Moreau, however, had not forgotten it; he was all the more bitter in repudiating this class, whose shirt of Nessus still clung to his skin, and it made him extremely violent.
He now began to display singularly aggressive sentiments towards Clerambault; during a discussion he would interrupt him rudely, with a kind of sarcastic and bitter irritation. It almost seemed as if he meant to wound him.
Clerambault did not take offence; he rather felt great pity for Moreau; he knew what he suffered, and he could imagine the bitterness of a young life spoiled like his. Patience and resignation, the moral nourishment on which stomachs fifty years old subsist, were not suited to his youth.
One evening Moreau had shown himself particularly disagreeable, and yet he persisted in walking home with Clerambault, as if he could not make up his mind to leave him. He walked along by his side, silent and frowning. All at once Clerambault stopped, and putting his hand through Moreau’s arm with a friendly gesture said with a smile:
“It’s all wrong, isn’t it, old fellow?”
Moreau was somewhat taken aback, but he pulled himself together and asked drily what made anyone think that things were “all wrong.”
“I thought so because you were so cross tonight,” said Clerambault good naturally, and in answer to a protesting murmur. “Yes, you certainly were trying to hurt me—just a little … I know of course that you would not really—but when a man like you tries to inflict pain on others it is because he is suffering himself … isn’t that true?”
“Yes, it is true,” said Moreau, “you must forgive me, but it hurts me when I see that you are not in sympathy with our action.”
“And are you?” demanded Clerambault. Moreau did not seem to understand. “You yourself,” repeated Clerambault, “do you believe in it?”
“Of course I do! What a question!” said Moreau indignantly.
“I doubt it,” said Clerambault gently. Moreau seemed to be on the point of losing his temper, but in a moment he said more quietly: “You are mistaken.” Clerambault turned to walk on. “All right,” said he, “you know your own thoughts better than I do.”
For some minutes they continued in silence; then Moreau seized his old friend’s arm, and said excitedly:
“How did you know it?”—and his resistance having broken down, he confessed the despair hidden under his aggressive determination to believe and act. He was eaten up with pessimism, a natural consequence of his excessive idealism which had been so cruelly disappointed. The religious souls of former times were tranquil enough; they placed the kingdom of God so far away that no event could touch it; but those of today have established it on earth, by the work of human love and reason, so that when life deals a blow at their dream all life seems horrible to them. There were days when Moreau was tempted to cut his throat! Humanity seemed made of rotteness; he saw with despair the defeats, failures, flaws carved on the destiny of the race from the very beginning—the worm in the bud—and he could not endure the idea of this absurd and tragic fate, which man can never escape. Like Clerambault, he recognized the poison which is in the intelligence, since he had it in his veins, but unlike his elder, who had passed the crisis and only saw danger in the irregularity of thought and not in its essence, Moreau was maddened by the idea that the poison was a necessary part of intelligence. His diseased imagination tortured him by all sorts of bugbears; thought appeared to him as a sickness, setting an indelible mark on the human race; and he pictured to himself in advance all the cataclysms to which it led. Already, thought he, we behold reason staggering with pride before the forces that science has put at her disposal—demons of nature, obedient to the magical formulas of chemistry and distracted by this suddenly-acquired power, turning to self-destruction.
Nevertheless Moreau was too young to remain in the grip of these terrors. He wanted action at any price, anything sooner than to be left alone with them. Why not urge him to act, instead of trying to hold him back?
“My dear boy,” said Clerambault, “it is not right to urge another man to a dangerous act, unless you are ready to share it. I have no use for agitators, even if they are sincere, who send others to the stake and do not set the example of martyrdom themselves. There is but one truly sacred type of revolutionary, the Crucified; but very few men are made for the aureole of the cross. The trouble is that we always assign duties to ourselves which are superhuman or inhuman. It is not good for the ordinary man to strive after the ‘Uebermenschheit,’ and it can only prove to him a source of useless suffering; but each man can aspire to shed light, order, peace, and kindness around him in his little circle; and that should be happiness enough.”
“Not quite enough for me,” said Moreau. “Doubt
