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这样说可能言之有理，从一个世纪到一个世纪。悲剧诗人手擎诗歌之火炬在命运的迷途中游荡。依照时间之影响所及，这个方式触及到所有的人，确定了人类编年史的灵魂，这是一部最终沉静下来的神圣的历史。在孤独的诗人中间，我们能够追随这伟大的不变之力的无穷之改变；追随之，的确是饶有兴趣的，因为他们形成的这种力量的思想根源已被找到，可能，这是民族灵魂之本质。它是这样一种从未停止其存在之力，而且有时它处于蛰伏状态；如此一来，人们觉得生活既非活跃的，也非深奥的。只是一度它成为祈祷之目标；那时候，即便是为了神，它也是一种令人畏惧的神秘性。有一件正在奇怪消失之事——那是一个平凡的神性，似乎显得极为可怖和不可理解之时代，却是人类最为美好的时代，对于命运呈现出可怖外貌的人们，是人们中间最为幸福之人。这似乎是一个位于这一观念之下的神秘之力，抑或这个观念本身显示了它的力量。人们是否在此围绕于他的巨大的不可知性的辨认中谋求发展呢？今天，命运的观念似乎重新苏醒，前往搜寻之，可能是一无所用的。而它在何处可以发现？在命运中搜索——所巡是那些受苦受难之众乎？此间没有快乐之命运，没有预示幸福之星。这个星，只是被唤做忍耐之星。正逢其时，我们可以出发，去寻找我们的苦难，以至我们可能学习去知晓和赞美之；尽管这些大量的，不成型的命运之介子，最终也无法相遇。寻找我们的苦难，我们会很有效地寻找我们自身，我们可能真实地说道，我们的价值只是我们忧郁和不安的价值。当我们有所进展，他们之所为，可能变得更为深刻，高尚和更美；Marcus Aurelius受到的赞许，高于众人，因为，他优于众人，因为他理解，我们的内心深处。有许多谦和温顺的灵魂面带微笑。虽然人们同样还是苦难深重。他们沿着一条类似我们的苦难之路而行；其漫长而稳当，肯定通向终结者所了解之祖国。这条道路从一开始就充满身心之痛；它是上帝之畏的圆形，今天，它在新的深渊前止步，其深度，使得我们中听力最好者失聪。每一个世纪，都保持另一个世纪昂贵之悲哀，因为每一个世纪，都目睹了前一个世纪的命运。的确，我们对自己再无兴趣，正如对待过时之事，在激情之灾祸中；在以往悲剧大作中显示的悲痛之品质，次于今天之悲剧的品质。因为它对我们只有间接的诱惑力；唯其如此，带给我们的是他们炮制的简单的爱和恨之事件，据此反思痛苦，生活中高贵的伤感，已经在我们心中得以创造。有时侯它似乎表示我们是处于悲观主义之门口，神秘的，和极为纯粹的。这是更为可怕的舞台，叔本华，卡莱尔，俄国人，斯堪的那维亚人，和上帝的乐观主义者爱默生，同样（锐智的乐观主义者并不令人气綏），所有这些人，都经过了我们的忧郁和不可知阶段。我们觉得，他们试图在所有这些理性下面赋予我们，他们发现的，许多已经超越之的，许多更加深刻的理性。悲伤的人们，似乎比他们更美，还是容忍这种无限之高贵，直到天才发出最后一个悲哀，可能，整个净化之词，。。。。。。
届时，我们还是处于这一怪力的掌控之中，他们的意图是，我们处于占卜之前期。在新纪元伟大悲剧作家的时代，在莎士比亚，莱辛及其后继者的时代，所有的不幸，都来自心中热情之说很是流行。大灾难没有发生在两次世界大战之间：他们从此来至对岸，他们的出发点已经得知。男人总是主人。这类案例不及希腊时代，届时命运支配了至高点；但是，它是难以接近的，无人敢于过问的。今天，这是我们挑战的命运，这可能是新戏剧不同的注释。它不再是引起我们注意的灾难效果；它是灾难本身，我们热心去了解它的本质及其法律。这是早期悲剧作家热衷于写作之自然的灾害，全部是无意识，预前发生的写作，一如所是，虽然他们对此知之甚少，抛掷出围绕永久死亡之强硬和暴力姿态的庄严阴影；而且变成近代戏剧中的集聚点，成为光照于此，斑驳陆离之所在，使得男男女女之灵魂为之旋转。这朝向神秘的第一步已经跨出，以至生活之恐怖，可能呈上脸面。发现前此悲剧作家关注呈现自然灾害，是形成所有戏剧诗歌之本质，这一点饶有兴趣。他们的看法，更接近于希腊戏剧的视点，他们对内在圈子里的丰饶之黑暗，所见极深。神性，多半是雷同的；他们对之一无所解，而且他们的研究，居然如此接近。他们来往如斯，何以遗传到我们乎？这是一些困难，解决之，希腊人给予了思想。它写给我们的，或者，它和我们是在同一个时间产生的？抑或，其自身，正要前往这里，和我们相遇，抑或，它被我们心中珍爱之默许之声，所召唤？如若我们只是追随之，来自另一个世界之高低，越过其苦难之路，就会迫近！这里谈不上艰苦而行，虽然，他们多数是没有意识的，其本身的苦难方式，并非生活的轴心乎？
苏格兰农民有这样一种说法，可能应用于具体的存在。在其传说中，他们对男人心中之境遇，一个垂死者（Fey'）命名，尽管他已经全力以赴，尽管他接受了所有的规劝和帮助，他还是受到不可抵御之力量的强迫，朝向不可避免之灾祸。结果是James I.，James of Catherine Douglas离开时，陷入垂死之境遇，尽管地球，天体和地狱都有此预兆，在佩斯城堡的黑暗中，度过漆黑的圣诞节，在那里，他的暗杀，Robert
Graeme的背叛,藏身而等待他。我们中的一些人，回忆起他的决定性灾难的生活，而且他同样感觉到他自己着了魔吗？容易理解的是,他只是讲到其行为上的不幸，这些人可能已经有所防御：有一些被动的不幸（如我们爱戴之人的死亡），已经朝向我们，不会受到我们的任何运做的影响。想起你生活中致命的一天。我们都没有得到预先的警告；虽然命运可能被我们没有采取的步骤而改变，我们没有打开门，没有抬起我们的手，我们中的人，只是徒然地，在深渊的最高之崖壁上挣扎，争而无力，也无望，依靠一种无形而无力的能量乎？
打开之门，搅动了空气之喘息，夜晚，永远使得幸福销声匿迹，正如一盏暗淡无光之灯；而现在，我想到它，我不能告知我自己，我的无知。。。。。而且，对于我迈出门槛，毫无帮助。我将能够离去，耸耸我的肩膀：没有人有道理强迫我敲击嵌板。没有人有道理，除去命运。。。。。。
　　 这里仍旧有一些和?ipus之命运类同之处，而且它已经有所不同。人们可能会说，这就是看到ab intra的，同样的命运。神秘之力在控制我们,这似乎是我们冒险的同盟。我们都珍爱我们灵魂中的敌人。他们知道我们该作什么，以及他们强迫我们该如何作，当他们将我们导入这样的事实，他们的一半沉入——全然为警告之词——在路上只有少数人阻止我们——而且有充分的理由使我们后悔，但那已经过迟，对其摇摆不定和具有讽刺的建议，我们没有聆听，以便便付出更多的注意。他们目的何在，这些寻找我们毁灭的力量，尽管是一种自我存在，且并非要使我们毁灭，看看他们的生活是否在我们心中？何为全部宇宙联盟启动之动机？谁养肥了我们的血液？
　　为不幸时刻的人们发出的声音，被无形的旋风抓获，多少年以前，这股力量已经融合了将他带向必然一刻的无数事件，那正是让他等待而泪水涟涟之地。记起所有这些努力，你所有的预感，所有的无能为力。还记起你获同情的处境，试图阻碍了你的道路，但是你推开他们像冲出纠缠你的乞丐。而这是一些谦卑的，羞怯的姊妹，她们只是想解救于你，他们远离而去，未置一词，对于抗争那些已然定夺之事显得太脆弱，太无助了。。。。。。那里可以决定单独认识上帝之事，。。。。。。与我们服从永久法律的奇特感觉相比，灾难很少会降临到我们身上；在痛中之痛，我知道没有什么神秘的安慰，会因为我们的服从而犒劳我们。当我们一朝面对灾难的时候，只靠我们自己是完全不行的。虽然那时候我们已经重新发现了自身，虽然我们已经赢得了自身必需和未知的一部分。一种古怪的宁静窃取了我们。时过境迁，几乎一无所识，尽管我们还能够面对花，面对微笑，我们灵魂中反叛的力量已经发动了一场位于深渊附近的战斗，现在，我们已经所陷甚深，完全自由呼吸。结果，如果不是熟睡，一种反叛的力量在我们每一个人的灵魂里抗争；届时我们可以看见这些战斗的阴影，其中我们的灵魂未做反抗，我们未加注意，因为我们对所有所作所为闭上了眼睛，除去那些微不足道的努力。每每当我周围的朋友发现在我们笑谈当中，会突然呈现一副他们中宛如世外的面孔。一种毫无指向的沉默将立即压倒一切，一秒钟的时空，用灵魂之眼望去，一切将是无意识的。于是，词汇和微笑，会像受惊的青瓦在湖中消失，重新爬上水面，比以前更为狂躁。但却是无形的，到处都是，聚合起它的颂词。有时侯，可以看成一场战斗已经过去了，星辰升而复降，一种命运已经被决定。。。。。。
也许，它早就定下了；人们不知道斗争是否只是一个影幻？如若我推开今天的房门，遇见第一个悲哀的微笑，我知道，这一切尚未结束，我长时间所为其事而非幻想。这样做有助于培养一种利己主义，关乎于此，我们所受影响很小吗？它是我们理应看到的我们之星。它之好，坏，暗淡或强大，并非有赖于使其改变的大海的力量。一些人信心十足地和星星玩耍，一如他们玩一种玻璃球。他们以其规则抛而赌之；确信它会回到手中。他们充分知晓它不会坏掉。但是其中许多人不敢向星星抬起他们的眼睛，除非它从太空分离而落入脚边之尘。。。。。。
谈论星星是危险的，即便想一想也是如此；因为它经常是已经消失的记号。。。。。。
我们在深渊之晚发现我们自己，我们在那里等待着生存（to be）。这里不再有自由意志之提问，我们留下了数以千计的联盟：我们处在命运本身是成熟之果实的地带。我们不应该抱怨；事物已经了解了我们，我们已经发现了少数未来的路。我们像研究鸟而迁徙的捕鸟人一样等待着，有一件事在地平线上被告知，我们了解到它不再是孤独的，而其弟兄将成群结队地涌入同一场所的军队。我们含糊地了解到，这里确实有一种思想，一种灵魂，一种有吸引力的事件，有一些在其逃跑中使得事情逆转之人士，正如一些人可以从地球的四面八方积聚而来。
综上所为，我们知道这个确定的观念是极为危险的；我们唯一可做的事是立即相信我们是安全的，这一孤独的满足会招致雷电；我们知道幸福创造了一个空间，而泪水，会在这里马上落如流水。过一段时间后，我们还会了解到事情的选择性。它马上会把家带给我们，如果我们朝着生活之路，在我们这个弟兄之旁前进一步的话，致富之路不再是千篇一律的，但是，对于其他人而言，我们的存在会遭遇恒久不变之事实，进入正常的规则。我们觉得这里有些存在中人，受到无知之保护，另一些人，则将我们拖向危险；我们觉得，一些人唤醒了未来，另一些人，则麻醉不醒。我们怀疑，深深地，他们与生俱来都是脆弱的，他们从我们这里汲取力量，在每一次冒险行为中，在一个短暂的时刻，我们的本能告知我们，我们还是命运的主人。从好处言，我们中的一些人
挑战性声称，我们可以学会生存得幸福，正如我们会好起来，正如我们遇见了心灵高尚的人；那人易于引起善意的关注，具有不可抵御之魅力，意善如人，其间有个美丽的灵魂，可悲的命运已经转化为美。。。。。。的确，并非在我们的知识中存在善良，而敲击善良之门，那些自身献身于自身者，总是一样的；他们总是一样的，我们背叛过他们吗？当同样的悲伤敲击两个邻居之门，在公平和不公平的房里，其行为方式会是一样的吗？如果你是纯粹的，你的不幸，也是纯粹的吗？已知如何将过去带入悲哀的微笑——这并非未来的主人乎？似乎不是那样，甚至在不可避免当中，有些事情我们可以阻止乎？最严重的冒险，会在我们地平线上醒来之突然的一刻展现；这个不幸会降落你身乎，这一思想今早保留在你灵魂之过于喧嚣的节日中乎？这就是我们的智慧在黑暗中所能搜集到的一切吗？他们确信，在此领域中，会有更加坚实之真理乎？其间让我们了解如何微笑，如何哭泣，如何在谦卑温良中沉默。慢慢地，这里浮现出今天围绕其脸面的命运之事。此前它是被遮蔽的，分秒之隅已被提升，那里面纱尽除，我们辨而识之，我们的不安，在此一方面，这些尚未生活之人，在另一方面，是死亡之力量。神秘已经从我们这里深层转移。我们放大了这双命运的冰掌；我们发现，在其阴影中，我们祖先的手，被未有出生的我们儿子的手抓住。这一幕一度使我们相信，有一个我们所有权利的避难所，爱情保留了生活中被链锁而不堪重负的所有这些人的超级庇护所。这里，至少在这孤独的庙宇中，我们告知自己，无人带我们进而入之。这里，片刻时间，我们可以呼吸；这里，至少，它是我们的灵魂受到支配之地，自由，是自由腹地的选择！但是现在，我们被告知，这并不是缘于我们自身爱的结果。我们被告知，在每一个爱之庙堂，我们都不会服从于可见人群之通常的规则。我们被告知，在数个世纪以来，我们被分隔于自身，是因为我们选择所爱之女，已定婚者的第一次亲吻，只是数千双手的封条，渴望出生，对他们可望的母亲的嘴唇，留下印象。进而言之，我们知道死者不会死亡。我们现在知道，并不是在教堂里，他们才被发现，而是在我们所有人的房子里，习惯中。在那里，没有表示，思想，罪恶，眼泪，没有在地球深处丧失的，已获意识之原子；在起因于我们祖先的，我们的行为之无意义中，不是在他们无法移动的坟墓中，而只是在我们自身中，他们总是活着。。。。。。
结果是，我们被未来和过去引导。而现在，他们是我们的物质，向海底沉没，两者像在互相冲撞的海洋之间，被不断地互相咬噬。遗传，意志，命运，都混在我们的灵魂里喧嚣；但是，尽管设计一切，超越一切，它还是有支配地位的沉默之星。无论我们在当代畸形之瓶上如何装饰含而无形的标签，词汇对应该言说之事，总是无话以应。遗传，不，命运本身，它不过是星之闪光，此一光芒正在天之高处消失乎？所有这些可能比神秘还要得当。“我们给所有限制我们的命运命名，”我们时代最伟大的贤者如是说：所以，它使我们对所有他们在疆域之途上的探索心存感激。“如果我们是残忍的野蛮的，”他还说，“命运采取了一种残忍和野蛮的形式。当文雅盼顾我们，我们的灾难也变得文雅。如果我们提升精神的文化，对抗性地将其纳入精神的形式。”这可能是真实的，一如我们的灵魂飞向高处，以至使得命运纯化，虽然我们还是受到完全同等的，无可非议的悲哀之威胁，而精神，当它升起的时候，它会发现更多，在每一条地平线上。“我们给所有限制我们的命运命名”。我们只要尽力而为，命运可能变得不那么画地为牢。对于放大的悲哀，这有好处，因为放大，接近我们的灵魂，而在那里，我们的孤独所为，令我们感觉到我们的生命。而且这还意味着，我们会向另一个世界，负起巨大的责任；既然它是一种关于我们孤独的，对增强我们的地球意识负有责任的可能性。

WELL might it be said that, from
century to century. a tragic poet
'has wondered through the labyrinths of
destiny with the torch of poesy in his
hand.' For in this way has each one,
according to the forces of his hour, fixed
the soul of the annals of man, and it is
divine history that has thus been composed.
It is in the poets alone that we can follow
the countless variations of the great
unchanging power; and to follow them is
indeed interesting, for at the root of the
idea that they have formed of this power
is to be found, perhaps, the purest essence
of a nation's soul. It is a power that has



never entirely ceased to be, yet moments
there are when it scarcely seems to stir;
and at such moments one feels that life is
neither very active nor very profound.
Once only has it been the object of
undivided worship; then was it, even for the
gods, an awe-inspiring mystery. And
there is a thing that is passing strange--it
was the very period when the featureless
divinity seemed most terrible and most
incomprehensible that was the most
beautiful period of mankind, and the people to
whom destiny wore the most formidable
aspect were the happiest people of all.
It would seem that a secret force must
underlie this idea, or that the idea is itself
the manifestation of a force. Does man
develop in the measure that he recognizes
the greatness of the unknown that sways
him, or is it the unknown that develops
in proportion to the man ? Today the
idea of destiny would seem to be again





awakening, and to go forth in search of it
were perhaps no unprofitable quest. But
where shall it be found ? To go in search
of destiny--what is this but to seek all the
sorrows of man ? There is no destiny of
joy, no star that bodes of happiness. The
star that is so called is only a star of
forbearance. Yet is it well that we should
sally forth at times in search of our
sorrows, 'so that we may learn to know
them and admire them; and this eyen
though the great shapeless mass of destiny
be not encountered at the end.
Seeking our sorrows, we shall be the
most effectively seeking ourselves, for
truly may it be said that the value of
ourselves is but the value of our melancholy
and our disquiet. As we progress, so do
they become deeper, nobler and more
beautiful; and Marcus Aurelius is to be
admired above all men, because, better than
all men, has he understood how much there



is of the soul in the meek resigned smile it
must wear, at the depths of us. Thus is
it, too, with the sorrows of humanity.
They follow a road which resembles the
road of our own sorrows; but it is longer,
and surer, and must lead to fatherlands
that the last comers alone shall know.
This road also has physical sorrow for its
starting-Point; it has only just rounded
the fear of the gods, and to-day it halts by
a new abyss, whose depths the very best of
us have not yet sounded.
Each century holds another sorrow dear,
for each century discerns another destiny.
Certain it is that we no longer interest
ourselves, as was formerly the case, in the
catastrophes of passion; and the quality
of the sorrow revealed in the most tragic
masterpieces of the past is inferior to the
quality of the sorrows of to-day. It is
only indirectly that these tragedies abduct
us now; only by means of that which is



brought to bear on the simple accidents of
love or hatred they reproduce, by the
reflection and new nobility of sentiment
that the pain of living has created
within us.
There are moments when it would seem
as though we were on the threshold of a
new pessimism, mysterious and, perhaps,
very pure. The most redoubtable sages,
Schopenhauer, Carlyle, the Russians, the
Scandinavians, and the good optimist
Emerson, too (for than a wilful optimist
there is nothing more discouraging), all
these have passed our melancholy by,
unexplained. We feel that, underlying all
the reasons they have essayed to give us,
there are many other profounder reasons,
whose discovery has been beyond them.
The sadness of man, which seemed
beautiful even to them, is still susceptible of
infinite ennobling, until at last a creature
of genius shall have uttered the final word




of the sorrow that shall, perhaps, wholly
purify....
In the meanwhile, we are in the hands of
strange powers, whose intentions we are
on the eve of divining. At the time of
the great tragic writers of the new era, at
the time of Shakespeare, Racine, and their
successors, the belief prevailed that all
misfortunes came from the various passions
of the heart. Catastrophes did not hover
between two worlds: they came hence to
go thither, and their point of departure
was known. Man was always the master.
Much less was this the case at the time of
the Greeks, for then did fatality reign on
the heights; but it was inaccessible, and
none dared interrogate it. To-day it is
fatality that we challenge, and this is
Perhaps the distinguishing note of the new
theatre. It is no longer the effects of
disaster that arrest our attention; it is
disaster itself, and we are eager to know its



essence and its laws. It was the nature of
disaster with which the earliest tragic
writers were, all unconsciously, preoccupied,
and this it was that, though they knew it
not, threw a solemn shadow round the hard
and violent gestures of external death; and
it is this, too, that has become the rallying
point of the most recent dramas, the centre
of light with strange flames gleaming,
about which revolve the souls of women and
of men. And a step has been taken towards
the mystery so that life's terrors may be
looked in the face.
It would be interesting to discover from
what point of view our latest tragic writers
appear to regard the disaster that forms the
basis of all dramatic poems. They see it
from a nearer point of vision than the
Greeks, and they have penetrated deeper
into the fertile darknesses of its inner
circle. The divinity is perhaps the same;
they know nothing of it, yet do they study



it more closely. Whence does it come,
whither does it go, why does it descend
upon us ? These were problems to which
the Greeks barely gave a thought. Is it
written within us, or is it born at the same
time as ourselves? Does it of its own
accord start forward to meet us, or is
it summoned by conniving voices that
we cherish at the depths of us? If we
could but follow, from the heights of
another world, the ways of the man over
whom a great sorrow is impending ! And
what man is there that does not
laboriously, though all unconsciously, himself
fashion the sorrow that is to be the pivot
of his life ?
The Scotch peasants have a word that
might be applied to every existence. In
their legends they give the name of' Fey'
to the frame of mind of a man who,
notwithstanding all his efforts, notwithstanding
all help and advice, is forced by some
irresistible impulse, towards an inevitable
catastrophe. It is thus that James I., the
James of Catherine Douglas, was' fey'
when he went, notwithstanding the terrible
omens of earth, heaven and hell, to spend the
Christmas holidays in the gloomy castle of
Perth, where his assassin, the traitor Robert
Graeme, lay in wait for him. Which of us,
recalling the circumstances of the most
decisive misfortune of his life, but has felt
himself similarly possessed? Be it well
understood that I speak here only of active
misfortunes, of those that might have
been prevented: for there are passive
misfortunes (such as the death of a person
we adore) which simply come towards us,
and cannot be influenced by any movement
of ours. Bethink you of the fatal day of
your life. Have we not all been
forewarned; and though it may seem to
us now that destiny might have been
changed by a step we did not take, a door



we did not open, a hand we did not raise,
which of us but has struggled vainly on the
topmost walls of the abyss, struggled
without vigour and without hope, against a
force that was invisible and apparently
without power ?
The breath of air stirred by the door I
opened, one evening, was for ever to
extinguish my happiness, as it would have
extinguished a flickering lamp; and now,
when I think of it, I cannot tell myself
that I did not know.... And yet, it
was nothing important that had taken me
to the threshold. I could have gone away,
shrugging my shoulders: there was no
human reason that could force me to knock
on the panel. No human reason, nothing
but destiny....

*
Herein there is still some resemblance to
the fatality of Œipus, and yet is it already
different. One might say that it is this



same fatality seen ab intra Mysterious
powers hold sway within us, and these
would seem to be in league with adventures.
We all cherish enemies within our soul.
They know what they do and what they
force us to do, and when they lead us to
the event, they let fall half-uttered words
of warning--too few to stop us on the
road--but sufficient to make us regret,
when it is too late, that we did not listen
more attentively to their wavering, ironical
advice. What object can they have, these
powers that seek our destruction as though
they were self-existing and did not perish
with us, seeing that it is in us only that
they have life? What is it that sets in
motion all the confederates of the universe,
who fatten on our blood ?
The man for whom the hour of
misfortune has sounded is caught up by an
invisible whirlwind, and for years back
have these powers been combining the



innumerable incidents that must bring him
to the necessary moment, to the exact
spot where tears lie in wait for him.
Remember all your efforts, all your
presentiments, all the unavailing offers of help.
Remember, too, the kindly circumstances
that pitied you, and tried to bar your
passage, but you thrust them aside like so
many importunate beggars. And yet were
they humble, timid sisters, who desired but
to save you, and they went away without
saying a word, too weak and too helpless
to struggle against decided thing---where
decided it is known to God alone....
Scarcely has the disaster befallen us than
we have the strange sensation of having
obeyed an eternal law; and, in the midst
o f the greatest sorrow, there is I know not
what mysterious comfort that rewards us
for our obedience. Never do we belong
more completely to ourselves than on the
morrow of an irreparable catastrophe. It



seems, then, as though we had found
ourselves again, as though we had won
back a part of ourselves that was necessary
and unknown. A curious calm steals over
us. For days past, almost without our
knowledge, notwithstanding that we were
able to smile at faces and flowers, the rebel
forces of our soul had been waging terrible
battle on the borders of the abyss, and
now that we are at the depths of it, all
breathes freely.
Even thus, without respite, do these rebel
forces struggle in the soul of every one of
us; and there are times when we may see
the shadow of these combats wherein our
soul may not intervene, but we pay no
heed, for to all save the unimportant do
we shut our eyes. At a time when my
friends are about me it may happen that,
in the midst of talk and shouts of laughter,
there shall suddenly steal over the face of
one of them something that is not of this



world. A motiveless silence shall instantly
prevail, and for a second's space all shall be
unconsciously looking forth with the eyes
of the soul. Whereupon, the words and
smiles, that had disappeared like frightened
frogs in a lake, will again mount to the
surface, more violent than before. But the
invisible, here as everywhere, has gathered
its tribute. Something has understood that
a fight was over, that a star was rising or
falling and that a destiny had just been
decided....
Perhaps it had been decided before; and
who knows whether the struggle be not a
mere simulacrum ? If I push open to-day the
door of the house wherein I am to meet
the first smiles of a sorrow that shall know
no end, I do these things for a longer time
than one imagines. Of what avail to
cultivate an ego on which we have so little
influence ? It is our star which it behoves
us to watch. It is good or bad, pallid or



puissant, and not by all the might of the
sea can it be changed. Some there are who
may confidently play with their star as one
might play with a glass ball. They may
throw it and hazard it where they list;
faithfully will it ever return to their hands.
They know full well that it cannot be
broken. But there are many others who
dare not eyen raise their eyes towards
their star, without it detach itself from
the firmament and fall in dust at their
feet....
But it is dangerous to speak of the star,
dangerous eyen to think of it; for it is
often the sign that it is on the point of
extinction....
We find ourselves here in the abysses
of night, where we await what has to be.
There is no longer question of free will,
which we have left thousands of leagues
below: we are in a region where the will
itself is but destiny's ripest fruit. We



must not complain; something is already
known to us, and we have discovered a
few of the ways of fortune. We lie in
wait like the birdcatcher studying the
habits of migratory birds, and when an
event is signalled on the horizon we know
full well that it will not remain there alone,
but that its brothers will flock in troops to
the same spot. Vaguely have we learned
that there are certain thoughts, certain
souls, that attract events; that some
beings there are who divert events in
their flight, as there are others who cause
them to congregate from the four quarters
of the globe.
Above all do we know that certain ideas
are fraught with extreme danger; that do
we but for an instant deem ourselves in
safety, this alone suffices to draw down the
thunderbolt; we know that happiness
creates a void, into which tears will speedily
be hurled. After a time, too, we learn



something of the preferences of events. It
is soon borne home to us that if we take a
few steps along the path of life by the side
of this one of our brothers, the ways of
fortune will no longer be the same, whereas,
with this other, our existence will encounter
unvarying events, coming in regular order.
We feel that some beings there are who
protect in the unknown, others who drag
us into danger there; we feel that there are
some who awaken the future, others who
lull it into slumber. We suspect, further,
that things at their birth are but feeble,
that they draw their force from within us,
and that, in every adventure, there is a
brief moment when our instinct warns us
that we are still the lords of destiny. In
fine, there are some who dare assert that
we can learn to be happy, that, as we
become better, so do we meet men of loftier
mind; that a man who is good attracts,
with irresistible force, events as good as he,



and that in, a beautiful soul, the saddest
fortune is transformed into beauty....
Indeed, is it not within the knowledge
of us all that goodness beckons to
goodness, and that those for whom we devote
ourselves are always the same; that they
are always the same, those whom we betray?
When the same sorrow knocks at two
adjoining doors, at the houses of the just
and the unjust, will its method of action be
identical in both? If you are pure, will
not your misfortunes be pure ? To have
known how to change the past into a few
saddened smiles--is this not to master the
future ? And does it not seem that, even
in the inevitable, there is something we can
keep back ? Do not great hazards lie
dormant that a too sudden movement of
ours may awaken on the horizon; and
would this misfortune have befallen you
today, but for the thoughts that this morning
kept too noisy festival in your soul ? Is



this all that our wisdom has been able to
glean in the darkness? Who would dare
affirm that in these regions there be more
substantial truths ? In the meanwhile, let
us learn how to smile, let us learn how to
weep, in the silence of humblest kindliness.
Slowly there rises above these things the
shrouded face of the destiny of to-day. Of
the yell that formerly covered it, a minute
corner has been lifted, and there, where the
veil is not, do we recognize, to our disquiet,
on the one side, the power of those who live
not yet, on the other, the power of the dead.
The mystery has again been shifted further
from us--that is all. We have enlarged
the icy hand of destiny; and we find that,
in its shadow, the hands of our ancestors
are clasped by the hands of our sons yet
nuborn. One act there was that we deemed
the sanctuary of all our rights, and love
remained the supreme refuge of all those
on whom the chains of life weighed too



heavily. Here, at least, in the isolation of
this secret temple, we told ourselves that no
one entered with us. Here, for an instant,
we could breathe; here, at last, it was our
soul that reigned, and free was its choice in
that which was the centre of liberty itself!
But now we are told that it is not for our
own sake that we love. We are told that
in the very temple of love we do but obey
the unvarying orders of an invisible throng.
We are told that a thousand centuries
divide us from ourselves when we choose the
woman we love, and that the first kiss of
the betrothed is but the seal that thousands
of hands, craving for birth, impress upon
the lips of the mother they desire. And,
further, we know that the dead do not
die. We know now that it is not in our
churches that they are to be found, hi t in
the houses, the habits, of us all. That
there is not a gesture, a thought, a sin, a
tear, an atom of acquired consciousness



that is lost in the depths of the earth; and
that at the most insignificant of our acts our
ancestors arise, not in their tombs where
they move not, but in ourselves, where they
always live....
Thus are we led by past and future.
And the present, which is the substance of
us, sinks to the bottom of the sea, like
some tiny island at which two irreconcilable
oceans have been unceasingly gnawing.
Heredity, will, destiny, all mingle noisily
in our soul; but, notwithstanding
everything, far above everything, it is the silent
star that reigns. No matter with what
temporary labels we may bedeck the
monstrous vases that contain the invisible,
words can tell us scarcely anything of that
which should be told. Heredity, nay
destiny itself, what are these but a ray of
this star, a ray that is lost in the mysterious
hight ? And all that is might well be more
mysterious still. 'We give the name of



destiny to all that limits us,' says one of
the great sages of our time: wherefore it
behoves us to be grateful to all those who
tremblingly grope their way the side of the
frontier.' If we are brutal and barbarous,'
he goes on,' fatality takes a form that is
brutal and barbarous. As refinement comes
to us, so do our mishaps become refined.
If we rise to spiritual culture, antagonism
takes unto itself a spiritual form.' It is
perhaps true that even as our soul soars
aloft, so does it purify destiny, although it
is also true that we are menaced by the
selfsame sorrows that menace the savages
But we have other sorrows of which they
have no suspicion; and the spirit, as it
rises, does but discover still more, at every
horizon. 'We give the name of destiny
to all that limits us.' Let us do our
utmost that destiny become not too
circumscribed. It is good to enlarge one's sorrows,
since thus does enlargement come to our




consciousness, and there, there alone do we
truly feel that we live. And it is also the
only means of fulfilling our supreme duty
towards other worlds; since it is probably
on us alone that it is incumbent to augment
the consciousness of the earth.







初译自梅特林克/谦卑之富/