Clerambault | Page 4

not
victors but vanquished; the collective soul made breaches in their ivory
tower, the feeble personalities of these thinkers yielded, and to hide
their abdication from themselves, they declared it voluntary. In the
effort to convince themselves, philosophers and aesthetics forged
theories to prove that the great directing principle was to abandon
oneself to the stream of a united life instead of directing it, or more
modestly following one's own little path in peace. It was a matter of
pride to be no longer oneself, to be no longer free to reason, for
freedom was an old story in these democracies. One gloried to be a
bubble tossed on the flood,--some said of the race and others of the
universal life. These fine theories, from which men of talent managed
to extract receipts for art and thought, were in full flower in 1914. The
heart of the simple Clerambault rejoiced in such visions, for nothing
could have harmonised better with his warm heart and inaccurate mind.
If one has but little self-possession it is easy to give oneself up to others,
to the world, to that indefinable Providential Force on whose shoulders
we can throw the burden of thought and will. The great current swept
on and these indolent souls, instead of pursuing their way along the
bank found it easier to let themselves be carried ...Where? No one took
the trouble to ask. Safe in their West, it never occurred to them that
their civilisation could lose the advantages gained; the march of
progress seemed as inevitable as the rotation of the earth. Firm in this
conviction, one could fold one's arms and leave all to nature; who
meanwhile was waiting for them at the bottom of the pit that she was

digging.
As became a good idealist, Clerambault rarely looked where he was
going, but that did not prevent him from meddling in politics in a
fumbling sort of way, as was the mania of men of letters in his day. He
had his word to say, right or wrong, and was often entreated to speak
by journalists in need of copy, and fell into their trap, taking himself
seriously in his innocent way. On the whole he was a fair poet and a
good man, intelligent, if rather a greenhorn, pure of heart and weak in
character, sensitive to praise and blame, and to all the suggestions
round him. He was incapable of a mean sentiment of envy or hatred,
and unable also to attribute such thoughts to others. Amid the
complexity of human feelings, he remained blind towards evil and an
advocate of the good. This type of writer is born to please the public,
for he does not see faults in men, and enhances their small merits, so
that even those who see through him are grateful. If we cannot amount
to much, a good appearance is a consolation, and we love to be
reflected in eyes which lend beauty to our mediocrity.
This widespread sympathy, which delighted Clerambault, was not less
sweet to the three who surrounded him at this moment. They were as
proud of him as if they had made him, for what one admires does seem
in a sense one's own creation, and when in addition one is of the same
blood, a part of the object of our admiration, it is hard to tell if we
spring from him, or he from us.
Agénor Clerambault's wife and his two children gazed at their great
man with the tender satisfied expression of ownership; and he, tall and
high-shouldered, towered over them with his glowing words and
enjoyed it all; he knew very well that we really belong to the things that
we fancy are our possessions.

Clerambault had just finished with a Schilleresque vision of the
fraternal joys promised in the future. Maxime, carried away by his
enthusiasm in spite of his sense of humour, had given the orator a
round of applause all by himself. Pauline noisily asked if Agénor had

not heated himself in speaking, and amid the excitement Rosine silently
pressed her lips to her father's hand.
The servant brought in the mail and the evening papers, but no one was
in a hurry to read them. The news of the day seemed behind the times
compared with the dazzling future. Maxime however took up the
popular middle-class sheet, and threw his eye over the columns. He
started at the latest items and exclaimed; "Hullo! War is declared." No
one listened to him: Clerambault was dreaming over the last vibrations
of his verses; Rosine lost in a calm ecstasy; the mother alone, who
could not fix her mind on anything, buzzing about like a fly, chanced to
catch the last word,--"Maxime, how can you be so silly?" she cried,