We have all known those men who, at the first break of day, while they
are still half awake and barely rested, fling themselves into the
stress of business. They pass all day from one man to another in a sort
of blind, buzzing frenzy. They are ceaselessly reaching out to take, to
appropriate for themselves. If a moment of solitude offers itself, they
pull note-books out of their pockets and begin figuring. Between whiles
they eat, drink and seek a sort of sleep that is more arid than death.
Looking at these unfortunates, who are often men of great importance,
one would imagine their souls were like decrepit poor relations,
relegated to some corner of their personality, with which they never
concern themselves.
I was once returning from the country on a train with a young surgeon
on whom that cruel fortune which we call success was beginning to
smile. I can still see him, breathless and almost stupefied, on the
seat facing me. He had been talking to me of his work, of how he spent
his time, with a restless excitement which the noise of the train
hammered and disjointed and gave a sort of rhythm to. Evening was
falling. It gave me pleasure to look at the young poplars in the valley
beside the track, their foliage and slender trunks transfigured by
the sunset. My friend looked at them also, and suddenly he murmured:
“It’s true! I’m no longer interested in those things, I no longer pay
attention to anything.” Through the fatigue and anxiety of his affairs,
through the jingling calculation of his profits, he suddenly caught a
glimpse of his error, of his real poverty. His repudiated soul stirred
in the depths of his being as the infant stirs in its mother’s womb.
It is constantly awakening in this way and timidly reclaiming its
rights. Often, an unexpected word strikes us, a word that comes from
it and reveals it. I have as a work-fellow a quiet, studious young man
who takes life “seriously,” that is to say, in such a fashion that he
gets himself into a fine state of mind and will die, perhaps, without
having known, without having saved, the soul with which he is charged.
At the beginning of the month of June of this year 1918, I found myself
hard at work during one of those overwhelming afternoons that seem, on
our barren Champagne, like a white furnace, a glistening desert. There
were many wounded and the greater part had been uncared for for several
days; the barrack that served us as an operating-hall was overcrowded;
our task was a tragic one; the demon of war had imprisoned us under
his knee. We felt crushed, exasperated, swamped in these immediate
realities. Between two wounded men, as I was soaping my gloves, I saw
my young comrade looking far away through a little window and his gaze
was suddenly bathed with calm and peace. “What are you looking at?” I
said to him. “Oh! nothing,” he replied; “only I’m resting myself on
that little tuft of verdure down there: it refreshes me so much.”