wind sand and stars st.antoine de saint-exupery-第6章

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　　We　were　haunted　for　hours　by　this　vision　of　a　plane　in　distress。　But　the　hands　of　the　clock　were　going　round　and　little　by　little　it　began　to　grow　late。　Slowly　the　truth　was　borne　in　upon　us　that　our　rades　would　never　return；　that　they　were　sleeping　in　that　South　Atlantic　whose　skies　they　had　so　often　ploughed。　Mermoz　had　done　his　job　and　slipped　away　to　rest；　like　a　gleaner　who；　having　carefully　bound　his　sheaf；　lies　down　in　the　field　to　sleep。　
　　When　a　pilot　dies　in　the　harness　his　death　seems　something　that　inheres　in　the　craft　itself；　and　in　the　beginning　the　hurt　it　brings　is　perhaps　less　than　the　pain　sprung　of　a　different　death。　Assuredly　he　has　vanished；　has　undergone　his　ultimate　mutation　；　but　his　presence　is　still　not　missed　as　deeply　as　we　might　miss　bread。　For　in　this　craft　we　take　it　for　granted　that　we　shall　meet　together　only　rarely。　
　　Airline　pilots　are　widely　dispersed　over　the　face　of　the　world。　They　land　alone　at　scattered　and　remote　airports；　isolated　from　each　other　rather　in　the　manner　of　sentinels　between　whom　no　words　can　be　spoken。　It　needs　the　accident　of　journeyings　to　bring　together　here　or　there　the　dispersed　members　of　this　great　professional　family。　
　　Round　the　table　in　the　evening；　at　Casablanca；　at　Dakar；　at　Buenos　Aires；　we　take　up　conversations　interrupted　by　years　of　silence；　we　resume　friendships　to　the　acpaniment　of　buried　memories。　And　then　we　are　off　again。　
　　Thus　is　the　earth　at　once　a　desert　and　a　paradise；　rich　in　secret　hidden　gardens；　gardens　inaccessible；　but　to　which　the　craft　leads　us　ever　back；　one　day　or　another。　Life　may　scatter　us　and　keep　us　apart；　it　may　prevent　us　from　thinking　very　often　of　one　another；　but　we　know　that　our　rades　are　somewhere　〃out　there〃　…　where；　one　can　hardly　say…silent；　forgotten；　but　deeply　faithful。　And　when　our　path　crosses　theirs；　they　greet　us　with　such　manifest　joy；　shake　us　so　gaily　by　the　shoulders！　Indeed　we　are　accustomed　to　waiting。　
　　Bit　by　bit；　nevertheless；　it　es　over　us　that　we　shall　never　again　hear　the　laughter　of　our　friend；　that　this　one　garden　is　forever　locked　against　us。　And　at　that　moment　begins　our　true　mourning；　which；　though　it　may　not　be　rending；　is　yet　a　little　bitter。　For　nothing；　in　truth；　can　replace　that　panion。　Old　friends　cannot　be　created　out　of　hand。　Nothing　can　match　the　treasure　of　mon　memories；　of　trials　endured　together；　of　quarrels　and　reconciliations　and　generous　emotions。　It　is　idle；　having　planted　an　acorn　in　the　morning；　to　expect　that　afternoon　to　sit　in　the　shade　of　the　oak。　
　　So　life　goes　on。　For　years　we　plant　the　seed；　we　feel　ourselves　rich；　and　then　e　other　years　when　time　does　its　work　and　our　plantation　is　made　sparse　and　thin。　One　by　one；　our　rades　slip　away；　deprive　us　of　their　shade。　
　　This；　then；　is　the　moral　taught　us　by　Mermoz　and　his　kind。　We　understand　better；　because　of　him；　that　what　constitutes　the　dignity　of　a　craft　is　that　it　creates　a　fellowship；　that　it　binds　men　together　and　fashions　for　them　a　mon　language。　For　there　is　but　one　veritable　problem　…　the　problem　of　human　relations。　
　　We　forget　that　there　is　no　hope　of　joy　except　in　human　relations。　If　I　summon　up　those　memories　that　have　left　with　me　an　enduring　savor；　if　I　draw　up　the　balance　sheet　of　the　hours　in　my　life　that　have　truly　counted；　surely　I　find　only　those　that　no　wealth　could　have　procured　me。　True　riches　cannot　be　bought。　One　cannot　buy　the　friendship　of　a　Mermoz；　of　a　panion　to　whom　one　is　bound　forever　by　ordeals　suffered　in　mon。　There　is　no　buying　the　night　flight　with　its　hundred　thousand　stars；　its　serenity；　its　few　hours　of　sovereignty。　It　is　not　money　that　can　procure　for　us　that　new　vision　of　the　world　won　through　hardship…those　trees；　flowers；　women；　those　treasures　made　fresh　by　the　dew　and　color　of　life　which　the　dawn　restores　to　us；　this　concert　of　little　things　that　sustain　us　and　constitute　our　pensation。　
　　Nor　that　night　we　lived　through　in　the　land　of　the　unconquered　tribes　of　the　Sahara；　which　now　floats　into　my　memory。　
　　Three　crews　of　Aeropostale　men　had　e　down　at　the　fall　of　day　on　the　Rio　de　Oro　coast　in　a　part　of　the　Sahara　whose　denizens　acknowledge　no　European　rule。　Riguelle　had　landed　first；　with　a　broken　connecting　rod。　Bourgat　had　e　along　to　pick　up　Riguelle's　crew；　but　a　minor　accident　had　nailed　him　to　earth。　Finally；　as　night　was　beginning　to　fall；　I　arrived。　We　decided　to　salvage　Bourgat's　ship；　but　we　should　have　to　spend　the　night　and　do　the　job　of　repair　by　day…light。　
　　Exactly　on　this　spot　two　of　our　rades；　Gourp　and　Erable；　had　been　murdered　by　the　tribesmen　a　year　earlier。　We　knew　that　a　raiding　party　of　three　hundred　rifles　was　at　this　very　moment　encamped　somewhere　near　by；　round　Cape　Bojador。　Our　three　landings　had　been　visible　from　a　great　distance　and　the　Moors　must　have　seen　us。　We　began　a　vigil　which　might　turn　out　to　be　our　last。　
　　Altogether；　there　were　about　ten　of　us；　pilots　and　mechanics；　when　we　made　ready　for　the　night。　We　unloaded　five　or　six　Wooden　cases　of　merchandise　out　of　the　hold；　emptied　them；　and　set　them　about　in　a　circle。　At　the　deep　end　of　each　case；　as　in　a　sentry…box；　we　set　a　lighted　candle；　its　flame　poorly　sheltered　from　the　wind。　So　in　the　heart　of　the　desert；　on　the　naked　rind　of　the　planet；　in　an　isolation　like　that　of　the　beginnings　of　the　world；　we　built　a　village　of　men。　Sitting　in　the　flickering　light　of　the　candles　on　this　kerchief　of　sand；　on　this　village　square；　we　waited　in　the　night。　We　were　waiting　for　the　rescuing　dawn…or　for　the　Moors。　Something；　I　know　not　what；　lent　this　night　a　savor　of　Christmas。　We　told　stories；　we　joked；　we　sang　songs。　In　the　air　there　was　that　slight　fever　that　reigns　over　a　gaily　prepared　feast。　And　yet　we　were　infinitely　poor。　Wind；　sand；　and　stars。　The　austerity　of　Trappists。　But　on　this　badly　lighted　cloth；　a　handful　of　men　who　possessed　nothing　in　the　world　but　their　memories　were　sharing　invisible　riches。　
　　We　had　met　at　last。　Men　travel　side　by　side　for　years；　each　locked　up　in　his　own　silence　or　exchanging　those　words　which　carry　no　freight　…till　danger　es。　Then　they　stand　shoulder　to　shoulder。　They　discover　that　they　belong　to　the　same　family。　They　wax　and　bloom　in　the　recognition　of　fellow　beings。　They　look　at　one　another　and　smile。　They　are　like　the　prisoner　set　free　who　marvels　at　the　immensity　of　the　sea。　
　　Happiness！　It　is　useless　to　seek　it　elsewhere　than　in　this　warmth　of　human　relations。　Our　sordid　interests　imprison　us　within　their　walls。　Only　a　rade　can　grasp　us　by　the　hand　and　haul　us　free。　
　　And　these　human　relations　must　be　created。　One　must　go　through　an　apprenticeship　to　learn　the　job。　Games　and　risk　are　a　help　here。　When　we　exchange　manly　handshakes；　pete　in　races；　join　together　to　save　one　of　us　who　is　in　trouble；　cry　aloud　for　help　in　the　hour　of　danger　…　only　then　do　we　learn　that　we　are　not　alone　on　earth。　
　　Each　man　must　look　to　himself　to　teach　him　the　meaning　of　life。　It　is　not　something　discovered：　it　is　something　moulded。　These　prison　walls　that　this　age　of　trade　has　built　up　round　us；　we　can　break　down。　We　can　still　run　free；　call　to　our　rades；　and　marvel　to　hear　once　more；　in　response　to　our　call；　the　pathetic　chant　of　the　human　voice。　
　　II　
　　Guillaumet；　old　friend；　of　you　too　I　shall　say　a　few　words。　Be　sure　that　I　shall　not　make　you　squirm　with　any　clumsy　vaunting　of　your　courage　and　your　professional　valor。　In　telling　the　story　of　the　most　marvelous　of　your　adventures；　I　am　after　something　quite　different。　
　　There　exists　a　quality　which　is　nameless。　It　may　be　gravity；　but　the　word　does　not　satisfy　me；　for　the　quality　I　have　in　mind　can　be　acpanied　by　the　most　cheerful　gaiety。　It　is　the　quality　of　the　carpenter　face　to　face　with　his　block　of　wood。　He　handles　it；　he　takes　its　measure。　Far　from　treating　it　frivolously；　he　summons　all　his　professional　virtues　to　do　it　honor。　
　　I　once　read；　Guillaumet；　a　tale　in　which　your　adventure　was　celebrated。　I　have　an　old　score　to　settle　with　the　infidel　who　wrote　it。　You　were　described　as　abounding　in　the　witty　sallies　of　the　street　arab；　as　if　courage　consisted　in　demeaning　oneself　to　schoolboy　banter　in　the　midst　of　danger　and　the　hour　of　death。　The　man　did　no