CLERAMBAULT

THE STORY OF AN INDEPENDENT SPIRIT DURING THE WAR

BY

ROMAIN ROLLAND

TRANSLATED BY

KATHERINE MILLER

1921

TO THE READER

This book is not a novel, but rather the confession of a free spirittelling of its mistakes, its sufferings and its struggles from themidst of the tempest; and it is in no sense an autobiography either. Some day I may wish to write of myself, and I will then speak withoutany disguise or feigned name. Though it is true that I have lentsome ideas to my hero, his individuality, his character and thecircumstances of his life are all his own; and I have tried to give apicture of the inward labyrinth where a weak spirit wanders, feelingits way, uncertain, sensitive and impressionable, but sincere andardent in the cause of truth. 

Some chapters of the book have a family likeness to the meditationsof our old French moralists and the stoical essays of the end of theXVIth century. At a time resembling our own but even exceeding itin tragic horror, amid the convulsions of the League, theChief-Magistrate Guillaume Du Vair wrote his noble Dialogues, "De laConstance et Consolation ès Calamités Publiques, " with a steadfastmind. While the siege of Paris was at its worst he talked in hisgarden with his friends, Linus the great traveller, Musée, Dean of theFaculty of Medicine, and the writer Orphée. Poor wretches lay dead ofstarvation in the streets, women cried out that pike-men were eatingchildren near the Temple; but with their eyes filled with thesehorrible pictures these wise men sought to raise their unhappythoughts to the heights where one can reach the mind of the agesand reckon up that which has survived the test. As I re-read theseDialogues during the war I more than once felt myself close to thattrue Frenchman who wrote: Man is born to see and know everything, andit is an injustice to limit him to one place on the earth. To the wiseman the whole world is his country. God lends us the world to enjoy incommon on one condition only, that we act uprightly. 

R. R. 

PARIS, May, 1920

INTRODUCTION [1]

[Footnote 1: This Introduction was published in the Swiss newspapersin December, 1917, with an episode of the novel and a note explainingthe original title, _L'Un contre Tous_. "This somewhat ironical namewas suggested--with a difference--by La Boëtie's _Le Contr' Un_; butit must not be supposed that the author entertained the extravagantidea of setting one man in opposition to all others; he only wishesto summon the personal conscience to the most urgent conflict of ourtime, the struggle against the herd-spirit. "]

This book is not written about the war, though the shadow of the warlies over it. My theme is that the individual soul has been swallowedup and submerged in the soul of the multitude; and in my opinion suchan event is of far greater importance to the future of the race thanthe passing supremacy of one nation. 

I have left questions of policy in the background intentionally, as Ithink they should be reserved for special study. No matter what causesmay be assigned as the origins of the war, no matter what thesessupport them, nothing in the world can excuse the abdication ofindividual judgment before general opinion. 

The universal development of democracies, vitiated by a fossilizedsurvival, the outrageous "reason of State, " has led the mind of Europeto hold as an article of faith that there can be no higher ideal thanto serve the community. This community is then defined as the State. 

I venture to say that he who makes himself the servant of a blind orblinded nation, --and most of the states are in this condition at thepresent day, --does not truly serve it but lowers both it and himself;for in general a few men, incapable of understanding the complexitiesof the people, force thoughts and acts upon them in harmony with theirown passions and interests by means of the falsehoods of the press andthe implacable machinery of a centralised government. He who would beuseful to others must first be free himself; for love itself has novalue coming from a slave. 

Independent minds and firm characters are what the world needs mosttoday. The death-like submission of the churches, the stiflingintolerance of nations, the stupid unitarianism of socialists, --by allthese different roads we are returning to the gregarious life. Man hasslowly dragged himself out of the warm slime, but it seems as if thelong effort has exhausted him; he is letting himself slip backwardinto the collective mind, and the choking breath of the pit alreadyrises about him. You who do not believe that the cycle of manis accomplished, you must rouse yourselves and dare to separateyourselves from the herd in which you are dragged along. Every manworthy of the name should learn to stand alone, and do his ownthinking, even in conflict with the whole world. Sincere thought, even if it does run counter to that of others, is still a service tomankind; for humanity demands that those who love her should oppose, or if necessary rebel against her. You will not serve her by flattery, by debasing your conscience and intelligence, but rather by defendingtheir integrity from the abuse of power. For these are some of hervoices, and if you betray yourself you betray her also. 

R. R. 

SIERRE, March, 1917. 

PART ONE

Agénor Clerambault sat under an arbour in his garden at St. Prix, reading to his wife and children an ode that he had just written, dedicated to Peace, ruler of men and things, "Ara Pacis Augustae. " Init he wished to celebrate the near approach of universal brotherhood. It was a July evening; a last rosy light lay on the tree-tops, andthrough the luminous haze, like a veil over the slopes of the hillsideand the grey plain of the distant city, the windows on Montmartreburned like sparks of gold. Dinner was just over. Clerambault leanedacross the table where the dishes yet stood, and as he spoke hisglance full of simple pleasure passed from one to the other of histhree auditors, sure of meeting the reflection of his own happiness. 

His wife Pauline followed the flight of his thought with difficulty. After the third phrase anything read aloud made her feel drowsy, andthe affairs of her household took on an absurd importance; one mightsay that the voice of the reader made them chirp like birds in a cage. It was in vain that she tried to follow on Clerambault's lips, andeven to imitate with her own, the words whose meaning she no longerunderstood; her eye mechanically noted a hole in the cloth, herfingers picked at the crumbs on the table, her mind flew back to atroublesome bill, till as her husband's eye seemed to catch her in theact, hastily snatching at the last words she had heard, she went intoraptures over a fragment of verse, --for she could never quote poetryaccurately. "What was that, Agénor? Do repeat that last line. Howbeautiful it is. " Little Rose, her daughter, frowned, and Maxime, the grown son, was annoyed and said impatiently: "You are alwaysinterrupting, Mamma!"

Clerambault smiled and patted his wife's hand affectionately. Hehad married her for love when he was young, poor, and unknown, andtogether they had gone through years of hardship. She was not quiteon his intellectual level and the difference did not diminish withadvancing years, but Clerambault loved and respected his helpmate, andshe strove, without much success, to keep step with her great man ofwhom she was so proud. He was extraordinarily indulgent to her. Hiswas not a critical nature--which was a great help to him in life inspite of innumerable errors of judgment; but as these were always tothe advantage of others, whom he saw at their best, people laughedbut liked him. He did not interfere with their money hunt and hiscountrified simplicity was refreshing to the world-weary, like awild-growing thicket in a city square. 

Maxime was amused by all this, knowing what it was worth. He was agood-looking boy of nineteen with bright laughing eyes, and in theParisian surroundings he had been quick to acquire the gift of rapid, humorous observation, dwelling on the outside view of men and thingsmore than on ideas. Even in those he loved, nothing ridiculous escapedhim, but it was without ill-nature. Clerambault smiled at the youthfulimpertinence which did not diminish Maxime's admiration for his fatherbut rather added to its flavour. A boy in Paris would tweak the GoodLord by the beard, by way of showing affection!

Rosine was silent according to her habit; it was not easy to know herthoughts as she listened, bent forward, her hands folded and her armsleaning on the table. Some natures seem made to receive, like theearth which opens itself silently to every seed. Many seeds fall andremain dormant; none can tell which will bring forth fruit. The soulof the young girl was of this kind; her face did not reflect the wordsof the reader as did Maxime's mobile features, but the slight flush onher cheek and the moist glance of her eyes under their drooping lidsshowed inward ardour and feeling. She looked like those Florentinepictures of the Virgin stirred by the magical salutation of theArchangel. Clerambault saw it all and as he glanced around his littlecircle his eye rested with special delight on the fair bending headwhich seemed to feel his look. 

On this July evening these four people were united in a bond ofaffection and tranquil happiness of which the central point was thefather, the idol of the family. 

He knew that he was their idol, and by a rare exception this knowledgedid not spoil him, for he had such joy in loving, so much affectionto spread far and wide that it seemed only natural that he should beloved in return; he was really like an elderly child. After a life ofungilded mediocrity he had but recently come to be known, and thoughthe one experience had not given him pain, he delighted in the other. He was over fifty without seeming to be aware of it, for if therewere some white threads in his big fair moustache, --like an ancientGaul's, --his heart was as young as those of his children. Instead ofgoing with the stream of his generation, he met each new wave; thebest of life to him was the spring of youth constantly renewed, and henever troubled about the contradictions into which he was led by thisspirit always in reaction against that which had preceded it. Theseinconsistencies were fused together in his mind, which was moreenthusiastic than logical, and filled by the beauty which he saw allaround him. Add to this the milk of human kindness, which did not mixwell with his aesthetic pantheism, but which was natural to him. 

He had made himself the exponent of noble human ideas, sympathisingwith advanced parties, the oppressed, the people--of whom he knewlittle, for he was thoroughly of the middle-class, full of vague, generous theories. He also adored crowds and loved to mingle withthem, believing that in this way he joined himself to the All-Soul, according to the fashion at that time in intellectual circles. Thisfashion, as not infrequently happens, emphasised a general tendency ofthe day; humanity turning to the swarm-idea. The most sensitive amonghuman insects, --artists and thinkers, --were the first to show thesesymptoms, which in them seemed a sort of pose, so that the generalconditions of which they were a symptom were lost sight of. 

The democratic evolution of the last forty years had establishedpopular government politically, but socially speaking had only broughtabout the rule of mediocrity. Artists of the higher class at firstopposed this levelling down of intelligence, --but feeling themselvestoo weak to resist they had withdrawn to a distance, emphasising theirdisdain and their isolation. They preached a sort of art, acceptableonly to the initiated. There is nothing finer than such a retreat whenone brings to it wealth of consciousness, abundance of feeling andan outpouring soul, but the literary groups of the end of the XIXthcentury were far removed from those fertile hermitages where robustthoughts were concentrated. They cared much more to economise theirlittle store of intelligence than to renew it. In order to purify itthey had withdrawn it from circulation. The result was that it ceasedto be perceived. The common life passed on its way without botheringits head further, leaving the artist caste to wither in a make-believerefinement. The violent storms at the time of the excitement about theDreyfus Case did rouse some minds from this torpor, but when they cameout of their orchid-house the fresh air turned their heads and theythrew themselves into the great passing movement with the sameexaggeration that their predecessors had shown in withdrawing fromit. They believed that salvation was in the people, that in them wasvirtue, even all good, and though they were often thwarted in theirefforts to get closer to them, they set flowing a current in thethought of Europe. They were proud to call themselves the exponentsof the collective soul, but they were not victors but vanquished;the collective soul made breaches in their ivory tower, the feeblepersonalities of these thinkers yielded, and to hide their abdicationfrom themselves, they declared it voluntary. In the effort to convincethemselves, philosophers and aesthetics forged theories to prove thatthe great directing principle was to abandon oneself to the streamof a united life instead of directing it, or more modestly followingone's own little path in peace. It was a matter of pride to be nolonger oneself, to be no longer free to reason, for freedom was an oldstory in these democracies. One gloried to be a bubble tossed on theflood, --some said of the race and others of the universal life. Thesefine theories, from which men of talent managed to extract receiptsfor art and thought, were in full flower in 1914. The heart of thesimple Clerambault rejoiced in such visions, for nothing could haveharmonised better with his warm heart and inaccurate mind. If one hasbut little self-possession it is easy to give oneself up to others, tothe world, to that indefinable Providential Force on whose shoulderswe can throw the burden of thought and will. The great current swepton and these indolent souls, instead of pursuing their way along thebank found it easier to let themselves be carried ... Where? No onetook the trouble to ask. Safe in their West, it never occurred to themthat their civilisation could lose the advantages gained; the march ofprogress seemed as inevitable as the rotation of the earth. Firm inthis conviction, one could fold one's arms and leave all to nature;who meanwhile was waiting for them at the bottom of the pit that shewas digging. 

As became a good idealist, Clerambault rarely looked where he wasgoing, but that did not prevent him from meddling in politics in afumbling sort of way, as was the mania of men of letters in his day. He had his word to say, right or wrong, and was often entreated tospeak by journalists in need of copy, and fell into their trap, takinghimself seriously in his innocent way. On the whole he was a fair poetand a good man, intelligent, if rather a greenhorn, pure of heartand weak in character, sensitive to praise and blame, and to all thesuggestions round him. He was incapable of a mean sentiment of envy orhatred, and unable also to attribute such thoughts to others. Amid thecomplexity of human feelings, he remained blind towards evil andan advocate of the good. This type of writer is born to please thepublic, for he does not see faults in men, and enhances their smallmerits, so that even those who see through him are grateful. If wecannot amount to much, a good appearance is a consolation, and we loveto be reflected in eyes which lend beauty to our mediocrity. 

This widespread sympathy, which delighted Clerambault, was not lesssweet to the three who surrounded him at this moment. They were asproud of him as if they had made him, for what one admires does seemin a sense one's own creation, and when in addition one is of the sameblood, a part of the object of our admiration, it is hard to tell ifwe spring from him, or he from us. 

Agénor Clerambault's wife and his two children gazed at their greatman with the tender satisfied expression of ownership; and he, talland high-shouldered, towered over them with his glowing words andenjoyed it all; he knew very well that we really belong to the thingsthat we fancy are our possessions. 

Clerambault had just finished with a Schilleresque vision of thefraternal joys promised in the future. Maxime, carried away by hisenthusiasm in spite of his sense of humour, had given the orator around of applause all by himself. Pauline noisily asked if Agénorhad not heated himself in speaking, and amid the excitement Rosinesilently pressed her lips to her father's hand. 

The servant brought in the mail and the evening papers, but no one wasin a hurry to read them. The news of the day seemed behind the timescompared with the dazzling future. Maxime however took up the popularmiddle-class sheet, and threw his eye over the columns. He startedat the latest items and exclaimed; "Hullo! War is declared. " No onelistened to him: Clerambault was dreaming over the last vibrations ofhis verses; Rosine lost in a calm ecstasy; the mother alone, who couldnot fix her mind on anything, buzzing about like a fly, chanced tocatch the last word, --"Maxime, how can you be so silly?" she cried, but Maxime protested, showing his paper with the declaration of warbetween Austria and Servia. 

"War with whom?"--"With Servia?"--"Is that all?" said the good woman, as if it were a question of something in the moon. 

Maxime however persisted, --_doctus cum libro_, --arguing that from onething to another, this shock no matter how distant, might bring abouta general explosion; but Clerambault, who was beginning to come outof his pleasant trance, smiled calmly, and said that nothing wouldhappen. 

"It is only a bluff, " he declared, "like so many we have had for thelast thirty years; we get them regularly every spring and summer; justbullying and sabre-rattling. " People did not believe in war, no onewanted it; war had been proved to be impossible, --it was a bugbearthat must be got out of the heads of free democracies ... And heenlarged on this theme. The night was calm and sweet; all aroundfamiliar sounds and sights; the chirp of crickets in the fields, aglow-worm shining in the grass, --delicious perfume of honey-suckle. Far away the noise of a distant train; the little fountain tinkled, and in the moonless sky revolved the luminous track of the light onthe Eiffel Tower. 

The two women went into the house, and Maxime, tired of sitting down, ran about the garden with his little dog, while through the openwindows floated out an air of Schumann's, which Rosine, full of timidemotion, was playing on the piano. Clerambault left alone, threwhimself back in his wicker chair, glad to be a man, to be alive, breathing in the balm of this summer night with a thankful heart. 

Six days later ... Clerambault had spent the afternoon in the woods, and like the monk in the legend, lying under an oak tree, drinking inthe song of a lark, a hundred years might have gone by him like a day. He could not tear himself away till night-fall. Maxime met him in thevestibule; he came forward smiling but rather pale, and said: "Well, Papa, we are in for it this time!" and he told him the news. TheRussian mobilisation, the state of war in Germany;--Clerambault staredat him unable to comprehend, his thoughts were so far removed fromthese dark follies. He tried to dispute the facts, but the news wasexplicit, and so they went to the table, where Clerambault could eatbut little. 

He sought for reasons why these two crimes should lead to nothing. Common-sense, public opinion, the prudence of governments, therepeated assurances of the socialists, Jaurès' firm stand;--Maxime lethim talk, he was thinking of other things, --like his dog with his earspricked up for the sounds of the night ... Such a pure lovely night!Those who recall the last evenings of July, 1914, and the even morebeautiful evening of the first day of August, must keep in theirminds the wonderful splendour of Nature, as with a smile of pity shestretched out her arms to the degraded, self-devouring human race. 

It was nearly ten o'clock when Clerambault ceased to talk, for noone had answered him. They sat then in silence with heavy hearts, listlessly occupied or seeming to be, the women with their work, Clerambault with his eyes, but not his mind, on a book. Maxime wentout on the porch and smoked, leaning on the railing and looking downon the sleeping garden and the fairy-like play of the light andshadows on the path. 

The telephone bell made them start. Someone was calling Clerambault, who went slowly to answer, half-asleep and absent so that at first hedid not understand; "Hullo! is that you, old man?" as he recognisedthe voice of a brother-author in Paris, telephoning him from anewspaper office. Still he could not seem to understand; "I don'thear, --Jaurès? What about Jaurès?... Oh, my God!" Maxime full of asecret apprehension had listened from a distance; he ran and caughtthe receiver from his father's hand, as Clerambault let it drop witha despairing gesture. "Hullo, Hullo! What do you say? Jaurèsassassinated!... " As exclamations of pain and anger crossed each otheron the wire, Maxime made out the details, which he repeated to hisfamily in a trembling voice. Rosine had led Clerambault back to thetable, where he sat down completely crushed. Like the classic Fate, the shadow of a terrible misfortune settled over the house. It wasnot only the loss of his friend that chilled his heart, --the kind gayface, the cordial hand, the voice which drove away the clouds, --butthe loss of the last hope of the threatened people. With a touching, child-like confidence he felt Jaurès to be the only man who couldavert the gathering storm, and he fallen, like Atlas, the sky wouldcrumble. 

Maxime rushed off to the station to get the news in Paris, promisingto come back later in the evening, but Clerambault stayed in theisolated house, from which in the distance could be seen the far-offphosphorescence of the city. He had not stirred from the seat wherehe had fallen stupified. This time he could no longer doubt, thecatastrophe was coming, was upon them already. Madame Clerambaultbegged him to go to bed, but he would not listen to her. His thoughtwas in ruins; he could distinguish nothing steady or constant, couldnot see any order, or follow an idea, for the walls of his inwarddwelling had fallen in, and through the dust which rose, it wasimpossible to see what remained intact. He feared there was nothingleft but a mass of suffering, at which he looked with dull eyes, unconscious of his falling tears. Maxime did not come home, carriedaway by the excitement at Paris. 

Madame Clerambault had gone to bed, but about one o'clock she came andpersuaded him to come up to their room, where he lay down; but whenPauline had fallen asleep--anxiety made her sleepy--he got up and wentinto the next room. He groaned, unable to breathe; his pain was soclose and oppressive, that he had no room to draw his breath. Withthe prophetic hyper-sensitiveness of the artist, who often lives intomorrow with more intensity than in the present moment, his agonisedeyes and heart foresaw all that was to be. This inevitable war betweenthe greatest nations of the world, seemed to him the failure ofcivilisation, the ruin of the most sacred hopes for human brotherhood. He was filled with horror at the vision of a maddened humanity, sacrificing its most precious treasures, strength, and genius, itshighest virtues, to the bestial idol of war. It was to him a moralagony, a heart-rending communion with these unhappy millions. To whatend? And of what use had been all the efforts of the ages? His heartseemed gripped by the void; he felt he could no longer live if hisfaith in the reason of men and their mutual love was destroyed, if hewas forced to acknowledge that the Credo of his life and art rested ona mistake, that a dark pessimism was the answer to the riddle of theworld. 

He turned his eyes away in terror, he was afraid to look it in theface, this monster who was there, whose hot breath he felt upon him. Clerambault implored, --he did not know who or what--that this mightnot be, that it might not be. Anything rather than this should betrue! But the devouring fact stood just behind the opening door.... Through the whole night he strove to close that door ... 

At last towards morning, an animal instinct began to wake, coming fromhe did not know where, which turned his despair towards the secretneed of finding a definite and concrete cause, to fasten the blame ona man, or a group of men, and angrily hold them responsible for themisery of the world. It was as yet but a brief apparition, the firstfaint sign of a strange obscure, imperious soul, ready to break forth, the soul of the multitude ... It began to take shape when Maxime camehome, for after the night in the streets of Paris, he fairly sweatedwith it; his very clothes, the hairs of his head, were impregnated. Worn out, excited, he could not sit down; his only thought was to goback again. The decree of mobilisation was to come out that day, warwas certain, it was necessary, beneficial; some things must be put anend to, the future of humanity was at stake, the freedom of the worldwas threatened. "They" had counted on Jaurès' murder to sow dissensionand raise riots in the country they meant to attack, but the entirenation had risen to rally round its leaders, the sublime days of thegreat Revolution were re-born ... Clerambault did not discuss thesestatements, he merely asked: "Do you think so? Are you quite sure?" Itwas a sort of hidden appeal. He wanted Maxime to state, to redoublehis assertions. The news Maxime had brought added to the chaos, raisedit to a climax, but at the same time it began to direct the distractedforces of his mind towards a fixed point, as the first bark of theshepherd's dog drives the sheep together. 

Clerambault had but one wish left, to rejoin the flock, rub himselfagainst the human animals, his brothers, feel with them, act with them.... Though exhausted by sleeplessness, he started, in spite of hiswife, to take the train for Paris with Maxime. They had to wait along time at the station, and also in the train, for the tracks wereblocked, and the cars crowded; but in the common agitation Clerambaultfound calm. He questioned and listened, everybody fraternised, andnot being sure yet what they thought, everyone felt that they thoughtalike. The same questions, the same trials menaced them, but each manwas no longer alone to stand or fall, and the warmth of this contactwas reassuring. Class distinctions were gone; no more workmen orgentlemen, no one looked at your clothes or your hands; they onlylooked at your eyes where they saw the same flame of life, waveringbefore the same impending death. All these people were so visiblystrangers to the causes of the fatality, of this catastrophe, thattheir innocence led them like children to look elsewhere for theguilty. It comforted and quieted their conscience. Clerambaultbreathed more easily when he got to Paris. A stoical and virilemelancholy had succeeded to the agony of the night. He was howeveronly at the first stage. 

The order for general mobilisation had just been affixed to the doorsof the _Mairies_. People read and re-read them in silence, then wentaway without a word. After the anxious waiting of the precedingdays, with crowds around the newspaper booths, people sitting onthe sidewalk, watching for the news, and when the paper was issuedgathering in groups to read it, this was certainty. It was also arelief. An obscure danger, that one feels approaching without knowingwhen or from where, makes you feverish, but when it is there you cantake breath, look it in the face, and roll up your sleeves. There hadbeen some hours of deep thought while Paris made ready and doubled upher fists. Then that which swelled in all hearts spread itself abroad, the houses were emptied and there rolled through the streets a humanflood of which every drop sought to melt into another. 

Clerambault fell into the midst and was swallowed up. All at once. He had scarcely left the station, or set his foot on the pavement. Nothing happened; there were no words or gestures, but the sereneexaltation of the flood flowed into him. The people were as yet purefrom violence; they knew and believed themselves innocent, and inthese first hours when the war was virgin, millions of heartsburned with a solemn and sacred enthusiasm. Into this proud, calmintoxication there entered a feeling of the injustice done to them, alegitimate pride in their strength, in the sacrifices that they wereready to make, and pity for others, now parts of themselves, theirbrothers, their children, their loved ones. All were flesh of theirflesh, closely drawn together in a superhuman embrace, conscious ofthe gigantic body formed by their union, and of the apparition abovetheir heads of the phantom which incarnated this union, the Country. Half-beast, half-god, like the Egyptian Sphinx, or the Assyrian Bull;but then men saw only the shining eyes, the feet were hid. She was thedivine monster in whom each of the living found himself multiplied, the devouring Immortality where those about to die wished to believethey would find life, super-life, crowned with glory. Her invisiblepresence flowed through the air like wine; each man brought somethingto the vintage, his basket, his bunch of grapes;--his ideas, passions, devotions, interests. There was many a nasty worm among the grapes, much filth under the trampling feet, but the wine was of rubies andset the heart aflame;--Clerambault gulped it down greedily. 

Nevertheless he was not entirely metamorphosed, for his soul was notaltered, it was only forgotten; as soon as he was alone he could hearit moaning, and for this reason he avoided solitude. He persisted innot returning to St. Prix, where the family usually stayed in summer, and reinstalled himself in his apartment at Paris, on the fifth floorin the Rue d'Assas. He would not wait a week, or go back to help inthe moving. He craved the friendly warmth that rose up from Paris, andpoured in at his windows; any excuse was enough to plunge into it, togo down into the streets, join the groups, follow the processions, buyall the newspapers, --which he despised as a rule. He would come backmore and more demoralised, anaesthetised as to what passed withinhim, the habit of his conscience broken, a stranger in his house, inhimself;--and that is why he felt more at home out of doors than in. 

Madame Clerambault came back to Paris with her daughter, and the firstevening after their arrival Clerambault carried Rosine off to theBoulevards. The solemn fervour of the first days had passed. War hadbegun, and truth was imprisoned. The press, the arch-liar, poured intothe open mouth of the world the poisonous liquor of its stories ofvictories without retribution; Paris was decked as for a holiday; thehouses streamed with the tricolour from top to bottom, and in thepoorer quarters each garret window had its little penny flag, like aflower in the hair. 

On the corner of the Faubourg Montmartre they met a strangeprocession. At the head marched a tall old man carrying a flag. Hewalked with long strides, free and supple as if he were going to leapor dance, and the skirts of his overcoat flapped in the wind. Behindcame an indistinct, compact, howling mass, gentle and simple, arm inarm, --a child carried on a shoulder, a girl's red mop of hair betweena chauffeur's cap and the helmet of a soldier. Chests out, chinsraised, mouths open like black holes, shouting the Marseillaise. Toright and left of the ranks, a double line of jail-bird faces, alongthe curbstone, ready to insult any absent-minded passer-by who failedto salute the colours. Rosine was startled to see her father fall intostep at the end of the line, bare-headed, singing and talking aloud. He drew his daughter along by the arm, without noticing the nervousfingers that tried to hold him back. 

When they came in Clerambault was still talkative and excited. He kepton for hours, while the two women listened to him patiently. MadameClerambault heard little as usual, and played chorus. Rosine did notsay a word, but she stealthily threw a glance at her father, and herlook was like freezing water. 

Clerambault was exciting himself; he was not yet at the bottom, but hewas conscientiously trying to reach it. Nevertheless there remained tohim enough lucidity to alarm him at his own progress. An artist yieldsmore through his sensibility to waves of emotion which reach him fromwithout, but to resist them he has also weapons which others havenot. For the least reflective, he who abandons himself to his lyricalimpulses, has in some degree the faculty of introspection which itrests with him to utilise. If he does not do this, he lacks good-willmore than power; he is afraid to look too clearly at himself forfear of seeing an unflattering picture. Those however who, likeClerambault, have the virtue of sincerity without psychological gifts, are sufficiently well-equipped to exercise some control over theirexcitability. 

One day as he was walking alone, he saw a crowd on the other side ofthe street, he crossed over calmly and found himself on the oppositesidewalk in the midst of a confused agitation circling about aninvisible point. With some difficulty he worked his way forward, andscarcely was he within this human mill-wheel, than he felt himself apart of the rim, his brain seemed turning round. At the centre of thewheel he saw a struggling man, and even before he grasped the reasonfor the popular fury, he felt that he shared it. He did not know ifa spy was in question, or if it was some imprudent speaker who hadbraved the passions of the mob, but as cries rose around him, herealised that he, yes he, Clerambault, had shrieked out: ... "Killhim. " ... 

A movement of the crowd threw him out from the sidewalk, a carriageseparated him from it, and when the way was clear the mob surged onafter its prey. Clerambault followed it with his eyes; the soundof his own voice was still in his ears, --he did not feel proud ofhimself.... 

From that day on he went out less; he distrusted himself, but hecontinued to stimulate his intoxication at home, where he felt himselfsafe, little knowing the virulence of the plague. The infection camein through the cracks of the doors, at the windows, on the printedpage, in every contact. The most sensitive breathe it in on firstentering the city, before they have seen or read anything; with othersa passing touch is enough, the disease will develop afterwards alone. Clerambault, withdrawn from the crowd, had caught the contagion fromit, and the evil announced itself by the usual premonitory symptoms. This affectionate tender-hearted man hated, loved to hate. Hisintelligence, which had always been thoroughly straightforward, triednow to trick itself secretly, to justify its instincts of hatred byinverted reasoning. He learned to be passionately unjust and false, for he wanted to persuade himself that he could accept the factof war, and participate in it, without renouncing his pacifism ofyesterday, his humanitarianism of the day before, and his constantoptimism. It was not plain sailing, but there is nothing that thebrain cannot attain to. When its master thinks it absolutely necessaryto get rid for a time of principles which are in his way, it findsin these same principles the exception which violates them whileconfirming the rule. Clerambault began to construct a thesis, an ideal--absurd enough--in which these contradictions could bereconciled: War against War, War for Peace, for eternal Peace. 

The enthusiasm of his son was a great help to him. Maxime hadenlisted. His generation was carried away on a wave of heroic joy;they had waited so long--they had not dared to expect an opportunityfor action and sacrifice. 

Older men who had never tried to understand them, stood amazed; theyremembered their own commonplace, bungling youth, full of pettyegotisms, small ambitions, and mean pleasures. As they could notrecognise themselves in their children they attributed to the war thisflowering of virtues which had been growing up for twenty years aroundtheir indifference and which the war was about to reap. Even neara father as large-minded as Clerambault, Maxime was blighted. Clerambault was interested in spreading his own overflowing diffusenature, too much so to see clearly and aid those whom he loved: hebrought to them the warm shadow of his thought, but he stood betweenthem and the sun. 

These young people sought employment for their strength which reallyembarrassed them, but they did not find it in the ideals of thenoblest among their elders; the humanitarianism of a Clerambault wastoo vague, it contented itself with pleasant hopes, without risk orvigour, which the quietude of a generation grown old in the talkativepeace of Parliaments and Academies, alone could have permitted. Exceptas an oratorical exercise it had never tried to foresee the perils ofthe future, still less had it thought to determine its attitude in theday when the danger should be near. It had not the strength to makea choice between widely differing courses of action. One might be apatriot as well as an internationalist or build in imagination peacepalaces or super-dreadnoughts, for one longed to know, to embrace, andto love everything. This languid Whitmanism might have its aestheticvalue, but its practical incoherence offered no guide to young peoplewhen they found themselves at the parting of the ways. They pawedthe ground trembling with impatience at all this uncertainty and theuselessness of their time as it went by. 

They welcomed the war, for it put an end to all this indecision, it chose for them, and they made haste to follow it. "We go to ourdeath, --so be it; but to go is life. " The battalions went off singing, thrilling with impatience, dahlias in their hats, the muskets adornedwith flowers. Discharged soldiers re-enlisted; boys put their namesdown, their mothers urging them to it; you would have thought theywere setting out for the Olympian games. 

It was the same with the young men on the other side of the Rhine, andthere as here, they were escorted by their gods: Country, Justice, Right, Liberty, Progress of the World, Eden-like dreams of re-bornhumanity, a whole phantasmagoria of mystic ideas in which young menshrouded their passions. None doubted that his cause was the rightone, they left discussion to others, themselves the living proof, forhe who gives his life needs no further argument. 

The older men however who stayed behind, had not their reasons forceasing to reason. Their brains were given to them to be used, not fortruth, but for victory. Since in the wars of today, in which entirepeoples are engulfed, thoughts as well as guns are enrolled. They slaythe soul, they reach beyond the seas, and destroy after centuries havepassed. Thought is the heavy artillery which works from a distance. Naturally Clerambault aimed his pieces, also the question for him wasno longer to see clearly, largely, to take in the horizon, but tosight the enemy, --it gave him the illusion that he was helping hisson. 

With an unconscious and feverish bad faith kept up by his affection, he sought in everything that he saw, heard, or read, for argumentsto prop up his will to believe in the holiness of the cause, foreverything which went to prove that the enemy alone had wanted war, was the sole enemy of peace, and that to make war on the enemy wasreally to wish for peace. 

There was proof enough and to spare; there always is; all that isneeded is to know when to open and shut your eyes ... But neverthelessClerambault was not entirely satisfied. These half-truths, or truthswith false tails to them, produced a secret uneasiness in theconscience of this honest man, showing itself in a passionateirritation against the enemy, which grew more and more. On the samelines--like two buckets in a well, one going up as the other goesdown--his patriotic enthusiasm grew and drowned the last torments ofhis mind in a salutary intoxication. 

From now on he was on the watch for the smallest newspaper itemsin support of his theory; and though he knew what to think of theveracity of these sheets, he did not doubt them for an instant whentheir assertions fed his eager restless passion. Where the enemy wasconcerned he adopted the principle, that the worst is sure to betrue--and he was almost grateful to Germany when, by acts of crueltyand repeated violations of justice, she furnished him the solidconfirmation of the sentence which, for greater security, he hadpronounced in advance. 

Germany gave him full measure. Never did a country at war seem moreanxious to raise the universal conscience against her. This apoplecticnation bursting with strength, threw itself upon its adversary in adelirium of pride, anger and fear. The human beast let loose, traceda ring of systematic horror around him from the first. All hisinstinctive and acquired brutalities were cleverly excited by thosewho held him in leash, by his official chiefs, his great GeneralStaff, his enrolled professors, his army chaplains. War has alwaysbeen, will forever remain, a crime; but Germany organised it as shedid everything. She made a code for murder and conflagration, and overit all she poured the boiling oil of an enraged mysticism, made up ofBismarck, of Nietzsche, and of the Bible. In order to crush the worldand regenerate it, the Super-Man and Christ were mobilised. Theregeneration began in Belgium--a thousand years from now men will tellof it. The affrighted world looked on at the infernal spectacle ofthe ancient civilisation of Europe, more than two thousand years old, crumbling under the savage expert blows of the great nation whichformed its advance guard. Germany, rich in intelligence, in scienceand in power, in a fortnight of war became docile and degraded; butwhat the organisers of this Germanic frenzy failed to foresee wasthat, like army cholera, it would spread to the other camp, and onceinstalled in the hostile countries it could not be dislodged until ithad infected the whole of Europe, and rendered it uninhabitable forcenturies. In all the madness of this atrocious war, in all itsviolence, Germany set the example. Her big body, better fed, morefleshly than others, offered a greater target to the attacks of theepidemic. It was terrible; but by the time the evil began to abatewith her, it had penetrated elsewhere and under the form of a slowtenacious disease it ate to the very bone. To the insanities of Germanthinkers, speakers in Paris and everywhere were not slow to respondwith their extravagances; they were like the heroes in Homer; but ifthey did not fight, they screamed all the louder. They insulted notonly the adversary, they insulted his father, his grandfather, andhis entire race; better still they denied his past. The tiniestacademician worked furiously to diminish the glory of the great menasleep in the peace of the grave. 

Clerambault listened and listened, absorbed, though he was one of thefew French poets who before the war had European relations and whosework would have been appreciated in Germany. He spoke no foreignlanguage, it is true; petted old child of France that he was, whowould not take the trouble to visit other people, sure that they wouldcome to him. But at least he welcomed them kindly, his mind was freefrom national prejudices, and the intuitions of his heart made up forhis lack of instruction and caused him to pour out without stint hisadmiration for foreign genius. But now that he had been warned todistrust everything, by the constant: "Keep still, --take care, " andknew that Kant led straight to Krupp, he dared admire nothing withoutofficial sanction. The sympathetic modesty that caused him in timesof peace to accept with the respect due to words of Holy Writ thepublications of learned and distinguished men, now in the war took onthe proportions of a fabulous credulity. He swallowed without a gulpthe strange discoveries made at this time by the intellectuals of hiscountry, treading under foot the art, the intelligence, the scienceof the enemy throughout the centuries; an effort franticallydisingenuous, which denied all genius to our adversary, and eitherfound in its highest claims to glory the mark of its present infamyor rejected its achievements altogether and bestowed them on anotherrace. 

Clerambault was overwhelmed, beside himself, but (though he did notadmit it), in his heart he was glad. 

Seeking for someone to share in his excitement and keep it up by fresharguments, he went to his friend Perrotin. 

Hippolyte Perrotin was of one of those types, formerly the pride ofthe higher instruction in France but seldom met with in these days--agreat humanist. Led by a wide and sagacious curiosity, he walkedcalmly through the garden of the centuries, botanising as he went. Thespectacle of the present was the object least worthy of his attention, but he was too keen an observer to miss any of it, and knew how todraw it gently back into scale to fit into the whole picture. Eventswhich others regarded as most important were not so in his eyes, andpolitical agitations appeared to him like bugs on a rose-bush which hewould carefully study with its parasites. This was to him a constantsource of delight. He had the finest appreciation of shades ofliterary beauty, and his learning rather increased than impaired thefaculty, giving to his thought an infinite range of highly-flavouredexperiences to taste and compare. He belonged to the great Frenchtradition of learned men, master writers from Buffon to Renan andGaston Pâris. Member of the Academy and of several Classes, hisextended knowledge gave him a superiority, not only of pure andclassic taste, but of a liberal modern spirit, over his colleagues, genuine men of letters. He did not think himself exempt from study, as most of them did, as soon as they had passed the threshold of thesacred Cupola; old profesor as he was, he still went to school. WhenClerambault was still unknown to the rest of the Immortals, except toone or two brother poets who mentioned him as little as possible witha disdainful smile, Perrotin had already discovered and placed him inhis collection, struck by certain pictures, an original phraseology, the mechanism of his imagination, primitive yet complicated bysimplicity. All this attracted him, and then the man interested himtoo. He sent a short complimentary note to Clerambault who came tothank him, overflowing with gratitude, and ties of friendship wereformed between the two men. They had few points of resemblance;Clerambault had lyrical gifts and ordinary intelligence dominated byhis feelings, and Perrotin was gifted with a most lucid mind, neverhampered by flights of the imagination. What they had in common weredignity of life, intellectual probity, and a disinterested love of artand learning, for its own sake, and not for success. None the less asmay be seen, this had not prevented Perrotin from getting on in theworld; honours and places had sought him, not he them; but he did notreject them; he neglected nothing. 

Clerambault found him busy unwinding the wrappings with which thereaders of centuries had covered over the original thought of aChinese philosopher. At this game which was habitual with him, he camenaturally to the discovery of the contrary of what appeared at firstto be the meaning; passing from hand to hand the idol had becomeblack. 

Perrotin received Clerambault in this vein, polite, but a trifleabsent-minded. Even when he listened to society gossip he was inwardlycritical, tickling his sense of humour at its expense. 

Clerambault spread his new acquisitions before him, starting fromthe recognised unworthiness of the enemy-nation as from a certain, well-known fact; the whole question being to decide if one should seein this the irremediable decadence of a great people, or the proof, pure and simple, of a barbarism which had always existed, but hiddenfrom sight. Clerambault inclined to the latter explanation, and fullof his recent information he held Luther, Kant and Wagner responsiblefor the violation of Belgian neutrality, and the crimes of the Germanarmy. He, however, to use a colloquial expression, had never been tosee for himself, being neither musician, theologian, or metaphysician. He trusted to the word of Academicians, and only made exceptions infavour of Beethoven, who was Flemish, and Goethe, citizen of a freecity and almost a Strassburger, which is half French, --or French and ahalf. He paused for approbation. 

He was surprised not to find in Perrotin an ardour corresponding tohis own. His friend smiled, listened, contemplated Clerambault with anattentive and benevolent curiosity. He did not say no, but he did notsay yes, either, and to some assertions he made prudent reservations. When Clerambault, much moved, quoted statements signed by two or threeof Perrotin's illustrious colleagues, the latter made a slight gestureas much as to say: "Ah, you don't say so!"

Clerambault grew hotter and hotter, and Perrotin then changed hisattitude, showing a keen interest in the judicious remarks of his goodfriend, nodding his head at every word, answering direct questionsby vague phrases, assenting amiably as one does to someone whom onecannot contradict. 

Clerambault went away out of countenance and discontented, but a fewdays later he was reassured as to his friend, when he read Perrotin'sname on a violent protestation of the Academies against thebarbarians. He wrote to congratulate him, and Perrotin thanked him ina few prudent and sibylline words:

"DEAR SIR, "--he affected in writing the studied, ceremonious formulasof _Monsieur de Port-Royal_--"I am ready to obey any suggestions of mycountry, for me they are commands. My conscience is at her service, according to the duty of every good citizen. "

One of the most curious effects of the war on the mind, was that itaroused new affinities between individuals. People who up to this timehad not a thought in common discovered all at once that they thoughtalike; and this resemblance drew them together. It was what peoplecalled "the Sacred Union. " Men of all parties and temperaments, the choleric, the phlegmatic, monarchists, anarchists, clericals, Calvinists, suddenly forgot their everyday selves, their passions, their fads and their antipathies, --shed their skins. And there beforeyou were now creatures, grouped in an unforeseen manner, like metalfilings round an invisible magnet. All the old categories hadmomentarily disappeared, and no one was astonished to find himselfcloser to the stranger of yesterday than to a friend of many years'standing. It seemed as if, underground, souls met by secret roots thatstretched through the night of instinct, that unknown region, whereobservation rarely ventures. For our psychology stops at that partof self which emerges from the soil, noting minutely individualdifferences, but forgetting that this is only the top of the plant, that nine-tenths are buried, the feet held by those of other plants. This profound, or lower, region of the soul is ordinarily below thethreshold of consciousness, the mind feels nothing of it; but the war, by waking up this underground life, revealed moral relationshipswhich no one had suspected. A sudden intimacy showed itself betweenClerambault and a brother of his wife whom he had looked upon untilnow, and with good reason, as the type of a perfect Philistine. 

Leo Camus was not quite fifty years old. He was tall, thin, andstooped a little; his skin was grey, his beard black, not much hair onhis head, --you could see the bald spots under his hat behind, --littlewrinkles everywhere, cutting into each other, crossing, like abadly-made net; add to this a frowning, sulky expression, and aperpetual cold in the head. For thirty years he had been employed bythe State, and his life had passed in the shadow of a court-yard atthe Department. In the course of years he had changed rooms, but notshadows; he was promoted, but always in the court-yard, never would heleave it in this life. He was now Under-Secretary, which enabled himto throw a shadow in his turn. The public and he had few points ofcontact, and he only communicated with the outside world across arampart of pasteboard boxes and piles of documents. He was an oldbachelor without friends, and he held the misanthropical opinionthat disinterested friendship did not exist upon earth. He felt noaffection except for his sister's family, and the only way that heshowed that was by finding fault with everything that they did. He wasone of those people whose uneasy solicitude causes them to blame thosethey love when they are ill, and obstinately prove to them that theysuffer by their own fault. 

At the Clerambaults no one minded him very much. Madame Clerambaultwas so easy-going that she rather liked being pushed about in thisway, and as for the children, they knew that these scoldings weresweetened by little presents; so they pocketed the presents and letthe rest go by. 

The conduct of Leo Camus towards his brother-in-law had varied withtime. When his sister had married Clerambault, Camus had not hesitatedto find fault with the match; an unknown poet did not seem to him"serious" enough. Poetry--unknown poetry--is a pretext for notworking; when one is "known, " of course that is quite another thing;Camus held Hugo in high esteem, and could even recite verses from the"Châtiments, " or from Auguste Barbier. They were "known, " you see, andthat made all the difference.... Just at this time Clerambault himselfbecame "known, " Camus read about him one day in his favourite paper, and after that he consented to read Clerambault's poems. He did notunderstand them, but he bore them no ill will on that account. Heliked to call himself old-fashioned, it made him feel superior, andthere are many in the world like him, who pride themselves on theirlack of comprehension. For we must all plume ourselves as we can; someof us on what we have, others on what we have not. 

Camus was willing to admit that Clerambault could write. He knewsomething of the art himself, --and his respect for his brother-in-lawincreased in proportion to the "puffs" he read in the papers, and heliked to chat with him. He had always appreciated his affectionatekind-heartedness, though he never said so, and what pleased also inthis great poet, for great he was now, was his manifest incapacity, and practical ignorance of business matters; on this ground Camuswas his superior, and did not hesitate to show it. Clerambault had asimple-hearted confidence in his fellow-man, and nothing could havebeen better suited to Camus' aggressive pessimism, which it kept inworking order. The greater part of his visits was spent in reducingClerambault's illusions to fragments, but they had as many lives asa cat, and every time he came it had to be done over again. Thisirritated Camus, but secretly pleased him for he needed a pretextconstantly renewed to think the world bad, and men a set of imbeciles. Above all he had no mercy on politicians; this Government employeehated Governments, though he would have been puzzled to say whathe would put in their places. The only form of politics that heunderstood was opposition. He suffered from a spoiled life andthwarted nature. He was a peasant's son and born to raise grapes, orelse to exercise his authoritative instincts over the field labourers, like a watch-dog. Unfortunately, diseases of the vines interfered andalso the pride of a quill-driver; the family moved to town, and now hewould have felt it a derogation to return to his real nature, whichwas too much atrophied, even if he had wished it. Not having found histrue place in society, he blamed the social order, serving it, as domillions of functionaries, like a bad servant, an underhand enemy. 

A mind of this sort, peevish, bitter, misanthropical, it seems wouldhave been driven crazy by the war, but on the contrary it served totranquilise it. When the herd draws itself together in arms againstthe stranger it is a fall for those rare free spirits who love thewhole world, but it raises the many who weakly vegetate in anarchisticegotism, and lifts them to that higher stage of organised selfishness. Camus woke up all at once, with the feeling that for the first time hewas not alone in the world. 

Patriotism is perhaps the only instinct under present conditions whichescapes the withering touch of every-day life. All other instincts andnatural aspirations, the legitimate need to love and act in sociallife, are stifled, mutilated and forced to pass under the yoke ofdenial and compromise. When a man reaches middle life and turns tolook back, he sees these desires marked with his failures and hiscowardice; the taste is bitter on his tongue, he is ashamed of themand of himself. Patriotism alone has remained outside, unemployedbut not tarnished, and when it re-awakes it is inviolate. The soulembraces and lavishes on it the ardour of all the ambitions, theloves, and the longings, that life has disappointed. A half century ofsuppressed fire bursts forth, millions of little cages in the socialprison open their doors. At last! Long enchained instincts stretchtheir stiffened limbs, cry out and leap into the open air, as ofright--right, do I say? it is now their duty to press forward alltogether like a falling mass. The isolated snow-flakes turnedavalanche. 

Camus was carried away, the little bureaucrat found himself part of itall and without fury or futile violence he felt only a calm strength. All was "well" with him, well in mind, well in body. He had no moreinsomnia, and for the first time in years his stomach gave him notrouble--because he had forgotten all about it. He even got throughthe winter without taking cold--something that had never been heard ofbefore. He ceased to find fault with everything and everybody, he nolonger railed at all that was done or undone, for now he was filledwith a sacred pity for the entire social body--that body, now his, butstronger, better, and more beautiful. He felt a fraternal bond withall those who formed part of it by their close union, like a swarm ofbees hanging from a branch, and envied the younger men who went todefend it. When Maxime gaily prepared to go, his uncle gazed at himtenderly, and when the train left carrying away the young men, heturned and threw his arms round Clerambault, then shook hands withunknown parents who had come to see their sons off, with tears ofemotion and joy in his eyes. In that moment Camus was ready to giveup everything he possessed. It was his honey-moon with Life--thissolitary starved soul saw her as she passed and seized her in hisarms.... Yes, Life passes, the euphoria of a Camus cannot lastforever, but he who has known it lives only in the memory of it, andin the hope that it may return. War brought this gift, therefore Peaceis an enemy, and enemies are all those who desire it. 

Clerambault and Camus exchanged ideas, and to such an extent thatfinally Clerambault could not tell which were his own, and as he lostfooting he felt more strongly the need to act; for action was a kindof justification to himself.... Whom did he wish to justify? Alas, itwas Camus! In spite of his habitual ardour and convictions he was amere echo--and of what unhappy voices. 

He began to write Hymns to Battle. There was great competition in thisline among poets who did not fight themselves. But there was littledanger that their productions would clog men's memories in futureages, for nothing in their previous career had prepared theseunfortunates for such a task. In vain they raised their voices andexhausted all the resources of French rhetoric, the "poilus" onlyshrugged their shoulders. 

However people in the rear liked them much better than the storieswritten in the dark and covered with mud, that came out of thetrenches. The visions of a Barbusse had not yet dawned to showthe truth to these talkative shadows. There was no difficulty forClerambault, he shone in these eloquent contests. For he had the fatalgift of verbal and rhythmical facility which separates poets fromreality, wrapping them as if in a spider's web. In times of peace thisharmless web hung on the bushes, the wind blowing through it, and thegood-natured Arachne caught nothing but light in her meshes. Nowadays, however, the poets cultivated their carniverous instincts--fortunatelyrather out of date--and hidden at the bottom of their web one couldcatch sight of a nasty little beast with an eye fixed on the prey. They sang of hatred and holy butchery, and Clerambault did as theydid, even better, for he had more voice. And, by dint of screaming, this worthy man ended by feeling passions that he knew nothing of. Helearned to "know" hatred at last, know in the Biblical sense, and itonly roused in him that base pride that an undergraduate feels whenfor the first time he finds himself coming out of a brothel. 

Now he was a man, and in fact he needed nothing more, he had fallen aslow as the others. 

Camus well deserved and enjoyed the first taste of each one of thesepoems and they made him neigh with enthusiasm, for he recognisedhimself in them. Clerambault was flattered, thinking he had touchedthe popular string. The brothers-in-law spent their evenings alonetogether. Clerambault read, Camus drank in his verses; he knew them byheart, and told everyone who would listen to him that Hugo had cometo life again, and that each of these poems was worth a victory. Hisnoisy admiration made it unnecessary for the other members of thefamily to express their opinion. Under some excuse, Rosine regularlymade a practice of leaving the room when the reading was over. Clerambault felt it, and would have liked to ask his daughter'sopinion, but found it more prudent not to put the question. Hepreferred to persuade himself that Rosine's emotion and timidity puther to flight. He was vexed all the same, but the approval of theoutside world healed this slight wound. His poems appeared inthe _bourgeois_ papers, and proved the most striking success ofClerambault's career, for no other work of his had raised suchunanimous admiration. A poet is always pleased to have it said thathis last work is his best, all the more when he knows that it isinferior to the others. 

Clerambault knew it perfectly well, but he swallowed all the fawningreviews of the press with infantile vanity. In the evening he madeCamus read them aloud in the family circle, beaming with joy as helistened. When it was over he nearly shouted:

"Encore!"

In this concert of praise one slightly flat note came from Perrotin. (Undoubtedly he had been much deceived in him, he was not a truefriend. ) The old scholar to whom Clerambault had sent a copy of hispoems did not fail to congratulate him politely, praising his greattalent, but he did not say that this was his finest work; he evenurged him, "after having offered his tribute to the warlike Muse, toproduce now a work of pure imagination detached from the present. "What could he mean? When an artist submits his work for your approval, is it proper to say to him: "I should prefer to read another one quitedifferent from this?" This was a fresh sign to Clerambault of thesadly lukewarm patriotism that he had already noticed in Perrotin. This lack of comprehension chilled his feeling towards his old friend. The war, he thought, was the great test of characters, it revised allvalues, and tried out friendships. And he thought that the loss ofPerrotin was balanced by the gain of Camus, and many new friends, plain people, no doubt, but simple and warm-hearted. 

Sometimes at night he had moments of oppression, he was uneasy, wakeful, discontented, ashamed; ... But of what? Had he not done hisduty?

The first letters from Maxime were a comforting cordial; the firstdrops dissipated every discouragement, and they all lived on themin long intervals when no news came. In spite of the agony of thesesilences, when any second might be fatal to the loved one, his perfectconfidence (exaggerated perhaps, through affection, or superstition)communicated itself to them all. His letters were running over withyouth and exuberant joy, which reached its climax in the days thatfollowed the victory of the Marne. The whole family yearned towardshim as one; like a plant the summit of which bathes in the light, stretching up to it in a rapture of mystic adoration. 

People who but yesterday were soft and torpid, expanded under theextraordinary light when fate threw them into the infernal vortex ofthe war, the light of Death, the game with Death; Maxime, a spoiledchild, delicate, overparticular, who in ordinary times took careof himself like a fine lady, found an unexpected flavour in theprivations and trials of his new life, and wondering at himself heboasted of it in his charming, vainglorious letters which delightedthe hearts of his parents. 

Neither affected to be cast in the mould of one of Corneille's heroes, and the thought of immolating their child on the altar of a barbaricidea would have filled them with horror; but the transfigurationof their petted boy suddenly become a hero, touched them with atenderness never before felt. In spite of their anxiety, Maxime'senthusiasm intoxicated them, and it made them ungrateful toward theirformer life, that peaceful affectionate existence, with its longmonotonous days. Maxime was amusingly contemptuous of it, calling itabsurd after one had seen what was going on "out there. "

"Out there" one was glad to sleep three hours on the hard ground, oronce in a month of Sundays on a wisp of straw, glad to turn out atthree o'clock in the morning and warm up by marching thirty kilometreswith a knapsack on one's back, sweating freely for eight or ten hoursat a time.... Glad above all to get in touch with the enemy, and resta little lying down under a bank, while one peppered the boches.... This young Cyrano declared that fighting rested you after a march, andwhen he described an engagement you would have said that he was at aconcert or a "movie. "

The rhythm of the shells, the noise when they left the gun and whenthey burst, reminded him of the passage with cymbals in the divinescherzo of the Ninth Symphony. When he heard overhead as from anairy music-box the buzzing of these steel mosquitoes, mischievous, imperious, angry, treacherous, or simply full of amiable carelessness, he felt like a street boy rushing out to see a fire. No more fatigue;mind and body on the alert; and when came the long-awaited order"Forward!" one jumped to one's feet, light as a feather, and ran tothe nearest shelter under the hail of bullets, glad to be in the open, like a hound on the scent. You crawled on your hands and knees, or onyour stomach, you ran all bent doubled-up, or did Swedish gymnasticsthrough the underbrush ... That made up for not being able to walkstraight; and when it grew dark you said: "What, night already?--Whathave we been doing with ourselves, today?" ... "In conclusion, " saidthis little French cockerel, "the only tiresome thing in war is whatyou do in peace-time, --you walk along the high road. "

This was the way these young men talked in the first month of thecampaign, all soldiers of the Marne, of war in the open. If thishad gone on, we should have seen once more the race of barefootedRevolutionaries, who set out to conquer the world and could not stopthemselves. 

They were at last forced to stop, and from the moment that they wereput to soak in the trenches, the tone changed. Maxime lost his spirit, his boyish carelessness. From day to day he grew virile, stoical, obstinate and nervous. He still vouched for the final victory, butceased after a while to talk of it, and wrote only of duty to be done, then even that stopped, and his letters became dull, grey, tired-out. 

Enthusiasm had not diminished behind the lines, and Clerambaultpersisted in vibrating like an organ pipe, but Maxime no longer gaveback the echo he sought to evoke. 

All at once, without warning, Maxime came home for a week's leave. Hestopped on the stairs, for though he seemed more robust than formerly, his legs felt heavy, and he was soon tired. He waited a moment tobreathe, for he was moved, and then went up. His mother came to thedoor at his ring, screaming at the sight of him. Clerambault who waspacing up and down the apartment in the weariness of the long waiting, cried out too as he ran. It was a tremendous row. 

After a few minutes there was a truce to embraces and inarticulateexclamations. Pushed into a chair by the window with his face to thelight, Maxime gave himself up to their delighted eyes. They were inecstasies over his complexion, his cheeks more filled out, his healthylook. His father threw his arms around him calling him "My Hero"--butMaxime sat with his fingers twitching nervously, and could not get outa word. 

At table they feasted their eyes on him, hung on every word, but hesaid very little. The excitement of his family had checked his firstimpetus, but luckily they did not notice it, and attributed hissilence to fatigue or to hunger. Clerambault talked enough for two;telling Maxime about life in the trenches. Good mother Pauline wastransformed into a Cornelia, out of Plutarch, and Maxime looked atthem, ate, looked again.... A gulf had opened between them. 

When after dinner they all went back to his father's study, and theysaw him comfortably established with a cigar, he had to try andsatisfy these poor waiting people. So he quietly began to tell themhow his time was passed, with a certain proud reserve and leaving outtragical pictures. They listened in trembling expectation, and whenhe had finished they were still expectant. Then on their side came ashower of questions, to which Maxime's replies were short--soon hefell silent. Clerambault to wake up the "young rascal" tried severaljovial thrusts. 

"Come now, tell us about some of your engagements.... It must be fineto see such joy, such sacred fire--Lord, but I would like to see allthat, I would like to be in your place. "

"You can see all these fine things better from where you are, " saidMaxime. Since he had been in the trenches he had not seen a fight, hardly set eyes on a German, his view was bounded by mud andwater--but they would not believe him, they thought he was talking"contrariwise" as he did when he was a child. 

"You old humbug, " said his father, laughing gaily, "What does happenthen all day long in your trenches?"

"We take care of ourselves; kill time, the worst enemy of all. "

Clerambault slapped him amicably on the back. 

"Time is not the only one you kill?"--Maxime drew away, saw the kind, curious glances of his father and mother, and answered:

"Please talk of something else, " and added after a pause:

"Will you do something for me?--don't ask me any more questionstoday. "

They agreed rather surprised, but they supposed that he needed care, being so tired, and they overwhelmed him with attentions. Clerambault, however, could not refrain from breaking out every minute or two inapostrophes, demanding his son's approbation. His speeches resoundedwith the word "Liberty. " Maxime smiled faintly and looked at Rosine, for the attitude of the young girl was singular. When her brother camein she threw her arms round his neck, but since she had kept in thebackground, one might have said aloof. She had taken no part in herparents' questions, and far from inviting confidence from Maxime sheseemed to shrink from it. He felt the same awkwardness, and avoidedbeing alone with her. But still they had never felt closer to eachother in spirit, they could not have borne to say why. 

Maxime had to be shown to all the neighbours, and by way of amusementhe was taken out for a walk. In spite of her mourning, Paris againwore a smiling face; poverty and pain were hidden at home, or at thebottom of her proud heart; but the perpetual Fair in the streets andin the press showed its mask of contentment. 

The people in the cafés and the tea-rooms were ready to hold out fortwenty years, if necessary. Maxime and his family sat in a tea-shop ata little table, gay chatter and the perfume of women all abouthim. Through it he saw the trench where he had been bombarded fortwenty-six days on end, unable to stir from the sticky ditch full ofcorpses which rose around him like a wall.... His mother laid herhand on his, he woke, saw the affectionate questioning glances of hispeople, and self-reproached for making them uneasy, he smiled andbegan to look about and talk gaily. His boyish high spirits came back, and the shadow cleared away from Clerambault's face; he glanced simplyand gratefully at Maxime. 

His alarms were not at an end, however. As they left the tea-shop--heleaning on the arm of his son--they met a military funeral. There werewreaths and uniforms, a member of the Institute with his sword betweenhis legs, and brass instruments braying out an heroic lamentation. 

The crowd drew respectfully to either side, Clerambault stopped andpointedly took off his hat, while with his left hand he pressedMaxime's arm yet closer to his side. Feeling him tremble, he turnedtowards his son, and thought he had a strange look. Supposing that hewas overcome he tried to draw him away, but Maxime did not stir, hewas so much taken aback. 

"A dead man, " he thought. "All that for one dead man!... And out therewe walk over them. Five hundred a day on the roll, that's the normalration. "

Hearing a sneering little laugh, Clerambault was frightened and pulledhim by the arm. 

"Come away!" he said, and they moved on. 

"If they could see, " said Maxime to himself, "if they could onlysee!... Their whole society would go to pieces, ... But they willalways be blind, they do not want to see ... "

His eyes, cruelly sharpened now, saw the adversary all around him, --inthe carelessness of the world, its stupidity, its egotism, its luxury, in the "I don't give a damn!", the indecent profits of the war, the enjoyment of it, the falseness down to the roots.... All thesesheltered people, shirkers, police, with their insolent autos thatlooked like cannon, their women booted to the knee, with scarletmouths, and cruel little candy faces ... They are all satisfied ... All is for the best!... "It will go on forever as it is!" Half theworld devouring the other half.... 

They went home. In the evening after dinner Clerambault was dying toread his latest poem to Maxime. The idea of it was touching, if alittle absurd. --In his love for his son, he sought to be in spirit, at least, the comrade of his glory and his sufferings, and he haddescribed them, --at a distance--in "Dawn in the Trenches. " Twice hegot up to look for the MS. , but with the sheets in his hand a sort ofshyness paralysed him, and he went back without them. 

As the days went by they felt themselves closely knit together by tiesof the flesh, but their souls were out of touch. Neither would admitit though each knew it well. 

A sadness was between them, but they refused to see the real cause, and preferred to ascribe it to the approaching reparation. From timeto time the father or the mother made a fresh attempt to re-open thesources of intimacy, but each time came the same disappointment. Maxime saw that he had no longer any way of communicating with them, with anyone in the rear. They lived in different worlds ... Could theyever understand each other again?... Yet still he understood them, foronce he had himself undergone the influence which weighed on them, and had only come to his senses "out there, " in contact with realsuffering and death. But just because he had been touched himself, heknew the impossibility of curing the others by process of reasoning;so he let them talk, silent himself, smiling vaguely, assenting to beknew not what. The preoccupations here behind the lines filled himwith disgust, weariness, and a profound pity for these people inthe rear--a strange race to him, with the outcries of the papers, questions from such persons--old buffoons, worn-out, damagedpoliticians!--patriotic braggings, written-up strategies, anxietiesabout black bread, sugar cards, or the days when the confectionerswere shut. He took refuge in a mysterious silence, smiling and sad;and only went out occasionally, when he thought of the short time hehad to be with these dear people who loved him. Then he would begin totalk with the utmost animation about anything. The important thing wasto make a noise, since one could no longer speak one's real thoughts, and naturally he fell back on everyday matters. Questions of generalinterest and political news came first, but they might as well haveread the morning paper aloud. "The Crushing of the Huns, " "The Triumphof the Right, " filled Clerambault's thoughts and speeches, while heserved as acolyte, and filled in the pauses with _cum spiritu tuo_. All the time each was waiting for the other to begin to talk. 

They waited so long that the end of his leave came. A little whilebefore he went, Maxime came into his father's study resolved toexplain himself:

"Papa, are you quite sure?" ... 

The trouble painted on Clerambault's face checked the words on hislips. He had pity on him and asked if his father was quite sure atwhat time the train was to leave and Clerambault heard the end of thequestion with an only too visible relief. When he had supplied all theinformation--that Maxime did not listen to--he mounted his oratoricalhobby-horse again and started out with one of his habitual idealisticdeclamations. Maxime held his peace, discouraged, and for the lasthour they spoke only of trifles. All but the mother felt that theessential had not been uttered; only light and confident words, anapparent excitement, but a deep sigh in the heart--"My God! my God!why hast thou forsaken us?"

When Maxime left he was really glad to go back to the front. The gulfthat he had found between the front and rear seemed to him deeper thanthe trenches, and guns did not appear to him as murderous as ideas. 

As the railway carriage drew out of the station he leaned from thewindow and followed with his eyes the tearful faces of his familyfading in the distance, and he thought:

"Poor dears, you are their victims and we are yours. "

The day after his return to the front the great spring offensive waslet loose, which the talkative newspapers had announced to the enemyseveral weeks beforehand. The hopes of the nation had been fed on itduring the gloomy winter of waiting and death, and it rose now, filledwith an impatient joy, sure of victory and crying out to it--"Atlast!"

The first news seemed good; of course it spoke only of the enemy'slosses, and all faces brightened. Parents whose sons, women whosehusbands were "out there" were proud that their flesh and their lovehad a part in this sanguinary feast; and in their exaltation theyhardly stopped to think that their dear one might be among thevictims. The excitement ran so high that Clerambault, an affectionate, tender father, generally most anxious for those he loved, was actuallyafraid that his son had not got back in time for "The Dance. " Hewanted him to be there, his eager wishes pushed, thrust him into theabyss, making this sacrifice, disposing of his son and of his life, without asking if he himself agreed. He and his had ceased to belongto themselves. He could not conceive that it should be otherwise withany of them. The obscure will of the ant-heap had eaten him up. 

Sometimes taken unawares, the remains of his self-analytical habit ofmind would appear; like a sensitive nerve that is touched, --a dullblow, a quiver of pain, it is gone, and we forget it. 

At the end of three weeks the exhausted offensive was still pawing theground of the same blood-soaked kilometres, and the newspapers beganto distract public attention, putting it on a fresh scent. Nothing hadbeen heard from Maxime since he left. They sought for the ordinaryreasons for delay which the mind furnishes readily but the heartcannot accept. Another week went by. Among themselves each of thethree pretended to be confident, but at night, each one alone in hisroom, the heart cried out in agony, and the whole day long the ear wasstrained to catch every step on the stair, the nerves stretched to thebreaking point at a ring of the bell, or the touch of a hand passingthe door. 

The first official news of the losses began to come in; severalfamilies among Clerambault's friends already knew which of their menwere dead and which wounded. Those who had lost all, envied those whocould have their loved ones back, though bleeding, perhaps mutilated. Many sank into the night of their grief; for them the war and lifewere equally over. But with others the exaltation of the early dayspersisted strangely; Clerambault saw one mother wrought up by herpatriotism and her grief to the point that she almost rejoiced at thedeath of her son. "I have given my all, my all!" she would say, witha violent, concentrated joy such as is felt in the last second beforeextinction by a woman who drowns herself with the man she loves. Clerambault however was weaker, and waking from his dizziness hethought:

"I too have given all, even what was not my own. "

He inquired of the military authorities, but they knew nothing as yet. Ten days later came the news that Sergeant Clerambault was reportedas missing from the night of the 27-28th of the preceding month. Clerambault could get no further details at the Paris bureaus;therefore he set out for Geneva, went to the Red Cross, the Agency forPrisoners, --could find nothing; followed up every clue, got permissionto question comrades of his son in hospitals or depots behind thelines. They all gave contradictory information; one said he was aprisoner, another had seen him dead, and both the next day admittedthat they had been mistaken.... Oh! tortures! God of vengeance!... He came back after a fortnight from this Way of the Cross, aged, broken-down, exhausted. 

He found his wife in a paroxysm of frantic grief, which in thisgood-natured creature had turned to a furious hatred of the enemy;she cried out for revenge, and for the first time Clerambault did notanswer. He had not strength enough to hate, he could only suffer. 

He shut himself into his room. During that frightful ten days'pilgrimage he had scarcely looked his thoughts in the face, hypnotisedas he was, day and night by one idea, like a dog on a scent, --faster!go faster! The slowness of carriages and trains consumed him, andonce, when he had taken a room for the night, he rushed away the sameevening, without stopping to rest. This fever of haste and expectationdevoured everything, and made consecutive thought impossible, --whichwas his salvation. Now that the chase was ended, his mind, exhaustedand dying, recovered its powers. 

Clerambault knew certainly that Maxime was dead. He had not told hiswife, but had concealed some information that destroyed all hope. Shewas one of those people who absolutely must keep a gleam of falsehoodto lure them on, against all reason, until the first flood of grief isover. Perhaps Clerambault himself had been one of them, but he was notso now; for he saw where this lure had led him. He did not judge, hewas not yet able to form a judgment, lying in the darkness. Too weakto rise, and feel about him, he was like someone who moves his crushedlimbs after a fall, and with each stab of pain recovers consciousnessof life, and tries to understand what has happened to him. The stupidgulf of this death overcame him. That this beautiful child, who hadgiven them so much joy, cost them so much care, all this marvel ofhope in flower, the priceless little world that is a young man, a treeof Jesse, future years ... All vanished in an hour!--and why?--why?--

He was forced to try to persuade himself at least that it was forsomething great and necessary. Clerambault clung despairingly to thisbuoy during the succeeding nights, feeling that if his hold gave wayhe should go under. More than ever he insisted on the holiness of thecause; he would not even discuss it; but little by little his fingersslipped, he settled lower with every movement, for each new statementof the justice of his cause roused a voice in his conscience whichsaid:

"Even if you were twenty thousand times more right in this struggle, is your justification worth the disasters it costs? Does justicedemand that millions of innocents should fall, a ransom for the sinsand the errors of others? Is crime to be washed out by crime?or murder by murder? And must your sons be not only victims butaccomplices, assassinated and assassins?... "

He looked back at the last visit of his son, and reflected on theirlast talks together. How many things were clear to him now, which hehad not understood at the time! Maxime's silence, the reproach in hiseyes. The worst of all was when he recognised that he had understood, at the time, when his son was there, but that he would not admit it. 

This discovery, which had hung over him like a dark cloud forweeks, --this realisation of inward falsehood, --crushed him to theearth. 

Until the actual crisis was upon them, Rosine Clerambault seemedthrown into the shade. Her inward life was unknown to the others, andalmost to herself; even her father had scarcely a glimpse of it. Shehad lived under the wing of the warm, selfish, stifling family life, and had few friends or companions of her own age, for her parentsstood between her and the world outside, and she had grown up in theirshadow. 

As she grew older if she had wished to escape she would not havedared, would not have known how; for she was shy outside thefamily circle, and could hardly move or talk; people thought herinsignificant. This she knew; it wounded her self-respect, andtherefore she went out as little as possible, preferring to stay athome, where she was simple, natural and taciturn. This silence did notarise from slowness of thought, but from the chatter of the others. As her father, mother, and brother were all exuberant talkers, thislittle person by a sort of reaction, withdrew into herself, where shecould talk freely. 

She was fair, tall, and boyishly slender, with pretty hair, the locksalways straying over her cheeks. Her mouth was rather large andserious, the lower lip full at the corners, her eyes large, calm andvague, with fine well-marked eyebrows. She had a graceful chin, apretty throat, an undeveloped figure, no hips; her hands were largeand a little red, with prominent veins. Anything would make her blush, and her girlish charm was all in the forehead and the chin. Her eyeswere always asking and dreaming, but said little. 

Her father's preference was for her, just as her mother was drawntowards the son by natural affinity. Without thinking much about it, Clerambault had always monopolised his daughter, surrounding her fromchildhood with his absorbing affection. She had been partly educatedby him, and with the almost offensive simplicity of the artist mind, he had taken her for the confidante of his inner life. This wasbrought about by his overflowing self-consciousness, and the littleresponse that he found in his wife, a good creature, who, as thesaying is, sat at his feet, in fact stayed there permanently, answering yes to all that he said, admiring him blindly, withoutunderstanding him, or feeling the lack; the essential to her was nother husband's thought but himself, his welfare, his comfort, his food, his clothing, his health. Honest Clerambault in the gratitude of hisheart did not criticise his wife, any more than Rosine criticised hermother, but both of them knew how it was, instinctively, and weredrawn closer by a secret tie. Clerambault was not aware that in hisdaughter he had found the real wife of his heart and mind. Nor did hebegin to suspect it, till in these last days the war had seemed tobreak the tacit accord between them. Rosine's approval hitherto hadbound her to him, and now all at once it failed him. She knew manythings before he did, but shrank from the depths of the mystery; themind need not give warning to the heart, it knows. 

Strange, splendid mystery of love between souls, independent of socialand even of natural laws. Few there be that know it, and fewer stillthat dare to reveal it; they are afraid of the coarse world and itssummary judgments and can get no farther than the plain meaningof traditional language. In this conventional tongue, which isvoluntarily inexact for the sake of social simplification, words arecareful not to unveil, by expressing them, the many shades of realityin its multiple forms. They imprison it, codify it, drill it; theypress it into the service of the mind already domesticated; of thatreasoning power which does not spring from the depth of thespirit, but from shallow, walled-in pools--like the basins atVersailles--within the limits of constituted society. 

In this somewhat legal phraseology love is bound to sex, age, andsocial classes; it is either natural or unnatural, legitimate or thereverse. But this is a mere trickle of water from the deep springs oflove, which is as the law of gravitation that keeps the stars in theircourses, and cares nothing for the ways that we trace for it. Thisinfinite love fulfils itself between souls far removed by time andspace; across the centuries it unites the thoughts of the living andthe dead; weaves close and chaste ties between old and young hearts;through it, friend is nearer to friend, the child is closer in spiritto the old man than are husband or wife in the whole course oftheir lives. Between fathers and children these ties often existunconsciously, and "the world" as our forefathers used to say, countsso little in comparison with love eternal, that the positions aresometimes reversed, and the younger may not always be the mostchildlike. How many sons are there who feel a devout paternalaffection for an old mother? And do we not often see ourselves smalland humble under the eyes of a child? The look with which the Bambinoof Botticelli contemplates the innocent Virgin is heavy with a sadunconscious experience, and as old as the world. 

The affection of Clerambault and Rosine was of this sort; fine, religious, above the reach of reason. That is why, in the depths ofthe troubled sea, below the pains and the conflicts of consciencecaused by the war, a secret drama went on, without signs, almostwithout words, between these hearts united by a sacred love. Thisunavowed sentiment explained the sensitiveness of their mutualreactions. At first Rosine drew away in silence, disappointed in heraffection, her secret worship tarnished, by the effect of the war onher father; she stood apart from him, like a little antique statue, chastely draped. At once Clerambault became uneasy; his sensibilitysharpened by tenderness, felt instantly this _Noli me tangere_, andfrom this arose an unexpressed estrangement between the father anddaughter. Words are so coarse, one would not dare to speak even in thepurest sense of disappointed love, but this inner discord, of whichneither ever spoke a word, was pain to both of them; made the younggirl unhappy, and irritated Clerambault. He knew the cause wellenough, but his pride refused to admit it; though little by little hewas not far from confessing that Rosine was right. He was ready tohumiliate himself, but his tongue was tied by false shame; and so thedifference between their minds grew wider, while in their hearts eachlonged to yield. 

In the confusion that followed Maxime's death, this inward prayerpressed more on the one less able to resist. Clerambault wasprostrated by his grief, his wife aimlessly busy, and Rosine was outall day at her war work. They only came together at meals. But ithappened that one evening after dinner Clerambault heard her motherviolently scolding Rosine, who had spoken of wounded enemies whom shewanted to take care of. Madame Clerambault was as indignant as ifher daughter had committed a crime, and appealed to her husband. Hisweary, vague, sad eyes had begun to see; he looked at Rosine who wassilent, her head bent, waiting for his reply. 

"You are right, my little girl, " he said. 

Rosine started and flushed, for she had not expected this; she raisedher grateful eyes to his, and their look seemed to say: "You have comeback to me at last. "

After the brief repast they usually separated; each to eat out hisheart in solitude. Clerambault sat before his writing-table and wept, his face hidden in his hands. Rosine's look had pierced through to hissuffering heart; his soul lost, stifled for so long, had come to be asit was before the war. Oh, the look in her eyes!... 

He listened, wiping away his tears; his wife had locked herself intoMaxime's room as she did every evening, and was folding and unfoldinghis clothes, arranging the things left behind.... He went into theroom where Rosine sat alone by the window, sewing. She was absorbed inthought, and did not hear him coming till he stood before her; till helaid his grey head on her shoulder and murmured: "My little girl. "

Then her heart melted also. She took the dear old head between herhands, with its rough hair, and answered:

"My dear father. "

Neither needed to ask or to explain why he was there. After a longsilence, when he was calmer, he looked at her and said:

"It seems as if I had waked up from a frightful dream. " ... But shemerely stroked his hair, without speaking. 

"You were watching over me, were you not?... I saw it.... Were youunhappy?" ... 

She just bowed her head not daring to look at him. He stooped to kissher hands, and raising his head he whispered:

"My good angel. You have saved me!"

When he had gone back to his room she stayed there without moving, filled with emotion, which kept her for long, still, with droopinghead, her hands clasped on her knees. The waves of feeling that flowedthrough her almost took away her breath. Her heart was bursting withlove, happiness, and shame. The humility of her father overcameher.... And all at once a passionate impulse of tender, filial pietybroke the bonds which paralysed her soul and body, as she stretchedout her arms towards the absent, and threw herself at the foot of herbed, thanking God, beseeching Him to give all the suffering to her, and happiness to the one she loved. 

The God to whom she prayed did not give ear; for it was on the head ofthis young girl that he poured the sweet sleep of forgetfulness; butClerambault had to climb his Calvary to the end. 

Alone in his room, the lamp put out, in darkness, Clerambault lookedwithin himself. He was determined to pierce to the bottom of histimid, lying soul which tried to hide itself. On his head he couldstill feel the coolness of his daughter's hand, which had effaced allhis hesitation. 

He would face this monster Truth, though he were torn by its clawswhich never relax, once they have taken hold. 

With a firm hand, in spite of his anguish, he began to tear off inbleeding fragments the covering of mortal prejudices, passions, andideas foreign to his real nature, which clung to him. 

First came the thick fleece of the thousand-headed beast, thecollective soul of the herd. He had hidden under it from fear andweariness. It is hot and stifling, a dirty feather-bed; but oncewrapped in it, one cannot move to throw it off, or even wish to do so;there is no need to will, or to think; one is sheltered from cold, from responsibilities. Laziness, cowardice!... Come, away with it!... Let the chilly wind blow through the rents. You shrink at first, butalready this breath has shaken the torpor; the enfeebled energy beginsto stagger to its feet. What will it find outside? No matter what, wemust see.... 

Sick with disgust, he saw first what he was loath to believe; how thisgreasy fleece had stuck to his flesh. He could sniff the musty odourof the primitive beast, the savage instincts of war, of murder, thelust for blood like living meat torn by his jaws. The elemental forcewhich asks death for life. Far down in the depths of human nature isthis slaughter-house in the ditch, never filled up but covered withthe veil of a false civilisation, over which hangs a faint whiff fromthe butcher's shop.... This filthy odour finally sobered Clerambault;with horror he tore off the skin of the beast whose prey he had been. 

Ah, how thick it was, --warm, silky, and beautiful, and at the sametime stinking and bloody, made of the lowest instincts, and thehighest illusions. To love, give ourselves to all, be a sacrifice forall, be but one body and one soul, our Country the sole life!... Whatthen is this Country, this living thing to which a man sacrificeshis life, the life of all but his conscience and the consciences ofothers? What is this blind love, of which the other side of the shieldis an equally blinded hate?

... "It was a great error to take the name of reason from that oflove, " says Pascal, "and we have no good cause to think them opposed, for love and reason are in truth the same. Love is a precipitation ofthought to one side without considering everything; but it is alwaysreason. " ... 

Well, let us consider everything. Is not this love in a great measurethe fear of examining all things, as a child hides his head under thesheet, so as not to see the shadow on the wall?

Country? A Hindoo temple: men, monsters, and gods. What is she? Theearth we tread on? The whole earth is the mother of us all. Thefamily? It is here and there, with the enemy as with ourselves, and itasks nothing but peace. The poor, the workers, the people, they areon both sides, equally miserable, equally exploited. Thinkers have acommon field, and as for their rivalries and their vanities, they areas ridiculous in the East as in the West; the world does not go to warover the quarrels of a Vadius or a Trissotin. The State? But the Stateand the Country are not the same thing. The confusion is made by thosewho find profit in it; the State is our strength, used and abused bymen like ourselves, no better than ourselves, often worse. We are notduped by them, and in times of peace we judge them fairly enough, butlet a war come on, they are given _carte blanche_, they can appeal tothe lowest instincts, stifle all control, suppress liberty and truth, destroy all humanity; they are masters, we must stand shoulder toshoulder to defend the honour and the mistakes of these Masacarillesarrayed in borrowed plumes. We are all answerable, do you say?Terrible net-work of words! Responsible no doubt we are for the bestand the worst of our people, it is a fact as we well know, but that itis a duty that binds us to their injustices and their insanities.... Ideny it!... 

There can be no question as to community of interest. No one, thoughtClerambault, has had more joy in it, or said more in praise of itsgreatness. It is good and healthy, it makes for rest and strength, toplunge the bare, stiff, cold ego into the collective mind, as intoa bath of confidence and fraternal gifts. It unbends, gives itself, breathes more deeply; man needs his fellow-man, and owes himself tohim, but in order to give out, he must possess, he must be something. But how can he be, if his self is merged in others? He has manyduties, but the highest of all is to be and remain himself; even whenhe sacrifices and gives all that he is. To bathe in the soul of otherswould be dangerous as a permanent state; one dip, for health's sake, but do not stay too long, or you will lose all moral vigour. In ourday you are plunged from childhood, whether you like it or not, intothe democratic tub. Society thinks for you, imposes its morality uponyou; its State acts for you, its fashions and its opinions steal fromyou the very air you breathe; you have no lungs, no heart, no light ofyour own. You serve what you despise, you lie in every gesture, word, and thought, you surrender, become nothing.... What does it profit usall, if we all surrender? For the sake of whom, or what? To satisfyblind instincts, or rogues? Does God rule, or do some charlatans speakfor the oracle? Let us lift the veil, and look the hidden thing behindit in the face.... Our Country! A great noble word! The father, brother embracing brother.... That is not what your false countryoffers me, but an enclosure, a pit full of beasts, trenches, barriers, prison bars.... My brothers, where are they? Where are those whotravail all over the world? Cain, what hast thou done with them? Istretch out my arms; a wave of blood separates us; in my own country Iam only an anonymous instrument of assassination.... My Country! butit is you who destroy her!... My Country was the great community ofmankind; you have ravaged it, for thought and liberty know not whereto lay their heads in Europe today. I must rebuild my house, the homeof us all, for you have none, yours is a dungeon.... How can itbe done, where shall I look, or find shelter?... They have takeneverything from me! There is not a free spot on earth or in the mind;all the sanctuaries of the soul, of art, of science, religion, theyare all violated, all enslaved! I am alone, lost, nothing remains tome but death!... 

 * * * * *

When he had torn everything away, there remained nothing but his nakedsoul. And for the rest of the night, it could only stand chilled andshivering. But a spark lived in this spirit that shivered, in thistiny being lost in the universe like those shapes which the primitivepainters represented coming out of the mouth of the dying. With thedawn the feeble flame, stifled under so many falsehoods, began torevive, and was relighted by the first breath of free air; nothingcould again extinguish it. 

 * * * * *

Upon this agony or parturition of the soul there followed a long sadday, the repose of a broken spirit, in a great silence with the achingrelief of duty performed.... Clerambault sat with his head against theback of his armchair, and thought; his body was feverish, his heartheavy with recollections. The tears fell unnoticed from his eyes, while out of doors nature awoke sadly to the last days of winter, likehim stripped and bare. But still there trembled a warmth beneath theicy air, which was to kindle a new fire everywhere. 

PART TWO

It was a week before Clerambault could go out again. The terriblecrisis through which he had passed had left him weak but resolved, and though the exaltation of his despair had quieted down, he wasstoically determined to follow the truth even to the end. Theremembrance of the errors in which his mind had delighted, and thehalf-truths on which it had fed made him humble; he doubted his ownstrength, and wished to advance step by step. He was ready to welcomethe advice of those wiser than himself. He remembered how Perrotinlistened to his former confidences with a sarcastic reserve thatirritated him at the time, but which now attracted him. His firstvisit of convalescence was to this wise old friend. 

Perrotin was rather short-sighted and selfish, and did not take thetrouble to look carefully at things that were not necessary to him, being a closer observer of books than of faces, but he was none theless struck by the alteration in Clerambault's expression. 

"My dear friend, " said he, "have you been ill?"

"Yes, ill enough, " answered Clerambault, "but I have pulled myselftogether again, and am better now. "

"It is the cruelest blow of all, " said Perrotin, "to lose at our age, such a friend as your poor boy was to you ... "

"The most cruel is not his loss, " said the father, "it is that Icontributed to his death. "

"What do you mean, my good friend?" said Perrotin in surprise. "Howcan you imagine such things to add to your trouble?"

"It was I who shut his eyes, " said Clerambault bitterly, "and he hasopened mine. "

Perrotin pushed aside the work, which according to his habit hehad continued to ruminate upon during the conversation, and lookednarrowly at his friend, who bent his head, and began his story in anindistinct voice, sad and charged with feeling. Like a Christianof the early times making public confession, he accused himself offalsehood towards his faith, his heart, and his reason. 

When the Apostle saw his Lord in chains, he was afraid and denied Him;but he was not brought so low as to offer his services as executioner. He, Clerambault, had not only deserted the cause of human brotherhood, he had debased it; he had continued to talk of fraternity, while hewas stirring up hatred. Like those lying priests who distort theScriptures to serve their wicked purposes, he had knowingly alteredthe most generous ideas to disguise murderous passions. 

He extolled war, while calling himself a pacifist; professed to behumanitarian, previously putting the enemy outside humanity.... Oh, how much franker it would have been to yield to force than to lendhimself to its dishonouring compromises! It was thanks to suchsophistries as his that the idealism of young men was thrown into thearena. Those old poisoners, the artists and thinkers, had sweetenedthe death-brew with their honeyed rhetoric, which would have beenfound out and rejected by every conscience with disgust, if it had notbeen for their falsehoods.... 

"The blood of my son is on my head, " said Clerambault sadly. "Thedeath of the youth of Europe, in all countries, lies at the door ofEuropean thought. It has been everywhere a servant to the hangman. "

Perrotin leaned over and took Clerambault's hand. "My poor friend, "said he, "you make too much of this. No doubt you are right toacknowledge the errors of judgment into which you have been drawn bypublic opinion, and I may confess to you now that I was sorry to seeit; but you are wrong to ascribe to yourself and other thinkers somuch responsibility for the events of today. One man speaks, anotheracts; but the speakers do not move the others to action; they are alldrifting with the tide. This unfortunate European thought is a bit ofdrift-wood like the rest, it does not make the current, it is carriedalong by it. "

"It persuades people to yield to it, " said Clerambault, "instead ofhelping the swimmers, and bidding them struggle against it; itsays: Let yourself go.... No, my friend, do not try to diminish itsresponsibility, it is the greatest of all. Our thought had the bestplace from which to see; its business was to keep watch, and if it sawnothing, it was through lack of good-will, for it cannot lay the blameon its eyes, which are clear enough. You know it and so do I, now thatI have come to my senses. The same intelligence which darkened myeyes, has now torn away the bandage; how can it be, at the same time, a power for truth and for falsehood?"

Perrotin shook his head. 

"Yes, intelligence is so great and so high that she cannot put herselfat the service of any other forces without derogation; for if she isno longer mistress and free, she is degraded. It is a case ofRoman master debasing the Greek, his superior, and making him hispurveyor--_Graeculus_, sophist, _Laeno_.... To the vulgar theintelligence is a sort of maid-of-all-work, and in this position shedisplays the sly, dishonest cleverness of her kind. Sometimes she isemployed by hatred, pride, or self-interest, and then she flattersthese little devils, dressing them up as Idealism, Love, Faith, Liberty, and social generosity; for when a man does not love hisneighbour, he says he loves God, his Country, or even Humanity. Sometimes the poor master is himself a slave to the State. Underthreat of punishment, the social machine forces him to acts which arerepugnant, but the complaisant intelligence persuades him that theseare fine and glorious, and performed by him of his own free will. Ineither case the intelligence knows what she is about, and is alwaysat our disposition if we really want her to tell us the truth; but wetake good care to avoid it, and never to be left alone with her. We manage so as to meet her only in public when we can put leadingquestions as we please.... When all is said, the earth goes round nonethe less, _e pur se muove_;--the laws of the world are obeyed, and thefree mind beholds them. All the rest is vanity; the passions, faith, sincere or insincere, are only the painted face of that necessitywhich rules the world, without caring for our idols: family, race, country, religion, society, progress.... Progress indeed! The greatillusion! Humanity is like water that must find its level, and whenthe cistern brims over a valve opens and it is empty again.... Acatastrophic rhythm, the heights of civilisation, and then downfall. We rise, and are cast down ... "

Thus Perrotin calmly unveiled his Thought. She was not much accustomedto going naked; but she forgot that she had a witness, and undressedas if she were alone. She was extremely bold, as is often the thoughtof a man of letters not obliged to suit the action to the word, but who much prefers, on the contrary, not to do so. The alarmedClerambault listened with his mouth open; certain words revolted him, others pierced him to the heart; his head swam, but he overcame hisweakness, for he was determined to lose nothing of these profundities. He pressed Perrotin with questions: and he, on his part, flattered andsmiling, complaisantly unrolled his pyrrhonian visions, as peaceableas they were destructive. 

The vapours of the pit were rising all about them; and Clerambault wasadmiring the ease of this free spirit perched on the edge of the abyssand enjoying it, when the door opened, and the servant came in with acard which he gave to Perrotin. 

At once the terrible phantoms of the brain vanished; a trap-doorshut out the emptiness, and an official drawing-room rug covered it. Perrotin roused himself and said eagerly: "Certainly, show him in atonce. " Turning to Clerambault he added:

"Pardon me, my dear friend, it is the Honourable Under-Secretary ofState for Public Instruction. "

He was already on his feet and went to meet his visitor, a stage-loverlooking fellow, with the blue clean-shaven chin of a priest or aYankee, who held his head very high, and wore in the grey cut-a-waywhich clothed his well-rounded figure, the rosette which is displayedalike by our heroes and our lackeys. The old gentleman presentedClerambault to him with cheerful alacrity: "Mr. AgénorClerambault--Mr. Hyacinth Monchéri, " and asked the HonourableUnder-Secretary of State to what he owed the honour of his visit. The Honourable Under-Secretary, not in the least surprised by theobsequious welcome of the old scholar, settled himself in his armchairwith the lofty air of familiarity suitable to the superior position heheld over the two representatives of French letters. He representedthe State. 

Speaking haughtily through his nose, and braying like a dromedary, heextended to Perrotin an invitation from the Minister to preside overa solemn contest of embattled intellectuals from ten nations, in thegreat amphitheatre of the Sorbonne--"an imprecatory meeting, " hecalled it. Perrotin promptly accepted, and professed himself overcomeby the honour. His servile tone before this licensed governmentignoramus made a striking contrast with his bold statements a fewmoments before, and Clerambault, somewhat taken aback, thought of the_Graeculus_. 

Mr. "Chéri" walked out with his head in the air, like an ass in asacred procession, accompanied by Perrotin to the very threshold, andwhen the friends were once more alone, Clerambault would have liked toresume the conversation, but he could not conceal that he was a littlechilled by what had passed. He asked Perrotin if he meant to statein public the opinions he had just professed, and Perrotin refused, naturally, laughing at his friend's simplicity. What is more, hecautioned him affectionately against proclaiming such ideas from thehouse-tops. Clerambault was vexed and disputed the point, but in orderto make the situation clear to him, and with the utmost frankness, Perrotin described his surroundings, the great minds of the higherUniversity, which he represented officially: historians, philosophers, professors of rhetoric. He spoke of them politely but with a deephalf-concealed contempt, and a touch of personal bitterness; for inspite of his prudence, the less intelligent of his colleagues lookedon him with suspicion; he was too clever. He said he was like an oldblind man's dog in a pack of barking curs; forced to do as they didand bark at the passers-by. 

Clerambault did not quarrel with him, but went away with pity in hisheart. 

He stayed in the house for several days, for this first contact withthe outside world had depressed him, and the friend on whom he hadrelied for guidance had failed him miserably. He was much troubled, for Clerambault was weak and unused to stand alone. Poet as he was, and absolutely sincere, he had never felt it necessary to thinkindependently of others; he had let himself be carried along bytheir thought, making it his own, becoming its inspired voice andmouth-piece. Now all was suddenly changed. Notwithstanding that nightof crisis, his doubts returned upon him; for after fifty a man'snature cannot be transformed at a touch, no matter how much the mindmay have retained the elasticity of youth. The light of a revelationdoes not always shine, like the sun in a clear summer sky, but is morelike an arc-light, which often winks and goes out before the currentbecomes strong. When these irregular pulsations fade out, the shadowsappear deeper, and the spirit totters and then--. It was hard forClerambault to get along without other people. 

He decided to visit all his friends, of whom he had many, in theliterary world, in the University, and among the intelligent_bourgeoisie_. He was sure to find some among them who, better thanhe, could divine the problems which beset him, and help him in theirsolution. 

Timidly, without as yet betraying his own mind, he tried to readtheirs, to listen and observe; but he had not realised that the veilhad fallen from his eyes; and the vision that he saw of a world, oncewell-known to him, seemed strange and cold. 

The whole world of letters was mobilised; so that personalities wereno longer to be distinguished. The universities formed a ministry ofdomesticated intelligence; its functions were to draw up the acts ofthe State, its master and patron; the different departments were knownby their professional twists. 

The professors of literature were above all skilful in developingmoral arguments oratorically under the three terms of the syllogism. Their mania was an excessive simplification of argument; they puthigh-sounding words in the place of reason, and made too much of a fewideas, always the same, lifeless for lack of colour or shading. Theyhad unearthed these weapons of a so-called classic antiquity, the keyto which had been jealously guarded throughout the ages by academicMamelukes, and these eloquent antiquated ideas were falsely calledHumanities, though in many respects they offended the common-sense andthe heart of humanity as it is today. Still they bore the hall-markof Rome, prototype of all our modern states, and their authorisedexponents were the State rhetoricians. 

The philosophers excelled in abstract constructions; they had the artof explaining the concrete by the abstract, the real by its shadow. They systematised some hasty partial observations, melted them intheir alembics, and from them deduced laws to regulate the entireworld. They strove to subject life, multiple and many-sided, tothe unity of the mind, that is, to _their_ mind. The time-servingtrickeries of a sophistical profession facilitated this imperialism ofthe reason; they knew how to handle ideas, twisting, stretching, andtying them together like strips of candy; it would have been child'splay for them to make a camel pass through the eye of a needle. Theycould also prove that black was white, and could find in the works ofEmanuel Kant the freedom of the world, or Prussian militarism, just asthey saw fit. 

The historians were the born scribes, attorneys, and lawyers of theGovernment, charged with the care of its charters, its title-deeds, and cases, and armed to the teeth for its future quarrels.... What ishistory after all? The story of success, the demonstration of what hasbeen done, just or unjust. The defeated have no history. Be silent, you Persians of Salamis, slaves of Spartacus, Gauls, Arabs ofPoitiers, Albigenses, Irish, Indians of both Americas, and colonialpeoples generally!... When a worthy man revolting against theinjustices of his day, puts his hope in posterity by way ofconsolation, he forgets that this posterity has but little chance tolearn of former events. All that can be known is what the advocates ofofficial history think favourable to the cause of their client, theState. A lawyer for the adverse party may possibly intervene--someoneof another nation, or of an oppressed social or religious group; butthere is small chance for him; the secret is kept too well!

Orators, sophists, and pleaders, the three corporations of the Facultyof Letters, --Letters of State, signed and patented!

The studies of the "scientifics" ought to have protected them betterfrom the suggestions and contagions of the outside world--that is, ifthey confined themselves to their trade. Unfortunately they have beentempted from it, for the applied sciences have taken so large a placein practical affairs that experts find themselves thrown into theforemost ranks of action, and exposed to all the infections of thepublic mind. Their self-respect is directly interested in the victoryof the community, which can as easily assimilate the heroism of thesoldier as the follies and falsehoods of the publicist. Few scientificmen have had the strength to keep themselves free; for the mostpart they have only contributed the rigour, the stiffness of thegeometrical mind, added to professional rivalries, always more acutebetween learned bodies of different nationalities. 

The regular writers, poets, and novelists, who have no official ties, they, at least should have the advantages of their independence; butunfortunately few of them are able to judge for themselves of eventswhich are beyond the limits of their habitual preoccupations, commercial or aesthetic. The greater number, and not the least known, are as ignorant as fishes. It would be best for them to stick to theirshop, according to their natural instinct; but their vanity has beenfoolishly tickled, and they have been urged to mix themselves up withpublic affairs, and give their opinion on the universe. They cannaturally have but scattering views on such subjects, and in defaultof personal judgment, they drift with the current, reacting withextreme quickness to any shock, for they are ultra-sensitive, with amorbid vanity which exaggerates the thoughts of others when it cannotexpress their own. This is the only originality at their disposal, andGod knows they make the most of it!

What remains? the Clergy? It is they who handle the heaviestexplosives; the ideas of Justice, Truth, Right, and God; and they makethis artillery fight for their passions. Their absurd pride, of whichthey are quite unconscious, causes them to lay claim to the propertyof God, and to the exclusive right to dispose of it wholesale andretail. 

It is not so much that they lack sincerity, virtue, or kindness, butthey do lack humility; they have none, however much they may professit. Their practice consists in adoring their navel as they see itreflected in the Talmud, or the Old and New Testaments. They aremonsters of pride, not so very far removed from the fool of legendwho thought himself God the Father. Is it so much less dangerous tobelieve oneself His manager, or His secretary?

Clerambault was struck by the morbid character of the intellectualspecies. In the _bourgeois_ caste the power of organisation andexpression of ideas has reached almost monstrous proportions. Theequilibrium of life is destroyed by a bureaucracy of the mind whichthinks itself much superior to the simple worker. Certainly no one candeny that it has its uses; it collects and classifies thoughts in itspigeon-holes and puts them to various purposes, but the idea rarelyoccurs to it to examine its material and renew the content of thought. 

It remains the vain guardian of a demonetised treasure. If onlythis mistake were a harmless one; but ideas that are not constantlyconfronted with reality, which are not frequently dipped into thestream of experience, grow dry, and take on a toxic character. Theythrow a heavy shadow over the new life, bring on the night and producefever. What a stupid thraldom to abstract words! Of what use is it todethrone kings and by what right do we jeer at those who die for theirmasters, if it is only to put tyrannic entities in their places, whichwe adorn with their tinsel? It is much better, to have a flesh andblood monarch, whom you can control--suppress if necessary--than theseabstractions, these invisible despots, that no one knows now, nor everhas known. We deal only with the head Eunuchs, the priests of thehidden Crocodile, as Taine calls him, the wire-pulling ministers whospeak in the idol's name. --Ah! let us tear away the veil and know thecreature hidden inside of us. There is less danger when man showsfrankly as a brute than when he drapes himself in a false and sicklyidealism. He does not eliminate his animal instincts, he only deifiesand tries to explain them, but as this cannot be done withoutexcessive simplification--according to the law of the mind whichin order to grasp must let go an equal amount--he disguises andintensifies them in one direction. Everything that departs from thestraight line or that interferes with the strict logic of his mentaledifice, he denies; worse he pulls it up by the roots, and commandsthat it be destroyed in the name of sacred principles. It thereforefollows that he cuts down much of the infinite growth of nature, andallows to stand only the trees of the mind that he chooses--generallythose that flourish in deserts and ruins and which there growabnormally. Of such is the crushing predominance of one singletyrannous form of the Family, of Country, and of the narrow moralitywhich serves them. The poor creature is proud of it all; and it is hewho is the victim. 

Humanity does not dare to massacre itself from interested motives. Itis not proud of its interests, but it does pride itself on its ideaswhich are a thousand times more deadly. Man sees his own superiorityin his ideas, and will fight for them; but herein I perceive hisfolly, for this warlike idealism is a disease peculiar to him, and itseffects are similar to those of alcoholism; they add enormously towickedness and criminality. This sort of intoxication deterioratesthe brain, filling it with hallucinations, to which the living aresacrificed. 

What an extraordinary spectacle, seen from the interior of our skulls!A throng of phantoms rising from our overexcited brains: Justice, Liberty, Right, Country.... Our poor brains are all equally honest, but each accuses the other of insincerity. In this fantastic shadowystruggle, we can distinguish nothing but the cries and the convulsionsof the human animal, possessed by devils.... Below are clouds chargedwith lightnings, where great fierce birds are fighting; the realists, the men of affairs, swarm and gnaw like fleas in a skin; with openmouths, and grasping hands, secretly exciting the folly by which theyprofit, but in which they do not share.... 

O Thought! monstrous and splendid flower springing from the humusof our time-honoured instincts!... In truth, thou art an elementpenetrating and impregnating man, but thou dost not spring from him, thy source is beyond him, and thy strength greater than his. Oursenses are fairly well-adapted to our needs but our thought is not, it overflows and maddens us. Very, very few among us men can guidethemselves on this torrent; the far greater number are swept along, at random, trusting to chance. The tremendous power of thought is notunder man's control; he tries to make it serve him, and his greatestdanger is that he believes that it does so; but he is like a childhandling explosives; there is no proportion between these colossalengines and the purpose for which his feeble hands employ them. Sometimes they all blow up together.... 

How guard against this danger? Shall we stifle thought, uproot livingideas? That would mean the castration of man's brain, the loss of hischief stimulus in life; but nevertheless the _eau-de-vie_ of his mindcontains a poison which is the more to be dreaded because it is spreadbroadcast among the masses, in the form of adulterated drugs.... Rouse thee, Man, and sober thyself! Look about; shake off ideas. Freethyself from thine own thoughts and learn to govern thy giganticphantoms which devour themselves in their rage.... And begin bytaking the capitals from the names of those great goddesses, Country, Liberty, Right. Come down from Olympus into the manger, and comewithout ornaments, without arms, rich only in your beauty, and ourlove.... I do not know the gods of Justice and Liberty; I only knowmy brother-man, and his acts, sometimes just, sometimes unjust; and Ialso know of peoples, all aspiring to real liberty but all deprived ofit, and who all, more or less, submit to oppression. 

The sight of this world in a fever-fit would have filled a sage withthe desire to withdraw until the attack was over; but Clerambault wasnot a sage. He knew this, and he also knew that it was vain tospeak; but none the less he felt that he must, that he should end byspeaking. He wished to delay the dangerous moment, and his timidity, which shrank from single combat with the world, sought about him for acompanion in thought. The fight would not be so hard if there were twoor three together. 

The first whose feeling he cautiously sounded were some unfortunatepeople who, like him, had lost a son. The father, a well-knownpainter, had a studio in the Rue Notre Dame des Champs. His name wasOmer Calville and the Clerambaults were neighbourly with him and hiswife, a nice old couple of the middle class, devoted to each other. They had that gentleness, common to many artists of their day, who hadknown Carrière, and caught remote reflections of Tolstoïsm, which, like their simplicity, appeared a little artificial, for though itharmonised with their real goodness of heart, the fashion of the timehad added a touch of exaggeration. 

Those artists who sincerely profess their religious respect for allthat lives, are less capable than anyone else of understanding thepassions of war. The Calvilles had held themselves outside thestruggle; they did not protest, they accepted it, without acquiescing, as one accepts sickness, death, or the wickedness of men, with adignified sadness. 

When Clerambault read them his burning poems they listened politelyand made little response--but strangely enough, at the very time thatClerambault, cured of his warlike illusions, turned to them, he foundthat they had changed places with him. The death of their son hadproduced on them the opposite effect. And now they were awkwardlytaking part in the conflict, as if to replace their lost boy. Theysnuffed up eagerly all the stench in the papers, and Clerambault foundthem actually rejoicing, in their misery, over the assertion that theUnited States was prepared to fight for twenty years. 

"What would become of France, of Europe, in twenty years?" he triedto say, but they hastily put this thought away from them with muchirritation, almost as if it were improper to mention, or even to thinkof such a thing. 

The question was to conquer; at what price? That could be settledafterwards. --Conquer? Suppose there were no more conquerors left inFrance? Never mind, so long as the others are beaten. No, it shouldnot be that the blood of their son had been shed in vain. 

"And to avenge his death, must other innocent lives also besacrificed?" thought Clerambault, and in the hearts of these goodpeople he read the answer: "Why not?" The same idea was in the mindsof all those who, like the Calvilles, had lost through the war whatthey held dearest--a son, a husband, or a brother.... 

"Let the others suffer as we have, we have nothing left to lose. " Wasthere nothing left? In truth there was one thing only, on which thefierce egotism of these mourners kept jealous guard; their faith inthe necessity of these sacrifices. Let no one try to shake that, ordoubt that the cause was sacred for which these dear ones fell. Theleaders of the war knew this, and well did they understand how to makethe most of such a lure. No, by these sad fire-sides there was noplace for Clerambault's doubts and feelings of pity. 

"They had no pity on us, " thought the unhappy ones, "why should wepity them?"

Some had suffered less, but what characterised nearly all of these_bourgeois_ was the reverence they had for the great slogans ofthe past: "Committee of Public Safety, " "The Country in Danger, ""Plutarch, " "_De Viris_, " "Horace, "--it seemed impossible for them tolook at the present with eyes of today; perhaps they had no eyes tosee with. Outside of the narrow circle of their own affairs, how manyof our anemic _bourgeoisie_ have the power to think for, themselves, after they have reached the age of thirty? It would never cross theirminds; their thoughts are furnished to them like their provisions, only more cheaply. For one or two cents a day they get them from theirpapers. The more intelligent, who look for thought in books, do notgive themselves the trouble to seek it also in life, and think thatone is the reflection of the other. Like the prematurely aged, theirmembers become stiff, and their minds petrified. 

In the great flock of those ruminating souls who fed on the past, thegroup of bigots pinning its faith to the French Revolution was easilydistinguished. Among the backward _bourgeoisie_ they were reckonedincendiary in former days;--about the time of the 16th of May, or alittle later. Like quinquagenarians grown stolid and settled, theylooked back with pride to their wild conduct, and lived on the memoryof the emotions of by-gone days. If their mirror showed them nochange, the world had altered around them without their suspecting it, while they continued to copy their antiquated models. It is a curiousimitative instinct, a slavery of the brain, to remain hypnotised bysome point in the past, instead of trying to follow Proteus in hiscourse--the life of change. One picks up the old skin which the youngsnake has thrown off long ago, and tries to sew it together again. These pedantic admirers of old revolutions believe that those of thefuture will be made on the same lines. They will not see that the newliberty must have a gait of its own, and will overleap barriers beforewhich its grandmother of ninety-three stopped, out of breath. They arealso much more vexed by the disrespect of the young people who havegone by them, than they are by the spiteful yelping of the old whomthey have left behind; this is only natural, for these young folksmake them feel their age, and then it is their turn to yelp. 

So it ever shall be; as they grow older there are very few men willingto let life take its own course, and who are generous enough to lookat the future through the eyes of their juniors, as their own sightgrows dim. The greater number of those who loved liberty in theiryouth, want to make a case of it now for the new broods, because theycan no longer fly themselves. 

The followers of the national revolutionary cult--in the style ofDanton, or of Robespierre--were the bitterest adversaries of theinternationalism of today; though they did not always agree perfectlyamongst themselves, and the friends of Danton and Robespierre, withthe shadow of the guillotine between them, hurled the epithet ofheretic at each other with the deadliest threats. They did, however, all agree on one point, and devoted to destruction those who did notbelieve that Liberty is shot out of the mouth of cannon, those whodared to feel the same aversion towards violence, whether it wasexerted by Caesar, Demos, or his satellites, or even if it was in thename of right and liberty itself. The face underneath is the same, nomatter what mask may be worn. 

Clerambault knew several of these fanatics, but there was no point indiscussing with them whether the right, or its counterfeit, were onlyon one side in war; it would have been equally sensible to argue aboutthe Holy Inquisition with a Manichee. Lay religions have their greatseminaries and secret societies where they deposit their doctrinaltreasures with great pride. He who departs from these isexcommunicated--until he in turn belongs to the past, when he becomesa god, and can excommunicate in future himself. 

 * * * * *

If Clerambault was not tempted to convert these hardened intellectualswith their stiff helmet of truth, he knew others who had not the sameproud certainty; far from it. Those who sinned rather through softnessand pure dilettantism--Arsène Asselin was one of these, an amiableParisian, unmarried, a man of the world, clever and sceptical; and asmuch shocked by a defect in sentiment as in expression. How could helike extremes of thought, which are the cultures in which the germs ofwar develop? His critical and sarcastic spirit inclined him towardsdoubt; so there was no reason why he should not have understoodClerambault's point of view, and he came within an ace of doing so. His choice depended on some fortuitous circumstances, but fromthe moment that he turned his face in the other direction, it wasimpossible for him to go back; and the more he stuck in the mud, themore obstinate he grew. French self-respect cannot bear to admit itsmistakes; it would rather die in defence of them.... But French ornot, how many are there in the world who would have the strength ofmind to say: "I have made a mistake, we must begin all over again. "Better deny the evidence ... "To the bitter end" ... And then breakdown. 

Alexandre Mignon was a before-the-war pacifist and an old friendof Clerambault's. He was a _bourgeois_ of about his own age, intellectual, a member of the University, and justly respected for thedignity of his life. He should not be confounded with those parlourpacifists covered with official decorations and grand cordons ofinternational orders, for whom peace is a gilt-edged investment inquiet times. For thirty years he had sincerely denounced the dangerousintrigues of the dishonest politicians and speculators of his country;he was a member of the League for the Rights of Man, and loved to makespeeches for either cause, as it might happen. It was enough if hisclient purported to be oppressed; it did not matter if the victim hadbeen a would-be oppressor himself. His blundering generosity sometimesmade him ridiculous, but he was always liked. He did not object to theridicule, nor did he dread a little unpopularity, as long as he wassurrounded by his own group, whose approbation was necessary to him. As a member of a group which was independent when they all heldtogether, he thought that he was an independent person, but this wasnot the case. Union is strength they say, but it accustoms us to leanupon it, as Alexandre Mignon found to his cost. 

The death of Jaurès had broken up the group; and lacking onevoice--the first to speak--all the others failed. They waited for thepassword that no one dared to give. When the torrent broke over themthese generous but weak men were uncertain, and were carried away bythe first rush. They did not understand nor approve of it, but theycould make no resistance. From the beginning desertions began intheir ranks, produced largely by the terrible speech-makers whothen governed the country--demagogue lawyers, practised in all thesophistries of republican idealogy: "War for Peace, Lasting Peace atthe End ... " (_Requiescat_) ... In these artifices the poor pacifistssaw a way to get out of their dilemma; it was not a very brilliantway and they were not proud of it, but it was their only chance. Theyhoped to reconcile their pacific principles with the fact of violenceby means of "big talk" which did not sound to them as outrageous asit really was. To refuse would have been to give themselves up to thewar-like pack, which would have devoured them. 

Alexandre Mignon would have had courage to face the bloody jaws if hehad had his little community at his back, but alone it was beyond hisstrength. He let things go at first, without committing himself, but he suffered, passing through agonies something like those ofClerambault, but with a different result. He was less impulsive andmore intellectual. In order to efface his last scruples he hidthem under close reasoning, and with the aid of his colleagues helaboriously proved by a + b that war was the duty of consistentpacifism. His League had every advantage in dwelling on the criminalacts of the enemy; but did not dwell on those in its own camp. Alexandre Mignon had occasional glimpses of the universal injustice;an intolerable vision, on which he closed his shutters.... 

In proportion as he was swaddled in his war arguments, it became moredifficult for him to disentangle himself, and he persisted more andmore. Suppose a child carelessly pulls off the wing of an insect; itis only a piece of nervous awkwardness, but the insect is done for, and the child ashamed and irritated, tears the poor creature to piecesto relieve his own feelings. 

The pleasure with which he listened to Clerambault's _mea culpa_ maybe imagined; but the effect was surprising. Mignon, already ill atease, turned on Clerambault, whose self-accusations seemed to pointat him, and treated him like an enemy. In the sequel no one was moreviolent than Mignon against this living remorse. 

 * * * * *

There were some politicians who would have understood Clerambaultbetter, for they knew as much as he did and perhaps more; but it didnot keep them awake at night. They had been used to mentaltrickery ever since they cut their first teeth, and were expert at_combinazione_; they had the illusion of serving their party, cheaplygained by a few compromises here and there!... To think and walkstraightforwardly was the one thing impossible to these flabbyshufflers, who backed, or advanced in spirals, who dragged theirbanner in the mud, by way of assuring its triumph, and who, to reachthe Capitol, would have crawled up the steps on their stomachs. 

 * * * * *

Here and there some clear-sighted spirits were hidden, but they wereeasier to guess at than to see; they were melancholy glow-worms whohad put out their lanterns in their fright, so that not a gleam wasvisible. They certainly had no faith in the war, but neither did theybelieve in anything against it;--fatalists, pessimists all. 

It was clear to Clerambault that when personal energy is lacking, the highest qualities of head and heart only increase the publicservitude. The stoicism which submits to the laws of the universeprevents us from resisting those which are cruel, instead of saying todestiny: "No, thus far, and no farther!" ... If it pushes on youwill see the stoic stand politely aside, as he murmurs: "Please comein!"--Cultivated heroism, the taste for the superhuman, even theinhuman, chokes the soul with its sacrifices, and the more absurd theyare, the more sublime they appear--Christians of today, more generousthan their Master, render all to Caesar; a cause seems sacred to themfrom the moment that they are asked to immolate themselves to it. Tothe ignominy of war they piously kindle the flame of their faith, andthrow their bodies on the altar. The people bend their backs, andaccept with a passive, ironic resignation.... "No need to borrowtrouble. " Ages and ages of misery have rolled over this stone, but inthe end stones do wear down and become mud. 

Clerambault tried to talk with one and another of these people butfound himself everywhere opposed by the same hidden, half-unconsciousresistance. They were armed with the will not to hear, or rather witha remarkable not-will to hear. Their minds were as impervious tocontrary arguments as a duck's feathers to water. Men in general areendowed, for their comfort, with a precious faculty; they can makethemselves blind and deaf when it does not suit them to see and hear, and when by chance they pick up some inconvenient object, they drop itquickly, and forget it as soon as possible. How many citizens in anycountry knew the truth about the divided responsibility for thewar, or about the ill-omened part played by their politicians, who, themselves deceived, pretended with great success to be ignorant!

If everyone is trying to escape from himself, it is clear, that a manwill run faster from someone who, like Clerambault, would help him torecover himself. In order to avoid their own conscience, intelligent, serious, honourable men do not blush to employ the little tricks of awoman or a child trying to get its own way; and dreading a discussionwhich might unsettle them, they would seize on the first awkwardexpression used by Clerambault. They would separate it from thecontext, dress it up if necessary, and with raised voices and eyesstarting from their heads, feign an indignation which they ended byfeeling sincerely. They would repeat "_mordicus_, " even after theproof, and if obliged to admit it, would rush off, banging the doorafter them: "Can't stand any more of that!" But two, or perhaps tendays after, they would come back and renew the argument, as if nothinghad happened. 

Some treacherous ones provoked Clerambault to say more than heintended, and having gained their point, exploded with rage. But eventhe most good-natured told him that he lacked good sense--"good, " ofcourse, meaning "my way of thinking. "

There were the clever talkers also who, having nothing to fear from acontest of words, began an argument in the flattering hope that theycould bring the wandering sheep back to the fold. It was not his mainidea that they disputed, so much as its desirability; they wouldappeal to Clerambault's better side:

"Certainly, of course, I think as you do, or almost as you do; Iunderstand what you mean; ... But you ought to be cautious, my dearfriend, not to trouble the consciences of those who have to fight. Youcannot always speak the truth, at least not all at once. These finethings may come about ... In fifty years, perhaps. We must wait andnot go too fast for nature ... "

"Wait, until the appetites of the exploiter, and the folly of theexploited are equally exhausted? When the thinking of clear-sighted, better sort gives way to the blindness of coarser minds, it goesdirectly contrary to that nature which it professes to follow, andagainst the historical destiny which they themselves make it a pointof honour to obey. For do we respect the plans of Nature when westifle one part of its thought, and the higher, at that? The theorywhich would lop off the strongest forces from life, and bend itbefore the passions of the multitude, would result in suppressing theadvance-guard, and leaving the army without leaders.... When the boatleans over, must I not throw my weight on the other side to keep aneven keel? Or must we all sit down to leeward? Advanced ideas areNature's weights, intended to counter-balance the heavy stubborn past;without them the boat will upset.... The welcome they will receive isa side issue. Their advocates can expect to be stoned, but whoever hasthese things in his mind and does not speak them, is a dishonouredman. He is like a soldier in battle, to whom a dangerous message isentrusted; is he free to shirk it?... Why does not everyone understandthese things?"

When they saw that persuasion had no effect on Clerambault, theyunmasked their batteries and violently taxed him with absurd, criminalpride. They asked him if he thought himself cleverer than anyone else, that he set himself up against the entire nation? On what did he foundthis overweening self-confidence? Duty consists in being humble, andkeeping to one's proper place in the community; when it commands, ourduty is to bow to it, and, whether we agree or not, we must carry outits orders. Woe to the rebel against the soul of his country! To be inthe right and in opposition to her is to be wrong, and in the hour ofaction wrong is a crime. The Republic demands obedience from her sons. 

"The Republic or death, " said Clerambault ironically. "And this is afree country? Free, yes, because there have always been, and alwayswill be some souls like mine, which refuse to bend to a yoke whichtheir conscience disavows. We are become a nation of tyrants. Therewas no great advantage in taking the Bastille. In the old days one ranthe risk of perpetual imprisonment if one made so bold as to differfrom the Prince--the fagot, if you did not agree with the Church; butnow you must think with forty millions of men and follow them in theirfrantic contradictions. One day you must scream: "Down with England!"Tomorrow it will be: "Down with Germany!" and the next day it may bethe turn of Italy; and _da capo_ in a week or two. Today we acclaim aman or an idea, tomorrow we shall insult him; and anyone who refusesrisks dishonour--or a pistol bullet. This is the most ignoble andshameful servitude of all!... By what right do a hundred, a thousand, one or forty millions of men, demand that I shall renounce my soul?Each of them has one, like mine. Forty millions of souls togetheroften make only one, which has denied itself forty millions oftimes.... I think what I think. Go you and do likewise. The livingtruth can be re-born only from the equilibrium of opposing thoughts. To make the citizen respect the city, it must be reciprocal; each hashis soul. It is his right and his first duty is to be true to it.... I have no illusions, and in this world of prey I do not attribute anexaggerated importance to my own conscience, but however small we maybe or little we may do, we must exist. We are all liable to err, butdeceived or not, a man should be sincere; an honest mistake is not alie, but a stage on the road to truth. The real lie is to fear thetruth and try to stifle it. Even if you were a thousand times right, if you resort to force to crush a sincere mistake, you commit the mostodious crime against reason itself. If reason is persecutor, and errorpersecuted, I am for the victim, for error has rights as well astruth.... Truth--the real truth, is to be always seeking what is true, and to respect the efforts of those who suffer in the pursuit. If youinsult a man who is striving to hew out his path, if you persecute himwho wishes, and perhaps fails, to find less inhuman roads for humanprogress, you make a martyr of him. Your way is the best, the onlyone, you say? Follow it then, and let me follow mine. I do not obligeyou to come with me, so why are you angry? Are you afraid lest Ishould prove to be in the right?"

The impression left on Clerambault's mind by his last interview withPerrotin, was one of sadness and pity; but on the whole he decided togo again to see him, having by now arrived at a better understandingof his ironical and prudent attitude towards the world. If he hadretained but small esteem for Perrotin's character, on the other handthe great intelligence of the old scholar continued to command hishighest admiration; he still saw in him a guide towards the light. 

Perrotin was not exactly delighted to see Clerambault again. The otherday he had been obliged to commit a little cowardly act; he did notmind that, for he was used to it, but it was under the eyes of anincorruptible witness, and he was too clever not to have retained adisagreeable memory of the incident. He foresaw a discussion, and hehated to discuss with people who had convictions--there is no fun init, they take everything so seriously--however, he was courteous, weak, good-natured, and unable to refuse when anyone attacked himvigorously. He tried at first to avoid serious questions; but when hesaw that Clerambault really needed him, and that perhaps he might savehim from some imprudence, he consented, with a sigh, to give up hismorning. 

Clerambault related to him all that he had done, and the result. Herealised that the world around served other gods than his; for he hadshared the same faith, and even now was impartial enough to see acertain grandeur and beauty in it. Since these last trials, however, he had also seen its horror and absurdity; he had abandoned it for anew ideal, which would certainly bring him into conflict with the old. With brief and passionate touches, Clerambault explained this newideal, and called on Perrotin to say if to him it seemed true orfalse; entreating his friend to lay aside considerations of tact orpoliteness, to speak clearly and frankly. Struck by Clerambault'stragic earnestness, Perrotin changed his tone, and answered in thesame key. 

"It amounts to this, that you think I am wrong?" asked Clerambault, distressed. "I see that I am alone in this, but I cannot help it. Donot try to spare me now, but tell me, am I wrong to think as I do?"

"No, my friend, " replied Perrotin gravely, "you are right. "

"Then you agree that I ought to fight against these murderousmistakes?"

"Ah, that is another matter. "

"Ought I to betray the truth, when it is clear to me?"

"Truth, my poor friend! No, don't look at me like that, I shall notfollow Pilate's example, and ask: What is Truth? Like you, and longerthan you perhaps, I have loved her. But Truth, my dear Sir, is higherthan you, than I, than all those that ever have, or ever will inhabitthe earth. We may believe that we obey the Great Goddess, but infact we serve only the _Dî minores_, the saints in the side chapels, alternately adored and neglected by the crowd. The one in honour ofwhom men are now killing and mutilating themselves in a Corybanticfrenzy, can evidently be no longer yours nor mine. The ideal of theCountry is a god, great and cruel, who will leave to the future theimage of a sort of bugaboo Cronos, or of his Olympian son whom Christsuperseded. Your ideal of humanity is the highest rung of the ladder, the announcement of the new god--who will be dethroned later on by onehigher still, who will embrace more of the universe. The ideal andlife never cease to evolve, and this continual advance forms thegenuine interest of the world to the liberal mind; but if the mind canconstantly rise without rest or interruption, in the world of factprogress is made step by step, and a scant few inches are gained inthe whole of a lifetime. Humanity limps along, and your mistake, theonly one, is that you are two or three days' journey ahead of it, but--perhaps with good reason--that is one of the mistakes mostdifficult to forgive. When an ideal, like that of Country, beginsto age with the form of society to which it is strongly bound, theslightest attack makes it ferocious, and it will blaze out furiouslyin its exasperation. The reason is that it has already begun todoubt itself. Do not deceive yourself; these millions of men who areslaughtering each other now in the name of patriotism, have no longerthe early enthusiasm of 1792, or 1813, even though there is more noiseand ruin today. Many of those who die, and those who send them totheir death, feel in their hearts the horrible touch of doubt; butentangled as they are, too weak to escape, or even to imagine a way ofsalvation, they proclaim their injured faith with a kind of despair, and throw themselves blindly into the abyss. They would like to throwin also those who first raised doubts in them by words or actions. Towish to destroy the dream of those who are dying for its sake, is towish to kill twice over. "

Clerambault held out his hand to stop him:--"Ah! you have no need totell me that, and it tortures me. Do you think I am insensible to thepain of these poor souls whose faith I undermine? Respect the beliefsof others; offend not one of these little ones.... My God! what can Ido? Help me to get out of this dilemma; shall I see wrong done, letmen go to ruin, --or risk injuring them, wound their faith, draw hatredupon myself when I try to save them?... Show me the law!"

"Save yourself. "

"But that would be to lose myself, if the price is the life of others, if we do nothing. You and I, no effort would be too great, --the ruinof Europe, of the whole world, is imminent. "

Perrotin sat quietly, his elbows on the arms of his chair, his handsfolded over his Buddha-like belly. He twirled his thumbs, lookingkindly at Clerambault, shook his head, and replied: "Your generousheart, and your artistic sensibilities urge you too far, my friend, but fortunately the world is not near its end. This is not the firsttime. And there will be many others. What is happening today ispainful, certainly, but not in the least abnormal. War has never keptthe earth from turning on its axis, nor prevented the evolution oflife; it is even one of the forms of its evolution. Let an old scholarand philosopher oppose his calm inhumanity to your holy Man ofSorrows. In spite of all it may bring you some benefit. This struggle, this crisis which alarms you so much, is no more than a simple caseof systole, a cosmic contraction, tumultuous, but regulated, like thefolding of the earth crust accompanied by destructive earthquakes. Humanity is tightening. And war is its _seismos_. Yesterday, in allcountries, provinces were at war with each other. Before that, in eachprovince, cities fought together. Now that national unity has beenreached, a larger unity develops. It is certainly regrettable that itshould take place by violence, but that is the natural method. Of theexplosive mixture of conflicting elements in conflict, a new chemicalbody will be born. Will it be in the East, or in Europe? I cannottell; but surely what results will have new properties, more valuablethan its parts. The end is not yet. The war of which we are nowwitnesses is magnificent ... (I beg your pardon; I mean magnificent tothe mind, where suffering does not exist) ... Greater, finer conflictsstill are preparing. These poor childish peoples who imagine that theycan disturb the peace of eternity with their cannon shots!... Thewhole universe must first pass through the retort. We shall have a warbetween the two Americas, one between the New World and the YellowContinent, then the conquerors and the rest of the world.... That isenough to fill up a few centuries. And I may not have seen all, myeyes are not very good. Naturally each of these shocks will lead tosocial struggles. 

"It will all be accomplished in about a dozen centuries. (I amrather inclined to think that it will be more rapid than it seems bycomparison with the past, for the movement becomes accelerated asit proceeds. ) No doubt we shall arrive at a rather impoverishedsynthesis, for many constituent elements, some good, some bad, willbe destroyed in the process, the one being too delicate to resist thehostile environment, the other injurious and impossible to assimilate. Then we shall have the celebrated United States of the whole world;and this union will be all the more solid, because, as is probable, man will be menaced by a common danger. The canals of Mars, thedrying-up or cooling-off of the planet, some mysterious plague, the pendulum of Poe, in short, the vision of an inevitable deathoverwhelming the human race.... There will be great things to behold!The Genius of the race, stretched to the uttermost, in its lastagonies. 

"There will be, on the other hand, very little liberty; humanmultiplicity when near its end will fuse itself into a Unity of Will. Do we not see the beginnings already? Thus, without abrupt mutations, will be effected the reintegration of the complex in the one, of oldEmpedocles' Hatred in Love. "

"And what then?"

"After that? A rest, and then it will all begin over again, there canbe no doubt. A young cycle. The new Kalpa. The world will turn oncemore, on the re-forged wheel. "

"And what is the answer to the riddle?"

"The Hindoos would tell you Siva. Siva, who creates and destroys;destroys and creates. "

"What a hideous dream. "

"That is an affair of temperament. Wisdom liberates. To the Hindoos, Buddha is the deliverer. As for me, curiosity is a sufficient reward. "

"It would not be enough for me, and I cannot content myself eitherwith the wisdom of a selfish Buddha, who sets himself free bydeserting the rest. I know the Hindoos as you do, and I love them, buteven among them, Buddha has not said the last word of wisdom. Do youremember that Bodhisattva, the Master of Pity, who swore not to becomeBuddha, never to find freedom in Nirvana, until he had cured all pain, redeemed all crimes, consoled all sorrows?"

Perrotin smiled and patted Clerambault's hand affectionately as helooked at his troubled face. 

"Dear old Bodhisattva, " he said, "what do you want to do? And whomwould you save?"

"Oh, I know well enough, " said Clerambault, hanging his head. "I knowhow small I am, how little I can do, the weakness of my wishes andprotestations. Do not think me so vain; but how can I help it, if Ifeel it is my duty to speak?"

"Your duty is to do what is right and reasonable; not to sacrificeyourself in vain. "

"Do you certainly know what is in vain? Can you tell beforehand whichseed will germinate and which will turn out sterile and perish? Butyou sow seed nevertheless. What progress would ever have been made, if those who bore the germ of it had stopped terrified before theenormous mass of accumulated routine which hung ready to crush them, above their heads. "

"I admit that a scholar is bound to defend the Truth that he hasdiscovered, but is this social question your mission? You are a poet;keep to your dreams, and may they prove a defence to you!"

"Before considering myself as a poet, I consider myself as a man, andevery honest man has a mission. "

"A mind like yours is too precious and valuable to be sacrificed, itwould be murder. "

"Yes, you are willing to sacrifice people who have little to lose. " Hewas silent for a moment, and then went on:

"Perrotin, I have often thought that we, men of thought, artists, allof us, we do not live up to our obligations. Not only now, but for along time, perhaps always. We are custodians of the portion of Truththat is in us, a little light, which we have prudently kept forourselves. More than once this has troubled me, but I shut my eyesto it then; now they have been unsealed by suffering. We are theprivileged ones, and that lays duties upon us which we have notfulfilled; we are afraid of compromising ourselves. There is anaristocracy of the mind, which claims to succeed to that of blood; butit forgets that the privileges of the old order were first purchasedwith blood. For ages mankind has listened to words of wisdom, but itis rare to see the wise men offer themselves as a sacrifice, thoughit would do no harm if the world should see some of them stake theirlives on their doctrines, as in the heroic days. Sacrifice is thecondition of fecundity. To make others believe, you must believe firstyourself, and prove it. Men do not see a truth simply because itexists, it must have the breath of life; and this spirit whichis ours, we can and ought to give. If not, our thoughts are onlyamusements of dilettanti--a play, which deserves only a littleapplause. Men who advance the history of the world makestepping-stones of their own lives. How much higher than all ourgreat men was the Son of the carpenter of Galilee. Humanity knows thedifference between them and the Saviour. "

"But did He save it?

 "'When Jahveh speaks: "'Tis my desire, " His people work to feed the fire. '"

"Your circle of flame is the last terror, and Man exists only to breakthrough, that he may come out of it free. "

"Free?" repeated Perrotin with his quiet smile. 

"Yes, free! It is the highest good, but few reach it, although thename is common enough. It is as exceptional as real beauty, or realgoodness. By a free man I mean one who can liberate himself fromhimself, his passions, his blind instincts, those of his surroundings, or of the moment. It is said that he does this in obedience to thevoice of reason; but reason in the sense that you give it, is amirage. It is only another passion, hardened, intellectualised, andtherefore fanatical. No, he must put himself out of sight, in order toget a clear view over the clouds of dust raised by the flock on theroad of today, to take in the whole horizon, so as to put events intheir proper place in the scheme of the universe. "

"Then, " said Perrotin, "he must accommodate himself to the laws ofthat universe. "

"Not necessarily, " said Clerambault, "he can oppose them with a clearconscience if they are contrary to right and happiness. Libertyconsists in that very thing, that a free man is in himself a consciouslaw of the universe, a counter-balance to the crushing machine, theautomaton of Spitteler, the bronze _Ananké_. I see the universalBeing, three parts of him still embedded in the clay, the bark, or thestone, undergoing the implacable laws of the matter in which he isencrusted. His breath and his eyes alone are free; "I hope, " says hislook. And his breath declares, "I will!" With the help of these hestruggles to release himself. We are the look and the breath, that iswhat makes a free man. "

"The look is enough for me, " said Perrotin gently. 

"And without the breath I should die!" exclaimed Clerambault. 

In a man of thought there is a wide interval between the word and thedeed. Even when a thing is decided upon, he finds pretexts for puttingit off to another day, for he sees only too clearly what will follow;what pains and troubles. And to what end? In order to calm hisrestless soul he pours out a flood of energetic language on hisintimate friends, or to himself alone, and in this way gains theillusion of action cheaply enough. In the bottom of his heart he doesnot believe in it, but like Hamlet, he waits till circumstances shallforce his hand. 

Clerambault was brave enough when he was talking to the indulgentPerrotin, but he had scarcely got home when he was seized again by hishesitations. Sharpened by his sorrow, his sensitiveness anticipatedthe emotions of those around him; he imagined the discord that hiswords would cause between himself and his wife, and worse, withoutexactly knowing why, he was not sure of his daughter's sympathy, andshrank from the trial. The risk was too great for an affectionateheart like his. 

Matters stood thus, when a doctor of his acquaintance wrote that hehad a man dangerously wounded in his hospital who had been in thegreat Champagne offensive, and had known Maxime. Clerambault went atonce to see him. 

On the bed he saw a man who might have been of any age. He lay stillon his back, swathed like a mummy, his thin peasant-face all wrinkledand brown, with the big nose and grey beard emerging from the whitebandages. Outside the sheet you could see his right hand, rough andwork-worn; a joint of the middle-finger was missing--but that did notmatter, it was a peace injury. His eyes looked out calmly under thebushy eyebrows; their clear grey light was unexpected in the burnedface. 

Clerambault came close and asked him how he did, and the man thankedhim politely, without giving details, as if it were not worth thetrouble to talk about oneself. 

"You are very good, Sir. I am getting on all right. " But Clerambaultpersisted affectionately, and it did not take long for the grey eyesto see that there was something deeper than curiosity in the blue eyesthat bent over him. 

"Where are you wounded?" asked Clerambault. 

"Oh, a little of everywhere; it would take too long to tell you, Sir. "But as his visitor continued to press him:

"There is a wound wherever they could find a place. Shot up, all over. I never should have thought there would have been room enough on alittle man like me. "

Clerambault found out at last that he had received about a score ofwounds; seventeen, to be exact. He had been literally sprinkled--hecalled it "interlarded"--with shrapnel. 

"Wounded in seventeen places!" cried Clerambault. 

"I have only a dozen left, " said the man. 

"Did they cure the others?"

"No, they cut my legs off. " Clerambault was so shocked that he almostforgot the object of his visit. Great Heaven! What agonies! Oursufferings, in comparison, are a drop in the ocean.... He put hishand over the rough one, and pressed it. The calm grey eyes took inClerambault from his feet to the crape on his hat. 

"You have lost someone?"

"Yes, " said Clerambault, pulling himself together, "you must haveknown Sergeant Clerambault?"

"Surely, " said the man, "I knew him. "

"He was my son. "

The grey eyes softened. 

"Ah, Sir! I _am_ sorry for you. I should think I did know him, poorlittle chap! We were together for nearly a year, and a year like thatcounts, I can tell you! Day after day, we were like moles burrowing inthe same hole.... We had our share of trouble. "

"Did he suffer much?"

"Well, Sir, it _was_ pretty bad sometimes; hard on the boy, just atthe first. You see he wasn't used to it, like us. "

"You come from the country?"

"I was labourer on a farm. You have to live with the beasts, and youget to be like 'em. But it is the truth I tell you now, Sir, that mendo treat each other worse than the beasts. 'Be kind to the animals. 'That was on a notice a joker stuck up in our trench.... But whatisn't good enough for them is good enough for us. All right; I'm notkicking. Things are like that. We have to take it as it comes. Butyou could see that the little Sergeant had never been up against itbefore; the rain and the mud, and the meanness; the dirt worst of all, everything that you touch, your food, your skin, full of vermin.... Hecame close to crying, I could see, once or twice, when he was new toit. I wouldn't let on that I noticed, for the boy was proud, didn'twant any help, but I would jolly him, try to cheer him up, lend hima hand sometimes; he was glad to get it. You see you have to gettogether. But before long he could stick it out as well as anybody;then it was his turn to help me. I never heard him squeal, and we hadgay times together--must have a joke now and then, no matter whathappens. It keeps off bad luck. "

Clerambault sat and listened with a heavy heart. 

"Was he happier towards the last?" he asked. 

"Yes, Sir, I think he was what you call resigned, just like we allwere. I don't know how it is, but you all seem to start out with thesame foot in the morning. We are all different, but somehow, after awhile it seems as if we were growing alike. It's better, too, thatway. You don't mind things so much all in a bunch.... It's only whenyou get leave, and after you come back--it's bad, nothing goes rightany more. You ought to have seen the little Sergeant that last time. "

Clerambault felt a pang as he said quickly:

"When he came back?"

"He was very low. I don't know as I ever saw him so bad before. "

An agonised expression came over Clerambault's face, and at hisgesture, the wounded man who had been looking at the ceiling while hetalked, turned his eyes and understood, for he added at once:

"He pulled himself together again, after that. "

"Tell me what he said to you, tell me everything, " said Clerambaultagain taking his hand. 

The sick man hesitated and answered. 

"I don't think I just remember what he said. " Then he shut his eyes, and lay still, while Clerambault bent over him and tried to see whatwas before those eyes under their closed lids. 

 * * * * *

An icy moonless night. From the bottom of the hollow _boyau_ one couldsee the cold sky and the fixed stars. Bullets rattled on the hardground. Maxime and his friend sat huddled up in the trench, smokingwith their chins on their knees. The lad had come back that day fromParis. He was depressed, would not answer questions, shut himself upin a sulky silence. The other had left him all the afternoon to bearhis trouble alone. Now here in the darkness he felt that the momenthad come, and sat a little closer, for he knew that the boy wouldspeak of his own accord. A bullet over their heads glanced off, knocking down a lump of frozen turf. 

"Hullo, old gravedigger, " said the other, "don't get too fresh. "

"Might as well make an end of it now, " said Maxime. "That's what theyall seem to want. "

"Give the boche your skin for a present? I'll say you're generous!"

"It's not only the boches; they all have a hand in it. "

"Who, all?"

"All of them back there where I come from, in Paris, friends andrelations; the people on the other side of the grave, the liveones. --As for us, we are as good as dead. "

In the long silence that followed they could hear the scream of ashell across the sky. Maxime's comrade blew out a mouthful of smoke. "Well, youngster, " he said, "it didn't go right, back there this time, did it?--I guessed as much!"

"I don't know why. "

"When one is hurt, and the other isn't, they haven't much to say toone another. "

"Oh, they suffer too. "

"Not the same. You can't make a man know what a toothache is unless hefeels it. Can't be done. Go to them all snuggled up in their beds, andmake them understand how it is out here!... It's nothing new to me. Ididn't have to wait for the war. Always have lived like this. But doyou believe when I was working in the soil, sweating all the fat offmy bones, that any of them bothered their heads about me? I don't meanthat there's any harm in them, nor much good, either, but like anybodyelse, they don't see how it is. To understand a thing properly you'vegot to take hold of it yourself, take the work, and the hurt. If not, and that's what it is, you know--might as well make up your mind--nouse trying to explain. That's the way things are, and we can't doanything about it. "

"Life would not be worth living, if it were as bad as that. "

"Why not, by gosh? I've stuck it out all this time, and you're justas good as me, better, because you've got more brains and can learn. That's the way to get on, the harder it is the more it teaches you. And then when you're together, like us here, and things are rocky, it's not a pleasure, exactly, but it ain't all pain. The worst is tobe off by yourself; and you're not lonesome, are you, boy?" Maximelooked him in the face, as he answered:

"I was back there, but I don't feel it here with you. "

 * * * * *

The man who lay on the bed said nothing of what had been passingbefore his closed eyes. He turned them tranquilly on the father, whose agonised look seemed to implore him to speak. And then, with anawkward kindness, he tried to explain that if the boy was down-heartedit was probably because he had just left home, but _they_ had cheeredhim up as well as they could; they knew how he felt. He had neverknown what it was to have a father himself, but when he was a kid heused to think what luck it would be to have one.... "So I thought Imight try. I spoke to him, Sir, like you would yourself, ... And hesoon quieted down. He said, all the same, there was one thing we gotout of this blooming war; that there were lots of poor devils in theworld who don't know each other, but are all made alike. Sometimes wecall 'em our brothers, in sermons and places like that, but no onetakes much stock in it. If you want to know it's true, you have toslave together like us--He kissed me then, Sir. "

Clerambault rose, and bending over the bandaged face, kissed thewounded man's rough cheek. 

"Tell me something that I can do for you, " he said. 

"You are very good, Sir, but there's not much you can do now. I am soused up. No legs, and a broken arm. I'm no good, --what could I workat? Besides, it's not sure yet that I shall pull through. We'll haveto leave it at that. If I go out, good-bye. If not, can't do anythingbut wait. There are plenty of trains. "

As Clerambault admired his patience, he repeated his refrain: "I'vegot the habit. There's no merit in being patient when there's nothingelse to do.... A little more or less, what does it matter?... It'slike life, this war is. "

Clerambault saw that in his egotism he had asked the man nothing abouthimself. He did not even know his name. 

"My name? It's a good fit for me, --Courtois Aimé is what they callme--Aimé, that's the Christian name, fine for an unlucky fellow likeme, and Courtois on the top of it. Queer enough, isn't it?... I neverhad a family, came out of an Orphan Asylum; my foster-father, a farmerdown in Champagne, offered to bring me up; and you can bet he did it!I had all the training I wanted; but anyhow it learned me what I hadto expect. I've had all that was coming to me!"

Thereupon he told in a few brief dry phrases, without emotion, of theseries of bad luck which had made up his life. Marriage with a girl aspoor as himself--"hunger wedding thirst, " as they say, sickness anddeath, the struggle with nature, --it would not be so bad if men wouldonly help.... _Homo, homini ... Homo_.... All the social injusticeweighs on the under dog. As he listened Clerambault could not keepdown his indignation, but Aimé Courtois took it as a matter of course;that's the way it always has been, and always will be; some are bornto suffer, others not. You can't have mountains without valleys. Thewar seemed perfectly idiotic to him, but he would not have lifted afinger to prevent it. He had in his way the fatalist passivity of thepeople, which hides itself, on Gallic soil, behind a veil of ironiccarelessness. The "no use in getting in a sweat about it, " of thetrenches. Then there is also that false pride of the French, who fearnothing so much as ridicule, and would risk death twenty times overfor something they know to be absurd, rather than be laughed at foran act of unusual common-sense. "You might as well try to stop thelightning as talk against war. " When it hails there is nothing to dobut to cover over your cold-frames if you can, and when it's over goround and see how much is left of your crop. And they will keep ondoing this until the next hailstorm, the next war, to the end of time. "No use getting in a sweat. " ... It would never occur to them that Mancan change Man. 

This stupid heroic resignation irritated Clerambault profoundly. The upper classes are charmed with it, no doubt, for they owe theirexistence to it, --but it makes a Danaïd's sieve of the human race, and its age-long effort, since all its courage, its virtues, and itslabours, are spent in learning how to die.... But when he lookedat the fragment of a man before him, his heart was pierced with aninfinite pity. What could this wretched man do, symbol as he was, ofthe mutilated, sacrificed people? For so many centuries he has bledand suffered under our eyes, while we, his more fortunate brothers, have only encouraged him to persevere, throwing him some careless wordof praise from a distance, which cost us nothing. What help have weever given him? Nothing at all in action, and little enough in words. We owe to his sacrifices the leisure to think; but all the fruit ofour thought we have kept for ourselves; we have not given him a tasteof it. We are afraid of the light, of impudent opinion and the rulersof the hour who call to us saying: "Put it out! You who have theLight, hide it, if you wish to be pardoned.... " Oh, let us be cowardsno more. For who will speak, if we do not? The others are gagged andmust die without a word. 

A wave of pain passed over the features of the wounded man. With eyesfixed on the ceiling, his big mouth twisted, his teeth obstinatelyclenched, he could say no more. --Clerambault went away, his mind wasmade up. The silence of this soldier on his bed of agony had broughthim to a decision. He would speak. 

PART THREE

Clerambault came back from the hospital, shut himself into his room, and began to write. His wife tried to come in, to discover what he wasdoing; it seemed as if the good woman had a suspicion, an intuition, rare with her, which gave her a sort of obscure fear of what herhusband might be about to do, but he succeeded in keeping her awayuntil he had finished. Ordinarily not a line of his was spared to hisfamily; it was a pleasure to his simple-hearted, affectionate vanity, and a duty towards their love also, which none of them would haveneglected. This time, however, he did neglect it, for reasons which hewould not admit to himself, for though he was far from imagining theconsequences of his act, he was afraid of their objections, he didnot feel sure enough to expose himself to them, and so preferred toconfront them with the accomplished fact. 

His first word was a cry of self-accusation:

 "_FORGIVE US, YE DEAD_!"

This public confession began with an inscription; a musical phrase ofDavid's lament over the body of his son Absalom:

"_Oh! Absalom my son, my son_!"

_I had a son whom I loved, and sent to his death. You Fathers ofmourning Europe, millions of fathers, widowed of your sons, enemies orfriends, I do not speak for myself only, but for you who are stainedwith their blood even as I am. You all speak by the voice of one ofyou, --my unhappy voice full of sorrow and repentance_. 

_My son died, for yours, by yours. --How can I tell?--like yours. Ilaid the blame on the enemy, and on the war, as you must also havedone, but I see now that the chief criminal, the one whom I accuse, ismyself. Yes, I am guilty; and that means you, and all of us. You mustlisten while I tell you what you know well enough, but do not want tohear_. 

_My son was twenty years old when he fell in this war. Twenty years Ihad loved him, protected him from hunger, cold, and sickness; savedhim from darkness of mind, ignorance, error, and all the pitfalls thatlie in the shadows of life. But what did I do to defend him againstthis scourge which was coming upon us_?

_I was never one of those who compounded with the passions of jealousnationalities. I loved men, and their future brotherhood was a joy tome. Why then did I do nothing against the impending danger, againstthe fever that brooded within us, against the false peace which madeready to kill with a smile on its lips_?

_I was perhaps afraid to displease others, afraid of enmities; it istrue I cared too much to love, above all to be loved. I feared to losethe good-will of those around me, however feeble and insipid such afeeling may be. It is a sort of play acted by ourselves and others. No one is deceived by it, since both sides shrink from the word whichmight crack the plaster and bring the house about our ears. There isan inward equivocation which fears to see clearly in itself, wantsto make the best of everything, to reconcile old instincts and newbeliefs, mutually destructive forces, like the ideas of Country andHumanity, War and Peace.... We are not sure which side to take; welean first one way and then the other, like a see-saw; afraid ofthe effort needed to come to a decision and choose. What slothfulcowardice is here! All whitewashed over with a comfortable faith inthe goodness of things, which will, we think, settle themselves. Andwe continue to look on, and glorify the impeccable course of Destiny, paying court to blind Force_. 

_Failing us, other things--and other men--have chosen; and not tillthen did we understand our mistake, but it was so dreadful to admitit, and we were so unaccustomed to be honest, that we acted as if wewere in sympathy with the crime. In proof of this sympathy we havegiven up our own sons whom we love with all our hearts, more thanlife--if we could but give our lives for theirs!--but not more thanour pride, with which we try to veil the moral confusion, the emptydarkness of mind and heart_. 

_We will say nothing of those who still believe in the old idol; grim, envious, blood be-spattered as she is--the barbarous Country. Thesekill, sacrificing themselves and others, but at least they know whatthey do. But what of those who have ceased to believe (like me, alas!and you)? Their sons are sacrificed to a lie, for if you assert whatyou doubt, it is a falsehood, and they offer up their own children toprove this lie to themselves; and now that our beloved have died forit, far from confessing it, we hide our heads still deeper not to seewhat we have done. After our sons will come others, all the others, offered up for our untruth_. 

_I for my part can bear it no longer, when I think of those who stilllive. Does it soothe my pain to inflict injury on others? Am I asavage of Homer's time that I should believe that the sorrow of mydead son will be appeased, and his craving for light satisfied, ifI sprinkle the earth which covers him with the blood of other men'ssons?--Are we at that stage still?--No, each new murder kills my sonagain, and heaps the heavy mud of crime over his grave. He was thefuture; if I would save the future, I must save him also, and rescuefathers to come from the agony that I endure. Come then, and help me!Cast out these falsehoods! Surely it is not for our sakes that menwage these combats between nations, this universal brigandage? Whatgood is it to us? A tree grows up straight and tall, stretching outbranches around it, full of free-flowing sap; so is a man who labourscalmly, and sees the slow development of the many-sided life in hisveins fulfil itself in him and in his sons. Is not this the first law, the first of joys? Brothers of the world, which of you envies theothers or would deprive them of this just happiness? What have we todo with the ambitions and rivalries, covetousness, and ills of themind, which they dignify with the name of Patriotism? Our Countrymeans you, Fathers and Sons. All our sons. --Come and save them_!

Clerambault asked no one's advice but as soon as he had written thesepages he took them to the editor of a small socialist paper nearby. Hecame back much relieved, as he thought:

"That is off my mind. I have spoken out, at last. " But in thefollowing night, a weight on his heart told him that the burden wasstill there, heavier than ever. He roused himself. 

"What have I done?"

He felt that he had been almost immodest to show his sacred sorrow tothe public; and though he did not foresee the anger his article wouldprovoke, he knew the lack of comprehension, the coarse comments, whichare in themselves a profanation. 

Days passed, and nothing happened. Silence. The appeal had fallen onthe ear of an inattentive public, the publisher was little known, thepamphlet carelessly issued. There are none so deaf as those who willnot hear, and the few readers who were attracted by Clerambault'sname, merely glanced at the first lines, and threw it aside, thinking:

"The poor man's head has been turned by his sorrow, "--a good pretextfor not wishing to upset their own balance. 

A second article followed, in which Clerambault took a final leave ofthe bloody old fetish falsely called Country; or rather in oppositionto the great flesh-eater, the she-wolf of Rome, on whose altar men arenow offered up, he set the august Mother of all living, the universalCountry:

_TO HER WHOM WE HAVE LOVED_

_There can be nothing more bitter than to be parted from her whom onehas loved. I lacerate my own heart when I tear Country from it;--dear, beautiful, and good, as she seemed! There are some ardent lovers soblinded that they can forget all the joy and love of former days, andsee only the change in the loved one, and the harm that she has donethem. If it were only possible for me to be like that! But I cannot;it is impossible for me to forget. I must see thee always as Iloved thee, when I trusted, and saw in thee my guide and my bestfriend. --Oh, my Country! why hast thou deserted and betrayed me? If Iwere the only one to suffer, I could hide the sad disenchantment underthe memory of my former affection; but I behold thy victims, thesetrusting devoted youths. --I see myself in them, as I was. --And howgreatly thou hast deceived us! Thine was as the voice of fraternallove, thou calledst us, that we might all be united, all brothers, --nomore isolation. To each was lent the strength of millions of others, and we were taught to love our sky, our soil, and the work of ourhands, that in them we should love each other more, for thy sake. Nowwhere have we been led? Did we unite to increase, and grow stronger tohate and destroy? We had known too much of these isolated hatreds inthe past. Each had his load of evil thoughts, but at least we knewthem to be evil. But now our souls are poisoned, since thou hastcalled these things sacred.... _

_Why these combats? To set us free? But thou hast made slaves ofus. Our conscience is outraged, our happiness gone, our prosperitydestroyed. What need have we of further conquests, when the land ofour fathers has grown too wide for their children? Is it to satisfythe greed of some among us, and can it be that the Country will filltheir maw at the cost of public misfortune_?

_Patriotism, sold to the rich, to those who traffic in the blood ofsouls and of nations! Partner and accomplice, covering your villainieswith an heroic mantle, look to thyself! The hour is coming when thepeoples will shake off the vermin, the gods and masters by whom theyhave been deceived. They will drive out the guilty from among them. Ishall strike straight at the Head whose shadow is over us all. --Thouwho sittest impassively on thy throne, while multitudes slaughtereach other in thy name, thou whom they worship while they hate theirfellow-man, thou who hast pleasure in the bloody orgies of thenations, Goddess of prey, Anti-Christ, hovering over these butcherieswith thy spread wings, and hawk's talons;--who will tear thee fromour heaven? Who will give us back the sun, and our love for ourbrothers?... I am alone, and have but my voice, which will soon besilent, but before I disappear, hear my cry: "Thou wilt fall, Tyrant, for humanity must live. The time will come when men will break thisyoke of death and falsehood;--that time is near, it is at hand_. "

_THE LOVED ONE'S REPLY_

_My son, your words are like stones that a child throws at the skywhich he cannot reach; they will fall back on your own head. She whomyou insult, who has usurped my name, is an idol carved by yourself, inyour own image, not in mine. The true Country is that of the Father. She belongs to all, and embraces everyone. --It is not her fault if youhave brought her down to your own level.... Unhappy creatures, who sully your gods; there is not a lofty idea that you have nottarnished. You turn the good that is brought you, into poison, andscorch yourselves with the very light that shines on you. I came amongyou to bring warmth to your loneliness; I brought your shivering soulstogether in a flock, and bound your scattered weakness in sheaves ofarrows. I am brotherly love, the great Communion; and you destroy yourfellows in my name, fools that you are!... _

_For ages I have toiled to deliver you from the chains of bestiality, to free you from your hard egotism. On the road of Time you advanceby toil and sweat; provinces and nations are the military milestoneswhich mark your resting-places. Your weakness alone created them. Before I can lead you farther, I must wait till you have taken breath;you have so little strength of lungs or heart, that you have madevirtues of your weaknesses. You admire your heroes for the distancethey went before they dropped exhausted; not because they were thefirst to reach those limits. And when you have come without difficultyto the spot where these forerunners stopped, you think yourselvesheroes in your turn_. 

_What have these shadows of the past to do with us today? Bayard, Joanof Arc, we have no further need of heroism like theirs, knights andmartyrs of a dead cause. We want apostles of the future, great heartsthat will give themselves for a larger country, a higher ideal. Forward then; cross the old frontiers, and if you must still use thesecrutches, to help your lameness, thrust the barriers back to the doorsof the East, the confines of Europe, until at last step by step youreach the end, and men encircle the globe, each holding by the other'shand. Before you insult me, poor little author, descend into your ownheart, examine yourself. The gift of speech was given you to guideyour people, and you have used it to deceive yourself and lead themastray. You have added to their error instead of saving them, even tothe point that you have laid your own son whom you loved on the altarof your untruth_. 

_Now at least dare to show to others the ruin that you are, and say:"See what I am, and take warning!" ... Go! And may your misfortunessave those that come after from the same fate! Dare to speak, and cryout to them: "You are mad, peoples of the earth; instead of defendingyour Country, you are killing her_. You _are your Country and theenemies are your brothers. Millions of God's creatures" love oneanother_. 

The same silence as before seemed to swallow up this last cry. Clerambault lived outside of popular circles where he would have foundthe warm sympathy of simple, healthy minds. Not the slightest echo ofhis thought came to him. 

He knew that he was not really alone, though he seemed so. Twoapparently contradictory sentiments--his modesty and his faith--unitedto say to him: "What you thought, others have thought also; you aretoo small, this truth is too great, to exist only in you. The lightthat your weak eyes have seen has shone also for others. See where nowthe Great Bear inclines to the horizon, --millions of eyes are lookingat it, perhaps; but you cannot see them, only the far-off light makesa bond between their sight and yours. "

The solitude of the mind is only a painful delusion; it has no realexistence, for even the most independent of us are members of aspiritual family. This community of spirit has no relation to timeor space; its elements are dispersed among all peoples and all ages. Conservatives see them in the past, but the revolutionists and thepersecuted look to the future for them. Past and future are not lessreal than the immediate present, which is a wall beyond which the calmeyes of the flock can see nothing. The present itself is not what thearbitrary divisions of states, nations, and religions would have usbelieve. In our time humanity is a bazaar of ideas, unsorted andthrown together in a heap, with hastily constructed partitions betweenthem, so that brothers are separated from brothers, and thrown in withstrangers. Every country has swallowed up different races, not formedto think and act together; so that each one of these spiritualfamilies, or families-in-law, which we call nations, compriseselements which in fact form part of different groups, past, present, or future. Since these cannot be destroyed, they are oppressed; theycan escape destruction only by some subterfuge, apparent submission, inward rebellion, or flight and voluntary exile. They are _Heimatlos_. To reproach them for lack of patriotism is to blame Irishmen and Polesfor their resistance to English and Prussian absorption. No matterwhere they are, men remain loyal to their true country. You whopretend that the object of this war is to give the right ofself-determination to all peoples, when will you restore this right tothe great Republic of free souls dispersed over the whole world?

However cut off from the world, Clerambault knew that this Republicexisted. Like the Rome of Sertorius, it dwelt in him, and though theymay be unknown each to the other, it dwells in every man to whom it isthe true Country. 

The wall of silence which surrounded Clerambault's words fell all atonce. But it was not a friendly voice which answered his. It seemedrather as if stupidity and blind hatred had made a breach wheresympathy had been too weak to find a way. 

Several weeks had passed and Clerambault was thinking of a newpublication, when, one morning, Leo Camus burst noisily into his room. He was blue with rage, as with the most tragic expression he held up anewspaper before Clerambault's eyes:

"Read that!" he commanded, and standing behind his brother-in-law ashe read, he went on:

"What does the beastly thing mean?"

Clerambault was dismayed to find himself stabbed by what he hadbelieved to be a friendly hand. A well-known writer, a colleague ofPerrotin's, a serious honourable man, and one always on good termswith him, had denounced him publicly and without hesitation. Though hehad known Clerambault long enough to have no doubt as to the purityof his intentions, he held him up as a man dishonoured. An historian, well used to the manipulation of text, he seized upon detached phrasesof Clerambault's pamphlet and brandished them as an act of treason. Apersonal letter would not have satisfied his virtuous indignation; hechose a loud "yellow journal, " a laboratory of blackmail despised by amillion Frenchmen, who nevertheless swallowed all its humbug with openmouths. 

"I can't believe it, " stammered Clerambault, who felt helpless beforethis unexpected hostility. 

"There is no time to be lost, " declared Camus, "you must answer. "

"Answer? But what can I say?"

"The first thing, of course, is to deny it as a base invention. "

"But it is not an invention, " said Clerambault, looking Camus in theface. It was the turn of the latter to look as if he had been struckby lightning. 

"You say it is not, --not?" he stammered. 

"I wrote the pamphlet, " said Clerambault, "but the meaning has beendistorted by this article. "

Camus could not wait for the end of the sentence, but began to howl:"You wrote a thing like that!... You, a man like you!"

Clerambault tried to calm his brother-in-law, begging him not to judgeuntil he knew all; but Camus would do nothing but shout, calling himcrazy, and screaming: "I don't know anything about all that. Have youwritten against the war, or the country. Yes, or no?"

"I wrote that war is a crime, and that all countries are stained byit.... "

Without allowing Clerambault to explain himself farther, Camus sprangat him, as if he meant to shake him by the collar; but restraininghimself, he hissed in his face that he was the criminal, and deservedto be tried by court-martial at once. 

The raised voices brought the servant to listen at the door, andMadame Clerambault ran in, trying to appease her brother, in a highkey. Clerambault volunteered to read the obnoxious pamphlet to Camus, but in vain, as he refused furiously, declaring that the papers hadtold him all he wanted to know about such filth. (He said all paperswere liars, but acted on their falsehoods, none the less. ) Then, in amagisterial tone, he called on Clerambault to sit down and write onthe spot a public recantation. Clerambault shrugged his shoulders, saying that he was accountable to nothing but his own conscience--thathe was free. 

"No!" roared Camus. 

"Do you mean that I am not free to say what I think?"

"You are not free, you have no right to say such things, " cried theexasperated Camus. "Your country has claims on you, and your familyfirst of all. They ought to shut you up. "

He insisted that the letter should be written that very moment, butClerambault simply turned his back on him. So he left, banging thedoor after him, and vowing that he would never set foot there again, that all was over between them. 

After this poor Clerambault had to submit to a string of questionsfrom his wife who, without knowing what he had done, lamented hisimprudence and asked with tears: "Why, why he had not kept silent? Hadthey not trouble enough? What was this mania he had for talking? Andparticularly for talking differently from other people?"

While this was going on, Rosine came back from an errand, andClerambault appealed to her, telling her in a confused manner of thepainful scene that had just taken place, and begging her to sit downthere by his table and let him read the article to her. Without eventaking off her hat and gloves, Rosine did sit down near him, andlistened sensibly, sweetly, and when he had done, kissed him and said:

"Yes, I think it's fine, --but, dear Papa, why did you do it?"Clerambault was completely taken aback. 

"What? You ask why I did it? Don't you think it is right?"

"I don't know. Yes, I believe it must be right since you say so.... But perhaps it was not necessary to write it.... "

"Not necessary? But if it is right, it must be necessary. "

"But if it makes such a fuss!"

"That is no reason against it. "

"But why stir people up?"

"Look here, my little girl, you think as I do about this, do you not?"

"Yes, Papa, I suppose so.... "

"You only suppose?... Come now, you detest the war, as I do, and wishit were over; everything that I wrote there I have said to you, andyou agreed.... "

"Yes, Papa. "

"Then you think I am right?"

"Yes, Papa. " She put her arms around his neck, "but we don't have towrite everything that we think. "

Clerambault, much depressed, tried to explain what seemed so evidentto him. Rosine listened, and answered quietly, but it was clear thatshe did not understand. When he had finished, she kissed him again andsaid:

"I have told you what I think, Papa, but it is not for me to judge. You know much better than I. "

With that she went into her room, smiling at her father, and notin the least suspecting that she had just taken away from him hisgreatest support. 

This abusive attack was not the only one, for when the bell was oncetied on the cat it never ceased to ring. However, the noise wouldhave been drowned in the general tumult, if it had not been fora persistent voice which led the chorus of malignity againstClerambault. 

Unhappily it was the voice of one of his oldest friends, the authorOctave Bertin; for they had been school-fellows at the Lycée Henri IV. Bertin, a little Parisian, quick-witted, elegant, and precocious, hadwelcomed the awkward enthusiastic advances of the overgrown youthfresh from the country, --ungainly in body and mind, his clothesalways too short for his long legs and arms, a mixture of innocence, simplicity, ignorance, and bad taste, always emphatic, withoverflowing spirits, yet capable of the most original sallies, andstriking images. None of this had escaped the sharp malicious eye ofyoung Bertin; neither Clerambault's absurdities nor the treasures ofhis mind, and after thinking him over he had decided to make a friendof him. Clerambault's unfeigned admiration had something to do withthis decision. For several years they shared the superabundance oftheir youthful ideas. Both dreamed of being artists; they readtheir literary attempts to each other, and engaged in interminablediscussions, in which Bertin always had the upper hand. He was apt tobe first in everything. Clerambault never thought of contesting hissuperiority; he was much more likely to use his fists to convinceanyone who denied it. He stood in open-mouthed admiration before hisbrilliant friend, who won all the University prizes without seeming towork for them, and whom his teachers thought destined to the highesthonours--official and academic, of course. 

Bertin was of the same mind as his teachers; he was in haste tosucceed, and believed that the fruit of triumph has more flavour whenone's teeth are young enough to bite into it. He had scarcely left theUniversity when he found means to publish in a great Parisian reviewa series of essays which immediately brought him to the notice of thegeneral public. And without pausing to take breath, he producedone after another a novel in the style of d'Annunzio, a comedyin Rostand's vein, a book on love, another on reforms in theConstitution, a study of Modernism, a monograph on Sarah Bernhardt, and, finally, the "Dialogues of the Living. " The sarcastic butmeasured spirit of this last work obtained for him the position ofcolumn writer on one of the leading dailies. Having thus enteredjournalism he stayed in the profession, and became one of theornaments of the Paris of Letters, while Clerambault's name was stillunknown. The latter had been slow in gaining the mastery over hisinward resources, and was so occupied in struggles with himself thathe had no time for the conquest of the public. His first works, whichwere published with difficulty, were not read by more than a dozenpeople. It is only fair to Bertin to say that he was one of the dozen, and that he appreciated Clerambault's talents. He was even readyto say so, when opportunity served, and as long as Clerambault wasunknown, he took pleasure in defending him. It is true that he wouldsometimes add a friendly and patronising piece of advice to hispraises, which, if Clerambault did not always follow, he received withthe old affectionate respect. 

In a little while Clerambault became known, and even celebrated. Bertin, somewhat surprised, sincerely pleased by his friend'ssuccess--the least bit vexed by it, perhaps--intimated that he thoughtit exaggerated, and that the better Clerambault was the obscureClerambault before his reputation was made. He would even undertake toprove this to Clerambault himself, sometimes, who neither agreed nordisagreed. For how could he tell, who thought very little about it, his head being always full of some new work? The two old comradesremained on excellent terms, but little by little they began to seeless of one another. 

The war had made Bertin a furious jingo. In the old days at schoolhe used to scandalise Clerambault's provincial mind by his impudentdisrespect for all values, political and social--country, morality, and religion. In his literary works he continued to parade hisanarchism, but in a sceptical, worldly, bored sort of manner which wasto the taste of his rich clientèle. Now, before this clientèle and therest of those who purveyed to it, his brethren of the popular pressand theatres, the contemptible Parny's and Crebillon Jr. 's of the day, he suddenly assumed the attitude of Brutus immolating his sons. It istrue he himself had none, but perhaps that was a regret to him. 

Clerambault did not dream of finding fault with him for theseopinions; but he did not dream either that his old friend andamoralist would come out against him as the defender of his outragedcountry. But was it a question simply of his country?

There was a personal note in the furious diatribe that Bertin hurledat him that Clerambault could not understand. In the general mentalconfusion, Bertin, naturally shocked by Clerambault's ideas, mighthave remonstrated with him frankly, face to face; but without anywarning, he began by a public denunciation. On the first page of hispaper appeared an article of the utmost virulence; he attacked, notonly his ideas, but his character, speaking of Clerambault's tragicstruggle with his conscience as an attack of literary megalomania, brought on by undeserved success. It seemed as if he expressly chosewords likely to wound Clerambault, and he ended by summoning him toretract his errors in a tone of the most insulting superiority. 

The violence of this article, from so well-known an author, made anevent in Paris of the "Clerambault Case. " It occupied the reportersfor more than a week, a long time for these feather-headed gentry. Hardly anyone read what Clerambault had actually written; it was notworth while. Bertin had read it, and newspaper men do not make apractice of taking unnecessary trouble; besides it was not a questionof reading, but of judgment. A strange sort of Sacred Union was formedover Clerambault; clericals and Jacobins came together to condemn him, and the man whom they admired yesterday was dragged in the mud today. The national poet became at once a public enemy, and all the myrmidonsof the press attacked him with heroic invective. The greater numberof them united bad faith with a remarkable ignorance. Very few knewClerambault's works, they scarcely knew his name or the titles of hisbooks, but that no more kept them from disparaging him now than it hadhindered them from praising him when he was the fashion. Now, in theireyes, everything that he had written was tainted with "bochism, "though all their quotations were inexact. In the excitement of hisinvestigation, one of them foisted upon Clerambault the authorship ofanother man's book, the author of which, pale with fright, protestedwith indignation, dissociating himself entirely from his dangerousfellow-author. Uneasy at their intimacy with Clerambault, some of hisfriends did not wait to have it recalled, but met it halfway, writing"open letters, " to which the papers gave a conspicuous place. Some, like Bertin, coupled their public censure with a demand that he shouldconfess himself in the wrong, and others, less considerate, cast himoff in the bitterest and most insulting terms. Clerambault was crushedby all this animosity; it could not arise solely from his articles, it must have been long dormant in the hearts of these men. And why somuch hidden hatred?--What had he done to them?... A successful artistdoes not suspect that besides the smiles of those around there arealso teeth, only waiting for the opportunity to bite. 

Clerambault did his best to conceal the insults in the papers from hiswife. Like a schoolboy trying to spirit away his bad marks he watchedfor the post so as to suppress the obnoxious sheets, but at last theirvenom seemed to poison the very air. Among their friends in society, Madame Clerambault and Rosine had to bear many painful allusions, small affronts, even insults. With the instinct of justice whichcharacterises the human beast, and especially the female, they wereheld responsible for Clerambault's ideas, though his wife and daughterknew little of them and disapproved what they knew. (Their critics didnot understand them either. ) The more polite were reticent, takingpains not to mention Clerambault's name, or ask after him, --youdon't speak of ropes, you know, in the house of a man who has beenhanged.... And this calculated silence was worse than open abuse. You would have said that Clerambault had done something dishonest orimmodest. Madame Clerambault would come back full of bitterness, andRosine suffered too, though she pretended not to mind. One day, afriend, whom they met in the street, crossed to the other side, turning away her head so as to avoid bowing to them; and Rosine wasexcluded from a benevolent society where she had worked hard foryears. 

Women were particularly active in this patriotic reprobation. Clerambault's appeal for reconciliation and pardon had no more violentopponents--and it was the same everywhere. The tyranny of publicopinion is an engine of oppression, invented by the modern State, andmuch more despotic than itself. In times of war certain women haveproved, its most ferocious instruments. Bertrand Russell cites thecase of an unfortunate man, conductor on a tramway, married, withchildren, and honourably discharged from the army, who killed himselfon account of the insults and persecutions of the women of Middlesex. In all countries, poor wretches like him have been pursued, crazed, driven to death, by these war-maddened Bacchantes. This ought not tosurprise us; if we have not foreseen this madness, it is because we, like Clerambault hitherto, have lived on comfortable accepted opinionsand idealisations. In spite of the efforts of woman to approximate thefallacious ideal imagined by man for his pleasure and tranquillity, the woman of the present day, weak, cut-off, trimmed into shape as sheis, comes much closer than man to the primitive earth. She is at thesource of our instincts, and more richly endowed with forces, whichare neither moral nor immoral but simply animal. If love is her chieffunction, it is not the passion sublimated by reason but love in theraw state, splendidly blind, mingling selfishness and sacrifice, equally irresponsible, and both subservient to the deep purposes ofthe race. The tender, flowery embellishments with which the couplealways try to veil the forces that affright them, are like arches oftropical vines over a rushing stream; their object is to deceive. Mancould not bear life if his feeble soul saw the great forces, as theyare, that carry him along. 

His ingenious cowardice strives to adapt them mentally to hisweakness; he lies about love, about hatred, about his gods, and aboveall he is false about woman and about Country. If the naked truthwere shown to him, he would fear to fall into convulsions, and sohe substitutes the pale chromos of his idealism. The war had brokenthrough the thin disguise, and Clerambault saw the cruel beast withoutthe mantle of feline courtesy in which civilisation drapes itself. 

Among Clerambault's former friends, the most tolerant were thosebelonging to the political world. Deputies, Ministers, past or future;accustomed to drive the human flock, they know just what it is worth. Clerambault's daring seemed merely foolish to them. What they thoughtin their hearts was twenty times worse, but they thought it silly tospeak it, dangerous to write it, more dangerous still to answer it. You make a thing known when you attack it, and condemnation only givesit greater importance. Their best advice would have been to keepsilent about these unlucky articles, which the sleepy, stumblingpublic would have neglected if left to itself. This was the courseusually followed by Germany during the war; if the authorities didnot see their way clear to suppress rebellious writers, they hid themunder some flowery humbug. 

The political spirit of the French Democracy, however, is moreoutspoken and more narrow-minded; silence is unknown to it, and farfrom concealing its hatreds, it spits them forth from the house-tops. Like that of Rude, French liberty opens her mouth and bawls. Anyonewho differs from her opinion of the moment is declared a traitorforthwith; there are always some yellow journals to tell at what pricethe independent voice was bought, and twenty fanatics to stir up thecrowd against it. Once started, there is nothing to do but wait untilthe fit has passed off; but in the meantime, look out for yourself!Prudent folks join in the hue and cry from a safe distance. 

The editor of the magazine which had been proud to publishClerambault's poems for years whispered to him that all this row wasabsurd--that there was really nothing in his "case, " but that onaccount of his subscribers he should have to scuttle him. He wasawfully sorry ... Hoped there was no hard feeling?... In short, without being rude, he made the whole thing look ridiculous. 

Alas for human nature! Even Perrotin laughed at Clerambault in abrilliantly sarcastic interview, and considered himself to be stillhis friend at bottom. 

In his own house Clerambault now found himself without support. Hisold helpmate, who for thirty years had seen only through his eyes, repeating his words without even understanding them, was now afraid, indignant at what he had written, reproaching him bitterly for thescandal, the harm done to the name of the family, to the memory of hisdead son, to the sacred cause of vengeance, to his Country. 

Rosine was always loving, but she had ceased to understand him. Awoman's mind makes but few demands, if her heart is satisfied; so itwas enough for her that her father was no longer one of the haters, that he remained compassionate and kind. She did not want him totranslate his sentiments into theories, nor above all, to proclaimthem. She had much affectionate common-sense, and as long as mattersof feeling were safe, she did not care for the rest, not understandingthe inflexible exigence of logic which pushes a man to the utmostconsequences of his faith. 

She had ceased to understand, and her hour had passed--the time when, without knowing it, she had accepted and fulfilled a maternal missiontowards her father. When he was weak, broken, and uncertain, she hadsheltered him under her wing, rescued his conscience, and given backto him the torch which he had let fall from his hand. Now her part wasaccomplished, she was once more the loving "little daughter" somewhatin the shade, who looks on at the great events of life with eyesthat are almost indifferent, and in the depths of her soul treasureddevoutly the afterglow of the wonderful hour through which she hadlived--all uncomprehending. 

It was about this time that a young man home on leave came to seeClerambault. Daniel Favre was a friend of the family, an engineer likehis father before him. He had long been an admirer of Clerambault, forhis keen intelligence was not limited to his profession; indeed theextended flights of modern science have brought his domain close tothat of poetry, it is itself the greatest of poems. Daniel was anenthusiastic reader of Clerambault's writings. They correspondedaffectionately, knew each other's families, and the young man was afrequent visitor, perhaps not solely for the pleasure of conversingwith the poet. He was a nice fellow, about thirty years old, tall, well set-up, with good features, a timid smile, and eyes which lookedstartlingly light in his sunburnt face. They were all glad to see him, and Clerambault was not the only member of the family who enjoyed hisvisits. David might easily have been assigned to duty in a munitionsfactory, but he had applied for a dangerous post at the Front, wherehe had quickly been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. Having a fewdays in town, he went to see Clerambault. 

Madame Clerambault and Rosine were out, so the poet was alone, and welcomed his young friend with delight, but Daniel respondedawkwardly, answering questions somewhat at random, and at lastabruptly brought up the subject which he had at heart. He said thathe had heard talk at the front of Clerambault's articles, and he feltvery badly. People said--they made out that--well, he had heard severethings about them; he knew people were often unjust, but he hadcome--here he pressed Clerambault's hand in a timid friendly way--hehad come to entreat him not to desert all those who loved him. Hereminded him of the devotion that had inspired the poet who hadcelebrated the traditions of French soil and the glories of therace.... "In this hour of trial, " he implored, "stand by us. "

"I have never been closer to you than now, " answered Clerambault, andhe added:

"You say that people blame what I have written. Dear boy, what do youthink of it yourself?"

"I confess I have not read it, " said Daniel. "I did not want to, forfear that it might disturb my affection for you, or hinder me in myduty. "

"Your faith cannot be very strong, if a few lines of print can shakeit. "

"My convictions are firm enough, " said Daniel, a little miffed, "butthere are certain things which it is wisest not to discuss. "

"That is something that I should not have expected to hear from ascientific man, " said Clerambault. "The truth can lose nothing bydiscussion. "

"Truth, no, but love--love of country. "

"My dear Daniel, you go farther than I. I do not place truth inopposition to love of country, on the contrary I endeavour toreconcile them. "

Daniel tried to cut the matter short. 

"The country is not a subject for discussion. "

"Is it an article of faith?"

"You know I do not believe in religions, " protested Daniel. "I have nofaith in any of them. But that is the very reason. What should we haveleft on earth if it were not for our country?"

"I think that there are many great and beautiful things in the world, and Country is only one of them; but I am not discussing the love, butthe way of loving. "

"There is only one, " said Daniel. 

"And what is that?"

"We must obey. "

"The ancient symbol, Love with bandaged eyes; I only want to openthem. "

"No, no, let us alone. It is hard enough already. Don't make it anyworse for us. " In a few phrases, temperate, yet broken by emotion, Daniel brought up the terrible picture of the weeks that he had spentin the trenches; the disgust and the horror of what he had bornehimself, the suffering he had seen in others, had inflicted on them. 

"But, my dear fellow, if you see this shameful thing, why not try toprevent it?"

"Because it is impossible. "

"To be sure of that, you might at least make the attempt. "

"The conflict between men is the law of Nature. Kill or be killed. Sobe it. "

"And can it never be changed?"

"No, never, " said Daniel, in a tone of sad obstinacy, "it is the law. "

There are some scientific men from whom science seems to hide thetruth it contains, so that they cannot see reality at the bottom ofthe net. They embrace the whole field that has been discovered, butwould think it impossible and even ridiculous to enlarge it beyond thelimits already traced by reason. They only believe in a progress thatis chained to the inside of the enclosure. Clerambault knew only toowell the supercilious smile with which the ideas of inventors are putaside by learned men from the official schools. There are certainforms of science which accord perfectly with docility. David's mannershowed no irony; it expressed rather a stoical, baffled kind ofmelancholy. In abstract questions he did not lack courage of thought, but when faced with the facts of life he was a mixture, or rather asuccession, of timidity and stiffness, diffident modesty, and firmnessof conviction. In short he was a man, like other men, complex andcontradictory, not all in one piece. The trouble is that, in anintellectual and a man of science, the pieces lap over one another andthe joinings show. 

Clerambault sat silent for a few moments, and then began to utter thethoughts that had passed through his mind. "Nevertheless, " said he, "the results of science itself are changeful. For the last twentyyears all our conceptions of chemistry and physiology have been goingthrough a crisis which has altered and made them much more fruitful. Why should not the so-called laws which regulate human society--orrather the state of chronic brigandage among nations--why should notthey also be changed? Is there no place in your mind for the hope of ahigher future?"

"We could not go on at all, " said Daniel, "if we had not the hope ofestablishing a new order more just and humane. Many of my comradeshope through this war to put an end to all wars. I have not thatconfidence, and do not go so far as that; but I do know certainly thatour France is in danger, and that if she is conquered, humanity willfall with her. "

"The defeat of any people is that of humanity, for we are allnecessary, and the union of all nations would be the only truevictory. Any other ruins the victors as well as the vanquished. Everyday that this war lasts the precious blood of France is shed, and sheruns great risk of permanent exhaustion. "

Daniel stopped him with a gesture of irritation and pain. Oh, he knewtoo well ... No one better than he, that France was dying each dayfrom her heroic effort. That the pick of her youth, her strength, herintelligence, the vital sap of the race, was pouring out in torrents, and with it the wealth, the labour, the credit of the people ofFrance. France, bleeding at every vein, would follow the path thatSpain had trod four centuries ago, the path that led to the deserts ofthe Escurial. Yes, but let no one speak to him of a peace that wouldput an end to this agony until the adversary was totally crushed;no one ought to respond to the advances that Germany was thenmaking--they ought not to be considered, or even mentioned. And then, like the politicians, the generals, the journalists, and millions ofpoor creatures who repeat at the top of their voices the lesson taughtthem, David cried: "To the last man!"

Clerambault looked at him with affectionate pity. Poor boy! brave, yetso timid that he shrank from the thought of discussing the dogmas ofwhich he was the victim. His scientific mind dared not revolt againstthe stupidity of this bloody game, where death for France as well asfor Germany--perhaps more than for Germany, was the stake. 

Yes, he did revolt, but would not admit it to himself. He tried againto influence Clerambault: "Your ideas perhaps are right and true, butthis is not the time ... Not now. In twenty, or even fifty years. Wemust first conquer, finish our task, found the freedom of the world, the brotherhood of men, on the enduring victory of France. "

Poor Daniel! Can he not see that, even at the best, the victory isdoomed to be tarnished by excesses, and that then it will be the turnof the vanquished to set their minds on a frantic revenge and a justvictory? Each nation desires the end of wars through its own triumph, and from one such victory to another humanity will go down to itsdefeat. 

As Daniel stood up to go he pressed Clerambault's hands and remindedhim with much feeling of his poem where, in the heroic words ofBeethoven, he exalted the suffering out of which joy is born.... "_Durch Leiden Freude_. " He sighed. 

"Ah! how well they understand.... We sing of suffering and ourdeliverance, but they are enamoured of it. And now our hymn ofdeliverance will become a song of oppression for other men.... "

Clerambault could not answer, he had a real love for this young man, one of those who sacrificed themselves for the war, knowing wellthat they had nothing to gain; and the greater their sacrifices, the stronger their faith. Blessings on them! But if only they wouldconsent not to immolate all mankind on the same altar.... 

Rosine came in just as Clerambault and Daniel reached the door of theapartment; she started with pleasure at the sight of the visitor, andDaniel's face lighted up also. Clerambault could not help noticing thesudden gaiety of the two young people. Rosine urged Daniel to come inagain for a few moments and talk to her a little; Daniel hesitated, did come back, but refused to sit down, and in a constrained way madea vague excuse for going away. Clerambault, who guessed what waspassing in his daughter's heart, begged him to promise that he wouldcome at least once more before the end of his leave. Daniel, muchembarrassed, said no, at first, then yes, without fixing a time, andat last, on being urged by Clerambault, he did say when they mightexpect him, and took leave, but his manner was still rather cool. Rosine stood there, absorbed. She looked troubled, but when her fathersmiled at her, she came quickly and kissed him. 

The day he had fixed came and went, but no Daniel appeared; theywaited for him the next day and the one after that. He had gone backto the Front. A few days later, Clerambault persuaded his wife to gowith Rosine to see Daniel's parents. The icy coldness with which theywere received just stopped short of offence. Madame Clerambault camehome, vowing that as long as she lived she would never set foot againin that house; it was all Rosine could do to restrain her tears. 

The following week a letter arrived from Daniel to Clerambault. Thoughhe seemed a little shamefaced about his attitude and that of hisparents, he tried rather to explain, than to apologise for it. Hespoke of the ties of admiration, respect and friendship which unitedhim to Clerambault, and alluded discreetly to the hope that he hadformed of one day becoming closer yet; but he added that Clerambaulthad disturbed these dreams of the future by the regrettable positionthat he had seen fit to adopt in the life and death crisis throughwhich the country was now passing, a position rendered worse by thewide publicity given to Clerambault's words. These words, littleunderstood perhaps, but certainly imprudent, had raised a storm ofopposition on account of their almost sacrilegious character; thefeeling of indignation was unanimous among the men at the front, aswell as in the circle of friends at home. His parents knew what hishope had been, but they now absolutely refused to allow it, andin spite of the pain this caused him, he did not feel it right todisregard these scruples, springing as they did from a profounddevotion to the wounded country. An officer who had the honour tooffer his life for France could not think of a union which would beregarded as his adhesion to these unfortunate theories; public opinionwould condemn it. Such a view would be unjust, undoubtedly, but itis a thing that must always be reckoned with; the opinion of a wholepeople is respectable, no matter how extreme and unfair it may appear, and Clerambault had made a grave mistake in trying to brave it. Danielentreated him to acknowledge this mistake, and try to rectify, ifpossible efface, the deplorable effect produced by articles written ina different key. He urged this upon him as a duty--towards his countryand himself--letting it be understood that it was also a duty towardsone dear to both of them. In ending his letter he brought forwardother considerations where the word opinion constantly recurred, so asat last to take the place of reason and conscience. 

As Clerambault read he smiled, recalling a scene of Spitteler's. Theking Epimetheus was a man of firm conscience, but when the time cameto put it to the proof, he could not lay his hand upon it, saw ittrying to escape, ran after it, and finally threw himself flat on hisstomach to look for it under the bed. Clerambault reflected that onemight be a hero under the fire of the enemy, but a timid small boybefore the opinion of his fellow-citizens. 

He showed the letter to Rosine, and in spite of the partiality oflove, she was hurt that her friend should have wished to do violenceto her father's convictions. Her conclusion was that Daniel didnot love her enough; and she said that her own feeling was notsufficiently strong to endure such exactions; even if Clerambaulthad been willing to yield, she would not have consented to such aninjustice; whereupon she kissed her father, tried to laugh bravely, and to forget her cruel disappointment. 

A glimpse of happiness, however, is not so easily forgotten, especially if there remains a faint chance of its renewal. She thoughtof it constantly, and after a time Clerambault felt that she wasgrowing away from him. It is difficult not to feel bitterly towardsthose for whom we sacrifice ourselves, and in spite of herself Rosineheld her father responsible for her lost happiness. 

A strange phenomenon now made itself apparent in Clerambault's mind;he was cast down but strengthened at the same time. He sufferedbecause he had spoken, and yet he felt that he should speak again, for he had ceased to belong to himself. His written word held andconstrained him; he was bound by his thought as soon as it waspublished. "That which the fountain sends forth returns again to thefountain. " Born in an hour of mental exaltation, his work prolongedand reproduced itself in his mind, which would otherwise have fallenexhausted. An artist's thought is the ray of light from the depths, the best of himself, the most enduring; it supports his lower nature. Man, whether he likes it or not, leans on his works and is led bythem. They have an existence outside of his own, and so restorehis lost vigour, recall him to his duty, guide and command him. Clerambault would have preferred to remain silent, but he wrote oncemore. 

This time he did not go very far. "Tremble, poor carcass, you knowwhere I am going to drag you, " said Turenne to his body before thebattle. The carcass of Clerambault was not more courageous, though theconflict to which it was driven was of a humbler sort. It was none theless hard, for he was alone with no army at his back. As he watched byhis arms, he was a pitiable spectacle in his own eyes. He saw himself, an ordinary man, of a timid, rather cowardly, disposition, dependinggreatly on the affection and approval of others. It was terriblypainful to break these ties, to meet the hatred of others halfway.... Was he strong enough to resist?... All his doubts came back uponhim.... What forced him to speak? Who would listen to him, and whatgood would it do? Did not the wisest people set him the example ofsilence?

Nevertheless his brain was firm, and continued to dictate to him whathe should write; his hand also wrote it down without the alteration ofa word. There seemed to be two men in him; one who threw himself onthe ground in terror, and cried: "I will not fight, " and the otherwho dragged him along by the collar, without trying to persuade him, saying simply: "Yes, you will. "

It would be praising him too highly to say that he acted in thismanner through bravery; he felt that he could not act otherwise, evenif he had wished to stop; something forced him to go on, to speak.... It was his "mission. " He did not understand it, did not know why hewas chosen, he, the poet of tenderness, made for a calm, peacefullife, free from sacrifices; while other men--strong, war-like, goodfighters with the souls of athletes--remained unemployed. But itwas of no use to dispute it; the word had gone forth, and there wasnothing for it but to obey. 

When the stronger of his two souls had once asserted itself, theduality of his nature led him to yield to it entirely. A more normalman would have tried to unite them, or combine them, or find some kindof compromise to satisfy the demands of the one and the prudence ofthe other; but with Clerambault it was everything or nothing. Whetherhe liked it or not, once he had chosen his road, he followed itstraight before him; and the same causes that had made him acceptabsolutely the views of those around him, drove him to cast off everyconsideration now that he had begun to see the falsehoods which haddeceived him. If he had been less misted, he would not have unmaskedthem. 

Thus the brave-man-in-spite-of-himself set off like Oedipus for thefight with the Sphinx, Country, who awaited him at the crossroads. 

Bertin's attack drew the attention of several politicians toClerambault; they belonged to the extreme Left, and found it difficultto conciliate the opposition to the Government--their reason forexistence--with the Sacred Union formed against the enemies' invasion. 

They republished the first two articles in a socialist paper which wasthen balancing itself between contradictions; opposing the war, and atthe same time voting for credits. You could see in its pages eloquentstatements of internationalism side by side with the appeals ofministers who were preaching a nationalist policy. In this seesawClerambault's lightly lyrical pages, where the attack on the ideaof Country was made with caution, and the criticism covered up bydevotion, would have been taken as a harmless platonic protestation. Unfortunately, the teeth of censure had fastened themselves upon somephrases, with the tenacity of ants; they might have escaped notice inthe general distraction of thought, if it had not been for this. 

In the article addressed "_To Her whom We have Loved_, " the wordcountry appears the first time coupled with an invocation to love. The critics kept this, but cut it out when it occurred further ondissociated from such flattering expressions. The word, awkwardlyconcealed under this extinguisher, shone all the more brightly in themind of the reader--but this they were too dull to perceive, andgreat importance was thus given to writings which had not much inthemselves. It must be added that all minds were then in a passivestate, in which the slightest word of liberal humanitarianism took onan extraordinary importance, particularly if signed by a well-knownname. 

The "_Pardon Asked of the Dead_, " was more effective than the otherever could be; its sadness touched the mass of simple hearts, to whomthe war was agony. The authorities had been indifferent up to now, butat the first hint of this they tried to put a stop to it. They hadsense enough to know that rigorous measures against Clerambaultwould be a mistake, but they could put pressure on the paper throughinfluence behind the scenes. An opposition to the writer showeditself on the staff of the paper. Naturally they did not blamethe internationalism of his views; they merely stigmatised it as_bourgeois_ sentimentality. 

Clerambault furnished them with fresh arguments by a new article, where his aversion to war seemed incidentally to condemn revolution aswell. Poets are proverbially bad politicians. 

It was a reply to "_The Appeal to the Dead_, " that Barrès, like an owlperched on a cypress in a graveyard, had wailed forth. 

_TO THE LIVING_

_Death rules the world. You that are living, rise and shake off theyoke! It is not enough that the nations are destroyed. They are biddento glorify Death, to march towards it with songs; they are expected toadmire their own sacrifice ... To call it the "most glorious, the mostenviable fate" ... But how untrue this is! Life is the great, the holything, and love of life is the first of virtues. The men of today haveit no longer; this war has shown that, and even worse. It has provedthat during the last fifteen years, many have hoped for these horribleupheavals--you cannot deny it! No man loves life who has no better usefor it than to throw it into the jaws of Death. Life is a burden tomany--to you rich of the middle-class, reactionary conservatives, whose moral dyspepsia takes away your appetite, everything tastes flatand bitter. Everything bores you. It is a heavy burden also to youproletarians, poor, unhappy, discouraged by your hard lot. In the dullobscurity of your lives, hopeless of any change for the better, --Oh, Ye of little faith!--your only chance of escape seems to be throughan act of violence which lifts you out of the mire for one moment atleast, even if it be the last. Anarchists and revolutionists who havepreserved something of the primitive animal energy rely on thesequalities to liberate themselves in this way; they are the strong. Butthe mass of the people are too weary to take the initiative, and thatis why they eagerly welcome the sharp blade of war which piercesthrough to the core of the nations. They give themselves up to it, darkly, voluptuously. It is the only moment of their dim lives whenthey can feel the breath of the infinite within them, --and this momentis their annihilation_.... 

_Is this a way to make the best of life?... Which we can onlymaintain, it would seem, by renouncing it; and for the sake of whatcarnivorous gods?... Country, Revolution ... Who grind millions of menin their bloody jaws_. 

_What glory can be found in death and destruction? It is Life that weneed, and you do not know it, for you are not worthy. You have neverfelt the blessing of the living hour, the joy that circulates in thelight. Half-dead souls, you would have us all die with you, and whenwe stretch out our hands to save you, our sick brothers, you seek todrag us down with you into the pit_. 

_I do not lay the blame on you, poor unfortunates, but on yourmasters, our leaders of the hour, our intellectual and politicalheads, masters of gold, iron, blood, and thought!... You who rule thenations, who move armies; you who have formed this generation by yournewspapers, your books, your schools and your churches, and who havemade docile sheep of the free souls of men!... All this enslavingeducation, whether lay or Christian, though it dwells with anunhealthy joy on military glory and its beatitude, still shows itsutter hollowness, for both Church and State bait their hook withDeath_.... 

_Woe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, politicians, andpriests, artists, authors, dancers of death; inwardly you are all fullof decay and dead men's bones. Truly you are the sons of them thatslew Christ, and like them you lay on men's shoulders burdens grievousto be borne, which you yourselves would not touch with the end of yourfingers. Crucifiers are you like them, and those who come among you tohelp the suffering peoples, bringing blessed peace in their hands, youimprison and insult them, and as the Scripture says, persecute themfrom city to city until all the righteous blood shed upon the earthshall fall upon your heads_. 

_You work only to provide food for Death; your countries are made tosubdue the future to the past, and bind the living to the putrifyingcorpses of the dead. You condemn the new life to perpetuate the emptyrites of the tomb.... Let us rise! The resurrection, the Easter of theliving, is at hand_!

_Sons of men, it is not true that you are, the slaves of the dead andare chained by them like serfs to the earth. Let the dead past buryits dead, and itself with them; you are children of the living, andlive in your turn. Souls who are bound to the countries of the past, shake off the neurasthenic torpor, wracked by outbursts of frenzy, which weighs you down. Shake it off, my brothers, you who are youngand strong; be masters of the present and the past, fathers and sonsof your works. Set yourselves free! Each one of you is Man;--not fleshthat rots in the tomb, but the blazing fire of life which purifiescorruption and renews long-dead corpses, the flame ever new and youngwhich circles the earth with its burning arms. Be free! Conquerorsof the Bastille, you have not yet opened the dungeon within you, the falsely called Fatality. It was built as a prison-house for youcenturies ago, by slaves or tyrants. They were all convicts of thesame stamp, who were afraid that you would discover that you werefree. Religions, races, countries, materialistic science, the heavyshadows of the past, are between you and the sun; but go forward!Liberty is there, behind those ramparts and towers, built ofprejudices, dead laws, and consecrated falsehoods. They are guarded bythe interests of some, the opinion of the drilled masses, and your owndoubting spirit. Dare to will; and behind the crumbling walls ofthis spurious Destiny, you will once more behold the sun and theillimitable horizon_. 

Insensible to the revolutionary heat of this appeal, the staff ofthe newspaper only fastened its attention on the few lines whereClerambault seemed to lump all violences together, those of the "left"along with those of the "right. " What did this poet mean by givinglessons to the socialists in a party paper? In the name of whattheory? He was not even a socialist. He was nothing but a Tolstoyiananarchist; let him go back to his exercises in style, and hismiddle-class where he belonged. Some larger-minded spiritsremonstrated in vain, that, with or without any label, liberal ideasought to be welcomed, and that those of Clerambault, however ignoranthe might be of the party doctrines, were more truly socialistic thanthose of members of the party who joined in the work of nationalslaughter. These views were over-ruled; Clerambault's article wasreturned to him, after spending some weeks in the bottom of a drawer, on the pretext that there were so many current items that they took upall the space, and that the paper had too much copy already. 

Clerambault took his article to a small review, which was moreattracted by his name than by his ideas. The upshot was that thereview was called down, and suspended by police order the day afterthe article appeared, though it had been whitewashed through andthrough. 

Clerambault, however, persisted. The most rebellious people in theworld are those who are forced to rebellion after a lifetime ofsubmission. I remember once to have seen a big sheep so worried by adog that he finally threw himself upon him. The dog was overcome bythis unexpected reversal of the laws of nature and ran away, howlingwith surprise and terror. The Dog-State is too sure of its own fangsto feel afraid of a few mutinous sheep; but the lamb Clerambault nolonger calculated the danger; he simply put his head down and butted. Generous and weak natures are prone to pass without transition fromone extreme to another; so from an intensely gregarious feelingClerambault had jumped at one bound to the extreme of individualisolation. Because he knew it so well, he could see nothing aroundhim but the plague of obedience, that social suggestion of which theeffects are everywhere manifest. The passive heroism of the armiesexcited to frenzy, like millions of ants absorbed in the general mass, the servility of Assemblies, despising the head of their Government, but sustaining him by their votes, even at the risk of an explosionbrought about by one "bolter, " the sulky but well-drilled submissionof even the liberal Parties, sacrificing their very reason forexistence to the absurd fetish of abstract unity. This abdication, this passion, represented the true enemy in Clerambault's eyes. And itwas his task, he thought, to break down its great suggestive power byawakening doubt, the spirit that eats away all chains. 

The chief seat of the disease was the idea of Nation; this inflamedpoint could not be touched without howls from the beast. Clerambaultattacked it at once, without gloves. 

_What have I to do with your nations? Can you expect me to love orhate a nation? It is men that I love or hate, and in all nationsyou will find the noble, the base, and the ordinary man. Yes, andeverywhere are few great or low, while the ordinary abound. Like ordislike a man for what he is, not for what others are; and if thereis one man who is dear to me in a whole nation, that prevents me fromcondemning it. You talk of struggles and hatred between races? Racesare the colours of life's prism; it binds them together, and we havelight. Woe to him who shatters it! I am not of one race, I belong tolife as a whole; I have brothers in every nation, enemy or ally, andthose you would thrust upon me as compatriots are not always thenearest. The families of our souls are scattered through the world. Let us re-unite them! Our task is to undo these chaotic nations, andin their place to bind together more harmonious groups. Nothing canprevent it; on the anvil of a common suffering, persecution will forgethe common affection of the tortured peoples_. 

Clerambault did not pride himself on his logic, but only tried to getat the popular idol through the joints of his armour. Often he did notdeny the nation-idea, but accepted it as natural, at the same timeattacking national rivalries in the most forcible manner. Thisattitude was by no means the least dangerous. 

_I cannot interest myself in struggles for supremacy between nations;it is indifferent which colour comes up, for humanity gains, no matterwho is the winner. It is true, that in the contests of peace, the mostvital, intelligent, and hard-working people, will always excel. But ifthe defeated competitors, or those who felt themselves falling behind, were to resort to violence to eliminate their successful rivals, itwould be a monstrous thing. It would mean the sacrifice of the welfareof mankind to a commercial interest, and Country is not a businessfirm. It is of course unfortunate that when one nation goes up, another is apt to go down. But when "big business" in my countryinterferes with smaller trade, we do not say that it is a crime oflèse-patriotism, despite the fact that it may be a fight which bringsruin and death to many innocent victims_. 

_The existing economic system of the world is calamitous and bad; itought to be remedied; but war, which tries to swindle a more fortunateand able competitor for the benefit of the inexpert or the lazy, makes this vicious system worse; it enriches a few, and ruins thecommunity_. 

_All peoples cannot walk abreast on the same road; they are alwayspassing each other, and being outstripped in their turn. What does itmatter, since we are all in the same column? We should get rid ofour silly self-conceit. The pole of the world's energy is constantlychanging, often in the same country. In France it has passed fromRoman Provence to the Loire of the Valois; now it is at Paris, but itwill not stay there always. The entire creation swings in alternaterhythm from germinating spring to dying autumn. Commercial methodsare not immutable, any more than the treasures beneath the earth areinexhaustible. A people spends itself for centuries, without countingthe cost; its very greatness will lead to its decline. It is only byrenouncing the purity of its blood and mixing with other nations thatit can subsist. Our old men today are sending the young ones to death;it does not make them younger, and they are killing the future_. 

_Instead of raging against the laws of life, a wholesome people willtry to understand them and see its real progress, not in a stupidobstinacy which refuses to grow old, but in a constant effort toadvance with the age, changing and becoming greater. To each epoch itsown task. It is merely sloth and weakness if we cling all our livesto the same one. Learn to change, for in that is life. The factory ofhumanity has work for all of us. Labour for all, peoples of the world, each man taking pride in the work of all the rest, for the travail, the genius of the whole earth is ours also!_

These articles appeared here and there, whenever possible, in somelittle sheet of advanced literary and anarchistic views, in whichviolent attacks on persons took the place of a reasoned-out campaignagainst the order of things. They were nearly illegible, defaced asthey were by the censor. Besides, when an article was reprinted inanother paper, he would let pass with a capricious forgetfulness whathe had cut out the day before, and cut what he had passed then. Ittook close study to make out the sense of the article after thistreatment, but the remarkable thing was that the adversaries ofClerambault, not his friends, went to this trouble. Ordinarily, atParis, these squalls do not last long. The most vindictive enemies, trained to wars of the pen, know that silence is a sharper weapon thaninsult, and get more out of their animosity by keeping it quiet; butin the hysterical crisis in which Europe was struggling, there was noguide, even for hatred. Clerambault was continually being recalledto the public mind by the violent attacks of Bertin, though he neverfailed to conclude each one in which he had discharged his venom, witha disdainful: "He is not worth speaking of. "

Bertin was only too familiar with the weaknesses, defects of mind, and small absurdities of his former friend; he could not resist thetemptation to touch them with a sure hand, and Clerambault, stungand not wise enough to hide it, let himself be drawn into the fight, retaliated, and proved that he too could draw blood from the other. Thus a fierce enmity arose between the two. 

The result might have been foreseen. Up to this time Clerambaulthad been inoffensive, confining himself on the whole to moraldissertations. His polemic did not step outside the circle of ideas. It might as well have been applied to Germany, England, or ancientRome, as to the France of today. To tell the truth, like nine-tenthsof his class and profession, he was ignorant of the political factsabout which he declaimed, so that his trumpetings could hardly disturbthe leaders of the day. In the midst of the tumult of the press, the noisy passage of arms between Clerambault and Bertin had twoconsequences; in the first place it forced Clerambault to play withmore care, and choose a less slippery ground than logomachy, and onthe other it brought him in contact with men better informed as to thefacts who furnished him with the necessary information. A shorttime before there had been formed in France a little society, semi-clandestine, for independent study and free criticism on the war, and the causes that had led up to it. The Government, always vigilantand ready to crush any attempt at freedom of thought, neverthelessdid not consider this society dangerous. Its members were prudent andcalm, men of letters before all, who avoided notoriety, and contentedthemselves with private discussion; it was thought better policy tokeep them under observation, and between four walls. 

These calculations proved to be wrong, for truth modestly andlaboriously discovered, though known only to five or six, cannot beuprooted; it will spring from the earth with irresistible force. Clerambault now learned for the first time of the existence of thesepassionate seekers after truth, who recalled the times of the Dreyfuscase. In the general oppression, their apostolate behind closed doorstook on the appearance of a little early-Christian group in thecatacombs. Thanks to them, he discovered the falsehoods as well as theinjustices of the "Great War. " He had had a faint suspicion of them, but he had not dreamed how far the history that touches us mostclosely had been falsified, and the knowledge revolted him. Even inhis most critical moments, his simplicity would never have imaginedthe deceptive foundations on which reposes a Crusade for the Right, and as he was not a man to keep his discovery to himself, heproclaimed it loudly, first in articles which were forbidden by thecensor, and then in the shape of sarcastic apologues, or littlesymbolic tales, touched with irony. The Voltairian apologues slippedthrough sometimes, owing to the inattention of the censor, and in thisway Clerambault was marked out to the authorities as a very dangerousman. 

Those who thought they knew him best were surprised. His adversarieshad called him sentimental, and assuredly so he was, but he was awareof it, and because he was French he could laugh at it, and at himself. It is all very well for sentimental Germans to have a thick-headedbelief in themselves; deep down in an eloquent and sensitive creaturelike Clerambault, the vision of the Gaul--always alert in his thickwoods--observes, lets nothing escape, and is ready for a laugh ateverything. The surprising thing is that this under-spirit will emergewhen you least expect it, during the darkest trials and in the mostpressing danger. The universal sense of humour came as a tonic toClerambault, and his character, scarcely freed from the conventions inwhich it had been bound, took on suddenly a vital complexity. Good, tender, combative, irritable, always in extremes--he knew it, and thatmade him worse--tearful, sarcastic, sceptical, yet believing, he wassurprised when he saw himself in the mirror of his writings. All hisvitality, hitherto prudently shut into his _bourgeois_ life, now burstforth, developed by moral solitude and the hygiene of action. 

Clerambault saw that he had not known himself; he was, as it were, new-born, since that night of anguish. He learned to taste a joy ofwhich he had never before had an idea--the giddy joy of the freelance in a fight; all his senses strung like a bow, glad in a perfectwell-being. 

This improved state, however, brought no advantage to Clerambault'sfamily; his wife's share of the struggle was only the unpleasantness, a general animosity that finally made itself felt even among thesmall tradespeople of the neighbourhood. Rosine drooped; her secretheart-ache wore upon her all the more because of her silence; but ifshe said nothing her mother complained enough for two. She made nodistinction between the fools who affronted her and the imprudentClerambault who caused all the trouble; so that at every meal therewere awkward remarks meant to induce him to keep still. All this wasof no use, reproaches whether spoken or silent, passed over his head;he was sorry, of course, but he had thrown himself into the thickof the fight, and with a somewhat childish egotism he thrust asideanything that interfered with this new interest. 

Circumstances, however, came to Madame Clerambault's assistance; anold relation who had brought her up died, leaving her little propertyin Berry to the Clerambaults. The mourning was a good excuse forquitting Paris, which had now become detestable, and for tearing thepoet from his dangerous surroundings. There was also the questionof money and of Rosine, who would be better for change of air. Clerambault gave in, and they all three went to take possession oftheir small inheritance, and remained in Berry during the rest of thesummer and autumn. It was in the country, a respectable old house justoutside a village. From the agitation of Paris Clerambault passed atonce to a stagnant calm, and in the long silent days all that brokethe monotony was a cock crowing in a farm-yard or a cow lowing in themeadow. Clerambault was too much wrought up to adapt himself to theslow and placid rhythm of nature; formerly he had adored it and was inharmony with the country people from whom his family had come. Now, however, the peasants with whom he tried to talk seemed to himcreatures from another planet. Certainly, they were not infected bythe virus of war; they showed no emotion, and no hatred for the enemy;but then they had no animosity either against war, which they acceptedas a fact. Certain keen, good-natured observations showed that theywere not taken in as to the merits of the case, but since the war wasthere they made the most they could out of it. They might losetheir sons, but they did not mean to lose money; not that they wereheartless, grief had marked them deeply, though they spoke little ofit; but after all, men pass away, --the land is always there. They atleast had not, like the _bourgeois_ in cities, sent their children todeath through national fanaticism. Only they knew how to get somethingin exchange for what they gave; and it is probable that their sonswould have thought this perfectly natural. Because you have lostsomeone you love, must you lose your head too? Our peasants did notlose theirs; it is said that in the country districts of France morethan a million new proprietors have been made by the war. 

The mind of Clerambault was alien to all this; he and these people didnot speak the same language. They exchanged some vague condolences, but when he is talking to a _bourgeois_ a peasant always complains; itis a habit, a way of defending himself against a possible appealto his pocketbook; they would have talked in the same way about anepidemic of fever. Clerambault was always the Parisian in their eyes;he belonged to another tribe, and if they had thoughts, they would nottell them to him. 

This lack of response stifled Clerambault's words; impressionableas he was, he could no longer hear himself. All was silence; he hadfriends unknown, and at a distance, who tried to communicate withhim, but their voices were intercepted by postal spies--one ofthe disgraces of our time. On the pretext of suppressing foreignespionage, our Government made spies of its own citizens, and notcontent with a watch on politics, it violated a man's thoughts, andtaught its agents how to listen at doors like lackeys. The premiumthus put on baseness filled this country--and all the others--withvolunteer detectives, gentlemen, men of letters, many of themslackers, who bought their own security with the safety of others, calling their denunciations by the name of patriotism. 

Thanks to these informers, those of liberal opinions could not get intouch with one another; that great monster, the State--pricked byits bad conscience--suspected and feared half a dozen liberal-mindedpeople, alone, weak, and destitute; and each one of these liberalssurrounded by spies, ate his heart out in his jail, and ignorant thatothers suffered with him, felt himself slowly dying, freezing in thepolar ice of his despair. 

Clerambault was too hot-blooded to let himself be buried under thissnowy shroud; but the soul is not all, the body is a plant whichneeds human soil, Deprived of sympathy, reduced to feed on itself, it perishes. In vain did Clerambault try to prove to himself thatmillions of other minds were in agreement with his own; it could notreplace the actual contact with one living heart. Faith is sufficientfor the spirit, but the heart is like Thomas, it must touch to beconvinced. 

Clerambault had not foreseen this physical weakness; he felt stifled, his body seemed on fire, his skin burning, his life seemed to bedrying up at the source. It was as if he were under an exhaustedvacuum-bell. A wall kept him from the air. 

One evening, like a consumptive after a bad day, he had been wanderingabout the house from room to room, as if in search of a breath offresh air, when a letter came that had somehow slipped through themeshes of the net. An old man like himself, a village schoolmaster ina remote valley of Dauphiny wrote thus:

"The war has taken everything from me; of those whom I used to know, some have been killed, and the rest are so altered that I hardlyrecognise them. They have trampled on all that made life worth havingto me; my hope of progress, my faith in a future of brotherly reason. 

"I was ready to die in my despair, when a paper in which you werespoken of insultingly, drew my attention to your articles: _To theDead_ and _To Her Whom We Loved_. I wept with joy as I read them; Iam not then left alone to suffer? I am not solitary?--You do believe;then, my dear Sir, tell me that you still have faith in these things. They really exist, and cannot be destroyed? I must tell you how muchgood it does me to know that; for I had begun to doubt. You mustforgive me, but I am old and alone and very weary.... God bless you, Sir! I can die in peace, now that, thanks to you, I know that I havenot been deceived. "

Instantly it was as if a window had been opened to the air;Clerambault's lungs were filled, his heart beat strongly again, lifeseemed to be renewed, and to flow once more in a full channel. Howdeep is the need we have of love from one another!... A hand stretchedout in the hour of my agony makes me feel that I am not a branch tornfrom the tree, but a living part of it; we save each other. I give mystrength, which would be nothing if it were not taken. Truth alone islike a spark struck from a stone; dry, harsh, ephemeral. Will it dieout? No, for it has kindled another soul, and a new star has risen onthe horizon. 

The new star was seen but for a few moments, then a cloud covered it, and it vanished forever. 

Clerambault wrote the same day to his unknown friend, telling himeffusively of all his trials and dangerous opinions, but no answercame. Some weeks later, Clerambault wrote again, but without success. Such was his longing for a friend with whom to share his troubles andhis hopes that he took the train to Grenoble, and from there made hisway on foot to the village of which he had the address; but when, joyful with the surprise he brought, he knocked at the door of theschoolhouse, the man who opened it evidently understood nothing of hiserrand. After some explanation it appeared that this was a newcomerin the village; that his predecessor had been dismissed in disgrace amonth before and ordered to a distance, but that the trouble of thejourney had been spared him, for he had died of pneumonia the daybefore he was to have left the place where he had lived for thirtyyears. He was there still, but under the ground. Clerambault saw thecross over the newly-made mound, but he never knew if his lost friendhad at least received his words of sympathy. It was better for him toremain in doubt, for the letters had never reached their destination;even this gleam of light had been denied to the poor old schoolmaster. 

The end of this summer in Berry was one of the most arid periods inClerambault's life. He talked with no one, he wrote nothing and hehad no way of communicating directly with the working people. He hadalways made himself liked on the rare occasions on which he hadcome into contact with them--in a crowd, on holidays, or in theworkingmen's schools; but shyness on both sides held him back. Eachfelt his inferiority; with pride on the one hand, and awkwardness onthe other, for Clerambault knew that in many essential respects hewas inferior to the intelligent workman. He was right; for from theirranks will be recruited the leaders of the future. The best class ofthese men contained many honest and virile minds able to understandClerambault. With an untouched idealism they still kept a firm hold onreality, and though their daily life had accustomed them to struggles, disappointments, and treachery, they were trained to patience; youngas some of them were, they were veterans of the social war, and therewas much that they could have taught Clerambault. They knew thateverything is for sale, that nothing is to be had for nothing, thatthose who desire the future happiness of men must pay the price now, in their own sufferings; that the smallest progress is gained step bystep and is lost often twenty times before it is finally conquered. There is nothing final in this world. These men, solid and patient asthe earth, would have been of great use to Clerambault, and his vividintelligence would have been like a ray of sunshine to them. 

Unfortunately both he and they had to bear the results of the archaiccaste system; injurious as it is and fatal to the community not lessthan to the individual, raising between the pretended equals ofour so-called "democracies" the excessive inequality of fortune, education, and life. Journalists supply the only means ofcommunication between caste and caste, and they form a caste bythemselves, representing neither the one side nor the other. Thevoice of the newspapers alone now broke the silence that surroundedClerambault, and nothing could stop their "Brekekekex, coax, coax. "

The disastrous results of a new offensive found them, as always, bravely at their post. Once more the optimist oracles of the pontiffsof the rear-guard were proved to be wrong, but no one seemed to noticeit. Other prophecies succeeded, and were given out and swallowed withthe same assurance. Neither those who wrote, nor those who read, sawthat they had deceived themselves; in all sincerity they did not knowit; they did not remember what they had written the day before. Whatcan you expect from such feather-headed creatures who do not know ifthey are on their heads or their heels? But it must be allowed thatthey know how to fall on their feet after one of their somersaults. One conviction a day is enough for them; and what does the qualitymatter, since they are fresh every hour?

Towards the end of the autumn, in order to keep up the morale whichsank before the sadness of the coming winter, the press started a newpropaganda against German atrocities; it "went across" perfectly, andthe thermometer of public opinion rose to fever heat. Even in theplacid Berry village for several weeks all sorts of cruel thingswere said; the curé took part and preached a sermon on vengeance. Clerambault heard this from his wife at breakfast and said plainlywhat he thought of it before the servant who was waiting at table. Thewhole village knew that he was a boche before night; and every morningafter that he could read it written up on his front door. MadameClerambault's temper was not improved by this, and Rosine, who hadtaken to religion in the disappointment of her young love, was toomuch occupied with her unhappy soul and its experiences to think ofthe troubles of others. The sweetest natures have times when they aresimply and absolutely selfish. 

Left to himself alone, deprived of the means of action, Clerambaultturned his heated thoughts back on himself. Nothing now held him fromthe path of harsh truth; there was nothing between him and its coldlight. His soul was shrivelled like those _fuorusciti_ who, thrownfrom the walls of the cruel city, gaze at it from without withfaithless eyes. It was no longer the sad vision of the first night ofhis trials, when his bleeding wounds still linked him with other men;all ties were now broken, as with open eyes his spirit sank downwhirling into the abyss; the slow descent into hell, from circle tocircle, alone in the silence. 

"I see you, you myriads of herded peoples, hugging together perforcein shoals to spawn and to think! Each group of you, like the bees, hasa special sacred odour of its own. The stench of the queen-bee makesthe unity of the hive and gives joy to the labour of the bees. As withthe ants, whosoever does not stink like me, I kill! O you bee-hives ofmen! each of you has its own peculiar smell of race, religion, moralsand approved tradition; it impregnates your bodies, your wax, thebrood-comb of your hives; it permeates your entire lives from birth todeath; and woe to him who would wash himself clean of it. 

"He who would sense the mustiness of this swarm-thinking, thenight-sweat of a hallucinated people, should look back at the ritesand beliefs of ancient history. Let him ask the quizzical Herodotusto unroll for him the film of human wanderings, the long panorama ofsocial customs, sometimes ignoble or ridiculous, but always venerated;of the Scythians, the Gatae, the Issedones, the Gindares, theNasamones, the Sauromates, the Lydians, the Lybians, and theEgyptians; bipeds of all colours, from East to West and from North toSouth. The Great King, who was a man of wit, asked the Greeks, whoburn their dead, to eat them; and the Hindoos, who eat them, to burnthem, and was much amused by their indignation. The wise Herodotuswho doffs his cap, though he may grin behind it, will not judge themhimself and does not think it fair to laugh at them. He says: 'If itwere proposed to all men to choose between the best laws of differentnations, each one would give the preference to his own; so true it isthat every man is convinced that his own country is the best. Nothingcan be truer than the words of Pindar: _Custom is the Sovereign of allmen_. '

"It is true everyone must drink out of his own trough, but you wouldat least think that we would allow others to do likewise; but notat all, we cannot enjoy our own without spitting in that of ourneighbours. It is the will of God, --for a god we must have in someshape, in that of man or beast, or even of a thing, a black or redline as in the Middle Ages, --a blackbird, a crow, a blazon of somekind; we must have something on which to throw the responsibility ofour insanities. 

"Now that the coat-of-arms has been superseded by the flag, we declarethat we are freed from superstitions! But at what time were theydarker than they are now? Under our new doctrine of equality we areall obliged to smell exactly alike. We are not even free to say thatwe are not free; that would be sacrilege! With the pack on our back wemust bawl out: 'Liberty forever!' Under the orders of her father, thedaughter of Cheops made herself a harlot that she might contribute byher body to the building of the pyramid. And now to raise the pyramidsof our massive republics, millions of citizens prostitute theirconsciences and themselves, body and soul, to falsehood and hate. We have become past masters in the great art of lying. True, it wasalways known, but the difference between us and our forefathers isthat they knew themselves to be liars, and were not far from admittingit in their simple way; it was a necessity of nature--they relievedthemselves before the passers-by, as you see men do today in theSouth.... 'I shall lie, ' said Darius, innocently. One should not betoo scrupulous when it is useful to tell a lie. Those who speak thetruth want the same thing as those who tell falsehoods. We do so inthe hope of gaining some advantage, and we are truthful for the samereason and that people may feel confidence in us. Thus, though we maynot follow the same road, we are all aiming at the same thing, for ifthere were naught to gain, a truth-teller would be equally ready tolie, and a liar to tell the truth. '--We, my dear contemporaries, aremore modest; we do not look on at each other telling falsehoods on thecurb. It must be done behind four walls. We lie to ourselves, and wenever confess it, not even to our innermost selves. No, we do notlie, we 'idealise. ' ... Come, let us see your eyes, and let them seeclearly, if you are free men!

"Free! What are you free from, and which of you is free in yourcountries today? Are you free to act? No, since the State disposes ofyour life, so that you must either assassinate others or be yourselvesassassinated. Are you free to speak or to write? No, for they imprisonyou if you dare to speak your mind. Can you even think for yourselves?Not unless it is _sub rosa_--and the bottom of a cellar is none toosecure. 

"Be silent and wary, for there are sharp eyes on you.... To keep youfrom action there are sentries, corporals with stripes on their arms, and sentries, too, over your minds; churches and universities thatprescribe what you may believe, and what you may not.... What do youcomplain of, they say, even if you are not complaining. You must notfatigue your mind by thinking; repeat your catechism!

"Are we not told that this catechism was freely agreed to by thesovereign people?--A fine sovereignty, truly! Idiots, who puff outyour cheeks over the word Democracy! Democracy is the art of usurpingthe people's place, of shearing their wool off closely, in this holyname, for the benefit of some of Democracy's good apostles. In peacetimes the people only know what goes on through the press, which isbought and told what to say by those whose interest it is to hoodwinkthe public, while the truth is kept under lock and key. In war time itis even better, for then it is the people themselves who are lockedup. Allowing that they have ever known what they wanted, it is nolonger possible for them to speak above their breath. Obey. _Perindeac cadaver_.... Ten millions of corpses.... The living are hardlybetter off, depressed as they are by four years of sham patriotism, circus-parades, tom-toms, threats, braggings, hatreds, informers, trials for treason, and summary executions. The demagogues have calledin all the reserves of obscurantism to extinguish the last gleamsof good sense that lingered in the people, and to reduce them toimbecility. 

"It is not enough to debase them; they must be so stupefied that theywish to be debased. The formidable autocracies of Egypt, Persia, andSyria, made playthings of the lives of millions of men; and the secretof their power lay in the supernatural light of their pseudo-divinity. From the extreme limit of the ages of credulity, every absolutemonarchy has been a theocracy. In our democracies, however, itis impossible to believe in the divinity of humbugs, shaky anddiscredited, like some of our moth-eaten Ministers; we are too closeto them, we know their dirty tricks, so they have invented the idea ofconcealing God behind their drop-curtain; God means the Republic, the Country, Justice, Civilisation; the names are painted up onthe outside. Each booth at the fair displays in huge many-colouredposters, the picture of its Beautiful Giantess; millions crowd aroundto see it, but they do not tell us what they think when they come out. Perhaps they found it difficult to think at all! Some stay inside andothers have seen nothing. But those who stand in front of the stagegaping, they know God is there for they have seen His picture. Thewish that we have to believe in Him--that is the god of each one ofus. 

"Why does this desire flame up so furiously? Because we do not want tosee the truth--and therefore _because we do see it_. Therein lies thetragedy of humanity; it refuses to see and know. As a last resort, itis forced to find divinity in the mire. Let us, on our part, dare tolook the truth in the face. 

"The instinct of murder is deeply engraved in the heart of nature. Itis a truly devilish instinct, since it seems to have created beingsnot only to eat, but to be eaten. One species of cormorants eatsfishes. The fishermen exterminate the birds. And the fish disappear, because they fed on the excrement of the birds who devoured them. Thusthe chain of beings is like a serpent eating his own tail.... If onlywe were not sentient beings, did not witness our own tortures, wemight escape from this hell. There are two ways only: that of Buddha, who effaced within himself the painful illusion of life; and thereligious way, which throws the veil of a dazzling falsehood overcrime and sorrow. Those who devour others are said to be the chosenpeople who work for God. The weight of sin, thrown into one of thescales of life, finds its counterpoise beyond in the dream where allwounds and sorrows are to be cured. The form of the beyond variesfrom people to people and from time to time, and these variations arecalled Progress, though it is always the same need of illusion. Ourterrible consciousness insists on seeing and reckoning with the unjustlaw; for if we do not give it something to bite on, fill its mawsomehow, it will howl with hunger and fear, crying out: 'I must havebelief or death!' And that is why we go in flocks; for security, tomake a common certainty out of our individual doubts. 

"What have we to do with truth? Most men think that truth is theAdversary. Of course they do not say this, but by a tacit agreementwhat they call truth is a sickening mixture of much falsehood and verylittle truth, which serves to paint over the lie so that we get deceitand eternal slavery. Not the monuments of faith and love are the mostdurable, those of servitude last much longer. Rheims and the Parthenonfall to ruins, but the Pyramids of Egypt defy the ages; all about themis the desert, its mirages and its moving sand. When I think of themillions of souls swallowed up by the spirit of slavery in the courseof centuries--heretics, revolutionists, rebels lay and clerical, --I amno longer surprised at the mediocrity that spreads like greasy waterover the world. 

"We who have so far kept our heads above the gloomy surface, whatare we to do in face of the implacable universe, where the strongereternally crushes the weaker, and is crushed by a stronger yet, in histurn? Shall we resign ourselves to a voluntary sacrifice through pityor weariness? Or shall we join in and cut the throats of the weak, without the shadow of an illusion as to the blind cosmic cruelty?What choice is left, but to try to keep out of the struggle throughselfishness--or wisdom, which is another form of the same thing?"

In the crisis of acute pessimism which had seized upon Clerambaultduring these months of inhuman isolation, he could not contemplateeven the possibility of progress; that progress in which he had oncebelieved, as men do in God. The human species now appeared to him asdevoted to a murderous destiny. After having ravaged the planet andexterminated other species, it was now to be destroyed by its ownhands. It is the law of justice. Man only became ruler of the world bytreachery and force (above all by treachery). Those more noble than hehave perhaps--or certainly--fallen under his blows; he has destroyedsome, degraded and brutalised others. During the thousands of yearsin which he has shared life with other beings, he hasfeigned--falsely--not to comprehend them, not to see them as brothers, suffering, loving, and dreaming like himself. In order to exploitthem, to torture them without remorse, his men of thought have toldhim that these creatures cannot think, that he alone possessesthis gift. And now he is not far from saying the same thing of hisfellow-men whom he dismembers and destroys. Butcher, murderer, youhave had no pity, why should you implore it for yourself today?... 

Of all the old friendships that had once surrounded Clerambault, oneonly remained, his friendship with Madame Mairet, whose husband hadbeen killed in the Argonne. 

François Mairet was not quite forty years old when he met with anobscure death in the trenches. He was one of the foremost Frenchbiologists, an unpretending scholar and hard worker, a patient spirit. But celebrity was assured to him before long, though he was in nohaste to welcome the meretricious charmer, as her favours have to beshared with too many wire-pullers. The silent joys that intimacy withscience bestows on her elect were sufficient for him, with onlyone heart on earth to taste them with him. His wife shared all histhoughts. She came of a scholarly family, was rather younger than he;one of those serious, loving, weak, yet proud hearts, that must givebut only give themselves once. Her existence was bound up in Mairet'sinterests. Perhaps she would have shared the life of another manequally well, if circumstances had been different, but she had marriedMairet with everything that was his. Like many of the best of women, her intelligence was quick to understand the man whom her heart hadchosen. She had begun by being his pupil, and became his partner, helping in his work and in his laboratory researches. They hadno children and had every thought in common, both of them beingfreethinkers, with high ideals, destitute of religion, as well as ofany national superstition. 

In 1914 Mairet was mobilised, and went simply as a duty, without anyillusions as to the cause that he was called upon to serve by theaccidents of time and country. His letters from the front were clearand stoical; he had never ceased to see the ignominy of the war. Buthe felt obliged to sacrifice himself in obedience to fate, whichhad made him a part of the errors, the sufferings, and the confusedstruggles of an unfortunate animal species slowly evolving towards anunknown end. 

His family and the Clerambaults had known each other in the country, before either of them were transplanted to Paris; this acquaintanceformed the basis of an amicable intercourse, solid rather thanintimate--for Mairet opened his heart to no one but his wife--butresting on an esteem that nothing could shake. 

They had not corresponded since the beginning of the war; each hadbeen too much absorbed by his own troubles. Men who went to fightdid not scatter their letters among their friends, but generallyconcentrated on one person whom they loved best, and to whom they toldeverything. Mairet's wife, as always, was his only confidante. Hisletters were a journal in which he thought aloud; and in one of thelast he spoke of Clerambault. He had seen extracts from his firstarticles in some of the nationalist papers which were the only onesallowed at the front, where they were quoted with insulting comments. He spoke of them to his wife, saying what comfort he had found inthese words of an honest man driven to speak out, and he begged her tolet Clerambault know that his old friendship for him was now allthe warmer and closer. He also asked Madame Mairet to send him thesucceeding articles, but he died before they could reach him. 

When he was gone the woman, who had lived only for him, tried to drawnearer to the people who had been near to him in the last days of hislife. She wrote to Clerambault, and he, who was eating his heartout in his provincial retreat, lacking even the energy to get away, welcomed her letter as a deliverance. He returned at once to Paris;and they both found a bitter joy in evoking together the image of theabsent. They formed the habit of meeting on one evening in the week, when they would, so to speak, immerse themselves in recollections ofhim. Clerambault was the only one of his friends who could understandthe tragedy, hidden under a sacrifice gilded by no patriotic illusion. 

At first Madame Mairet seemed to find comfort in showing all that shehad received; she read his letters, full of disenchanted confidences;they reflected on them with deep emotion, and she brought them intothe discussion of the problems that had caused the death of Mairetand of millions of others. In this keen analysis, nothing stoppedClerambault; and she was not a woman to hesitate in the search fortruth. But nevertheless.... 

Clerambault soon became aware that his words made her uneasy, thoughhe was only saying aloud things that she knew well and that werestrongly confirmed by Mairet's letters, namely, the criminal futilityof these deaths, and the sterility of all this heroism. She tried totake back her confidences, or even to minimise the meaning of them, with an eagerness that did not seem perfectly sincere. She broughtto mind sayings of her husband's which apparently showed him more insympathy with general opinion, and implied that he approved of it. Oneday Clerambault was listening while she read a letter which she hadread to him before. He noticed that she skipped a phrase in whichMairet expressed his heroic pessimism, and when he remarked on itshe appeared vexed. After this her manner became more distant, herannoyance passed into coldness, then irritation, till it even grewinto a sort of smothered hostility, and finally she avoided him, though without an open rupture. Clerambault felt that she had a grudgeagainst him and that he should see no more of her. 

The truth was that, at the same time that Clerambault pursued hisrelentless analysis which struck at the foundations of currentbeliefs, an inverse process of reconstruction and idealisation wasgoing on in the mind of Madame Mairet. Her grief longed to convinceitself that after all there had been a holy cause, and the dead manwas no longer there to help her to bear the truth. Where two standtogether there may be joy in the most terrible truths, but when one isalone they are mortal. 

Clerambault understood it all, and his quick sympathies warned him ofthe pain he caused and shared; for he made the suffering of this womanhis own. He nearly reached the point of approving her revolt againsthimself, for he knew her deep hidden sorrow, and that the truth thathe brought was powerless to help it--still worse, it added one evilmore.... 

Insoluble problem! Those who are bereaved cannot dispense with themurderous delusions of which they are the victims, and if these aretorn away their suffering becomes intolerable. Families that have lostsons, husbands, and fathers, must needs believe that it was for ajust and holy cause, and statesmen are forced to continue to deceivethemselves and others. For if this were to cease, life would beinsupportable to themselves and to those whom they govern. Howunfortunate is Man; he is the prey of his own ideas, has given upeverything to them, and finds that each day he must continue to givemore, lest the gulf open under his feet and he be swallowed up in it. After four years of unheard-of pain and ruin, can we possibly admitthat it was all for nothing? That not only our victory will be moreruinous still, but that we ought not to have expected anything else;that the war was absurd, and we, self-deceivers?... Never! we wouldrather die to the last man. When one man finds that he has thrown awayhis life, he sinks down in despair. What would it be in the case of anation, of ten nations, or of civilisation as a whole?... 

Clerambault heard the cry that went up from the multitude: "Life, atany cost! Save us, no matter how!"

"But, you do not know how to save yourselves. The road you follow onlyleads on to fresh catastrophes, to an infinite mass of suffering. "

"No matter how frightful they are, not as bad as what you offer us. Let us die with our illusions, rather than live without them. Such alife as that, is a death in life!"

 * * * * *

"_He who has deciphered the secret of life and found the answer_, "says the disenchanted, but harmonious voice of Amiel, "_is no longerbound on the great wheel of existence, he has quitted the world of theliving. When illusion vanishes, nothingness resumes its eternal reign, the bright bubble has burst in infinite space, and our poor thought isdissolved in the immutable repose of the limitless void_. "

 * * * * *

Unluckily this repose in the void is the worst torture for a man ofthe white race. He would rather endure any torment that life maybring. "Do not tear them from me, " he cries, "you kill me when youdestroy the cruel falsehoods by which I live. "

Clerambault bitterly adopted the name that a nationalist paper hadgiven him in derision: "The one against all. " Yes, he was the commonenemy, the destroyer of our life-giving illusions. 

He could not bear this; the thought of making others suffer wastoo painful to him. How then was he to get out of this tragicno-thoroughfare? Wherever he turned, he found the same insolvabledilemma; either a fatal illusion, or death without it. 

"I will accept neither the one nor the other. "

"Whether you accept it or no, you must yield--for the way is barred. "

"Nevertheless, I shall pass through.... "

PART FOUR

Clerambault was passing through a new danger-zone. His solitaryjourney was like a mountain ascension, where a man finds himselfsuddenly enveloped in fog, clinging to a rock, unable to advance astep. He could see nothing in front of him, and, no matter to whichside he turned, he could hear beneath him the roar of the torrent ofsuffering. Even so, he could not stand still; though he hung over theabyss and his hold threatened to give way. 

He had reached one of these dark turnings, and to make it worse, thenews that day, as barked out by the press, made the heart ache by itsinsanity. Useless hecatombs, which the induced egotism of the worldbehind the lines thought natural; cruelties on all sides, criminalreprisals for crimes--for which these good people clamoured, andloudly applauded. The horizon that surrounded the poor human creaturesin their burrow had never seemed so dark and pitiless. 

Clerambault asked himself if the law of love that he felt withinhimself had not been designed for other worlds, and differenthumanities. The mail had brought him letters full of fresh threats;and knowing that, in the tragic absurdity of the time, his life wasat the mercy of the first madman who happened to turn up, he hopedsecretly that he might not have long to wait. But being of goodstock, he kept on his way, his head up as usual, working steadily andmethodically at his daily task so as to gain the end, no matter whatthat might be, of the path whereon he had set his feet. 

He remembered that on this day he had promised to go and see his nieceAline, who had just been confined. She was the daughter of a sisterwho had died, and who had been very dear to him. A little older thanMaxime, she had been brought up with him. As she grew into girlhoodshe developed a complicated character. Restless and discontented, always thinking of herself, she wanted to be loved and to tyrannise. She had also too much curiosity; dangerous experiences were anattraction to her, and with all this she was rather dry, butemotional, vindictive and high-tempered. Still, when she chose shecould be tender and attractive. Maxime and she had played the gametogether, and carried it pretty far; so that it had been necessary towatch them closely. In spite of his irony, Maxime had been caught bythe dark eyes that pierced through him with their electric thrill; andAline was irritated and attracted by Maxime's mockery. They had lovedand quarrelled furiously, and then they had both gone on to somethingelse. She had shot arrows into several other hearts; and then, whenshe thought the right time had come, --there is always a timefor everything, --she had married, in the most reasonable way, asuccessful, prosperous man of business, head of a firm which soldartistic and ecclesiastical furniture in the Rue Bonaparte. She wasabout to have a child when her husband was ordered to the front. Therecould be no doubt of her ardent patriotism; for self-love includesone's country. Clerambault would never have expected to find anysympathy in her for his theories of fraternal pity. She had littleenough for her friends, but none at all for her enemies. She wouldhave ground them in a mortar with the same cold satisfaction that shefelt when she tormented hearts or teased insects because something orsomebody had vexed her. 

As the fruit within her ripened, her attention was concentrated uponit; all the strength of her heart seemed to flow inward. The warreceded; the cannon of Noyon sounded no longer in her ears. When shespoke of the war, --which she did less and less every day, --you wouldhave thought that she was talking of some distant colonial expedition. Of course she remembered the dangers that threatened her husband, andpitied him naturally:--"Poor dear boy!" with a little smile as much asto say, "He has not much luck. Not very clever, you know. " ... But shedid not dwell on the subject, and, thank Heaven! it left no traces onher mind. She had paid her score, she thought, and her conscience wasat rest; now she was in haste to go back to the world's most serioustask. One really would have supposed that the whole world hung on theegg that she was about to lay. 

Clerambault had been so absorbed by his struggles that he had not seenAline for months, and had therefore been unable to follow the changein her mood. Rosine might have spoken of it before him, but he hadpaid no attention. Within the last twenty-four hours he had heard inquick succession of the birth of the baby and of the fact that Aline'shusband was missing, like Maxime, and he immediately pictured tohimself the suffering of the young mother. He thought of her as hehad always known her--vibrating between pleasure and pain, but alwaysfeeling the latter more keenly, giving herself up to it, and even whenshe was happy, finding reasons for distress. She was violent too, bitter, agitated, fighting against fate, and apt to be vexed witheveryone around her. He was not sure that she was not angry with himpersonally, on account of his ideas about reconciliation now thatshe must be breathing out vengeance. He knew that his attitude wasa scandal in the family, and that no one would be less disposed totolerate it than Aline. But no matter how she received him, he feltthat he must go to her and help her in any way that his affectioncould suggest. Expecting a storm, but resigned to it, he climbed upthe stairs and rang the bell at his niece's door. 

He found her lying in bed with the infant, which she had had placedby her side. She looked calm and young, with a sweet expression ofbeaming happiness on her face. She was like the blooming older sisterof the tiny baby, at whom she looked with adoring laughter, as he laythere waving his little spidery legs, his mouth open, hardly alive asyet, still dreaming of the dark warm place from which he had come. Shegreeted Clerambault with a cry of triumph:

"Oh, Uncle dear, how sweet of you to come! Do look at him! Did youever see such a darling?"

She was so proud of her wonderful masterpiece that she was positivelygrateful to anyone who would look at him. Clerambault had never seenher so pretty and so sweet. He hardly saw the child, though he wentthrough all the antics that politeness required, making inarticulateadmiring noises which the mother expected and snapped up like a bird. He saw only her happy face, her lovely smiling eyes, and heard hercharming childish laughter. How good it is to see anyone so happy! Allthe things that he had come prepared to say to her went clean out ofhis head--all useless and out of place. The only thing necessary wasto gaze on the infant wonder, and share the delight of the hen overher chick, joining in her delicious cluck of innocent vanity. 

The shadow of the war, however, did pass before his eyes for a moment, the thought of the brutal, useless carnage, the dead son, the missinghusband; and as he bent over the child he could not help thinking witha sad smile:

"Why bring children into the world, if it is to butcher them likethis? I wonder what will happen to this poor little chap twenty yearshence?"

Thoughts like these did not trouble the mother. They could not dim hersunshine. All cares seemed far away. She could see nothing but the"joy that a man was born into the world. "

This man-child is to each mother in turn the incarnation of all thehope of humanity. The sadness and folly of the present day, what dothey matter? It is _he_ perhaps who will put an end to them. He is forevery mother the miracle, the promised Messiah!... 

Just as he was going, Clerambault ventured a word of sympathy as toher husband. She sighed deeply:

"Poor Armand! I'm sure that he was taken prisoner. "

"Have you had any news?" asked Clerambault. 

"No, no, but it is more than probable.... I am almost certain. If not, you know, I should have heard.... "

She seemed to brush away the disagreeable thought, as if it were afly. (Go away! How did it get in here?)

Then she added, the smile coming back into her eyes:

"It will be much better for him, he can rest. I am easier about himthere, than when he was in the trenches.... " And then, her mindspringing back to her world's wonder:

"Won't he be glad when he sees the treasure the good God has sentme?"... 

It was when Clerambault stood up to go that she condescended toremember that there were sorrows still in the world. She thought ofMaxime's death, and did drop a word of pretty sympathy. But how clearit was that at bottom she was completely indifferent! Absolutely so... Though full of good-will, which was something with her. Moresurprising still, softened by her new happiness, she had a glimpseof the tired face and sad heart of the old man. She had a vaguerecollection that he had done something foolish, and had trouble inconsequence. And instead of scolding him as he deserved, she forgavehim tacitly, with a magnanimous smile, like a little princess. "DearUncle, " she said, with an affectionate if slightly patronising tone:"you must not worry yourself, it will all come out right.... Give me akiss!"

As Clerambault went away he was amused by the consolation he hadreceived from her whom he had gone to console. He realised how slightour suffering must appear in the eyes of indifferent Nature. All herconcern is for the bloom of the coming spring. Let the dead leavesfall now to the ground, the tree will grow all the better and putforth fresh foliage in due season.... Lovely, beloved Spring!

Those who can never bloom again find you very cruel, gentle Spring!Those who have lost all that they loved, their hopes, their strength, their youth--everything that made life worth living to them.... 

The world was full of mutilated bodies and souls; some bitterlylamenting their lost happiness, and some, yet more miserable, sorrowing for what had been denied them, the cup dashed from theirlips, in the full bloom of love, and of their twenty years. 

 * * * * *

Clerambault came home one evening at the end of January, wet andchilled through with the fog, after standing at a wood-yard. He hadstood for hours in line waiting his turn in the crowd, and after allthey had been told that there would be no distribution that day. As hecame near the house where he lived he heard his name, and a young manwho was talking to the janitor turned and held out a letter, lookingrather embarrassed as Clerambault came forward. The right sleeve ofhis coat was pinned up to the shoulder, and there was a patch over hisright eye; he was pale, and evidently had been laid up for months. Clerambault spoke pleasantly to him and tried to take the letter, butthe man drew it back quickly, saying that it was of no consequencenow. Clerambault then asked if he would not come up and talk to hima little while, but the other hesitated, and the poet might haveperceived that he was trying to get away, but not being very quick atseeing into other people's minds, he said good-naturedly: "My flat israther high up.... "

This seemed to touch the visitor on a tender point, and he answered:"I can get up well enough, " and turned towards the staircase. Clerambault now understood that besides his other wounds, the heartwithin him had been wounded to the quick. 

They sat down in the fireless study, and like the room, it was sometime before the conversation thawed out. All that Clerambault couldget out of the man were short stiff answers, not very clear, and givenin rather an irritated tone. He learned that his name was JulianMoreau, that he had been a student at the Faculty of Letters, andhad just passed three months at Val-de-Grace. He was living alone inParis, in a room over in the Latin Quarter, though he had a widowedmother and some other relations in Orleans; he did not explain atfirst why he was not with them. 

All at once after a short silence he decided to speak, and in alow voice, hoarse at first, but softening as he went on, he toldClerambault that his articles had been brought into his trench by aman just back from leave, and handed about from one to the other; tohim they had been a real blessing. They answered to the cry of hisinmost soul: "Thou shalt not lie. " The papers and reviews made himfurious; they had the impudence to show the soldier a false picture ofthe armies, trumped-up letters from the front, a cheap comedy style ofcourage, and inappropriate joking; all the abject boasting of actorssafe at home, speechifying over the death of others. It was an insultto be slobbered over with the disgusting kisses of these prostitutesof the press. As if their sufferings were a mockery!

Clerambault's writings found an echo in their hearts; not that heunderstood them, no one could understand who had not shared theirhardships. But he pitied them, and spoke humanely of the unfortunatesin all camps. He dared to speak of the injustices, common to allnations, which had led to the general suffering. He could not takeaway their trouble, but he did raise it into an atmosphere where itcould be borne. 

"If you only knew how we crave a word of real sympathy; it is all verywell to be hardened, or old, --there are grey-haired, bent men amongus--but after what we have seen, suffered, and done to others, thereare times when we are like lost children, looking for their mother toconsole them. Even our mothers seem far away. At times we get strangeletters from home, as if we were deserted by our own flesh and blood. "

Clerambault hid his face in his hands with a groan. 

"What is the matter?" said Moreau, "are you ill?"

"You remind me of all the harm that I did. "

"You? No, it was other people that did the harm. "

"Yes, I, as much as the others. You must try to forgive us all. "

"You are the last who ought to say so. "

"If the truth were known, I should be among the first. For I am one ofthe few who see clearly how wicked I was. " He began to inveigh againsthis generation, but broke off with a discouraged gesture:

"None of that does any good.... Tell me about yourself. "

His voice was so humble that Moreau was really touched to see theolder man blame himself so severely. All his distrust melted away, andhe threw wide the door of his bitter, wounded spirit, confessing thathe had come several times as far as the house, but could not make uphis mind to leave his letter. He never did consent to show it. Sincehe came out of the hospital he had not been able to talk to anyone;these people back here sickened him with their little preoccupations, their business, their pleasures, the restrictions to their pleasures, their selfishness, their ignorance and lack of comprehension. He feltlike a stranger among them, more than if he were with Africansavages. Besides, --he stopped, the angry words seemed to stick in histhroat--it was not only these people--he felt a stranger to all theworld, cut off from normal life, from the pleasures and work of othermen by his infirmities. He was a mere wreck, blind and maimed. Thepoor fellow was absurdly ashamed of it; he blushed at the pityingglances that people threw at him in passing--like a penny that yougive, turning away your head at the same time from the unpleasantsight. For in his sensitiveness he exaggerated his ugliness and wasdisgusted by his deformity. He dwelt on his lost joys and ruinedyouth; when he saw couples in the street, he could not help feelingjealous; the tears would come into his eyes. 

Even this was not all, and when he had poured out the bitternessof his heart--and Clerambault's compassion encouraged him to speakfurther--he got down to the worst of the trouble, which he and hiscomrades felt like a cancer that one does not dare to look at. Throughhis obscure, violent, and miserable talk, Clerambault at last made outwhat it was that tore the hearts of these young men. It is easy enoughfor dried-up egotists, withered intellectuals, to sneer at this loveof life in the young, and their despair at the loss of it; but itwas not alone their ruined, blasted youth that pressed on these poorsoldiers, --though that was terrible enough--the worst was not to knowthe reason for this sacrifice, and the poisonous suspicion that it wasall in vain. The pain of these victims could not be soothed by thegross appeal of a foolish racial supremacy, nor by a fragment ofground fought for between States. They knew now how much earth a manneeds to die on, and that the blood of all races is part of the samestream of life. 

Clerambault felt that he was a sort of elder brother to these youngmen; the sense of this and his duty towards them gave him a strengththat he would not otherwise have had, and he charged their messengerwith words of hope and consolation. 

"Your sufferings are not thrown away, " he said. "It is true that theyare the fruit of a cruel error, but the errors themselves are notall lost. The scourge of today is the explosion of evils whichhave ravaged Europe for ages; pride and cupidity. It is made up ofconscienceless States, the disease of capitalism, and is become themonstrous machine called Civilisation, full of intolerance, hypocrisy, and violence. Everything is breaking up; all must be done over again;it is a tremendous task, but do not speak of discouragement, for yoursis the greatest work that has ever been offered to a generation. Thefire of the trenches and the asphyxiating gases that blind you come asmuch from agitators in the rear as from the enemy; you must strive tosee clearly, to see where the real fight lies. It is not against apeople but against an unhealthy society founded on exploitation andrivalry between nations, on the subordination of the free conscienceto the Machine-State. The peoples, resigned or sceptical, would nothave seen this with the tragical clearness in which it now appears, without the painful disturbance of the war. I do not bless this pain;leave that to the bigots of our old religions! We do not love sorrowand we all want happiness, but if sorrow must come, at least let it beof some use! Do not let your sufferings add to those of others. Youmust not give way. You are taught in the army that when the order toadvance is once given in a battle it is more dangerous to fall backthan to go on; so do not look back; leave your ruins behind you, andmarch on towards the new world. "

As he spoke the eyes of his young auditor seemed to say: "Tell memore, more yet, more even than hopes, give me certainties, tell of thevictory which will come soon. "

Men need to be tempted and decoyed, even the best of them. In exchangefor any sacrifice they make for an ideal, you have to promise them, ifnot immediate realisation, at least an eternal compensation, as allthe religions do. Jesus was followed because they thought that Hewould give them victory here or hereafter. --But he who would speak thetruth cannot promise or assure men of victory; the risks are not tobe ignored; perhaps it will never come, in any case it will be a longtime. To disciples, such a thought is crushingly pessimistic; not sofor the master, who has the serenity of a man who, having reached themountain top, can see over all the surrounding country, while theycan only see the steep hill-side which they must climb. How is he tocommunicate his calm to them? If they cannot look through the eyes ofthe master, they can always see his eyes from which are reflected thevision denied to them; there they can read the assurance that he whoknows the truth (as they believe) is delivered from all their trials. 

The eyes of Julian Moreau sought in Clerambault's eyes for thissecurity of soul, this inward harmony; and poor anxious Clerambaulthad it not. But was he sure that it was not there?... Looking atJulian humbly, he saw, ... He saw that Julian had found it in him. And as a man climbing up through a fog suddenly finds himself in thelight, he saw that the light was in him, and that it had come to himbecause he needed it to shine upon another. 

After the wounded man had gone away, somewhat comforted, Clerambaultfelt slightly dazed, and sat drinking in the strange happiness thatthe heart feels when, however unfortunate itself, it has been able tohelp another now or in the future. How profound is the instinct forhappiness, the plenitude of being! All aspire to it, but it is not thesame for all. There are some that wish only to possess; to others, sight is possession, and to others yet, faith is sight. We are linksof a chain and this instinct unites us; from those who only seek theirown good, or that of their family, or their country, up to the beingwhich embraces millions of beings and desires the good of all. Thereare those who, having no joy of their own, can almost unconsciouslybestow it on others, as Clerambault had done; for they can see thelight on his face while his own eyes are in shadow. 

The look of his young friend had revealed an unknown treasure to poorClerambault, and the knowledge of the divine message with which he wasentrusted re-established his lost union with other men. He hadonly contended with them because he was their hardy pioneer, theirChristopher Columbus forcing his way across the desert ocean, that hemight open the road to the New World. They deride, but follow him; forevery true idea, whether understood or not, is a ship under weigh, andthe souls of the past are drawn after in its wake. 

From this day onward he averted his eyes from the irreparable presentof the war and its dead, and looked towards the living, and the futurewhich is in our hands. We are hypnotised, obsessed by the thought ofthose that we have lost, and the morbid temptation to bury our heartsin their graves, but we must tear ourselves away from the balefulvapours that rise, as in Rome, from The Way of the Tombs. March on!This is no time to halt. We have not yet earned the right to rest withthem, for there are others who need us. There, like the wrecks of theGrand Army, you can see in the distance those who drag themselvesalong, searching on the dreary plain for the half-effaced path. 

The thought of the sombre pessimism which threatened to overwhelmthese young men after the war was a grave anxiety to Clerambault. The moral danger was a serious one, of which the Governments took nonotice at all. They were like bad coachmen who flog their horses up asteep hill at a gallop; it is true that the horse reaches the top, butas the road goes on he stumbles and falls, foundered for life. Withwhat a gallant spirit our young men rushed to the assault in thebeginning of the war! And then their ardour gradually diminished. But the horse was still in harness, and the shafts held him up. Afactitious excitement was kept up all around him, his daily ration wasseasoned with glittering hopes; and though the strength went out ofit little by little, the poor creature could not fall down, could noteven complain, he had not the strength to think. The countersign allabout these victims was to hear nothing, to stop the ears and to lie. 

Day after day the battle-tide ebbed, and left wrecks on the sand, menwounded and maimed; and through them the depths of this human oceanwere brought to the light. These poor wretches, ruthlessly tornfrom life, moved helplessly in the void, too feeble to cling to thepassions of yesterday or dreams of tomorrow. Some asked themselvesblindly, and others with a cruelly clear insight, why they had beenborn, what life meant.... 

"_Since he who is destroyed, suffers, and he who destroys hasno pleasure, and is shortly destroyed himself, tell me what nophilosopher can explain; whom does it please, and to whose profit isthis unfortunate life of the universe, which is only preserved by theinjury or death of all the creatures which compose it_?"[1] ... 

[Footnote 1: Leopardi. ]

It is necessary to answer these men, to give them a reason for living, but there is no such need for a man of Clerambault's age; his lifeis over, and all he requires is to free his conscience as a sort ofpublic bequest. 

To young people who have all their life before them, it is not enoughto contemplate truth across a heap of corpses; whatever the past mayhave been, the future alone counts for them. Let us clear away theruins!

What causes them the most pain? Their own suffering?

No, it is their lack of faith in the altar on which this suffering waslaid--(does a man regret if he sacrifices himself for the woman heloves, or for his child?)--This doubt poisons them, takes away thecourage to pursue their way, because they fear to find only despairat the end. This is why people say to you: "Never shake the ideal ofCountry, it ought rather to be built up. " What a derision! As if itwere possible to restore a lost faith by force of will! We deceiveourselves; we know it in the bottom of our hearts, and thisconsciousness kills courage and joy. 

Let us be brave enough to reject that in which we no longer believe. The trees drop their leaves in the autumn in order that they may putforth new leaves in the spring. Out of your past illusions, make firesas the peasants do with the fallen leaves; the fresh grass, the newfaith, will grow all the more thickly, for it is there waiting. Naturedoes not die, it changes shape continually; like her, let us cast offthe garment of the past. 

Look carefully, and reckon up these hard years. You have fought andsuffered for your country, and what have you gained by it? You havediscovered the brotherhood of the men who fight and suffer. Is theprice too high? No, if you will listen to your heart, if you willdare to open it to the new faith which has come to you when you leastexpected it. 

The thing that disappoints and drives us to despair is that we clingto what we had at the beginning; and when we no longer trust that, wefeel that all is lost. A great nation has never reached the objectsought; and so much the better, for almost always what is reached issuperior to what was sought, though different. It is not wise to startout with our wisdom ready made, but to gather it sincerely as we goalong. 

You are not the same men that you were in 1914. If you dare admit it, then dare to act it also! That will be the chief gain--perhaps theonly one--of the war. But do you really care? So many things conspireto intimidate you; the weariness of these years, old habits, dread ofthe effort needed to examine yourself, to throw away what is dead, andstand for what is living. We have, we do not know what respect for theold, a lazy preference for what we are accustomed to, even if it isbad, fatal. Then there is the indolent need for what is easy whichmakes us take a trodden path rather than hew out a new one forourselves. Is it not the ideal of most Frenchmen to accept their planof life ready-made in childhood and never change it? If only this war, which has destroyed so many of your hearths, could force you to comeout from your ashes, to found other healths, to seek other truths!

The wish to break with the past, and adventure themselves in unknownregions was not lacking to these young men. They would rather havepreferred to go ahead without stopping, and they had scarcely leftthe Old World when they expected to take possession of the New. --Nohesitation, no middle course; they wanted absolute solutions, eitherthe docile servitude of the past, or revolution. 

These were Moreau's views; he looked upon Clerambault's hope ofsocial revolution as a certainty, and in the exhortation to win truthpatiently step by step he heard an appeal to violent action whichwould conquer it at once. 

He introduced Clerambault to two or three groups of youngintellectuals with revolutionary tendencies. They were not verynumerous, for here and there you would see the same faces, but theygained an importance which they would not otherwise have had, fromthe watch which was kept on them by the authorities. Silly people inpower, armed to the teeth with millions of bayonets, police and courtsof justice at their command, yet uneasy and afraid to let a dozenfreethinkers meet to discuss them!

These circles had not the air of conspiracies, and though they ratherinvited persecution, their activities were confined to words. Whatelse was there for them to do but talk? They were separated from themass of their fellow thinkers, who had been drawn into the army orthe war-machine, which would only give them up when they were pastservice. What of the youth of Europe remained behind the lines?There were the slackers, who often descended to the lowest depths ofmeanness to make others fight, so that it should be forgottenthat they did not fight themselves. Setting these aside, therepresentatives--_rari nantes_--of the younger generation in civillife were those discharged from the army for physical incapacity, anda few broken-down wrecks of the war, like Moreau. In these mutilatedor diseased bodies the spirit was like a candle lighted behind brokenwindows. Twisted and smoky, it seemed as if a breath would extinguishit. But it was all the more ardent for knowing what to expect fromlife. 

Sudden changes from extreme pessimism to an equally extreme optimismwould occur, and these violent oscillations of the barometer did notalways correspond with the course of events. Pessimism was easilyexplained, but its contrary was more remarkable, and it would havebeen difficult to account for it. They were just a handful of peoplewithout means of action, and every day seemed to give the lie to theirideas, but they appeared more contented as things grew worse. Theirhope was in the worst, that mad belief proper to fanatical andoppressed minorities; Anti-Christ was to bring back Christ; the neworder would rise when the crimes of the old had brought it to ruin;and it did not disturb them that they and their dreams might be sweptaway also. These young irreconcilables wished above all to prevent thepartial realisation of their dreams in the old order of things. Allor nothing! How foolish to try to make the world better; let it beperfect, or go to pieces. It was a mysticism of the Great Overturning, of the Revolution, and it affected the minds of those least religious;they even went farther than the churches. Foolish race of man! Alwaysthis faith in the absolute, which leads ever to the same intoxication, but the same disasters. Always mad for the war between nations, forthe war of classes, for universal peace. It seems as if when humanitystuck its nose out of the boiling mud of the Creation, it had asun-stroke from which it has never recovered, and which, at intervals, subjects it to a recurrence of delirium. 

Perhaps these mystical revolutionaries are forerunners of mutationsthat are brooding in the race--which may brood for centuriesand perhaps never burst forth. For there are millions of latentpossibilities in nature, for one realised in the time allotted to ourhumanity. And it is perhaps this obscure sentiment of what might be, but will not come to pass, which sometimes gives to this sort ofmysticism another form, rarer, more tragical--an exalted pessimism, the dangerous attraction of sacrifice. How many of theserevolutionists have we seen secretly convinced of the overwhelmingforce of evil, and the certain defeat of their cause, and yettransported with love for a lost cause "... _sed victa Catoni_"... And filled with the hope of dying for her, destroying or beingdestroyed. The crushed Commune gave rise to many aspirations, not forits victory, but for a similar annihilation!--In the hearts of themost materialistic there burns forever a spark of that eternal fire, that hope so often buffeted and denied, but still maintained, of animperishable refuge for all the oppressed in some better Hereafter. 

These young people welcomed Clerambault with great affection andesteem, hoping to make him one of themselves. Some of them read inhis ideas a reflection of their own, while others saw in him justa sincere old _bourgeois_ whose heart had been hitherto his onlyguide--a rather insufficient, though generous one. They hoped that hewould let himself be taught by their science, and like them, wouldfollow to their extreme limits the logical consequences of theprinciples laid down. Clerambault resisted feebly, for he knew thatnothing can be done to convince a young man who has made himself partof a system. Discussion is hopeless at that age. Earlier there is somechance to act on him, when, as it were, the hermit-crab is looking forhis shell; and later something may be done when the shell begins towear and be uncomfortable; but when the coat is new, the only thing isto let him wear it while it fits him. If he grows, or shrinks, he willget another. We will force no one, but let no one try to put force onus!

No one in this circle, at least in the early days, thought ofconstraining Clerambault, but sometimes it seemed to him that hisideas were strangely habited in the fashion of his hosts. Whatunexpected echoes he heard on their lips! He let his friends talk, while he himself said but little, but when he had left them, he wouldfeel troubled and rather ironical. "Are those my thoughts?" he wouldsay to himself. It is terribly difficult for one soul to communicatewith another, impossible perhaps, and who knows?... Nature is wiserthan we ... It may be that this is for our good. 

Is it right, is it even possible for us to utter all our thoughts? Wereach a conclusion slowly, painfully, through a series of trials;it is the formula of the delicate equilibrium between the inwardelements. Change the elements, their proportions, their nature, theformula is no longer accurate and will produce different results, andif you suddenly communicate your whole thought to another, you run therisk of alarming, not helping him. There are cases in which, if he hadunderstood, it might have killed him. Nature, however, is prudent andtakes precautions. Your friend does not comprehend you, because hecannot, his instinct will not let him; all that he gets from yourthought is the shock when it touches his; the ball glances off, but itis not so easy to tell in what direction. 

Men do not listen with their brains alone, but with their dispositionsand their passions, and out of what you offer them, each chooses hisown and rejects the rest, through a deep instinct of self-defence. Ourminds do not throw open the door to every new idea, but rather keep awary eye on new-comers through a peep-hole. The lofty thoughts of thesages, of Jesus, of Socrates; how were they received? In those daysmen who spoke such things were killed; twenty years later they weretreated as gods--another way of killing them, in fact, by placingtheir thoughts at a distance, in the kingdom of heaven. The worldwould indeed come to an end if such ideas were to be put in practicehere and now; and their authors knew this well. Perhaps they showedthe greatness of their souls more by what they did not say than bywhat they did; how eloquent were the pathetic silences of Jesus! Thegolden veil of the ancient symbols and myths, made to shield our weaktimid sight! Too often, what is for one the breath of life, is foranother death, or worse, murder!

What are we to do, if our hands are full of verities? Shall we spreadthem broadcast?--Suppose the seed of thought may spring up in weeds orpoisonous plants ... ?

Poor thinker, there is no need to tremble, you are not the master ofFate, but you form part of it, you are one of its voices. Speak, then;that is the law of your being. Speak out your whole thought, but withkindness; be like a good mother. It may not be given to her to makemen of her children, but she can patiently teach them how to make menof themselves if they will. 

You cannot set others free, in spite of them, and from the outside;and even if it were possible, what good would it do? If they do notfree themselves, tomorrow they will fall back into slavery. All youcan do is to set a good example, and say: "There is the road, followit and you will find Freedom. " ... 

In spite of his resolution to do the best he could and leave the restto the gods, it was fortunate for Clerambault that he could not seeall the consequences of his ideas. His thought aspired to the reignof Peace; and very probably it would contribute in some degree tothe stirring up of social struggles, like all true pacifism, howeverparadoxical this may seem. For true pacifism is a condemnation of thepresent. 

Clerambault had no suspicion of the terrible forces that would oneday make use of his name. With a wholly opposite effect, his spiritproduced a harmony among his young associates by reacting againsttheir violence. He felt the value of life all the more, because theyheld it in such light esteem; and in this respect they were notdifferent from the Nationalists whom he opposed. Very few preferlife to their ideals--which is, we are told, one of Man's noblestqualities. 

In spite of all this, it was a pleasure to Clerambault when he met aman who loved life for its own sake. This was a comrade of Moreau's, who had also been severely wounded. His name was Gillot, and in civillife he had been an industrial designer. A shell had plastered himfrom head to foot; he had lost a leg and his ear-drum was broken, buthe had re-acted more energetically against his fate than Moreau. Hewas small and dark, with bright eyes full of gaiety, in spite of allthat he had gone through. Though he agreed with Moreau in general asto the war and the crimes of the social order, he viewed the sameevents and the same men with different eyes; from which arose manydiscussions between the two young men. 

One day Moreau had just been telling Clerambault of some gloomyexperience of the trenches: "Yes, " said Gillot, "it did happen likethat and the worst of it was, that it had no effect on us, not theleast little bit. " And when Moreau protested indignantly: "Well, perhaps you, and one or two more may have minded a little, --butmost of them did not even notice it. " He kept on to stop furtherremonstrances from his friend: "I am not trying to make out that youwere better than the rest, old man, there is no need for that; I onlysay it because it is so. Look here, " he added, turning to Clerambault, "those who have come back and written about all this, they tell us, of course, what they felt. But they felt more than ordinary mortalsbecause they were artists, and naturally everything got on theirnerves, while the rest of us were tougher. Now that I think of it, that makes it more terrible; when you read these stories that sickenyou, and make the hair stand up on your head, you don't get the fulleffect. Think of fellows looking on, smoking, chaffing, busy withsomething else. You have to, you know, or you would go all to pieces.... All the same, it is astonishing what human creatures can get usedto! I believe they could make themselves comfortable at the bottom ofa sewer. It really disgusts a man, for I was just the same myself. Youmustn't suppose that I was like this chap here, always staring ata death's head. Like everybody else, I thought the whole thing wasidiotic; but life is like that, as far as I can see! ... We did whatwe had to do, and let it go at that;--the end? Well, one is as good asanother, whether you lose your own skin or the war comes to an end, itfinishes it up all the same; and in the meantime you are alive, youeat, you sleep, your bowels--excuse me, one must tell things as theyare!... Do you want to know what is at the bottom of it all, Sir? Thereal truth is that we do not care for life, or not enough. In one ofyour articles you say very truly that life is the great thing;--onlyyou wouldn't think so to see most people at this minute! Not much lifeabout them; they all seem drowsy, waiting for the last sleep; it looksas if they said to themselves: 'We are flat on our backs now, no needto stir an inch. ' No, we don't make enough out of life. And thenpeople are always trying to spoil it for you. From the time you area child they keep on telling you about the beauty of death, or aboutdead folks. In the catechism, in the history books, they arealways shouting: '_Mourir pour la Patrie!_' It is either popery orpatriotism, whichever you please; and then this life of the presentday is a perfect nuisance; it looks as if it was made expressly totake the backbone out of a man. There is no more initiative. We areall nothing but machines, but with no real system; we only do piecesof work, never knowing where our work will fit in; most often itdoesn't fit at all. It is all a mess, with no good in it for anyone;we are thrown in on top of one another like herrings in a barrel, noone knows why;--but then we don't know either why we live at all; itis not life, we are just there. 

"They tell us about some time in the dark ages when our grandfatherstook the Bastille. Well, you would think to hear the fakers talk whorun things now that there was nothing left to do, that we were all inheaven; you can see it carved on the monuments. We know that it is notso; there is another pot boiling, another revolution on the way; butthe old one did not do such great things for us after all! It's hardto see plain, hard to trust anybody; there is no one to show us theway, to point to something grand and fine above all these swamps fullof toads.... People are always doing something to confuse the issue, nowadays; talking about Right, Justice, Liberty. But that trick isplayed out. Good enough to die for, but you can't live for things likethat. "

"How about the present?" asked Clerambault. 

"Now? There is no going, back, but I often think that if I had tobegin over again--"

"When did you change your mind about all these things?"

"That was the funniest thing of all. It was as soon as I was wounded. It was like getting out of bed in the morning. I had hardly slipped aleg out of life than I wanted to draw it in again. I had been so welloff, and never thought of it, ass that I was! I can still see myself, as I came to. The ground was all torn up around me, worse even thanthe bodies themselves lying in heaps, mixed pell-mell like a lot ofjack-straws; the ground simply reeked, as if it was itself bleeding. It was pitch dark, and at first I did not feel anything but the cold, except that I knew I was hit, all right.... I didn't know exactly whatpiece of me was missing, but I was not in a hurry to find out; I wasafraid to know, afraid to stir, there was only one thing I was sureof, that I was alive. If I had only a minute left, I meant to holdon to it.... There was a rocket in the sky; I never thought what itmeant, I didn't care, but the curve it made, and the light, like abright flower.... I can't tell you how lovely it seemed. I simplydrank it in.... I remembered when I was a child, one night near LaSamaritaine. There were fireworks on the river. That child seemed tobe someone else, who made me laugh, and yet I was sorry for him; andthen I thought that it was a good thing to be alive, and grow up, andhave something, somebody, no matter who to love ... Even that rocket;and then the pain came on, and I began to howl, and didn't know anymore till I found myself in the ambulance. There wasn't much fun inliving then; it felt as if a dog was gnawing my bones ... Might aswell have stayed at the bottom of the hole ... But even then how fineit seemed to live the way I used to, just live on every day withoutpain ... Think of that! and we never notice it, --without any pain atall ... None!... It seemed like a dream, and when it did let up for asecond, just to taste the air on your tongue, and feel light all overyour body--God Almighty! to think that it was like that all the timebefore, and I thought nothing of it.... What fools we are to wait tillwe lose a thing before we understand it! And when we do want it, andask pardon because we did not appreciate it before, all we hear is:'Too late!'"

"It is never too late, " said Clerambault. 

Gillot was only too ready to believe this; as an educated workman hewas better armed for the fray than Moreau or Clerambault himself. Nothing depressed him for long; "fall down, pick yourself up again, and try once more, " he would say, and he always believed he couldsurmount any obstacle that barred his way. He was ready to marchagainst them on his one leg, the quicker the better. Like the others, he was devoted to the idea of revolution and found means to reconcileit with his optimism; everything was to pass off quietly according tohim, for he was a man without rancour. 

It would not have been safe, however, to trust him too much in thisrespect; there are many surprises in these plebeian characters, forthey are very easily moved and apt to change. Clerambault heard himone day talking with a friend named Lagneau on leave from the front;they said the poilus meant to knock everything to pieces when the warwas over, maybe before. A man of the lower classes in France is oftencharming, quick to seize on your idea before you have had a chance toexplain it thoroughly; but good Lord! how soon he forgets. He forgetswhat was said, what he answered, what he saw, what he believed, whathe wanted; but he is always sure of what he says, and sees, and thinksnow. When Gillot was talking to Lagneau, his arguments were exactlycontrary to those he had advanced on the previous day to Clerambault. It was not only that his ideas had changed, but apparently his wholedisposition. One morning there would be nothing violent enough for histhirst for action and destruction, and the next he would talk aboutgoing into a little business with lots of money, the best of food, atribe of children to bring up, and to hell with the rest! Though theyall called themselves sincere internationalists, there were fewamong these poilus who had not preserved the old French prejudice ofsuperiority of race over the rest of the world, enemies or friends;and even in their own country over the other provinces, or if theywere Parisians, over the rest of France. This idea was firmly embeddedin their minds, and they boasted of it, not maliciously but by way ofa joke. Uncomplaining, willing, always ready to go, like Gillot, theywere certainly capable of making a revolution and then un-making it, starting another, and so on--tra-la-la--till all was upset and theywere ready to be the prey of the first adventurer who happened along. Our political foxes know well enough that the best way to check arevolution is, at the right moment, to let it blow over while thepeople are amused. 

It looked then as if the hour was at hand. A year before the end ofthe war in both camps there were months and weeks when the infinitepatience of the martyrised people seemed on the point of giving way;when a great cry was ready to go up, "Enough. " For the first timethere was the universal impression of a bloody deception. It is easyto understand the indignation of the people seeing billions thrownaway on the war when before it their leaders had haggled over a fewhundred thousand for social betterments. There were figures thatexasperated them more than any speeches on the subject. Someone hadcalculated that it cost 75, 000 francs to kill a man; that made tenmillions of corpses, and for the same sum we could have had tenmillions of stockholders. The stupidest could see the immense value ofthe treasure, and the horrible, the shameful, waste for an illusion. There were things more abject still; from one end of Europe to theother, there were vermin fattening on death, war-profiteers, robbersof corpses. 

"Do not talk to us any more, " said these young men to themselves, "ofthe struggle of democracies against autocracies;--they are all tarredwith the same brush. In all countries the war has pointed out theleaders to the vengeance of the people; that unworthy middle class, political, financial, intellectual, that in a single century of powerhas heaped on the world more exactions, crimes, ruins and follies, than kings and churches had inflicted in ten centuries. "

This is why when the axes of those heroic woodsmen, Lenine andTrotzky, were heard in the forest, many oppressed hearts thrilled withjoy and hope, and in every country there was sharpening of hatchets. The leading classes rose up against the common danger, all overEurope, in both opposing camps. There was no negotiation needed forthem to reach an agreement on this subject, for their instinct spokeloudly. The fiercest enemies of Germany, through the organs of the_bourgeoisie_, tacitly gave a free hand to the Kaiser to strangleRussian liberty which struck at the root of that social injustice onwhich they all lived. In the absurdity of their hatred, they could notconceal their delight when they saw Prussian Militarism--that monsterwho afterwards turned on them--avenge them on these daring rebels. Naturally this only increased the admiration for these excommunicateddefiers of the world, on the part of the down-trodden masses and thesmall number of independent spirits. 

The pot began to boil with a vengeance, and to stop it the governmentsof Europe shut down the lid and sat on it. The stupid class in controlkept throwing fuel on the flame, and then wondered at the alarmingrumblings. This revolt of the elements was attributed to the wickeddesigns of some free speakers, to mysterious intrigues, to the enemy'sgold, to the pacifists; and none of them saw--though a child wouldhave known it--that, if they wanted to prevent an explosion, the firstthing to do was to put out the fire. The god of all these powers wasforce; no matter what they were called, empires, or republics, it wasthe mailed fist, disguised, gloved but hard and sure of itself. Itbecame also, like a rising tide, the law of the oppressed, a darkstruggle between two contrary pressures. Where the metal had wornthin--in Russia first--the boiler had burst. Where there were cracksin the cover--as in neutral countries--the hissing steam escaped, but a deceitful calm reigned over the countries at war, kept down byoppression. To the oppressors this calm was reassuring; they werearmed equally against the enemy or their own citizens. The machine ofwar is double-ended, the cover strong, made of the best steel, andfirmly screwed down; that, at least, cannot be torn off--no, butsuppose the whole thing blows up together!

Repressed, like everyone else, Clerambault saw rebellion gatheringaround him. He understood it, thought it inevitable; but that was nota reason for loving it. He did not believe in the _Amor Fati_. It wasenough to understand; the tyrant has no claim to be loved. 

Clerambault's young friends were not sparing of their ideas, and itsurprised them to see how little warmth he showed towards the new idolfrom the North: the rule of the proletariat. They had no timorousscruples or half-measures, they meant to make the world happy intheir way--perhaps not in its own. At one stroke they decreed thesuppression of all liberties in opposition to theirs; the fallenmiddle classes were not to be allowed to meet, or to vote, or to havethe freedom of the press. 

"This is all very well, " said Clerambault, "but at this rate they willbe the new proletariat, tyranny will merely change places. "

"Only for a time, " was the answer, "the last oppression, which willkill tyranny. "

"Yes, the same old war for right and liberty; which is always going tobe the war to end war; but in the meantime it is stronger than ever, and rights like liberty are trampled under foot. "

Of course they all protested indignantly against this comparison; intheir eyes war and those who waged it were equally infamous. 

"None the less, " said Clerambault gently, "many of you have fought, and nearly all of you have believed in it ... No, do not deny it!Besides, the feeling that inspired you had its noble side; a greatwickedness was shown to you, and you threw yourselves upon it to rootit out, in a very fine spirit. Only you seem to think that there isonly one wickedness in the world, and, that when that has been purgedaway, we shall all return to the Golden Age. The same thing happenedat the time of the Dreyfus Case; all the well-meaning people ofEurope--I among them--seemed never to have heard before of thecondemnation of an innocent man. They were terribly upset by it, andthey turned the world inside out to wash off the impurity. Alas! thiswas done, but both washers and washed grew discouraged in the process, and when it was all over, lo, --the world was just as black as ever! Itseems as if man were incapable of grasping the whole of human misery;he dreads to see the extent of the evil, and in order not to beoverwhelmed by it, he fixes on some one point, where he localises allthe trouble, and will see nothing further. All this is human nature, and easy enough to understand, my friends; but we should have morecourage, and acknowledge the truth that the evil is everywhere; amongourselves, as well as with the enemy. You have found this out littleby little in our own country, and seeing the tares in the wheat, youwant to throw yourselves against your governments with the same furythat made you see incarnate evil in the person of the enemy. But ifever you recognise that the tares are in you also, then you may turnon yourselves in utter despair. Is not this much to be feared, afterthe revolutions we have seen, where those who came to bring justicefound themselves, without knowing why, with soiled hands and hearts?You are like big children. When will you cease to insist on theabsolute good?"

They might have replied that you must will the absolute, in order toarrive at the real; the mind can dally with shades of meaning, whichare impossible to action, where it must be all or nothing. Clerambaulthad the choice between them and their adversaries; there was no other. 

Yes, he knew it well enough; there was no other choice in the field ofaction, where all is determined in advance. Just as the unjust victoryleads inevitably to the revenge which in its turn will be unjust, socapitalistic oppression will provoke the proletarian revolution, whichwill follow the bad example and oppress, when it has the power--anendless chain. Here is a stern Greek justice which the mind can acceptand even honour as the rule of the universe. But the heart cannotsubmit, cannot accept it. Its mission is to break the law of universalwarfare. Can it ever come to pass? Who can tell! But in any case it isclear that the hopes and wishes of the heart are outside the orderof nature; her mission is rather above nature, and in its essence_religious_. 

Clerambault, who was filled with this spirit, did not as yet dare toavow it; or at least he did not venture to use the word "religious, "that word which the religions, that have so little of its spirit, havediscredited in the eyes of today. 

If Clerambault himself could not see clearly into his own thought, itwas hardly to be expected that his young friends should do so, andeven if they had seen, they would never have understood. They couldnot bear the idea that a man who condemned the present state of thingsas bad and destructive, should hesitate at the most energetic methodsfor its suppression. They were not wrong from their point of view, which was that of immediate action, but the field of the mind isgreater, its battles cover a wider space; it does not waste itsenergies in bloody skirmishes. Even admitting the methods advocated byhis friends, Clerambault could not accept their axiom, that "the endjustifies the means. " For, on the contrary, he believed that the meansare even more important to real progress than the end ... What end?Will there ever be such a thing?

This idea was irritating and confusing to these young minds; it servedto increase a dangerous hostility, which had arisen in the last fiveyears among the working class, against the intellectuals. No doubt thelatter had richly deserved it; how far away seemed the time when menof thought marched at the head of revolutions! Whereas now they wereone with the forces of reaction. Even the limited number of those whohad kept aloof, while blaming the mistakes of the ring, were, likeClerambault, unable to give up their individualism, which had savedthem once, but now held them prisoners, outside the new movement ofthe masses. This conclusion once reached by the revolutionists, it wasbut one step to a declaration that the intellectuals must fall, andnot a very long step. The pride of the working class already showeditself in articles and speeches, while waiting for the moment when, as in Russia, it could pass to action; and it demanded that theintellectuals should submit servilely to the proletarian leaders. Itwas even remarkable how some of the intellectuals were among the mosteager in demanding this lowering of the position of their group. Onewould have thought that they did not wish it to be supposed that theybelonged to it. Perhaps they had forgotten that they did. 

Moreau, however, had not forgotten it; he was all the more bitter inrepudiating this class, whose shirt of Nessus still clung to his skin, and it made him extremely violent. 

He now began to display singularly aggressive sentiments towardsClerambault; during a discussion he would interrupt him rudely, witha kind of sarcastic and bitter irritation. It almost seemed as if hemeant to wound him. 

Clerambault did not take offence; he rather felt great pity forMoreau; he knew what he suffered, and he could imagine the bitternessof a young life spoiled like his. Patience and resignation, the moralnourishment on which stomachs fifty years old subsist, were not suitedto his youth. 

One evening Moreau had shown himself particularly disagreeable, andyet he persisted in walking home with Clerambault, as if he could notmake up his mind to leave him. He walked along by his side, silentand frowning. All at once Clerambault stopped, and putting his handthrough Moreau's arm with a friendly gesture said with a smile:

"It's all wrong, isn't it, old fellow?"

Moreau was somewhat taken aback, but he pulled himself together andasked drily what made anyone think that things were "all wrong. "

"I thought so because you were so cross tonight, " said Clerambaultgood naturally, and in answer to a protesting murmur. "Yes, youcertainly were trying to hurt me, --just a little ... I know of coursethat you would not really, --but when a man like you tries to inflictpain on others it is because he is suffering himself ... Isn't thattrue?"

"Yes, it is true, " said Moreau, "you must forgive me, but it hurts mewhen I see that you are not in sympathy with our action. "

"And are you?" demanded Clerambault. Moreau did not seem tounderstand. "You yourself, " repeated Clerambault, "do you believe init?"

"Of course I do! What a question!" said Moreau indignantly. 

"I doubt it, " said Clerambault gently. Moreau seemed to be on thepoint of losing his temper, but in a moment he said more quietly: "Youare mistaken. " Clerambault turned to walk on. "All right, " said he, "you know your own thoughts better than I do. "

For some minutes they continued in silence; then Moreau seized his oldfriend's arm, and said excitedly:

"How did you know it?"--and his resistance having broken down, heconfessed the despair hidden under his aggressive determination tobelieve and act. He was eaten up with pessimism, a natural consequenceof his excessive idealism which had been so cruelly disappointed. Thereligious souls of former times were tranquil enough; they placed thekingdom of God so far away that no event could touch it; but thoseof today have established it on earth, by the work of human love andreason, so that when life deals a blow at their dream all life seemshorrible to them. There were days when Moreau was tempted to cut histhroat! Humanity seemed made of rotteness; he saw with despair thedefeats, failures, flaws carved on the destiny of the race from thevery beginning--the worm in the bud--and he could not endure the ideaof this absurd and tragic fate, which man can never escape. LikeClerambault, he recognized the poison which is in the intelligence, since he had it in his veins, but unlike his elder, who had passed thecrisis and only saw danger in the irregularity of thought and not inits essence, Moreau was maddened by the idea that the poison was anecessary part of intelligence. His diseased imagination torturedhim by all sorts of bugbears; thought appeared to him as a sickness, setting an indelible mark on the human race; and he pictured tohimself in advance all the cataclysms to which it led. Already, thought he, we behold reason staggering with pride before the forcesthat science has put at her disposal--demons of nature, obedientto the magical formulas of chemistry and distracted by thissuddenly-acquired power, turning to self-destruction. 

Nevertheless Moreau was too young to remain in the grip of theseterrors. He wanted action at any price, anything sooner than to beleft alone with them. Why not urge him to act, instead of trying tohold him back?

"My dear boy, " said Clerambault, "it is not right to urge another manto a dangerous act, unless you are ready to share it. I have no usefor agitators, even if they are sincere, who send others to the stakeand do not set the example of martyrdom themselves. There is but onetruly sacred type of revolutionary, the Crucified; but very few menare made for the aureole of the cross. The trouble is that we alwaysassign duties to ourselves which are superhuman or inhuman. It is notgood for the ordinary man to strive after the "_Uebermenschheit_, " andit can only prove to him a source of useless suffering; but each mancan aspire to shed light, order, peace, and kindness around him in hislittle circle; and that should be happiness enough. "

"Not quite enough for me, " said Moreau. "Doubt would creep in; it mustbe all or nothing. "

"I know. Your revolution would leave no place for doubt. Your heartsare hard and burning; your brains like geometric patterns. Everythingor nothing. No shading! But what would life be without it? It isits greatest charm and its chief merit as well; fragile beauty andgoodness, weakness everywhere. We must offer love and help; day byday, and step by step. The world is not transformed by force, or bya miracle, in the twinkling of an eye; but second by second itmoves forward in infinity and the humblest who feels it partakes ofinfinity. Patience, and let us not think that one wrong effaced willsave humanity; it will only make one day bright, but other days andmore light will come; each will bring its sun. You would not wish tostay its course?"

"We have not the time to wait for all this, " said Moreau. "Every daybrings us frightful problems which must be decided on the spot. If weare not to be the masters, then we shall be victims; ... We, do I say?Not ourselves alone, we are already victimised, but all that is dearto us, all that holds us to life, hope in the future, the salvation ofhumanity. See the things that press upon us, the agonising questionsas to those who will come after us, and those who have children. Thiswar is not yet over, and it is only too evident that its crimes andfalsehoods have sown the seeds of new wars, near at hand. Why do wehave children? For what do they grow up? To be butchered like this?Look where you will, there is no answer. Are we to leave these crazycountries, this old continent, and emigrate? But where? Are theirfifty acres of ground on the globe where independent honest people cantake refuge? We must be on one side or the other; you see well enoughthat we have to choose between patriotism and revolution. If not, whatremains? Non-resistance? Is that what you would have? But there isnothing in that unless you have religious faith; otherwise it is onlythe resignation of the lamb led to the slaughter. Unfortunately, thegreater number decide on nothing, prefer not to think, turn their eyesaway from the future, blinded by the hope that what they have seen andsuffered will not recur. That is why we must decide for them, whetherthey want it or not, make them quicken their step, save them in spiteof themselves. Revolution means a few men who will for all humanity. "

"I do not think that I should like it, " said Clerambault, "if anotherdecided for me. And on the other hand, I should not want to usurpanother man's will; I should prefer to leave each one free, and notinterfere with the liberty of others. But I know that I am asking toomuch. "

"Only what is impossible, " said Moreau. "When you begin to will, youcannot stop halfway. There are just two sorts of men, those who havetoo great will-power--like Lenine, and a couple of dozen men in thewhole course of history--and those who have too little, who can decidenothing, like us, me, if you like. It is clear enough, despair is allthat drives me to will anything.... "

"Why despair?" said Clerambault. "A man's fate is made every day byhimself, and none knows what it will be; it is what we are. If you arecast down, so also is your fate. "

"We shall never have strength enough, " answered Moreau sadly. "Don'tyou believe that I see what infinitely small chances of success arevolution would have now in our country, under present conditions?Think of all the destruction, the economic losses, the demoralisation, the fatal lassitude caused by the war. " And he added: "It was not truewhat I told you the first time we met, about all my comrades feelingas I did, rebelling against the suffering. Gillot told you there areonly a few of us, and the others are good fellows for the most partbut weak as water! They can see how things are, clearly enough, butsooner than run their heads against a wall they would rather not thinkabout it, or pass it off with a joke. We French are always ready tolaugh, it is our treasure and our ruin. It is a fine thing, but whata hold it gives to our oppressors. 'Let them sing as long as they arewilling to pay, ' as the Italian said. 'Let us laugh, so long as weare ready to die. ' ... We might say. And then this terrible force ofhabit, that Gillot was talking about. A man will get used to no matterwhat ridiculous or painful conditions, provided they last long enough, and that he has company. He becomes habituated to cold, to heat, to death, and to crime. His whole force for resistance is used inadapting himself; and then he curls up in his corner and does not dareto stir, for fear that any change will bring back the pain. We are allso terribly tired! When the soldiers come back, they will have onlyone thought--to sleep and forget. "

"How about the excitable Lagneau, who talks about blowing everythingto pieces?"

"I have known Lagneau since the beginning of the war, and he hasbeen in succession, royalist, "revanchard, " annexationist, internationalist, socialist, anarchist, bolshevist, and I-don't-give-adamnist. He will finish as a reactionary, and will be sent to makefood for cannon against the enemy that our government will pick outamong our adversaries or our friends of today. Do you suppose that thepeople are of our way of thinking? Perhaps, or they may agree with theothers. They will take up all opinions one after the other. "

"You are a revolutionary then because you are discouraged?" saidClerambault, laughing. 

"There are plenty like that among us. "

"Gillot came out of the war more optimistic than he went in. "

"Gillot is the forgetful sort, but I don't envy him that, " said Moreaubitterly. 

"But you ought not to upset him, " said Clerambault. 

"Gillot needs all the help you can give him. "

"Help from me?" said Moreau incredulously. 

"He is not naturally strong, and if you would make him so, you mustlet him see that you believe in him. "

"Do you think belief comes by willing to have it?"

"You know whether that is true! No, I think, is the answer. Beliefcomes through love. "

"By love of those who believe?"

"Is it not always through love, and only in that way, that we learn totrust?"

Moreau was touched; he had been a clever youth, eaten up by thecraving for knowledge, and like the rest of his class, he had sufferedfor lack of brotherly affection. True human intercourse is banishedfrom the education of today, but this vital sentiment, hithertorepressed, had revived in the trenches, filled with living, sufferingflesh thrown together. At first it was hard to let oneself go; thegeneral hardening, the fear of sentimentality or of ridicule, tendedto put barriers between hearts; but when Moreau was laid up, hissheath of pride began to give way, and Clerambault had littledifficulty in breaking through it. The best thing about this man wasthat false pride melted before him, for he had none of his own; peopleshowed to him as he to them their real selves, their weakness andtheir troubles, which we are taught to hide from a silly idea ofself-respect. Moreau had unconsciously learned to recognise atthe front the superiority of men who were his social inferiors, brother-soldiers or "Non-Coms. " Among these he had been much drawn toGillot. He was glad that Clerambault should have appealed to him onbehalf of his friend, for his secret wish always was to be of some useto another man. 

At the next opportunity Clerambault whispered to Gillot that he oughtto be optimistic for two, and cheer Moreau up; and thus each foundhelp in the need of helping the other, according to the greatprinciple of life: "Give, and it shall be given unto you. "

No matter in what time one lives, nor what misfortunes overtake one, all is not lost as long as there remains in the heart of the race aspark of manly friendship. Blow it into a flame! Draw closer thesecold solitary hearts! If only one of the fruits of this war of nationscould be the fusion of the best among all classes, the union of theyouth of many countries--of the manual labourers and the thinkers--thefuture would be re-born through their mutual aid. 

But if unity is not one wanting to dominate the other, neither is itthat one prefers to be dominated. But this was precisely, however, what these young revolutionaries thought, and insisted upon, with acurious sort of self-will. They snubbed Clerambault, on the principlethat intelligence should be at the service of the proletariat ... "Dienen, dienen ... " which was the last word even of the proud Wagner. More than one lofty spirit brought low has said the same; if theycould not rule supreme, they would serve. 

Clerambault reflected: "The rarest thing is to find honest peoplewho want to be simply my equals; but if we must choose, tyranny fortyranny, I prefer that which held the bodies of Aesop and Epictetusin slavery but left their minds free, to that which promises onlymaterial liberty and enslaves the soul. "

This intolerance made him feel that he could never attach himselfto any party, no matter what it was. Between the two sides, war orrevolution, he could frankly state his preference for one, revolution. For it alone offered some hope for the future, which the war couldonly destroy. But to prefer a party does not mean that you yield to itall independence of thought. It is the error and abuse of democraciesthat they wish that all should have the same duties, and impose thesame tasks on all; but in an advancing community there are multipletasks. While the main body fights to gain an immediate advantage inprogress, there are others who should maintain eternal values farabove the victors of tomorrow or yesterday and which are beyondall the rest and throw light on the way above the smoke of battle. Clerambault had allowed himself to be too long blinded by this smoke;he could not plunge into a fresh fight; but in this short-sightedworld it is an impropriety, almost a fault to see more clearly thanyour neighbours. 

This sardonic truth was brought home to him in a discussion with theseyoung St. Justs. They pointed out his mistakes, impertinently enough, by comparing him to the "Astrologer who fell into the Pit":

 ... "They said, poor creature, if your eye What lies beneath can hardly spy, Think you your gaze can pierce the sky?"

He had enough sense of humour to see the justice of the comparison;yes, he was of the number of:

 "Those whom phantoms alarm While some serious harm Threatens them or their farm. "

"Even so, " he said, "do you think that your republic will have noneed of astronomers, just as the first one could get along withoutchemists? Or are they all to be mobilised? In that case there would bea good chance of your all finding yourselves together at the bottomof the well! Is that what you want? I should not object so much ifit were only a question of sharing your fate, but when it comes tojoining in your hatreds!"

"You have some of your own, from what I have heard, " said one of theyoung men. Just at this moment another man came in with a newspaper inhis hand and called to Clerambault:

"Congratulations, old boy, I see your enemy Bertin is dead. "

The irascible journalist had died in a few hours from an attack ofpneumonia. For the last six months he had pursued with fury anyonewhom he suspected of working for peace, or even of wishing for it. From one step to another he had come to look upon, not only thecountry, as sacred, but the war also, and among those whom he attackedmost fiercely, Clerambault had a foremost place. Bertin could notpardon the resistance to his onslaughts; Clerambault's replies had atfirst only irritated him, but the disdainful silence with which hislatest invectives had been met drove him beside himself. His swollenvanity was deeply wounded, and nothing would have satisfied him butthe total annihilation of his adversary. To him Clerambault was notonly a personal enemy, but a foe to the public; and in the endeavourto prove this, he made him the centre of a great pacifist plot. At anyother time, this would have seemed absurd in everyone's eyes, but nowno one had eyes to see with. During the last weeks Bertin's fury andviolence had gone beyond anything that he had written before; theywere a threat against anyone who was convicted or suspected of thedangerous heresy of Peace. 

In this little reunion the news of his death was received with noisysatisfaction; and his funeral oration was preached with an energythat yielded nothing in this line to the efforts of the most famousmasters. But Clerambault, absorbed in the newspaper account, scarcelyseemed to hear. One of the men standing near, tapped him on theshoulder, and said:

"This ought to be a pleasure to you. "

Clerambault started: "Pleasure, " he said, "pleasure?"--he took his hatand went out. It was pitch dark in the street outside, all the lightshaving been out on account of an air-raid. Before his mind thereflowered the fine clear-cut face of a boy of sixteen, with its warmpale skin and dark soft eyes, the curling hair, the mobile, smilingmouth, the tone of the sweet voice--Bertin, as he was when they firstmet at about the same age. Their long evening talks, the tenderconfidences, the discussions, the dreams ... For in those days Bertintoo was a dreamer, and even his common-sense, his precocious irony didnot protect him from impossible hopes and generous schemes for therenovation of the human race. How fair the future had appeared totheir youthful eyes! And in those moments of ecstatic vision how theirhearts had seemed to melt together in loving friendship ... 

And now to see what life had made of them both! This rancorousstruggle, Bertin's insane determination to trample under foot thoseearly dreams, and the friend who still cherished them;--and he, too, Clerambault, who had let himself be carried away by the same murderousimpulse, trying to render blow for blow, to draw blood from hisadversary. Could it be that at the first moment, when he heard of thedeath of his former friend--he was horrified at himself--but did henot feel it as a relief? What is it that possesses us all? What wickedinsanity that turns us against our better selves?... 

Lost in these thoughts, he had wandered from the road, and nowperceived that he was walking in the wrong direction. He could see thelong arms of the search-lights stretching across the sky, hear thetremendous explosions of the Zeppelin bombs over the city, and thedistant growlings of the forts in the aerial fight. The enraged peopletearing each other to pieces! And to what end? That they all might beas Bertin was now, reach the extinction which awaited all men, and allcountries. And those rebels who were planning more violence, othersanguinary idols to set up against the old ones, new gods of carnagethat man carves for himself, in the vain hope of ennobling his deadlyinstincts!

Good God! Why do they not see the imbecility of their conduct, in faceof the gulf that swallows up each man that dies, all humanity withhim? These millions of creatures who have but a moment to live, whydo they persist in making it infernal by their atrocious and absurdquarrels about ideas; like wretches who cut each other's throats fora handful of spurious coins thrown to them? We are all victims, underthe same sentence, and instead of uniting, we fight among ourselves. Poor fools! On the brow of each man that passes I can see the sweat ofagony; efface it by the kiss of peace!

As he thought this, a crowd of people rushed by--men and women, shrieking with joy. "There's one of them down! One gone! The brutesare burning up!"

And the birds of prey, in the air, rejoiced in their turn over everyhandful of death that they scattered on the town, like gladiatorsdying in the arena for the pleasure of some invisible Nero. 

Alas, my poor fellow-prisoners!

PART FIVE

 _They also serve who only stand and wait_. 

 MILTON. 

Once more Clerambault found himself wrapt in solitude; but this timeshe appeared to him as never before, calm and beautiful, kindnessshining from her face, with eyes full of affection and soft cool handswhich she laid on his fevered forehead. He knew that now she hadchosen him for her own. 

It is not given to every man to be alone; many groan under it, butwith a secret pride. It is the complaint of the ages; and proves, without those who complain being aware of it, that solitude has notmarked them for her own; that they are not her familiars. They havepassed the outer door, and are cooling their heels in the vestibule;but they have not had patience to wait their turn to go in, or elsetheir recriminations have kept them at a distance. 

No one can penetrate to the heart of friendly solitude unless theyhave the gift of God's grace, or have gained the benefit of trialsbravely accepted. Outside the door you must leave the dust of theroad, the harsh voices and mean thoughts of the world, egotism, vanity, miserable rebellions against disappointments in love orambition. --It must be that, like the pure Orphic shades whose goldentablets have transmitted to us their dying voices, "_The soul fleesfrom the circle of pain_" and presents itself alone and bare "_to thechill fountain which flows from the lake of Memory_. "

This is the miracle of the resurrection; he who has cast off hismortal coil and thinks that he has lost everything, finds that he isonly just entering on his true life. Not only are others as well ashimself restored to him, but he sees that up to now he has neverreally possessed them. Outside in the throng, how can he see over theheads of those who press about him? And it is not possible for him tolook long into the eyes of those who influence him, even though theyare his dearest, for they are pressed too close against him. Thereis no time; no perspective. We feel only that our bodies are crushedtogether, closely entwined by our common destiny, and tossed on themuddy torrent of multitudinous existence. Clerambault felt that hehad not seen his son in any real sense until after his death; and thebrief hour in which he and Rosine had recognised each other was one inwhich the bonds of a baleful delusion had been broken by the force ofsuffering. 

Now that by means of successive eliminations, he had arrived atsolitude, he felt withdrawn from the passions of the living, but theystood out all the more to him in a kind of lucid intimacy. All, notonly his wife and children, but the millions of beings whom he hadthought to embrace in an oratorical affection; they all paintedthemselves on the dark background. On the sombre river of destinywhich sweeps humanity away, and which he had confounded with it, appeared millions of struggling living fragments--men; and each hadhis own personality, each was a whole world of joy and sorrow, dreamsand efforts and each was I. I bend over him and it is myself I see;"I, " say the eyes, and the heart repeats "I. " My brothers, at last Iunderstand you, for your faults are also mine, even to the fury withwhich you pursue me; I recognise that also, for it is once more I. 

From this time onward Clerambault began to see men, not with the eyesin his head, but with his heart;--no longer with ideas of pacifism, or Tolstoïsm _(another folly)_, but by seizing the thoughts of hisfellows and putting himself in their place. He began to discoverafresh the people around him, even those who had been most hostile tohim, the intellectuals, and the politicians; and he saw plainly theirwrinkles, their white hair, the bitter lines about their mouths, theirbent backs, their shaky legs.... Overwrought, nervous, ready to breakdown, ... How much they had aged in six months! The excitement of thefight had kept them up at first; but as it went on and, no matter whatthe issue, the ruin became plain; each one had his griefs, andeach feared to lose the little--but that little, infinitelyprecious--remained to him. They tried to hide their agony, andclenched their teeth, but all suffered. Doubt had begun to underminethe most confident, "Hush, not a word! it will kill me if you speak ofit. " ... Clerambault, full of pity, thought of Madame Mairet; he musthold his tongue in future;--but it was too late, they all knew nowwhat he thought, and he was a living negation and remorse to them. Many hated him, but Clerambault no longer resented it; he was almostready to help them to restore their lost illusions. 

These souls were full of a passionate faith which they felt tobe threatened; and this lent them a quality of tragic, pitiablegreatness. With the politicians this was complicated by the absurdtrappings of theatrical declamation; with the intellectuals by theobstinacy of mania; but in spite of all, the wounds were visible, youcould hear the cry of the heart that clings to belief, that calls foran heroic delusion. 

This faith was very touching in some young and simple people; nodeclamations, no pretensions to knowledge; only the desperate clingingof a devotion which has given all, and in return asks for one wordonly: "It is true ... Thou, my beloved, my Country, power divine, still livest, to whom I have offered up my life, and all that Iloved!"--One could kneel before those poor little black gowns, beforethose mothers, wives and sisters; one longed to kiss the thin handsthat trembled with the hope and fear of the hereafter, and say: "Mournnot, --for ye shall be comforted. "

What consolation can one offer, when one does not believe in the idealfor which they lived, and which is killing them?--The long-soughtanswer finally came to Clerambault, almost unconsciously: "You mustcare for men more than for illusion, or even for truth. "

Clerambault's warm feelings were not reciprocated; and he was moreattacked than ever, though for some months he had published nothing. In the autumn of 1917 the anger against him had risen to an unheard-ofheight. The disproportion was really laughable between this rage andthe feeble words of one man, but it was so all over the world. A dozenor so weak pacifists, alone, surrounded, without means of being heardthrough any paper of standing, spoke honestly but not loudly, and thislet loose a perfect frenzy of insults and threats. At the slightestcontradiction the monster Opinion fell into an epileptic fit. 

The prudent Perrotin who, as a rule, was surprised at nothing, keptquiet, and let Clerambault ruin himself his own way; but even he wasalarmed by this explosion of tyrannical stupidity. In history and at adistance it could be laughed at; but close at hand it looked as if thehuman brain was about to give way. Why is it that in this war men losttheir mental balance more than in any other at any previous time? Hasthe war been really more atrocious? That is either childish nonsense, or a deliberate forgetfulness of what has happened in our own day, under our eyes; in Armenia, in the Balkans; during the repression ofthe Commune, in colonial wars under new conquistadors in China and theCongo.... Of all animals we know, the human beast has always been themost ferocious. Then is it because men had more faith in the warof today? Surely not. The western peoples had reached the point ofevolution when war seemed so absurd that we could no longer practiseit and preserve our reason. 

We are obliged to intoxicate ourselves, to go crazy, unless we woulddie the despairing death of darkest pessimism; and that is why thevoice of one sane man threw into fits of rage all the others whowanted to forget; they were afraid that this voice would wake them up, and that they would find themselves sobered, disgraced, and without arag to cover them. 

It was all the worse because at this time the war was going badly andthe fine hopes of victory and glory which had been lighted up so manytimes were beginning to die out. It began to be probable, no matterwhich way you looked at it, that the war would be a failure foreverybody. Neither interest, nor ambition, nor ideals would getanything out of it, and the bitter useless sacrifice, seen at closerange, with nothing gained, made men who felt themselves responsible, furious. They were forced either to accuse themselves or throw theblame on others, and the choice was quickly made. The disaster wasattributed to all those who had foreseen the defeat and tried toprevent it. Every retreat of the army, every diplomatic blunder foundan excuse in the machinations of the pacifists, and these unpopulargentry to whom no one listened were invested by their opponents withthe formidable power of organising defeat. In order that none shouldbe ignorant of this, a writing was hung about their necks with theword "Defeatist, " like their brother-heretics of the good old days;all that remained was to burn them, and if the executioner was not athand there were at least plenty of assistants. 

At first, by way of getting their hand in, the authorities picked outinoffensive people--women, teachers, anyone who was little known andunable to defend himself; and then they turned their attention tosomething bigger. It was a good chance for a politician to rid himselfof a dangerous rival, of anyone possessed of secrets or likely to risein the future. Above all, according to the old receipts, they tookcare to mix accusations, throwing into the same bag vulgar sharpersand those whose character and mind made them uneasy, so that in allthis mess the blindfolded public did not attempt to distinguishbetween an honest man and a scamp. In this way those who were notsufficiently compromised by their actions found themselves involved inthose of their associates; and if these were lacking, the authoritiesstood ready, if necessary, to supply them made to order to fit theaccusation. 

When Xavier Thouron first came to see Clerambault how could anyoneknow if he was in the Secret Service? He might very well have come ofhis own accord; and it was impossible to say what his intentions were, perhaps he hardly knew himself? In the purlieus of a great city thereare always unscrupulous adventurers rushing about seeking whom theymay devour. They have ravenous appetites, and curiosity to match, andanything will do to fill up this aching void. They are willing to sayblack is white; all is grist that comes to their mill, and they arecapable of throwing you into the water one minute and jumping in tosave you the next. They are not too careful of their skins, but theanimal inside has to be fed and amused. If he stopped making faces andstuffing for one moment, he might die of boredom and disgust at hisown vacancy; but he is too clever for that, he will not stop to thinkuntil he dies--splendidly, on his feet, like the Roman Emperor. 

No one could have told Thouron's real object when he went for thefirst time to Clerambault's house. As usual he was very busy, excitedand on the scent of he knew not what. He was one of those greatjournalists--they are rare in the profession--who, without taking thetrouble to read a thing, can give you a vivid, brilliant account ofit, which often, by a miracle, proves to be fairly just. He said hislittle "piece" to Clerambault without too many mistakes, and appearedto believe it; perhaps he did while the words were on his lips. Whynot? He was a sort of pacifist himself from time to time; it dependedon the direction of the wind, or the attitude of certain of hisbrother-writers whom he sometimes followed, and occasionally opposed. Clerambault could never cure himself of a childlike trust in anyonewho came to him, and he allowed himself to be touched;--besides, thepress of his country had not spoiled him of late, so he poured out theinmost thoughts of his heart, while Thouron took it all in with thedeepest interest. 

An acquaintance thus closely formed could not, of course, stop there;letters were exchanged, in which one spoke, and the other led him on. Thouron persuaded Clerambault to put his ideas in the form of littlepopular pamphlets, which he undertook to distribute among the workingclasses. Clerambault hesitated, and refused at first. The partisans ofthe reigning order and injustice pretend hypocritically to disapproveof the secret propaganda of a new truth; Clerambault saw no harm init, when no other way was possible. (All persecuted faiths have theircatacombs. ) But he did not feel himself suited to such a course ofaction. It was more his part to say what he thought and take theconsequences, and he felt sure that the word would spread of itself, without his hawking it about. He would have blushed to admit it, butperhaps a secret instinct held him back from the offers of servicemade him by this eager "drummer. " But he could not altogether restrainhis zeal. Thouron published in his paper a sort of Apologia forClerambault. He told of his visits, and their conversations; and heexplained and paraphrased the thoughts of the poet. Clerambault wasastonished when he read them, he hardly knew his own ideas again, butnevertheless, he could not altogether deny them, for, buried amongThouron's commentaries, he found literal and accurate quotations fromhis letters. These, however, were even more confusing; the same wordsand phrases, grafted on other contexts, took on an accent and a colourthat he had not given them. Add that the censor, in his zeal for thesafety of the country, had tampered with the quotations, cutting outhere and there a word, half a line, or the end of a paragraph--allperfectly innocent, but this suppression suggested the worstiniquities to the over-excited mind of the reader. All this was likeoil on the flame, and the effect was soon felt. Clerambault did notknow which way to turn to keep his champion quiet; and yet he couldnot be angry with him, for Thouron had his share of threats andinsults; but he was used to things of this kind, and they fell fromhim, like water off a duck's back. 

After this common experience Thouron claimed special rights overClerambault; and having tried without success to make him buy sharesin his newspaper, he put him on the list of honourary members, withouthis knowledge, and thought it very strange that Clerambault was notdelighted when he found it out a few weeks later. Their relations wereslightly cooled by this incident, but Thouron continued to parade thename of his "distinguished friend" from time to time in his articles. The latter let this go on, thinking himself fortunate to get off soeasily. He had rather lost sight of him, when he heard one day thatThouron had been arrested. He was implicated in a rather shabby moneyaffair which was as usual ascribed to plots of the enemy. The Courtsfollowing the lead of those "higher-up" could not fail to find aconnection between these shady transactions and Thouron's so-calledpacifism. This had showed itself in his paper, in an irregularincoherent way, subject to attacks of "Exterminism, " but none the lessit was all supposed to be part of the great "defeatist" scheme, andthe examination of his correspondence allowed the authorities to dragin anyone they chose. As he had carefully kept every letter, from menof all shades of opinion, there were plenty to choose from and theysoon found what they wanted. 

It was only through the papers that Clerambault heard that he was onthe list, and they breathed a triumphant: "At last we have got him. "... All was now clear, for if a man thinks differently from the restof the world, is it not plain as daylight that there must be some lowmotive underneath it all? Seek and you will find ... They had found, and without going further, one Paris newspaper announced the "treason"of Clerambault. There was no trace of this in the indictment; butjustice does not feel that it is her business to correct people'smistakes. Clerambault was summoned before the magistrate, and beggedin vain to be told of what offence he was accused. The judge waspolite, showing him the consideration due to a man of his notoriety, but, seemed in no haste to dismiss the case; it almost looked as if hewas waiting for something ... For what? Why for the crime, of course!

Madame Clerambault had not the temper of a Roman matron, nor even ofthat high-spirited Jewess in the celebrated affair which cut France intwo some twenty years ago, who clung more closely to her husband onaccount of the public injustice. She had the timid instinctive respectof the French _bourgeoisie_ for the official verdict. Though she knewthat there were no grounds for the accusation against Clerambault, shefelt that it was a disgrace to be accused, which also affected her, and this she could not bear in silence. Unfortunately, in replyingto her reproaches, Clerambault took the worst possible line, withoutmeaning it, for instead of trying to defend himself, he only said:

"My poor wife, it is awfully hard on you ... Yes, you are right, " andthen waited till the shower was over. But this tone upset MadameClerambault, who was furious because she felt she had no hold on herhusband. She knew perfectly that though he appeared to agree withher she could not turn him from his course of action. Despairingof success, she went off to pour her troubles into the ears of herbrother. Leo Camus made no attempt to disguise his opinion that thebest thing she could do was to get a divorce, which he represented toher as a duty. This, however, was going a little too far; she was, after all, a respectable _bourgeoise_, and the traditional horrorof divorce re-awakened her profound fidelity and made her think theremedy worse than the disease; so they remained united on the surface, but intimacy between them was gone. 

Rosine was out nearly all day, for in order to forget her unhappinessshe was taking a course in trained nursing, and she passed a largepart of her time away from home. Even when she was at home herthoughts seemed far away, and Clerambault had never regained hisformer place in his daughter's heart; another filled it now--Daniel. She treated her father coldly; he was the cause of her separation fromthe man of her heart, and this was a way of punishing him. And thoughshe was too just not to reproach herself, still she could not alter;injustice is sometimes a consolation. 

Daniel had not forgotten, any more than Rosine; he was not proud ofhis conduct, but it rather softened his remorse to throw the blame onhis surroundings, on the tyrannical opinion which had coerced him; butin his heart he was discontented with himself. 

Accident came to the assistance of this sulking pair of lovers. Danielwas seriously but not dangerously wounded, and was evacuated back toParis. During his convalescence he was walking one day near the squareof the Bon Marché when he saw Rosine. He stood still a moment but asshe came forward, without hesitation, they went on into the Squareand began a long conversation, which, beginning by embarrassment, and interrupted by numerous reproaches and avowals, led finally to aperfect understanding between them. They were so absorbed in theirtender explanations, that they did not see Madame Clerambault when shecame near, and the good lady, overcome by this unexpected meeting, hurried home to tell the news to her husband. In spite of theirestrangement, she could not keep this to herself. He listened to herindignant recital, for she could not bear that her daughter shouldhave anything to do with a man whose family had affronted them; andwhen she had finished he said nothing at first, according to hispresent habit, until at last he shook his head smiling, and said:

"Good enough. "

Madame Clerambault stopped short, shrugged her shoulders, turned togo, but with her hand on the door of her room she looked back andsaid:

"These people insulted you; Rosine and you agreed to have nothing moreto do with them, and now, _your daughter_ is making advances to thisman who has refused her, and you say it is 'good enough. ' I can'tunderstand you any longer, you must be out of your mind. "

Clerambault tried to show her that his daughter's happiness did notconsist in agreement with his ideas, and that Rosine was quite rightto get rid of the consequences of his foolishness where they affectedherself. 

"Your foolishness ... That is the first word of sense that you havesaid in years. "

"You see yourself that I am right, " said he, and made her promise tolet Rosine arrange her romance as she pleased. 

The girl was radiant when she came in, but she said nothing of whathad passed. Madame Clerambault held her tongue with great difficulty, and the father saw with tender amusement the happiness that shoneonce more on the face of his child. He did not know exactly what hadhappened, but he guessed that Rosine had thrown him and his ideasoverboard--sweetly of course, but still, --the lovers had made it up attheir parents' expense, and both had blamed with admirable justice theold people's exaggerations on either side. The years in the trencheshad emancipated Daniel from the narrow fanaticism of his family, without impairing his patriotism, and Rosine in exchange had gentlyadmitted that her father had been mistaken. They agreed with littledifficulty, for she was naturally calm and fatalistic, which suitedperfectly with Daniel's stoical acceptance of things as they were. They had decided, therefore, to go through life together, withoutpaying any more attention to the disagreements of those who had comebefore them, as the saying is--though it would be more exact to say, those whom they were leaving behind them. The future also troubledthem little; like millions of other human beings they only asked theirshare of happiness at the moment and shut their eyes to everythingelse. 

Madame Clerambault was annoyed that her daughter said nothing of theevents of the morning, and soon went out again; Rosine and her fathersat dreamily, he by the window, smoking, and she with an unreadmagazine before her. She looked absently about the room, with happyeyes, trying to recall the details of the scene between her andDaniel; her glance fell on her father's weary face, and its melancholyexpression struck her sharply. She got up, and standing behindhim, laid her hand on his shoulder and said, with a little sigh ofcompassion that tried to conceal her inward joy:

"Poor little Papa!"

Clerambault looked at Rosine, whose eyes, in spite of herself, shonewith happiness:

"And my little girl is not 'poor' any longer, is she?"

Rosine blushed: "Why do you say that?" she asked. 

Clerambault only shook his head at her, and she leaned forward layingher cheek against his:

"She is no longer poor, " he repeated. 

"No, " she whispered, "she is very, very rich. "

"Tell me about this fortune of hers?"

"She has--first of all--her dear Papa. "

"Oh, you little fraud!" said Clerambault, trying to move so that hecould see her face, but Rosine put her hands over his eyes:

"No, I don't want you to look at me, or say anything to me.... " Shekissed him again, and said caressingly:

"Poor dear little Papa. "

Rosine had now escaped from the cares that weighed on the house, andit was not long before she flew away from the nest altogether, for shehad passed her examinations and was sent to a hospital in the South. Both the Clerambaults felt painfully the loss to their empty fireside. 

But the man was not the more lonely of the two. He knew this and wassincerely sorry for his wife, who had not either the strength of mindto follow his path, nor to leave him. As for him he felt that now, no matter what happened, he would never be bereft of sympathy;persecution would arouse it, and lead the most reserved people toexpress their feeling. A very precious evidence of this came to him atthis time. 

One day, when he was alone in the apartment, the bell rang and he wentto open the door. A lady was there whom he did not know; she held outa letter, mentioning her name as she did so; in the dim light of thevestibule, she had taken him for the servant, but at once saw hermistake, as he tried to persuade her to come in. "No, " said she, "I amonly a messenger, " and she went away; but when she had gone he founda little bunch of violets that she had laid on a table near the door. The letter was as follows:

 "_Tu ne cede malis, sed contra audentior ito_.... 

 "You fight for us, and our hearts are with you. Pour out your troubles to us, and I will give you my hope, my strength, and my love. I am one who can act only through you. "

The youthful ardour of these last mysterious words, touched andpuzzled Clerambault. He tried to remember the lady as she stood on histhreshold; she was not very young; fine features, grave dark eyes in aworn face. Where had he seen her before? The fugitive impression fadedas he tried to hold it. 

He saw her again two or three days later, not far from him in theLuxembourg Gardens. She walked on and as he crossed the path to meether she stopped and waited for him. He thanked her, and asked why shehad gone away so quickly the other day, without saying who she was. And as he spoke it came to him that he had known her for a long time. He used to see her formerly in the Luxembourg, or in the neighbouringstreets, with a tall boy who must have been her son. Every timethey passed each other their eyes used to meet with a half-smile ofrespectful recognition. And though he did not know their name, andthey had never exchanged a word, they were to him part of thosefriendly shadows which throng about our daily life, not always noticedwhen they are there, but which leave a gap when they disappear. 

At once his thought leaped from the woman before him to the youngcompanion whom he missed from her side. In these days of mourning youcould never tell who might be still in the land of the living, but hecried impulsively:

"It was your son who wrote to me?"

"Yes, " said she, "he is a great admirer of yours. We have both feltdrawn to you for a long time. "

"He must come to see me. "

"He cannot do that. "

"Why not? Is he at the Front?"

"No, he is here. " After a moment's silence, Clerambault asked:

"Has he been wounded?"

"Would you like to see him?" said the mother. Clerambault walkedbeside her in silence, not daring to ask any questions, but at lasthe said: "You are fortunate at least that you can have him near youalways.... " She understood and held out her hand: "We were always veryclose to one another, " she said, and Clerambault repeated:

"At least he is near you. "

"I have his soul, " she answered. 

They had now reached the house, an old seventeenth century dwellingin one of the narrow ancient streets between the Luxembourg and St. Sulpice, where the pride of old France still subsists in retirement. The great door was shut even at this hour. Madame Froment passed inahead of Clerambault, went up two or three steps at the back of apaved court, and entered the apartment on the ground floor. 

"Dear Edmé, " said she, as she opened the door of the room, "I have asurprise for you, guess what it is.... "

Clerambault saw a young man looking at him as he lay extended on acouch. The fair youthful face lit up by the setting sun, with itsintelligent eyes, looked so healthy and calm that at first sight thethought of illness did not present itself. 

"You!" he exclaimed. "You here?"

He looked younger than ever with this joyful surprise on his face, butneither the body, nor the arms which were covered, moved in the least, and Clerambault coming nearer saw that the head alone seemed to bealive. 

"Mamma, you have been giving me away, " said Edmé Froment. 

"Did you not want to see me?" said Clerambault, bending over him. 

"That is not just what I meant, but I am not very anxious to be seen. "

"Why not? I should like to know, " said Clerambault, in a tone which hetried to make gay. 

"Because a man does not ask visitors to the house when he is not therehimself. "

"Where are you?" if one may ask. 

"I could almost swear that I was shut up in an old Egyptian mummy"--heglanced at the bed and his immovable body:

"There is no life left in it, " he said. 

"You have more life than any of us, " said a voice beside them. Clerambault looked up and saw on the other side of the couch a tallyoung man full of health and strength, who seemed to be about the sameage as Edmé, who smiled and said to Clerambault: "My friend Chastenayhas enough vitality to lend me some and to spare. "

"If that were only literally true, " said the other, and the twofriends exchanged an affectionate glance. Chastenay continued:

"I should in that case only be giving back a part of what I owe you. "Then turning to Clerambault, he added: "He is the one who keeps us allup, is it not so, Madame Fanny?"

"Indeed yes, I could not do without my strong son, " said the mothertenderly. 

"They take advantage of the fact that I cannot defend myself, " saidEdmé to Clerambault. "You see I cannot stir an inch. "

"Was it a wound?"

"Paralysis. "--Clerambault did not dare to ask for details, but after apause: "Do you suffer much?" he inquired. 

"I ought to wish that it were so perhaps; for pain is a tie between usand the shore. However, I confess that I prefer the silence of thisbody in which I am encased ... Let us say no more about it.... My mindat least is free. And if it is not true that it '_agitat molem_, ' doesoften escape. "

"I know, " said Clerambault, "it came to see me the other day. "

"Not for the first time; it has been there before. "

"And I who thought myself deserted!"

"Do you recall, " said Edmé, "the words of Randolph to Cecil?--'_Thevoice of a man alone can in one hour put more life into us than theclang of five hundred trumpets sounded continuously_. '"

"That always reminds me of you, " said Chastenay, but Edmé went on asif he had not heard him: ... "You have waked us all up. "

Clerambault looked at the brave calm eyes of the paralytic, and said:

"Your eyes do not look as if they needed to be waked. "

"They do not need it now, " said Edmé, "the farther off one is, thebetter one sees; but when I was close to everything I saw verylittle. "

"Tell me what you see now. "

"It is getting late, " said Edmé, "and I am rather tired. Will you comeanother time?"

"Tomorrow, if you will let me. "

As Clerambault went out Chastenay joined him. He felt the need ofconfiding to a heart that could feel the pain and grandeur of thetragedy of which his friend had been at once the hero and the victim. Edmé Froment had been struck on the spinal column by an explodingshell. Young as he was, he was one of the intellectual leaders of hisgeneration, handsome, ardent, eloquent, overflowing with life andvisions, loving and beloved, nobly ambitious, and all at once, at ablow, --a living death! His mother who had centred all her pride andlove on him now saw him condemned for the rest of his days to thisterrible fate. They had both suffered terribly, but each hid it fromthe other, and this effort kept them up. They took great pride in eachother. She had all the care of him, washed and fed him like a littlechild, and he kept calm for her sake, and sustained her on the wingsof his spirit. 

"Ah, " said Chastenay, "it makes one feel ashamed--when I think that Iam alive and well, that I can reach out my arms to life, that I canrun and leap, and draw this blessed air into my lungs.... " As he spokehe stretched out his arms, raised his head, and breathed deeply. 

"I ought to feel remorseful, " he added, lowering his voice, "and theworst is that I do not. " Clerambault could not help smiling. 

"It is not very heroic, " continued Chastenay, "and yet I care more forFroment than for anyone on earth, and his fate makes me wretchedlyunhappy. But all the same, when I think of my luck to be here at thismoment when so many are gone, and to be well and sound, I can hardlykeep from showing how glad I am. It is so good to live and be whole. Poor Edmé!... You must think me terribly selfish?"

"No, what you say is perfectly natural and healthy. If we were all assincere as you, humanity would not be the victim of the wicked notionof glory in suffering. You have every right to enjoy life after thetrials you have passed through, " and as he spoke he touched the Croixde Guerre which the young man wore on his breast. 

"I have been through them and I am going back, " said Chastenay, "butthere is no merit in that; there is nothing else that I can do. I amnot trying to deceive you and pretend that I love to smell powder; youcannot go through three years of war, and still want to run risksand be indifferent to danger, even if you did feel like that in thebeginning. I was so--I may frankly say I did go in for heroism; but Ihave lost all that, it was really part ignorance and part rhetoric, and when one is rid of these, the nonsense of the war, the idioticslaughter, the ugliness, the horrible useless sacrifice must be clearto the narrowest mind. If it is not manly to fly from the inevitable, it is not necessary either to go in search of what can be avoided. Thegreat Corneille was a hero behind the lines; those whom I have knownat the front were almost heroes in spite of themselves. "

"That is the true heroism, " said Clerambault. 

"That is Froment's kind, " said Chastenay. "He is a hero because thereis nothing else that he can be, not even a man; but the dearest thingabout him is, that in spite of everything, he is a real man. "

The truth of this remark was abundantly evident to Clerambault ina long conversation that he had with Froment the next day. If thecourage of the young man did not desert him in the ruin of his life, it was all the more to his credit, as he had never professed to bean apostle of self-abnegation. He had had great hopes and robustambitions, fully justified by his talents and vigorous youth, butunlike his friend Chastenay, he had never for a moment cherished anyillusions as to the war. 

The disastrous folly of it had been clear to him at once, and this heowed not only to his own penetrating mind, but to that inspiring angelwho, from his earliest infancy, had woven the soul of her son from herown pure spirit. 

Whenever Clerambault went to see Edmé, Madame Froment was almostalways there; but she kept in the background, sitting at the windowwith her work, only stopping occasionally to throw a tender glance ather son. She was not a woman of exceptional cleverness, but she hadwhat may be called the intelligence of the heart, and her mind hadbeen cultivated by the influence of her husband--a distinguishedphysician much older than herself. Thus it had happened that her wholelife had been filled by these two profound feelings, an almost filiallove for her husband and a more passionate sentiment for her son. 

Dr. Froment, a cultivated man with much originality of mind which heconcealed under a grave courtesy, as if he feared to wound others byhis distinction, had travelled all over Europe, as well as in Egypt, Persia, and India. He had been a student of science and of religion, and his special interest had been the new forms of faith appearingin the world; such as Babism, Christian Science, and theosophicaldoctrines. As he had kept in touch with the pacifist movement, and wasa friend of Baroness Suttner, whom he had known in Vienna, he hadlong seen the catastrophe approaching which threatened him and allhe loved. But man of courage as he was, and accustomed to theindifference of nature, he had not tried to delude his family as tothe future, but had rather sought to strengthen their souls to meetthe danger that hung over their heads. 

More than all his words, his example was sacred to his wife, forthe son had been yet a child at the time of his father's death. Dr. Froment had suffered from a cancer of the intestines, and during thewhole course of the slow and painful disease he had followed hisordinary occupations up to the last minute, sustaining the courage ofhis loved ones by this serene fortitude. 

This noble picture which dwelt in Madame Froment's heart, and whichshe worshipped in secret, was to her what religion is to other women. To this, though she had no clear belief in the future life, sheprayed, especially in difficult moments, as if to an ever-presenthelpful friend. And by a singular phenomenon sometimes observed afterdeath, the essence of her husband's soul seemed to have passed intohers. For this reason her son had grown up in an atmosphere of placidthought, while most of the young generation before 1914 were feverish, restless, aggressive, irritated by delay. When the war broke out, there was no need for Madame Froment to protect herself or her sonagainst the national excesses; they were both strangers to such ideas;but they made no attempt to resist the inevitable; they had watchedthe coming of this misfortune for so long! All that they could do nowwas to bear it bravely, while trying to preserve what was the mostprecious thing to them; their souls' faith. Madame Froment did notconsider it necessary to be "_Au-dessus de la mêlée_" in order tolead it; and she accomplished in her limited sphere simply, butmore efficaciously, what was attempted by writers in Germany andEngland, --a form of international reconciliation. She had kept intouch with many old friends, and without being troubled in circlesinfected by the war-spirit, or ever undertaking useless demonstrationsagainst the war, she was a check on insane manifestations of hatred, by her simple presence, her quiet words and manner, her good judgment, and the respect inspired by her kindness. In families that weresympathetic she distributed messages from liberal Europeans, amongothers, Clerambault's articles, though without his knowledge. It was asource of satisfaction when she saw that their hearts were touched. Agreater joy still was to see that her son himself was transformed. 

Edmé Froment was not in the least a Tolstoyan pacifist. At first hethought the war more a folly than a crime, and if he had been free, hewould have withdrawn, like Perrotin, into high dilettantism of artand thought, without attempting the hopeless task of fighting theprevailing opinion, for which he then felt more contempt than pity. Since his forced participation in the war, he had been obliged toacknowledge that this folly was so largely expiated by suffering thatit would be superfluous to add anything to it. Man had made his ownhell upon earth, and there was no need of further condemnation. He wason leave, at Paris, when he came across Clerambault's articles whichshowed him that there was something better for him to do than to sethimself up as a judge of his companions in misery; that it would befar nobler to try to deliver them while taking his share of the commonburden. 

The young disciple was disposed to go farther than his master. Clerambault, who was naturally affectionate and rather weak, found hisjoy in communion with other men, and suffered even when divided inspirit from their errors. He was a confirmed self-doubter. He wasprone to look in the eyes of the crowd for agreement with his ideas. He exhausted himself in futile efforts to reconcile his inward beliefswith the aspirations and the social struggles of his time. Froment, who had the soul of a chieftain in a helpless body, dauntlesslymaintained that for him who bears the torch of a lofty ideal it is anabsolute duty to hold it high over the heads of his comrades; thatit would be wrong to confuse it in the other illuminations. Thecommonplace of democracies that Voltaire had less wit than Mr. Everybody is nonsense.... "_Democritus ait; Unus mihi pro populoest_.... To me an individual is as good as a thousand. " ... Our modernfaith sees in the social group the summit of human evolution, butwhere is the proof? Froment thought the greatest height was reachedin an individual superiority. Millions of men have lived and died toproduce one perfect flower of thought, for such are the superb andprodigal ways of nature. She spends whole peoples to make a Jesus, aBuddha, an Aeschylus, a Vinci, a Newton, or a Beethoven; but withoutthese men, what would the people have been? Or humanity itself? We donot hold with the egotist ideal of the Superman. A man who is greatis great for all his fellows; his individuality expresses and oftenguides millions of others; it is the incarnation of their secretforces, of their highest desires; it concentrates and realisesthem. The sole fact that a man was Christ, has exalted and liftedgenerations of humanity, filling them with the divine energy; andthough nineteen centuries have since passed, millions have not ceasedto aspire to the height of this example, though none has attained toit. 

Thus understood, the ideal individualist is more productive for humansociety than the ideal communist, who would lead us to the mechanicalperfection of the bee-hive, and at the very least he is indispensableas corrective and complement. 

This proud individualism, stated by Froment with burning eloquence, was a support to Clerambault's mind, prone to waver, and undecidedfrom good-nature, self-distrust, and the wish to understand others. 

Froment rendered Clerambault another important service. More in thecurrent of world-thought, and through his family coming in closercontact with foreign thinkers, an accomplished linguist besides, Froment could bring to mind those other men in all nations who, greatin their isolation, fought for the right to a free conscience. Itwas a consoling spectacle; all the work under the surface of thoughtsuppressed, but struggling towards truth, and the knowledge thatthe worst tyranny that has crushed the soul of humanity since theInquisition has failed to stifle the indomitable will to remain freeand true. 

No doubt these lofty individualities were rare, but their power wasall the greater; the fine outline was more striking, seen against thedark horizon. In the fall of the nations to the foot of the precipicewhere millions lie in a shapeless mass, their voices seemed to risewith the only human note, and their action gained emphasis from theanger with which it was met. A century ago Chateaubriand wrote:

"It is vain to struggle longer; henceforward the only important thingis to be. "

He did not know that "to be" in our time, be oneself, be free, impliesthe greatest of combats. Those who are true to themselves dominatethrough the levelling down of the rest. 

Clerambault was not the only one to feel the benefit of of Froment'senergy, for at his bedside he was sure to find some friend who came, perhaps without admitting it, more to get comfort than to bring it. Two or three of these were young, about Edmé's age, the others, menover fifty, old friends of the family, or those who had known Fromentbefore the war. 

One of these had been his professor, an old Hellenist, with a sweetabsent smile. Then there was a grey-haired sculptor, his face ploughedby deep tragic lines; a country gentleman, clean-shaved, red-cheeked, with the massive head of an old peasant; and finally a doctor. He hada white beard, his face was worn and kind, and you were struck by thestrange expression of his eyes; one seemed to look sharply at you, andthe other was sad and dreamy. 

There was little resemblance between these men who sometimes met atthe invalid's house. All shades of thought could be found in thegroup, from the Catholic to the freethinker and the bolshevist--one ofFroment's young friends professed to be of this opinion. In them youcould find the traces of the most various intellectual ancestry; theironic Lucian appeared in the old professor; the Count de Coulangeswas wont to solace himself in the evenings on his estate withcattle and fertiliser, but also revelled in the gorgeous texture ofFroissart's style, like cloth of gold, and the countrified, juicytalk of that rascal Gondi--the count certainly had the old Frenchchroniclers in his veins. The sculptor wrinkled his brow in the effortto find metaphysics in Rodin and Beethoven; and Dr. Verrier had astreak of the marvellous in his disposition. This he satisfied by thehypotheses of biology, and the wonders of modern chemistry, though hewould glance at the paradise of religion with the disenchanted smileof the man of science. He bore his part in the sad trials of the time, but the era of war with all its gory glory faded for him beforethe heroic discoveries of thought made by a new Newton, the GermanEinstein, in the midst of the general distraction. 

These men all differed in the form of their minds and in theirtemperament; but they all agreed in this, they belonged to no party, each thought for himself, and each respected and loved liberty inhimself or in others. What else mattered? In our day, all the oldframework is broken down; religious, political, or social. It is butsmall progress if we call ourselves socialists, or republicans, ratherthan monarchists, if these castes accept nationalism of State, faith, or class. There are now only two sorts of minds: those shut up behindbars, and those open to all that is alive, to the entire race of man, even our enemies. These men, few though they may be, compose the true"International" which rests on the worship of truth and universallife. They know well that they are each too weak to embrace alonetheir great ideal, but it is infinite and can embrace them all. Unitedin one object, they push on by their separate ways towards the unknownGod. 

These independent spirits were all drawn towards Edmé Froment at thistime, because they obscurely saw in him the point where they couldmeet, the clearing from which every path in the forest is visible. Froment had not always tried to bring others together; as long ashe was well and strong, he too had taken his own way, but since hiscourse had been cut short, after a time of bitter despondency of whichhe said nothing, he had placed himself at the cross-roads. As he couldnot possibly act himself, he was better able to view the whole fieldand take part in spirit. He saw the different currents: country, revolution, contests between states and classes, science andfaith--like a stream's conflicting forces, with its rapids, whirlpools, and reefs; it may sometimes slacken, or turn its course, but it always flows on irresistibly (even reaction is carriedforward). And he, the poor youth staked at his cross-roads, took allthese currents unto him, the entire stream. 

Edmé reminded Clerambault sometimes of Perrotin, but he and Fromentwere worlds apart. The latter also denied nothing of what is, andwished to understand everything; but his was a fiery spirit, his wholesoul was filled with ordered movement and feeling; with him all lifeand death went forward and upward. And his body lay there motionless. 

It was a dark hour; the turn of the year 1917-18. In the foggy winternights men waited for the supreme onslaught of the German armies, which rumour had foretold for months past; the Gotha raids on Parishad already begun. Those who wanted to fight to the end pretendedconfidence, the papers kept on boasting, and Clemenceau had neverslept better in his life. But the tension showed in the increasingbitterness of feeling among civilians. The agonised public turned onthe suspects among them, the defeatists and the pacifists, andfor days at a time the baying of an accusing public pursued thesemiserable creatures and hunted them down. And spies swarmed of allsorts, patriotic denouncers, half-crazed witnesses. When towards theend of March the long-threatened great offensive against Paris began, the "sacred" fury between fellow-citizens reached its height, andthere is no doubt that if the invasion had succeeded, before theGermans had arrived at the gates of the city, the gallows atVincennes, that altar of the country's vengeance, would have knownmany victims, innocent or guilty, accused or condemned. 

Clerambault was often shouted at in the streets, but he was notalarmed; perhaps because he did not realise the danger. One day Moreaufound him in a group of people disputing with an excited young man whohad spoken to him in a most insulting manner. While they were talkingthe shell from a "Big Bertha" exploded close by. Clerambault took nonotice, and went on quietly explaining his position to the angry youngman. There was something positively comic in this obstinacy, and thecircle of listeners was quick to feel it, like true Frenchmen, and began to exchange jokes not entirely of a refined nature, butperfectly good-natured. Moreau caught hold of Clerambault's arm andtried to drag him away, but he stopped, and looking at the laughingcrowd, the absurdity of the situation struck him in his turn, and hetoo burst out laughing. 

"What an old fool I am!" said he to Moreau, who was still intent ongetting him away. 

"You had better look out, for you are not the only fool in thistown, " was the somewhat impertinent answer, but Clerambault would notunderstand what he meant. 

The case against him had entered on a new phase; he was now accused ofinfraction of the law of the 5th of August, 1914--"An act to repressindiscretions in time of war. " He was accused of pacifist propagandaamong the working classes, where it was said that Thouron haddistributed Clerambault's writings with the consent of the author;but there was no foundation for this, as Thouron was in a position totestify that Clerambault had no knowledge of such propaganda, and hadcertainly not authorised it. 

It appeared, however, singularly enough, that Thouron would not swearto anything of the sort. His attitude was strange, for, instead ofstating the facts, he equivocated as if he had something to hide; italmost looked as if he wished this to be noticed, which would havearoused suspicions if he had not been so careful. Unfortunately thesesuspicions seemed to glance at Clerambault, though he said nothingagainst him or against anyone; in fact he refused to tell anything, but he let it be understood that if he chose ... But he did notchoose. Clerambault was confronted with him, and his attitude wasperfect, really chivalrous. He laid his hand on his heart and declaredthat be had the admiration of a son for the great "Master, " and"Friend, " and when Clerambault, getting impatient, begged him to statesimply just what had passed between them, the other would do nothingbut protest his "undying devotion. " He would rather say nothing more;he had nothing to add to his testimony; it was all his fault. 

He left with an increased reputation, while Clerambault was supposedto have sheltered himself behind his devoted henchman. The pressunhesitatingly accused Clerambault of cowardice, and meanwhile thecase dragged on, Clerambault appearing every day to answer uselessquestions, with no decision in sight. It might have been supposed thata man accused without proofs, and subject for so long to injurioussuspicions, would have been entitled to the sympathy of the public;but on the contrary everyone was more down on him than before; theyblamed him because he was not already convicted. All sorts of absurdstories were in circulation about him; it was asserted that expertshad discovered through the shape of some letters misprinted in apamphlet of Clerambault's that it had come from a German press, andthis humbug was readily swallowed by men who were supposed to beintelligent, before the war, --only four years ago, but it seemedcenturies. 

So all these worthy folks passed sentence on a fellow-citizen on theslightest information; it was not the first time, and it will not bethe last. The best opinion was indignant that he should still be atliberty, and reactionary papers, fearing that their prey would escape, tried to intimidate justice by loud accusations, and demanded thatthe case should be removed from the civil court and brought beforea court-martial. This excitement soon developed into one of thoseparoxysms which in Paris are generally brief but violent; for thissensible people does go crazy periodically. It may be asked whymen who are kind for the most part, and naturally given to mutualtolerance, not to say indifference, should have these explosions offurious fanaticism, when they seem to lose all feeling as well ascommon-sense. Some will tell you that this people is feminine in itsvirtues, as well as in its vices, that the delicate nerves and finesensibility which cause it to excel in matters of taste and art alsomake it susceptible to attacks of hysteria, but I am of opinionthat any people is manly only by accident, if by a man you mean areasonable creature--a flattering but baseless idea. Men only usetheir reason from time to time, and are soon worn out by the effort ofthinking; so those do them a favour who act for them, encouraging themin the direction of the least effort, and not much is required to hatea new idea. Do not condemn them; the Friend of all who are persecutedhas said with His heroic indulgence: "They know not what they do. "

An active nationalist newspaper was eager in stirring up the evilinstincts that lay below the surface. It lived on the exploitation ofhatred and suspicion, which it called "working for the regenerationof France, "--France being reduced to this paper and its friends. Itpublished "Cleramboche, " a collection of sanguinary articles, likethose which succeeded so well against Jaurés; it roused people bydeclaring that the traitor owed his safety to occult influences, andthat he would make his escape, if he were not carefully watched; andfinally it appealed to popular justice. 

Victor Vaucoux hated Clerambault; not that he knew him at all; it isnot necessary to know a man in order to hate him; but if he had knownhim he would have detested him still more. He was his born enemybefore he even knew that Clerambault existed. There are races amongminds more antagonistic to each other, in all countries, than thosedivided by a different skin or uniform. 

He was a well-to-do _bourgeois_ from the west of France and belongedto a family of former servants of the Empire who had been sulking forthe last forty years in a sterile opposition. He had a small propertyin the Charente, where he spent the summer, and passed the rest ofthe time in Paris. Having instincts for government which he could notsatisfy, he laid the blame for this on his family and on life, andthus thwarted, his character had grown tyrannical so that he acted thedespot unconsciously to those nearest to him, as a right and duty thatcould not be disputed. The word tolerance had no meaning for him; for_he could not make a mistake_. Nevertheless he possessed intelligence, and moral vigour; he even had a heart, but all wrapped about andknotted like an old tree-trunk till such forces of expansion as he hadwithin him were stunted. He could absorb nothing from the outside;when he read or travelled he saw everything with hostile eyes, his onewish was to go home; and as the bark was too thick to be penetrated, all his sap came from the foot of the tree--from the _dead_. 

He was the type of that portion of the race which, stubborn butoutworn, has not life enough to spread itself abroad, and shrinks intoa sentiment of aggressive self-defence. This looks with suspicion andantipathy on the young forces which overflow around it, at home andabroad; growing nations and classes, all the passionate awkwardattempts at social and moral improvement. Like poor Barrès, and hisdwarfed hero, [1] such people want walls and barriers, frontiers, andenemies. In this state of siege Vaucoux lived, and his family wasforced to live in the same way. His wife who was a sweet, sad, effacedkind of person, found the only method of escape--and died. Left alonewith his grief--of which he made a kind of rampart, as of everythingabout him--having only one son thirteen years of age, he had mountedguard before his youth and brought him up to do the same; strange thata man should bring a son into the world to fight against the future!Perhaps the boy, if let alone, would have found out life by instinct, but in the father's shut-up house, a sort of jail, he was his father'sprey. They had few friends, few books, few, or rather one, newspaperwhose petrified principles corresponded to Vaucoux' need forconservation, in the corpse-like meaning of the word. As his son, orhis victim, could not get away from him, he inoculated him with allhis own mental diseases; like those insects which deposit their eggsin the living bodies of others. And when the war broke out, he tookhim at once to a recruiting station and made him enlist. For a man ofhis sort, "Country" was the noblest of things--the holy of holies; hedid not need to breathe the thrilling suggestion of the crowd, hishead was already turned, and, besides, he never went with the crowds;he carried "Country" about with him;--The Country and The Past, --TheEternally Past. 

[Footnote 1: "Simon and I then understood our hatred of strangers andbarbarians, and our egotism, in which we included ourselves and ourentire small moral family. --_The first care of him who would wish tolive must be to surround himself with high walls; but even in hisclosed garden he must introduce only those who are guided by the samefeelings, and interests analogous to his own_. " "A Free Man. "

In three lines, three times, this "free man" expresses the idea of"shutting-up, " "closing, " and "surrounding with walls. "]

His son was killed, like Clerambault's son, and the sons of millionsof other fathers, for the faith and the ideals of those fathers inwhich they did not believe. 

Vaucoux had none of Clerambault's doubts; he did not know the meaningof the word, and if he could have permitted himself such a feeling hewould have despised the idea. Hard man as he was, he had loved his sonpassionately, though he had never shown it; and he could think of nobetter way to prove it now than by a ferocious hatred for those whohad killed him; not, of course, reckoning himself among the number. 

There were not many methods of revenge open to a man of his age, rheumatic and stiff in one arm; but he tried to enlist and wasrejected. He felt that something must be done, and all that he hadleft was his brain. Alone in his deserted house with the memory of hisdead wife and child, he sat for hours brooding on these vindictivethoughts; and like a beast shaking the bars of its cage, waiting forthe chance to spring, his mind raged furiously against the inhibitionsthe war put upon him with its iron circle of the trenches. 

The clamours of the press drew his attention to Clerambault's articleswhich were intensely distasteful to him. The idea of snatchinghis precious hatred away from between his teeth! From the slightacquaintance that he had with Clerambault before the war, he felt anantipathy for him; as a writer, on account of the new form of his art, and as a man for numerous reasons: his love of life, and other men, his democratic ideals, his rather silly optimism, and his Europeanaspirations. At the very first glance, with the instinct of arheumatic in mind and body, Vaucoux had classed Clerambault as one ofthose pestilent persons who open doors and windows and make a draughtin that closed house, his Country. That is, as he understood the term, in his mind there could be no other. After this there was no need forthe vociferations of the papers; in the author of "The Appeal to theLiving, " and the "Pardon from the Dead, " he saw at once an agent ofthe enemy, and with his thirst for revenge, he knew the opportunityhad come. 

Nothing can be more convenient than to detest those who differ fromyou, especially when you do not understand them; but poor Clerambaulthad not this resource, for he did understand perfectly. These goodpeople had had to bear injuries from the enemy; of course because theywere struck by them, but also frankly, because of Injustice with acapital I; for in their short-sightedness it filled the field ofvision. The capacity to feel and judge is very limited in an ordinaryman; submerged as he is in the species, he clings to any driftwood;and just as he reduces the infinite number of shades in the river oflight to a few colours, the good and evil that flow in the veinsof the world are only perceptible to him when he has bottled a fewsamples, chosen among those around him. All good and bad then he hasin his flask, and on these he can expend his whole power of liking orrepulsion; witness the fact that to millions of excellent people thecondemnation of Dreyfus, or the sinking of the "Lusitania, " remainsthe crime of the century. They cannot see that the path of sociallife is paved with crime, and that they walk over it in perfectunconsciousness, profiting by injustices that they make no effort toprevent. Of all these, which are the worst? Those which rouse longechoes in the conscience of mankind, or those which are known alone tothe stifled victim? Naturally, our worthy friends have not arms longenough to embrace all the misery of the world; they can only reach oneperhaps, but that they press close to their heart; and when they havechosen a crime, they pour out upon it all the pent-up hatred withinthem;--when a dog has a bone to gnaw, it is wiser not to touch him. 

Clerambault had tried to take his bone away from the dog, and if hewas bitten he had no right to complain; in point of fact he did notdo so. Men are in the right to fight injustice wherever they see it;perhaps it is not their fault if they often see no more than its bigtoe, like Gulliver's at Brobdignag. Well, we must each do what we can;and these people could bite. 

It was Good Friday, and the rising tide of invasion swept up towardsthe Ile de France. Even this day of sacred sorrow had not stopped themassacre, for the lay war knows nothing of the Truce of God. Christhad been bombarded in one of His churches, and the news of themurderous explosion at St. Gervais that afternoon spread at nightfallthrough the darkened city, wrapped in its grief, its rage, and itsfear. 

The sad little group of friends had gathered at Froment's house; eachone had come hoping to meet the others, without previous appointment. They could see nothing but violence all about them; in the present aswell as in the future, in the enemy's camp, in their own, on the sideof revolutionists, and reactionaries as well. Their agony and theirdoubts met in one thought. The sculptor was saying:

"Our holiest convictions, our faith in peace and human brotherhoodrest in vain on reason and love; is there any hope then that they canconquer men? We are too weak. "

Clerambault, half-unconsciously, as the words of Isaiah came to hismind, uttered them aloud:

 "Darkness covers the earth, And the cloud envelops the people.... "

He stopped, but from the faintly-lighted bed came Froment's voice, continuing:

 "Rise, for on the tops of the mountains The light shineth forth.... "

"Yes, the light will dawn, " said Madame Froment; she was sitting onthe foot of the bed in the dark near Clerambault; he leaned forwardand took her hand. It was as if a thrill widened through the room, like a ripple over water. 

"Why do you say that?" asked the Count de Coulanges. 

"Because I see _Him_ plainly. "

"I can see _Him_ too, " said Clerambault. 

"Him? Whom do you mean?" asked Doctor Verrier. But before the answercould come, they all knew the word that would be said:

"He who bears the light, the God who will conquer.... "

"Are you waiting for a God?" said the old professor. "Do you believein miracles?"

"We are the miracle, for is it not one that in this world of perpetualviolence we have kept a constant faith in the love and the union ofmen?"

"Christ is expected for centuries, " said Coulanges bitterly, "and whenHe comes, He is neglected, crucified, and then forgotten except by ahandful of poor ignorant wretches, good if you like, but narrow. Thehandful grows larger, and for the space of a man's life, faith isin flower, but afterwards it is spoiled and betrayed by success, by ambitious disciples, by the Church; and so on for centuries ... _Adveniat regnum tuum_ ... Where is the kingdom of God?"

"Within us, " said Clerambault, "our trials and our hopes all go toform the eternal Christ. It ought to make us happy to think of theprivilege that has been bestowed on us, to shelter in our hearts thenew God like the Babe in the manger. "

"And what proof have we of His coming?" said the doctor. 

"Our existence, " said Clerambault. 

"Our sufferings, " said Froment. 

"Our misunderstood faith, " said the sculptor. 

"The fact alone that we are, " went on Clerambault. "We are a livingparadox thrown in the face of nature which denies it. A hundred timesmust the flame be kindled and go out before it burns steadily. EveryChrist, every God is tried in advance through a series of forerunners;they are everywhere, lost in space, lost in the ages; but thoughwidely-separated, all of these lonely souls see the same luminouspoint on the horizon--the glance of the Saviour--who is coming. "

"He is already come, " said Froment. 

When they separated, with a deep mutual feeling, but in silence, --forthey feared to break the religious charm which held them, --each foundhimself alone in the dark street, but in each was the memory of avision which they could hardly understand. The curtain had fallen; butthey could never forget that they had seen it rise. 

A few days after, Clerambault, who had been again summoned before themagistrate, came home splashed with mud from head to foot. His hatwhich he held in his hand, was a mere rag, and his hair was soaking. The woman, who opened the door, exclaimed at the sight of him, but hesigned to her to keep still, and went into his room. Rosine was away, so the husband and wife were alone in the flat, where they only met atmeals, saying as little to each other as possible. However, hearingthe exclamation of the servant, Madame Clerambault feared some newmisfortune and went to look for her husband. She too cried out whenshe saw him:

"Good Lord! what have you been doing now?"

"I slipped and fell, " said he, trying to wipe off the traces of theaccident. 

"You fell?--turn round. What a state you are in!... One can't have amoment's peace when you are around.... You never look where you aregoing. There is mud up to your eyelids ... All over your face!"

"Yes, I must have struck myself there.... "

"What unlucky people we are!... You 'think' that you struck yourcheek?... You tripped and fell?... " And looking him in the face, shecried:

"It isn't true!... 

"I did fall, I assure you.... "

"No, I know it is not true ... Tell me, ... Someone struck you ... ?"He did not answer. "They struck you, the brutes. My poor husband, tothink that anyone should strike you!... And you so good, who never didharm to anyone in your life! How can people be so wicked?" and sheburst into tears as she threw her arms around him. 

"My dear girl, " said he, much touched. "It is not worth all thesetears. See, you are getting all muddy, you ought not to touch me. "

"That does not matter, " said she. "I have more spots than that on myconscience. Forgive me!"

"Forgive you for what? Why do you say such things?"

"Because I have been wicked to you myself; I haven't understoodyou--(I don't think I ever shall)--but I do know that whatever you do, you only mean what is right. I ought to have stood up for you and Ihave not done it. I was angry with your foolishness, but it is reallyI that was the fool, and it vexed me too, when you got everyone downon you. But now ... It is really too unjust! That a lot of men who arenot fit to tie your shoe ... That they should strike you! Let me kissyour poor muddy face!"

It was so sweet to find each other again!--When she had had a good cryon Clerambault's neck, she helped him to dress, then she bathed hischeek with arnica, and carried off his clothes to brush them. At tableher eyes dwelt on him with the old affectionate care, while he triedto calm her fears by talking of familiar things. To be alone togetherwithout the children took them back to the old days, the early timesof their marriage. And the memory had a sad, quiet sweetness--as theevening angelus spreads through the growing gloom a last softenedglory from the angelus of noon. 

About ten o'clock the bell rang, and Moreau came in with his friendGillot. They had read the evening papers which gave an account of theincident--from their point of view; some spoke of the "spontaneous"indignation of the crowd and approved of the rebuke inflicted bypopular contempt. Others, and they were the more serious sheets, deprecated lynch law in the public streets, as a matter of principle, but blamed the weakness of the authorities, who were afraid to throwlight on all the facts. 

It was not impossible that this mild criticism of the government wasinspired by the government itself; for politicians know how to manageso that their hand may be forced, when they have an end in view ofwhich they are not exactly proud. The arrest of Clerambault seemedimminent, and Moreau and his comrade were very uneasy; but Clerambaultsigned to them to say nothing before his wife, and after a few wordson the event of the day, which they treated rather lightly, he tookthem both into his study and asked them to tell him plainly what wasthe matter. 

They showed him a vicious article in the nationalist paper which hadbeen active against Clerambault for weeks, and which was so encouragedby the manifestation of the day that it called on all its friends torenew the attack the next morning. Moreau and Gillot foresaw thatthere would be trouble when Clerambault went to the Palais, and theyhad come to beg him to stay in the house. Knowing his timidity, theythought that there would be no difficulty in persuading him to this, but just as it had been the day Moreau had found him disputing in thestreet, he did not now seem to grasp the situation. 

"Stay at home, why? I am perfectly well. "

"We think it would be more prudent. "

"On the contrary, it would do me good to go out for a little while. "

"You don't know what might happen. "

"As to that one never knows; it will be time enough to worry when itcomes. "

"To be perfectly frank then, you are in danger; the feeling has beenworked up against you for a long time, till now you are so hated thatpeople's eyes almost start out of their heads at the sound of yourname;--idiots! they know nothing about you but what they see in thepapers; but their leaders want a row, they have been so stupid thatyour articles have had much more publicity than they intended; theyare afraid that your ideas will spread, and they want to make anexample of you that will discourage anyone who might be disposed tofollow you. "

"If that is true, " said Clerambault, "and I really havefollowers, --something I did not know before, --this is not the momentto keep out of the way; if they want to make an example of me, Icannot balk them. " This was said in so pleasant a way, that they askedthemselves if he really understood. 

"You are taking a terrible risk, " persisted Gillot. 

"Well, my friend, everyone has to take risks nowadays. "

"It ought, at least, to be of some use, --why play into their hands?There is no need to throw yourself into the jaws of the wolves. "

"It seems to me on the contrary, that it might be very useful, " saidClerambault, "and that the wolf would find himself in the wrong boxafter all; let me explain to you. This will spread our ideas, forviolence always consecrates the persecuted cause. They want tointimidate, and so they will. Everyone will be frightened--their ownside, all the hesitaters, and timorous folk. Let them be unjust, itwill rebound on their own heads. " He seemed to forget that it mightalso fall on his. 

They saw that he had made up his mind, and felt an increased respectfor him, but they also felt much more anxious, and this led them tosay:

"If that is the case, we will get all our friends together, and gowith you. "

"No, no, what a ridiculous idea!... Nothing will happen after all. "Seeing that their remonstrances were useless, Moreau made a lastattempt: "You can't keep me from coming with you, " said he. "I am anobstinate man myself, you can't get rid of me; I will wait for you, ifI have to sit on that bench outside your door all night!"

"Go and spend the night in your bed, my dear fellow, " saidClerambault, "and sleep soundly. Come with me in the morning if youlike, but it will be time lost; nothing is going to happen;--but kissme, all the same!" After an affectionate hug, they went towards thedoor, when Gillot paused a moment: "We must look after you a little, you know, " said he, "we feel as if you were a sort of father to us. "

"So I am, " said Clerambault with his beaming smile; his own boy was inhis mind. He closed the door, and stood for some minutes with the lampin his hand in the vestibule before he realised where he was. It wasnearly midnight and he was very tired, but, instead of going intothe bedroom, he mechanically turned again towards his study;--theapartment, the house, the street were all asleep. Almost withoutseeing it, he stared vaguely at the light shining on the frame of anengraving of Rembrandt's, The Resurrection of Lazarus, which hung onthe opposite wall.... A dear figure seemed to enter the room; ... Itcame in silently, and stood beside him. 

"Are you satisfied now?" he thought. "Is this what you wished?" AndMaxime answered: "Yes, " then added with meaning:

"I have found it very hard to teach you, Papa. "

"Yes, " said Clerambault, "there is much that we can learn from oursons. " And they smiled at each other in the silence. 

When Clerambault at last went to bed, his wife was sound asleep. Shewas one of those people whom nothing can keep awake, who sink intoprofound slumber as soon as their heads touch the pillow. ButClerambault could not follow her example; he lay on his back with hiseyes open, staring into the darkness, all through the rest of thenight. 

There were pale glimmers from the street in the half-shadow; and aquiet star or two high up in a dark sky; one seemed to be falling ina great half-circle--it was only an airplane keeping watch over thesleeping city. Clerambault followed its sweep with his eyes, andseemed, to fly with it, the distant hum of the human planet comingfaintly to his ear, like a strange music of the spheres not foreseenby Ionian sages. 

He felt happy, for the burden was lifted from his body and soul, hiswhole being seemed to be relaxed, to float in air. Pictures of thepast day with its agitations and fatigues, passed before his eyes, butdid not disturb him. An old man hustled by a mob of young _bourgeois_... He could hear their loud voices, too loud--but now they hadvanished like faces that you catch a glimpse of from a moving train. The train flies on and the vision disappears in the roaring tunnel.... There is the sombre sky again, and the mysterious star, still falling. Silent spaces around, the clear darkness, and the cool fresh airblowing on his soul; all infinity in one tiny drop of life, in a heartwhose spark flickers to its end, but knows it is free, and that itsvast home is near. 

Like a good steward of the treasure placed in his charge, Clerambaultmade up the account of his day. He looked back on his attempts, hisefforts, his impulses, his mistakes; how little remained of his life, for nearly all that he had built up he had afterwards destroyed withhis own hands. He had first stated, then denied, and had never ceasedto wander in the forest of doubts and contradictions; often torn andbruised, with no guide but the stars half-seen through the branches. What meaning had there been in this long troubled course, now endingin darkness? One only, he had been free. 

Free!... What was this freedom, then, which intoxicated him socompletely? This liberty of which he was the master and theslave--this imperious need to be free? He knew well enough that nomore than others was he emancipated from the eternal bonds; but theorders that he obeyed differed from others; all are not alike. Theword liberty is only one of the clear high commands of the invisiblesovereign who rules the world ... Whom we call necessity. She it iswho excites those of the advance-guard to rebel, and causes them tobreak with the heavy past which the blind multitude drags along behindit; for she is the battle-field of the eternal present, where thepast and the future must ever strive together, and on this field theancient laws are conquered, that they may give place to new laws, which will be conquered in their turn. 

O Liberty! Thou art always in chains, but they are not the heavyfetters of the past; for each struggle has enlarged thy prison. Whocan tell? Perhaps later, when the prison walls have been thrown down.... But in the meanwhile, those whom thou wouldst save resist thee. Thou art called the Public Enemy, or The One against All. To thinkthat this nickname should have been fastened on the weak, ordinaryClerambault! But he did not remember that at this moment, his thoughtswere filled with the one who has always existed, ever since man hasbeen known on the earth; the one who has never ceased to fight theirfollies, that they may be delivered--_The One whom All oppose_.... Howmany times throughout the ages have they rejected and crushed him! Butin the midst of his agony a supernatural joy sustains him; he is thesacred golden seed of liberty, which fell from we know not what sheaf, and in the darkness of destiny has sowed the germs of light, eversince the first chaos. In the depths of the savage heart of man, thefrail atom found shelter, it fought against elementary laws whichgrind and bend living things; but tirelessly the small golden seedgrew, and man the weakest of all creatures, marched against nature andfought her. Each step cost a drop of his blood, in this gigantic duel;he has had to fight nature not only in the world without, but withinhimself, since he is a part of her. This is the hardest battle, thatwaged by the man divided against himself; and in the end who willconquer? On the one side is nature with her chariot of iron, in whichshe hurls worlds and peoples into the abyss; and on the other isonly, --The Word. It is no wonder that you laugh, ye slaves! no wonderthe servants of force say that it is like "a cur barking at the wheelsof an express-train. " Yes, if man were only a fragment of matterwrithing in vain beneath the hammer of fate; but there is a spiritwithin him which knows how to smite Achilles on his heel, and Goliathin his forehead. Let him but wrench off a nut, the swift train isoverturned, its course stayed. Planetary swirls, obscure masses ofhuman-kind, roll down through the ages lighted by flashes of theliberating Spirit: Buddha, the Sages, Jesus--all breakers of chains! Ican see the lightning coming, feel it thrill through me, like sparksthat fly up beneath the horse's hoofs. The air vibrates with it, asthe thick clouds of hate come together with a crash. The flame springsup! If you are alone against the world, have you cause to complain?You have escaped the crushing yoke, fought your way through, like anightmare in which one struggles and tears oneself out of the darkwaters. You sink, choking, and all at once with a despairing effortyou throw yourself beyond the reach of the wave, and sink exhaustedbut safe on the shore. These people wound me? So much the better, Ishall wake up in the free air. 

Yes, threatening world, I am indeed free from your fetters, I cannever be chained again, and my detested will with which I so often hadto fight, my will is now in you. You wanted, like me, to be free, andthat made you suffer, and made you my enemy; but now even if you killme, you have seen the light in me, and once seen, you can no longerreject it. Strike then! But know that in fighting against me you fightyourself also; you are beaten in advance, and when I defend myself, itis you that I defend as well. _The One against All_ is the _One forAll_, and soon will be _The One with All_. 

I shall no longer be solitary! I feel that I have never been in truthalone. My brothers of the world, you may indeed be scattered afar overthe earth like a handful of grain, but I know that you are here besideme. The thought of a man is not solitary; the idea which grows in himsprings up in others; when he feels it in his heart, let him rejoice, no matter how unhappy, how injured he may be, for it is the earthreviving. The first spark in a lonely soul is the point of the raywhich will pierre the night. So, welcome, Light. Break through thenight which is around and within me!... "Clerambault. "

The fresh light of day returned, ever young and new, untouched by thestains of men which the sun drinks up like a morning mist. 

Madame Clerambault woke, and when she saw her husband with open eyes, she thought that he too had just waked up. 

"You had a good sleep, " said she. "I don't think you stirred all nightlong. " He did not contradict her, but thought of the vast distances hehad traversed in the spirit, that fiery bird that flies through thenight.... But feeling that he had come back to earth, he got up. 

At the same hour another man rose, who had also passed a sleeplessnight, who had also evoked his dead son, and thought of Clerambault. Whom he did not know, with fierce hatred. 

A letter came from Rosine by the first mail, containing a secret thatClerambault had guessed long ago. Daniel had spoken to his parents, and the marriage would take place the next time he came home from thefront. She went through the form of asking the consent of her fatherand mother, but she knew that her wishes were theirs. Her letterradiated happiness and a triumphant security that nothing could shake. The sad riddle of the agonised world had found an answer, and in theabsorption of her young love the universal suffering; did not seem toohigh a price for the flower that bloomed for her on this bloody stem. In the midst of it all, she was tender and compassionate as usual, remembering the troubles of others, her father and his worries. But she seemed to put her happy arms about them, with a simpleaffectionate conceit, as if she said: "Please don't worry any moreover all these ideas, darlings! It is foolish of you to be sad, whenyou see that happiness is coming. "

Clerambault smiled tenderly as he read the letter. No doubt happinesswas on the way, but some of us cannot wait for it. "Greet it from me, my little Rose, and do not let it fly away. "

About eleven o'clock the Count de Coulanges came to ask after him; hehad seen Moreau and Gillot mounting guard before the door. They hadcome to escort Clerambault according to their promise, but they hadnot dared to come up because they were an hour too early. Clerambaultsent for them, laughing at their excess of zeal, and they admittedthat they had thought him perfectly capable of sneaking out of thehouse without waiting for them; an idea which he confessed had crossedhis mind. 

The news from the front was good; during the last few days the Germanoffensive had wavered; strange signs of weakness began to appear;and well-founded rumours made it evident that there was a secretdisorganisation in the formidable mass. People said that the limit ofhis strength had been passed and that the athlete was exhausted. Therewas talk also of contagion from the Russian revolutionary spiritbrought by the German troops that had been on the Eastern Front. 

With the usual mobility of the French mind, the pessimists ofyesterday began to shout for the approaching victory. Already Moreaudiscounted the calming down of passions and the return to commonsense. The reconciliation of the nations and the triumph ofClerambault's ideas would follow shortly. He advised them not todeceive themselves too much, and amused himself by describing whatwould happen when peace was signed; for peace would have to come someday. 

"I am going to pretend, " said he, "that I am hovering over thetown--like the devil on two sticks--the first night after thearmistice. I see innumerable sorrowing hearts behind shutters closedagainst the shouts in the streets. Hearts straining all through theseyears towards a victory that would lend meaning to their grief;and now they can let go--or break down, sleep, die, perhaps. Thepoliticians will reflect on the quickest and most lucrative way toexploit the success, or turn a somersault if they have guessed wrong. The professional soldiers will keep the war going as long as they can, and when that is stopped, they will plan for another in the shortestpossible time. Before-the-war pacifists will all come out of theirholes, and be found at their posts, with touching demonstrations ofjoy, while their old leaders who have been beating the drum in therear for over five years will reappear with olive branches in theirhands, smiling and talking of brotherly love. The men who sworenever to forget when they were in the trenches will accept all theexplanations and congratulations that are offered them. It is such abore not to forget! Five years of exhausting fatigue make you acceptanything through sheer weariness or boredom, or the wish to finishit all, so the flourishes of triumph will drown the cries of thevanquished. The one thought of most people will be to go back to theirsleepy before-the-war habits; first they will dance on the graves, andthen lie down and go to sleep on them, till after a while the war willbe only something to boast about in the evening. Perhaps they willsucceed in forgetting it so entirely, that the Dance of Death can beresumed;--not all at once, of course, but later when we have had agood rest. So there will be peace everywhere, till the time when itwill be war everywhere again. In the meaning that is now given to thewords, my friends, peace and war are just different labels for thesame bottle. It reminds me of what King Bomba said of his valiantsoldiers; dress them in red or in green as you choose, they will taketo their heels just the same. One says peace and the other war, butneither means anything, there is only universal servitude, multitudesswept along like the ebb and flow of tides; and this will continue aslong as no strong souls raise themselves above the human ocean, aslong as no one dares to fight against the fate that sways these greatmasses. "

"Fight against nature, " said Coulanges. "Would you resist her laws?"

"There are no immutable laws, " said Clerambault, laws like beings, live, change, and die. It is the duty of the spirit, not to acceptthese as the Stoics taught us, but rather to modify and shape them toour needs. Laws are the outside form of the soul, and if it grows theymust grow also. The only just laws are those that suit me. Am I wrongin thinking that the shoe should be made to fit the foot, not the footfor the shoe?"

"I do not say that you are wrong, " said the Count, "we force natureall the time in cattle-breeding, so that even the shape and instinctsof the animals are modified; why not the human creature? No, far fromblaming you, I maintain on the contrary that the object and the dutyof every man worthy of the name is, just as you say, to alter humannature. It is the source of all real progress; even to strive afterthe impossible has a concrete value. But that does not mean that weshall succeed in what we undertake. "

"It is possible that we may not succeed for ourselves and ourchildren; it is, even more, probable. Perhaps our unhappy nation, theentire West is on the downward path. There are many things that makeme fear that we are hastening to our fall; our vices and our virtues, which are almost equally injurious, the pride and hatred, the jealousspite worthy of a big village, the endless chain of revenges, theblind obstinacy, the clinging to the past with its superannuatedconceptions of honour and duty, which causes us to sacrifice thefuture for the past; all these make me fear that the terrible warningof this war has taught nothing to our slothful and turbulent heroism. There was a time when I should have been overwhelmed by such a thoughtas this, but now I feel lifted above it, as I am above my own mortalbody; the only tie between me and it is made of pity. My spirit isbrother to that which, on the other side of the globe, is now touchedby the new fire. Do you remember the beautiful words of the Seer ofSt. Jean d'Acre?[1]"

[Footnote 1: Reference to Abdul Baha, at present the head of theBabists or Bahaists. He was at that time a prisoner at St. Jeand'Acre. See "Lessons of St. Jean d'Acre, " by Abdul Baha, collected byLaura Clifford Barney. (Author. )]

"'_The Sun of Truth is like our sun. It rises in many different places. One day it appears in the sign of Cancer, on another it rises inLibra, but it is always the same sun. Once the Sun of Truth rose inthe constellation of Abraham, and set in that of Moses, flaming overthe whole horizon; and later it was seen in the sign of Christ, brightand resplendent. When its light shone over Sinai, the followers ofAbraham were blinded. But wherever the sun may rise, my eyes will befixed upon it; even if it should appear in the west it will always bethe sun. _'"

"'_C'est du Nord aujourd'hui que nous vient la lumière_, '"[1] saidMoreau, laughing ("It is from the North that our light comes today"). 

[Footnote 1: A famous line of Voltaire's. (Author. )]

Though the hearing was set for one o'clock, and it was now barelytwelve, Clerambault wanted to start at once, he was so afraid of beinglate. 

They had not far to go, and indeed his friends had no need to protecthim against the rabble which hung about the Palais de Justice, a crowdwhich in any case was considerably thinned out by the morning's news. There were only a few curs, more noisy than dangerous, who might havesnapped at their heels. 

They had reached the corner of the Rue Vaugirard and the Rue d'Assas, when Clerambault, finding that he had forgotten an important paper, went back to look for it in his apartment; the others stood therewaiting for him. They saw him come out and cross the street. On theopposite sidewalk, near a cab-stand, was a well-dressed man of abouthis own age, grey-haired, not very tall, and rather stout. They sawthis person go up to Clerambault--it all passed so quickly that theyhad no time even to cry out. There was a brief exchange of words, anarm raised, a shot!--they saw him totter, and ran up. Too late. 

They laid him down on a bench; a little crowd gathered, more curiousthan shocked (people had seen so many things of this kind), lookingover each ether's shoulders:

"Who is it?"

"A defeatist. "

"Serve him right, then I The dirty beasts have done us harm enough!"

"I don't know, there are worse things than to want the war to beover. "

"There is only one way to finish it; we must fight it out. It is thepacifists' fault that it has dragged on so long. "

"You might almost say that they were the cause of it; the bochescounted on them. Without those fools there wouldn't have been anywar. " Clerambault lying there half-unconscious, thought of the oldwoman who threw her fagot on the wood stacked around John Huss ... _Sancta simplicitas. _

Vaucoux had not attempted to get away, but let them take the revolverout of his hand without resistance. They held his arms fast, and hestood looking at his victim, whose eyes met his; each thought of hisson. 

Moreau, much excited, spoke threateningly to Vaucoux; who, like animpassive image of hatred, only answered briefly: "I have killed theAdversary, the Enemy. "

A faint smile hovered on Clerambault's lips as he looked at Vaucoux. "My poor friend, " he thought, "It is within you yourself that theEnemy lies, "--his eyes closed ... Centuries seemed to pass.... "Thereare no enemies.... " and Clerambault entered into the peace of theworlds to come. 

Seeing that he had lost consciousness, his friends carried him intoFroment's house which was close by; but he was dead before theyreached it. 

They laid him on a bed, in a room beside that in which the youngparalytic lay with his friends now gathered round him. The doorremained open. The spirit of the dead man seemed near them. 

Moreau spoke bitterly of the absurdity of this murder; why not strikeone of the great pirates of the triumphant reaction, or a recognisedhead of the revolutionary group? Why choose this inoffensive, unbiassed man, who was kind to everyone, and almost too comprehendingto all sides?

"Hatred makes no mistakes, " said Edmé Froment. "It has been guidedby a sure instinct to the right mark; for an enemy often sees moreclearly than a friend. No, there is no doubt about it, the mostdangerous adversary of society and the established order in this worldof violence, falsehood, and base compromises, is, and has always been, the man of peace and a free conscience. The crucifixion of Jesus wasno accident; He had to be put to death. He would be executed today;for a great evangelist is a revolutionary, and the most radical ofall. He is the inaccessible source from whence revolutions breakthrough the hard ground, the eternal principle of non-submission ofthe spirit to Caesar, no matter who he may be--the unjust force. Thisexplains the hatred of those servants of the State, the domesticatedpeoples, for the insulted Christ who looks at them in silence, andalso for His disciples, for us, the eternal insurrectionists, theconscientious objectors to tyranny from high or low, to that of todayor tomorrow ... For us, who go before One greater than ourselves, whocomes bringing to the world the Word of salvation, the Master laidin the grave but '_qui sera en agonie jusqu' à la fin du monde_, '[1]whose suffering will endure to the world's end, the unfetteredSpirit, the Lord of all. " [Footnote 1: The quotation is from Pascal. (Author. )]

SIERRE, 1916--PARIS, 1920.