convergence.
“What is more,” his thought went on, “to proceed from God, will to will, is to recognize His Law, which is a law of justice and harmony among men. Work is not, therefore, a necessary source of conflict between them.…”
The darkness had completely fallen by this time. The knight in the dalmatic was still crouched motionless, facing the east. Stretched out on his back beside him, Samba Diallo opened wide unseeing eyes upon the star-studded firmament.
“There is no antagonism between the discipline of faith and the discipline of work. The death of God is not a necessary condition to the survival of man.”
Samba Diallo was not seeing the shining firmament, for the same peace reigned in the heavens and in his heart. Samba Diallo was not existing. There were innumerablestars, there was the earth chilled anew by the coming of night, there was the shade, and there was their simultaneous presence.
“It is at the very heart of this presence that thought is born,” he reflected, “as on the water a succession of waves is set off around a spot where something has fallen. But there are those who do not believe.…”
Samba Diallo suddenly saw the sky. In a flash, he realized its serene beauty.
“There are those who do not believe.… We who believe—we cannot abandon our brothers who do not believe. The world belongs to them as much as it does to us. Labor is a law for them as much as it is for us. They are our brothers. Often, their ignorance of God will have come to them as an accident of their labor, in the workyards where our common dwelling is being put up. Can we forsake them?
“In addition, my God, to those who have lost Thee, there are those who, today as since the beginnings of history, have never known Thy grace—can we abandon them? We implore Thee to accept them, as Thou alone knowest how to accept those whom Thou dost accept, for they have built the world with us, whence we are able, with a thought each day less preoccupied, to seek Thee and salute Thee. It must not be at the cost of Thy grace that man conquers his liberty. Must it be so?”
Samba Diallo rose from his place, and opened his mouth to question the knight. But he did not dare.
“What is it?” his father asked.
“I am cold,” he said. “I am going to bed.”
PART TWO
1
WHEN SAMBA DIALLO ENTERED THE DRAWING-ROOM, everyone rose with a single movement. Lucienne came to meet him, rosy and smiling, her hand outstretched.
“Has Socrates at last drunk the hemlock?” she asked, with a smile in her voice.
Samba Diallo smiled back at her.
“No,” he answered. “The sacred vessel has not yet returned from Delos.”
Addressing her parents, Lucienne explained: “Samba Diallo is preparing a work on the
Phédon
for our study group, and he is so passionately absorbed in this task that for a moment I was afraid he was forgetting to come.”
Then, turning toward Samba Diallo, she introduced her family: her father, her mother, and her cousin Pierre, a medical student.
“I hope, Monsieur, that you will excuse us for receiving you like this, in complete simplicity,” Madame Martial said. “Lucienne and I want you to feel entirely at ease here, as in your own home.”
“I thank you for your kindness, Madame, and for your invitation.”
“Then add that you are only making this reply from politeness,” Lucienne’s father cried out. “My wife imagines that your African milieu is distinguished from ours only by a lesser complexity.”
Behind the glasses that corrected his vision, the man’s face was sparkling with mischief.
Paul Martial was a Protestant pastor. The head that topped a robust, almost massive, body would have seemed prematurely old if it had not been for the freshness of the glance behind those eyeglasses. Beneath a thick and greying thatch of hair gleamed the whiteness of a broad forehead which, in spite of the difference in color, reminded Samba Diallo of the forehead, with its skin hardened by long
“What is more,” his thought went on, “to proceed from God, will to will, is to recognize His Law, which is a law of justice and harmony among men. Work is not, therefore, a necessary source of conflict between them.…”
The darkness had completely fallen by this time. The knight in the dalmatic was still crouched motionless, facing the east. Stretched out on his back beside him, Samba Diallo opened wide unseeing eyes upon the star-studded firmament.
“There is no antagonism between the discipline of faith and the discipline of work. The death of God is not a necessary condition to the survival of man.”
Samba Diallo was not seeing the shining firmament, for the same peace reigned in the heavens and in his heart. Samba Diallo was not existing. There were innumerablestars, there was the earth chilled anew by the coming of night, there was the shade, and there was their simultaneous presence.
“It is at the very heart of this presence that thought is born,” he reflected, “as on the water a succession of waves is set off around a spot where something has fallen. But there are those who do not believe.…”
Samba Diallo suddenly saw the sky. In a flash, he realized its serene beauty.
“There are those who do not believe.… We who believe—we cannot abandon our brothers who do not believe. The world belongs to them as much as it does to us. Labor is a law for them as much as it is for us. They are our brothers. Often, their ignorance of God will have come to them as an accident of their labor, in the workyards where our common dwelling is being put up. Can we forsake them?
“In addition, my God, to those who have lost Thee, there are those who, today as since the beginnings of history, have never known Thy grace—can we abandon them? We implore Thee to accept them, as Thou alone knowest how to accept those whom Thou dost accept, for they have built the world with us, whence we are able, with a thought each day less preoccupied, to seek Thee and salute Thee. It must not be at the cost of Thy grace that man conquers his liberty. Must it be so?”
Samba Diallo rose from his place, and opened his mouth to question the knight. But he did not dare.
“What is it?” his father asked.
“I am cold,” he said. “I am going to bed.”
PART TWO
1
WHEN SAMBA DIALLO ENTERED THE DRAWING-ROOM, everyone rose with a single movement. Lucienne came to meet him, rosy and smiling, her hand outstretched.
“Has Socrates at last drunk the hemlock?” she asked, with a smile in her voice.
Samba Diallo smiled back at her.
“No,” he answered. “The sacred vessel has not yet returned from Delos.”
Addressing her parents, Lucienne explained: “Samba Diallo is preparing a work on the
Phédon
for our study group, and he is so passionately absorbed in this task that for a moment I was afraid he was forgetting to come.”
Then, turning toward Samba Diallo, she introduced her family: her father, her mother, and her cousin Pierre, a medical student.
“I hope, Monsieur, that you will excuse us for receiving you like this, in complete simplicity,” Madame Martial said. “Lucienne and I want you to feel entirely at ease here, as in your own home.”
“I thank you for your kindness, Madame, and for your invitation.”
“Then add that you are only making this reply from politeness,” Lucienne’s father cried out. “My wife imagines that your African milieu is distinguished from ours only by a lesser complexity.”
Behind the glasses that corrected his vision, the man’s face was sparkling with mischief.
Paul Martial was a Protestant pastor. The head that topped a robust, almost massive, body would have seemed prematurely old if it had not been for the freshness of the glance behind those eyeglasses. Beneath a thick and greying thatch of hair gleamed the whiteness of a broad forehead which, in spite of the difference in color, reminded Samba Diallo of the forehead, with its skin hardened by long
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