How is it that the sunlight gives us such joy? Why does this radiance when it falls on the
earth fill us with the joy of living? The whole sky is blue, the fields are green, the houses
all white, and our enchanted eyes drink in those bright colors which bring delight to our
souls. And then there springs up in our hearts a desire to dance, to run, to sing, a happy
lightness of thought, a sort of enlarged tenderness; we feel a longing to embrace the sun.
The blind, as they sit in the doorways, impassive in their eternal darkness, remain as calm
as ever in the midst of this fresh gaiety, and, not understanding what is taking place
around them, they continually check their dogs as they attempt to play.
When, at the close of the day, they are returning home on the arm of a young brother or a
little sister, if the child says: "It was a very fine day!" the other answers: "I could notice
that it was fine. Loulou wouldn't keep quiet."
I knew one of these men whose life was one of the most cruel martyrdoms that could
possibly be conceived.
He was a peasant, the son of a Norman farmer. As long as his father and mother lived, he
was more or less taken care of; he suffered little save from his horrible infirmity; but as
soon as the old people were gone, an atrocious life of misery commenced for him.
Dependent on a sister of his, everybody in the farmhouse treated him as a beggar who is
eating the bread of strangers. At every meal the very food he swallowed was made a
subject of reproach against him; he was called a drone, a clown, and although his brother-
in-law had taken possession of his portion of the inheritance, he was helped grudgingly to
soup, getting just enough to save him from starving.
His face was very pale and his two big white eyes looked like wafers. He remained
unmoved at all the insults hurled at him, so reserved that one could not tell whether he
felt them.
Moreover, he had never known any tenderness, his mother having always treated him
unkindly and caring very little for him; for in country places useless persons are
considered a nuisance, and the peasants would be glad to kill the infirm of their species,
as poultry do.
As soon as he finished his soup he went and sat outside the door in summer and in winter
beside the fireside, and did not stir again all the evening. He made no gesture, no
movement; only his eyelids, quivering from some nervous affection, fell down sometimes
over his white, sightless orbs. Had he any intellect, any thinking faculty, any
consciousness of his own existence? Nobody cared to inquire.
For some years things went on in this fashion. But his incapacity for work as well as his
impassiveness eventually exasperated his relatives, and he became a laughingstock, a sort
