Counsels and Maxims | Page 8

expectation. This is the true meaning of
that song of Goethe's which is such a favorite with everyone: _Ich hab'
mein' Sach' auf nichts gestellt_. It is only after a man has got rid of all
pretension, and taken refuge in mere unembellished existence, that he is
able to attain that peace of mind which is the foundation of human
happiness. Peace of mind! that is something essential to any enjoyment
of the present moment; and unless its separate moments are enjoyed,
there is an end of life's happiness as a whole. We should always collect
that _To-day_ comes only once, and never returns. We fancy that it will
come again to-morrow; but _To-morrow_ is another day, which, in its
turn, comes once only. We are apt to forget that every day is an integral,
and therefore irreplaceable portion of life, and to look upon life as
though it were a collective idea or name which does not suffer if one of
the individuals it covers is destroyed.
We should be more likely to appreciate and enjoy the present, if, in
those good days when we are well and strong, we did not fail to reflect
how, in sickness and sorrow, every past hour that was free from pain
and privation seemed in our memory so infinitely to be envied--as it
were, a lost paradise, or some one who was only then seen to have
acted as a friend. But we live through our days of happiness without
noticing them; it is only when evil comes upon us that we wish them
back. A thousand gay and pleasant hours are wasted in ill-humor; we
let them slip by unenjoyed, and sigh for them in vain when the sky is
overcast. Those present moments that are bearable, be they never so
trite and common,--passed by in indifference, or, it may be, impatiently
pushed away,--those are the moments we should honor; never failing to
remember that the ebbing tide is even how hurrying them into the past,
where memory will store them transfigured and shining with an
imperishable light,--in some after-time, and above all, when our days
are evil, to raise the veil and present them as the object of our fondest
regret.
SECTION 6. Limitations always make for happiness. We are happy in
proportion as our range of vision, our sphere of work, our points of
contact with the world, are restricted and circumscribed. We are more

likely to feel worried and anxious if these limits are wide; for it means
that our cares, desires and terrors are increased and intensified. That is
why the blind are not so unhappy as we might be inclined to suppose;
otherwise there would not be that gentle and almost serene expression
of peace in their faces.
Another reason why limitation makes for happiness is that the second
half of life proves even more dreary that the first. As the years wear on,
the horizon of our aims and our points of contact with the world
become more extended. In childhood our horizon is limited to the
narrowest sphere about us; in youth there is already a very considerable
widening of our view; in manhood it comprises the whole range of our
activity, often stretching out over a very distant sphere,--the care, for
instance, of a State or a nation; in old age it embraces posterity.
But even in the affairs of the intellect, limitation is necessary if we are
to be happy. For the less the will is excited, the less we suffer. We have
seen that suffering is something positive, and that happiness is only a
negative condition. To limit the sphere of outward activity is to relieve
the will of external stimulus: to limit the sphere of our intellectual
efforts is to relieve the will of internal sources of excitement. This latter
kind of limitation is attended by the disadvantage that it opens the door
to boredom, which is a direct source of countless sufferings; for to
banish boredom, a man will have recourse to any means that may be
handy--dissipation, society, extravagance, gaming, and drinking, and
the like, which in their turn bring mischief, ruin and misery in their
train. _Difficiles in otio quies_--it is difficult to keep quiet if you have
nothing to do. That limitation in the sphere of outward activity is
conducive, nay, even necessary to human happiness, such as it is, may
be seen in the fact that the only kind of poetry which depicts men in a
happy state of life--Idyllic poetry, I mean,--always aims, as an intrinsic
part of its treatment, at representing them in very simple and restricted
circumstances. It is this feeling, too, which is at the bottom of the
pleasure we take in what are called genre pictures.
_Simplicity_, therefore, as far as