During the winter of 1917, I made the acquaintance of a young
provincial musician who was serving in the same unit with me. At
Soissons we found a room where we were able to meet and play together.
Our new comrade was a simple man with a country accent.
He played the violin carefully and with talent. Often, during our
concerts, we watched his face as it bent over the instrument, and
it seemed to us that in those moments that humble violinist was in
communion with the great souls of Bach, Beethoven, and Franck, that he
was holding a brotherly and affectionate conversation with them. I felt
then that he had nothing to envy in the princes of this world. And it
is a fact, I believe, that he did not envy them anything.
Do not tell me that you do not know how to play any instrument. That
signifies nothing. There are two skilful professional musicians in my
group who play their instruments only just enough to enable them not to
lose practice for their calling. They are a sort of mechanician. As for
you, you have a heart, ears, and a memory. And that’s the main thing.
Believe that what you hold in your memory is more precious than
everything else, for you carry that with you wherever you go, through
all your days.
Do you think I can ever bore myself, with all those thousands of airs
that sing in my head, that secretly accompany all my thoughts and offer
a sort of harmonious comment upon all the acts of my life?
If this does not seem possible to you, remember that you possess the
immense library of humankind and all its museums. Think of all you have
read and admired. Think of it with pride and affection. Think of all
that remains to you to see and to read and tell yourself how marvelous
it is to be so ignorant as to have such riches in reserve, to have such
treasures to conquer.
Amid the ordeals and the disillusionments of your existence, lift your
soul every day toward those divine brothers who are our masters, and
repeat with a proud humility: “It is sweet to sit down at your feast!
And how good to think that it is to you we owe our opulence and our
prosperity!”
VI
SORROW AND RENUNCIATION
I
If, concerning an old man, some one said to us: “He has been perfectly
happy all his life, he is going to die without ever having suffered,”
we should be incredulous at first; then, if we were obliged to admit
the truth of the remark, we should feel for this old man not so much
envy as pity. With our astonishment would be mingled, in spite of all,
something a little like contempt.
Happiness is our aim, the final reason for our living. But is it fair
to say that sorrow is opposed to happiness?
There are sorrows that one cannot, that one should not, escape. They
are the very price we pay for happiness. It is by means of them that we
travel toward our own development. They prepare us for joy and render
us worthy of it. Without them, could we ever know that we were happy?
If I believed, O my unknown friend for whom today I am hoping these
consolations, if I believed that you could reach happiness, that is
to say, the harmonious prosperity of your soul, without experiencing
any agonies, I should not undertake to praise your suffering. But you
suffer, I know it, and you are called to other sufferings. Henceforth
I shall not refrain from praising what wounds you. For one does not
console anyone by depreciating his grief, but by showing him how
beautiful, how rare, how desirable it is, and your suffering can truly
be called that.
I do not dream, then, of depriving you of your wealth. I only hope that
you will be able to appreciate its full value. I beg that you will
pardon me if I chance to hurt you by placing my hand upon your wound. I
do it, you may be sure, with the affection and the solicitude of a man
who has consecrated his life to such tasks.
They will tell you, my friend, that I am seeking to flatter your
distress by reasonings that are full of guile, that I am singing to
lull you to sleep and deceive you, that I am dressing in the gilded
clothes of an age that is past the black demon that torments you. Let
me still have your confidence: I have only one ambition,--it is your
own greatest joy. I could not lead you astray without shame and without
deceiving myself; for are you not indeed myself, O my friend?