have the gift of God's grace, or have gained the benefit of trials
bravely accepted. Outside the door you must leave the dust of the
road, the harsh voices and mean thoughts of the world, egotism,
vanity, miserable rebellions against disappointments in love or
ambition.--It must be that, like the pure Orphic shades whose golden
tablets have transmitted to us their dying voices, "_The soul flees
from the circle of pain_" and presents itself alone and bare "_to the
chill fountain which flows from the lake of Memory_."
This is the miracle of the resurrection; he who has cast off his
mortal coil and thinks that he has lost everything, finds that he is
only just entering on his true life. Not only are others as well as
himself restored to him, but he sees that up to now he has never
really possessed them. Outside in the throng, how can he see over the
heads of those who press about him? And it is not possible for him to
look long into the eyes of those who influence him, even though they
are his dearest, for they are pressed too close against him. There
is no time; no perspective. We feel only that our bodies are crushed
together, closely entwined by our common destiny, and tossed on the
muddy torrent of multitudinous existence. Clerambault felt that he
had not seen his son in any real sense until after his death; and the
brief hour in which he and Rosine had recognised each other was one in
which the bonds of a baleful delusion had been broken by the force of
suffering.
Now that by means of successive eliminations, he had arrived at
solitude, he felt withdrawn from the passions of the living, but they
stood out all the more to him in a kind of lucid intimacy. All, not
only his wife and children, but the millions of beings whom he had
thought to embrace in an oratorical affection; they all painted
themselves on the dark background. On the sombre river of destiny
which sweeps humanity away, and which he had confounded with it,
appeared millions of struggling living fragments--men; and each had
his own personality, each was a whole world of joy and sorrow, dreams
and efforts and each was I. I bend over him and it is myself I see;
"I," say the eyes, and the heart repeats "I." My brothers, at last I
understand you, for your faults are also mine, even to the fury with
which you pursue me; I recognise that also, for it is once more I.
From this time onward Clerambault began to see men, not with the eyes
in his head, but with his heart;--no longer with ideas of pacifism,
or Tolstoïsm _(another folly)_, but by seizing the thoughts of his
fellows and putting himself in their place. He began to discover
afresh the people around him, even those who had been most hostile to
him, the intellectuals, and the politicians; and he saw plainly their
wrinkles, their white hair, the bitter lines about their mouths, their
bent backs, their shaky legs.... Overwrought, nervous, ready to break
down,... how much they had aged in six months! The excitement of the
fight had kept them up at first; but as it went on and, no matter what
the issue, the ruin became plain; each one had his griefs, and
each feared to lose the little--but that little, infinitely
precious--remained to him. They tried to hide their agony, and
clenched their teeth, but all suffered. Doubt had begun to undermine
the most confident, "Hush, not a word! it will kill me if you speak of
it." ...Clerambault, full of pity, thought of Madame Mairet; he must
hold his tongue in future;--but it was too late, they all knew now
what he thought, and he was a living negation and remorse to them.
Many hated him, but Clerambault no longer resented it; he was almost
ready to help them to restore their lost illusions.
These souls were full of a passionate faith which they felt to
be threatened; and this lent them a quality of tragic, pitiable
greatness. With the politicians this was complicated by the absurd
trappings of theatrical declamation; with the intellectuals by the
obstinacy of mania; but in spite of all, the wounds were visible, you
could hear the cry of the heart that clings to belief, that calls for
an heroic delusion.
This faith was very touching in some young and simple people; no
declamations, no pretensions to knowledge; only the desperate clinging
of a devotion which has given all, and in return asks for one word
only: "It is true ... Thou, my beloved, my Country, power divine,
still livest, to whom I have offered up my life, and all that I
loved!"--One could kneel before those poor little black gowns, before
those mothers, wives and sisters; one longed to kiss the thin hands
that trembled with the hope and fear of the hereafter, and say: "Mourn
not,--for ye shall be comforted."
What consolation can one offer, when one does not believe in the ideal
for which they lived, and which is killing them?--The long-sought
answer finally came to Clerambault, almost unconsciously: "You must
care for men more than for illusion, or even for truth."
Clerambault's warm feelings were not reciprocated; and he was more
attacked than ever, though for some months he had published nothing.
In the autumn of 1917 the anger against him had risen to an unheard-of
height. The disproportion was really laughable between this rage and
the feeble words of one man, but it was so all over the world. A dozen
or so weak pacifists, alone, surrounded, without means of being heard
through any paper of standing, spoke honestly but not loudly, and this
let loose a perfect frenzy of insults and threats. At the slightest
contradiction the monster Opinion fell into an epileptic fit.
The prudent Perrotin who, as a rule, was surprised at nothing, kept
quiet, and let Clerambault ruin himself his own way; but even he was
alarmed by this explosion of tyrannical stupidity. In history and at a
distance it could be laughed at; but close at hand it looked as if the
human brain was about to give way. Why is it that in this war men lost
their mental balance more than in any other at any previous time? Has
the war been really more atrocious? That is either childish nonsense,
or a deliberate forgetfulness of what has happened in our own day,
under our eyes; in Armenia, in the Balkans; during the repression of
the Commune, in colonial wars under new conquistadors in China and the
Congo.... Of all animals we know, the human beast has always been the
most ferocious. Then is it because men had more faith in the war
of today? Surely not. The western peoples had reached the point of
evolution when war seemed so absurd that we could no longer practise
it and preserve our reason.
We are obliged to intoxicate ourselves, to go crazy, unless we would
die the despairing death of darkest pessimism; and that is why the
voice of one sane man threw into fits of rage all the others who
wanted to forget; they were afraid that this voice would wake them up,
and that they would find themselves sobered, disgraced, and without a
rag to cover them.
It was all the worse because at this time the war was going badly and
the fine hopes of victory and glory which had been lighted up so many
times were beginning to die out. It began to be probable, no matter
which way you looked at it, that the war would be a failure for
everybody. Neither interest, nor ambition, nor ideals would get
anything out of it, and the bitter useless sacrifice, seen at close
range, with nothing gained, made men who felt themselves responsible,
furious. They were forced either to accuse themselves or throw the
blame on others, and the choice was quickly made. The disaster was
attributed to all those who had foreseen the defeat and tried to
prevent it. Every retreat of the army, every diplomatic blunder found
an excuse in the machinations of the pacifists, and these unpopular
gentry to whom no one listened were invested by their opponents with
the formidable power of organising defeat. In order that none should
be ignorant of this, a writing was hung about their necks with the
word "Defeatist," like their brother-heretics of the good old days;
all that remained was to burn them, and if the executioner was not at
hand there were at least plenty of assistants.
At first, by way of getting their hand in, the authorities picked out
inoffensive people--women, teachers, anyone who was little known and
unable to defend himself; and then they turned their attention to
something bigger. It was a good chance for a politician to rid himself
of a dangerous rival, of anyone possessed of secrets or likely to rise
in the future. Above all, according to the old receipts, they took
care to mix accusations, throwing into the same bag vulgar sharpers
and those whose character and mind made them uneasy, so that in all
this mess the blindfolded public did not attempt to distinguish
between an honest man and a scamp. In this way those who were not
sufficiently compromised by their actions found themselves involved in
those of their associates; and if these were lacking, the authorities
stood ready, if necessary, to supply them made to order to fit the
accusation.
When Xavier Thouron first came to see Clerambault how could anyone
know if he was in the Secret Service? He might very well have come of
his own accord; and it was impossible to say what his intentions were,
perhaps he hardly knew himself? In the purlieus of a great city there
are always unscrupulous adventurers rushing about seeking whom they
may devour. They have ravenous appetites, and curiosity to match, and
anything will do to fill up this aching void. They are willing to say
black is white; all is grist that comes to their mill, and they are
capable of throwing you into the water one minute and jumping in to
save you the next. They are not too careful of their skins, but the
animal inside has to be fed and amused. If he stopped making faces and
stuffing for one moment, he might die of boredom and disgust at his
own vacancy; but he is too clever for that, he will not stop to think
until he dies--splendidly, on his feet, like the Roman Emperor.
No one could have told Thouron's real object when he went for the
first time to Clerambault's house. As usual he was very busy, excited
and on the scent of he knew not what. He was one of those great
journalists--they are rare in the profession--who, without taking the
trouble to read a thing, can give you a vivid, brilliant account of
it, which often, by a miracle, proves to be fairly just. He said his
little "piece" to Clerambault without too many mistakes, and appeared
to believe it; perhaps he did while the words were on his lips. Why
not? He was a sort of pacifist himself from time to time; it depended
on the direction of the wind, or the attitude of certain of his
brother-writers whom he sometimes followed, and occasionally opposed.
Clerambault could never cure himself of a childlike trust in anyone
who came to him, and he allowed himself to be touched;--besides, the
press of his country had not spoiled him of late, so he poured out the
inmost thoughts of his heart, while Thouron took it all in with the
deepest interest.
An acquaintance thus closely formed could not, of course, stop there;
letters were exchanged, in which one spoke, and the other led him on.
Thouron persuaded Clerambault to put his ideas in the form of little
popular pamphlets, which he undertook to distribute among the working
classes. Clerambault hesitated, and refused at first. The partisans of
the reigning order and injustice pretend hypocritically to disapprove
of the secret propaganda of a new truth; Clerambault saw no harm in
it, when no other way was possible. (All persecuted faiths have their
catacombs.) But he did not feel himself suited to such a course of
action. It was more his part to say what he thought and take the
consequences, and he felt sure that the word would spread of itself,
without his hawking it about. He would have blushed to admit it, but
perhaps a secret instinct held him back from the offers of service
made him by this eager "drummer." But he could not altogether restrain
his zeal. Thouron published in his paper a sort of Apologia for
Clerambault. He told of his visits, and their conversations; and he
explained and paraphrased the thoughts of the poet. Clerambault was
astonished when he read them, he hardly knew his own ideas again, but
nevertheless, he could not altogether deny them, for, buried among
Thouron's commentaries, he found literal and accurate quotations from
his letters. These, however, were even more confusing; the same words
and phrases, grafted on other contexts, took on an accent and a colour
that he had not given them. Add that the censor, in his zeal for the
safety of the country, had tampered with the quotations, cutting out
here and there a word, half a line, or the end of a paragraph--all
perfectly innocent, but this suppression suggested the worst
iniquities to the over-excited mind of the reader. All this was like
oil on the flame, and the effect was soon felt. Clerambault did not
know which way to turn to keep his champion quiet; and yet he could
not be angry with him, for Thouron had his share of threats and
insults; but he was used to things of this kind, and they fell from
him, like water off a duck's back.
After this common experience Thouron claimed special rights over
Clerambault; and having tried without success to make him buy shares
in his newspaper, he put him on the list of honourary members, without
his knowledge, and thought it very strange that Clerambault was not
delighted when he found it out a few weeks later. Their relations were
slightly cooled by this incident, but Thouron continued to parade the
name of his "distinguished friend" from time to time in his articles.
The latter let this go on, thinking himself fortunate to get off so
easily. He had rather lost sight of him, when he heard one day that
Thouron had been arrested. He was implicated in a rather shabby money
affair which was as usual ascribed to plots of the enemy. The Courts
following the lead of those "higher-up" could not fail to find a
connection between these shady transactions and Thouron's so-called
pacifism. This had showed itself in his paper, in an irregular
incoherent way, subject to attacks of "Exterminism," but none the less
it was all supposed to be part of the great "defeatist" scheme, and
the examination of his correspondence allowed the authorities to drag
in anyone they chose. As he had carefully kept every letter, from men
of all shades of opinion, there were plenty to choose from and they
soon found what they wanted.
It was only through the papers that Clerambault heard that he was on
the list, and they breathed a triumphant: "At last we have got him."
... All was now clear, for if a man thinks differently from the rest
of the world, is it not plain as daylight that there must be some low
motive underneath it all? Seek and you will find ...They had found,
and without going further, one Paris newspaper announced the "treason"
of Clerambault. There was no trace of this in the indictment; but
justice does not feel that it is her business to correct people's
mistakes. Clerambault was summoned before the magistrate, and begged
in vain to be told of what offence he was accused. The judge was
polite, showing him the consideration due to a man of his notoriety,
but, seemed in no haste to dismiss the case; it almost looked as if he
was waiting for something ... for what? Why for the crime, of course!
Madame Clerambault had not the temper of a Roman matron, nor even of
that high-spirited Jewess in the celebrated affair which cut France in
two some twenty years ago, who clung more closely to her husband on
account of the public injustice. She had the timid instinctive respect
of the French _bourgeoisie_ for the official verdict. Though she knew
that there were no grounds for the accusation against Clerambault, she
felt that it was a disgrace to be accused, which also affected her,
and this she could not bear in silence. Unfortunately, in replying
to her reproaches, Clerambault took the worst possible line, without
meaning it, for instead of trying to defend himself, he only said:
"My poor wife, it is awfully hard on you ...Yes, you are right," and
then waited till the shower was over. But this tone upset Madame
Clerambault, who was furious because she felt she had no hold on her
husband. She knew perfectly that though he appeared to agree with
her she could not turn him from his course of action. Despairing
of success, she went off to pour her troubles into the ears of her
brother. Leo Camus made no attempt to disguise his opinion that the
best thing she could do was to get a divorce, which he represented to
her as a duty. This, however, was going a little too far; she was,
after all, a respectable _bourgeoise_, and the traditional horror
of divorce re-awakened her profound fidelity and made her think the
remedy worse than the disease; so they remained united on the surface,
but intimacy between them was gone.
Rosine was out nearly all day, for in order to forget her unhappiness
she was taking a course in trained nursing, and she passed a large
part of her time away from home. Even when she was at home her
thoughts seemed far away, and Clerambault had never regained his
former place in his daughter's heart; another filled it now--Daniel.
She treated her father coldly; he was the cause of her separation from
the man of her heart, and this was a way of punishing him. And though
she was too just not to reproach herself, still she could not alter;
injustice is sometimes a consolation.
Daniel had not forgotten, any more than Rosine; he was not proud of
his conduct, but it rather softened his remorse to throw the blame on
his surroundings, on the tyrannical opinion which had coerced him; but
in his heart he was discontented with himself.
Accident came to the assistance of this sulking pair of lovers. Daniel
was seriously but not dangerously wounded, and was evacuated back to
Paris. During his convalescence he was walking one day near the square
of the Bon Marché when he saw Rosine. He stood still a moment but as
she came forward, without hesitation, they went on into the Square
and began a long conversation, which, beginning by embarrassment,
and interrupted by numerous reproaches and avowals, led finally to a
perfect understanding between them. They were so absorbed in their
tender explanations, that they did not see Madame Clerambault when she
came near, and the good lady, overcome by this unexpected meeting,
hurried home to tell the news to her husband. In spite of their
estrangement, she could not keep this to herself. He listened to her
indignant recital, for she could not bear that her daughter should
have anything to do with a man whose family had affronted them; and
when she had finished he said nothing at first, according to his
present habit, until at last he shook his head smiling, and said:
"Good enough."
Madame Clerambault stopped short, shrugged her shoulders, turned to
go, but with her hand on the door of her room she looked back and
said:
"These people insulted you; Rosine and you agreed to have nothing more
to do with them, and now, _your daughter_ is making advances to this
man who has refused her, and you say it is 'good enough.' I can't
understand you any longer, you must be out of your mind."
Clerambault tried to show her that his daughter's happiness did not
consist in agreement with his ideas, and that Rosine was quite right
to get rid of the consequences of his foolishness where they affected
herself.
"Your foolishness ... that is the first word of sense that you have
said in years."
"You see yourself that I am right," said he, and made her promise to
let Rosine arrange her romance as she pleased.
The girl was radiant when she came in, but she said nothing of what
had passed. Madame Clerambault held her tongue with great difficulty,
and the father saw with tender amusement the happiness that shone
once more on the face of his child. He did not know exactly what had
happened, but he guessed that Rosine had thrown him and his ideas
overboard--sweetly of course, but still,--the lovers had made it up at
their parents' expense, and both had blamed with admirable justice the
old people's exaggerations on either side. The years in the trenches
had emancipated Daniel from the narrow fanaticism of his family,
without impairing his patriotism, and Rosine in exchange had gently
admitted that her father had been mistaken. They agreed with little
difficulty, for she was naturally calm and fatalistic, which suited
perfectly with Daniel's stoical acceptance of things as they were.
They had decided, therefore, to go through life together, without
paying any more attention to the disagreements of those who had come
before them, as the saying is--though it would be more exact to say,
those whom they were leaving behind them. The future also troubled
them little; like millions of other human beings they only asked their
share of happiness at the moment and shut their eyes to everything
else.
Madame Clerambault was annoyed that her daughter said nothing of the
events of the morning, and soon went out again; Rosine and her father
sat dreamily, he by the window, smoking, and she with an unread
magazine before her. She looked absently about the room, with happy
eyes, trying to recall the details of the scene between her and
Daniel; her glance fell on her father's weary face, and its melancholy
expression struck her sharply. She got up, and standing behind
him, laid her hand on his shoulder and said, with a little sigh of
compassion that tried to conceal her inward joy:
"Poor little Papa!"
Clerambault looked at Rosine, whose eyes, in spite of herself, shone
with happiness:
"And my little girl is not 'poor' any longer, is she?"
Rosine blushed: "Why do you say that?" she asked.
Clerambault only shook his head at her, and she leaned forward laying
her cheek against his:
"She is no longer poor," he repeated.
"No," she whispered, "she is very, very rich."
"Tell me about this fortune of hers?"
"She has--first of all--her dear Papa."
"Oh, you little fraud!" said Clerambault, trying to move so that he
could see her face, but Rosine put her hands over his eyes:
"No, I don't want you to look at me, or say anything to me...." She
kissed him again, and said caressingly:
"Poor dear little Papa."
Rosine had now escaped from the cares that weighed on the house, and
it was not long before she flew away from the nest altogether, for she
had passed her examinations and was sent to a hospital in the South.
Both the Clerambaults felt painfully the loss to their empty fireside.
But the man was not the more lonely of the two. He knew this and was
sincerely sorry for his wife, who had not either the strength of mind
to follow his path, nor to leave him. As for him he felt that now,
no matter what happened, he would never be bereft of sympathy;
persecution would arouse it, and lead the most reserved people to
express their feeling. A very precious evidence of this came to him at
this time.
One day, when he was alone in the apartment, the bell rang and he went
to open the door. A lady was there whom he did not know; she held out
a letter, mentioning her name as she did so; in the dim light of the
vestibule, she had taken him for the servant, but at once saw her
mistake, as he tried to persuade her to come in. "No," said she, "I am
only a messenger," and she went away; but when she had gone he found
a little bunch of violets that she had laid on a table near the door.
The letter was as follows:
"_Tu ne cede malis,
sed contra audentior ito_....
"You fight for us, and our hearts are with you. Pour
out your troubles to us, and I will give you my hope, my
strength, and my love. I am one who can act only through
you."
The youthful ardour of these last mysterious words, touched and
puzzled Clerambault. He tried to remember the lady as she stood on his
threshold; she was not very young; fine features, grave dark eyes in a
worn face. Where had he seen her before? The fugitive impression faded
as he tried to hold it.