he regions unlit by her rays, obscure life
continues. This troubles her not; indeed, she is glad. ... She knows
that, in the eyes of the God she desires all that has not yet crossed
her arcade of light--be it dream, be it thought, even act--can add
nothing to, can take nothing from, the ideal creature she is craving to
mould. She watches the flame of her lamp; needs must it burn brightly,
and remain at its post, and be seen from afar. She listens, untroubled,
to the murmur of inferior instincts out there in the darkness. But the
prisoners slowly awake; there are some who draw nigh to the threshold,
and their radiance is greater than hers. There flows from them a light
less material, softer and purer than that of the bold, hard flame which
her hand protects. They are the inscrutable powers of goodness and
love; and others follow behind, more mysterious still, and more
infinite, seeking admission. What shall she do? If, at the time that
she took her stand there on the threshold, she had still lacked the
courage to learn that she could not exist alone, then will she be
troubled, afraid; she will make fast the gates; and should these be
ever reopened, she would find only quivering cinders at the foot of the
gloomy stairs. But if her strength be unshaken; if from all that she
could not learn she has learned, at least, that in light there can
never be danger, and that reason itself may be freely staked where
greater brightness prevails--then shall ineffable changes take place on
the threshold, from lamp unto lamp. Drops of an unknown oil will blend
with the oil of the wisdom of man; and when the white strangers have
passed, the flame of her lamp shall rise higher, transformed for all
time; shall shed purer and mightier radiance amidst the columns of the
loftier doorway.

34. So much for isolated wisdom; now let us return to the wisdom that
moves to the grave in the midst of the mighty crowd of human destinies;
for the destiny of the sage holds not aloof from that of the wicked and
frivolous. All destinies are for ever commingling; and the adventure is
rare in whose web the hempen thread blends not with the golden. There
are misfortunes more gradual, less frightful of aspect, than those that
befell Oedipus and the prince of Elsinore; misfortunes that quail not
beneath the gaze of truth or justice or love. Those who speak of the
profit of wisdom are never so wise as when they freely admit, without
pride or heart-burning, that w