Those artists who sincerely profess their religious respect for all
that lives, are less capable than anyone else of understanding the
passions of war. The Calvilles had held themselves outside the
struggle; they did not protest, they accepted it, without acquiescing,
as one accepts sickness, death, or the wickedness of men, with a
dignified sadness.
When Clerambault read them his burning poems they listened politely
and made little response--but strangely enough, at the very time that
Clerambault, cured of his warlike illusions, turned to them, he found
that they had changed places with him. The death of their son had
produced on them the opposite effect. And now they were awkwardly
taking part in the conflict, as if to replace their lost boy. They
snuffed up eagerly all the stench in the papers, and Clerambault found
them actually rejoicing, in their misery, over the assertion that the
United States was prepared to fight for twenty years.
"What would become of France, of Europe, in twenty years?" he tried
to say, but they hastily put this thought away from them with much
irritation, almost as if it were improper to mention, or even to think
of such a thing.
The question was to conquer; at what price? That could be settled
afterwards.--Conquer? Suppose there were no more conquerors left in
France? Never mind, so long as the others are beaten.
Pages:
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107