Part 9

Like a sailing-vessel that stretches through the air its slender, vibrant cables, probes the sky with its strong and supple masts, offers to the wind, at ever-varying angles, the white resistance of its sails and marvelously dominates all the forces of the air while seeming to obey them, the man who possesses grace enjoys a communion that is profound, perfect, exquisite, not only with whatever in the world is perceptible to us, but above all with what is unknown.

That man weighs much in the baskets of the winnower. That man does not see only within the limits of his own flesh. He fills in his own self almost the whole universe, participates gloriously in the infinite.

I know that it often happens that the beautiful ship sees its sails sinking in distress and no longer feels its ropes trembling in the wind. The time comes when it stops painfully in the stupor and indifference of noon.

The time comes when the rich man suddenly finds himself on Job’s dung-heap. The time comes when, without reason, grace deserts the heart.

Wait expectantly, with sails spread like an ear, with rigging firm, and perhaps, where others less trustful would find themselves abandoned, you will perceive a certain relenting breeze.

You must never lose contact with the universe if you wish to live in the state of grace.

IV

Welcome your own true thought, whatever may be the hour at which it visits you. If it chooses to rouse you in the middle of the night, rise to do it honor and look at it with clear eyes.

There are some who have just missed an hour of greatness because they preferred to slumber under the warm eiderdown. The spirit called them in a low voice, in the darkness of the cold room; they did not rise and they will never know what they might have become. They will try to console themselves by thinking they have dreamed; will they ever console themselves?

There are some who, suddenly, through the mist of tobacco smoke, have seen their souls, like some long-awaited supernatural being, watching them.

At the moment they were playing cards or reading their paper; they thought: “Wait, I’ll join you in a moment.” The game ended, or the paper thrown aside, the visitor had departed.

They rushed forth in pursuit, their hearts convulsed with shame and anguish. Alas! the deep melancholy glance will perhaps never shine upon them again. Perhaps they will never again come face to face with themselves.

In the midst of pleasure, when you are enjoying the company of a woman or the conversation of bold, intelligent men, if you chance to hear the voice of solitude singing like a siren at your feet, leave everything to flee with her.

V

When Epictetus said: “Our good and evil exist only in our own will,” he misstated the problem. That is one way of solving it, but more often it is a way of assuming that it has been solved, an expedient for passing it over.

I am not happy today; I am not pleased with myself, I am not pleased with anyone; I feel quite certain that everything I undertake will be a failure, above all, above all, I do not want to undertake anything; I view all things with an unprofitable eye, an irritable and apparently dried-up soul. I am driven to suffer myself and make others suffer. Oh! I am without grace! I know it and I am far from admiring myself. Secretly I long to feel grace at last descending on my head and shoulders like a mantle of soft sunshine, like the honeyed perfume that falls from the lime-trees.

What does that old man want? Why does he repeat with a sort of obstinacy: “It depends upon you to make a good use of every event”?

No doubt it depends upon me!

But what are we to do when nothing can be blamed upon events? And what when, indeed, there are no events.

Is it true that it depends upon me to be myself at such times also? Answer me, great, silent trees! Answer me, fir-tree, weighted down with sleet and dreaming--Heine has told me--of the palm consumed with burning heat in the tropics.

“Drive out,” replies the philosopher, “drive out your desires and your fears and you will never again suffer tyranny.”

True; but I have only one fear: not to be the best man I may; only one desire, not to give in to myself.

The sage shrugs his shoulders and then says in a gentle voice: “Bear and forbear.” And he is not thinking only of the storms that come from without.

He says this because he well knows that in order to be happy one must be visited by grace.

All the stoics have drawn up rules of virtue. Not one has suggested the means that will give us the strength to apply them. For the wish is not enough. The gift is necessary, that secret impulse which is grace itself.

VI

Praise be to thee, divine world, that hast delivered me from anger by revealing to me in time that trembling blossom of the convolvulus!

Praise be to thee, divine world, that, at the very limit of my fatigue, in the midst of my perils, hast chosen mysterious ways to light me with an inner smile!

Millions of unhappy men who are suffering at this moment on the fields of distracted Europe are aware that at the blackest moment of distress a strange consolation can penetrate them; it is as if the fingers clutching one’s heart suddenly relaxed their grip. There are some who call this God. Many others give no name to the miracle, but long for it on their knees all the same.

The voice no longer speaks from the burning bush. Sometimes it is the sound of last year’s leaves still rustling in the branches of an oak. Sometimes there is no sound; only the speaking glance of a veronica in ecstasy among the April fields.

I am quite willing to bear, but I do not wish to forbear. I do not wish not to meet grace halfway, not to seek for it in the night flooded with frosty perfumes, in the tossing forest where two interlocked branches groan through the long hours, on the plateau haunted with thistles that labor with feverish piety to perpetuate their innumerable lineage.

I ask only to be allowed to interrogate the earth like those who seek minerals and water-courses, and to experience every morning the green ascent of the spring-time over the rocky slopes.

I do not know by what path joy will come; I ask only to be permitted, none the less, to go to meet it, for truly I cannot sit here by this mile-post at the cross-roads, and placidly await it.

One joy has come to me during the war, one that is undoubtedly the greatest joy of my life: that of having a child. My reason did not revolt at it, it did not dare to tell me that it was foolhardy to desire a child at a time when the human world was left without defense against confusion, disorder and crime. Yes, I rejoiced to have a man-child born to me now when the future of men seems to be corrupted for long years to come. I even hailed the child as a savior. You see, the paths of joy are as unknown to us as those of grace.

I shall not forbear, therefore, and when I feel my heart bleeding from an unjust wound I shall go with respectful steps and recover myself in the world of solitude. I shall not ask in the name of justice, I shall not insist, I shall not importune; I shall wait until it manifests itself and sets me free, I shall wait until at last it bestows upon me the grace which, like a fine sap, like mother’s milk, it always contains.

Solitude! I can still conquer it among a hundred thousand chattering companions; I know how to sing to myself little songs that surround me with the silence of the steppes.

I will go back again to the ravine where, the whole summer long, a blackbird I know of whistles that same liquid song that grows purer and more perfect from week to week. Ten notes are his whole career and his reason for being. Perhaps on a day that music will be just what my soul needs to recover its flight, like a stranded bark which a lazy wave has just set floating.

I will go back to the spots where I have been happy, and I do not think this will be very imprudent; for, like the perfume a woman leaves in her garments, like a drop of wine in the bottom of a glass, a little happiness often remains attached to things.

I shall go out again behind the hamlet, where I know that every morning a couple of turtle-doves mingle a plaint that secretly cuts the silence, hollows it with a melodious tunnel.

And I shall stretch myself out there, my face to the sky, like a well-exposed vine that longs to ripen some fine fruit.

I am saying what I shall do, with the sole purpose, with the deep desire, that you will all do the same, and that you will each turn to your favorite star; and all this with the earnest desire that you will not be content to remain sheep marked, without redemption, for the knife.

It requires little at times. The soul is not more exacting than the body. I have seen exhausted soldiers whom a single swallow of brandy raised up again to the heights of courage. I have seen seriously wounded men brought back to life when their bodies were turned a little in order to facilitate the uncertain flow of the blood.

The soul is no less fragile, no less sensitive. If the western view keeps you sad, turn lightly to the south. We do not know what the divine world holds in store.

VII

Happy are those who are able to pray. It is thus that Christians solicit grace.

It is easy to fall on one’s knees; but to be able to pray one must already possess that grace which one implores. It is so great a gift, the gift of prayer, that it is almost indelicate to desire anything else from it.

To drink is a small matter. To be thirsty is everything.

Why do the Christians, who counsel us to pray in order to obtain grace, never tell us what we must do in order to be able to pray? It is not for nothing, nevertheless, that they arrange the play of light and shade through their stained-glass windows, the odor of stones and incense, the silence of the vaults and the propitiatory sights of the organ, all those harmonious snares set for the wandering prayer.

As for me, I shall take a staff and go out seeking the solitude of the world. If this world is a city street at dawn,--that will do! A misty dock, its outline broken by rails and masts,--that will do! A sunken road, lighted by the flowering broom,--that will do! The court of a barrack, the muddy enclosure of a prison-camp, oh! pitiful as it may seem to me, may it still seem good!

If I can walk, straight before me or far and wide, I can pray. If I can see a scrap of the sky, I can pray. And with all nature offered to my soul, I can pray, I can pray in spite of everything and as if without willing it. I must see that osier-bed, or the radiant awning of that wagon, or the image of the bridge in the water. I must hear the moaning of those interlaced branches; then I am able to feel myself bathed in grace.

Grace! It is indeed the fleeting consciousness man has of his divinity.

And now, now especially, and more than ever, we say to ourselves, man must have faith in his divinity!

IX APOSTLESHIP

I

The beautiful legend of the multiplication of the loaves of bread is miraculous only in the material order to which we try to confine it. But the infinite multiplication of moral nourishment is our daily spectacle, our joy, our encouragement.

We know that the possession of material goods inclines us to exclusiveness, solitary satisfaction: if I wish to share with you this beautiful apple I hold in my hand, I must make up my mind to enjoy only half of it myself. And if there are four of us the part each one has will be proportionally reduced. Ah! blessed would be the wonder-worker who could refresh us all with a single glass of water, stay us all with a single mouthful of bread.

That miracle flashes forth every day before our eyes. All moral wealth seems to increase by being possessed in common. The more a truth is spread abroad the more its beauty, its prestige, and in a way its efficacy, grows. The veneration a hundred peoples throw round a painting of da Vinci’s, a song of Glück’s, or a saying of Spinoza’s has not partitioned these lovely treasures but has added to their importance and their glory, has developed and opened up the whole sum of joy that lies latent in them. Great ideas have such radiant strength! They cross space and time like avalanches: they carry along with them whatever they touch. They are the only riches that one shares without ever dividing them.

This fact invites each one of us to make himself the modest and persevering apostle of his own truths, the propagator of his discoveries, the dispenser of his moral riches. Our own interest demands it imperatively, no less than the interest of others. We shall never be really happy until we have admitted and converted to our joy those whom we love; and we shall love them all the better for having brought them some joy, for being among the causes of their comfort.

The journeys we have made alone without companions leave us a memory that is melancholy and without warmth. It is because we have had no one to whom we could communicate our admiration, our wonder. Seated alone before the most majestic landscapes, we have had no one to whom we could express our enthusiasm, and deprived of this expansion it has been stunted, it has remained, we might say, poor. Sharing it would have enriched it.

We love solitude, indeed; it is the cold and silent fountain at which our soul is purified and confirmed. But what would it profit us to have amassed great riches, by the help of solitude, if we had no one to whom to offer them?

It is because he feels this anxiety that man seeks a lasting union. Among a thousand generosities, love offers him the opportunity to enjoy companionship without renouncing solitude. A happy home is the solitude of many a soul. The man who has entered into a beautiful union is sure of at least one person to whom he can give the best that he possesses.

II

Perhaps you will say to me: “How can I be an apostle when I have in myself only a wavering faith? I would enjoy being generous, but I am obliged to beg from the generosity of others. Such advice is for those rich souls who, precisely because they are rich, have no need of advice. It is with this kind of fortune as it is with money, it crowns those who already possess it! My soul is poor and timid; what sort of comfort would it be for other souls that are poor and timid also?”

O my friend, how deceived you are in yourself! How much like ingratitude your modesty seems! First of all, let me tell you that the heart that doubts its resources is rich without knowing it. The passion of humility weighs it down; let it free itself without becoming proud! In the realm of the intelligence, you have surely observed, it is only actual imbeciles who never doubt their faculties. The man who can admit his own insufficiency at once gives proof of a rare perspicacity. In the same way, if you think you are poor it is because you are not. The only natures that are truly arid are those who do not recognize and never will recognize their own sterility.

This morning you went out at dawn to take up your duties. In the marsh that slumbers along the edge of the road there were such delicate green and purple reflections that you were struck by them. You spoke to me about them, very subtly and sensitively, as soon as you were able to see me. You were generous with me. You shared your good fortune with me. Thank you!

Who spoke to me about Faisne’s unhappiness? Who suddenly opened my eyes and made me realize the profound misery of that soul? It was you! I am still touched by your affectionate insight, I still marvel at your fortune.

You remember that night when we were lying stretched out together in the fields, looking up at a sky that was rippling with milky light. You said nothing to me, but I understood that evening that you were possessed, to the point of intoxication, with an immense, terrible idea, that of infinity. Thanks to your silence, I shared with you that overwhelming treasure.

Who lent me that beautiful Swedish book I did not know? Who spoke to me so enthusiastically about it? It was you, you again!

Who sings to me, when I am tired, that song as poignant and serene as a breath that has come from beyond the midnight oceans? You know very well, my friend, it is you.

I could tell you of a thousand instances of your generosity, a thousand apostolic words that have issued from your lips.

Ah! my friend, can you disavow such riches? Can you show at the same time such bitterness and such prodigality?

Every day you discover a means of transforming into happiness the elements that others possess and neglect. Do not hesitate, therefore: show them the fruitful use they ought to make of their blessings.

And do not ask any other recompense than the pleasure of having been the giver, the initiator.

The total amount of joy that prevails on the face of our world is of great importance to you and to me. One must always labor to augment it, whoever the direct beneficiaries may be. There is no one who, in the end, will not catch its echo, who will not receive his own personal profit from it.

And that is also why, in the present immense misery of the world, the selfish pleasure-seekers feel themselves ill at ease, even when their untimely pleasures are seen by nobody.

III

If you will, we can begin with the resolution never to undeceive anyone who thinks he possesses anything.

There are some who make it their care and pride to deprive their neighbors of those illusions that Ibsen calls “the vital illusions.” The characteristic of these illusions is that they cannot be replaced. To tear them away leaves a man mutilated, without any possible reparation.

Young people, assuredly, have a very exuberant sap and all sorts of encumbering shoots. Skillful and careful shears may well cut off, here and there, these over-greedy branches--and the tree will bear heavier and more fragrant fruit.

But can you without guilt take away his wealth from that old man whose illusion is his only pleasure? Beware of cutting off all its leaves from that old trunk that will never bring forth again and has nothing but its foliage with which to subsist and feel the sun.

Distrust those men who have what is like a false passion for truth. They are swollen with presumptuous vanity. They do not know that real truth exists only where there is faith, even faith without an object. Of what importance is the object? It is in faith itself that our grandeur lies.

In my childhood, I often used to stop in to see a certain humble, white-haired shopkeeper. She vegetated in a dark little shop and was always sitting behind her window, where the dust lay thick over the toys and trinkets. Her business was very poor, but she loved to say at night: “The passers-by were very good today. They looked in the window a great deal.”

I noticed, in fact, that nearly all who went by turned toward the dark shop a long, dreamy look, full of unusual interest, that sometimes caused them to stop short.

One day, as I was myself passing before the poor little display, I suddenly understood what it was the passers-by looked at so kindly: it was their own faces reflected in the dark window-pane.

I was still very young, but I realized vaguely that it would never do to disclose this disastrous discovery to my old friend.

IV

But this passive good will is not enough. It is not enough not to harm things. Marcus Aurelius, I believe, has said; “One is often as unjust in doing nothing as in doing what one does.” You must understand, therefore, that not to share your inner fortune is, in some sort, to rob those who surround you.

We must first declare our blessings: we must try to do this without shame and without arrogance. Those who enjoy an intense and efficacious inner life draw from it a great deal of pride; they would gladly communicate it if they did not know that these treasures seem ridiculous to the common men; it is really shame, therefore, that prevents them from being proud.

In spite of the cry of Hamlet, it is through words that one discovers and possesses the world.

The rhetoricians have done their work so well that at times words seem dry, empty of pulp, empty of juice. They are no longer nourishing food, they are discordant sounds.

It needs only a little confidence and generosity to restore their meaning and their weight. Then they become precious and faithful. We call them, like devoted persons, to our aid; they come at once out of the shadow and show themselves docile to our wishes.

Marcus Aurelius, of whom we have just spoken, has said this also: “I wish always to define or describe the object that presents itself to my thoughts, so as to see, distinctly and in its nakedness, what it is in its substance, considered as a whole, and separately in all its parts, so as to be able to tell myself its true name as well as the true names of the parts of which it is composed and into which it can be resolved. For nothing is so suited to elevate the soul as to analyze as much as possible, with method and justice, everything that one meets with in life, and always to examine each object so as to be able to recognize at once to what order of things it belongs, of what, use it is, and what is its importance in the universe and, relatively, to man.”

It is with words that this task is accomplished.

I have noted another beautiful expression on this subject; it is from M. Anatole France. “Words,” he says, “are ideas.... I think the highest race in the world is that which has the best syntax. It often happens that men cut each other’s throats over words they do not understand. If they understood each other they would embrace each other.”

Be very sure then that the words of which we make use are deserving of all our care, all our respect. They are the witnesses of our thoughts. They will betray us if we degrade them to base uses.

Choose them with great tenderness; that is a quality as enviable as precision. And by means of these choice words, loyally express your fortune.

Tell what you have discovered, what you know. In affirming your possession you render it sure, positive. You labor for others and for yourself. You give form to your treasure and yield it, as if perfected, to those who truly wish to avail themselves of it.

V

Yes, in acting in this way, you are also working for your own profit. Do not let us leave this burning subject too quickly.

If I were not afraid of giving a conviction the form of a whim, I should say: “You do your work and it does good to you.”

Among the ideas that are dear to you and that you are glad to express are not only certainties, verified results, the testimony of experience. There are many wishes, many longings, too. By virtue of being enunciated, these end by reacting upon you, by gently imprisoning you. When you speak of virtue, or happiness, or the spirit of adventure or courage, you further certain things that are indeed your own; you further also many other things that you passionately wish to have become your own, your unique and recognized quality. By virtue of expressing them, it comes to pass that they in turn react upon you; a moment arrives when you are morally constrained to become the product of your opinions. In this sense your work does for you the good that you have done for it.

Admit, therefore, that if it pleases you to see and to paint your life in generous, harmonious colors, it is inevitable that harmony and generosity should little by little imprint their stamp on your serious thoughts and on your acts.

Therefore speak, speak of your dream. Every time someone tells you: “You do not live up to what you say,” think, with a smile: “Not yet, undoubtedly; but I feel sure that one day my words, that is to say, my thoughts, will prove to be truer than my vagaries.”

When you have tried and proved this method, you will attempt to bestow it upon others.