Babel of society, need not disturb the genial observer, though he may
be incapable of unravelling them. He may set these dark spots down in
their places, like so many caves or wells in a landscape, without
feeling bound to scrutinise their depths simply because their depths
are obscure. Unexplored they may have a sort of lustre, explored they
might merely make him blind, and it may be a sufficient understanding
of them to know that they are not worth investigating. In this way the
most chaotic age and the most motley horrors might be mirrored
limpidly in a great mind, as the Renaissance was mirrored in the works
of Raphael and Shakespeare; but the master's eye itself must be
single, his style unmistakable, his visionary interest in what he
depicts frank and supreme. Hence this comprehensive sort of greatness
too is impossible in an age when moral confusion is pervasive, when
characters are complex, undecided, troubled by the mere existence of
what is not congenial to them, eager to be not themselves; when, in a
word, thought is weak and the flux of things overwhelms it.

Without great men and without clear convictions this age is
nevertheless very active intellectually; it is studious, empirical,
inventive, sympathetic. Its wisdom consists in a certain contrite
openness of mind; it flounders, but at least in floundering it has
gained a sense of possible depths in all directions. Under these
circumstances, some triviality and great confusion in its positive
achievements are not unpromising things, nor even unamiable. These are
the _Wanderjahre_ of faith; it looks smilingly at every new face,
which might perhaps be that of a predestined friend; it chases after
any engaging stranger; it even turns up again from time to time at
home, full of a new tenderness for all it had abandoned there. But to
settle down would be impossible now. The intellect, the judgment are
in abeyance. Life is running turbid and full; and it is no marvel that