From the days of my childhood I have
been accustomed to keep certain rules, and they have grown into a
habit. Henry the Fourth said Paris was well worth a mass; so say I
that the peace of those nearest is worth a mass; people of my class,
as a rule, observe religious prescriptions, and I should protest
against the outward symbols only in such a case if I could find
something more conclusive to say than "I do not know." I go to church
because I am a sceptic in regard to my own scepticism. It is not a
comfortable feeling, and my soul drags one wing along the earth.
But it would be much worse with me if I always pondered over these
questions so earnestly as I have done while writing these last pages.
Fortunately for me this is not the case. I have mentioned already that
at times I am indifferent to them. Life carries me along, and although
in the main I know what to think of its hollow pleasures, I give
myself up to it altogether, and then the moral "to be, or not to be"
has no meaning for me. A strange thing, about the power of which not
much has been said, is the influence of social suggestion on the mind.
In Paris, for instance, I feel happier not only because the continual
mill deafens me,--I am swallowed up by the surging masses, and my
mind is diverted by tricks of the fencing ring,--but also because the
people there, without being conscious of it, live as if it were worth
their while to put all their energies into this life, and as if beyond
there was nothing but a chemical process.
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