was one of those people whom nothing can keep awake, who sink into
profound slumber as soon as their heads touch the pillow. But
Clerambault could not follow her example; he lay on his back with his
eyes open, staring into the darkness, all through the rest of the
night.
There were pale glimmers from the street in the half-shadow; and a
quiet star or two high up in a dark sky; one seemed to be falling in
a great half-circle--it was only an airplane keeping watch over the
sleeping city. Clerambault followed its sweep with his eyes, and
seemed, to fly with it, the distant hum of the human planet coming
faintly to his ear, like a strange music of the spheres not foreseen
by Ionian sages.
He felt happy, for the burden was lifted from his body and soul, his
whole being seemed to be relaxed, to float in air. Pictures of the
past day with its agitations and fatigues, passed before his eyes, but
did not disturb him. An old man hustled by a mob of young _bourgeois_
... He could hear their loud voices, too loud--but now they had
vanished like faces that you catch a glimpse of from a moving train.
The train flies on and the vision disappears in the roaring tunnel....
There is the sombre sky again, and the mysterious star, still falling.
Silent spaces around, the clear darkness, and the cool fresh air
blowing on his soul; all infinity in one tiny drop of life, in a heart
whose spark flickers to its end, but knows it is free, and that its
vast home is near.
Like a good steward of the treasure placed in his charge, Clerambault
made up the account of his day. He looked back on his attempts, his
efforts, his impulses, his mistakes; how little remained of his life,
for nearly all that he had built up he had afterwards destroyed with
his own hands. He had first stated, then denied, and had never ceased
to wander in the forest of doubts and contradictions; often torn and
bruised, with no guide but the stars half-seen through the branches.
What meaning had there been in this long troubled course, now ending
in darkness? One only, he had been free.
Free!... What was this freedom, then, which intoxicated him so
completely? This liberty of which he was the master and the
slave--this imperious need to be free? He knew well enough that no
more than others was he emancipated from the eternal bonds; but the
orders that he obeyed differed from others; all are not alike. The
word liberty is only one of the clear high commands of the invisible
sovereign who rules the world ... whom we call necessity. She it is
who excites those of the advance-guard to rebel, and causes them to
break with the heavy past which the blind multitude drags along behind
it; for she is the battle-field of the eternal present, where the
past and the future must ever strive together, and on this field the
ancient laws are conquered, that they may give place to new laws,
which will be conquered in their turn.
O Liberty! Thou art always in chains, but they are not the heavy
fetters of the past; for each struggle has enlarged thy prison. Who
can tell? Perhaps later, when the prison walls have been thrown down....
But in the meanwhile, those whom thou wouldst save resist thee.
Thou art called the Public Enemy, or The One against All. To think
that this nickname should have been fastened on the weak, ordinary
Clerambault! But he did not remember that at this moment, his thoughts
were filled with the one who has always existed, ever since man has
been known on the earth; the one who has never ceased to fight their
follies, that they may be delivered--_The One whom All oppose_.... How
many times throughout the ages have they rejected and crushed him! But
in the midst of his agony a supernatural joy sustains him; he is the
sacred golden seed of liberty, which fell from we know not what sheaf,
and in the darkness of destiny has sowed the germs of light, ever
since the first chaos. In the depths of the savage heart of man, the
frail atom found shelter, it fought against elementary laws which
grind and bend living things; but tirelessly the small golden seed
grew, and man the weakest of all creatures, marched against nature and
fought her. Each step cost a drop of his blood, in this gigantic duel;
he has had to fight nature not only in the world without, but within
himself, since he is a part of her. This is the hardest battle, that
waged by the man divided against himself; and in the end who will
conquer? On the one side is nature with her chariot of iron, in which
she hurls worlds and peoples into the abyss; and on the other is
only,--The Word. It is no wonder that you laugh, ye slaves! no wonder
the servants of force say that it is like "a cur barking at the wheels
of an express-train." Yes, if man were only a fragment of matter
writhing in vain beneath the hammer of fate; but there is a spirit
within him which knows how to smite Achilles on his heel, and Goliath
in his forehead. Let him but wrench off a nut, the swift train is
overturned, its course stayed. Planetary swirls, obscure masses of
human-kind, roll down through the ages lighted by flashes of the
liberating Spirit: Buddha, the Sages, Jesus--all breakers of chains! I
can see the lightning coming, feel it thrill through me, like sparks
that fly up beneath the horse's hoofs. The air vibrates with it, as
the thick clouds of hate come together with a crash. The flame springs
up! If you are alone against the world, have you cause to complain?
You have escaped the crushing yoke, fought your way through, like a
nightmare in which one struggles and tears oneself out of the dark
waters. You sink, choking, and all at once with a despairing effort
you throw yourself beyond the reach of the wave, and sink exhausted
but safe on the shore. These people wound me? So much the better, I
shall wake up in the free air.
Yes, threatening world, I am indeed free from your fetters, I can
never be chained again, and my detested will with which I so often had
to fight, my will is now in you. You wanted, like me, to be free, and
that made you suffer, and made you my enemy; but now even if you kill
me, you have seen the light in me, and once seen, you can no longer
reject it. Strike then! But know that in fighting against me you fight
yourself also; you are beaten in advance, and when I defend myself, it
is you that I defend as well. _The One against All_ is the _One for
All_, and soon will be _The One with All_.
I shall no longer be solitary! I feel that I have never been in truth
alone. My brothers of the world, you may indeed be scattered afar over
the earth like a handful of grain, but I know that you are here beside
me. The thought of a man is not solitary; the idea which grows in him
springs up in others; when he feels it in his heart, let him rejoice,
no matter how unhappy, how injured he may be, for it is the earth
reviving. The first spark in a lonely soul is the point of the ray
which will pierre the night. So, welcome, Light. Break through the
night which is around and within me!... "Clerambault."
The fresh light of day returned, ever young and new, untouched by the
stains of men which the sun drinks up like a morning mist.
Madame Clerambault woke, and when she saw her husband with open eyes,
she thought that he too had just waked up.
"You had a good sleep," said she. "I don't think you stirred all night
long." He did not contradict her, but thought of the vast distances he
had traversed in the spirit, that fiery bird that flies through the
night.... But feeling that he had come back to earth, he got up.
At the same hour another man rose, who had also passed a sleepless
night, who had also evoked his dead son, and thought of Clerambault.
whom he did not know, with fierce hatred.
A letter came from Rosine by the first mail, containing a secret that
Clerambault had guessed long ago. Daniel had spoken to his parents,
and the marriage would take place the next time he came home from the
front. She went through the form of asking the consent of her father
and mother, but she knew that her wishes were theirs. Her letter
radiated happiness and a triumphant security that nothing could shake.
The sad riddle of the agonised world had found an answer, and in the
absorption of her young love the universal suffering; did not seem too
high a price for the flower that bloomed for her on this bloody stem.
In the midst of it all, she was tender and compassionate as usual,
remembering the troubles of others, her father and his worries.
But she seemed to put her happy arms about them, with a simple
affectionate conceit, as if she said: "Please don't worry any more
over all these ideas, darlings! It is foolish of you to be sad, when
you see that happiness is coming."
Clerambault smiled tenderly as he read the letter. No doubt happiness
was on the way, but some of us cannot wait for it. "Greet it from me,
my little Rose, and do not let it fly away."
About eleven o'clock the Count de Coulanges came to ask after him; he
had seen Moreau and Gillot mounting guard before the door. They had
come to escort Clerambault according to their promise, but they had
not dared to come up because they were an hour too early. Clerambault
sent for them, laughing at their excess of zeal, and they admitted
that they had thought him perfectly capable of sneaking out of the
house without waiting for them; an idea which he confessed had crossed
his mind.
The news from the front was good; during the last few days the German
offensive had wavered; strange signs of weakness began to appear;
and well-founded rumours made it evident that there was a secret
disorganisation in the formidable mass. People said that the limit of
his strength had been passed and that the athlete was exhausted. There
was talk also of contagion from the Russian revolutionary spirit
brought by the German troops that had been on the Eastern Front.
With the usual mobility of the French mind, the pessimists of
yesterday began to shout for the approaching victory. Already Moreau
discounted the calming down of passions and the return to common
sense. The reconciliation of the nations and the triumph of
Clerambault's ideas would follow shortly. He advised them not to
deceive themselves too much, and amused himself by describing what
would happen when peace was signed; for peace would have to come some
day.
"I am going to pretend," said he, "that I am hovering over the
town--like the devil on two sticks--the first night after the
armistice. I see innumerable sorrowing hearts behind shutters closed
against the shouts in the streets. Hearts straining all through these
years towards a victory that would lend meaning to their grief;
and now they can let go--or break down, sleep, die, perhaps. The
politicians will reflect on the quickest and most lucrative way to
exploit the success, or turn a somersault if they have guessed wrong.
The professional soldiers will keep the war going as long as they can,
and when that is stopped, they will plan for another in the shortest
possible time. Before-the-war pacifists will all come out of their
holes, and be found at their posts, with touching demonstrations of
joy, while their old leaders who have been beating the drum in the
rear for over five years will reappear with olive branches in their
hands, smiling and talking of brotherly love. The men who swore
never to forget when they were in the trenches will accept all the
explanations and congratulations that are offered them. It is such a
bore not to forget! Five years of exhausting fatigue make you accept
anything through sheer weariness or boredom, or the wish to finish
it all, so the flourishes of triumph will drown the cries of the
vanquished. The one thought of most people will be to go back to their
sleepy before-the-war habits; first they will dance on the graves, and
then lie down and go to sleep on them, till after a while the war will
be only something to boast about in the evening. Perhaps they will
succeed in forgetting it so entirely, that the Dance of Death can be
resumed;--not all at once, of course, but later when we have had a
good rest. So there will be peace everywhere, till the time when it
will be war everywhere again. In the meaning that is now given to the
words, my friends, peace and war are just different labels for the
same bottle. It reminds me of what King Bomba said of his valiant
soldiers; dress them in red or in green as you choose, they will take
to their heels just the same. One says peace and the other war, but
neither means anything, there is only universal servitude, multitudes
swept along like the ebb and flow of tides; and this will continue as
long as no strong souls raise themselves above the human ocean, as
long as no one dares to fight against the fate that sways these great
masses."
"Fight against nature," said Coulanges. "Would you resist her laws?"
"There are no immutable laws," said Clerambault, laws like beings,
live, change, and die. It is the duty of the spirit, not to accept
these as the Stoics taught us, but rather to modify and shape them to
our needs. Laws are the outside form of the soul, and if it grows they
must grow also. The only just laws are those that suit me. Am I wrong
in thinking that the shoe should be made to fit the foot, not the foot
for the shoe?"
"I do not say that you are wrong," said the Count, "we force nature
all the time in cattle-breeding, so that even the shape and instincts
of the animals are modified; why not the human creature? No, far from
blaming you, I maintain on the contrary that the object and the duty
of every man worthy of the name is, just as you say, to alter human
nature. It is the source of all real progress; even to strive after
the impossible has a concrete value. But that does not mean that we
shall succeed in what we undertake."
"It is possible that we may not succeed for ourselves and our
children; it is, even more, probable. Perhaps our unhappy nation, the
entire West is on the downward path. There are many things that make
me fear that we are hastening to our fall; our vices and our virtues,
which are almost equally injurious, the pride and hatred, the jealous
spite worthy of a big village, the endless chain of revenges, the
blind obstinacy, the clinging to the past with its superannuated
conceptions of honour and duty, which causes us to sacrifice the
future for the past; all these make me fear that the terrible warning
of this war has taught nothing to our slothful and turbulent heroism.
There was a time when I should have been overwhelmed by such a thought
as this, but now I feel lifted above it, as I am above my own mortal
body; the only tie between me and it is made of pity. My spirit is
brother to that which, on the other side of the globe, is now touched
by the new fire. Do you remember the beautiful words of the Seer of
St. Jean d'Acre?[1]"
[Footnote 1: Reference to Abdul Baha, at present the head of the
Babists or Bahaists. He was at that time a prisoner at St. Jean
d'Acre. See "Lessons of St. Jean d'Acre," by Abdul Baha, collected by
Laura Clifford Barney. (Author.)]
"'_The Sun of Truth is like our sun. It rises in many different places.
One day it appears in the sign of Cancer, on another it rises in
Libra, but it is always the same sun. Once the Sun of Truth rose in
the constellation of Abraham, and set in that of Moses, flaming over
the whole horizon; and later it was seen in the sign of Christ, bright
and resplendent. When its light shone over Sinai, the followers of
Abraham were blinded. But wherever the sun may rise, my eyes will be
fixed upon it; even if it should appear in the west it will always be
the sun._'"
"'_C'est du Nord aujourd'hui que nous vient la lumière_,'"[1] said
Moreau, laughing ("It is from the North that our light comes today").
[Footnote 1: A famous line of Voltaire's. (Author.)]
Though the hearing was set for one o'clock, and it was now barely
twelve, Clerambault wanted to start at once, he was so afraid of being
late.
They had not far to go, and indeed his friends had no need to protect
him against the rabble which hung about the Palais de Justice, a crowd
which in any case was considerably thinned out by the morning's news.
There were only a few curs, more noisy than dangerous, who might have
snapped at their heels.
They had reached the corner of the Rue Vaugirard and the Rue d'Assas,
when Clerambault, finding that he had forgotten an important paper,
went back to look for it in his apartment; the others stood there
waiting for him. They saw him come out and cross the street. On the
opposite sidewalk, near a cab-stand, was a well-dressed man of about
his own age, grey-haired, not very tall, and rather stout. They saw
this person go up to Clerambault--it all passed so quickly that they
had no time even to cry out. There was a brief exchange of words, an
arm raised, a shot!--they saw him totter, and ran up. Too late.
They laid him down on a bench; a little crowd gathered, more curious
than shocked (people had seen so many things of this kind), looking
over each ether's shoulders:
"Who is it?"
"A defeatist."
"Serve him right, then I The dirty beasts have done us harm enough!"
"I don't know, there are worse things than to want the war to be
over."
"There is only one way to finish it; we must fight it out. It is the
pacifists' fault that it has dragged on so long."
"You might almost say that they were the cause of it; the boches
counted on them. Without those fools there wouldn't have been any
war." Clerambault lying there half-unconscious, thought of the old
woman who threw her fagot on the wood stacked around John Huss ...
_Sancta simplicitas._
Vaucoux had not attempted to get away, but let them take the revolver
out of his hand without resistance. They held his arms fast, and he
stood looking at his victim, whose eyes met his; each thought of his
son.
Moreau, much excited, spoke threateningly to Vaucoux; who, like an
impassive image of hatred, only answered briefly: "I have killed the
Adversary, the Enemy."
A faint smile hovered on Clerambault's lips as he looked at Vaucoux.
"My poor friend," he thought, "It is within you yourself that the
Enemy lies,"--his eyes closed ... centuries seemed to pass.... "There
are no enemies...." and Clerambault entered into the peace of the
worlds to come.
Seeing that he had lost consciousness, his friends carried him into
Froment's house which was close by; but he was dead before they
reached it.
They laid him on a bed, in a room beside that in which the young
paralytic lay with his friends now gathered round him. The door
remained open. The spirit of the dead man seemed near them.
Moreau spoke bitterly of the absurdity of this murder; why not strike
one of the great pirates of the triumphant reaction, or a recognised
head of the revolutionary group? Why choose this inoffensive,
unbiassed man, who was kind to everyone, and almost too comprehending
to all sides?
"Hatred makes no mistakes," said Edmé Froment. "It has been guided
by a sure instinct to the right mark; for an enemy often sees more
clearly than a friend. No, there is no doubt about it, the most
dangerous adversary of society and the established order in this world
of violence, falsehood, and base compromises, is, and has always been,
the man of peace and a free conscience. The crucifixion of Jesus was
no accident; He had to be put to death. He would be executed today;
for a great evangelist is a revolutionary, and the most radical of
all. He is the inaccessible source from whence revolutions break
through the hard ground, the eternal principle of non-submission of
the spirit to Caesar, no matter who he may be--the unjust force. This
explains the hatred of those servants of the State, the domesticated
peoples, for the insulted Christ who looks at them in silence, and
also for His disciples, for us, the eternal insurrectionists, the
conscientious objectors to tyranny from high or low, to that of today
or tomorrow ... for us, who go before One greater than ourselves, who
comes bringing to the world the Word of salvation, the Master laid
in the grave but '_qui sera en agonie jusqu' à la fin du monde_,'[1]
whose suffering will endure to the world's end, the unfettered
Spirit, the Lord of all." [Footnote 1: The quotation is from Pascal.
(Author.)]
SIERRE, 1916--PARIS, 1920.