wind sand and stars st.antoine de saint-exupery-第15部分

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ne　year　after　crashing　in　the　desert　I　made　a　tour　of　the　Catalan　front　in　order　to　learn　what　happens　to　man　when　the　scaffolding　of　his　traditions　suddenly　collapses。　To　Madrid　I　went　for　an　answer　to　another　question：　How　does　it　happen　that　men　are　sometimes　willing　to　die？　
　　I　
　　Flying　west　from　Lyon；　I　veered　left　in　the　direction　of　the　Pyrenees　and　Spain。　Below　me　floated　fleecy　white　clouds；　summer　clouds；　clouds　made　for　amateur　flyers　in　which　great　gaps　opened　like　skylights。　Through　one　of　these　windows　I　could　see　Perpignan　lying　at　the　bottom　of　a　well　of　light。　
　　I　was　flying　solo；　and　as　I　looked　down　on　Perpignan　I　was　day…dreaming。　I　had　spent　six　months　there　once　while　serving　as　test　pilot　at　a　near…by　airdrome。　When　the　day's　work　was　done　I　would　drive　into　this　town　where　every　day　was　as　peaceful　as　Sunday。　I　would　sit　in　a　wicker　chair　within　sound　of　the　cafe　band；　sip　a　glass　of　port；　and　look　idly　on　at　the　provincial　life　of　the　place；　reflecting　that　it　was　as　innocent　as　a　review　of　lead　soldiers。　These　pretty　girls；　these　carefree　strollers；　this　pure　sky。　。　。　。　
　　But　here　came　the　Pyrenees。　The　last　happy　town　was　left　behind。　
　　Below　me　lay　Figueras；　and　Spain。　This　was　where　men　killed　one　another。　What　was　most　astonishing　here　was　not　the　sight　of　conflagration；　ruin；　and　signs　of　man's　distress…it　was　the　absence　of　all　these。　Figueras　seemed　no　different　from　Perpignan。　I　leaned　out　and　stared　hard。　
　　There　were　no　scars　on　that　heap　of　white　gravel；　that　church　gleaming　in　the　sun；　which　I　knew　had　been　burnt。　I　could　not　distinguish　its　irreparable　wounds。　Gone　was　the　pale　smoke　that　had　carried　off　its　gilding；　had　melted　in　the　blue　of　the　sky　its　altar　screens；　its　prayer　books；　its　sacerdotal　treasures。　Not　a　line　of　the　church　was　altered。　This　town；　seated　at　the　heart　of　its　fan…shaped　roads　like　a　spider　at　the　centre　of　its　silken　trap；　looked　very　much　like　the　other。　
　　Like　other　towns；　this　one　was　nourished　by　the　fruits　of　the　plain　that　rose　along　the　white　highways　to　meet　it。　All　that　I　could　discern　was　the　slow　gnawing　which；　through　the　centuries；　had　swallowed　up　the　soil；　driven　away　the　forests；　divided　up　the　fields；　dug　out　these　life…giving　irrigation　ditches。　Here　was　a　face　unlikely　to　change　much；　for　it　was　already　old。　A　colony　of　bees；　I　said　to　myself；　once　it　was　established　so　solidly　within　the　boundaries　of　an　acre　of　flowers；　would　be　assured　of　peace。　But　peace　is　not　given　to　a　colony　of　men。　
　　Human　drama　does　not　show　itself　on　the　surface　of　life。　It　is　not　played　out　in　the　visible　world；　but　in　the　hearts　of　men。　Even　in　happy　Perpignan　a　victim　of　cancer　walled　up　behind　his　hospital　window　goes　round　and　round　in　a　circle　striving　helplessly　to　escape　the　pain　that　hovers　over　him　like　a　relentless　kite。　One　man　in　misery　can　disrupt　the　peace　of　a　city。　It　is　another　of　the　miraculous　things　about　mankind　that　there　is　no　pain　nor　passion　that　does　not　radiate　to　the　ends　of　the　earth。　Let　a　man　in　garret　but　burn　with　enough　intensity　and　he　will　set　fire　to　the　world。　
　　Gerona　went　by；　Barcelona　loomed　into　view；　and　I　let　myself　glide　gently　down　from　the　perch　of　my　observatory。　Even　here'1　could　see　nothing　out　of　the　way；　unless　it　was　that　the　avenues　were　deserted。　Again　there　were　devastated　churches　which；　from　above；　looked　untouched。　Faintly　visible　was　something　that　I　guessed　to　be　smoke。　Was　that　one　of　the　signs　I　was　seeking？　Was　this　a　scrap　of　evidence　of　that　nearly　soundless　anger　whose　all…destroying　wrath　was　so　hard　to　measure？　A　whole　civilization　was　contained　in　that　faint　golden　puff　so　lightly　dispersed　by　a　breath　of　wind。　
　　I　am　quite　convinced　of　the　sincerity　of　people　who　say：　〃Terror　in　Barcelona？　Nonsense。　That　great　city　in　ashes？　A　mere　twenty　houses　wrecked。　Streets　heaped　with　the　dead？　A　few　hundred　killed　out　of　a　population　of　a　million。　Where　did　you　see　a　firing　line　running　with　blood　and　deafening　with　the　roar　of　guns？〃　
　　I　agree　that　I　saw　no　firing　line。　I　saw　groups　of　tranquil　men　and　women　strolling　on　the　Ramblas。　When；　on　occasion；　I　ran　against　a　barricade　of　militiamen　in　arms；　a　smile　was　often　enough　to　open　the　way　before　me。　I　did　not　e　at　once　upon　the　firing　line。　In　a　civil　war　the　firing　line　is　invisible；　it　passes　through　the　hearts　of　men。　And　yet；　on　my　very　first　night　in　Barcelona　I　skirted　it。　
　　I　was　sitting　on　the　pavement　of　a　cafe；　sipping　my　drink　surrounded　by　light…hearted　men　and　women；　when　suddenly　four　armed　men　stopped　where　I　sat；　stared　at　a　man　at　the　next　table；　and　without　a　word　pointed　their　guns　at　his　stomach。　Streaming　with　sweat　the　man　stood　up　and　raised　leaden　arms　above　his　head。　One　of　the　militiamen　ran　his　hands　over　his　clothes　and　his　eyes　over　some　papers　he　found　in　the　man's　pockets；　and　ordered　him　to　e　along。　
　　The　man　left　his　half…emptied　glass；　the　last　glass　of　his　life；　and　started　down　the　road。　Surrounded　by　the　squad；　his　hands　stuck　up　like　the　hands　of　a　man　going　down　for　the　last　time。　
　　〃Fascist！〃　A　woman　behind　me　said　it　with　contempt。　She　was　the　only　witness　who　dared　betray　that　anything　out　of　the　ordinary　had　taken　place。　Untouched；　the　man's　glass　stood　on　the　table；　a　mute　witness　to　a　mad　confidence　in　chance；　in　forgiveness；　in　life。　I　sat　watching　the　disappearance　in　a　ring　of　rifles　of　a　man　who　five　minutes　before；　within　two　feet　of　me；　had　crossed　the　invisible　firing　line。　
　　My　guides　were　anarchists。　They　led　me　to　the　railway　station　where　troops　were　being　entrained。　Far　from　the　platforms　built　for　tender　farewells；　we　were　walking　in　a　desert　of　signal　towers　and　switching　points；　stumbling　in　the　rain　through　a　labyrinthine　yard　filled　with　blackened　goods　wagons　where　tarpaulins　the　color　of　lard　were　spread　over　carloads　of　stiffened　forms。　This　world　had　lost　its　human　quality；　had　bee　a　world　of　iron；　and　therefore　uninhabitable。　A　ship　remains　a　living　thing　only　so　long　as　man　with　his　brushes　and　oils　swabs　an　artificial　layer　of　light　over　it。　Leave　them　to　themselves　a　couple　of　weeks　and　the　life　dies　out　of　your　ship；　your　factory；　your　railway；　death　covers　their　faces。　After　six　thousand　years　the　stones　of　a　temple　still　vibrate　with　the　passage　of　man；　but　a　little　rust；　a　night　of　rain；　and　this　railway　yard　is　eaten　away　to　its　very　skeleton。　
　　Here　are　our　men。　Cannon　and　machine…guns　are　being　loaded　on　board　with　the　straining　muscles　and　the　hoarse　gaspings　that　are　always　drawn　from　men　by　these　monstrous　insects；　these　fleshless　insects；　these　lumps　of　carapace　and　vertebra。　What　is　startling　here　is　the　silence。　Not　a　note　of　song；　not　a　single　shout。　Only；　now　and　then；　when　a　gun…carriage　lands；　the　hollow　thump　of　a　steel　plate。　Of　human　voices　no　sound。　
　　No　uniforms；　either。　These　men　are　going　off　to　be　killed　in　their　working　garb。　Wearing　their　dark　clothes　stiff　with　mud；　the　column　heaving　and　sweating　at　their　work　look　like　the　denizens　of　a　night　shelter。　They　fill　me　with　the　same　uneasiness　I　felt　when　the　yellow　fever　broke　out　among　us　at　Dakar；　ten　years　ago。　
　　The　chief　of　the　detachment　had　been　speaking　to　me　in　a　whisper。　I　caught　the　end　of　his　speech：　
　　〃　。　。　。　and　we　move　up　to　Saragossa。〃　
　　Why　the　devil　aid　he　have　to　whisper！　The　atmosphere　of　this　yard　made　me　think　of　a　hospital。　But　of　course！　That　was　it。　A　civil　war　is　not　a　war；　it　is　a　disease。　These　men　were　not　going　up　to　the　front　in　the　exultation　of　certain　victory；　they　were　struggling　blindly　against　infection。　
　　And　the　same　thing　was　going　on　in　the　enemy　camp。　The　purpose　of　this　struggle　was　not　to　rid　the　country　of　an　invading　foreigner　but　to　eradicate　a　plague。　A　new　faith　is　like　a　plague。　It　attacks　from　within。　It　propagates　in　the　invisible。　Walking　in　the　streets；　whoever　belongs　to　a　Party　feels　himself　surrounded　by　secretly　infected　men。　
　　This　must　have　been　why　these　troops　were　going　off　in　silence　with　their　instruments　of　asphyxiation。　There　was　not　the　slightest　resemblance　between　them　and　regiments　that　go　into　battle　against　foreign　armies　and　are　set　out　on　the　chessboard　of　the　fields　and　moved　about　by　strategists。　These　men　had　gathered　together　haphazardly　in　a　city　filled　with　chaos。　
　　There　was　not　much　to　choose　between　Barcelona　and　its　enemy；　Saragossa：　both　were　posed　of　the　same　swarm　of　munists；　anarchists；　and　fascists。　The　very　men　who　collected　on　the　same　side　were　perhaps　more　different　from　one　another　than　from　their　enemies。　In　civil　war　the　enemy　is　inward；　one　as　good　as　fights　against　oneself。　
　　What　else　can　explain　the　particular　horror　of　this　war　in　which　firing　squads　count　for　more　than　soldiers　of　the　line？　Death　in　this　war　is　a　sort　of　quarantine。　Purges　take　place　of　germ…carriers。　The　anarchists　go　from　house　to　house　and　load　the　plague…stricken　into　their　tumbrils；　while　on　the　other　side　of　the　barricade　Franco　is　able　to　utter　that　horrible　boast：　〃There　are　no　more　munists　among　us。〃　
　　The　conscripts　are　weeded　out　by　a　kind　of　medical　board　；　the　officer　in　charge　is　a　sort　of　army　doctor。　Men　present　themselves　for　service　wi