disproportion between the infinite which kills us and this nothing that we are, there arises within us a sensation that is not without grandeur; we feel that we would rather be crushed by a mountain than done to death by a pebble, as in war we would rather succumb beneath the charge of thousands than fall victim to a single arm.  And as our intellect lays bare to us the immensity of our helplessness, so does it rob defeat of its sting.”  Who knows?  We are already conscious of moments when the something that has conquered us seems nearer to ourselves than the part of us that has yielded.  Of all our characteristics, self-esteem is the one that most readily changes its home, for we are instinctively aware that it has never truly formed part of us.  The self-esteem of the courtier who waits on the mighty king soon finds more splendid lodging in the king’s boundless power; and the disgrace that may befall him will wound his pride the less for that it has descended from the height of a throne.  Were nature to become less indifferent, it would no longer appear so vast.  Our unfettered sense of the infinite cannot afford to dispense with one particle of the infinite, with one particle of its indifference; and there will ever remain something within our soul that would rather weep at times in a world that knows no limit, than enjoy perpetual happiness in a world that is hemmed in.

If destiny were invariably just in her dealings with the wise, then doubtless would the existence of such a law furnish sufficient proof of its excellence; but as it is wholly indifferent, it is better so, and perhaps even greater; for what the actions of the soul may lose in importance thereby does but go to swell the dignity of the universe.  And loss of grandeur to the sage there is none; for he is as profoundly sensitive to the greatness of nature as to the greatness that lurks within man.  Why harass our soul with endeavour to locate the infinite?  As much of it as can be given to man will go to him who has learned to wonder.

78.  Do you know a novel of Balzac, belonging to the “Celibataires” series, called Pierrette?  It is not one of Balzac’s masterpieces, but it has points of much interest for us.  It is the story of an orphaned Breton girl, a sweet, innocent child, who is suddenly snatched away, by her evil star, from the grandparents who adore her, and transferred to the care of an aunt and uncle.  Monsieur Rogron and his sister Sylvia.  A hard, gloomy couple, these two; retired shopkeepers, who live in a dreary house in the back streets of a dreary country town.  Their celibacy weighs heavily upon them; they are miserly, and absurdly vain; morose, and instinctively full of hatred.