lent and
happy party, on a terrace in the dusk of a warm summer night, and how
one of those present called to the owls that were hooting in the hanging
wood above the house, so that they drew near in answer to the call,
flying noiselessly, and suddenly uttering their plaintive notes from
the heart of the great chestnut on the lawn. Below I can see the dewy
glimmering fields, the lights of the little port, the pale sea-line. It
seems now all impossibly beautiful and tranquil; but I know that even
then it was often marred by disappointments, and troubles, and fears.
Little anxieties that have all melted softly into the past, that were
easily enough borne, when it came to the point, yet, looming up as they
did in the future, filled the days with the shadow of fear. That is the
phantom that one ought to lay, if it can be laid. And is there
hidden somewhere any well of healing, any pure source of strength and
refreshment, from which we can drink and be calm and brave? That is a
question which each has to answer tor himself. For myself, I can only
say that strength is sometimes given, sometimes denied. How foolish to
be anxious! Yes, but how inevitable! If the beauty and the joy of the
world gave one assurance in dark hours that all was certainly well, the
pilgrimage would be an easy one. But can one be optimistic by resolving
to be? One can of course control oneself, one can let no murmur of pain
escape one, one can even enunciate deep and courageous maxims, because
one would not trouble the peace of others, waiting patiently till the
golden mood returns. But what if the desolate conviction forces itself
upon the mind that sorrow is the truer thing? What if one tests one's
own experience, and sees that, under the pressure of sorrow, one after
another of the world's lights are extinguished, health, and peace, and
beauty, and delight, till one asks oneself whether sorrow is not perhaps
the truest and most actual thing of all? That is the ghastliest of
moments, when everything drops from us but fear and horror, when we
think that we have indeed found truth at last, and that the answer to
Pilate's bitter question is that pain is the nearest thing to truth
because it is the strongest. If I felt that, says the reluctant heart,
I should abandon myself to despair. No, says sterner reason, you would
bear it because you cannot escape from it. Into whatever depths of
despair you fell, you would still be upheld by the law that bids you be