He spoke of them politely but with a deep
half-concealed contempt, and a touch of personal bitterness; for in
spite of his prudence, the less intelligent of his colleagues looked
on him with suspicion; he was too clever. He said he was like an old
blind man's dog in a pack of barking curs; forced to do as they did
and bark at the passers-by.
Clerambault did not quarrel with him, but went away with pity in his
heart.
He stayed in the house for several days, for this first contact with
the outside world had depressed him, and the friend on whom he had
relied for guidance had failed him miserably. He was much troubled,
for Clerambault was weak and unused to stand alone. Poet as he was,
and absolutely sincere, he had never felt it necessary to think
independently of others; he had let himself be carried along by
their thought, making it his own, becoming its inspired voice and
mouth-piece. Now all was suddenly changed. Notwithstanding that night
of crisis, his doubts returned upon him; for after fifty a man's
nature cannot be transformed at a touch, no matter how much the mind
may have retained the elasticity of youth. The light of a revelation
does not always shine, like the sun in a clear summer sky, but is more
like an arc-light, which often winks and goes out before the current
becomes strong.
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