We are always thinking of ourselves directly or indirectly. I was
thinking of myself when shame prevented me from going to meet the poor
wood-gatherers; they would not have thought at all of the injustice of
having been left to the labour of the fields while I had gone forth to
enjoy the world; they would have been interested to see me again, and
a few kind words would have made their load seem easier on their
backs. Called back by a sudden association of ideas, I began to
consider that shameful injustice is undoubtedly a part of our human
lot, for we may only grieve passionately for the casual, or what seems
the merely casual; perhaps because the ultimate law is hidden from us;
I am thinking now of her who comes suddenly into our lives tempting us
with colour, fugitive as that of a flower, luring us with light as
rapid as the light shed from the wings of a dove. Why, I asked myself,
as I lay under the larches, are we to mourn transitory delight so
intensely, why should it possess us more entirely than the sorrow that
we experience for her who endured the labour of child-bearing, who
nourished us perchance at her breast, whose devotion to us was
unceasing, and who grew kindlier and more divorced from every thought
of self as the years went by? From injustice there can be no escape,
not a particle.
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