IT IS night. I might well be in my bed taking a needed rest. But first I shall write.
To-day I walked far away over the sand in the teeth of a bitter wind. The wind was determined that I should turn and come back, and equally I was determined I would go on. I went on.
There is a certain kind of wind in the autumn to walk in the midst of which causes one's spirits to rise ecstatically. To walk in the midst of a bitter wind in January may have almost any effect.
To-day the bitter wind swept over me and around me and into the remote corners of my brain and swept away the delusions, and buffeted my philosophy with rough insolence.
The world is made up mostly of nothing. You may be convinced of this when a bitter wind has swept away your delusions.
What is the wind?
Nothing.
What is the sky?
Nothing.
What do we know?
Nothing.
What is fame?
Nothing.
What is my heart?
Nothing.
What is my soul?
Nothing.
What are we?
We are nothing.
We think we progress wonderfully in the arts and sciences as one century follows another. What does it amount to? It does not teach us the all-why. It does not let us cease to wonder what it is that we are doing, where it is that we are going. It does not teach us why the green comes again to the old, old hills in the spring; why the benign balm-o'-Gilead shines wet and sweet after the rain; why the red never fails to come to the breast of the robin, the black to the crow, the gray to the little wren; why the sand and barrenness lies stretched out around us; why the clouds float high above us; why the moon stands in the sky, night after night; why the mountains and valleys live on as the years pass.
The arts and sciences go on and on—still we wonder. We have not yet ceased to weep. And we suffer still in 1902, even as they suffered in 1802, and in 802.
To-day we eat our good dinners with forks.
A thousand years ago they had no forks.
Yet, though we have forks, we are not happy. We scream and kick and struggle and weep just as they did a thousand years ago—when they had no forks.
We are "no wiser than when Omar fell asleep."
And in the midst of our great wondering, we wonder why some of us are given faith to trust without question, while the rest of us are left to eat out our life's vitals with asking.
I have walked once in summer by the side of a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn. The mint and white hawthorn have with them a vivid, rare, delicious perfume. It makes you want to grovel on the ground—it makes you think you might crawl in the dust all your days, and well for you. The perfume lingers with you afterward when years have passed. You may scream and kick and struggle and weep right lustily every day of your life, but in your moments of calmness sometimes there will come back to you the fragrance of a swamp filled with mint and white hawthorn.
It is meltingly beautiful.
What does it mean?
What would it tell?
Why does the marsh, and the mint and white hawthorn, freeze over in the fall? And why do they come again, voluptuous, enticing, in the damp spring days—and rack the souls of wretches who look and wonder?
You are superb, Devil! You have done a magnificent piece of work. I kneel at your feet and worship you. You have wrought a perfection, a pinnacle of fine, invisible damnation.
The world is like a little marsh filled with mint and white hawthorn. It is filled with things likewise damnably beautiful. There are the green, green grass-blades and the gray dawns; there are swiftly-flowing rivers and the honking of wild geese, flying low; there are human voices and human eyes; there are stories of women and men who have learned to give up and to wait; there is poetry; there is Charity; there is Truth.
The Devil has made all of these things, and also he has made human beings who can feel.
Who was it that said, long ago, "Life is always a tragedy to those who feel"?
In truth, the Devil has constructed a place of infinite torture—the fair green earth, the world.
But he has made that other infinite thing—Happiness. I forgive him for making me wonder, since possibly he may bring me Happiness. I cast myself at his feet. I adore him.
The first third of our lives is spent in the expectation of Happiness. Then it comes, perhaps, and stays ten years, or a month, or three days, and the rest of our lives is spent in peace and rest—with the memory of the Happiness.
Happiness—though it is infinite—is a transient emotion.
It is too brilliant, too magnificent, too overwhelming to be a lasting thing. And it is merely an emotion. But, ah—such an emotion! Through it the Devil rules his domains. What would one not do to have it!
I can think of no so-called vile deed that I would scruple about if I could be happy. Everything is justified if it gives me Happiness. The Devil has done me some great favors; he has made me without a conscience, and without Virtue.
For which I thank thee, Devil.
At least I shall be able to take my Happiness when it comes—even though the piles of nice distinctions between it and me be mountains high.
But meanwhile, the world, I say, and the people are nothing, nothing, nothing. The splendid castles, the strong bridges, that we are building are of small moment. We can only go down the wide roadway wondering and weeping, and without where to lay our heads.