“For the same reason. Love is mutual. Each attracts the other. But in natural love each tries at the same time to withhold the other, to keep the other true to its own beloved nature. To any true lover, it would be the greatest disaster if the beloved broke down from her own nature and self and began to identify herself with him, with his nature and self. I say, to any genuine lover this is the greatest disaster, and he tries by every means in his power to prevent this. The earth and sun, on their plane, have discovered a perfect equilibrium. But man has not yet begun. His lesson is so much harder. His consciousness is at once so complicated and so cruelly limited. This is the lesson before us. Man has loved the beloved for the sake of love, so far, but rarely, rarely has he _consciously_ known that he could only love her for her own separate, strange self: forever strange and a joyful mystery to him. Lovers henceforth have got to _know_ one another. A terrible mistake, and a self delusion. True lovers only learn that as they know less, and less, and less of each other, the mystery of each grows more startling to the other. The tangible unknown: that is the magic, the mystery, and the grandeur of love, that it puts the tangible unknown in our arms, and against our breast: the beloved. We have made a fatal mistake. We have got to know so much _about_ things, that we think we know the actuality, and contain it. The sun is as much outside us, and as eternally unknown, as ever it was. And the same with each man’s beloved: like the sun. What do the facts we know _about_ a man amount to? Only two things we can know of him, and this by pure soul-intuition: we can know if he is true to the flame of life and love which is inside his heart, or if he is false to it. If he is true, he is friend. If he is wilfully false, and inimical to the fire of life and love in his own heart, then he is my enemy as well as his own.” Somers listened. He seemed to see it all and hear it all with marvellous clarity. And he believed that it was all true. “Yes,” he said, “I believe that is all true.” “What is it then that you disbelieve?” “I don’t quite believe that love is the one and only exclusive force or mystery of living inspiration. I don’t quite believe that. There is something else.” Kangaroo looked at him for once overbearingly and with a sort of contempt. “Tell me what it is,” he replied briefly. “I am not very clear myself. And, you see, what I want to say, you don’t want to hear.” “Yes, I do,” snapped Kangaroo. “With your ears and your critical mind only.” “Say it, anyhow, say it.” Richard sat feeling very stupid. The communicative soul is like the ass, you can lead him to the water, but you can’t make him drink. “Why,” he said, “it means an end of us and what we are, in the first place. And then a re-entry into us of the great God, who enters us from below, not from above.”