Little
anxieties that have all melted softly into the past, that were
easily enough borne, when it came to the point, yet, looming up as
they did in the future, filled the days with the shadow of fear.
That is the phantom that one ought to lay, if it can be laid. And
is there hidden somewhere any well of healing, any pure source of
strength and refreshment, from which we can drink and be calm and
brave? That is a question which each has to answer tor himself. For
myself, I can only say that strength is sometimes given, sometimes
denied. How foolish to be anxious! Yes, but how inevitable! If the
beauty and the joy of the world gave one assurance in dark hours
that all was certainly well, the pilgrimage would be an easy one.
But can one be optimistic by resolving to be? One can of course
control oneself, one can let no murmur of pain escape one, one can
even enunciate deep and courageous maxims, because one would not
trouble the peace of others, waiting patiently till the golden mood
returns. But what if the desolate conviction forces itself upon the
mind that sorrow is the truer thing? What if one tests one's own
experience, and sees that, under the pressure of sorrow, one after
another of the world's lights are extinguished, health, and peace,
and beauty, and delight, till one asks oneself whether sorrow is
not perhaps the truest and most actual thing of all? That is the
ghastliest of moments, when everything drops from us but fear and
horror, when we think that we have indeed found truth at last, and
that the answer to Pilate's bitter question is that pain is the
nearest thing to truth because it is the strongest.
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