y is seen to be loyalty, for ever astray from the highway of
happiness; and hatred becomes only love, in poignant despair, that is
digging its grave. Then, unsuspected of any, shall it be with all those
who are near the good man as it was with the penitent thief; into the
humblest soul that will thus have been saved by a look, or a word, or a
silence, shall the true happiness fall--the happiness fate cannot
touch; that brings to all men the oblivion it gave unto Socrates, and
causes each one to forget, until nightfall, that the death--giving cup
had been drained ere the sun went down.

36. The inner life, perhaps, is not what we deem it to be. There are as
many kinds of inner lives as there are of external lives. Into these
tranquil regions the smallest may enter as readily as he who is
greatest, for the gate that leads thither is not always the gate of the
intellect. It often may happen that the man of vast knowledge shall
knock at this gate in vain, reply being made from within by the man who
knows nothing. The inner life that is surest, most lasting, possessed
of the uttermost beauty, must needs be the one that consciousness
slowly erects in itself, with the aid of all that is purest in the
soul. And he is wise who has learned that this life should be nourished
on every event of the day: he to whom deceit or betrayal serves but to
enhance his wisdom: he in whom evil itself becomes fuel for the flame
of love. He is wise who at last sees in suffering only the light that
it sheds on his soul; and whose eyes never rest on the shadow it casts
upon those who have sent it towards him. And wiser still is the man to
whom sorrow and joy not only bring increase of consciousness, but also
the knowledge that something exists superior to consciousness even. To
have reached this point is to reach the summit of inward life, whence
at last we look down on the flames whose light has helped our ascent.
But not many can climb so high; and happiness may be achieved in the
less ardent valley below, where the flames spring darkly to life. And
there are existences still more obscure which yet have their places of
refuge. There are some that instinctively fashion inward lives for
themselves. There are some that, bereft of initiative or of
intelligence, never discover the path that leads into themselves, and
are never aware of all that their refuge contains; and yet will their
actions be wholly the same as the actions of those whose intellect