Luxembourg Gardens. She walked on and as he crossed the path to meet
her she stopped and waited for him. He thanked her, and asked why she
had gone away so quickly the other day, without saying who she was.
And as he spoke it came to him that he had known her for a long time.
He used to see her formerly in the Luxembourg, or in the neighbouring
streets, with a tall boy who must have been her son. Every time
they passed each other their eyes used to meet with a half-smile of
respectful recognition. And though he did not know their name, and
they had never exchanged a word, they were to him part of those
friendly shadows which throng about our daily life, not always noticed
when they are there, but which leave a gap when they disappear.
At once his thought leaped from the woman before him to the young
companion whom he missed from her side. In these days of mourning you
could never tell who might be still in the land of the living, but he
cried impulsively:
"It was your son who wrote to me?"
"Yes," said she, "he is a great admirer of yours. We have both felt
drawn to you for a long time."
"He must come to see me."
"He cannot do that."
"Why not? Is he at the Front?"
"No, he is here." After a moment's silence, Clerambault asked:
"Has he been wounded?"
"Would you like to see him?" said the mother. Clerambault walked
beside her in silence, not daring to ask any questions, but at last
he said: "You are fortunate at least that you can have him near you
always...." She understood and held out her hand: "We were always very
close to one another," she said, and Clerambault repeated:
"At least he is near you."
"I have his soul," she answered.
They had now reached the house, an old seventeenth century dwelling
in one of the narrow ancient streets between the Luxembourg and St.
Sulpice, where the pride of old France still subsists in retirement.
The great door was shut even at this hour. Madame Froment passed in
ahead of Clerambault, went up two or three steps at the back of a
paved court, and entered the apartment on the ground floor.
"Dear Edmé," said she, as she opened the door of the room, "I have a
surprise for you, guess what it is...."
Clerambault saw a young man looking at him as he lay extended on a
couch. The fair youthful face lit up by the setting sun, with its
intelligent eyes, looked so healthy and calm that at first sight the
thought of illness did not present itself.
"You!" he exclaimed. "You here?"
He looked younger than ever with this joyful surprise on his face, but
neither the body, nor the arms which were covered, moved in the least,
and Clerambault coming nearer saw that the head alone seemed to be
alive.
"Mamma, you have been giving me away," said Edmé Froment.
"Did you not want to see me?" said Clerambault, bending over him.
"That is not just what I meant, but I am not very anxious to be seen."
"Why not? I should like to know," said Clerambault, in a tone which he
tried to make gay.
"Because a man does not ask visitors to the house when he is not there
himself."
"Where are you?" if one may ask.
"I could almost swear that I was shut up in an old Egyptian mummy"--he
glanced at the bed and his immovable body:
"There is no life left in it," he said.
"You have more life than any of us," said a voice beside them.
Clerambault looked up and saw on the other side of the couch a tall
young man full of health and strength, who seemed to be about the same
age as Edmé, who smiled and said to Clerambault: "My friend Chastenay
has enough vitality to lend me some and to spare."
"If that were only literally true," said the other, and the two
friends exchanged an affectionate glance. Chastenay continued:
"I should in that case only be giving back a part of what I owe you."
Then turning to Clerambault, he added: "He is the one who keeps us all
up, is it not so, Madame Fanny?"
"Indeed yes, I could not do without my strong son," said the mother
tenderly.
"They take advantage of the fact that I cannot defend myself," said
Edmé to Clerambault. "You see I cannot stir an inch."
"Was it a wound?"
"Paralysis."--Clerambault did not dare to ask for details, but after a
pause: "Do you suffer much?" he inquired.
"I ought to wish that it were so perhaps; for pain is a tie between us
and the shore. However, I confess that I prefer the silence of this
body in which I am encased ... let us say no more about it.... My mind
at least is free. And if it is not true that it '_agitat molem_,' does
often escape."
"I know," said Clerambault, "it came to see me the other day."
"Not for the first time; it has been there before."
"And I who thought myself deserted!"
"Do you recall," said Edmé, "the words of Randolph to Cecil?--'_The
voice of a man alone can in one hour put more life into us than the
clang of five hundred trumpets sounded continuously_.'"
"That always reminds me of you," said Chastenay, but Edmé went on as
if he had not heard him: ... "You have waked us all up."
Clerambault looked at the brave calm eyes of the paralytic, and said:
"Your eyes do not look as if they needed to be waked."
"They do not need it now," said Edmé, "the farther off one is, the
better one sees; but when I was close to everything I saw very
little."
"Tell me what you see now."
"It is getting late," said Edmé, "and I am rather tired. Will you come
another time?"
"Tomorrow, if you will let me."
As Clerambault went out Chastenay joined him. He felt the need of
confiding to a heart that could feel the pain and grandeur of the
tragedy of which his friend had been at once the hero and the victim.
Edmé Froment had been struck on the spinal column by an exploding
shell. Young as he was, he was one of the intellectual leaders of his
generation, handsome, ardent, eloquent, overflowing with life and
visions, loving and beloved, nobly ambitious, and all at once, at a
blow,--a living death! His mother who had centred all her pride and
love on him now saw him condemned for the rest of his days to this
terrible fate. They had both suffered terribly, but each hid it from
the other, and this effort kept them up. They took great pride in each
other. She had all the care of him, washed and fed him like a little
child, and he kept calm for her sake, and sustained her on the wings
of his spirit.
"Ah," said Chastenay, "it makes one feel ashamed--when I think that I
am alive and well, that I can reach out my arms to life, that I can
run and leap, and draw this blessed air into my lungs...." As he spoke
he stretched out his arms, raised his head, and breathed deeply.
"I ought to feel remorseful," he added, lowering his voice, "and the
worst is that I do not." Clerambault could not help smiling.
"It is not very heroic," continued Chastenay, "and yet I care more for
Froment than for anyone on earth, and his fate makes me wretchedly
unhappy. But all the same, when I think of my luck to be here at this
moment when so many are gone, and to be well and sound, I can hardly
keep from showing how glad I am. It is so good to live and be whole.
Poor Edmé!... You must think me terribly selfish?"
"No, what you say is perfectly natural and healthy. If we were all as
sincere as you, humanity would not be the victim of the wicked notion
of glory in suffering. You have every right to enjoy life after the
trials you have passed through," and as he spoke he touched the Croix
de Guerre which the young man wore on his breast.
"I have been through them and I am going back," said Chastenay, "but
there is no merit in that; there is nothing else that I can do. I am
not trying to deceive you and pretend that I love to smell powder; you
cannot go through three years of war, and still want to run risks
and be indifferent to danger, even if you did feel like that in the
beginning. I was so--I may frankly say I did go in for heroism; but I
have lost all that, it was really part ignorance and part rhetoric,
and when one is rid of these, the nonsense of the war, the idiotic
slaughter, the ugliness, the horrible useless sacrifice must be clear
to the narrowest mind. If it is not manly to fly from the inevitable,
it is not necessary either to go in search of what can be avoided. The
great Corneille was a hero behind the lines; those whom I have known
at the front were almost heroes in spite of themselves."
"That is the true heroism," said Clerambault.
"That is Froment's kind," said Chastenay. "He is a hero because there
is nothing else that he can be, not even a man; but the dearest thing
about him is, that in spite of everything, he is a real man."
The truth of this remark was abundantly evident to Clerambault in
a long conversation that he had with Froment the next day. If the
courage of the young man did not desert him in the ruin of his life,
it was all the more to his credit, as he had never professed to be
an apostle of self-abnegation. He had had great hopes and robust
ambitions, fully justified by his talents and vigorous youth, but
unlike his friend Chastenay, he had never for a moment cherished any
illusions as to the war.
The disastrous folly of it had been clear to him at once, and this he
owed not only to his own penetrating mind, but to that inspiring angel
who, from his earliest infancy, had woven the soul of her son from her
own pure spirit.
Whenever Clerambault went to see Edmé, Madame Froment was almost
always there; but she kept in the background, sitting at the window
with her work, only stopping occasionally to throw a tender glance at
her son. She was not a woman of exceptional cleverness, but she had
what may be called the intelligence of the heart, and her mind had
been cultivated by the influence of her husband--a distinguished
physician much older than herself. Thus it had happened that her whole
life had been filled by these two profound feelings, an almost filial
love for her husband and a more passionate sentiment for her son.
Dr. Froment, a cultivated man with much originality of mind which he
concealed under a grave courtesy, as if he feared to wound others by
his distinction, had travelled all over Europe, as well as in Egypt,
Persia, and India. He had been a student of science and of religion,
and his special interest had been the new forms of faith appearing
in the world; such as Babism, Christian Science, and theosophical
doctrines. As he had kept in touch with the pacifist movement, and was
a friend of Baroness Suttner, whom he had known in Vienna, he had
long seen the catastrophe approaching which threatened him and all
he loved. But man of courage as he was, and accustomed to the
indifference of nature, he had not tried to delude his family as to
the future, but had rather sought to strengthen their souls to meet
the danger that hung over their heads.
More than all his words, his example was sacred to his wife, for
the son had been yet a child at the time of his father's death. Dr.
Froment had suffered from a cancer of the intestines, and during the
whole course of the slow and painful disease he had followed his
ordinary occupations up to the last minute, sustaining the courage of
his loved ones by this serene fortitude.
This noble picture which dwelt in Madame Froment's heart, and which
she worshipped in secret, was to her what religion is to other women.
To this, though she had no clear belief in the future life, she
prayed, especially in difficult moments, as if to an ever-present
helpful friend. And by a singular phenomenon sometimes observed after
death, the essence of her husband's soul seemed to have passed into
hers. For this reason her son had grown up in an atmosphere of placid
thought, while most of the young generation before 1914 were feverish,
restless, aggressive, irritated by delay. When the war broke out,
there was no need for Madame Froment to protect herself or her son
against the national excesses; they were both strangers to such ideas;
but they made no attempt to resist the inevitable; they had watched
the coming of this misfortune for so long! All that they could do now
was to bear it bravely, while trying to preserve what was the most
precious thing to them; their souls' faith. Madame Froment did not
consider it necessary to be "_Au-dessus de la mêlée_" in order to
lead it; and she accomplished in her limited sphere simply, but
more efficaciously, what was attempted by writers in Germany and
England,--a form of international reconciliation. She had kept in
touch with many old friends, and without being troubled in circles
infected by the war-spirit, or ever undertaking useless demonstrations
against the war, she was a check on insane manifestations of hatred,
by her simple presence, her quiet words and manner, her good judgment,
and the respect inspired by her kindness. In families that were
sympathetic she distributed messages from liberal Europeans, among
others, Clerambault's articles, though without his knowledge. It was a
source of satisfaction when she saw that their hearts were touched. A
greater joy still was to see that her son himself was transformed.
Edmé Froment was not in the least a Tolstoyan pacifist. At first he
thought the war more a folly than a crime, and if he had been free, he
would have withdrawn, like Perrotin, into high dilettantism of art
and thought, without attempting the hopeless task of fighting the
prevailing opinion, for which he then felt more contempt than pity.
Since his forced participation in the war, he had been obliged to
acknowledge that this folly was so largely expiated by suffering that
it would be superfluous to add anything to it. Man had made his own
hell upon earth, and there was no need of further condemnation. He was
on leave, at Paris, when he came across Clerambault's articles which
showed him that there was something better for him to do than to set
himself up as a judge of his companions in misery; that it would be
far nobler to try to deliver them while taking his share of the common
burden.
The young disciple was disposed to go farther than his master.
Clerambault, who was naturally affectionate and rather weak, found his
joy in communion with other men, and suffered even when divided in
spirit from their errors. He was a confirmed self-doubter. He was
prone to look in the eyes of the crowd for agreement with his ideas.
He exhausted himself in futile efforts to reconcile his inward beliefs
with the aspirations and the social struggles of his time. Froment,
who had the soul of a chieftain in a helpless body, dauntlessly
maintained that for him who bears the torch of a lofty ideal it is an
absolute duty to hold it high over the heads of his comrades; that
it would be wrong to confuse it in the other illuminations. The
commonplace of democracies that Voltaire had less wit than Mr.
Everybody is nonsense.... "_Democritus ait; Unus mihi pro populo
est_.... To me an individual is as good as a thousand." ... Our modern
faith sees in the social group the summit of human evolution, but
where is the proof? Froment thought the greatest height was reached
in an individual superiority. Millions of men have lived and died to
produce one perfect flower of thought, for such are the superb and
prodigal ways of nature. She spends whole peoples to make a Jesus, a
Buddha, an Aeschylus, a Vinci, a Newton, or a Beethoven; but without
these men, what would the people have been? Or humanity itself? We do
not hold with the egotist ideal of the Superman. A man who is great
is great for all his fellows; his individuality expresses and often
guides millions of others; it is the incarnation of their secret
forces, of their highest desires; it concentrates and realises
them. The sole fact that a man was Christ, has exalted and lifted
generations of humanity, filling them with the divine energy; and
though nineteen centuries have since passed, millions have not ceased
to aspire to the height of this example, though none has attained to
it.
Thus understood, the ideal individualist is more productive for human
society than the ideal communist, who would lead us to the mechanical
perfection of the bee-hive, and at the very least he is indispensable
as corrective and complement.
This proud individualism, stated by Froment with burning eloquence,
was a support to Clerambault's mind, prone to waver, and undecided
from good-nature, self-distrust, and the wish to understand others.
Froment rendered Clerambault another important service. More in the
current of world-thought, and through his family coming in closer
contact with foreign thinkers, an accomplished linguist besides,
Froment could bring to mind those other men in all nations who, great
in their isolation, fought for the right to a free conscience. It
was a consoling spectacle; all the work under the surface of thought
suppressed, but struggling towards truth, and the knowledge that
the worst tyranny that has crushed the soul of humanity since the
Inquisition has failed to stifle the indomitable will to remain free
and true.
No doubt these lofty individualities were rare, but their power was
all the greater; the fine outline was more striking, seen against the
dark horizon. In the fall of the nations to the foot of the precipice
where millions lie in a shapeless mass, their voices seemed to rise
with the only human note, and their action gained emphasis from the
anger with which it was met. A century ago Chateaubriand wrote:
"It is vain to struggle longer; henceforward the only important thing
is to be."
He did not know that "to be" in our time, be oneself, be free, implies
the greatest of combats. Those who are true to themselves dominate
through the levelling down of the rest.
Clerambault was not the only one to feel the benefit of of Froment's
energy, for at his bedside he was sure to find some friend who came,
perhaps without admitting it, more to get comfort than to bring it.
Two or three of these were young, about Edmé's age, the others, men
over fifty, old friends of the family, or those who had known Froment
before the war.
One of these had been his professor, an old Hellenist, with a sweet
absent smile. Then there was a grey-haired sculptor, his face ploughed
by deep tragic lines; a country gentleman, clean-shaved, red-cheeked,
with the massive head of an old peasant; and finally a doctor. He had
a white beard, his face was worn and kind, and you were struck by the
strange expression of his eyes; one seemed to look sharply at you, and
the other was sad and dreamy.
There was little resemblance between these men who sometimes met at
the invalid's house. All shades of thought could be found in the
group, from the Catholic to the freethinker and the bolshevist--one of
Froment's young friends professed to be of this opinion. In them you
could find the traces of the most various intellectual ancestry; the
ironic Lucian appeared in the old professor; the Count de Coulanges
was wont to solace himself in the evenings on his estate with
cattle and fertiliser, but also revelled in the gorgeous texture of
Froissart's style, like cloth of gold, and the countrified, juicy
talk of that rascal Gondi--the count certainly had the old French
chroniclers in his veins. The sculptor wrinkled his brow in the effort
to find metaphysics in Rodin and Beethoven; and Dr. Verrier had a
streak of the marvellous in his disposition. This he satisfied by the
hypotheses of biology, and the wonders of modern chemistry, though he
would glance at the paradise of religion with the disenchanted smile
of the man of science. He bore his part in the sad trials of the time,
but the era of war with all its gory glory faded for him before
the heroic discoveries of thought made by a new Newton, the German
Einstein, in the midst of the general distraction.
These men all differed in the form of their minds and in their
temperament; but they all agreed in this, they belonged to no party,
each thought for himself, and each respected and loved liberty in
himself or in others. What else mattered? In our day, all the old
framework is broken down; religious, political, or social. It is but
small progress if we call ourselves socialists, or republicans, rather
than monarchists, if these castes accept nationalism of State, faith,
or class. There are now only two sorts of minds: those shut up behind
bars, and those open to all that is alive, to the entire race of man,
even our enemies. These men, few though they may be, compose the true
"International" which rests on the worship of truth and universal
life. They know well that they are each too weak to embrace alone
their great ideal, but it is infinite and can embrace them all. United
in one object, they push on by their separate ways towards the unknown
God.
These independent spirits were all drawn towards Edmé Froment at this
time, because they obscurely saw in him the point where they could
meet, the clearing from which every path in the forest is visible.
Froment had not always tried to bring others together; as long as
he was well and strong, he too had taken his own way, but since his
course had been cut short, after a time of bitter despondency of which
he said nothing, he had placed himself at the cross-roads. As he could
not possibly act himself, he was better able to view the whole field
and take part in spirit. He saw the different currents: country,
revolution, contests between states and classes, science and
faith--like a stream's conflicting forces, with its rapids,
whirlpools, and reefs; it may sometimes slacken, or turn its course,
but it always flows on irresistibly (even reaction is carried
forward). And he, the poor youth staked at his cross-roads, took all
these currents unto him, the entire stream.
Edmé reminded Clerambault sometimes of Perrotin, but he and Froment
were worlds apart. The latter also denied nothing of what is, and
wished to understand everything; but his was a fiery spirit, his whole
soul was filled with ordered movement and feeling; with him all life
and death went forward and upward. And his body lay there motionless.
It was a dark hour; the turn of the year 1917-18. In the foggy winter
nights men waited for the supreme onslaught of the German armies,
which rumour had foretold for months past; the Gotha raids on Paris
had already begun. Those who wanted to fight to the end pretended
confidence, the papers kept on boasting, and Clemenceau had never
slept better in his life. But the tension showed in the increasing
bitterness of feeling among civilians. The agonised public turned on
the suspects among them, the defeatists and the pacifists, and
for days at a time the baying of an accusing public pursued these
miserable creatures and hunted them down. And spies swarmed of all
sorts, patriotic denouncers, half-crazed witnesses. When towards the
end of March the long-threatened great offensive against Paris began,
the "sacred" fury between fellow-citizens reached its height, and
there is no doubt that if the invasion had succeeded, before the
Germans had arrived at the gates of the city, the gallows at
Vincennes, that altar of the country's vengeance, would have known
many victims, innocent or guilty, accused or condemned.
Clerambault was often shouted at in the streets, but he was not
alarmed; perhaps because he did not realise the danger. One day Moreau
found him in a group of people disputing with an excited young man who
had spoken to him in a most insulting manner. While they were talking
the shell from a "Big Bertha" exploded close by. Clerambault took no
notice, and went on quietly explaining his position to the angry young
man. There was something positively comic in this obstinacy, and the
circle of listeners was quick to feel it, like true Frenchmen,
and began to exchange jokes not entirely of a refined nature, but
perfectly good-natured. Moreau caught hold of Clerambault's arm and
tried to drag him away, but he stopped, and looking at the laughing
crowd, the absurdity of the situation struck him in his turn, and he
too burst out laughing.
"What an old fool I am!" said he to Moreau, who was still intent on
getting him away.
"You had better look out, for you are not the only fool in this
town," was the somewhat impertinent answer, but Clerambault would not
understand what he meant.
The case against him had entered on a new phase; he was now accused of
infraction of the law of the 5th of August, 1914--"An act to repress
indiscretions in time of war." He was accused of pacifist propaganda
among the working classes, where it was said that Thouron had
distributed Clerambault's writings with the consent of the author;
but there was no foundation for this, as Thouron was in a position to
testify that Clerambault had no knowledge of such propaganda, and had
certainly not authorised it.