the disturbance, or death, that ensued? Do we not feel, even now,
that Cato was right? And was not his life rendered truly and nobly
happy, thanks to this very idea, that the reason of man will not
even consider, so unreasonable does it appear? All that ennobles our
life, all that we respect in ourselves, the mainsprings of our
virtue, the limits that feeling will even impose upon vices or
crimes--all these appear veriest trifles when viewed by the cold eye
of reason; and yet do they fashion the laws that govern every man's
life. Would life be endurable if we did not obey many truths that
our reason rejects? The wretchedest even obeys one of these; and the
more truths there are that he yields to, the less wretched does he
become. The assassin will tell you, "I murder, it is true, but at
least do not steal." And he who has stolen steals, but does not
betray; and he who betrays would at least not betray his brother.
And thus does each one cling for refuge to his last fragment of
spiritual beauty. No man can have fallen so low but he still has a
retreat in his soul, where he ever shall find a few drops of pure
water, and be girt up anew with the strength that he needs to go on
with his life. For here again reason is helpless, unable to comfort;
she must halt on the threshold of the thief's last asylum, even as
she must halt on the threshold of Job's resignation, of the love of
Marcus Aurelius, of the sacrifice made by Antigone. She halts, is
bewildered, she does not approve; and yet knows full well that to
rise in revolt were only to combat the light whereof she is shadow;
for amidst all this she is but as one who stands with the sun full
upon him. His shadow is there at his feet; as he moves, it will
follow; as he rises or stoops, its outline will alter; but this
shadow is all he commands, that he masters, possesses, of the
dazzling light that enfolds him. And so has reason her being, too,
beneath a superior light, and the shadow cannot affect the calm,