“So Love doth raine In stoutest minds and maketh monstrous Warre:
He maketh warre: he maketh Peace again.
And yet his Peace is but continual Jarre.
Oh miserable men that to him subject arre.”
Spenser.
The situation of Beatriz alone, so far as companionship of her sex was concerned, was peculiar. She was not one readily to give or seek confidence. Were she surrounded with her equals in race and cultivation, she would not have disclosed her inmost self, and least of all to a female. This was instinct rather than reason. Those about her thought they knew her in all points, because they saw how good and true she was to them. They loved her, because her vast capacity of love drew all lesser loves towards it. They came readily to her with their trials, because in her large heart and womanly perceptions there was an inexhaustible fountain of sympathy and a foresight truer than a sybil’s. Thus daily, wherever she was, whoever among, she received a constant tribute of devotion and confidence. The character of those about her grew better by her presence. But with all this power, of which each word or look could not but[102] make her conscious, she was often inexpressibly sad.
Whence this sadness? Beatriz had never analyzed her own heart. While all others were open to her, her own had remained a mystery. She felt within it deep, broad currents of emotion, which led, she scarcely knew whither. That their waters flowed from a clear spring was self-evident, because her desires were pure and high. She loved her brother warmly, and he returned her love; still there was a wide gulf between them. With other men the gulf was wider. With women she had never been intimate. Hence, while she seemed so easily read by all about her, there still remained a mystery of which none had been able to lift the veil.
Her sympathy, self-sacrificing spirit and generosity; her indignation at the mean or base; her approving glance at the noble and true; her quiet courage and patient endurance; her piety, her quick perception, which so often anticipated man’s slower judgment; her passions even, for she had shown, when roused, a force and decision, that awed armed men and controlled rude hearts; all this was intelligible to her companions, and commanded their love and esteem. But there still remained a depth to her nature, that theirs could never have sounded, and would have remained fathomless to herself, unless stirred by a depth answering to her own.
All God-filled souls experience this. With all that rank, position and the ordinary affections of kindred can confer, with, as it were, every earthly[103] wish gratified, there still remains, underlying the calm exterior of social cultivation, a gnawing and restlessness, that unmasks the skeleton at the feast. Something is ever wanting.
What is this want?
It is not Reason. The book of Nature is ever open, and the mind has but to look thereon to find always something new,—truths to lead it upward and onward, daily convincing it that its heritage is Infinity.
What is it then?
It is Love!
Yes, with all the resources of Reason, without Love, we are indeed widowed. Like Rachel we refuse to be comforted. No love will satisfy our hearts, however much we may cling to the phantoms of sentiment or passion, however strong may be the demands of duty, however implicit our obedience, unless the measure of our hearts is filled. We must have all that we can contain of all that we are and all that we are not. Then only dual souls become One.
It is right that it should be thus. The very misery arising from uncongenial unions or unsatisfied desires, springs from a benevolent law, which says, like pain to the diseased limb, “you are wrong.” Be dutiful but not satisfied. Although you now see through a glass darkly, in time light and harmony will be your portion. Cultivate your soul so as to receive a better inheritance.
Beatriz had never married. Her nature had kept her from the great error of mistaking a little for the[104] whole. She who had so much to give, was too wise to fling herself away upon a single impulse. Her love for all was the result of an unconscious superiority of soul, which increased by what it gave. It was, more properly speaking, kindness or benevolence, and flowed from her as naturally and as sweetly as fragrance from the rose.
All great natures have in them a vein of sadness. This springs from the consciousness of the little they are, in contrast with the much they would be. With man it is an active want. He would know all things. He grasps the reins of the chariot of the sun, and falls headlong because he tries to fly before his wings are unfolded. Woman is more patient. She passively awaits her destiny. If it be long in coming, she may find solace in apathy, but she rarely, wilfully commits a wrong to hasten her right. Yet when her moral nature does become disordered, as the foulest decay springs from the richest soil, so she becomes so wanton as to cause even fallen man to shudder.
Love had remained passive in the soul of Beatriz. Its might was all there, but the torch that was to kindle the flame had not yet reached it. She only knew its power for joy by the pleasure she felt in seeing its effects in others. Thus she welcomed within herself all that she saw in another that was noble and lovable, while she shrank instinctively from every base action or degrading thought.
Kiana’s ardent, generous nature, had from the first been her captive. This she saw; but it inspired in her no deeper sentiment than the respect due his[105] qualities. He, however, unlike most men, did not fancy that to love, implied of necessity to be loved. His passion was open and honorable. To the praise of the Hawa............