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.
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