It is not given to every man to take a bath of multitude: to
play upon crowds is an art; and he alone can plunge, at the
expense of humankind, into a debauch of vitality, to whom
a fairy has bequeathed in his cradle the love of masks and
disguises, the hate of home and the passion of travel.
Multitude, solitude: equal terms mutually convertible by the
active and begetting poet. He who does not know how to people
his solitude, does not know either how to be alone in a busy
crowd.
The poet enjoys this incomparable privilege, to be at once
himself and others. Like those wandering souls that go about
seeking bodies, he enters at will the personality of every man.
For him alone, every place is vacant; and if certain places
seem to be closed against him, that is because in his eyes they
are not worth the trouble of visiting.
The solitary and thoughtful walker derives a singular
intoxication from this universal communion. He who mates
easily with the crowd knows feverish joys that must be for
ever unknown to the egoist, shut up like a coffer, and to the
sluggard, imprisoned like a shell-fish. He adopts for his own
all the occupations, all the joys and all the sorrows that
circumstance sets before him.
What men call love is small indeed, narrow and weak indeed,
compared with this ineffable orgie, this sacred prostitution of
the soul which gives itself up wholly (poetry and charity!) to
the unexpected which happens, to the stranger as he passes.
It is good sometimes that the happy of this world should learn,
were it only to humble their foolish pride for an instant,
that there are higher, wider, and rarer joys than theirs. The
founders of colonies, the shepherds of nations, the missionary
priests, exiled to the ends of the earth, doubtless know
something of these mysterious intoxications; and, in the midst
of the vast family that their genius has raised about them,
they must sometimes laugh at the thought of those who pity them
for their chaste lives and troubled fortunes.