Each side was waiting for something to be born in the invisible。 The rebels were waiting for the host of hesitant people in Madrid to declare themselves for France。 Barcelona was waiting for Saragossa to waken out of an inspired dream； declare itself Socialist； and fall。 It was the thought more than the soldier that was besieging the town。 The thought was the great hope and the great enemy。
It seemed to me that the bombers； the shells； the militiamen under arms； by themselves had no power to conquer。 On each side a single man entrenched behind his line of defense was better than a hundred besiegers。 But thought might worm its way in。
From time to time there is an attack。 From time to time the tree is shaken。 Not to uproot it； but merely to see if the fruit is yet ripe。 And if it is； a town falls。
II
Back from the front； I found friends in Barcelona who allowed me to join in their mysterious expeditions。 We went deep into the mountains and were now in one of those villages which are possessed by a mixture of peace and terror。
〃Oh； yes； we shot seventeen of them。〃
They had shot seventeen 〃fascists。〃 The parish priest； the priest's housekeeper； the sexton； and fourteen village notables。 Everything is relative； you see。 When they read in their provincial newspaper the story of the life of Basil Zaharoff； master of the world； they transpose it into their own language。 They recognize in him the nurseryman； or the pharmacist。 And when they shoot the pharmacist； in a way they are shooting Basil Zaharoff。 The only one who does not understand is the pharmacist。
〃Now we are all Loyalists together。 Everything has calmed down。〃
Almost everything。 The conscience of the village is tormented by one man whom I have seen at the tavern； smiling； helpful； so anxious to go on living！ He es to the pub in order to show us that； despite his few acres of vineyard； he too is part of the human race； suffers with rheumatism like it； mops his face like it with a blue handkerchief。 He es； and he plays billiards。 Can one shoot a man who plays billiards？ Besides； he plays badly with his great trembling hands。 He is upset； he still does not know whether he is a fascist or not。 He puts me in mind of those poor monkeys who dance before the boa…constrictor in the hope of softening it。
There was nothing we could do for the man。 For the time being we had another job in hand。 Sitting on a table and swinging my legs at mittee headquarters； while my panion； Pepin； pulled a bundle of soiled papers out of his pocket； I had a good look at these terrorists。 Their looks e belied their name： honorable peasants with frank eyes and sober attentive faces； they were the same everywhere we went； and though we were foreigners possessing no authority； we were everywhere received with the same grave courtesy。
〃Yes； here it is；〃 said Pepin； a document in his hand。 〃His name is Laporte。 Any of YOU know him？〃
The paper went from hand to hand and the members of the mittee shook their heads。
〃No。 Laporte？ Never heard of him。〃
I started to explain something to them； but Pepin motioned me to be silent。 〃They won't talk；〃 he said； 〃but they know him well enough。〃
Pepin spread his references before the chair…man； saying casually：
〃I am a French socialist。 Here is my party card。〃
The card was passed round and the chairman raised his eyes to us：
〃Laporte。 I don't believe。 。 。 。〃
〃Of course you know him。 A French monk。 Probably in disguise。 You captured him yesterday in the woods。 Laporte； his name is。 The French consulate wants him。〃 Title： Wind； Sand； and Stars
Author： Antoine de Saint…Exupery
Translator： Lewis Galantiere
Publisher： Harcourt Brace Javanovich； New York； 1967
Date first posted： February 2000
Date most recently updated： January 2006
XML markup by Wesman 02/23/2000。
Wind Sand and Stars
Antoine de Saint…Exupery
10
Conclusion
Here； in the final pages of this book； I remember again those musty civil servants who served as our escort in the omnibus when we set out to fly our first mails； when we prepared ourselves to be transformed into men … we who' had had the luck to be called。 Those clerks were kneaded of the same stuff as the rest of us； but they knew not that they were hungry。
To e to man's estate it is not necessary to get oneself killed round Madrid； or to fly mail planes； or to struggle wearily in the snows out of respect for the dignity of life。 The man who can see the miraculous in a poem； who can take pure joy from music； who can break his bread with rades； opens his window to the same。 refreshing wind off the sea。 He too learns a language of men。
But too many men are left unawakened。
A few years ago； in the course of a long railway journey； I was suddenly seized by a desire to make a tour of the little country in which I was locked up for three days； cradled in that rattle that is like the sound of pebbles rolled over and over by the waves； and I got up out of my berth。 At one in the morning I went through the train in all its length。 The sleeping cars were empty。 The first…class carriages were empty。 They put me in mind of the luxurious hotels on the Riviera that open in winter for a single guest； the last representative of an extinct fauna。 A sign of bitter times。
But the third…class carriages were crowded with hundreds of Polish workmen sent home from France。 I made my way along those passages； stepping over sprawling bodies and peering into the carriages。 In the dim glow cast by the night…lamps into these barren and fortless partments I saw a confused mass of people churned about by the swaying of the train； the whole thing looking and smelling like a barrack…room。 A whole nation returning to its native poverty seemed to sprawl there in a sea of bad dreams。 Great shaven heads rolled on the cushionless benches。 Men； women； and children were stirring in their sleep； tossing from left to right and back again as if attacked by all the noises and jerkings that threatened them in their oblivion。 They had not found the hospitality of a sweet slumber。
Looking at them I said to myself that they had lost half their human quality。 These people had been knocked about from one end of Europe to the other by the economic currents； they had been torn from their little houses in the north of France； from their tiny garden…plots； their three pots of geranium that always stood in the windows of the Polish miners' families。 I saw lying beside them pots and pans； blankets； curtains； bound into bundles badly tied and swollen with hernias。
Out of all that they had caressed or loved in France； out of everything they had succeeded in taming in their four or five years in my country …the cat； the dog； the geranium…they had been able to bring away with them only a few kitchen utensils； two or three blankets； a curtain or so。
A baby lay at the breast of a mother so weary that she seemed asleep。 Life was being transmitted in the shabbiness and the disorder of this journey。 I looked at the father。 A powerful skull as naked as a stone。 A body hunched over in unfortable sleep； imprisoned in working clothes； all humps and hollows。 The man looked like a lump of clay； like one of those sluggish and shapeless derelicts that crumple into sleep in our public markets。
And I thought： The problem does not reside in this poverty； in this filth； in this ugliness。 But this same man and this same woman met one day。 This man must have smiled at this woman。 He may； after his work was done； have brought her flowers。 Timid and awkward； perhaps he trembled lest she disdain him。 And this woman； out of natural coquetry； this woman sure of her charms； perhaps took pleasure in teasing him。 And this man； this man who is now no more than a machine for swinging a pick or a sledge…hammer； must have felt in his heart a delicious anguish。 The mystery is that they should have bee these lumps of clay。 Into what terrible mould were they forced？ What was it that marked them like this as if they had been put through a monstrous stamping machine？ A deer； a gazelle； any animal grown old； preserves its grace。 What is it that corrupts this wonderful clay of which man is kneaded？
I went on through these people whose slumber was as sinister as a den of evil。 A vague noise floated in the air made up of raucous snores； obscure moanings； and the scraping of clogs as their wearers； broken on one side； sought fort on the other。 And always the muted acpaniment of those pebbles rolled over and over by the waves。
I sat down face to face with one couple。 Between the man and the woman a child had hollowed himself out a place and fallen asleep。 He turned in his slumber； and in the dim lamplight I saw his face。 What an adorable face！ A golden fruit had been born of these two peasants。 Forth from this sluggish scum had sprung this miracle of delight and grace。
I bent over the smooth brow； over those mildly pouting lips； and I said to myself： This is a musician's face。 This is the child Mozart。 This is a life full of beautiful promise。 Little princes in legends are not different from this。 Protected； sheltered； cultivated； what could not this child bee？
When by mutation a new rose is born in a garden； all the gardeners rejoice。 They isolate the rose； tend it； foster it。 But there is no gardener for men。 This little Mozart will be shaped like the rest by the mon stamping machine。 This little Mozart will love shoddy music in the stench of night dives。 This little Mozart is condemned
I went back to my sleeping car。 I said to myself： Their fate causes these people no suffering。 It is not an impulse to charity that has upset me like this。 I am not weeping over an eternally open wound。 Those who carry the wound do not feel it。 It is the human race and not the individual that is wounded here； is outraged here。 I do not believe in pity。 What torments me tonight is the gardener's point of view。 What torments me is not this poverty to which after all a man can accustom himself as easily as to sloth。 Generations of Orientals live in filth and love it。 What torments me is not the humps nor hollows nor the ugliness。 It is the sig