Part 17 (1/2)
”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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sign 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 would creep in; it must be all or nothing.”
”I know. Your revolution would leave no place for doubt. Your hearts are hard and burning; your brains like geometric patterns. Everything or nothing. No shading! But what would life be without it? It is its greatest charm and its chief merit as well; fragile beauty and goodness, weakness everywhere. We must offer love and help; day by day, and step by step. The world is not transformed by force, or by a miracle, in the twinkling of an eye; but second by second it moves forward in infinity and the humblest who feels it partakes of infinity. Patience, and let us not think that one wrong effaced will save humanity; it will only make one day bright, but other days and more light will come; each will bring its sun. You would not wish to stay its course?”
”We have not the time to wait for all this,” said Moreau. ”Every day brings us frightful problems which must be decided on the spot. If we are not to be the masters, then we shall be victims; ... we, do I say?
Not ourselves alone, we are already victimised, but all that is dear to us, all that holds us to life, hope in the future, the salvation of humanity. See the things that press upon us, the agonising questions as to those who will come after us, and those who have children. This war is not yet over, and it is only too evident that its crimes and falsehoods have sown the seeds of new wars, near at hand. Why do we have children? For what do they grow up? To be butchered like this?
Look where you will, there is no answer. Are we to leave these crazy countries, this old continent, and emigrate? But where? Are their fifty acres of ground on the globe where independent honest people can take refuge? We must be on one side or the other; you see well enough that we have to choose between patriotism and revolution. If not, what remains? Non-resistance? Is that what you would have? But there is nothing in that unless you have religious faith; otherwise it is only the resignation of the lamb led to the slaughter. Unfortunately, the greater number decide on nothing, prefer not to think, turn their eyes away from the future, blinded by the hope that what they have seen and suffered will not recur. That is why we must decide for them, whether they want it or not, make them quicken their step, save them in spite of themselves. Revolution means a few men who will for all humanity.”
”I do not think that I should like it,” said Clerambault, ”if another decided for me. And on the other hand, I should not want to usurp another man's will; I should prefer to leave each one free, and not interfere with the liberty of others. But I know that I am asking too much.”
”Only what is impossible,” said Moreau. ”When you begin to will, you cannot stop halfway. There are just two sorts of men, those who have too great will-power--like Lenine, and a couple of dozen men in the whole course of history--and those who have too little, who can decide nothing, like us, me, if you like. It is clear enough, despair is all that drives me to will anything....”
”Why despair?” said Clerambault. ”A man's fate is made every day by himself, and none knows what it will be; it is what we are. If you are cast down, so also is your fate.”
”We shall never have strength enough,” answered Moreau sadly. ”Don't you believe that I see what infinitely small chances of success a revolution would have now in our country, under present conditions?
Think of all the destruction, the economic losses, the demoralisation, the fatal la.s.situde caused by the war.” And he added: ”It was not true what I told you the first time we met, about all my comrades feeling as I did, rebelling against the suffering. Gillot told you there are only a few of us, and the others are good fellows for the most part but weak as water! They can see how things are, clearly enough, but sooner than run their heads against a wall they would rather not think about it, or pa.s.s it off with a joke. We French are always ready to laugh, it is our treasure and our ruin. It is a fine thing, but what a hold it gives to our oppressors. 'Let them sing as long as they are willing to pay,' as the Italian said. 'Let us laugh, so long as we are ready to die.' ... we might say. And then this terrible force of habit, that Gillot was talking about. A man will get used to no matter what ridiculous or painful conditions, provided they last long enough, and that he has company. He becomes habituated to cold, to heat, to death, and to crime. His whole force for resistance is used in adapting himself; and then he curls up in his corner and does not dare to stir, for fear that any change will bring back the pain. We are all so terribly tired! When the soldiers come back, they will have only one thought--to sleep and forget.”
”How about the excitable Lagneau, who talks about blowing everything to pieces?”
”I have known Lagneau since the beginning of the war, and he has been in succession, royalist, ”revanchard,” annexationist, internationalist, socialist, anarchist, bolshevist, and I-don't-give-a d.a.m.nist. He will finish as a reactionary, and will be sent to make food for cannon against the enemy that our government will pick out among our adversaries or our friends of today. Do you suppose that the people are of our way of thinking? Perhaps, or they may agree with the others. They will take up all opinions one after the other.”
”You are a revolutionary then because you are discouraged?” said Clerambault, laughing.
”There are plenty like that among us.”
”Gillot came out of the war more optimistic than he went in.”