is bereft of all nobleness.  He may have full knowledge of self; he may know, it may be, wherefore he shuns goodness; and yet shall he seek in vain for the refuge, the strength, the treasure of invisible gladness, that form the possessions of him who can fearlessly enter his heart.  For the inward life is built up of a certain rejoicing of soul; and the soul can never be happy if it possess not, and love not, something that is pure.  It may perhaps err in its choice, but then even will it be happier than the soul to which it has never been given to choose.

37.  And thus are we truly saving a man if we bring about that he loves evil somewhat less than he loved it before; for we are helping that man to construct, deep down in his soul, the refuge where—­ against destiny shall brandish her weapons in vain.  This refuge is the monument of consciousness, or, it may be, of love; for love is nothing but consciousness, still vaguely in search of itself; and veritable consciousness nothing but love that at last has emerged from the shadow.  And it is in the deepest recess of this refuge that the soul shall kindle the wondrous fire of her joy.  And this joy of the soul is like unto no other joy; and even as material fire will chase away deadly disease from the earth, so will the joy of the soul scatter sorrow that malevolent destiny brings.  It arises not from exterior happiness; it arises not from satisfied self-love; for the joy that self-love procures becomes less as the soul becomes nobler, but the joy of pure love increases as nobility comes to the soul.  Nor is this joy born of pride; for to be able to smile at its beauty is not enough to bring joy to the soul.  The soul that has sought in itself has the right to know of its beauty; but to brood on this beauty too much, to become over-conscious thereof, were perhaps to detract somewhat from the unconsciousness of its love.  The joy that I speak of takes not from love what it adds unto consciousness; for in this joy, and in this joy alone, do consciousness and love become one, feeding each on the other, each gaining from that which it gives.  The striving intellect may well know happiness beyond the reach of the satisfied body; but the soul that grows nobler has joys that are often denied to the striving intellect.  These two will often unite and labour together at building the house within.  But still it will happen at times that both work apart, and widely different then are the structures each will erect.  And were this to be so, and the being I loved best of all in the world came and asked me which he should choose—­which refuge I held to be most unattackable, sweetest, profoundest—­I would surely advise him to shelter his destiny in the refuge of the soul that grows nobler.