the recognised unworthiness of the enemy-nation as from a certain,
well-known fact; the whole question being to decide if one should see
in this the irremediable decadence of a great people, or the proof,
pure and simple, of a barbarism which had always existed, but hidden
from sight. Clerambault inclined to the latter explanation, and full
of his recent information he held Luther, Kant and Wagner responsible
for the violation of Belgian neutrality, and the crimes of the German
army. He, however, to use a colloquial expression, had never been to
see for himself, being neither musician, theologian, or metaphysician.
He trusted to the word of Academicians, and only made exceptions in
favour of Beethoven, who was Flemish, and Goethe, citizen of a free
city and almost a Strassburger, which is half French,--or French and a
half. He paused for approbation.
He was surprised not to find in Perrotin an ardour corresponding to
his own. His friend smiled, listened, contemplated Clerambault with an
attentive and benevolent curiosity. He did not say no, but he did not
say yes, either, and to some assertions he made prudent reservations.
When Clerambault, much moved, quoted statements signed by two or three
of Perrotin's illustrious colleagues, the latter made a slight gesture
as much as to say: "Ah, you don't say so!"
Clerambault grew hotter and hotter, and Perrotin then changed his
attitude, showing a keen interest in the judicious remarks of his good
friend, nodding his head at every word, answering direct questions
by vague phrases, assenting amiably as one does to someone whom one
cannot contradict.
Clerambault went away out of countenance and discontented, but a few
days later he was reassured as to his friend, when he read Perrotin's
name on a violent protestation of the Academies against the
barbarians. He wrote to congratulate him, and Perrotin thanked him in
a few prudent and sibylline words:
"DEAR SIR,"--he affected in writing the studied, ceremonious formulas
of _Monsieur de Port-Royal_--"I am ready to obey any suggestions of my
country, 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 it
aroused new affinities between individuals. People who up to this time
had not a thought in common discovered all at once that they thought
alike; and this resemblance drew them together. It was what people
called "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 before
you were now creatures, grouped in an unforeseen manner, like metal
filings round an invisible magnet. All the old categories had
momentarily disappeared, and no one was astonished to find himself
closer to the stranger of yesterday than to a friend of many years'
standing. It seemed as if, underground, souls met by secret roots that
stretched through the night of instinct, that unknown region, where
observation rarely ventures. For our psychology stops at that part
of self which emerges from the soil, noting minutely individual
differences, 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 the
threshold of consciousness, the mind feels nothing of it; but the war,
by waking up this underground life, revealed moral relationships
which no one had suspected. A sudden intimacy showed itself between
Clerambault and a brother of his wife whom he had looked upon until
now, and with good reason, as the type of a perfect Philistine.
Leo Camus was not quite fifty years old. He was tall, thin, and
stooped a little; his skin was grey, his beard black, not much hair on
his head,--you could see the bald spots under his hat behind,--little
wrinkles everywhere, cutting into each other, crossing, like a
badly-made net; add to this a frowning, sulky expression, and a
perpetual cold in the head. For thirty years he had been employed by
the State, and his life had passed in the shadow of a court-yard at
the Department. In the course of years he had changed rooms, but not
shadows; he was promoted, but always in the court-yard, never would he
leave it in this life. He was now Under-Secretary, which enabled him
to throw a shadow in his turn. The public and he had few points of
contact, and he only communicated with the outside world across a
rampart of pasteboard boxes and piles of documents. He was an old
bachelor without friends, and he held the misanthropical opinion
that disinterested friendship did not exist upon earth. He felt no
affection except for his sister's family, and the only way that he
showed that was by finding fault with everything that they did. He was
one of those people whose uneasy solicitude causes them to blame those
they love when they are ill, and obstinately prove to them that they
suffer by their own fault.
At the Clerambaults no one minded him very much. Madame Clerambault
was so easy-going that she rather liked being pushed about in this
way, and as for the children, they knew that these scoldings were
sweetened by little presents; so they pocketed the presents and let
the rest go by.
The conduct of Leo Camus towards his brother-in-law had varied with
time. When his sister had married Clerambault, Camus had not hesitated
to find fault with the match; an unknown poet did not seem to him
"serious" enough. Poetry--unknown poetry--is a pretext for not
working; 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, and
that made all the difference.... Just at this time Clerambault himself
became "known," Camus read about him one day in his favourite paper,
and after that he consented to read Clerambault's poems. He did not
understand them, but he bore them no ill will on that account. He
liked to call himself old-fashioned, it made him feel superior, and
there are many in the world like him, who pride themselves on their
lack of comprehension. For we must all plume ourselves as we can; some
of us on what we have, others on what we have not.
Camus was willing to admit that Clerambault could write. He knew
something of the art himself,--and his respect for his brother-in-law
increased in proportion to the "puffs" he read in the papers, and he
liked to chat with him. He had always appreciated his affectionate
kind-heartedness, though he never said so, and what pleased also in
this great poet, for great he was now, was his manifest incapacity,
and practical ignorance of business matters; on this ground Camus
was his superior, and did not hesitate to show it. Clerambault had a
simple-hearted confidence in his fellow-man, and nothing could have
been better suited to Camus' aggressive pessimism, which it kept in
working order. The greater part of his visits was spent in reducing
Clerambault's illusions to fragments, but they had as many lives as
a cat, and every time he came it had to be done over again. This
irritated Camus, but secretly pleased him for he needed a pretext
constantly renewed to think the world bad, and men a set of imbeciles.
Above all he had no mercy on politicians; this Government employee
hated Governments, though he would have been puzzled to say what
he would put in their places. The only form of politics that he
understood was opposition. He suffered from a spoiled life and
thwarted nature. He was a peasant's son and born to raise grapes, or
else to exercise his authoritative instincts over the field labourers,
like a watch-dog. Unfortunately, diseases of the vines interfered and
also the pride of a quill-driver; the family moved to town, and now he
would have felt it a derogation to return to his real nature, which
was too much atrophied, even if he had wished it. Not having found his
true place in society, he blamed the social order, serving it, as do
millions of functionaries, like a bad servant, an underhand enemy.
A mind of this sort, peevish, bitter, misanthropical, it seems would
have been driven crazy by the war, but on the contrary it served to
tranquilise it. When the herd draws itself together in arms against
the stranger it is a fall for those rare free spirits who love the
whole world, but it raises the many who weakly vegetate in anarchistic
egotism, and lifts them to that higher stage of organised selfishness.
Camus woke up all at once, with the feeling that for the first time he
was not alone in the world.
Patriotism is perhaps the only instinct under present conditions which
escapes the withering touch of every-day life. All other instincts and
natural aspirations, the legitimate need to love and act in social
life, are stifled, mutilated and forced to pass under the yoke of
denial and compromise. When a man reaches middle life and turns to
look back, he sees these desires marked with his failures and his
cowardice; the taste is bitter on his tongue, he is ashamed of them
and of himself. Patriotism alone has remained outside, unemployed
but not tarnished, and when it re-awakes it is inviolate. The soul
embraces and lavishes on it the ardour of all the ambitions, the
loves, and the longings, that life has disappointed. A half century of
suppressed fire bursts forth, millions of little cages in the social
prison open their doors. At last! Long enchained instincts stretch
their stiffened limbs, cry out and leap into the open air, as of
right--right, do I say? it is now their duty to press forward all
together like a falling mass. The isolated snow-flakes turned
avalanche.
Camus was carried away, the little bureaucrat found himself part of it
all 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 more
insomnia, and for the first time in years his stomach gave him no
trouble--because he had forgotten all about it. He even got through
the winter without taking cold--something that had never been heard of
before. He ceased to find fault with everything and everybody, he no
longer railed at all that was done or undone, for now he was filled
with a sacred pity for the entire social body--that body, now his, but
stronger, better, and more beautiful. He felt a fraternal bond with
all those who formed part of it by their close union, like a swarm of
bees hanging from a branch, and envied the younger men who went to
defend it. When Maxime gaily prepared to go, his uncle gazed at him
tenderly, and when the train left carrying away the young men, he
turned and threw his arms round Clerambault, then shook hands with
unknown parents who had come to see their sons off, with tears of
emotion and joy in his eyes. In that moment Camus was ready to give
up everything he possessed. It was his honey-moon with Life--this
solitary starved soul saw her as she passed and seized her in his
arms.... Yes, Life passes, the euphoria of a Camus cannot last
forever, but he who has known it lives only in the memory of it, and
in the hope that it may return. War brought this gift, therefore Peace
is an enemy, and enemies are all those who desire it.
Clerambault and Camus exchanged ideas, and to such an extent that
finally Clerambault could not tell which were his own, and as he lost
footing he felt more strongly the need to act; for action was a kind
of justification to himself.... Whom did he wish to justify? Alas, it
was Camus! In spite of his habitual ardour and convictions he was a
mere echo--and of what unhappy voices.
He began to write Hymns to Battle. There was great competition in this
line among poets who did not fight themselves. But there was little
danger that their productions would clog men's memories in future
ages, for nothing in their previous career had prepared these
unfortunates for such a task. In vain they raised their voices and
exhausted all the resources of French rhetoric, the "poilus" only
shrugged their shoulders.
However people in the rear liked them much better than the stories
written in the dark and covered with mud, that came out of the
trenches. The visions of a Barbusse had not yet dawned to show
the truth to these talkative shadows. There was no difficulty for
Clerambault, he shone in these eloquent contests. For he had the fatal
gift of verbal and rhythmical facility which separates poets from
reality, wrapping them as if in a spider's web. In times of peace this
harmless web hung on the bushes, the wind blowing through it, and the
good-natured Arachne caught nothing but light in her meshes. Nowadays,
however, the poets cultivated their carniverous instincts--fortunately
rather out of date--and hidden at the bottom of their web one could
catch sight of a nasty little beast with an eye fixed on the prey.
They sang of hatred and holy butchery, and Clerambault did as they
did, even better, for he had more voice. And, by dint of screaming,
this worthy man ended by feeling passions that he knew nothing of. He
learned to "know" hatred at last, know in the Biblical sense, and it
only roused in him that base pride that an undergraduate feels when
for 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 as
low as the others.
Camus well deserved and enjoyed the first taste of each one of these
poems and they made him neigh with enthusiasm, for he recognised
himself in them. Clerambault was flattered, thinking he had touched
the popular string. The brothers-in-law spent their evenings alone
together. Clerambault read, Camus drank in his verses; he knew them by
heart, and told everyone who would listen to him that Hugo had come
to life again, and that each of these poems was worth a victory. His
noisy admiration made it unnecessary for the other members of the
family to express their opinion. Under some excuse, Rosine regularly
made a practice of leaving the room when the reading was over.
Clerambault felt it, and would have liked to ask his daughter's
opinion, but found it more prudent not to put the question. He
preferred to persuade himself that Rosine's emotion and timidity put
her to flight. He was vexed all the same, but the approval of the
outside world healed this slight wound. His poems appeared in
the _bourgeois_ papers, and proved the most striking success of
Clerambault's career, for no other work of his had raised such
unanimous admiration. A poet is always pleased to have it said that
his last work is his best, all the more when he knows that it is
inferior to the others.
Clerambault knew it perfectly well, but he swallowed all the fawning
reviews of the press with infantile vanity. In the evening he made
Camus read them aloud in the family circle, beaming with joy as he
listened. 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 true
friend.) The old scholar to whom Clerambault had sent a copy of his
poems did not fail to congratulate him politely, praising his great
talent, but he did not say that this was his finest work; he even
urged him, "after having offered his tribute to the warlike Muse, to
produce 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 quite
different from this?" This was a fresh sign to Clerambault of the
sadly 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 all
values, and tried out friendships. And he thought that the loss of
Perrotin 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 his
duty?
The first letters from Maxime were a comforting cordial; the first
drops dissipated every discouragement, and they all lived on them
in long intervals when no news came. In spite of the agony of these
silences, when any second might be fatal to the loved one, his perfect
confidence (exaggerated perhaps, through affection, or superstition)
communicated itself to them all. His letters were running over with
youth and exuberant joy, which reached its climax in the days that
followed the victory of the Marne. The whole family yearned towards
him 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 the
extraordinary light when fate threw them into the infernal vortex of
the war, the light of Death, the game with Death; Maxime, a spoiled
child, delicate, overparticular, who in ordinary times took care
of himself like a fine lady, found an unexpected flavour in the
privations and trials of his new life, and wondering at himself he
boasted of it in his charming, vainglorious letters which delighted
the 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 barbaric
idea would have filled them with horror; but the transfiguration
of their petted boy suddenly become a hero, touched them with a
tenderness never before felt. In spite of their anxiety, Maxime's
enthusiasm intoxicated them, and it made them ungrateful toward their
former life, that peaceful affectionate existence, with its long
monotonous days. Maxime was amusingly contemptuous of it, calling it
absurd after one had seen what was going on "out there."
"Out there" one was glad to sleep three hours on the hard ground, or
once in a month of Sundays on a wisp of straw, glad to turn out at
three o'clock in the morning and warm up by marching thirty kilometres
with a knapsack on one's back, sweating freely for eight or ten hours
at a time.... Glad above all to get in touch with the enemy, and rest
a little lying down under a bank, while one peppered the boches....
This young Cyrano declared that fighting rested you after a march, and
when he described an engagement you would have said that he was at a
concert or a "movie."
The rhythm of the shells, the noise when they left the gun and when
they burst, reminded him of the passage with cymbals in the divine
scherzo of the Ninth Symphony. When he heard overhead as from an
airy 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 to
the 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 on
your stomach, you ran all bent doubled-up, or did Swedish gymnastics
through the underbrush ... that made up for not being able to walk
straight; and when it grew dark you said: "What, night already?--What
have we been doing with ourselves, today?" ... "In conclusion," said
this little French cockerel, "the only tiresome thing in war is what
you do in peace-time,--you walk along the high road."
This was the way these young men talked in the first month of the
campaign, all soldiers of the Marne, of war in the open. If this
had gone on, we should have seen once more the race of barefooted
Revolutionaries, who set out to conquer the world and could not stop
themselves.
They were at last forced to stop, and from the moment that they were
put 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, but
ceased 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 Clerambault
persisted in vibrating like an organ pipe, but Maxime no longer gave
back the echo he sought to evoke.
All at once, without warning, Maxime came home for a week's leave. He
stopped on the stairs, for though he seemed more robust than formerly,
his legs felt heavy, and he was soon tired. He waited a moment to
breathe, for he was moved, and then went up. His mother came to the
door at his ring, screaming at the sight of him. Clerambault who was
pacing 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 inarticulate
exclamations. Pushed into a chair by the window with his face to the
light, Maxime gave himself up to their delighted eyes. They were in
ecstasies over his complexion, his cheeks more filled out, his healthy
look. His father threw his arms around him calling him "My Hero"--but
Maxime sat with his fingers twitching nervously, and could not get out
a word.
At table they feasted their eyes on him, hung on every word, but he
said very little. The excitement of his family had checked his first
impetus, but luckily they did not notice it, and attributed his
silence to fatigue or to hunger. Clerambault talked enough for two;
telling Maxime about life in the trenches. Good mother Pauline was
transformed into a Cornelia, out of Plutarch, and Maxime looked at
them, ate, looked again.... A gulf had opened between them.
When after dinner they all went back to his father's study, and they
saw him comfortably established with a cigar, he had to try and
satisfy these poor waiting people. So he quietly began to tell them
how his time was passed, with a certain proud reserve and leaving out
tragical pictures. They listened in trembling expectation, and when
he had finished they were still expectant. Then on their side came a
shower of questions, to which Maxime's replies were short--soon he
fell silent. Clerambault to wake up the "young rascal" tried several
jovial thrusts.
"Come now, tell us about some of your engagements.... It must be fine
to see such joy, such sacred fire--Lord, but I would like to see all
that, I would like to be in your place."
"You can see all these fine things better from where you are," said
Maxime. 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 and
water--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 happen
then 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 questions
today."
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 in
apostrophes, demanding his son's approbation. His speeches resounded
with the word "Liberty." Maxime smiled faintly and looked at Rosine,
for the attitude of the young girl was singular. When her brother came
in she threw her arms round his neck, but since she had kept in the
background, one might have said aloof. She had taken no part in her
parents' questions, and far from inviting confidence from Maxime she
seemed to shrink from it. He felt the same awkwardness, and avoided
being alone with her. But still they had never felt closer to each
other in spirit, they could not have borne to say why.