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Clerambault: The Story of an Independent Spirit During the War · Chapter 9The Loved One's Reply

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My son, your words are like stones that a child throws at the sky which he cannot reach; they will fall back on your own head. She whom you insult, who has usurped my name, is an idol carved by yourself, in your own image, not in mine. The true Country is that of the Father. She belongs to all, and embraces everyone.—It is not her fault if you have brought her down to your own level…. Unhappy creatures, who sully your gods; there is not a lofty idea that you have not tarnished. You turn the good that is brought you, into poison, and scorch yourselves with the very light that shines on you. I came among you to bring warmth to your loneliness; I brought your shivering souls together in a flock, and bound your scattered weakness in sheaves of arrows. I am brotherly love, the great Communion; and you destroy your fellows in my name, fools that you are!…

For ages I have toiled to deliver you from the chains of bestiality, to free you from your hard egotism. On the road of Time you advance by toil and sweat; provinces and nations are the military milestones which mark your resting-places. Your weakness alone created them. Before I can lead you farther, I must wait till you have taken breath; you have so little strength of lungs or heart, that you have made virtues of your weaknesses. You admire your heroes for the distance they went before they dropped exhausted; not because they were the first to reach those limits. And when you have come without difficulty to the spot where these forerunners stopped, you think yourselves heroes in your turn.

What have these shadows of the past to do with us today? Bayard, Joan of Arc, we have no further need of heroism like theirs, knights and martyrs of a dead cause. We want apostles of the future, great hearts that will give themselves for a larger country, a higher ideal. Forward then; cross the old frontiers, and if you must still use these crutches, to help your lameness, thrust the barriers back to the doors of the East, the confines of Europe, until at last step by step you reach the end, and men encircle the globe, each holding by the other's hand. Before you insult me, poor little author, descend into your own heart, examine yourself. The gift of speech was given you to guide your people, and you have used it to deceive yourself and lead them astray. You have added to their error instead of saving them, even to the point that you have laid your own son whom you loved on the altar of your untruth.

Now at least dare to show to others the ruin that you are, and say: "See what I am, and take warning!" …Go! And may your misfortunes save those that come after from the same fate! Dare to speak, and cry out to them: "You are mad, peoples of the earth; instead of defending your Country, you are killing her. You are your Country and the enemies are your brothers. Millions of God's creatures" love one another.

The same silence as before seemed to swallow up this last cry. Clerambault lived outside of popular circles where he would have found the warm sympathy of simple, healthy minds. Not the slightest echo of his thought came to him.

He knew that he was not really alone, though he seemed so. Two apparently contradictory sentiments—his modesty and his faith—united to say to him: "What you thought, others have thought also; you are too small, this truth is too great, to exist only in you. The light that your weak eyes have seen has shone also for others. See where now the Great Bear inclines to the horizon,—millions of eyes are looking at it, perhaps; but you cannot see them, only the far-off light makes a bond between their sight and yours."

The solitude of the mind is only a painful delusion; it has no real existence, for even the most independent of us are members of a spiritual family. This community of spirit has no relation to time or space; its elements are dispersed among all peoples and all ages. Conservatives see them in the past, but the revolutionists and the persecuted look to the future for them. Past and future are not less real than the immediate present, which is a wall beyond which the calm eyes of the flock can see nothing. The present itself is not what the arbitrary divisions of states, nations, and religions would have us believe. In our time humanity is a bazaar of ideas, unsorted and thrown together in a heap, with hastily constructed partitions between them, so that brothers are separated from brothers, and thrown in with strangers. Every country has swallowed up different races, not formed to think and act together; so that each one of these spiritual families, or families-in-law, which we call nations, comprises elements which in fact form part of different groups, past, present, or future. Since these cannot be destroyed, they are oppressed; they can escape destruction only by some subterfuge, apparent submission, inward rebellion, or flight and voluntary exile. They are Heimatlos. To reproach them for lack of patriotism is to blame Irishmen and Poles for their resistance to English and Prussian absorption. No matter where they are, men remain loyal to their true country. You who pretend that the object of this war is to give the right of self-determination to all peoples, when will you restore this right to the great Republic of free souls dispersed over the whole world?

However cut off from the world, Clerambault knew that this Republic existed. Like the Rome of Sertorius, it dwelt in him, and though they may be unknown each to the other, it dwells in every man to whom it is the true Country.

The wall of silence which surrounded Clerambault's words fell all at once. But it was not a friendly voice which answered his. It seemed rather as if stupidity and blind hatred had made a breach where sympathy had been too weak to find a way.

Several weeks had passed and Clerambault was thinking of a new publication, when, one morning, Leo Camus burst noisily into his room. He was blue with rage, as with the most tragic expression he held up a newspaper before Clerambault's eyes:

"Read that!" he commanded, and standing behind his brother-in-law as he read, he went on:

"What does the beastly thing mean?"

Clerambault was dismayed to find himself stabbed by what he had believed to be a friendly hand. A well-known writer, a colleague of Perrotin's, a serious honourable man, and one always on good terms with him, had denounced him publicly and without hesitation. Though he had known Clerambault long enough to have no doubt as to the purity of his intentions, he held him up as a man dishonoured. An historian, well used to the manipulation of text, he seized upon detached phrases of Clerambault's pamphlet and brandished them as an act of treason. A personal letter would not have satisfied his virtuous indignation; he chose a loud "yellow journal," a laboratory of blackmail despised by a million Frenchmen, who nevertheless swallowed all its humbug with open mouths.

"I can't believe it," stammered Clerambault, who felt helpless before this unexpected hostility.

"There is no time to be lost," declared Camus, "you must answer."

"Answer? But what can I say?"

"The first thing, of course, is to deny it as a base invention."

"But it is not an invention," said Clerambault, looking Camus in the face. It was the turn of the latter to look as if he had been struck by lightning.

"You say it is not,—not?" he stammered.

"I wrote the pamphlet," said Clerambault, "but the meaning has been distorted by this article."

Camus could not wait for the end of the sentence, but began to howl: "You wrote a thing like that!… You, a man like you!"

Clerambault tried to calm his brother-in-law, begging him not to judge until he knew all; but Camus would do nothing but shout, calling him crazy, and screaming: "I don't know anything about all that. Have you written against the war, or the country. Yes, or no?"

"I wrote that war is a crime, and that all countries are stained by it…."

Without allowing Clerambault to explain himself farther, Camus sprang at him, as if he meant to shake him by the collar; but restraining himself, he hissed in his face that he was the criminal, and deserved to be tried by court-martial at once.

The raised voices brought the servant to listen at the door, and Madame Clerambault ran in, trying to appease her brother, in a high key. Clerambault volunteered to read the obnoxious pamphlet to Camus, but in vain, as he refused furiously, declaring that the papers had told him all he wanted to know about such filth. (He said all papers were liars, but acted on their falsehoods, none the less.) Then, in a magisterial tone, he called on Clerambault to sit down and write on the spot a public recantation. Clerambault shrugged his shoulders, saying that he was accountable to nothing but his own conscience—that he was free.

"No!" roared Camus.

"Do you mean that I am not free to say what I think?"

"You are not free, you have no right to say such things," cried the exasperated Camus. "Your country has claims on you, and your family first of all. They ought to shut you up."

He insisted that the letter should be written that very moment, but Clerambault simply turned his back on him. So he left, banging the door after him, and vowing that he would never set foot there again, that all was over between them.

After this poor Clerambault had to submit to a string of questions from his wife who, without knowing what he had done, lamented his imprudence and asked with tears: "Why, why he had not kept silent? Had they not trouble enough? What was this mania he had for talking? And particularly for talking differently from other people?"

While this was going on, Rosine came back from an errand, and Clerambault appealed to her, telling her in a confused manner of the painful scene that had just taken place, and begging her to sit down there by his table and let him read the article to her. Without even taking off her hat and gloves, Rosine did sit down near him, and listened sensibly, sweetly, and when he had done, kissed him and said:

"Yes, I think it's fine,—but, dear Papa, why did you do it?" Clerambault was completely taken aback.

"What? You ask why I did it? Don't you think it is right?"

"I don't know. Yes, I believe it must be right since you say so…. But perhaps it was not necessary to write it…."

"Not necessary? But if it is right, it must be necessary."

"But if it makes such a fuss!"

"That is no reason against it."

"But why stir people up?"

"Look here, my little girl, you think as I do about this, do you not?"

"Yes, Papa, I suppose so…."

"You only suppose?… Come now, you detest the war, as I do, and wish it were over; everything that I wrote there I have said to you, and you agreed…."

"Yes, Papa."

"Then you think I am right?"

"Yes, Papa." She put her arms around his neck, "but we don't have to write everything that we think."

Clerambault, much depressed, tried to explain what seemed so evident to him. Rosine listened, and answered quietly, but it was clear that she did not understand. When he had finished, she kissed him again and said:

"I have told you what I think, Papa, but it is not for me to judge. You know much better than I."

With that she went into her room, smiling at her father, and not in the least suspecting that she had just taken away from him his greatest support.

This abusive attack was not the only one, for when the bell was once tied on the cat it never ceased to ring. However, the noise would have been drowned in the general tumult, if it had not been for a persistent voice which led the chorus of malignity against Clerambault.

Unhappily it was the voice of one of his oldest friends, the author Octave Bertin; for they had been school-fellows at the Lycée Henri IV. Bertin, a little Parisian, quick-witted, elegant, and precocious, had welcomed the awkward enthusiastic advances of the overgrown youth fresh from the country,—ungainly in body and mind, his clothes always too short for his long legs and arms, a mixture of innocence, simplicity, ignorance, and bad taste, always emphatic, with overflowing spirits, yet capable of the most original sallies, and striking images. None of this had escaped the sharp malicious eye of young Bertin; neither Clerambault's absurdities nor the treasures of his mind, and after thinking him over he had decided to make a friend of him. Clerambault's unfeigned admiration had something to do with this decision. For several years they shared the superabundance of their youthful ideas. Both dreamed of being artists; they read their literary attempts to each other, and engaged in interminable discussions, in which Bertin always had the upper hand. He was apt to be first in everything. Clerambault never thought of contesting his superiority; he was much more likely to use his fists to convince anyone who denied it. He stood in open-mouthed admiration before his brilliant friend, who won all the University prizes without seeming to work for them, and whom his teachers thought destined to the highest honours—official and academic, of course.

Bertin was of the same mind as his teachers; he was in haste to succeed, and believed that the fruit of triumph has more flavour when one's teeth are young enough to bite into it. He had scarcely left the University when he found means to publish in a great Parisian review a series of essays which immediately brought him to the notice of the general public. And without pausing to take breath, he produced one after another a novel in the style of d'Annunzio, a comedy in Rostand's vein, a book on love, another on reforms in the Constitution, a study of Modernism, a monograph on Sarah Bernhardt, and, finally, the "Dialogues of the Living." The sarcastic but measured spirit of this last work obtained for him the position of column writer on one of the leading dailies. Having thus entered journalism he stayed in the profession, and became one of the ornaments of the Paris of Letters, while Clerambault's name was still unknown. The latter had been slow in gaining the mastery over his inward resources, and was so occupied in struggles with himself that he had no time for the conquest of the public. His first works, which were published with difficulty, were not read by more than a dozen people. It is only fair to Bertin to say that he was one of the dozen, and that he appreciated Clerambault's talents. He was even ready to say so, when opportunity served, and as long as Clerambault was unknown, he took pleasure in defending him. It is true that he would sometimes add a friendly and patronising piece of advice to his praises, which, if Clerambault did not always follow, he received with the old affectionate respect.

In a little while Clerambault became known, and even celebrated. Bertin, somewhat surprised, sincerely pleased by his friend's success—the least bit vexed by it, perhaps—intimated that he thought it exaggerated, and that the better Clerambault was the obscure Clerambault before his reputation was made. He would even undertake to prove this to Clerambault himself, sometimes, who neither agreed nor disagreed. For how could he tell, who thought very little about it, his head being always full of some new work? The two old comrades remained on excellent terms, but little by little they began to see less of one another.

The war had made Bertin a furious jingo. In the old days at school he used to scandalise Clerambault's provincial mind by his impudent disrespect for all values, political and social—country, morality, and religion. In his literary works he continued to parade his anarchism, but in a sceptical, worldly, bored sort of manner which was to the taste of his rich clientèle. Now, before this clientèle and the rest of those who purveyed to it, his brethren of the popular press and theatres, the contemptible Parny's and Crebillon Jr.'s of the day, he suddenly assumed the attitude of Brutus immolating his sons. It is true he himself had none, but perhaps that was a regret to him.

Clerambault did not dream of finding fault with him for these opinions; but he did not dream either that his old friend and amoralist would come out against him as the defender of his outraged country. But was it a question simply of his country?

There was a personal note in the furious diatribe that Bertin hurled at him that Clerambault could not understand. In the general mental confusion, Bertin, naturally shocked by Clerambault's ideas, might have remonstrated with him frankly, face to face; but without any warning, he began by a public denunciation. On the first page of his paper appeared an article of the utmost virulence; he attacked, not only his ideas, but his character, speaking of Clerambault's tragic struggle with his conscience as an attack of literary megalomania, brought on by undeserved success. It seemed as if he expressly chose words likely to wound Clerambault, and he ended by summoning him to retract his errors in a tone of the most insulting superiority.

The violence of this article, from so well-known an author, made an event in Paris of the "Clerambault Case." It occupied the reporters for more than a week, a long time for these feather-headed gentry. Hardly anyone read what Clerambault had actually written; it was not worth while. Bertin had read it, and newspaper men do not make a practice of taking unnecessary trouble; besides it was not a question of reading, but of judgment. A strange sort of Sacred Union was formed over Clerambault; clericals and Jacobins came together to condemn him, and the man whom they admired yesterday was dragged in the mud today. The national poet became at once a public enemy, and all the myrmidons of the press attacked him with heroic invective. The greater number of them united bad faith with a remarkable ignorance. Very few knew Clerambault's works, they scarcely knew his name or the titles of his books, but that no more kept them from disparaging him now than it had hindered them from praising him when he was the fashion. Now, in their eyes, everything that he had written was tainted with "bochism," though all their quotations were inexact. In the excitement of his investigation, one of them foisted upon Clerambault the authorship of another man's book, the author of which, pale with fright, protested with indignation, dissociating himself entirely from his dangerous fellow-author. Uneasy at their intimacy with Clerambault, some of his friends did not wait to have it recalled, but met it halfway, writing "open letters," to which the papers gave a conspicuous place. Some, like Bertin, coupled their public censure with a demand that he should confess himself in the wrong, and others, less considerate, cast him off in the bitterest and most insulting terms. Clerambault was crushed by all this animosity; it could not arise solely from his articles, it must have been long dormant in the hearts of these men. And why so much hidden hatred?—What had he done to them?… A successful artist does not suspect that besides the smiles of those around there are also teeth, only waiting for the opportunity to bite.

Clerambault did his best to conceal the insults in the papers from his wife. Like a schoolboy trying to spirit away his bad marks he watched for the post so as to suppress the obnoxious sheets, but at last their venom seemed to poison the very air. Among their friends in society, Madame Clerambault and Rosine had to bear many painful allusions, small affronts, even insults. With the instinct of justice which characterises the human beast, and especially the female, they were held responsible for Clerambault's ideas, though his wife and daughter knew little of them and disapproved what they knew. (Their critics did not understand them either.) The more polite were reticent, taking pains not to mention Clerambault's name, or ask after him,—you don't speak of ropes, you know, in the house of a man who has been hanged…. And this calculated silence was worse than open abuse. You would have said that Clerambault had done something dishonest or immodest. Madame Clerambault would come back full of bitterness, and Rosine suffered too, though she pretended not to mind. One day, a friend, whom they met in the street, crossed to the other side, turning away her head so as to avoid bowing to them; and Rosine was excluded from a benevolent society where she had worked hard for years.

Women were particularly active in this patriotic reprobation. Clerambault's appeal for reconciliation and pardon had no more violent opponents—and it was the same everywhere. The tyranny of public opinion is an engine of oppression, invented by the modern State, and much more despotic than itself. In times of war certain women have proved, its most ferocious instruments. Bertrand Russell cites the case of an unfortunate man, conductor on a tramway, married, with children, and honourably discharged from the army, who killed himself on account of the insults and persecutions of the women of Middlesex. In all countries, poor wretches like him have been pursued, crazed, driven to death, by these war-maddened Bacchantes. This ought not to surprise us; if we have not foreseen this madness, it is because we, like Clerambault hitherto, have lived on comfortable accepted opinions and idealisations. In spite of the efforts of woman to approximate the fallacious ideal imagined by man for his pleasure and tranquillity, the woman of the present day, weak, cut-off, trimmed into shape as she is, comes much closer than man to the primitive earth. She is at the source of our instincts, and more richly endowed with forces, which are neither moral nor immoral but simply animal. If love is her chief function, it is not the passion sublimated by reason but love in the raw state, splendidly blind, mingling selfishness and sacrifice, equally irresponsible, and both subservient to the deep purposes of the race. The tender, flowery embellishments with which the couple always try to veil the forces that affright them, are like arches of tropical vines over a rushing stream; their object is to deceive. Man could not bear life if his feeble soul saw the great forces, as they are, that carry him along.

His ingenious cowardice strives to adapt them mentally to his weakness; he lies about love, about hatred, about his gods, and above all he is false about woman and about Country. If the naked truth were shown to him, he would fear to fall into convulsions, and so he substitutes the pale chromos of his idealism. The war had broken through the thin disguise, and Clerambault saw the cruel beast without the mantle of feline courtesy in which civilisation drapes itself.

Among Clerambault's former friends, the most tolerant were those belonging to the political world. Deputies, Ministers, past or future; accustomed to drive the human flock, they know just what it is worth. Clerambault's daring seemed merely foolish to them. What they thought in their hearts was twenty times worse, but they thought it silly to speak it, dangerous to write it, more dangerous still to answer it. You make a thing known when you attack it, and condemnation only gives it greater importance. Their best advice would have been to keep silent about these unlucky articles, which the sleepy, stumbling public would have neglected if left to itself. This was the course usually followed by Germany during the war; if the authorities did not see their way clear to suppress rebellious writers, they hid them under some flowery humbug.

The political spirit of the French Democracy, however, is more outspoken and more narrow-minded; silence is unknown to it, and far from concealing its hatreds, it spits them forth from the house-tops. Like that of Rude, French liberty opens her mouth and bawls. Anyone who differs from her opinion of the moment is declared a traitor forthwith; there are always some yellow journals to tell at what price the independent voice was bought, and twenty fanatics to stir up the crowd against it. Once started, there is nothing to do but wait until the fit has passed off; but in the meantime, look out for yourself! Prudent folks join in the hue and cry from a safe distance.

The editor of the magazine which had been proud to publish Clerambault's poems for years whispered to him that all this row was absurd—that there was really nothing in his "case," but that on account of his subscribers he should have to scuttle him. He was awfully sorry … hoped there was no hard feeling?… In short, without being rude, he made the whole thing look ridiculous.

Alas for human nature! Even Perrotin laughed at Clerambault in a brilliantly sarcastic interview, and considered himself to be still his friend at bottom.

In his own house Clerambault now found himself without support. His old helpmate, who for thirty years had seen only through his eyes, repeating his words without even understanding them, was now afraid, indignant at what he had written, reproaching him bitterly for the scandal, the harm done to the name of the family, to the memory of his dead son, to the sacred cause of vengeance, to his Country.

Rosine was always loving, but she had ceased to understand him. A woman's mind makes but few demands, if her heart is satisfied; so it was enough for her that her father was no longer one of the haters, that he remained compassionate and kind. She did not want him to translate his sentiments into theories, nor above all, to proclaim them. She had much affectionate common-sense, and as long as matters of feeling were safe, she did not care for the rest, not understanding the inflexible exigence of logic which pushes a man to the utmost consequences of his faith.

She had ceased to understand, and her hour had passed—the time when, without knowing it, she had accepted and fulfilled a maternal mission towards her father. When he was weak, broken, and uncertain, she had sheltered him under her wing, rescued his conscience, and given back to him the torch which he had let fall from his hand. Now her part was accomplished, she was once more the loving "little daughter" somewhat in the shade, who looks on at the great events of life with eyes that are almost indifferent, and in the depths of her soul treasured devoutly the afterglow of the wonderful hour through which she had lived—all uncomprehending.

It was about this time that a young man home on leave came to see Clerambault. Daniel Favre was a friend of the family, an engineer like his father before him. He had long been an admirer of Clerambault, for his keen intelligence was not limited to his profession; indeed the extended flights of modern science have brought his domain close to that of poetry, it is itself the greatest of poems. Daniel was an enthusiastic reader of Clerambault's writings. They corresponded affectionately, knew each other's families, and the young man was a frequent visitor, perhaps not solely for the pleasure of conversing with the poet. He was a nice fellow, about thirty years old, tall, well set-up, with good features, a timid smile, and eyes which looked startlingly light in his sunburnt face. They were all glad to see him, and Clerambault was not the only member of the family who enjoyed his visits. David might easily have been assigned to duty in a munitions factory, but he had applied for a dangerous post at the Front, where he had quickly been promoted to the rank of Lieutenant. Having a few days in town, he went to see Clerambault.

Madame Clerambault and Rosine were out, so the poet was alone, and welcomed his young friend with delight, but Daniel responded awkwardly, answering questions somewhat at random, and at last abruptly brought up the subject which he had at heart. He said that he had heard talk at the front of Clerambault's articles, and he felt very badly. People said—they made out that—well, he had heard severe things about them; he knew people were often unjust, but he had come—here he pressed Clerambault's hand in a timid friendly way—he had come to entreat him not to desert all those who loved him. He reminded him of the devotion that had inspired the poet who had celebrated the traditions of French soil and the glories of the race…. "In this hour of trial," he implored, "stand by us."

"I have never been closer to you than now," answered Clerambault, and he added:

"You say that people blame what I have written. Dear boy, what do you think of it yourself?"

"I confess I have not read it," said Daniel. "I did not want to, for fear that it might disturb my affection for you, or hinder me in my duty."

"Your faith cannot be very strong, if a few lines of print can shake it."

"My convictions are firm enough," said Daniel, a little miffed, "but there are certain things which it is wisest not to discuss."

"That is something that I should not have expected to hear from a scientific man," said Clerambault. "The truth can lose nothing by discussion."

"Truth, no, but love—love of country."

"My dear Daniel, you go farther than I. I do not place truth in opposition to love of country, on the contrary I endeavour to reconcile them."

Daniel tried to cut the matter short.

"The country is not a subject for discussion."

"Is it an article of faith?"

"You know I do not believe in religions," protested Daniel. "I have no faith in any of them. But that is the very reason. What should we have left on earth if it were not for our country?"

"I think that there are many great and beautiful things in the world, and Country is only one of them; but I am not discussing the love, but the way of loving."

"There is only one," said Daniel.

"And what is that?"

"We must obey."

"The ancient symbol, Love with bandaged eyes; I only want to open them."

"No, no, let us alone. It is hard enough already. Don't make it any worse for us." In a few phrases, temperate, yet broken by emotion, Daniel brought up the terrible picture of the weeks that he had spent in the trenches; the disgust and the horror of what he had borne himself, the suffering he had seen in others, had inflicted on them.

"But, my dear fellow, if you see this shameful thing, why not try to prevent it?"

"Because it is impossible."

"To be sure of that, you might at least make the attempt."

"The conflict between men is the law of Nature. Kill or be killed. So be it."

"And can it never be changed?"

"No, never," said Daniel, in a tone of sad obstinacy, "it is the law."

There are some scientific men from whom science seems to hide the truth it contains, so that they cannot see reality at the bottom of the net. They embrace the whole field that has been discovered, but would think it impossible and even ridiculous to enlarge it beyond the limits already traced by reason. They only believe in a progress that is chained to the inside of the enclosure. Clerambault knew only too well the supercilious smile with which the ideas of inventors are put aside by learned men from the official schools. There are certain forms of science which accord perfectly with docility. David's manner showed no irony; it expressed rather a stoical, baffled kind of melancholy. In abstract questions he did not lack courage of thought, but when faced with the facts of life he was a mixture, or rather a succession, of timidity and stiffness, diffident modesty, and firmness of conviction. In short he was a man, like other men, complex and contradictory, not all in one piece. The trouble is that, in an intellectual and a man of science, the pieces lap over one another and the joinings show.

Clerambault sat silent for a few moments, and then began to utter the thoughts that had passed through his mind. "Nevertheless," said he, "the results of science itself are changeful. For the last twenty years all our conceptions of chemistry and physiology have been going through a crisis which has altered and made them much more fruitful. Why should not the so-called laws which regulate human society—or rather the state of chronic brigandage among nations—why should not they also be changed? Is there no place in your mind for the hope of a higher future?"

"We could not go on at all," said Daniel, "if we had not the hope of establishing a new order more just and humane. Many of my comrades hope through this war to put an end to all wars. I have not that confidence, and do not go so far as that; but I do know certainly that our France is in danger, and that if she is conquered, humanity will fall with her."

"The defeat of any people is that of humanity, for we are all necessary, and the union of all nations would be the only true victory. Any other ruins the victors as well as the vanquished. Every day that this war lasts the precious blood of France is shed, and she runs great risk of permanent exhaustion."

Daniel stopped him with a gesture of irritation and pain. Oh, he knew too well … no one better than he, that France was dying each day from her heroic effort. That the pick of her youth, her strength, her intelligence, the vital sap of the race, was pouring out in torrents, and with it the wealth, the labour, the credit of the people of France. France, bleeding at every vein, would follow the path that Spain had trod four centuries ago, the path that led to the deserts of the Escurial. Yes, but let no one speak to him of a peace that would put an end to this agony until the adversary was totally crushed; no one ought to respond to the advances that Germany was then making—they ought not to be considered, or even mentioned. And then, like the politicians, the generals, the journalists, and millions of poor creatures who repeat at the top of their voices the lesson taught them, David cried: "To the last man!"

Clerambault looked at him with affectionate pity. Poor boy! brave, yet so timid that he shrank from the thought of discussing the dogmas of which he was the victim. His scientific mind dared not revolt against the stupidity of this bloody game, where death for France as well as for Germany—perhaps more than for Germany, was the stake.

Yes, he did revolt, but would not admit it to himself. He tried again to influence Clerambault: "Your ideas perhaps are right and true, but this is not the time … not now. In twenty, or even fifty years. We must first conquer, finish our task, found the freedom of the world, the brotherhood of men, on the enduring victory of France."

Poor Daniel! Can he not see that, even at the best, the victory is doomed to be tarnished by excesses, and that then it will be the turn of the vanquished to set their minds on a frantic revenge and a just victory? Each nation desires the end of wars through its own triumph, and from one such victory to another humanity will go down to its defeat.

As Daniel stood up to go he pressed Clerambault's hands and reminded him with much feeling of his poem where, in the heroic words of Beethoven, he exalted the suffering out of which joy is born…." Durch Leiden Freude." He sighed.

"Ah! how well they understand…. We sing of suffering and our deliverance, but they are enamoured of it. And now our hymn of deliverance will become a song of oppression for other men…."

Clerambault could not answer, he had a real love for this young man, one of those who sacrificed themselves for the war, knowing well that they had nothing to gain; and the greater their sacrifices, the stronger their faith. Blessings on them! But if only they would consent not to immolate all mankind on the same altar….

Rosine came in just as Clerambault and Daniel reached the door of the apartment; she started with pleasure at the sight of the visitor, and Daniel's face lighted up also. Clerambault could not help noticing the sudden gaiety of the two young people. Rosine urged Daniel to come in again for a few moments and talk to her a little; Daniel hesitated, did come back, but refused to sit down, and in a constrained way made a vague excuse for going away. Clerambault, who guessed what was passing in his daughter's heart, begged him to promise that he would come at least once more before the end of his leave. Daniel, much embarrassed, said no, at first, then yes, without fixing a time, and at last, on being urged by Clerambault, he did say when they might expect him, and took leave, but his manner was still rather cool. Rosine stood there, absorbed. She looked troubled, but when her father smiled at her, she came quickly and kissed him.

The day he had fixed came and went, but no Daniel appeared; they waited for him the next day and the one after that. He had gone back to the Front. A few days later, Clerambault persuaded his wife to go with Rosine to see Daniel's parents. The icy coldness with which they were received just stopped short of offence. Madame Clerambault came home, vowing that as long as she lived she would never set foot again in that house; it was all Rosine could do to restrain her tears.

The following week a letter arrived from Daniel to Clerambault. Though he seemed a little shamefaced about his attitude and that of his parents, he tried rather to explain, than to apologise for it. He spoke of the ties of admiration, respect and friendship which united him to Clerambault, and alluded discreetly to the hope that he had formed of one day becoming closer yet; but he added that Clerambault had disturbed these dreams of the future by the regrettable position that he had seen fit to adopt in the life and death crisis through which the country was now passing, a position rendered worse by the wide publicity given to Clerambault's words. These words, little understood perhaps, but certainly imprudent, had raised a storm of opposition on account of their almost sacrilegious character; the feeling of indignation was unanimous among the men at the front, as well as in the circle of friends at home. His parents knew what his hope had been, but they now absolutely refused to allow it, and in spite of the pain this caused him, he did not feel it right to disregard these scruples, springing as they did from a profound devotion to the wounded country. An officer who had the honour to offer his life for France could not think of a union which would be regarded as his adhesion to these unfortunate theories; public opinion would condemn it. Such a view would be unjust, undoubtedly, but it is a thing that must always be reckoned with; the opinion of a whole people is respectable, no matter how extreme and unfair it may appear, and Clerambault had made a grave mistake in trying to brave it. Daniel entreated him to acknowledge this mistake, and try to rectify, if possible efface, the deplorable effect produced by articles written in a different key. He urged this upon him as a duty—towards his country and himself—letting it be understood that it was also a duty towards one dear to both of them. In ending his letter he brought forward other considerations where the word opinion constantly recurred, so as at last to take the place of reason and conscience.

As Clerambault read he smiled, recalling a scene of Spitteler's. The king Epimetheus was a man of firm conscience, but when the time came to put it to the proof, he could not lay his hand upon it, saw it trying to escape, ran after it, and finally threw himself flat on his stomach to look for it under the bed. Clerambault reflected that one might be a hero under the fire of the enemy, but a timid small boy before the opinion of his fellow-citizens.

He showed the letter to Rosine, and in spite of the partiality of love, she was hurt that her friend should have wished to do violence to her father's convictions. Her conclusion was that Daniel did not love her enough; and she said that her own feeling was not sufficiently strong to endure such exactions; even if Clerambault had been willing to yield, she would not have consented to such an injustice; whereupon she kissed her father, tried to laugh bravely, and to forget her cruel disappointment.

A glimpse of happiness, however, is not so easily forgotten, especially if there remains a faint chance of its renewal. She thought of it constantly, and after a time Clerambault felt that she was growing away from him. It is difficult not to feel bitterly towards those for whom we sacrifice ourselves, and in spite of herself Rosine held her father responsible for her lost happiness.

A strange phenomenon now made itself apparent in Clerambault's mind; he was cast down but strengthened at the same time. He suffered because he had spoken, and yet he felt that he should speak again, for he had ceased to belong to himself. His written word held and constrained him; he was bound by his thought as soon as it was published. "That which the fountain sends forth returns again to the fountain." Born in an hour of mental exaltation, his work prolonged and reproduced itself in his mind, which would otherwise have fallen exhausted. An artist's thought is the ray of light from the depths, the best of himself, the most enduring; it supports his lower nature. Man, whether he likes it or not, leans on his works and is led by them. They have an existence outside of his own, and so restore his lost vigour, recall him to his duty, guide and command him. Clerambault would have preferred to remain silent, but he wrote once more.

This time he did not go very far. "Tremble, poor carcass, you know where I am going to drag you," said Turenne to his body before the battle. The carcass of Clerambault was not more courageous, though the conflict to which it was driven was of a humbler sort. It was none the less hard, for he was alone with no army at his back. As he watched by his arms, he was a pitiable spectacle in his own eyes. He saw himself, an ordinary man, of a timid, rather cowardly, disposition, depending greatly on the affection and approval of others. It was terribly painful to break these ties, to meet the hatred of others halfway…. Was he strong enough to resist?… All his doubts came back upon him…. What forced him to speak? Who would listen to him, and what good would it do? Did not the wisest people set him the example of silence?

Nevertheless his brain was firm, and continued to dictate to him what he should write; his hand also wrote it down without the alteration of a word. There seemed to be two men in him; one who threw himself on the ground in terror, and cried: "I will not fight," and the other who dragged him along by the collar, without trying to persuade him, saying simply: "Yes, you will."

It would be praising him too highly to say that he acted in this manner through bravery; he felt that he could not act otherwise, even if he had wished to stop; something forced him to go on, to speak…. It was his "mission." He did not understand it, did not know why he was chosen, he, the poet of tenderness, made for a calm, peaceful life, free from sacrifices; while other men—strong, war-like, good fighters with the souls of athletes—remained unemployed. But it was of no use to dispute it; the word had gone forth, and there was nothing for it but to obey.

When the stronger of his two souls had once asserted itself, the duality of his nature led him to yield to it entirely. A more normal man would have tried to unite them, or combine them, or find some kind of compromise to satisfy the demands of the one and the prudence of the other; but with Clerambault it was everything or nothing. Whether he liked it or not, once he had chosen his road, he followed it straight before him; and the same causes that had made him accept absolutely the views of those around him, drove him to cast off every consideration now that he had begun to see the falsehoods which had deceived him. If he had been less misted, he would not have unmasked them.

Thus the brave-man-in-spite-of-himself set off like Oedipus for the fight with the Sphinx, Country, who awaited him at the crossroads.

Bertin's attack drew the attention of several politicians to Clerambault; they belonged to the extreme Left, and found it difficult to conciliate the opposition to the Government—their reason for existence—with the Sacred Union formed against the enemies' invasion.

They republished the first two articles in a socialist paper which was then balancing itself between contradictions; opposing the war, and at the same time voting for credits. You could see in its pages eloquent statements of internationalism side by side with the appeals of ministers who were preaching a nationalist policy. In this seesaw Clerambault's lightly lyrical pages, where the attack on the idea of Country was made with caution, and the criticism covered up by devotion, would have been taken as a harmless platonic protestation. Unfortunately, the teeth of censure had fastened themselves upon some phrases, with the tenacity of ants; they might have escaped notice in the general distraction of thought, if it had not been for this.

In the article addressed "To Her whom We have Loved," the word country appears the first time coupled with an invocation to love. The critics kept this, but cut it out when it occurred further on dissociated from such flattering expressions. The word, awkwardly concealed under this extinguisher, shone all the more brightly in the mind of the reader—but this they were too dull to perceive, and great importance was thus given to writings which had not much in themselves. It must be added that all minds were then in a passive state, in which the slightest word of liberal humanitarianism took on an extraordinary importance, particularly if signed by a well-known name.

The "Pardon Asked of the Dead," was more effective than the other ever could be; its sadness touched the mass of simple hearts, to whom the war was agony. The authorities had been indifferent up to now, but at the first hint of this they tried to put a stop to it. They had sense enough to know that rigorous measures against Clerambault would be a mistake, but they could put pressure on the paper through influence behind the scenes. An opposition to the writer showed itself on the staff of the paper. Naturally they did not blame the internationalism of his views; they merely stigmatised it as bourgeois sentimentality.

Clerambault furnished them with fresh arguments by a new article, where his aversion to war seemed incidentally to condemn revolution as well. Poets are proverbially bad politicians.

It was a reply to "The Appeal to the Dead," that Barrès, like an owl perched on a cypress in a graveyard, had wailed forth.