I answered "Yes" at once, without hesitation.
"But suppose"—he went on—"that BOTH armies were actuated by good, and that the object of the destroying force was only to break down what was effete and mischievous, in order to build it up again in stronger and nobler forms, while the aim of the other was to strictly preserve and maintain the advantages it possessed, which side would then have your sympathy?"
I tried to think, but could not instantly determine.
"Here is your point of hesitation,"—he said—"and here the usual limit of human comprehension. Both forces are good,—but as a rule we can only side with one. We name that one Life,—the other Death. We think Life alone stands for what is living, and that Death is a kind of cessation of Life instead of being one of Life's most active forms. The Universe is entirely composed of these two fighting forces—we call them good and evil—but there is no evil-there is only a destruction of what MIGHT be harmful if allowed to exist. To put it clearly, the million millions of atoms and electrons which compose the everlasting elements of Spirit and Matter are dual—that is to say, of two kinds—those which preserve their state of equilibrium, and those whose work is to disintegrate, in order to build up again. As with the Universe, so with the composition of a human being. In you, as in myself, there exist these two forces—and our souls are, so to speak, placed on guard between them. The one set of atoms is prepared to maintain the equilibrium of health and life, but if through the neglect and unwatchfulness of the sentinel Soul any of them are allowed to become disused and effete, the other set, whose business it is to disintegrate whatever is faulty and useless for the purpose of renewing it in better form, begins to work—and this disintegrating process is our conception of decay and death. Yet, as a matter of fact, such process cannot even BEGIN without our consent and collusion. Life can be retained in our possession for an indefinite period on this earth,—but it can only be done through our own actions—our own wish and will."
I looked at him questioningly.
"One may wish and will many things,"—I said—"But the result is not always successful."
"Is that your experience?" he asked, bending his keen eyes full upon me—"You know, if you are true to yourself, that no power can resist the insistence of a strong Will brought steadily to bear on any intention. If the effort fails, it is only because the Will has hesitated. What have you made of some of your past lives—you and your lover both—through hesitation at a supreme moment!"
I looked at him appealingly.
"If we made mistakes, could we altogether help it?" I asked—"Does it not seem that we tried for the best?"
He smiled slightly.