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.