Do you know how you
tremble?
Warner - World's Best Literature - v16 to v20 - Phi to Qui
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) ###########################################
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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) ###########################################
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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) ###########################################
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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) ###########################################
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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
XVI-598
## p. 9554 (#586) ###########################################
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
## p. 9555 (#587) ###########################################
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9555
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
## p. 9556 (#588) ###########################################
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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?
Can the beauty not exist that is not understood? and is there not
in every man something that does understand, in regions far
beyond what he seems to understand,-far beyond, too, what he
believes he understands? "Even to the very wretchedest of all,"
said to me one day the loftiest-minded creature it has ever been
my happiness to know,-" even to the very wretchedest of all, I
never have the courage to say anything in reply that is ugly or
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9557
mediocre. " I have for a long time followed that man's life,
and have seen the inexplicable power he exercised over the most
obscure, the most unapproachable, the blindest, even the most
rebellious of souls. For no tongue can tell the power of a soul
that strives to live in an atmosphere of beauty, and is actively
beautiful in itself. And indeed, is it not the quality of this activ-
ity that renders a life either miserable or divine?
If we could but probe to the root of things, it might well
be discovered that it is by the strength of some souls that are
beautiful that others are sustained in life. Is it not the idea we
each form of certain chosen ones that constitutes the only living,
effective morality? But in this idea how much is there of the
soul that is chosen, how much of him who chooses? Do not
these things blend very mysteriously, and does not this ideal
morality lie infinitely deeper than the morality of the most beau-
tiful books? A far-reaching influence exists therein whose limits
it is indeed difficult to define, and a fountain of strength whereat
we all of us drink many times a day. Would not any weakness
in one of those creatures whom you thought perfect, and loved in
the region of beauty, at once lessen your confidence in the uni-
versal greatness of things, and would your admiration for them
not suffer?
And again, I doubt whether anything in the world can beau-
tify a soul more spontaneously, more naturally, than the knowl-
edge that somewhere in its neighborhood there exists a pure and
noble being whom it can unreservedly love. When the soul has
veritably drawn near to such a being, beauty is no longer a
lovely, lifeless thing that one exhibits to the stranger; for it sud-
denly takes unto itself an imperious existence, and its activity
becomes so natural as to be henceforth irresistible. Wherefore
you will do well to think it over; for none are alone, and those
who are good must watch.
Plotinus, in the eighth book of the fifth 'Ennead,' after
speaking of the beauty that is "intelligible,”—i. e. , Divine,-
concludes thus: "As regards ourselves, we are beautiful when we
belong to ourselves, and ugly when we lower ourselves to our
inferior nature. Also are we beautiful when we know ourselves,
and ugly when we have no such knowledge. " Bear it in mind,
however, that here we are on the mountains, where not to know
oneself means far more than mere ignorance of what takes place
within us at moments of jealousy or love, fear or envy, happiness
## p. 9558 (#590) ###########################################
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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
or unhappiness. Here not to know oneself means to be uncon-
scious of all the divine that throbs in man. As we wander from
the gods within us, so does ugliness enwrap us; as we discover
them, so do we become more beautiful. But it is only by re-
vealing the divine that is in us that we may discover the divine
in others. Needs must one god beckon to another; and no signal
is so imperceptible but they will every one of them respond. It
cannot be said too often, that be the crevice never so small, it
will yet suffice for all the waters of heaven to pour into our
soul. Every cup is stretched out to the unknown spring, and we
are in a region where none think of aught but beauty. If we
could ask of an angel what it is that our souls do in the shadow,
I believe the angel would answer, after having looked for many
years perhaps, and seen far more than the things the soul seems
to do in the eyes of men, "They transform into beauty all the
little things that are given to them. " Ah! we must admit that
the human soul is possessed of singular courage! Resignedly
does it labor, its whole life long, in the darkness whither most
of us relegate it, where it is spoken to by none. There, never
complaining, does it do all that in its power lies, striving to tear
from out the pebbles we fling to it the nucleus of eternal light
that peradventure they contain. And in the midst of its work it
is ever lying in wait for the moment when it may show to a sis-
ter who is more tenderly cared for, or who chances to be nearer,
the treasures it has so toilfully amassed. But thousands of exist-
ences there are that no sister visits; thousands of existences
wherein life has infused such timidity into the soul that it de-
parts without saying a word, without even once having been able
to deck itself with the humblest jewels of its humble crown.
And yet, in spite of all, does it watch over everything from
out its invisible heaven. It warns and loves, it admires, attracts,
repels. At every fresh event does it rise to the surface, where it
lingers till it be thrust down again, being looked upon as weari-
some and insane. It wanders to and fro, like Cassandra at the
gates of the Atrides. It is ever giving utterance to words of
shadowy truth, but there are none to listen. When we raise our
eyes, it yearns for a ray of sun or star that it may weave into a
thought, or haply an impulse, which shall be unconscious and
very pure. And if our eyes bring it nothing, still will it know
how to turn its pitiful disillusion into something ineffable, that
it will conceal even till its death. When we love, how eagerly
## p. 9559 (#591) ###########################################
MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9559
does it drink in the light from behind the closed door! - keen
with expectation, it yet wastes not a minute, and the light that
steals through the apertures becomes beauty and truth to the
soul. But if the door open not, (and how many lives are there
wherein it does open? ) it will go back into its prison, and its
regret will perhaps be a loftier verity that shall never be seen;-
for we are now in the region of transformations whereof none
may speak; and though nothing born this side of the door can.
be lost, yet does it never mingle with our life.
I said just now that the soul changed into beauty the little
things we gave to it. It would even seem, the more we think of
it, that the soul has no other reason for existence, and that all its
activity is consumed in amassing, at the depths of us, a treasure
of indescribable beauty. Might not everything naturally turn into
beauty were we not unceasingly interrupting the arduous labors
of our soul? Does not evil itself become precious so soon as it
has gathered therefrom the deep-lying diamond of repentance?
The acts of injustice whereof you have been guilty, the tears you
have caused to flow, will not these end too by becoming so much
radiance and love in your soul? Have you ever cast your eyes
into this kingdom of purifying flame that is within you? Per-
haps a great wrong may have been done you to-day, the act
itself being mean and disheartening, the mode of action of the
basest, and ugliness wrapped you round as your tears fell. But
let some years elapse,—then give one look into your soul, and
tell me whether, beneath the recollection of that act, you see not
something that is already purer than thought: an indescribable,
unnamable force that has naught in common with the forces of
this world; a mysterious inexhaustible spring of the other life,
whereat you may drink for the rest of your days. And yet will
you have rendered no assistance to the untiring queen; other
thoughts will have filled your mind, and it will be without your
knowledge that the act will have been purified in the silence of
your being, and will have flown into the precious waters that lie
in the great reservoir of truth and beauty, which, unlike the
shallower reservoir of true or beautiful thoughts, has an ever
ruffled surface, and remains for all time out of reach of the
breath of life. Emerson tells us that there is not an act or
event in our life but sooner or later casts off its outer shell, and
bewilders us by its sudden flight, from the very depths of us, on
high into the empyrean. And this is true to a far greater extent
―
## p. 9560 (#592) ###########################################
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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
than Emerson had foreseen; for the further we advance in these
regions, the diviner are the spheres we discover.
We can form no adequate conception of what this silent activ-
ity of the souls that surround us may really mean. Perhaps you
have spoken a pure word to one of your fellows, by whom it has
not been understood. You look upon it as lost, and dismiss it
from your mind. But one day, peradventure, the word comes up
again extraordinarily transformed, and revealing the unexpected
fruit it has borne in the darkness; then silence once more falls
over all. But it matters not; we have learned that nothing can
be lost in the soul, and that even to the very pettiest there
come moments of splendor. It is unmistakably borne home to
us that even the unhappiest and the most destitute of men
have at the depths of their being, and in spite of themselves, a
treasure of beauty that they cannot despoil. They have but to
acquire the habit of dipping into this treasure. It suffices not
that beauty should keep solitary festival in life; it has to become
a festival of every day. There needs no great effort to be ad-
mitted into the ranks of those "whose eyes no longer behold
earth in flower, and sky in glory, in infinitesimal fragments, but
indeed in sublime masses";- and I speak here of flowers and
sky that are purer and more lasting than those that we behold.
Thousands of channels there are through which the beauty of
our soul may sail even unto our thoughts. Above all is there
the wonderful central channel of love.
Is it not in love that are found the purest elements of beauty
that we can offer to the soul?
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) ###########################################
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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
XVI-598
## p. 9554 (#586) ###########################################
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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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9555
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?
Can the beauty not exist that is not understood? and is there not
in every man something that does understand, in regions far
beyond what he seems to understand,-far beyond, too, what he
believes he understands? "Even to the very wretchedest of all,"
said to me one day the loftiest-minded creature it has ever been
my happiness to know,-" even to the very wretchedest of all, I
never have the courage to say anything in reply that is ugly or
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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
9557
mediocre. " I have for a long time followed that man's life,
and have seen the inexplicable power he exercised over the most
obscure, the most unapproachable, the blindest, even the most
rebellious of souls. For no tongue can tell the power of a soul
that strives to live in an atmosphere of beauty, and is actively
beautiful in itself. And indeed, is it not the quality of this activ-
ity that renders a life either miserable or divine?
If we could but probe to the root of things, it might well
be discovered that it is by the strength of some souls that are
beautiful that others are sustained in life. Is it not the idea we
each form of certain chosen ones that constitutes the only living,
effective morality? But in this idea how much is there of the
soul that is chosen, how much of him who chooses? Do not
these things blend very mysteriously, and does not this ideal
morality lie infinitely deeper than the morality of the most beau-
tiful books? A far-reaching influence exists therein whose limits
it is indeed difficult to define, and a fountain of strength whereat
we all of us drink many times a day. Would not any weakness
in one of those creatures whom you thought perfect, and loved in
the region of beauty, at once lessen your confidence in the uni-
versal greatness of things, and would your admiration for them
not suffer?
And again, I doubt whether anything in the world can beau-
tify a soul more spontaneously, more naturally, than the knowl-
edge that somewhere in its neighborhood there exists a pure and
noble being whom it can unreservedly love. When the soul has
veritably drawn near to such a being, beauty is no longer a
lovely, lifeless thing that one exhibits to the stranger; for it sud-
denly takes unto itself an imperious existence, and its activity
becomes so natural as to be henceforth irresistible. Wherefore
you will do well to think it over; for none are alone, and those
who are good must watch.
Plotinus, in the eighth book of the fifth 'Ennead,' after
speaking of the beauty that is "intelligible,”—i. e. , Divine,-
concludes thus: "As regards ourselves, we are beautiful when we
belong to ourselves, and ugly when we lower ourselves to our
inferior nature. Also are we beautiful when we know ourselves,
and ugly when we have no such knowledge. " Bear it in mind,
however, that here we are on the mountains, where not to know
oneself means far more than mere ignorance of what takes place
within us at moments of jealousy or love, fear or envy, happiness
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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
or unhappiness. Here not to know oneself means to be uncon-
scious of all the divine that throbs in man. As we wander from
the gods within us, so does ugliness enwrap us; as we discover
them, so do we become more beautiful. But it is only by re-
vealing the divine that is in us that we may discover the divine
in others. Needs must one god beckon to another; and no signal
is so imperceptible but they will every one of them respond. It
cannot be said too often, that be the crevice never so small, it
will yet suffice for all the waters of heaven to pour into our
soul. Every cup is stretched out to the unknown spring, and we
are in a region where none think of aught but beauty. If we
could ask of an angel what it is that our souls do in the shadow,
I believe the angel would answer, after having looked for many
years perhaps, and seen far more than the things the soul seems
to do in the eyes of men, "They transform into beauty all the
little things that are given to them. " Ah! we must admit that
the human soul is possessed of singular courage! Resignedly
does it labor, its whole life long, in the darkness whither most
of us relegate it, where it is spoken to by none. There, never
complaining, does it do all that in its power lies, striving to tear
from out the pebbles we fling to it the nucleus of eternal light
that peradventure they contain. And in the midst of its work it
is ever lying in wait for the moment when it may show to a sis-
ter who is more tenderly cared for, or who chances to be nearer,
the treasures it has so toilfully amassed. But thousands of exist-
ences there are that no sister visits; thousands of existences
wherein life has infused such timidity into the soul that it de-
parts without saying a word, without even once having been able
to deck itself with the humblest jewels of its humble crown.
And yet, in spite of all, does it watch over everything from
out its invisible heaven. It warns and loves, it admires, attracts,
repels. At every fresh event does it rise to the surface, where it
lingers till it be thrust down again, being looked upon as weari-
some and insane. It wanders to and fro, like Cassandra at the
gates of the Atrides. It is ever giving utterance to words of
shadowy truth, but there are none to listen. When we raise our
eyes, it yearns for a ray of sun or star that it may weave into a
thought, or haply an impulse, which shall be unconscious and
very pure. And if our eyes bring it nothing, still will it know
how to turn its pitiful disillusion into something ineffable, that
it will conceal even till its death. When we love, how eagerly
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9559
does it drink in the light from behind the closed door! - keen
with expectation, it yet wastes not a minute, and the light that
steals through the apertures becomes beauty and truth to the
soul. But if the door open not, (and how many lives are there
wherein it does open? ) it will go back into its prison, and its
regret will perhaps be a loftier verity that shall never be seen;-
for we are now in the region of transformations whereof none
may speak; and though nothing born this side of the door can.
be lost, yet does it never mingle with our life.
I said just now that the soul changed into beauty the little
things we gave to it. It would even seem, the more we think of
it, that the soul has no other reason for existence, and that all its
activity is consumed in amassing, at the depths of us, a treasure
of indescribable beauty. Might not everything naturally turn into
beauty were we not unceasingly interrupting the arduous labors
of our soul? Does not evil itself become precious so soon as it
has gathered therefrom the deep-lying diamond of repentance?
The acts of injustice whereof you have been guilty, the tears you
have caused to flow, will not these end too by becoming so much
radiance and love in your soul? Have you ever cast your eyes
into this kingdom of purifying flame that is within you? Per-
haps a great wrong may have been done you to-day, the act
itself being mean and disheartening, the mode of action of the
basest, and ugliness wrapped you round as your tears fell. But
let some years elapse,—then give one look into your soul, and
tell me whether, beneath the recollection of that act, you see not
something that is already purer than thought: an indescribable,
unnamable force that has naught in common with the forces of
this world; a mysterious inexhaustible spring of the other life,
whereat you may drink for the rest of your days. And yet will
you have rendered no assistance to the untiring queen; other
thoughts will have filled your mind, and it will be without your
knowledge that the act will have been purified in the silence of
your being, and will have flown into the precious waters that lie
in the great reservoir of truth and beauty, which, unlike the
shallower reservoir of true or beautiful thoughts, has an ever
ruffled surface, and remains for all time out of reach of the
breath of life. Emerson tells us that there is not an act or
event in our life but sooner or later casts off its outer shell, and
bewilders us by its sudden flight, from the very depths of us, on
high into the empyrean. And this is true to a far greater extent
―
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MAURICE MAETERLINCK
than Emerson had foreseen; for the further we advance in these
regions, the diviner are the spheres we discover.
We can form no adequate conception of what this silent activ-
ity of the souls that surround us may really mean. Perhaps you
have spoken a pure word to one of your fellows, by whom it has
not been understood. You look upon it as lost, and dismiss it
from your mind. But one day, peradventure, the word comes up
again extraordinarily transformed, and revealing the unexpected
fruit it has borne in the darkness; then silence once more falls
over all. But it matters not; we have learned that nothing can
be lost in the soul, and that even to the very pettiest there
come moments of splendor. It is unmistakably borne home to
us that even the unhappiest and the most destitute of men
have at the depths of their being, and in spite of themselves, a
treasure of beauty that they cannot despoil. They have but to
acquire the habit of dipping into this treasure. It suffices not
that beauty should keep solitary festival in life; it has to become
a festival of every day. There needs no great effort to be ad-
mitted into the ranks of those "whose eyes no longer behold
earth in flower, and sky in glory, in infinitesimal fragments, but
indeed in sublime masses";- and I speak here of flowers and
sky that are purer and more lasting than those that we behold.
Thousands of channels there are through which the beauty of
our soul may sail even unto our thoughts. Above all is there
the wonderful central channel of love.
Is it not in love that are found the purest elements of beauty
that we can offer to the soul?
