. Great is the
distance that separates the best of men from the treasures of the
second boundary; and, when a solemn moment of life demands a jewel
from this treasure, they no longer remember the paths that thither
lead, and vainly offer to the imperious, undeceivable circumstance
the false trinkets that their intellect has fashioned. But the woman
never forgets the path that leads to the centre of her being; and no
matter whether I find her in opulence or in poverty, in ignorance or in
fulness of knowledge, in shame or in glory, do I but whisper one word
that has truly come forth from the virgin depths of my soul, she will
retrace her footsteps along the mysterious paths that she has never
forgotten, and without a moment’s hesitation will she bring back to
me, from out her inexhaustible stores of love, a word, a look, or a
gesture that shall be no less pure than my own. It is as though her
soul were ever within call; for by day and night is she prepared to
give answer to the loftiest appeals from another soul; and the ransom
of the poorest is undistinguishable from the ransom of a queen....
With reverence must we draw near to them, be they lowly or arrogant,
inattentive or lost in dreams, be they smiling still or plunged in
tears; for they know the things that we do not know, and have a lamp
that we have lost. Their abiding-place is at the foot itself of the
Inevitable, whose well-worn paths are visible to them more clearly
than to us. And thence it is that their strange intuitions have come
to them, their gravity at which we wonder; and we feel that, even in
their most trifling actions, they are conscious of being upheld by the
strong, unerring hands of the gods. I said before that they drew us
nearer to the gates of our being: verily might we believe, when we are
with them, that that primeval gate is opening, amidst the bewildering
whisper that doubtless waited on the birth of things, then when speech
was yet hushed, for fear lest command or forbidding should issue forth,
unheard....
She will never cross the threshold of that gate; and she awaits us
within, where are the fountain-heads. And when we come and knock from
without, and she opens to our bidding, her hand will still keep hold of
latch and key. She will look, for one instant, at the man who has been
sent to her, and in that brief moment she has learned all that had to
be learned, and the years to come have trembled to the end of time....
Who shall tell us of what consists the first look of love, ‘that magic
wand made of a ray of broken light,’ the ray that has issued forth
from the eternal home of our being, that has transformed two souls,
and given them twenty centuries of youth? The door may open again,
or close; pay no heed, nor make further effort, for all is decided.
She knows. She will no longer concern herself with the things you do,
or say, or even think; and if she notice them, it will be but with a
smile, and unconsciously will she fling from her all that does not
help to confirm the certitudes of that first glance. And if you think
you have deceived her, and that her impression is wrong, be sure that
it is she who is right, and you yourself who are mistaken; for you
are more truly that which you are in her eyes than that which in your
soul you believe yourself to be, and this even though she may forever
misinterpret the meaning of a gesture, a smile or a tear....
Hidden treasures that have not even a name!... I would that all those
who have suffered at women’s hands, and found them evil, would loudly
proclaim it, and give us their reasons; and if those reasons be well
founded we shall be indeed surprised, and shall have advanced far
forward in the mystery. For women are indeed the veiled sisters of all
the great things we do not see. They are indeed nearest of kin to the
infinite that is about us, and they alone can still smile at it with
the intimate grace of the child, to whom its father inspires no fear.
It is they who preserve here below the pure fragrance of our soul,
like some jewel from Heaven, which none know how to use; and were they
to depart, the spirit would reign in solitude in a desert. Theirs are
still the divine emotions of the first days; and the sources of their
being lie, deeper far than ours, in all that was illimitable. Those
who complain of them know not the heights whereon the true kisses are
to be found, and verily do I pity them. And yet, how insignificant do
women seem when we look at them as we pass by! We see them moving about
in their little homes; this one is bending forward, down there another
is sobbing, a third sings and the last sews; and there is not one of us
who understands.... We visit them, as one visits pleasant things; we
approach them with caution and suspicion, and it is scarcely possible
for the soul to enter. We question them, mistrustfully—they, who
know already, answer naught, and we go away, shrugging our shoulders,
convinced that they do not understand.... ‘But what need for them to
understand,’ answers the poet, who is always right, ‘what need for them
to understand, those thrice happy ones who have chosen the better part,
and who, even as a pure flame of love in this earth of ours, token of
the celestial fire that irradiates all things, shine forth only from
the pinnacles of temples and the mastheads of ships that wander? Some
of Nature’s strangest secrets are often revealed, at sacred moments,
to these maidens who love, and ingenuously and unconsciously will they
declare them. The sage follows in their footsteps to gather up the
jewels, that in their innocence and joy they scatter along the path.
The poet, who feels what they feel, offers homage to their love, and
tries, in his songs, to transplant that love, that is the germ of the
age of gold, to other times and other countries.’ For what has been
said of the mystics applies above all to women, since it is they who
have preserved the sense of the mystic in our earth to this day....
THE TRAGICAL IN DAILY LIFE
THE TRAGICAL IN DAILY LIFE
THERE is a tragic element in the life of every day that is far more
real, far more penetrating, far more akin to the true self that is
in us than the tragedy that lies in great adventure. But, readily
as we all may feel this, to prove it is by no means easy, inasmuch
as this essential tragic element comprises more than that which is
merely material or merely psychological. It goes beyond the determined
struggle of man against man, and desire against desire: it goes beyond
the eternal conflict of duty and passion. Its province is rather to
reveal to us how truly wonderful is the mere act of living, and to
throw light upon the existence of the soul, self-contained in the
midst of ever-restless immensities; to hush the discourse of reason
and sentiment, so that above the tumult may be heard the solemn,
uninterrupted whisperings of man and his destiny. It is its province
to point out to us the uncertain, dolorous footsteps of the being, as
he approaches, or wanders from, his truth, his beauty, or his God.
And further, to show us, and make us understand, the countless other
things therewith connected, of which tragic poets have but vouchsafed
us passing glimpses. And here do we come to an essential point, for
could not these things, of which we have had only passing glimpses,
be placed in front of the others, and shown to us first of all? The
mysterious chant of the Infinite, the ominous silence of the soul and
of God, the murmur of Eternity on the horizon, the destiny or fatality
that we are conscious of within us, though by what tokens none can
tell—do not all these underlie King Lear, Macbeth, Hamlet? And would
it not be possible, by some interchanging of the rôles, to bring them
nearer to us, and send the actors farther off? Is it beyond the mark to
say that the true tragic element, normal, deep-rooted, and universal,
that the true tragic element of life only begins at the moment when
so-called adventures, sorrows, and dangers have disappeared? Is the
arm of happiness not longer than that of sorrow, and do not certain of
its attributes draw nearer to the soul? Must we indeed roar like the
Atrides, before the Eternal God will reveal Himself in our life? and
is He never by our side at times when the air is calm, and the lamp
burns on, unflickering? When we think of it, is it not the tranquillity
that is terrible, the tranquillity watched by the stars? and is it in
tumult or in silence that the spirit of life quickens within us? Is
it not when we are told, at the end of the story, ‘They were happy,’
that the great disquiet should intrude itself? What is taking place
while they are happy? Are there not elements of deeper gravity and
stability in happiness, in a single moment of repose, than in the
whirlwind of passion? Is it not then that we at last behold the march
of time—ay, and of many another on-stealing besides, more secret
still—is it not then that the hours rush forward? Are not deeper
chords set vibrating by all these things than by the dagger-stroke of
conventional drama? Is it not at the very moment when a man believes
himself secure from bodily death that the strange and silent tragedy
of the being and the immensities does indeed raise its curtain on
the stage? Is it while I flee before a naked sword that my existence
touches its most interesting point? Is life always at its sublimest in
a kiss? Are there not other moments, when one hears purer voices that
do not fade away so soon? Does the soul only flower on nights of storm?
Hitherto, doubtless, this belief has prevailed. It is only the life of
violence, the life of bygone days, that is perceived by nearly all our
tragic writers; and truly may one say that anachronism dominates the
stage, and that dramatic art dates back as many years as the art of
sculpture. Far different is it with the other arts—with painting and
music, for instance—for these have learned to select and reproduce
those obscurer phases of daily life that are not the less deep-rooted
and amazing. They know that all that life has lost, as regards mere
superficial ornament, has been more than counterbalanced by the depth,
the intimate meaning and the spiritual gravity it has acquired. The
true artist no longer chooses Marius triumphing over the Cimbrians,
or the assassination of the Duke of Guise, as fit subjects for his
art; for he is well aware that the psychology of victory or murder is
but elementary and exceptional, and that the solemn voice of men and
things, the voice that issues forth so timidly and hesitatingly, cannot
be heard amidst the idle uproar of acts of violence. And therefore
will he place on his canvas a house lost in the heart of the country,
an open door at the end of a passage, a face or hands at rest, and by
these simple images will he add to our consciousness of life, which is
a possession that it is no longer possible to lose.
But to the tragic author, as to the mediocre painter who still lingers
over historical pictures, it is only the violence of the anecdote that
appeals, and in his representation thereof does the entire interest of
his work consist. And he imagines, forsooth, that we shall delight in
witnessing the very same acts that brought joy to the hearts of the
barbarians, with whom murder, outrage and treachery were matters of
daily occurrence. Whereas it is far away from bloodshed, battle-cry and
sword-thrust that the lives of most of us flow on, and men’s tears are
silent to-day, and invisible, and almost spiritual....
Indeed, when I go to a theatre, I feel as though I were spending a
few hours with my ancestors, who conceived life as something that was
primitive, arid and brutal; but this conception of theirs scarcely even
lingers in my memory, and surely it is not one that I can share. I am
shown a deceived husband killing his wife, a woman poisoning her lover,
a son avenging his father, a father slaughtering his children, children
putting their father to death, murdered kings, ravished virgins,
imprisoned citizens—in a word, all the sublimity of tradition, but
alas, how superficial and material! Blood, surface-tears and death!
What can I learn from creatures who have but one fixed idea, and who
have no time to live, for that there is a rival, or a mistress, whom it
behoves them to put to death?
I had hoped to be shown some act of life, traced back to its sources
and to its mystery by connecting links, that my daily occupations
afford me neither power nor occasion to study. I had gone thither
hoping that the beauty, the grandeur and the earnestness of my humble
day by day existence would, for one instant, be revealed to me, that I
would be shown the I know not what presence, power or God that is ever
with me in my room. I was yearning for one of the strange moments of a
higher life that flit unperceived through my dreariest hours; whereas,
almost invariably, all that I beheld was but a man who would tell me,
at wearisome length, why he was jealous, why he poisoned, or why he
killed.
I admire Othello, but he does not appear to me to live the august daily
life of a Hamlet, who has the time to live, inasmuch as he does not
act. Othello is admirably jealous. But is it not perhaps an ancient
error to imagine that it is at the moments when this passion, or others
of equal violence, possesses us, that we live our truest lives? I have
grown to believe that an old man, seated in his armchair, waiting
patiently, with his lamp beside him; giving unconscious ear to all
the eternal laws that reign about his house, interpreting, without
comprehending, the silence of doors and windows and the quivering voice
of the light, submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and
his destiny—an old man, who conceives not that all the powers of this
world, like so many heedful servants, are mingling and keeping vigil
in his room, who suspects not that the very sun itself is supporting
in space the little table against which he leans, or that every star
in heaven and every fibre of the soul are directly concerned in the
movement of an eyelid that closes, or a thought that springs to
birth—I have grown to believe that he, motionless as he is, does yet
live in reality a deeper, more human and more universal life than the
lover who strangles his mistress, the captain who conquers in battle,
or ‘the husband who avenges his honour.’
I shall be told, perhaps, that a motionless life would be invisible,
that therefore animation must be conferred upon it, and movement,
and that such varied movement as would be acceptable is to be found
only in the few passions of which use has hitherto been made. I do
not know whether it be true that a static theatre is impossible.
Indeed, to me it seems to exist already. Most of the tragedies of
Æschylus are tragedies without movement. In both the ‘Prometheus’
and the ‘Suppliants,’ events are lacking; and the entire tragedy of
the ‘Chœphoræ’—surely the most terrible drama of antiquity—does
but cling, nightmare-like, around the tomb of Agamemnon, till murder
darts forth, as a lightning flash, from the accumulation of prayers,
ever falling back upon themselves. Consider, from this point of view,
a few more of the finest tragedies of the ancients: ‘The Eumenides,’
‘Antigone,’ ‘Electra,’ ‘Œdipus at Colonos.’ ‘They have admired,’ said
Racine in his preface to ‘Berenice,’ ‘they have admired the “Ajax”
of Sophocles, wherein there is nothing but Ajax killing himself with
regret for the fury into which he fell after the arms of Achilles were
denied him. They have admired “Philoctetes,” whose entire subject
is but the coming of Ulysses with intent to seize the arrows of
Hercules. Even the “Œdipus,” though full of recognitions, contains less
subject-matter than the simplest tragedy of our days.’
What have we here but life that is almost motionless? In most cases,
indeed, you will find that psychological action—infinitely loftier in
itself than mere material action, and truly, one might think, well-nigh
indispensable—that psychological action even has been suppressed, or
at least vastly diminished, in a truly marvellous fashion, with the
result that the interest centres solely and entirely in the individual,
face to face with the universe. Here we are no longer with the
barbarians, nor is man now fretting, himself in the midst of elementary
passions, as though, forsooth, these were the only things worthy of
note: he is at rest, and we have time to observe him. It is no longer
a violent, exceptional moment of life that passes before our eyes—it
is life itself. Thousands and thousands of laws there are, mightier and
more venerable than those of passion; but, in common with all that is
endowed with resistless force, these laws are silent, and discreet, and
slow-moving; and hence it is only in the twilight that they can be seen
and heard, in the meditation that comes to us at the tranquil moments
of life.
When Ulysses and Neoptolemus come to Philoctetes and demand of him the
arms of Hercules, their action is in itself as simple and ordinary as
that of a man of our day who goes into a house to visit an invalid,
of a traveller who knocks at the door of an inn, or of a mother who,
by the fireside, awaits the return of her child. Sophocles indicates
the character of his heroes by means of the lightest and quickest of
touches. But it may safely be said that the chief interest of the
tragedy does not lie in the struggle we witness between cunning and
loyalty, between love of country, rancour, and headstrong pride. There
is more beyond: for it is man’s loftier existence that is laid bare to
us. The poet adds to ordinary life something, I know not what, which
is the poet’s secret: and there comes to us a sudden revelation of
life in its stupendous grandeur, in its submissiveness to the unknown
powers, in its endless affinities, in its awe-inspiring misery. Let
but the chemist pour a few mysterious drops into a vessel that seems
to contain the purest water, and at once masses of crystals will rise
to the surface, thus revealing to us all that lay in abeyance there
where nothing was visible before to our incomplete eyes. And even thus
is it in ‘Philoctetes’; the primitive psychology of the three leading
characters would seem to be merely the sides of the vessel containing
the clear water; and this itself is our ordinary life, into which the
poet is about to let fall the revelation-bearing drops of his genius....
Indeed, it is not in the actions but in the words that are found the
beauty and greatness of tragedies that are truly beautiful and great;
and this not solely in the words that accompany and explain the action,
for there must perforce be another dialogue besides the one which is
superficially necessary. And indeed the only words that count in the
play are those that at first seemed useless, for it is therein that the
essence lies. Side by side with the necessary dialogue will you almost
always find another dialogue that seems superfluous; but examine it
carefully, and it will be borne home to you that this is the only one
that the soul can listen to profoundly, for here alone is it the soul
that is being addressed. You will see, too, that it is the quality and
the scope of this unnecessary dialogue that determine the quality
and the immeasurable range of the work. Certain it is that, in the
ordinary drama, the indispensable dialogue by no means corresponds to
reality; and it is just those words that are spoken by the side of the
rigid, apparent truth, that constitute the mysterious beauty of the
most beautiful tragedies, inasmuch as these are words that conform to
a deeper truth, and one that lies incomparably nearer to the invisible
soul by which the poem is upheld. One may even affirm that a poem
draws the nearer to beauty and loftier truth in the measure that it
eliminates words that merely explain the action, and substitutes for
them others that reveal, not the so-called ‘soul-state,’ but I know
not what intangible and unceasing striving of the soul towards its own
beauty and truth. And so much the nearer, also, does it draw to the
true life. To every man does it happen, in his work-a-day existence,
that some situation of deep seriousness has to be unravelled by means
of words. Reflect for an instant. At moments such as those—nay, at
the most commonplace of times—is it the thing you say or the reply
you receive that has the most value? Are not other forces, other
words one cannot hear, brought into being, and do not these determine
the event? What I say often counts for so little; but my presence,
the attitude of my soul, my future and my past, that which will take
birth in me and that which is dead, a secret thought, the stars that
approve, my destiny, the thousands of mysteries which surround me and
float about yourself—all this it is that speaks to you at that tragic
moment, all this it is that brings to me your answer. There is all
this beneath every one of my words, and each one of yours; it is this,
above all, that we see, it a this, above all, that we hear, ourselves
notwithstanding. If you have come, you, the ‘outraged husband,’ the
‘deceived lover,’ the ‘forsaken wife,’ intending to kill me, your arm
will not be stayed by my most moving entreaty; but it may be that
there will come towards you, at that moment, one of these unexpected
forces; and my soul, knowing of their vigil near to me, may whisper
a secret word whereby, haply, you shall be disarmed. These are the
spheres wherein adventures come to issue, this is the dialogue whose
echo should be heard. And it is this echo that one does hear—extremely
attenuated and variable, it is true—in some of the great works
mentioned above. But might we not try to draw nearer to the spheres
where it is ‘in reality’ that everything comes to pass?