ertainty of the morrow, the violence of
social convulsions, sometimes became a new source of vitality. It is not
a rare thing to hear soldiers singing between two battles, and I think
myself nowise mistaken in saying that human joy has celebrated its
finest triumphs under the greatest tests of endurance. But to sleep
peacefully on the eve of battle or to exult at the stake, men had then
the stimulus of an internal harmony which we perhaps lack. Joy is not in
things, it is in us, and I hold to the belief that the causes of our
present unrest, of this contagious discontent spreading everywhere, are
in us at least as much as in exterior conditions.

To give one's self up heartily to diversion one must feel himself on a
solid basis, must believe in life and find it within him. And here lies
our weakness. So many of us--even, alas! the younger men--are at
variance with life; and I do not speak of philosophers only. How do you
think a man can be amused while he has his doubts whether after all life
is worth living? Besides this, one observes a disquieting depression of
vital force, which must be attributed to the abuse man makes of his
sensations. Excess of all kinds has blurred our senses and poisoned our
faculty for happiness. Human nature succumbs under the irregularities
imposed upon it. Deeply attainted at its root, the desire to live,
persistent in spite of everything, seeks satisfaction in cheats and
baubles. In medical science we have recourse to artificial respiration,
artificial alimentation, and galvanism. So, too, around expiring
pleasure we see a crowd of its votaries, exerting themselves to reawaken
it, to reanimate it Most ingenious means have been invented; it can
never be said that expense has been spared. Everything has been tried,
the possible and the impossible. But in all these complicated alembics
no one has ever arrived at distilling a drop of veritable joy. We must
not confound pleasure with the instruments of pleasure. To be a painter,
does it suffice to arm one's self with a brush, or does the purchase at
great cost of a Stradivarius make one a musician? No more, if you had
the whole paraphernalia of amusement in the perfection of its
ingenuity, would it advance you upon your road. But with a bit of
crayon a great artist makes an immortal sketch. It needs talent or
genius to paint; and to amuse one's self, the faculty of being happy:
whoever possesses it is amused at slight cost. This faculty is destr