I contemplate without desiring to understand, and thus God reveals Himself to me.  In the house of this cobbler my eyes open as simply as those of his dog.  Then I see, I see in truth that which few can see—­the essence of things, as, for example, the devotion of the smoky flame without which the hammer of the workman could not be a bread-winner.

Most of the time we regard things in a heedless fashion.  But they are like us, sorrowful or happy.  When I notice a diseased ear of wheat among healthy ears, and see the livid stain on its grains I have a quick intuitive understanding of the suffering of this particular thing.  Within myself I feel the pain of those plant-cells; I realize their agony in growing in this infected spot without crushing one another.  I am filled with a desire to tear up my handkerchief, and bandage this ear of wheat.  But I feel that there is no remedy for a single ear of wheat, and that humanly it would be an act of folly to attempt this cure.  Such things are not done, yet no one pays any special attention if I take care of a bird or a grasshopper.  Nevertheless I am certain that these grains suffer, because I feel their suffering.

A beautiful rose on the other hand imparts to me its joy in life.  One feels that it is perfectly happy swaying on its stem, for does not everybody say simply, “It is a pity to cut it,” and thus affirm and preserve the happiness of this flower?

* * * * *

I recall very distinctly the time when it was first revealed to me that things suffered.  It happened when I was three years old.  In my native hamlet a little boy, while playing, fell on a piece of broken glass, and died of the wound.

A few days later I went to the child’s home.  His mother was crying in the kitchen.  On the mantelpiece stood a poor little toy.  I recall perfectly that it was a small tin or leaden horse, attached to a little tin barrel on wheels.

His mother said to me:  “That is my poor little Louis’s wagon.  He is dead.  Would you like to have it?”

Then a flood of tenderness filled my heart.  I felt that this thing had lost its friend, its master, and that it was suffering.  I accepted the plaything, and overcome with pity I sobbed as I carried it home.  I recall very well that I was too young to realize either the death of the little boy or the sorrow of his mother.  I pitied only that leaden animal which seemed heart-broken to me as it stood on the mantelpiece forever idle and bereaved of the master it loved.  I remember all this as if it had happened yesterday, and I am sure that I had no desire to possess this toy for my own amusement.  This is absolutely true, for when I came home, with my eyes full of tears, I confided the little horse and barrel to my mother.  She has forgotten the whole incident.

The belief that things are endowed with life exists among children, animals, and simple people.