greasy fleece had stuck to his flesh. He could sniff the musty odour
of the primitive beast, the savage instincts of war, of murder, the
lust for blood like living meat torn by his jaws. The elemental force
which asks death for life. Far down in the depths of human nature is
this slaughter-house in the ditch, never filled up but covered with
the veil of a false civilisation, over which hangs a faint whiff from
the 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 same
time stinking and bloody, made of the lowest instincts, and the
highest illusions. To love, give ourselves to all, be a sacrifice for
all, be but one body and one soul, our Country the sole life!... What
then is this Country, this living thing to which a man sacrifices
his life, the life of all but his conscience and the consciences of
others? What is this blind love, of which the other side of the shield
is an equally blinded hate?
... "It was a great error to take the name of reason from that of
love," 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 of
thought to one side without considering everything; but it is always
reason." ...
Well, let us consider everything. Is not this love in a great measure
the fear of examining all things, as a child hides his head under the
sheet, so as not to see the shadow on the wall?
Country? A Hindoo temple: men, monsters, and gods. What is she? The
earth we tread on? The whole earth is the mother of us all. The
family? It is here and there, with the enemy as with ourselves, and it
asks nothing but peace. The poor, the workers, the people, they are
on both sides, equally miserable, equally exploited. Thinkers have a
common field, and as for their rivalries and their vanities, they are
as ridiculous in the East as in the West; the world does not go to war
over the quarrels of a Vadius or a Trissotin. The State? But the State
and the Country are not the same thing. The confusion is made by those
who find profit in it; the State is our strength, used and abused by
men like ourselves, no better than ourselves, often worse. We are not
duped by them, and in times of peace we judge them fairly enough, but
let a war come on, they are given _carte blanche_, they can appeal to
the lowest instincts, stifle all control, suppress liberty and truth,
destroy all humanity; they are masters, we must stand shoulder to
shoulder to defend the honour and the mistakes of these Masacarilles
arrayed in borrowed plumes. We are all answerable, do you say?
Terrible net-work of words! Responsible no doubt we are for the best
and the worst of our people, it is a fact as we well know, but that it
is a duty that binds us to their injustices and their insanities.... I
deny it!...
There can be no question as to community of interest. No one, thought
Clerambault, has had more joy in it, or said more in praise of its
greatness. It is good and healthy, it makes for rest and strength, to
plunge the bare, stiff, cold ego into the collective mind, as into
a bath of confidence and fraternal gifts. It unbends, gives itself,
breathes more deeply; man needs his fellow-man, and owes himself to
him, 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 many
duties, but the highest of all is to be and remain himself; even when
he sacrifices and gives all that he is. To bathe in the soul of others
would 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 our
day you are plunged from childhood, whether you like it or not, into
the democratic tub. Society thinks for you, imposes its morality upon
you; its State acts for you, its fashions and its opinions steal from
you the very air you breathe; you have no lungs, no heart, no light of
your own. You serve what you despise, you lie in every gesture, word,
and thought, you surrender, become nothing.... What does it profit us
all, if we all surrender? For the sake of whom, or what? To satisfy
blind instincts, or rogues? Does God rule, or do some charlatans speak
for the oracle? Let us lift the veil, and look the hidden thing behind
it in the face.... Our Country! A great noble word! The father,
brother embracing brother.... That is not what your false country
offers me, but an enclosure, a pit full of beasts, trenches, barriers,
prison bars.... My brothers, where are they? Where are those who
travail all over the world? Cain, what hast thou done with them? I
stretch out my arms; a wave of blood separates us; in my own country I
am only an anonymous instrument of assassination.... My Country! but
it is you who destroy her!... My Country was the great community of
mankind; you have ravaged it, for thought and liberty know not where
to lay their heads in Europe today. I must rebuild my house, the home
of us all, for you have none, yours is a dungeon.... How can it
be done, where shall I look, or find shelter?... They have taken
everything 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, they
are all violated, all enslaved! I am alone, lost, nothing remains to
me but death!...
* * * * *
When he had torn everything away, there remained nothing but his naked
soul. And for the rest of the night, it could only stand chilled and
shivering. But a spark lived in this spirit that shivered, in this
tiny being lost in the universe like those shapes which the primitive
painters represented coming out of the mouth of the dying. With the
dawn the feeble flame, stifled under so many falsehoods, began to
revive, and was relighted by the first breath of free air; nothing
could again extinguish it.
* * * * *
Upon this agony or parturition of the soul there followed a long sad
day, the repose of a broken spirit, in a great silence with the aching
relief of duty performed.... Clerambault sat with his head against the
back of his armchair, and thought; his body was feverish, his heart
heavy with recollections. The tears fell unnoticed from his eyes,
while out of doors nature awoke sadly to the last days of winter, like
him stripped and bare. But still there trembled a warmth beneath the
icy air, which was to kindle a new fire everywhere.
PART TWO
It was a week before Clerambault could go out again. The terrible
crisis through which he had passed had left him weak but resolved,
and though the exaltation of his despair had quieted down, he was
stoically determined to follow the truth even to the end. The
remembrance of the errors in which his mind had delighted, and the
half-truths on which it had fed made him humble; he doubted his own
strength, and wished to advance step by step. He was ready to welcome
the advice of those wiser than himself. He remembered how Perrotin
listened to his former confidences with a sarcastic reserve that
irritated him at the time, but which now attracted him. His first
visit of convalescence was to this wise old friend.
Perrotin was rather short-sighted and selfish, and did not take the
trouble to look carefully at things that were not necessary to him,
being a closer observer of books than of faces, but he was none the
less 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 myself
together 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 I
contributed to his death."
"What do you mean, my good friend?" said Perrotin in surprise. "How
can you imagine such things to add to your trouble?"
"It was I who shut his eyes," said Clerambault bitterly, "and he has
opened mine."
Perrotin pushed aside the work, which according to his habit he
had continued to ruminate upon during the conversation, and looked
narrowly at his friend, who bent his head, and began his story in an
indistinct voice, sad and charged with feeling. Like a Christian
of the early times making public confession, he accused himself of
falsehood 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 he
was stirring up hatred. Like those lying priests who distort the
Scriptures to serve their wicked purposes, he had knowingly altered
the most generous ideas to disguise murderous passions.
He extolled war, while calling himself a pacifist; professed to be
humanitarian, previously putting the enemy outside humanity.... Oh,
how much franker it would have been to yield to force than to lend
himself to its dishonouring compromises! It was thanks to such
sophistries as his that the idealism of young men was thrown into the
arena. Those old poisoners, the artists and thinkers, had sweetened
the death-brew with their honeyed rhetoric, which would have been
found out and rejected by every conscience with disgust, if it had not
been for their falsehoods....
"The blood of my son is on my head," said Clerambault sadly. "The
death of the youth of Europe, in all countries, lies at the door of
European 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 to
acknowledge the errors of judgment into which you have been drawn by
public opinion, and I may confess to you now that I was sorry to see
it; but you are wrong to ascribe to yourself and other thinkers so
much responsibility for the events of today. One man speaks, another
acts; but the speakers do not move the others to action; they are all
drifting with the tide. This unfortunate European thought is a bit of
drift-wood like the rest, it does not make the current, it is carried
along by it."
"It persuades people to yield to it," said Clerambault, "instead of
helping the swimmers, and bidding them struggle against it; it
says: Let yourself go.... No, my friend, do not try to diminish its
responsibility, it is the greatest of all. Our thought had the best
place from which to see; its business was to keep watch, and if it saw
nothing, it was through lack of good-will, for it cannot lay the blame
on its eyes, which are clear enough. You know it and so do I, now that
I have come to my senses. The same intelligence which darkened my
eyes, 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 herself
at the service of any other forces without derogation; for if she is
no longer mistress and free, she is degraded. It is a case of
Roman master debasing the Greek, his superior, and making him his
purveyor--_Graeculus_, sophist, _Laeno_.... To the vulgar the
intelligence is a sort of maid-of-all-work, and in this position she
displays the sly, dishonest cleverness of her kind. Sometimes she is
employed by hatred, pride, or self-interest, and then she flatters
these little devils, dressing them up as Idealism, Love, Faith,
Liberty, and social generosity; for when a man does not love his
neighbour, he says he loves God, his Country, or even Humanity.
Sometimes the poor master is himself a slave to the State. Under
threat of punishment, the social machine forces him to acts which are
repugnant, but the complaisant intelligence persuades him that these
are fine and glorious, and performed by him of his own free will. In
either case the intelligence knows what she is about, and is always
at our disposition if we really want her to tell us the truth; but we
take 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 leading
questions as we please.... When all is said, the earth goes round none
the less, _e pur se muove_;--the laws of the world are obeyed, and the
free mind beholds them. All the rest is vanity; the passions, faith,
sincere or insincere, are only the painted face of that necessity
which rules the world, without caring for our idols: family, race,
country, religion, society, progress.... Progress indeed! The great
illusion! Humanity is like water that must find its level, and when
the cistern brims over a valve opens and it is empty again.... A
catastrophic rhythm, the heights of civilisation, and then downfall.
We rise, and are cast down ..."
Thus Perrotin calmly unveiled his Thought. She was not much accustomed
to going naked; but she forgot that she had a witness, and undressed
as if she were alone. She was extremely bold, as is often the thought
of 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 alarmed
Clerambault listened with his mouth open; certain words revolted him,
others pierced him to the heart; his head swam, but he overcame his
weakness, for he was determined to lose nothing of these profundities.
He pressed Perrotin with questions: and he, on his part, flattered and
smiling, complaisantly unrolled his pyrrhonian visions, as peaceable
as they were destructive.
The vapours of the pit were rising all about them; and Clerambault was
admiring the ease of this free spirit perched on the edge of the abyss
and enjoying it, when the door opened, and the servant came in with a
card which he gave to Perrotin.
At once the terrible phantoms of the brain vanished; a trap-door
shut out the emptiness, and an official drawing-room rug covered it.
Perrotin roused himself and said eagerly: "Certainly, show him in at
once." Turning to Clerambault he added:
"Pardon me, my dear friend, it is the Honourable Under-Secretary of
State for Public Instruction."
He was already on his feet and went to meet his visitor, a stage-lover
looking fellow, with the blue clean-shaven chin of a priest or a
Yankee, who held his head very high, and wore in the grey cut-a-way
which clothed his well-rounded figure, the rosette which is displayed
alike by our heroes and our lackeys. The old gentleman presented
Clerambault to him with cheerful alacrity: "Mr. Agénor
Clerambault--Mr. Hyacinth Monchéri," and asked the Honourable
Under-Secretary of State to what he owed the honour of his visit.
The Honourable Under-Secretary, not in the least surprised by the
obsequious welcome of the old scholar, settled himself in his armchair
with the lofty air of familiarity suitable to the superior position he
held over the two representatives of French letters. He represented
the State.
Speaking haughtily through his nose, and braying like a dromedary, he
extended to Perrotin an invitation from the Minister to preside over
a solemn contest of embattled intellectuals from ten nations, in the
great amphitheatre of the Sorbonne--"an imprecatory meeting," he
called it. Perrotin promptly accepted, and professed himself overcome
by the honour. His servile tone before this licensed government
ignoramus made a striking contrast with his bold statements a few
moments before, and Clerambault, somewhat taken aback, thought of the
_Graeculus_.
Mr. "Chéri" walked out with his head in the air, like an ass in a
sacred procession, accompanied by Perrotin to the very threshold, and
when the friends were once more alone, Clerambault would have liked to
resume the conversation, but he could not conceal that he was a little
chilled by what had passed. He asked Perrotin if he meant to state
in public the opinions he had just professed, and Perrotin refused,
naturally, laughing at his friend's simplicity. What is more, he
cautioned him affectionately against proclaiming such ideas from the
house-tops. Clerambault was vexed and disputed the point, but in order
to make the situation clear to him, and with the utmost frankness,
Perrotin described his surroundings, the great minds of the higher
University, which he represented officially: historians, philosophers,
professors of rhetoric. He spoke of them politely but with a deep
half-concealed contempt, and a touch of personal bitterness; for in
spite of his prudence, the less intelligent of his colleagues looked
on him with suspicion; he was too clever. He said he was like an old
blind man's dog in a pack of barking curs; forced to do as they did
and bark at the passers-by.
Clerambault did not quarrel with him, but went away with pity in his
heart.
He stayed in the house for several days, for this first contact with
the outside world had depressed him, and the friend on whom he had
relied 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 think
independently of others; he had let himself be carried along by
their thought, making it his own, becoming its inspired voice and
mouth-piece. Now all was suddenly changed. Notwithstanding that night
of crisis, his doubts returned upon him; for after fifty a man's
nature cannot be transformed at a touch, no matter how much the mind
may have retained the elasticity of youth. The light of a revelation
does not always shine, like the sun in a clear summer sky, but is more
like an arc-light, which often winks and goes out before the current
becomes strong. When these irregular pulsations fade out, the shadows
appear deeper, and the spirit totters and then--. It was hard for
Clerambault to get along without other people.
He decided to visit all his friends, of whom he had many, in the
literary world, in the University, and among the intelligent
_bourgeoisie_. He was sure to find some among them who, better than
he, could divine the problems which beset him, and help him in their
solution.
Timidly, without as yet betraying his own mind, he tried to read
theirs, to listen and observe; but he had not realised that the veil
had fallen from his eyes; and the vision that he saw of a world, once
well-known to him, seemed strange and cold.
The whole world of letters was mobilised; so that personalities were
no longer to be distinguished. The universities formed a ministry of
domesticated intelligence; its functions were to draw up the acts of
the State, its master and patron; the different departments were known
by their professional twists.
The professors of literature were above all skilful in developing
moral arguments oratorically under the three terms of the syllogism.
Their mania was an excessive simplification of argument; they put
high-sounding words in the place of reason, and made too much of a few
ideas, always the same, lifeless for lack of colour or shading. They
had unearthed these weapons of a so-called classic antiquity, the key
to which had been jealously guarded throughout the ages by academic
Mamelukes, and these eloquent antiquated ideas were falsely called
Humanities, though in many respects they offended the common-sense and
the heart of humanity as it is today. Still they bore the hall-mark
of Rome, prototype of all our modern states, and their authorised
exponents were the State rhetoricians.
The philosophers excelled in abstract constructions; they had the art
of explaining the concrete by the abstract, the real by its shadow.
They systematised some hasty partial observations, melted them in
their alembics, and from them deduced laws to regulate the entire
world. They strove to subject life, multiple and many-sided, to
the unity of the mind, that is, to _their_ mind. The time-serving
trickeries of a sophistical profession facilitated this imperialism of
the reason; they knew how to handle ideas, twisting, stretching, and
tying them together like strips of candy; it would have been child's
play for them to make a camel pass through the eye of a needle. They
could also prove that black was white, and could find in the works of
Emanuel Kant the freedom of the world, or Prussian militarism, just as
they saw fit.
The historians were the born scribes, attorneys, and lawyers of the
Government, charged with the care of its charters, its title-deeds,
and cases, and armed to the teeth for its future quarrels.... What is
history after all? The story of success, the demonstration of what has
been done, just or unjust. The defeated have no history. Be silent,
you Persians of Salamis, slaves of Spartacus, Gauls, Arabs of
Poitiers, Albigenses, Irish, Indians of both Americas, and colonial
peoples generally!... When a worthy man revolting against the
injustices of his day, puts his hope in posterity by way of
consolation, he forgets that this posterity has but little chance to
learn of former events. All that can be known is what the advocates of
official history think favourable to the cause of their client, the
State. A lawyer for the adverse party may possibly intervene--someone
of another nation, or of an oppressed social or religious group; but
there is small chance for him; the secret is kept too well!
Orators, sophists, and pleaders, the three corporations of the Faculty
of Letters,--Letters of State, signed and patented!
The studies of the "scientifics" ought to have protected them better
from the suggestions and contagions of the outside world--that is, if
they confined themselves to their trade. Unfortunately they have been
tempted from it, for the applied sciences have taken so large a place
in practical affairs that experts find themselves thrown into the
foremost ranks of action, and exposed to all the infections of the
public mind. Their self-respect is directly interested in the victory
of the community, which can as easily assimilate the heroism of the
soldier as the follies and falsehoods of the publicist. Few scientific
men have had the strength to keep themselves free; for the most
part they have only contributed the rigour, the stiffness of the
geometrical mind, added to professional rivalries, always more acute
between 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; but
unfortunately few of them are able to judge for themselves of events
which 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 their
shop, according to their natural instinct; but their vanity has been
foolishly tickled, and they have been urged to mix themselves up with
public affairs, and give their opinion on the universe. They can
naturally have but scattering views on such subjects, and in default
of personal judgment, they drift with the current, reacting with
extreme quickness to any shock, for they are ultra-sensitive, with a
morbid vanity which exaggerates the thoughts of others when it cannot
express their own. This is the only originality at their disposal, and
God knows they make the most of it!
What remains? the Clergy? It is they who handle the heaviest
explosives; the ideas of Justice, Truth, Right, and God; and they make
this artillery fight for their passions. Their absurd pride, of which
they are quite unconscious, causes them to lay claim to the property
of God, and to the exclusive right to dispose of it wholesale and
retail.
It is not so much that they lack sincerity, virtue, or kindness, but
they do lack humility; they have none, however much they may profess
it. Their practice consists in adoring their navel as they see it
reflected in the Talmud, or the Old and New Testaments. They are
monsters of pride, not so very far removed from the fool of legend
who thought himself God the Father. Is it so much less dangerous to
believe oneself His manager, or His secretary?