Wisdom and Destiny | Page 4

the idea took root, others
flocked to it, and the volume has occupied M. Maeterlinck
continuously for more than two years. It has much essential kinship
with the "Treasure of the Humble," though it differs therefrom in
treatment; for whereas the earlier work might perhaps be described as
the eager speculation of a poet athirst for beauty, we have here rather
the endeavour of an earnest thinker to discover the abode of truth. And
if the result of his thought be that truth and happiness are one, this was
by no means the object wherewith he set forth. Here he is no longer
content with exquisite visions, alluring or haunting images; he probes
into the soul of man and lays bare all his joys and his sorrows. It is as
though he had forsaken the canals he loves so well--the green, calm,
motionless canals that faithfully mirror the silent trees and
moss-covered roofs--and had adventured boldly, unhesitatingly, on the
broad river of life.
He describes this book himself, in a kind of introduction that is almost
an apology, as "a few interrupted thoughts that entwine themselves,
with more or less system, around two or three subjects." He declares
that there is nothing it undertakes to prove; that there are none whose

mission it is to convince. And so true is this, so absolutely honest and
sincere is the writer, that he does not shrink from attacking, qualifying,
modifying, his own propositions; from advancing, and insisting on,
every objection that flits across his brain; and if such proposition
survive the onslaught of its adversaries, it is only because, in the
deepest of him, he holds it for absolute truth. For this book is indeed a
confession, a naive, outspoken, unflinching description of all that
passes in his mind; and even those who like not his theories still must
admit that this mind is strangely beautiful.
There have been many columns filled--and doubtless will be again--
with ingenious and scholarly attempts to place a definitive label on M.
Maeterlinck, and his talent; to trace his thoughts to their origin, clearly
denoting the authors by whom he has been influenced; in a measure to
predict his future, and accurately to establish the place that he fills in
the hierarchy of genius. With all this I feel that I have no concern. Such
speculations doubtless have their use and serve their purpose. I shall be
content if I can impress upon those who may read these lines, that in
this book the man is himself, of untrammelled thought; a man
possessed of the rare faculty of seeing beauty in all things, and, above
all, in truth; of the still rarer faculty of loving all things, and, above all,
life.
Nor is this merely a vague and, at bottom, a more or less meaningless
statement. For, indeed, considering this essay only, that deals with
wisdom and destiny, at the root of it--its fundamental principle, its
guiding, inspiring thought--is love. "Nothing is contemptible in this
world save only scorn," he says; and for the humble, the foolish, nay,
even the wicked, he has the same love, almost the same admiration, as
for the sage, the saint, or the hero. Everything that exists fills him with
wonder, because of its existence, and of the mysterious force that is in
it; and to him love and wisdom are one, "joining hands in a circle of
light." For the wisdom that holds aloof from mankind, that deems itself
a thing apart, select, superior, he has scant sympathy--it has "wandered
too far from the watchfires of the tribe." But the wisdom that is human,
that feeds constantly on the desires, the feelings, the hopes and the fears
of man, must needs have love ever by its side; and these two, marching
together, must inevitably find themselves, sooner or later, on the ways
that lead to goodness. "There comes a moment in life," he says, "when

moral beauty seems more urgent, more penetrating, than intellectual
beauty; when all that the mind has treasured must be bathed in the
greatness of soul, lest it perish in the sandy desert, forlorn as the river
that seeks in vain for the sea." But for unnecessary self-sacrifice,
renouncement, abandonment of earthly joys, and all such "parasitic
virtues," he has no commendation or approval; feeling that man was
created to be happy, and that he is not wise who voluntarily discards a
happiness to-day for fear lest it be taken from him on the morrow. "Let
us wait till the hour of sacrifice sounds--till then, each man to his work.
The hour will sound at last--let us not waste our time in seeking it on
the dial of life."
In this book, morality, conduct, life are Surveyed from every point of
the compass, but from an eminence always.