“Gillot came out of the war more optimistic than he went in.”
“Gillot is the forgetful sort, but I don’t envy him that,” said Moreau bitterly.
“But you ought not to upset him,” said Clerambault. “Gillot needs all the help you can give him.”
“Help from me?” said Moreau incredulously.
“He is not naturally strong, and if you would make him so, you must let him see that you believe in him.”
“Do you think belief comes by willing to have it?”
“You know whether that is true! No, I think, is the answer. Belief comes through love.”
“By love of those who believe?”
“Is it not always through love, and only in that way, that we learn to trust?”
Moreau was touched; he had been a clever youth, eaten up by the craving for knowledge, and like the rest of his class, he had suffered for lack of brotherly affection. True human intercourse is banished from the education of today, but this vital sentiment, hitherto repressed, had revived in the trenches, filled with living, suffering flesh thrown together. At first it was hard to let oneself go; the general hardening, the fear of sentimentality or of ridicule, tended to put barriers between hearts; but when Moreau was laid up, his sheath of pride began to give way, and Clerambault had little difficulty in breaking through it. The best thing about this man was that false pride melted before him, for he had none of his own; people showed to him as he to them their real selves, their weakness and their troubles, which we are taught to hide from a silly idea of self-respect. Moreau had unconsciously learned to recognise at the front the superiority of men who were his social inferiors, brother-soldiers or “Noncoms.” Among these he had been much drawn to Gillot. He was glad that Clerambault should have appealed to him on behalf of his friend, for his secret wish always was to be of some use to another man.
At the next opportunity Clerambault whispered to Gillot that he ought to be optimistic for two, and cheer Moreau up; and thus each found help in the need of helping the other, according to the great principle of life: “Give, and it shall be given unto you.”
No matter in what time one lives, nor what misfortunes overtake one, all is not lost as long as there remains in the heart of the race a spark of manly friendship. Blow it into a flame! Draw closer these cold solitary hearts! If only one of the fruits of this war of nations could be the fusion of the best among all classes, the union of the youth of many countries—of the manual labourers and the thinkers—the future would be reborn through their mutual aid.
But if unity is not one wanting to dominate the other, neither is it that one prefers to be dominated. But this was precisely, however, what these young revolutionaries thought, and insisted upon, with a curious sort of self-will. They snubbed Clerambault, on the principle that intelligence should be at the service of the proletariat … “Dienen, dienen …” which was the last word even of the proud Wagner. More than one lofty spirit brought low has said the same; if they could not rule supreme, they would serve.
Clerambault reflected: “The rarest thing is to find honest people who want to be simply my equals; but if we must choose, tyranny for tyranny, I prefer that which held the bodies of Aesop and Epictetus in slavery but left their minds free, to that which promises only material liberty and enslaves the soul.”
This intolerance made him feel that he could never attach himself to any party, no matter what it was. Between the two sides, war or revolution, he could frankly state his preference for one, revolution. For it alone offered some hope for the future, which the war could only destroy. But to prefer a party does not mean that you yield to it all independence of thought. It is the error and abuse of democracies that they wish that all should have the same duties, and impose the same tasks on all; but in an advancing community there are multiple tasks. While the main body fights to gain an immediate advantage in progress, there are others who should maintain eternal values far above the victors of tomorrow or yesterday and which are beyond all the rest and throw light on the way above the smoke of battle. Clerambault had allowed himself to be too long blinded by this smoke; he could not plunge into a fresh fight; but in this shortsighted world it is an impropriety, almost a fault to see more clearly than your neighbours.
This sardonic truth was brought home to him in a discussion with these young St. Justs. They pointed out his mistakes, impertinently enough, by comparing him to the “Astrologer who fell into the Pit”:
… “They said, poor creature, if your eye
What lies beneath can hardly spy,
Think you your gaze can pierce the sky?”
He had enough sense of humour to see the justice of the comparison; yes, he was of the number of:
“Those whom phantoms alarm
While some serious harm
Threatens them or their farm.”
“Even so,” he said, “do you think that your republic will have no need of astronomers, just as the first one could get along without chemists? Or are they all to be mobilised? In that case there would be a good chance of your all finding yourselves together at the bottom of the well! Is that what you want? I should not object so much if it were only a question of sharing your fate, but when it comes to joining in your hatreds!”
“You have some of your own, from what I have heard,” said one of the young men. Just at this moment another man came in with a newspaper in his hand and called to Clerambault:
“Congratulations, old boy, I see your enemy Bertin is dead.”
The irascible journalist had
