all 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 and
relations; the people on the other side of the grave, the live
ones.--As for us, we are as good as dead."
In the long silence that followed they could hear the scream of a
shell 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 to
one another."
"Oh, they suffer too."
"Not the same. You can't make a man know what a toothache is unless he
feels it. Can't be done. Go to them all snuggled up in their beds, and
make them understand how it is out here!... It's nothing new to me. I
didn't have to wait for the war. Always have lived like this. But do
you believe when I was working in the soil, sweating all the fat off
my bones, that any of them bothered their heads about me? I don't mean
that there's any harm in them, nor much good, either, but like anybody
else, they don't see how it is. To understand a thing properly you've
got 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--no
use trying to explain. That's the way things are, and we can't do
anything 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 just
as 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 to
be off by yourself; and you're not lonesome, are you, boy?" Maxime
looked 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 passing
before his closed eyes. He turned them tranquilly on the father,
whose agonised look seemed to implore him to speak. And then, with an
awkward kindness, he tried to explain that if the boy was down-hearted
it was probably because he had just left home, but _they_ had cheered
him up as well as they could; they knew how he felt. He had never
known what it was to have a father himself, but when he was a kid he
used to think what luck it would be to have one.... "So I thought I
might try. I spoke to him, Sir, like you would yourself,... and he
soon quieted down. He said, all the same, there was one thing we got
out of this blooming war; that there were lots of poor devils in the
world who don't know each other, but are all made alike. Sometimes we
call 'em our brothers, in sermons and places like that, but no one
takes much stock in it. If you want to know it's true, you have to
slave together like us--He kissed me then, Sir."
Clerambault rose, and bending over the bandaged face, kissed the
wounded 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 so
used up. No legs, and a broken arm. I'm no good,--what could I work
at? Besides, it's not sure yet that I shall pull through. We'll have
to leave it at that. If I go out, good-bye. If not, can't do anything
but wait. There are plenty of trains."
As Clerambault admired his patience, he repeated his refrain: "I've
got the habit. There's no merit in being patient when there's nothing
else to do.... A little more or less, what does it matter?... It's
like life, this war is."
Clerambault saw that in his egotism he had asked the man nothing about
himself. He did not even know his name.
"My name? It's a good fit for me,--Courtois Aimé is what they call
me--Aimé, that's the Christian name, fine for an unlucky fellow like
me, and Courtois on the top of it. Queer enough, isn't it?... I never
had a family, came out of an Orphan Asylum; my foster-father, a farmer
down 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 had
to expect. I've had all that was coming to me!"
Thereupon he told in a few brief dry phrases, without emotion, of the
series of bad luck which had made up his life. Marriage with a girl as
poor as himself--"hunger wedding thirst," as they say, sickness and
death, the struggle with nature,--it would not be so bad if men would
only help.... _Homo, homini ... homo_.... All the social injustice
weighs on the under dog. As he listened Clerambault could not keep
down 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 born
to suffer, others not. You can't have mountains without valleys. The
war seemed perfectly idiotic to him, but he would not have lifted a
finger to prevent it. He had in his way the fatalist passivity of the
people, which hides itself, on Gallic soil, behind a veil of ironic
carelessness. The "no use in getting in a sweat about it," of the
trenches. Then there is also that false pride of the French, who fear
nothing so much as ridicule, and would risk death twenty times over
for something they know to be absurd, rather than be laughed at for
an act of unusual common-sense. "You might as well try to stop the
lightning as talk against war." When it hails there is nothing to do
but to cover over your cold-frames if you can, and when it's over go
round and see how much is left of your crop. And they will keep on
doing 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 Man
can change Man.
This stupid heroic resignation irritated Clerambault profoundly.
The upper classes are charmed with it, no doubt, for they owe their
existence 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 its
labours, are spent in learning how to die.... But when he looked
at the fragment of a man before him, his heart was pierced with an
infinite pity. What could this wretched man do, symbol as he was, of
the mutilated, sacrificed people? For so many centuries he has bled
and suffered under our eyes, while we, his more fortunate brothers,
have only encouraged him to persevere, throwing him some careless word
of praise from a distance, which cost us nothing. What help have we
ever 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 of
our thought we have kept for ourselves; we have not given him a taste
of it. We are afraid of the light, of impudent opinion and the rulers
of the hour who call to us saying: "Put it out! You who have the
Light, hide it, if you wish to be pardoned...." Oh, let us be cowards
no more. For who will speak, if we do not? The others are gagged and
must die without a word.
A wave of pain passed over the features of the wounded man. With eyes
fixed on the ceiling, his big mouth twisted, his teeth obstinately
clenched, he could say no more.--Clerambault went away, his mind was
made up. The silence of this soldier on his bed of agony had brought
him 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 was
doing; 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 her
husband might be about to do, but he succeeded in keeping her away
until he had finished. Ordinarily not a line of his was spared to his
family; it was a pleasure to his simple-hearted, affectionate vanity,
and a duty towards their love also, which none of them would have
neglected. This time, however, he did neglect it, for reasons which he
would not admit to himself, for though he was far from imagining the
consequences of his act, he was afraid of their objections, he did
not feel sure enough to expose himself to them, and so preferred to
confront 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 of
David'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 of
mourning Europe, millions of fathers, widowed of your sons, enemies or
friends, I do not speak for myself only, but for you who are stained
with their blood even as I am. You all speak by the voice of one of
you,--my unhappy voice full of sorrow and repentance_.
_My son died, for yours, by yours.--How can I tell?--like yours. I
laid the blame on the enemy, and on the war, as you must also have
done, but I see now that the chief criminal, the one whom I accuse, is
myself. Yes, I am guilty; and that means you, and all of us. You must
listen while I tell you what you know well enough, but do not want to
hear_.
_My son was twenty years old when he fell in this war. Twenty years I
had loved him, protected him from hunger, cold, and sickness; saved
him from darkness of mind, ignorance, error, and all the pitfalls that
lie in the shadows of life. But what did I do to defend him against
this scourge which was coming upon us_?
_I was never one of those who compounded with the passions of jealous
nationalities. I loved men, and their future brotherhood was a joy to
me. Why then did I do nothing against the impending danger, against
the fever that brooded within us, against the false peace which made
ready to kill with a smile on its lips_?
_I was perhaps afraid to displease others, afraid of enmities; it is
true I cared too much to love, above all to be loved. I feared to lose
the good-will of those around me, however feeble and insipid such a
feeling 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 which
might crack the plaster and bring the house about our ears. There is
an inward equivocation which fears to see clearly in itself, wants
to make the best of everything, to reconcile old instincts and new
beliefs, mutually destructive forces, like the ideas of Country and
Humanity, War and Peace.... We are not sure which side to take; we
lean first one way and then the other, like a see-saw; afraid of
the effort needed to come to a decision and choose. What slothful
cowardice is here! All whitewashed over with a comfortable faith in
the goodness of things, which will, we think, settle themselves. And
we 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 till
then did we understand our mistake, but it was so dreadful to admit
it, and we were so unaccustomed to be honest, that we acted as if we
were in sympathy with the crime. In proof of this sympathy we have
given up our own sons whom we love with all our hearts, more than
life--if we could but give our lives for theirs!--but not more than
our pride, with which we try to veil the moral confusion, the empty
darkness 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. These
kill, sacrificing themselves and others, but at least they know what
they 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 what
you doubt, it is a falsehood, and they offer up their own children to
prove this lie to themselves; and now that our beloved have died for
it, far from confessing it, we hide our heads still deeper not to see
what 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 still
live. Does it soothe my pain to inflict injury on others? Am I a
savage of Homer's time that I should believe that the sorrow of my
dead son will be appeased, and his craving for light satisfied, if
I sprinkle the earth which covers him with the blood of other men's
sons?--Are we at that stage still?--No, each new murder kills my son
again, and heaps the heavy mud of crime over his grave. He was the
future; if I would save the future, I must save him also, and rescue
fathers 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 men
wage these combats between nations, this universal brigandage? What
good is it to us? A tree grows up straight and tall, stretching out
branches around it, full of free-flowing sap; so is a man who labours
calmly, and sees the slow development of the many-sided life in his
veins 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 the
others or would deprive them of this just happiness? What have we to
do with the ambitions and rivalries, covetousness, and ills of the
mind, which they dignify with the name of Patriotism? Our Country
means you, Fathers and Sons. All our sons.--Come and save them_!
Clerambault asked no one's advice but as soon as he had written these
pages he took them to the editor of a small socialist paper nearby. He
came back much relieved, as he thought:
"That is off my mind. I have spoken out, at last." But in the
following night, a weight on his heart told him that the burden was
still there, heavier than ever. He roused himself.
"What have I done?"
He felt that he had been almost immodest to show his sacred sorrow to
the public; and though he did not foresee the anger his article would
provoke, he knew the lack of comprehension, the coarse comments, which
are in themselves a profanation.
Days passed, and nothing happened. Silence. The appeal had fallen on
the ear of an inattentive public, the publisher was little known, the
pamphlet carelessly issued. There are none so deaf as those who will
not hear, and the few readers who were attracted by Clerambault's
name, merely glanced at the first lines, and threw it aside, thinking:
"The poor man's head has been turned by his sorrow,"--a good pretext
for not wishing to upset their own balance.
A second article followed, in which Clerambault took a final leave of
the bloody old fetish falsely called Country; or rather in opposition
to the great flesh-eater, the she-wolf of Rome, on whose altar men are
now offered up, he set the august Mother of all living, the universal
Country:
_TO HER WHOM WE HAVE LOVED_
_There can be nothing more bitter than to be parted from her whom one
has loved. I lacerate my own heart when I tear Country from it;--dear,
beautiful, and good, as she seemed! There are some ardent lovers so
blinded that they can forget all the joy and love of former days, and
see only the change in the loved one, and the harm that she has done
them. 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 I
loved thee, when I trusted, and saw in thee my guide and my best
friend.--Oh, my Country! why hast thou deserted and betrayed me? If I
were the only one to suffer, I could hide the sad disenchantment under
the memory of my former affection; but I behold thy victims, these
trusting devoted youths.--I see myself in them, as I was.--And how
greatly thou hast deceived us! Thine was as the voice of fraternal
love, thou calledst us, that we might all be united, all brothers,--no
more 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 our
hands, that in them we should love each other more, for thy sake. Now
where have we been led? Did we unite to increase, and grow stronger to
hate and destroy? We had known too much of these isolated hatreds in
the past. Each had his load of evil thoughts, but at least we knew
them to be evil. But now our souls are poisoned, since thou hast
called these things sacred...._
_Why these combats? To set us free? But thou hast made slaves of
us. Our conscience is outraged, our happiness gone, our prosperity
destroyed. What need have we of further conquests, when the land of
our fathers has grown too wide for their children? Is it to satisfy
the greed of some among us, and can it be that the Country will fill
their maw at the cost of public misfortune_?
_Patriotism, sold to the rich, to those who traffic in the blood of
souls and of nations! Partner and accomplice, covering your villainies
with an heroic mantle, look to thyself! The hour is coming when the
peoples will shake off the vermin, the gods and masters by whom they
have been deceived. They will drive out the guilty from among them. I
shall strike straight at the Head whose shadow is over us all.--Thou
who sittest impassively on thy throne, while multitudes slaughter
each other in thy name, thou whom they worship while they hate their
fellow-man, thou who hast pleasure in the bloody orgies of the
nations, Goddess of prey, Anti-Christ, hovering over these butcheries
with thy spread wings, and hawk's talons;--who will tear thee from
our heaven? Who will give us back the sun, and our love for our
brothers?... I am alone, and have but my voice, which will soon be
silent, but before I disappear, hear my cry: "Thou wilt fall, Tyrant,
for humanity must live. The time will come when men will break this
yoke 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 sky
which he cannot reach; they will fall back on your own head. She whom
you insult, who has usurped my name, is an idol carved by yourself, in
your 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 you
have brought her down to your own level.... Unhappy creatures,
who sully your gods; there is not a lofty idea that you have not
tarnished. You turn the good that is brought you, into poison, and
scorch yourselves with the very light that shines on you. I came among
you to bring warmth to your loneliness; I brought your shivering souls
together in a flock, and bound your scattered weakness in sheaves of
arrows. I am brotherly love, the great Communion; and you destroy your
fellows 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 advance
by toil and sweat; provinces and nations are the military milestones
which 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 made
virtues of your weaknesses. You admire your heroes for the distance
they went before they dropped exhausted; not because they were the
first to reach those limits. And when you have come without difficulty
to the spot where these forerunners stopped, you think yourselves
heroes in your turn_.
_What have these shadows of the past to do with us today? Bayard, Joan
of Arc, we have no further need of heroism like theirs, knights and
martyrs of a dead cause. We want apostles of the future, great hearts
that will give themselves for a larger country, a higher ideal.
Forward then; cross the old frontiers, and if you must still use these
crutches, to help your lameness, thrust the barriers back to the doors
of the East, the confines of Europe, until at last step by step you
reach the end, and men encircle the globe, each holding by the other's
hand. Before you insult me, poor little author, descend into your own
heart, examine yourself. The gift of speech was given you to guide
your people, and you have used it to deceive yourself and lead them
astray. You have added to their error instead of saving them, even to
the point that you have laid your own son whom you loved on the altar
of 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 misfortunes
save those that come after from the same fate! Dare to speak, and cry
out to them: "You are mad, peoples of the earth; instead of defending
your Country, you are killing her_. You _are your Country and the
enemies are your brothers. Millions of God's creatures" love one
another_.
The same silence as before seemed to swallow up this last cry.
Clerambault lived outside of popular circles where he would have found
the warm sympathy of simple, healthy minds. Not the slightest echo of
his thought came to him.
He knew that he was not really alone, though he seemed so. Two
apparently contradictory sentiments--his modesty and his faith--united
to say to him: "What you thought, others have thought also; you are
too small, this truth is too great, to exist only in you. The light
that your weak eyes have seen has shone also for others. See where now
the Great Bear inclines to the horizon,--millions of eyes are looking
at it, perhaps; but you cannot see them, only the far-off light makes
a bond between their sight and yours."
The solitude of the mind is only a painful delusion; it has no real
existence, for even the most independent of us are members of a
spiritual family. This community of spirit has no relation to time
or space; its elements are dispersed among all peoples and all ages.
Conservatives see them in the past, but the revolutionists and the
persecuted look to the future for them. Past and future are not less
real than the immediate present, which is a wall beyond which the calm
eyes of the flock can see nothing. The present itself is not what the
arbitrary divisions of states, nations, and religions would have us
believe. In our time humanity is a bazaar of ideas, unsorted and
thrown together in a heap, with hastily constructed partitions between
them, so that brothers are separated from brothers, and thrown in with
strangers. Every country has swallowed up different races, not formed
to think and act together; so that each one of these spiritual
families, or families-in-law, which we call nations, comprises
elements which in fact form part of different groups, past, present,
or future. Since these cannot be destroyed, they are oppressed; they
can 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 Poles
for their resistance to English and Prussian absorption. No matter
where they are, men remain loyal to their true country. You who
pretend that the object of this war is to give the right of
self-determination to all peoples, when will you restore this right to
the great Republic of free souls dispersed over the whole world?
However cut off from the world, Clerambault knew that this Republic
existed. Like the Rome of Sertorius, it dwelt in him, and though they
may be unknown each to the other, it dwells in every man to whom it is
the true Country.
The wall of silence which surrounded Clerambault's words fell all at
once. But it was not a friendly voice which answered his. It seemed
rather as if stupidity and blind hatred had made a breach where
sympathy had been too weak to find a way.
Several weeks had passed and Clerambault was thinking of a new
publication, when, one morning, Leo Camus burst noisily into his room.
He was blue with rage, as with the most tragic expression he held up a
newspaper before Clerambault's eyes:
"Read that!" he commanded, and standing behind his brother-in-law as
he read, he went on:
"What does the beastly thing mean?"