action, where all is determined in advance. Just as the unjust victory
leads inevitably to the revenge which in its turn will be unjust, so
capitalistic oppression will provoke the proletarian revolution, which
will follow the bad example and oppress, when it has the power--an
endless chain. Here is a stern Greek justice which the mind can accept
and even honour as the rule of the universe. But the heart cannot
submit, cannot accept it. Its mission is to break the law of universal
warfare. Can it ever come to pass? Who can tell! But in any case it is
clear that the hopes and wishes of the heart are outside the order
of nature; her mission is rather above nature, and in its essence
_religious_.
Clerambault, who was filled with this spirit, did not as yet dare to
avow it; or at least he did not venture to use the word "religious,"
that word which the religions, that have so little of its spirit, have
discredited in the eyes of today.
If Clerambault himself could not see clearly into his own thought, it
was hardly to be expected that his young friends should do so, and
even if they had seen, they would never have understood. They could
not bear the idea that a man who condemned the present state of things
as bad and destructive, should hesitate at the most energetic methods
for its suppression. They were not wrong from their point of view,
which was that of immediate action, but the field of the mind is
greater, its battles cover a wider space; it does not waste its
energies in bloody skirmishes. Even admitting the methods advocated by
his friends, Clerambault could not accept their axiom, that "the end
justifies the means." For, on the contrary, he believed that the means
are even more important to real progress than the end ... what end?
Will there ever be such a thing?
This idea was irritating and confusing to these young minds; it served
to increase a dangerous hostility, which had arisen in the last five
years among the working class, against the intellectuals. No doubt the
latter had richly deserved it; how far away seemed the time when men
of thought marched at the head of revolutions! Whereas now they were
one with the forces of reaction. Even the limited number of those who
had kept aloof, while blaming the mistakes of the ring, were, like
Clerambault, unable to give up their individualism, which had saved
them once, but now held them prisoners, outside the new movement of
the masses. This conclusion once reached by the revolutionists, it was
but one step to a declaration that the intellectuals must fall, and
not a very long step. The pride of the working class already showed
itself in articles and speeches, while waiting for the moment when,
as in Russia, it could pass to action; and it demanded that the
intellectuals should submit servilely to the proletarian leaders. It
was even remarkable how some of the intellectuals were among the most
eager in demanding this lowering of the position of their group. One
would have thought that they did not wish it to be supposed that they
belonged to it. Perhaps they had forgotten that they did.
Moreau, however, had not forgotten it; he was all the more bitter in
repudiating this class, whose shirt of Nessus still clung to his skin,
and it made him extremely violent.
He now began to display singularly aggressive sentiments towards
Clerambault; during a discussion he would interrupt him rudely, with
a kind of sarcastic and bitter irritation. It almost seemed as if he
meant to wound him.
Clerambault did not take offence; he rather felt great pity for
Moreau; he knew what he suffered, and he could imagine the bitterness
of a young life spoiled like his. Patience and resignation, the moral
nourishment on which stomachs fifty years old subsist, were not suited
to his youth.
One evening Moreau had shown himself particularly disagreeable, and
yet he persisted in walking home with Clerambault, as if he could not
make up his mind to leave him. He walked along by his side, silent
and frowning. All at once Clerambault stopped, and putting his hand
through Moreau's arm with a friendly gesture said with a smile:
"It's all wrong, isn't it, old fellow?"
Moreau was somewhat taken aback, but he pulled himself together and
asked drily what made anyone think that things were "all wrong."
"I thought so because you were so cross tonight," said Clerambault
good naturally, and in answer to a protesting murmur. "Yes, you
certainly were trying to hurt me,--just a little ... I know of course
that you would not really,--but when a man like you tries to inflict
pain on others it is because he is suffering himself ... isn't that
true?"
"Yes, it is true," said Moreau, "you must forgive me, but it hurts me
when I see that you are not in sympathy with our action."
"And are you?" demanded Clerambault. Moreau did not seem to
understand. "You yourself," repeated Clerambault, "do you believe in
it?"
"Of course I do! What a question!" said Moreau indignantly.
"I doubt it," said Clerambault gently. Moreau seemed to be on the
point of losing his temper, but in a moment he said more quietly: "You
are mistaken." Clerambault turned to walk on. "All right," said he,
"you know your own thoughts better than I do."
For some minutes they continued in silence; then Moreau seized his old
friend's arm, and said excitedly:
"How did you know it?"--and his resistance having broken down, he
confessed the despair hidden under his aggressive determination to
believe and act. He was eaten up with pessimism, a natural consequence
of his excessive idealism which had been so cruelly disappointed. The
religious souls of former times were tranquil enough; they placed the
kingdom of God so far away that no event could touch it; but those
of today have established it on earth, by the work of human love and
reason, so that when life deals a blow at their dream all life seems
horrible to them. There were days when Moreau was tempted to cut his
throat! Humanity seemed made of rotteness; he saw with despair the
defeats, failures, flaws carved on the destiny of the race from the
very beginning--the worm in the bud--and he could not endure the idea
of this absurd and tragic fate, which man can never escape. Like
Clerambault, he recognized the poison which is in the intelligence,
since he had it in his veins, but unlike his elder, who had passed the
crisis and only saw danger in the irregularity of thought and not in
its essence, Moreau was maddened by the idea that the poison was a
necessary part of intelligence. His diseased imagination tortured
him by all sorts of bugbears; thought appeared to him as a sickness,
setting an indelible mark on the human race; and he pictured to
himself in advance all the cataclysms to which it led. Already,
thought he, we behold reason staggering with pride before the forces
that science has put at her disposal--demons of nature, obedient
to the magical formulas of chemistry and distracted by this
suddenly-acquired power, turning to self-destruction.
Nevertheless Moreau was too young to remain in the grip of these
terrors. He wanted action at any price, anything sooner than to be
left alone with them. Why not urge him to act, instead of trying to
hold him back?
"My dear boy," said Clerambault, "it is not right to urge another man
to a dangerous act, unless you are ready to share it. I have no use
for agitators, even if they are sincere, who send others to the stake
and do not set the example of martyrdom themselves. There is but one
truly sacred type of revolutionary, the Crucified; but very few men
are made for the aureole of the cross. The trouble is that we always
assign duties to ourselves which are superhuman or inhuman. It is not
good for the ordinary man to strive after the "_Uebermenschheit_," and
it can only prove to him a source of useless suffering; but each man
can aspire to shed light, order, peace, and kindness around him in his
little circle; and that should be happiness enough."
"Not quite enough for me," said Moreau. "Doubt would creep in; it must
be all or nothing."
"I know. Your revolution would leave no place for doubt. Your hearts
are hard and burning; your brains like geometric patterns. Everything
or nothing. No shading! But what would life be without it? It is
its greatest charm and its chief merit as well; fragile beauty and
goodness, weakness everywhere. We must offer love and help; day by
day, and step by step. The world is not transformed by force, or by
a miracle, in the twinkling of an eye; but second by second it
moves forward in infinity and the humblest who feels it partakes of
infinity. Patience, and let us not think that one wrong effaced will
save humanity; it will only make one day bright, but other days and
more light will come; each will bring its sun. You would not wish to
stay its course?"
"We have not the time to wait for all this," said Moreau. "Every day
brings us frightful problems which must be decided on the spot. If we
are not to be the masters, then we shall be victims; ... we, do I say?
Not ourselves alone, we are already victimised, but all that is dear
to us, all that holds us to life, hope in the future, the salvation of
humanity. See the things that press upon us, the agonising questions
as to those who will come after us, and those who have children. This
war is not yet over, and it is only too evident that its crimes and
falsehoods have sown the seeds of new wars, near at hand. Why do we
have children? For what do they grow up? To be butchered like this?
Look where you will, there is no answer. Are we to leave these crazy
countries, this old continent, and emigrate? But where? Are their
fifty acres of ground on the globe where independent honest people can
take refuge? We must be on one side or the other; you see well enough
that we have to choose between patriotism and revolution. If not, what
remains? Non-resistance? Is that what you would have? But there is
nothing in that unless you have religious faith; otherwise it is only
the resignation of the lamb led to the slaughter. Unfortunately, the
greater number decide on nothing, prefer not to think, turn their eyes
away from the future, blinded by the hope that what they have seen and
suffered will not recur. That is why we must decide for them, whether
they want it or not, make them quicken their step, save them in spite
of themselves. Revolution means a few men who will for all humanity."
"I do not think that I should like it," said Clerambault, "if another
decided for me. And on the other hand, I should not want to usurp
another man's will; I should prefer to leave each one free, and not
interfere with the liberty of others. But I know that I am asking too
much."
"Only what is impossible," said Moreau. "When you begin to will, you
cannot stop halfway. There are just two sorts of men, those who have
too great will-power--like Lenine, and a couple of dozen men in the
whole course of history--and those who have too little, who can decide
nothing, like us, me, if you like. It is clear enough, despair is all
that drives me to will anything...."
"Why despair?" said Clerambault. "A man's fate is made every day by
himself, and none knows what it will be; it is what we are. If you are
cast down, so also is your fate."
"We shall never have strength enough," answered Moreau sadly. "Don't
you believe that I see what infinitely small chances of success a
revolution would have now in our country, under present conditions?
Think of all the destruction, the economic losses, the demoralisation,
the fatal lassitude caused by the war." And he added: "It was not true
what I told you the first time we met, about all my comrades feeling
as I did, rebelling against the suffering. Gillot told you there are
only a few of us, and the others are good fellows for the most part
but weak as water! They can see how things are, clearly enough, but
sooner than run their heads against a wall they would rather not think
about it, or pass it off with a joke. We French are always ready to
laugh, it is our treasure and our ruin. It is a fine thing, but what
a hold it gives to our oppressors. 'Let them sing as long as they are
willing to pay,' as the Italian said. 'Let us laugh, so long as we
are ready to die.' ... we might say. And then this terrible force of
habit, that Gillot was talking about. A man will get used to no matter
what ridiculous or painful conditions, provided they last long enough,
and that he has company. He becomes habituated to cold, to heat,
to death, and to crime. His whole force for resistance is used in
adapting himself; and then he curls up in his corner and does not dare
to stir, for fear that any change will bring back the pain. We are all
so terribly tired! When the soldiers come back, they will have only
one thought--to sleep and forget."
"How about the excitable Lagneau, who talks about blowing everything
to pieces?"
"I have known Lagneau since the beginning of the war, and he has
been in succession, royalist, "revanchard," annexationist,
internationalist, socialist, anarchist, bolshevist, and I-don't-give-a
damnist. He will finish as a reactionary, and will be sent to make
food for cannon against the enemy that our government will pick out
among our adversaries or our friends of today. Do you suppose that the
people are of our way of thinking? Perhaps, or they may agree with the
others. They will take up all opinions one after the other."
"You are a revolutionary then because you are discouraged?" said
Clerambault, laughing.
"There are plenty like that among us."
"Gillot came out of the war more optimistic than he went in."
"Gillot is the forgetful sort, but I don't envy him that," said Moreau
bitterly.
"But you ought not to upset him," said Clerambault.
"Gillot needs all the help you can give him."
"Help from me?" said Moreau incredulously.
"He is not naturally strong, and if you would make him so, you must
let him see that you believe in him."
"Do you think belief comes by willing to have it?"
"You know whether that is true! No, I think, is the answer. Belief
comes through love."
"By love of those who believe?"
"Is it not always through love, and only in that way, that we learn to
trust?"
Moreau was touched; he had been a clever youth, eaten up by the
craving for knowledge, and like the rest of his class, he had suffered
for lack of brotherly affection. True human intercourse is banished
from the education of today, but this vital sentiment, hitherto
repressed, had revived in the trenches, filled with living, suffering
flesh thrown together. At first it was hard to let oneself go; the
general hardening, the fear of sentimentality or of ridicule, tended
to put barriers between hearts; but when Moreau was laid up, his
sheath of pride began to give way, and Clerambault had little
difficulty in breaking through it. The best thing about this man was
that false pride melted before him, for he had none of his own; people
showed to him as he to them their real selves, their weakness and
their troubles, which we are taught to hide from a silly idea of
self-respect. Moreau had unconsciously learned to recognise at
the front the superiority of men who were his social inferiors,
brother-soldiers or "Non-Coms." Among these he had been much drawn to
Gillot. He was glad that Clerambault should have appealed to him on
behalf of his friend, for his secret wish always was to be of some use
to another man.
At the next opportunity Clerambault whispered to Gillot that he ought
to be optimistic for two, and cheer Moreau up; and thus each found
help in the need of helping the other, according to the great
principle of life: "Give, and it shall be given unto you."
No matter in what time one lives, nor what misfortunes overtake one,
all is not lost as long as there remains in the heart of the race a
spark of manly friendship. Blow it into a flame! Draw closer these
cold solitary hearts! If only one of the fruits of this war of nations
could be the fusion of the best among all classes, the union of the
youth of many countries--of the manual labourers and the thinkers--the
future would be re-born through their mutual aid.
But if unity is not one wanting to dominate the other, neither is it
that one prefers to be dominated. But this was precisely, however,
what these young revolutionaries thought, and insisted upon, with a
curious sort of self-will. They snubbed Clerambault, on the principle
that intelligence should be at the service of the proletariat ...
"Dienen, dienen ..." which was the last word even of the proud Wagner.
More than one lofty spirit brought low has said the same; if they
could not rule supreme, they would serve.
Clerambault reflected: "The rarest thing is to find honest people
who want to be simply my equals; but if we must choose, tyranny for
tyranny, I prefer that which held the bodies of Aesop and Epictetus
in slavery but left their minds free, to that which promises only
material liberty and enslaves the soul."
This intolerance made him feel that he could never attach himself
to any party, no matter what it was. Between the two sides, war or
revolution, he could frankly state his preference for one, revolution.
For it alone offered some hope for the future, which the war could
only destroy. But to prefer a party does not mean that you yield to it
all independence of thought. It is the error and abuse of democracies
that they wish that all should have the same duties, and impose the
same tasks on all; but in an advancing community there are multiple
tasks. While the main body fights to gain an immediate advantage in
progress, there are others who should maintain eternal values far
above the victors of tomorrow or yesterday and which are beyond
all the rest and throw light on the way above the smoke of battle.
Clerambault had allowed himself to be too long blinded by this smoke;
he could not plunge into a fresh fight; but in this short-sighted
world it is an impropriety, almost a fault to see more clearly than
your neighbours.
This sardonic truth was brought home to him in a discussion with these
young St. Justs. They pointed out his mistakes, impertinently enough,
by comparing him to the "Astrologer who fell into the Pit":
... "They said, poor creature, if your eye
What lies beneath can hardly spy,
Think you your gaze can pierce the sky?"
He had enough sense of humour to see the justice of the comparison;
yes, he was of the number of:
"Those whom phantoms alarm
While some serious harm
Threatens them or their farm."
"Even so," he said, "do you think that your republic will have no
need of astronomers, just as the first one could get along without
chemists? Or are they all to be mobilised? In that case there would be
a good chance of your all finding yourselves together at the bottom
of the well! Is that what you want? I should not object so much if
it were only a question of sharing your fate, but when it comes to
joining in your hatreds!"
"You have some of your own, from what I have heard," said one of the
young men. Just at this moment another man came in with a newspaper in
his hand and called to Clerambault:
"Congratulations, old boy, I see your enemy Bertin is dead."
The irascible journalist had died in a few hours from an attack of
pneumonia. For the last six months he had pursued with fury anyone
whom he suspected of working for peace, or even of wishing for it.
From one step to another he had come to look upon, not only the
country, as sacred, but the war also, and among those whom he attacked
most fiercely, Clerambault had a foremost place. Bertin could not
pardon the resistance to his onslaughts; Clerambault's replies had at
first only irritated him, but the disdainful silence with which his
latest invectives had been met drove him beside himself. His swollen
vanity was deeply wounded, and nothing would have satisfied him but
the total annihilation of his adversary. To him Clerambault was not
only a personal enemy, but a foe to the public; and in the endeavour
to prove this, he made him the centre of a great pacifist plot. At any
other time, this would have seemed absurd in everyone's eyes, but now
no one had eyes to see with. During the last weeks Bertin's fury and
violence had gone beyond anything that he had written before; they
were a threat against anyone who was convicted or suspected of the
dangerous heresy of Peace.
In this little reunion the news of his death was received with noisy
satisfaction; and his funeral oration was preached with an energy
that yielded nothing in this line to the efforts of the most famous
masters. But Clerambault, absorbed in the newspaper account, scarcely
seemed to hear. One of the men standing near, tapped him on the
shoulder, and said:
"This ought to be a pleasure to you."
Clerambault started: "Pleasure," he said, "pleasure?"--he took his hat
and went out. It was pitch dark in the street outside, all the lights
having been out on account of an air-raid. Before his mind there
flowered the fine clear-cut face of a boy of sixteen, with its warm
pale skin and dark soft eyes, the curling hair, the mobile, smiling
mouth, the tone of the sweet voice--Bertin, as he was when they first
met at about the same age. Their long evening talks, the tender
confidences, the discussions, the dreams ... for in those days Bertin
too was a dreamer, and even his common-sense, his precocious irony did
not protect him from impossible hopes and generous schemes for the
renovation of the human race. How fair the future had appeared to
their youthful eyes! And in those moments of ecstatic vision how their
hearts had seemed to melt together in loving friendship ...
And now to see what life had made of them both! This rancorous
struggle, Bertin's insane determination to trample under foot those
early dreams, and the friend who still cherished them;--and he, too,
Clerambault, who had let himself be carried away by the same murderous
impulse, trying to render blow for blow, to draw blood from his
adversary. Could it be that at the first moment, when he heard of the
death of his former friend--he was horrified at himself--but did he
not feel it as a relief? What is it that possesses us all? What wicked
insanity that turns us against our better selves?...
Lost in these thoughts, he had wandered from the road, and now
perceived that he was walking in the wrong direction. He could see the
long arms of the search-lights stretching across the sky, hear the
tremendous explosions of the Zeppelin bombs over the city, and the
distant growlings of the forts in the aerial fight. The enraged people
tearing each other to pieces! And to what end? That they all might be
as Bertin was now, reach the extinction which awaited all men, and all
countries. And those rebels who were planning more violence, other
sanguinary idols to set up against the old ones, new gods of carnage
that man carves for himself, in the vain hope of ennobling his deadly
instincts!
Good God! Why do they not see the imbecility of their conduct, in face
of the gulf that swallows up each man that dies, all humanity with
him? These millions of creatures who have but a moment to live, why
do they persist in making it infernal by their atrocious and absurd
quarrels about ideas; like wretches who cut each other's throats for
a handful of spurious coins thrown to them? We are all victims, under
the same sentence, and instead of uniting, we fight among ourselves.
Poor fools! On the brow of each man that passes I can see the sweat of
agony; efface it by the kiss of peace!
As he thought this, a crowd of people rushed by--men and women,
shrieking with joy. "There's one of them down! One gone! The brutes
are burning up!"
And the birds of prey, in the air, rejoiced in their turn over every
handful of death that they scattered on the town, like gladiators
dying in the arena for the pleasure of some invisible Nero.
Alas, my poor fellow-prisoners!
PART FIVE
_They also serve who only stand and wait_.
MILTON.
Once more Clerambault found himself wrapt in solitude; but this time
she appeared to him as never before, calm and beautiful, kindness
shining from her face, with eyes full of affection and soft cool hands
which she laid on his fevered forehead. He knew that now she had
chosen him for her own.
It is not given to every man to be alone; many groan under it, but
with a secret pride. It is the complaint of the ages; and proves,
without those who complain being aware of it, that solitude has not
marked them for her own; that they are not her familiars. They have
passed the outer door, and are cooling their heels in the vestibule;
but they have not had patience to wait their turn to go in, or else
their recriminations have kept them at a distance.