552
PARTISAN REVIEW
Turning their backs to the station, they walked along the St.
Bernard quay by the side of the Botanical Gardens. The wind howled
in the trees and made the dead branches crack. Any conversation
would have been a hardship. Martin had leisure to reflect calmly
on what had taken place in the cellar. To his own surprise, the atti–
tude of his employer angered him more than did the conduct of the
ram. Under the influence of this feeling, the case of .Grandgil ap–
peared to him in a new light. By putting him in a situation that was
in several respects humiliating, his associate had certainly inflicted
upon him
tort et injure.
But perhaps what Grandgil was really trying
to do was to establish a juster balance between the fabulous ·gains
of a profiteer in the black market and the niggardly wages of
his
helpers, who, after all, assumed the greater share of the risk. To
steal from a thief may pass for an act of justice, and, from the
standpoint of a disinterested spectator, the adventure in the cellar
was not without a certain humor in which morality might find itself
vindicated. All of these things meant nothing except from the point
of view of Grandgil. Martin himself saw nothing immoral or shock–
ing in the clandestine traffic or the enormous profits which it was
said to yield. Theft and law-breaking were in his mind quite differ–
ent things. The only common point which he recognized in them was
the danger that both incurred of falling into the hands of the law.
But Grandgil might be of another opinion. He might believe that
he had levied a just tax on an exploiter of poverty. In reality, each
one makes out as best he can, and he is pretty stupid
if
he does not
profit by the opportunities that come his way and by his own su–
periority. But it goes against the grain with the unsuccessful to pay
a tribute out of their slim pocketbooks to another man's boldness
and cunning. They don't think enough to recognize that the fault is
really in themselves. Martin was realizing the truth of this. He him–
self, a decent fellow (one would have to go far to find a better one),
would have asked nothing better than to get rich in the black market.
But he had only succeeded in being a small employee, a humble
messenger, climbing stairs to offer merchandise by the pound to
petty tradesmen, hard-up and crabbed.
As
far as he was concerned,
ran Martin's reflections, the fault was in
his
big head which was too
thoughtful, and in his heart which was too small to dare and to
desire with enough heat. The truth was, he was too much of a
