just put in a period of prolonged grinding and wish-
ing to have as much freedom on my hands as pos-
sible, I had very imprudently seen fit to take a vaca-
tion on this particular day; and accordingly,
the
twenty-four hours went by without affording any-
thing that was especially worth observing. For that
is the way it is. In the course of the days, there are
certain ones which appear to have no other purpose
in coming than that of adding to· the sum-total and
of bringing us imperceptibly nearer to death.
I feel, then, as I face the 27th of September, like
a painter to whom, while he was out for a stroll,
some one might say suddenly, "Sit down and paint";
and this in a spot where there was absolutely no-
thing to be painted. There is but one thing for the
painter to do in such a case and that is to make out
the best he can with a few straggling grass-blades
and a heap of pebbles in the foreground.
Before my friends came in, I had begun the day
by reading some of Ronsard's poems. The more
anguish of mind present-day problems cause me, the
more I find it necessary, morning and evening, to
take a sort of bath in a pool of perfectly tranquil
contemplation.
I very much need to conserve in my-
self the feeling of duration,
by which I mean, the
feelina- that there are certain human things which
t:>
•
•
stand sheltered from insult and degradatIOn,
certam
works over which time holds no sway. Nothing
could be less contemporary than such reading matter
as I found here.
Merely very beautiful
verses,
answering to no other need than that of filling the
heart and mind with a species of dynamic and
thoroughly wholesome joy.
As I read, the thought occurred to me that, at the
time of the Writers'
Congress, sufficient notice had
not been taken of this particular function of lit-
erature,
which consists in
affording a continuity.
However far from me Ronsard's age may seem,
however indifferent I may be to the problems of
that time, the emotion .inspiring the
Odes,
for the
reason that it is extra temporal,
remains for me an
ever-present
one; I at once espouse it and make
it mine. And I experience a comfort and joy in the
thought that those to come will discover the same
charm as I in such a mating of minds. The body has
need of bread; but the mind craves a bread that
shall not stale.
These reflections have nothing to do with the
date in question. If I make note of them here; it is
for the reason that they were my thoughts this
morning, and there is nothing else for me to tell.
Inasmuch as I had just returned to Paris the
evening before, and no one as yet knew that I was
back, I had no cause to fear being interrupted but
might enjoy a peaceful chat with my friend, then sit
down and write a few letters, fuming all the .while
over the ravenous chore that correspondence comes
to be. Then I finished correcting the proofs which
I was to take shortly to the
N.R.F.
20
I always carry with me when I go out something
in the form of reading matter,
for I love to read
while walking. It is an immaterial
screen which one
thus rears between himself and life. A fragile screen,
that is constantly being toppled over, since whether
one wills it or not, he finds himself sharing the
animation of the street; but for all of that, there is
a peculiar pleasure which comes from the jarring of
the imaginary and the real. Oh! I am ready enough
to grant you that this habit of mine is one opposed'
to my own ethical principles;
but my system of
ethics, fortunately,
has room in it also for the incon-
sequential. And so, I had taken out with me on this
day the two last numbers of
International
Literature,
which I had just received;
for there was a short
story of Waldo Frank's which I was anxious to
read, and an article by Mirsky on
The Bells of Basle.
And by chance, I came upon my own name in the
"Thoughts Aloud" of A. Lejner, which I read with
very keen pleasure, taking great comfort in this un·
looked-for bit of sympathetic understanding from a
distance.
In the office of the
Revue,
I ran into some one
who was extremely well informed as to the inside of
the political situation,
and I had a long talk with
him. It was very interesting,
certainly, but not high-
ly profitable,
I am afraid;
for in conversations of
this sort, where I feel that the subject is beyond my
depth, the effort which I put forth in order not to
appear stupid at once makes of me a stupid person,
indeed.
I had lunch alone, and then, with nothing on my
hands to do, I went to the cinema. I am fond of the
cinema, always, but more so than ever after a long
period in the 'country. The film I saw was a British
colonial one, that fairly oozed with a stupefying
falsity, the whites being inevitably set up as models
of courage, magnanimity and honor, while the blacks
did their best to follow out the director's instructions
by appearing as barbarous as they knew how. Not
all of them; there were the members of one tribe
who, having bowed to the English yoke and noble
sentiments,
showed themselves really worthy of be-
coming Britannic subjects.
Then there was another film (the truth is, it was
at the cinema next door, where I had gone as soon as
the colonial film was over; for by this time, I was
off!), a French picture this one, well played, so far
as that goes, and not at all boring. Like many others
that we produce,
alas, it was a depiction of utter
decay. A wretched swine, endowed with a vast
paternal
love which was supposed to render him
likable in spite of everything,
was to be seen going
in for the filthiest sort of financial deals and con·
niving trickery; but these foul doings were wreathed
with a halo of sublimity, by being accomplished for
the love of his daughter's beautiful black eyes. As a
result of it all, a father's love became as repellent
MARCH,
1936
