No More Learning

Meanwhile, we have to be content with dramas of the mind enacted
against mental tapestries, so to say, or with shifting backgrounds.
among the dream vistas and perspectives of the mind. For although
several of M. Maeterlinck's poetic plays have been set upon the
stage, rather as puppet plays than in the sense commonly meant,-
their success has been one of curiosity rather than of conviction.
Even the most impressive has seemed much less so when subjected
to the conditions of stage representation; and it is almost impossible
to understand how certain of them could avoid exciting that sense
MAURICE MAETERLINCK


## p. 9542 (#574) ###########################################

9542
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
of incongruity which is fatal to a keen impression of verisimilitude.
Even compositions so decorative as 'The Seven Princesses,' or that
strange drama 'The Blind,' are infinitely more impressive when read
than when seen; and this because they are, like all else of Mae-
terlinck's, merely the embodiment in words, and in a pseudo-dramatic
formula, of spiritual allegories or dreams. There were many who
thought that his short drama 'The Intruder' more than stood the
test of stage representation. I have seen 'L'Intruse' twice, and
given with all the skill and interpretative sympathy possible, both
in Paris and London; and yet I have not for a moment found in its
stage representation anything to approach the convincing and inti-
mate appeal, so simple and yet so subtle and weird, afforded in the
perusal of the original.
We have, however, no longer to consider Maurice Maeterlinck
merely as a dramatist, or perhaps I should say as a writer in dra-
matic form. He began as a poet, and as a writer of a very strange
piece of fiction; and now, and for some time past, his work has been
that of a spiritual interpreter, of an essayist, and of a mystic.
Mooris Mäterlinck-for it was not till he was of age that he
adopted the Gallicized "Maurice Maeterlinck "—was born in Flanders,
and is himself racially as well as mentally and spiritually a Fleming
of the Flemings. He has all the physical endurance, the rough bod-
ily type, of his countrymen; but he has also their quiet intensity of
feeling, their sense of dream and mystery. His earliest influences in
literature were French and English: the French of writers such as
Villiers de L'Isle-Adam, the English of writers such as Shakespeare
and the Elizabethan dramatists. When, as little more than a youth,
he went to Paris, it was mainly in the hope of discipleship to the
great Villiers. It was while in Paris that he wrote one of his earliest
and to this day one of his most remarkable productions, the short
story entitled 'The Massacre of the Innocents,'- a study so remark-
able that it at once attracted the attention of the few who closely
follow every new manifestation of literary talent. In this strange
tale, Maeterlinck has attempted to depict the Biblical story after the
manner of those Dutch and Flemish painters who represented with
unflinching contemporary realism all their scenes based upon Script-
ural episodes that is to say, who represented every scene, however
Oriental or remote, in accordance with Dutch or Flemish customs,
habits, dress, etc. This short story, however, appeared in an obscure
and long since defunct French periodical; and little notice was taken
of it till some years later, when the present writer drew attention to
it as the first production of its by that time distinguished author.
Since then it has been admirably translated, and has appeared in an
American edition.


## p. 9543 (#575) ###########################################

MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9543
-
But the first actual book which Maurice Maeterlinck published was
a volume of poems entitled 'Serres Chaudes,' a title which we
might idiomatically render as 'Hot-house Blooms. ' These poems are
interesting, and we can clearly discern in them the same mental
outlook and habit of mind the author exhibits in his maturer prose
writings; but they have not in any marked degree the lyric quality,
as a poet's work must have; and for all that there are poetical and
imaginative lines and verses, they suggest rather the work of a rare
and imaginative mind controlling itself to expression in this manner,
than of one who yields to it out of imperious and impulsive need.
In some respects we find a curious return to this first book in Maurice
Maeterlinck's latest; -for although 'Le Trésor des Humbles' is a
volume of mystical essays, and deals with other themes than those
chiefly broached in Serres Chaudes,' there is a remarkable spiritual
affinity between them. It is impossible to understand this strange
and powerful writer if one does not approach him on his mystical
side. It is not necessary for the reader to follow him in his brooding
hours with Ruysbroeck, or even to listen to what he has to say
on the subject of Novalis and other German mystics; but his subtle
analytical study of Emerson, and above all, those spiritual essays of
his (entitled in English The Treasure of the Humble'), should be
carefully studied. This last-named book has shared the fate of all
works of the kind; that is to say, it has been ignored by the great
majority of the reading public, it has been sneered at by an ever fret-
ful and supercilious band of critics, and has been received with deep
gladness and gratitude by the few who welcome with joy any true
glad tidings of the spiritual life. Among these essays, two should in
particular be read: those entitled 'The Deeper Life' and 'The Inner
Beauty. ' The last-named, indeed, is really a quintessential essay.
Just as a certain monotony of detail characterizes Maeterlinck's dra-
mas, so a repetitive diffuseness mars these prose essays of his.
Beautiful thoughts and phrases are to be found throughout the whole
of The Treasure of the Humble'; but after all, the essay entitled
'The Inner Beauty' comprises his whole spiritual philosophy. When
we turn to Maurice Maeterlinck the dramatist, we find him the
supreme voice in modern Belgian literature. As a poet he is far sur-
passed by Émile Verhaeren—who is indeed one of the finest poets
now living in any country; and as a writer of prose he has many
rivals, and some who have a distinction, grace, and power altogether
beyond what he has himself displayed. But as a dramatist—that is,
an imaginative artist working in dramatic form- he holds a unique
and altogether remarkable place.
In one of his early poems he exclaims: "Mon âme! —Oh, mon
âme vraiment trop à l'abri! "-(My soul! -Oh, truly my soul dwells


## p. 9544 (#576) ###########################################

9544
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
too much in the shadow! ) And it is this dwelling in the shadow
which is the dominant characteristic of Maurice Maeterlinck. In
'The Princess Maleine,' in 'The Seven Princesses,' in 'Pélléas and
Mélisande,' in 'The Intruder,' and 'The Blind,'-in one and all
of these, to his latest production, he hardly ever moves out of the
shadow of a strange and affecting imaginative gloom. He too might
with the Spanish writer, Emilia Pardo Bazán, exclaim: "Enter with
me into the dark zone of the human soul! " It is rather, with
him, the twilight zone. He loves to haunt the shadowy ways where
night and day concur,-those shadowy ways wherein human actions
and thoughts are still real, but are invested with a light or a shadow
either strange or fantastic. His method is a simple one; but it is
that kind of simplicity which involves a subtle and artistic mind.
Often he relies upon words as abstractions, in order to convey the
impression that is in his own mind; and this accounts for the bewil-
derment which some of his characteristic mannerisms cause to many
readers. Where they see simple repetition, a vain and perhaps child-
ish monotony, Maeterlinck is really endeavoring to emphasize the
impression he seeks to convey, by dwelling upon certain images,
accentuating certain words, evoking certain mental melodies or
rhythms full of a certain subtle suggestion of their own.
Much has been said and written about this new form in con-
temporary dramatic literature. It is a form strangely seductive, if
obviously perilous. It has possibly a remarkable future-coming, as
it has done, at a time when our most eager spirits are solicitous of a
wider scope in expression, for a further opening-up of alluring vis-
tas through the ever blossoming wilderness of art. It may well be
that Maeterlinck's chief service here will prove rather to be that of
a pioneer- of a pioneer who has directed into new channels the
stream which threatened to stagnate in the shallows of insincere con-
vention.
Maeterlinck was guided to the formula with which his name has
become so identified, primarily through the influence of his friend
Charles van Lerberghe, the author of 'Les Flaireurs. ' The short
dramatic episode entitled 'Les Flaireurs' occupies itself with a single
incident: the death of an old peasant woman, by night, in a lonely
cottage in a remote district, with no companion save her girlish
grandchild. Almost from the outset the reader guesses what the
nocturnal voices indicate. The ruse of the dramatist is almost child-
ishly simple, if its process of development be regarded in detail.
The impressiveness lies greatly in the cumulative effect. A night of
storm, the rain lashing at the windows, the appalling darkness with-
out, the wan candle-glow within, a terrified and bewildered child, a
dying and delirious old woman, an ominous oft-repeated knocking at


## p. 9545 (#577) ###########################################

MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9545
the door, a hoarse voice without, changeful but always menacing,
mocking or muttering an obscure and horrible message: this inter-
wrought, again and again represented, austerely tragic by-play-from
one point of view, merely the material for tragedy-is a profoundly.
impressive work of art. It is perhaps all the more so from the fact
that it relies to some extent upon certain venerable and even out-
worn conventionalities. The midnight hour, storm, mysterious sounds,
the howl of a dog-we are familiar with all these "properties. "
They do not now move us. Sheridan Le Fanu, or Fitzjames O'Brien,
or R. L. Stevenson, can create for us an inward terror far beyond
the half-simulated creep with which we read the conventional bogy-
story. That Charles van Lerberghe should so impress us by the
simplest and most familiar stage tricks points to his genuine artistry,
to his essential masterhood. The literary conjurer would fain deceive
us by sleight of hand; the literary artist persuades us by sleight of
mind.
Van Lerberghe is neither romanticist nor realist, as these vague
and often identical terms are understood abroad. He works realisti-
cally in the sphere of the imaginary. If it were not that his aim, as
that of Maeterlinck, is to bring into literature a new form of the drame
intime, with meanwhile the adventitious aid of nominal stage acces-
sories, one might almost think that 'Les Flaireurs' was meant for
stage representation. It would be impossible, however, thus. Imagine.
the incongruity of the opening of this drama with its subject:-
"Orchestral music. Funeral march. Roll of muffled drums. A blast of a
horn in the distance. Roll of drums. A short psalmodic motive for
the organ.
REPEATED KNOCKS, HEAVY AND DULL. Curtain. »
What have orchestral music and rolling of drums, and a psalmodic
motive for the organ, to do with an old peasant woman dying in a
cottage? For that stage of the imagination from which many of us
derive a keener pleasure than from that of any theatre, there is per-
haps nothing incongruous here. The effect sought to be produced is
a psychic one; and if produced, the end is gained, and the means of
no moment. It is only from this standpoint that we can view aright
the work of Van Lerberghe, Maeterlinck, and Auguste Jenart. 'Les
Flaireurs is wholly unsuitable for the actual stage,- as unsuitable as
'L'Intruse,' or 'Les Aveugles,' or 'Les Sept Princesses,' or 'Le Bar-
bare. ' Each needs to be enacted in the shadow-haunted glade of the
imagination, in order to be understood aright. Under the lime-light
their terror becomes folly, their poetry rhetoric, their tragic signifi-
cance impotent commonplace; their atmosphere of mystery, the com-
mon air of the squalidly apparent; their impressiveness a cause of
mocking.


## p. 9546 (#578) ###########################################

9546
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
While in Maurice Maeterlinck we certainly encounter one of the
most interesting figures in contemporary letters, it is not so easy to
arrive at a definite opinion as to whether he is really a dominant
force.
There are many who believe that the author of 'La Princesse
Maleine—and of many striking productions which have succeeded it
- will attain to that high mastery which makes a writer a voice for
all men, and not merely an arresting echo for his own hour, his own
time, among his own people. Certainly his début was significant,
remarkable. Yet in France, where his reputation was made, he is
already looked upon as a waning force. Any new work by him is
regarded with interest, with appreciation and sympathy perhaps, but
not with that excited anticipation with which formerly it was greeted.
For ourselves, we cannot estimate him otherwise than by his actual
achievement. Has the author of 'La Princesse Maleine,' 'L'Intruse,'
and 'Les Aveugles'—his earliest and most discussed works-fulfilled
himself in 'Pélléas et Mélisande' and the successors of that mov-
ing drama? His admirers declared that in this last-named play we
should find him at his best and most mature. But Pélléas and Méli-
sande' has not stood the test.
Yet I do not think Pélléas et Mélisande' is- what so many claim
for it- Maeterlinck's Sedan. All the same it is, at best, "a faithful
failure. " I believe he will give us still better work; work as dis-
tinctive as his two masterpieces, 'L'Intruse' and 'Les Aveugles,'
but with a wider range of sympathy, more genial an insight, an
apprehension and technical achievement more masterly still. Indeed,
in 'Tintagiles' and his latest productions, he has to a large extent
fulfilled the wonderful imaginative beauty with which he charmed
us in 'Les Sept Princesses. ' Still, even here it is rather the dream-
record of a dreamer than the actual outlook on life of a creative
mind.
Finally, what we have to bear in mind meanwhile is that Maurice
Maeterlinck is possibly the pioneer of a new method coming into
literature. We must not look too closely, whether in praise or blame,
to those treasured formulas of his, of which so much has been said.
What is inessential in these he will doubtless unlearn; what is essen-
tial he will probably develop. For it is not in the accidents of his
dramatic expression that so fine an artist as Maeterlinck is an origi-
nal writer, but in that quality of insight which is his own, that phras-
ing, that atmosphere.
Willian Sharpe


## p. 9547 (#579) ###########################################

MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9547
FROM THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES›
The Plays of Maurice Maeterlinck, Second Series. Translated by Richard
Hovey. Copyright 1896, by Stone & Kimball.
Scene: At the top of a hill overlooking the castle. Enter Ygraine, holding
Tintagiles by the hand.
YGRA
GRAINE-Thy first night will be troubled, Tintagiles. Already
the sea howls about us; and the trees are moaning. It is
late. The moon is just setting behind the poplars that stifle
the palace. We are alone, perhaps, for all that here we have to
live on guard. There seems to be a watch set for the approach
of the slightest happiness. I said to myself one day, in the very
depths of my soul,-and God himself could hardly hear it,—I
said to myself one day I should be happy. There needed noth-
ing further: in a little while our old father died, and both our
brothers vanished without a single human being able since to tell
us where they are. Now I am all alone, with my poor sister and
thee, my little Tintagiles; and I have no faith in the future.
Come here; sit on my knee. Kiss me first: and put thy little
arms there, all the way around my neck; perhaps they will not
be able to undo them. Rememberest thou the time when it was
I that carried thee at night when bedtime came; and when thou
fearedst the shadows of my lamp in the long windowless corri-
dors? —I felt my soul tremble upon my lips when I saw thee,
suddenly, this morning. I thought thee so far away, and so
secure. Who was it made thee come here?
Tintagiles-I do not know, little sister.
Ygraine-Thou dost not know any longer what was said?
Tintagiles — They said I had to leave.
Ygraine-But why hadst thou to leave?
Tintagiles - Because it was the Queen's will.
Ygraine - They did not say why it was her will? —I am sure
they said many things.
say?
Tintagiles — I heard nothing, little sister.
Ygraine - When they spoke among themselves, what did they
Tintagiles-They spoke in a low voice, little sister.
Ygraine - All the time?
Tintagiles-All the time, sister Ygraine; except when they
looked at me.
Ygraine - They did not speak of the Queen?


## p. 9548 (#580) ###########################################

9548
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
Tintagiles - They said she was never seen, sister Ygraine.
Ygraine - And those who were with thee, on the bridge of
the ship, said nothing?
Tintagiles - They minded nothing but the wind and the sails,
sister Ygraine.
Ygraine-Ah! that does not astonish me, my child.
Tintagiles- They left me all alone, little sister.
Ygraine-Listen, Tintagiles, I will tell thee what I know.
Tintagiles-What dost thou know, sister Ygraine?
Ygraine-Not much, my child. My sister and I have crept
along here, since our birth, without daring to understand a whit
of all that happens. For a long while, indeed, I lived like a blind
woman on this island; and it all seemed natural to me.
I saw
no other events than the flying of a bird, the trembling of a leaf,
the opening of a rose. There reigned such a silence that the
falling of a ripe fruit in the park called faces to the windows.
And no one seemed to have the least suspicion; but one night
I learned there must be something else. I would have fled, and
could not. Hast thou understood what I have said?
Tintagiles — Yes, yes, little sister: I understand whatever you
will.
Ygraine-Well, then, let us speak no more of things that are
not known. Thou seest yonder, behind the dead trees that poison
the horizon-thou seest the castle yonder, in the depth of the
valley?
Tintagiles-That which is so black, sister Ygraine?
Ygraine-It is black indeed. It is at the very depth of an
amphitheatre of shadows. We have to live there. It might have
been built on the summit of the great mountains that surround
it. The mountains are blue all day. We should have breathed.
We should have seen the sea and the meadows on the other side
of the rocks. But they preferred to put it in the depth of the
valley; and the very air does not go down so low. It is falling
in ruins, and nobody bewares. The walls are cracking; you
would say it was dissolving in the shadows. There is only one
tower unassailed by the weather. It is enormous; and the house
never comes out of its shadow.
Tintagiles-There is something shining, sister Ygraine. See,
see, the great red windows!
Ygraine - They are those of the tower, Tintagiles: they are
the only ones where you will see light; it is there the throne of
the Queen is set.


## p. 9549 (#581) ###########################################

MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9549
Tintagiles-I shall not see the Queen?
Ygraine - No one can see her.
Tintagiles-Why can't one see her?
Ygraine-Come nearer, Tintagiles. Not a bird nor a blade of
grass must hear us.
Tintagiles - There is no grass, little sister. [A silence. ]-
What does the Queen do?
Ygraine-No one knows, my child. She does not show her-
self. She lives there, all alone in her tower; and they that serve
her do not go out by day. She is very old; she is the mother
of our mother; and she would reign alone. She is jealous and
suspicious, and they say that she is mad. She fears lest some one
rise into her place, and it was doubtless because of that fear that
she had thee brought hither. Her orders are carried out no one
knows how. She never comes down; and all the doors of the
tower are closed night and day. I never caught a glimpse of
her; but others have seen her, it seems, in the past, when she
was young.
-
Tintagiles-Is she very ugly, sister Ygraine?
Ygraine-They say she is not beautiful, and that she is grow-
ing huge. But they that have seen her dare never speak of it.
Who knows, indeed, if they have seen her? She has a power not
to be understood; and we live here with a great unpitying weight
upon our souls.
Thou must not be frightened beyond measure,
nor have bad dreams; we shall watch over thee, my little Tinta-
giles, and no evil will be able to reach thee: but do not go far
from me, your sister Bellangère, nor our old master Aglovale.
He is the only friend
Tintagiles - Not from Aglovale either, sister Ygraine?
Ygraine - Not from Aglovale either. He loves us.
Tintagiles-He is so old, little sister!
Ygraine He is old, but very wise.
we have left; and he knows many things. It is strange; she has
made thee come hither without letting any one know. I do not
know what there is in my heart. I was sorry and glad to know
thou wert so far away, beyond the sea. And now-I was aston-
ished. I went out this morning to see if the sun was rising over
the mountains; and it is thou I see upon the threshold. I knew
thee at once.
Tintagiles - No, no, little sister: it was I that laughed first.
Ygraine-I could not laugh at once. Thou wilt understand.
It is time, Tintagiles, and the wind is growing black upon the


## p. 9550 (#582) ###########################################

9550
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
sea. Kiss me harder, again, again, before thou standest upright.
Thou knowest not how we love. Give me thy little hand. I
shall guard it well; and we will go back into the sickening castle.
[Exeunt.
Scene: An apartment in the castle.
Enter Bellangère.
-
Aglovale and Ygraine discovered.
Bellangère-Where is Tintagiles?
Ygraine
He was
Here; do not speak too loud. He sleeps in the
other room. He seems a little pale, a little ailing too.
tired by the journey and the long sea-voyage. Or else the atmo-
sphere of the castle has startled his little soul. He cried for no
cause. I rocked him to sleep on my knees; come, see.
He sleeps
in our bed. He sleeps very gravely, with one hand on his fore-
head, like a little sad king.
Bellangère [bursting suddenly into tears] - My sister! my sis-
ter! my poor sister!
Ygraine - What is the matter?
Bellangère - I dare not say what I know, and I am not sure
that I know anything, and yet I heard that which one could not
hear-
Ygraine - What didst thou hear?
Bellangère-I was passing near the corridors of the tower—
Ygraine - Ah!
Bellangère - A door there was ajar. I pushed it very softly.
I went in.
Ygraine-In where?
Bellangère-I had never seen the place. There were other
corridors lighted with lamps; then low galleries that had no out-
let. I knew it was forbidden to go on. I was afraid, and I was
going to return upon my steps, when I heard a sound of voices
one could hardly hear.
Ygraine-It must have been the handmaids of the Queen:
they dwell at the foot of the tower.
Bellangère-I do not know just what it was. There must
have been more than one door between us; and the voices came
to me like the voice of some one who was being smothered. I
drew as near as I could. I am not sure of anything, but I think
they spoke of a child that came to-day and of a crown of gold.
They seemed to be laughing.


## p. 9551 (#583) ###########################################

MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9551
Ygraine - They laughed?
Bellangère - Yes, I think they laughed, unless they were
weeping, or unless it was something I did not understand; for it
was hard to hear, and their voices were sweet. They seemed to
echo in a crowd under the arches. They spoke of the child the
Queen would see. They will probably come up this evening.
Ygraine - What? this evening?
Bellangère - Yes, yes, I think so.
Ygraine - They spoke no one's name?
Bellangère-They spoke of a child, of a very little child.
Ygraine-There is no other child.
――――――
Bellangère - They raised their voices a little at that moment,
because one of them had said the day seemed not yet come.
Ygraine-I know what that means; it is not the first time
they have issued from the tower. I knew well why she made
him come; but I could not believe she would hasten so! We
shall see; we are three, and we have time.
Bellangère-What wilt thou do?
Ygraine-I do not know yet what I shall do, but I will aston-
ish her. Do you know how you tremble? I will tell you—
Bellangère - What?
Ygraine-She shall not take him without trouble.
Bellangère-We are alone, sister Ygraine.
Ygraine Ah! it is true, we are alone! There is but one
remedy, the one with which we have always succeeded!
Let us
wait upon our knees as the other times. Perhaps she will have
pity! She allows herself to be disarmed by tears. We must
grant her all she asks us; haply she will smile; and she is wont
to spare all those who kneel. She has been there for years in
her huge tower, devouring our beloved, and none, not one, has
dared to strike her in the face. She is there, upon our souls,
like the stone of a tomb, and no one dare put forth his arm.
the time when there were men here, they feared too, and fell
upon their faces.
To-day it is the woman's turn: we shall see.
It is time to rise at last. We know not upon what her power
rests, and I will live no longer in the shadow of her tower. Go-
go, both of you, and leave me more alone still, if you tremble
too. I shall await her.
In
Bellangère-Sister, I do not know what must be done; but I
stay with thee.


## p. 9552 (#584) ###########################################

9552
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
Aglovale-I too stay, my daughter. For a long time my soul
has been restless. You are going to try. We have tried more
than once.
Ygraine-You have tried-you too?
Aglovale - They have all tried. But at the last moment they
have lost their strength. You will see, you too. Should she order
me to come up to her this very night, I should clasp both my
hands without a word; and my tired feet would climb the stair,
without delay and without haste, well as I know no one comes
down again with open eyes. I have no more courage against
her. Our hands are of no use and reach no one. They are not
the hands we need, and all is useless. But I would help you,
because you hope. Shut the doors, my child. Wake Tintagiles;
encircle him with your little naked arms and take him on your
knees. We have no other defense.
THE INNER BEAUTY
From The Treasure of the Humble'
THE
HERE is nothing in the whole world that can vie with the
soul in its eagerness for beauty, or in the ready power
wherewith it adopts beauty unto itself. There is nothing
in the world capable of such spontaneous uplifting, of such
speedy ennoblement; nothing that offers more scrupulous obedi-
ence to the pure and noble commands it receives. There is
nothing in the world that yields deeper submission to the empire
of a thought that is loftier than other thoughts. And on this
earth of ours there are but few souls that can withstand the
dominion of the soul that has suffered itself to become beautiful.
In all truth might it be said that beauty is the unique ali
ment of our soul; for in all places does it search for beauty, and
it perishes not of hunger even in the most degraded of lives.
For indeed nothing of beauty can pass by and be altogether
unperceived. Perhaps does it never pass by save only in our
unconsciousness: but its action is no less puissant in gloom of
night than by light of day; the joy it procures may be less tan-
gible, but other difference there is none. Look at the most ordi-
nary of men, at a time when a little beauty has contrived to
steal into their darkness. They have come together, it matters


## p. 9553 (#585) ###########################################

MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9553
not where, and for no special reason; but no sooner are they
assembled than their very first thought would seem to be to
close the great doors of life. Yet has each one of them, when
alone, more than once lived in accord with his soul. He has
loved perhaps, of a surety he has suffered. Inevitably must he
too have heard the "sounds that come from the distant country
of Splendor and Terror "; and many an evening has he bowed
down in silence before laws that are deeper than the sea. And
yet when these men are assembled, it is with the basest of
things that they love to debauch themselves. They have a strange
indescribable fear of beauty; and as their number increases, so
does this fear become greater, resembling indeed their dread of
silence or of a verity that is too pure. And so true is this, that
were one of them to have done something heroic in the course
of the day, he would ascribe wretched motives to his conduct,
thereby endeavoring to find excuses for it, and these motives.
would lie readily to his hand in that lower region where he and
his fellows were assembled. And yet listen: a proud and lofty
word has been spoken, a word that has in a measure undammed
the springs of life. For one instant has a soul dared to reveal
itself, even such as it is in love and sorrow, such as it is in face
of death and in the solitude that dwells around the stars of
night. Disquiet prevails; on some faces there is astonishment,
others smile. But have you never felt at moments such as those
how unanimous is the fervor wherewith every soul admires,
and how unspeakably even the very feeblest, from the remotest
depths of its dungeon, approves the word it has recognized as
akin to itself? For they have all suddenly sprung to life again in
the primitive and normal atmosphere that is their own; and could
you but hearken with angels' ears, I doubt not but you would
hear mightiest applause in that kingdom of amazing radiance
wherein the souls do dwell. Do you not think that even the
most timid of them would take courage unto themselves were
but similar words to be spoken every evening? Do you not
think that men would live purer lives? And yet though the
word come not again, still will something momentous have hap-
pened, that must leave still more momentous trace behind.
Every evening will its sisters recognize the soul that pronounced
the word; and henceforth, be the conversation never so trivial,
its mere presence will, I know not how, add thereto something of
majesty. Whatever else betide, there has been a change that we
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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9554
cannot determine. No longer will such absolute power be vested
in the baser side of things, and henceforth even the most terror-
stricken of souls will know that there is somewhere a place of
refuge.
Certain it is that the natural and primitive relationship of
soul to soul is a relationship of beauty. For beauty is the only
language of our soul; none other is known to it. It has no other
life, it can produce nothing else, in nothing else can it take in-
terest. And therefore it is that the most oppressed, nay, the
most degraded of souls,-if it may truly be said that a soul can
be degraded, immediately hail with acclamation every thought,
every word or deed, that is great and beautiful. Beauty is the
only element wherewith the soul is organically connected, and it
has no other standard or judgment. This is brought home to us
at every moment of our life, and is no less evident to the man by
whom beauty may more than once have been denied, than to him
who is ever seeking it in his heart. Should a day come when
you stand in profoundest need of another's sympathy, would you
go to him who was wont to greet the passage of beauty with a
sneering smile? Would you go to him whose shake of the head
had sullied a generous action or a mere impulse that was pure?
Even though perhaps you had been of those who commended him,
you would none the less, when it was truth that knocked at your
door, turn to the man who had known how to prostrate himself
and love. In its very depths had your soul passed its judgment;
and it is this silent and unerring judgment that will rise to the
surface, after thirty years perhaps, and send you towards a sister
who shall be more truly you than you are yourself, for that she
has been nearer to beauty.
p
There needs but so little to encourage beauty in our soul; so
little to awaken the slumbering angels; or perhaps is there no
need of awakening,-it is enough that we lull them not to sleep.
It requires more effort to fall, perhaps, than to rise. Can we,
without putting constraint upon ourselves, confine our thoughts
to every-day things at times when the sea stretches before us and
we are face to face with the night? And what soul is there but
knows that it is ever confronting the sea, ever in presence of an
eternal night? Did we but dread beauty less, it would come
about that naught else in life would be visible; for in reality it
is beauty that underlies everything, it is beauty alone that exists.
There is no soul but is conscious of this; none that is not in


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readiness; but where are those that hide not their beauty? And
yet must one of them "begin. " Why not dare to be the one to
begin"? The others are all watching eagerly around us like
little children in front of a marvelous palace. They press upon
the threshold, whispering to each other and peering through
every crevice; but there is not one who dares put his shoulder
to the door. They are all waiting for some grown-up person
to come and fling it open. But hardly ever does such a one
pass by.
And yet what is needed to become the grown-up person for
whom they lie in wait? So little! The soul is not exacting. A
thought that is almost beautiful-a thought that you speak not,
but that you cherish within you at this moment-will irradiate
you as though you were a transparent vase. They will see it,
and their greeting to you will be very different than had you
been meditating how best to deceive your brother. We are sur-
prised when certain men tell us that they have never come
across real ugliness, that they cannot conceive that a soul can be
base. Yet need there be no cause for surprise. These men had
"begun. " They themselves had been the first to be beautiful,
and had therefore attracted all the beauty that passed by, as a
light-house attracts the vessels from the four corners of the hori-
zon. Some there are who complain of women, for instance;
never dreaming that the first time a man meets a woman, a sin-
gle word or thought that denies the beautiful or profound will
be enough to poison forever his existence in her soul.
"For my
part," said a sage to me one day, "I have never come across
a single woman who did not bring to me something that was
great. " He was great himself first of all; therein lay his secret.
There is one thing only that the soul can never forgive: it is to
have been compelled to behold, or share, or pass close to an ugly
action, word, or thought. It cannot forgive, for forgiveness here
were but the denial of itself. And yet with the generality of
men, ingenuity, strength, and skill do but imply that the soul
must first of all be banished from their life, and that every im-
pulse that lies too deep must be carefully brushed aside. Even
in love do they act thus; and therefore it is that the woman,
who is so much nearer the truth, can scarcely ever live a mo-
ment of the true life with them. It is as though men dreaded
the contact of their soul, and were anxious to keep its beauty
at immeasurable distance. Whereas, on the contrary, we should


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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
endeavor to move in advance of ourselves. If at this moment
you think or say something that is too beautiful to be true in
you-if you have but endeavored to think or say it to-day, on
the morrow it will be true. We must try to be more beautiful
than ourselves; we shall never distance our soul. We can never
err when it is question of silent or hidden beauty. Besides,
so long as the spring within us be limpid, it matters but little
whether error there be or not. But do any of us ever dream
of making the slightest unseen effort? And yet in the domain
where we are, everything is effective; for that, everything is
waiting. All the doors are unlocked; we have but to push them
open, and the palace is full of manacled queens. A single word
will very often suffice to clear the mountain of refuse. Why not
have the courage to meet a base question with a noble answer?
Do you imagine it would pass quite unnoticed, or merely arouse
surprise? Do you not think it would be more akin to the dis-
course that would naturally be held between two souls? We
know not where it may give encouragement, where freedom.
Even he who rejects your words will in spite of himself have
taken a step towards the beauty that is within him. Nothing of
beauty dies without having purified something, nor can aught of
beauty be lost. Let us not be afraid of sowing it along the
road. It may remain there for weeks or years: but like the dia-
mond, it cannot dissolve, and finally there will pass by some one
whom its glitter will attract; he will pick it up and go his way
rejoicing. Then why keep back a lofty, beautiful word, for that
you doubt whether others will understand? An instant of higher
goodness was impending over you: why hinder its coming, even
though you believe not that those about you will profit thereby?
What if you are among men of the valley: is that sufficient rea-
son for checking the instinctive movement of your soul towards
the mountain peaks? Does darkness rob deep feeling of its
power? Have the blind naught but their eyes wherewith to dis-
tinguish those who love them from those who love them not?