truth it contains, so that they cannot see reality at the bottom of
the net. They embrace the whole field that has been discovered, but
would think it impossible and even ridiculous to enlarge it beyond the
limits already traced by reason. They only believe in a progress that
is chained to the inside of the enclosure. Clerambault knew only too
well the supercilious smile with which the ideas of inventors are put
aside by learned men from the official schools. There are certain
forms of science which accord perfectly with docility. David's manner
showed no irony; it expressed rather a stoical, baffled kind of
melancholy. In abstract questions he did not lack courage of thought,
but when faced with the facts of life he was a mixture, or rather a
succession, of timidity and stiffness, diffident modesty, and firmness
of conviction. In short he was a man, like other men, complex and
contradictory, not all in one piece. The trouble is that, in an
intellectual and a man of science, the pieces lap over one another and
the joinings show.
Clerambault sat silent for a few moments, and then began to utter the
thoughts that had passed through his mind. "Nevertheless," said he,
"the results of science itself are changeful. For the last twenty
years all our conceptions of chemistry and physiology have been going
through a crisis which has altered and made them much more fruitful.
Why should not the so-called laws which regulate human society--or
rather the state of chronic brigandage among nations--why should not
they also be changed? Is there no place in your mind for the hope of a
higher future?"
"We could not go on at all," said Daniel, "if we had not the hope of
establishing a new order more just and humane. Many of my comrades
hope through this war to put an end to all wars. I have not that
confidence, and do not go so far as that; but I do know certainly that
our France is in danger, and that if she is conquered, humanity will
fall with her."
"The defeat of any people is that of humanity, for we are all
necessary, and the union of all nations would be the only true
victory. Any other ruins the victors as well as the vanquished. Every
day that this war lasts the precious blood of France is shed, and she
runs great risk of permanent exhaustion."
Daniel stopped him with a gesture of irritation and pain. Oh, he knew
too well ... no one better than he, that France was dying each day
from her heroic effort. That the pick of her youth, her strength, her
intelligence, the vital sap of the race, was pouring out in torrents,
and with it the wealth, the labour, the credit of the people of
France. France, bleeding at every vein, would follow the path that
Spain had trod four centuries ago, the path that led to the deserts of
the Escurial. Yes, but let no one speak to him of a peace that would
put an end to this agony until the adversary was totally crushed;
no one ought to respond to the advances that Germany was then
making--they ought not to be considered, or even mentioned. And then,
like the politicians, the generals, the journalists, and millions of
poor creatures who repeat at the top of their voices the lesson taught
them, David cried: "To the last man!"
Clerambault looked at him with affectionate pity. Poor boy! brave, yet
so timid that he shrank from the thought of discussing the dogmas of
which he was the victim. His scientific mind dared not revolt against
the stupidity of this bloody game, where death for France as well as
for Germany--perhaps more than for Germany, was the stake.
Yes, he did revolt, but would not admit it to himself. He tried again
to influence Clerambault: "Your ideas perhaps are right and true, but
this is not the time ... not now. In twenty, or even fifty years. We
must 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 is
doomed to be tarnished by excesses, and that then it will be the turn
of the vanquished to set their minds on a frantic revenge and a just
victory? Each nation desires the end of wars through its own triumph,
and from one such victory to another humanity will go down to its
defeat.
As Daniel stood up to go he pressed Clerambault's hands and reminded
him with much feeling of his poem where, in the heroic words of
Beethoven, 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 our
deliverance, but they are enamoured of it. And now our hymn of
deliverance 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 well
that they had nothing to gain; and the greater their sacrifices,
the stronger their faith. Blessings on them! But if only they would
consent not to immolate all mankind on the same altar....
Rosine came in just as Clerambault and Daniel reached the door of the
apartment; she started with pleasure at the sight of the visitor, and
Daniel's face lighted up also. Clerambault could not help noticing the
sudden gaiety of the two young people. Rosine urged Daniel to come in
again 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 made
a vague excuse for going away. Clerambault, who guessed what was
passing in his daughter's heart, begged him to promise that he would
come at least once more before the end of his leave. Daniel, much
embarrassed, said no, at first, then yes, without fixing a time, and
at last, on being urged by Clerambault, he did say when they might
expect him, and took leave, but his manner was still rather cool.
Rosine stood there, absorbed. She looked troubled, but when her father
smiled at her, she came quickly and kissed him.
The day he had fixed came and went, but no Daniel appeared; they
waited for him the next day and the one after that. He had gone back
to the Front. A few days later, Clerambault persuaded his wife to go
with Rosine to see Daniel's parents. The icy coldness with which they
were received just stopped short of offence. Madame Clerambault came
home, vowing that as long as she lived she would never set foot again
in that house; it was all Rosine could do to restrain her tears.
The following week a letter arrived from Daniel to Clerambault. Though
he seemed a little shamefaced about his attitude and that of his
parents, he tried rather to explain, than to apologise for it. He
spoke of the ties of admiration, respect and friendship which united
him to Clerambault, and alluded discreetly to the hope that he had
formed of one day becoming closer yet; but he added that Clerambault
had disturbed these dreams of the future by the regrettable position
that he had seen fit to adopt in the life and death crisis through
which the country was now passing, a position rendered worse by the
wide publicity given to Clerambault's words. These words, little
understood perhaps, but certainly imprudent, had raised a storm of
opposition on account of their almost sacrilegious character; the
feeling of indignation was unanimous among the men at the front, as
well as in the circle of friends at home. His parents knew what his
hope had been, but they now absolutely refused to allow it, and
in spite of the pain this caused him, he did not feel it right to
disregard these scruples, springing as they did from a profound
devotion to the wounded country. An officer who had the honour to
offer his life for France could not think of a union which would be
regarded as his adhesion to these unfortunate theories; public opinion
would condemn it. Such a view would be unjust, undoubtedly, but it
is a thing that must always be reckoned with; the opinion of a whole
people is respectable, no matter how extreme and unfair it may appear,
and Clerambault had made a grave mistake in trying to brave it. Daniel
entreated him to acknowledge this mistake, and try to rectify, if
possible efface, the deplorable effect produced by articles written in
a different key. He urged this upon him as a duty--towards his country
and himself--letting it be understood that it was also a duty towards
one dear to both of them. In ending his letter he brought forward
other considerations where the word opinion constantly recurred, so as
at last to take the place of reason and conscience.
As Clerambault read he smiled, recalling a scene of Spitteler's. The
king Epimetheus was a man of firm conscience, but when the time came
to put it to the proof, he could not lay his hand upon it, saw it
trying to escape, ran after it, and finally threw himself flat on his
stomach to look for it under the bed. Clerambault reflected that one
might be a hero under the fire of the enemy, but a timid small boy
before the opinion of his fellow-citizens.
He showed the letter to Rosine, and in spite of the partiality of
love, she was hurt that her friend should have wished to do violence
to her father's convictions. Her conclusion was that Daniel did
not love her enough; and she said that her own feeling was not
sufficiently strong to endure such exactions; even if Clerambault
had been willing to yield, she would not have consented to such an
injustice; 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 thought
of it constantly, and after a time Clerambault felt that she was
growing away from him. It is difficult not to feel bitterly towards
those for whom we sacrifice ourselves, and in spite of herself Rosine
held 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 suffered
because he had spoken, and yet he felt that he should speak again,
for he had ceased to belong to himself. His written word held and
constrained him; he was bound by his thought as soon as it was
published. "That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the
fountain." Born in an hour of mental exaltation, his work prolonged
and reproduced itself in his mind, which would otherwise have fallen
exhausted. 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 by
them. They have an existence outside of his own, and so restore
his lost vigour, recall him to his duty, guide and command him.
Clerambault would have preferred to remain silent, but he wrote once
more.
This time he did not go very far. "Tremble, poor carcass, you know
where I am going to drag you," said Turenne to his body before the
battle. The carcass of Clerambault was not more courageous, though the
conflict to which it was driven was of a humbler sort. It was none the
less hard, for he was alone with no army at his back. As he watched by
his arms, he was a pitiable spectacle in his own eyes. He saw himself,
an ordinary man, of a timid, rather cowardly, disposition, depending
greatly on the affection and approval of others. It was terribly
painful to break these ties, to meet the hatred of others halfway....
Was he strong enough to resist?... All his doubts came back upon
him.... What forced him to speak? Who would listen to him, and what
good would it do? Did not the wisest people set him the example of
silence?
Nevertheless his brain was firm, and continued to dictate to him what
he should write; his hand also wrote it down without the alteration of
a word. There seemed to be two men in him; one who threw himself on
the ground in terror, and cried: "I will not fight," and the other
who 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 this
manner through bravery; he felt that he could not act otherwise, even
if 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 he
was chosen, he, the poet of tenderness, made for a calm, peaceful
life, free from sacrifices; while other men--strong, war-like, good
fighters with the souls of athletes--remained unemployed. But it
was of no use to dispute it; the word had gone forth, and there was
nothing for it but to obey.
When the stronger of his two souls had once asserted itself, the
duality of his nature led him to yield to it entirely. A more normal
man would have tried to unite them, or combine them, or find some kind
of compromise to satisfy the demands of the one and the prudence of
the other; but with Clerambault it was everything or nothing. Whether
he liked it or not, once he had chosen his road, he followed it
straight before him; and the same causes that had made him accept
absolutely the views of those around him, drove him to cast off every
consideration now that he had begun to see the falsehoods which had
deceived him. If he had been less misted, he would not have unmasked
them.
Thus the brave-man-in-spite-of-himself set off like Oedipus for the
fight with the Sphinx, Country, who awaited him at the crossroads.
Bertin's attack drew the attention of several politicians to
Clerambault; they belonged to the extreme Left, and found it difficult
to conciliate the opposition to the Government--their reason for
existence--with the Sacred Union formed against the enemies' invasion.
They republished the first two articles in a socialist paper which was
then balancing itself between contradictions; opposing the war, and at
the same time voting for credits. You could see in its pages eloquent
statements of internationalism side by side with the appeals of
ministers who were preaching a nationalist policy. In this seesaw
Clerambault's lightly lyrical pages, where the attack on the idea
of Country was made with caution, and the criticism covered up by
devotion, would have been taken as a harmless platonic protestation.
Unfortunately, the teeth of censure had fastened themselves upon some
phrases, with the tenacity of ants; they might have escaped notice in
the general distraction of thought, if it had not been for this.
In the article addressed "_To Her whom We have Loved_," the word
country appears the first time coupled with an invocation to love.
The critics kept this, but cut it out when it occurred further on
dissociated from such flattering expressions. The word, awkwardly
concealed under this extinguisher, shone all the more brightly in the
mind of the reader--but this they were too dull to perceive, and
great importance was thus given to writings which had not much in
themselves. It must be added that all minds were then in a passive
state, in which the slightest word of liberal humanitarianism took on
an extraordinary importance, particularly if signed by a well-known
name.
The "_Pardon Asked of the Dead_," was more effective than the other
ever could be; its sadness touched the mass of simple hearts, to whom
the war was agony. The authorities had been indifferent up to now, but
at the first hint of this they tried to put a stop to it. They had
sense enough to know that rigorous measures against Clerambault
would be a mistake, but they could put pressure on the paper through
influence behind the scenes. An opposition to the writer showed
itself on the staff of the paper. Naturally they did not blame
the 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 as
well. Poets are proverbially bad politicians.
It was a reply to "_The Appeal to the Dead_," that Barrès, like an owl
perched on a cypress in a graveyard, had wailed forth.
_TO THE LIVING_
_Death rules the world. You that are living, rise and shake off the
yoke! It is not enough that the nations are destroyed. They are bidden
to glorify Death, to march towards it with songs; they are expected to
admire their own sacrifice ... to call it the "most glorious, the most
enviable fate" ... but how untrue this is! Life is the great, the holy
thing, and love of life is the first of virtues. The men of today have
it no longer; this war has shown that, and even worse. It has proved
that during the last fifteen years, many have hoped for these horrible
upheavals--you cannot deny it! No man loves life who has no better use
for it than to throw it into the jaws of Death. Life is a burden to
many--to you rich of the middle-class, reactionary conservatives,
whose moral dyspepsia takes away your appetite, everything tastes flat
and bitter. Everything bores you. It is a heavy burden also to you
proletarians, poor, unhappy, discouraged by your hard lot. In the dull
obscurity of your lives, hopeless of any change for the better,--Oh,
Ye of little faith!--your only chance of escape seems to be through
an act of violence which lifts you out of the mire for one moment at
least, even if it be the last. Anarchists and revolutionists who have
preserved something of the primitive animal energy rely on these
qualities to liberate themselves in this way; they are the strong. But
the mass of the people are too weary to take the initiative, and that
is why they eagerly welcome the sharp blade of war which pierces
through to the core of the nations. They give themselves up to it,
darkly, voluptuously. It is the only moment of their dim lives when
they can feel the breath of the infinite within them,--and this moment
is their annihilation_....
_Is this a way to make the best of life?... Which we can only
maintain, it would seem, by renouncing it; and for the sake of what
carnivorous gods?... Country, Revolution ... who grind millions of men
in their bloody jaws_.
_What glory can be found in death and destruction? It is Life that we
need, and you do not know it, for you are not worthy. You have never
felt the blessing of the living hour, the joy that circulates in the
light. Half-dead souls, you would have us all die with you, and when
we stretch out our hands to save you, our sick brothers, you seek to
drag us down with you into the pit_.
_I do not lay the blame on you, poor unfortunates, but on your
masters, our leaders of the hour, our intellectual and political
heads, masters of gold, iron, blood, and thought!... You who rule the
nations, who move armies; you who have formed this generation by your
newspapers, your books, your schools and your churches, and who have
made docile sheep of the free souls of men!... All this enslaving
education, whether lay or Christian, though it dwells with an
unhealthy joy on military glory and its beatitude, still shows its
utter hollowness, for both Church and State bait their hook with
Death_....
_Woe unto you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites, politicians, and
priests, artists, authors, dancers of death; inwardly you are all full
of decay and dead men's bones. Truly you are the sons of them that
slew Christ, and like them you lay on men's shoulders burdens grievous
to be borne, which you yourselves would not touch with the end of your
fingers. Crucifiers are you like them, and those who come among you to
help the suffering peoples, bringing blessed peace in their hands, you
imprison and insult them, and as the Scripture says, persecute them
from city to city until all the righteous blood shed upon the earth
shall fall upon your heads_.
_You work only to provide food for Death; your countries are made to
subdue the future to the past, and bind the living to the putrifying
corpses of the dead. You condemn the new life to perpetuate the empty
rites of the tomb.... Let us rise! The resurrection, the Easter of the
living, is at hand_!
_Sons of men, it is not true that you are, the slaves of the dead and
are chained by them like serfs to the earth. Let the dead past bury
its dead, and itself with them; you are children of the living, and
live 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 young
and strong; be masters of the present and the past, fathers and sons
of your works. Set yourselves free! Each one of you is Man;--not flesh
that rots in the tomb, but the blazing fire of life which purifies
corruption and renews long-dead corpses, the flame ever new and young
which circles the earth with its burning arms. Be free! Conquerors
of the Bastille, you have not yet opened the dungeon within you,
the falsely called Fatality. It was built as a prison-house for you
centuries ago, by slaves or tyrants. They were all convicts of the
same stamp, who were afraid that you would discover that you were
free. Religions, races, countries, materialistic science, the heavy
shadows of the past, are between you and the sun; but go forward!
Liberty is there, behind those ramparts and towers, built of
prejudices, dead laws, and consecrated falsehoods. They are guarded by
the interests of some, the opinion of the drilled masses, and your own
doubting spirit. Dare to will; and behind the crumbling walls of
this spurious Destiny, you will once more behold the sun and the
illimitable horizon_.
Insensible to the revolutionary heat of this appeal, the staff of
the newspaper only fastened its attention on the few lines where
Clerambault seemed to lump all violences together, those of the "left"
along with those of the "right." What did this poet mean by giving
lessons to the socialists in a party paper? In the name of what
theory? He was not even a socialist. He was nothing but a Tolstoyian
anarchist; let him go back to his exercises in style, and his
middle-class where he belonged. Some larger-minded spirits
remonstrated in vain, that, with or without any label, liberal ideas
ought to be welcomed, and that those of Clerambault, however ignorant
he might be of the party doctrines, were more truly socialistic than
those of members of the party who joined in the work of national
slaughter. These views were over-ruled; Clerambault's article was
returned 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 up
all the space, and that the paper had too much copy already.
Clerambault took his article to a small review, which was more
attracted by his name than by his ideas. The upshot was that the
review was called down, and suspended by police order the day after
the article appeared, though it had been whitewashed through and
through.
Clerambault, however, persisted. The most rebellious people in the
world are those who are forced to rebellion after a lifetime of
submission. I remember once to have seen a big sheep so worried by a
dog that he finally threw himself upon him. The dog was overcome by
this unexpected reversal of the laws of nature and ran away, howling
with surprise and terror. The Dog-State is too sure of its own fangs
to feel afraid of a few mutinous sheep; but the lamb Clerambault no
longer calculated the danger; he simply put his head down and butted.
Generous and weak natures are prone to pass without transition from
one extreme to another; so from an intensely gregarious feeling
Clerambault had jumped at one bound to the extreme of individual
isolation. Because he knew it so well, he could see nothing around
him but the plague of obedience, that social suggestion of which the
effects are everywhere manifest. The passive heroism of the armies
excited 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 explosion
brought about by one "bolter," the sulky but well-drilled submission
of even the liberal Parties, sacrificing their very reason for
existence to the absurd fetish of abstract unity. This abdication,
this passion, represented the true enemy in Clerambault's eyes. And it
was his task, he thought, to break down its great suggestive power by
awakening doubt, the spirit that eats away all chains.
The chief seat of the disease was the idea of Nation; this inflamed
point could not be touched without howls from the beast. Clerambault
attacked it at once, without gloves.