This tendency
has naturally injured his popularity as a writer with a public whom he
holds at arm's length as one might a troublesome crowd. The French race
has never cared much about the inviolability of personal conscience; it
does not like stoics shut up in their own dignity as in a tower, and
recognizing no master but God, duty or faith. Such strictness annoys and
irritates it; it is merely piqued and made impatient by anything solemn.
It repudiated Protestantism for this very reason, and in all crises it
has crushed those who have not yielded to the passionate current of
opinion.
July 1, 1880. (_Three o'clock_).--The temperature is oppressive; I ought
to be looking over my notes, and thinking of to-morrow's examinations.
Inward distaste--emptiness--discontent. Is it trouble of conscience, or
sorrow of heart? or the soul preying upon itself? or merely a sense of
strength decaying and time running to waste? Is sadness--or regret--or
fear--at the root of it? I do not know; but this dull sense of misery
has danger in it; it leads to rash efforts and mad decisions. Oh, for
escape from self, for something to stifle the importunate voice of want
and yearning! Discontent is the father of temptation. How can we gorge
the invisible serpent hidden at the bottom of our well--gorge it so that
it may sleep?
At the heart of all this rage and vain rebellion there lies--what?
Aspiration, yearning! We are athirst for the infinite--for love--for I
know not what.
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