Is not this the first law,
the first of joys? Brothers of the world, which of you envies the
others or would deprive them of this just happiness? What have we to
do with the ambitions and rivalries, covetousness, and ills of the
mind, which they dignify with the name of Patriotism? Our Country
means you, Fathers and Sons. All our sons.--Come and save them_!
Clerambault asked no one's advice but as soon as he had written these
pages he took them to the editor of a small socialist paper nearby. He
came back much relieved, as he thought:
"That is off my mind. I have spoken out, at last." But in the
following night, a weight on his heart told him that the burden was
still there, heavier than ever. He roused himself.
"What have I done?"
He felt that he had been almost immodest to show his sacred sorrow to
the public; and though he did not foresee the anger his article would
provoke, he knew the lack of comprehension, the coarse comments, which
are in themselves a profanation.
Days passed, and nothing happened. Silence. The appeal had fallen on
the ear of an inattentive public, the publisher was little known, the
pamphlet carelessly issued. There are none so deaf as those who will
not hear, and the few readers who were attracted by Clerambault's
name, merely glanced at the first lines, and threw it aside, thinking:
"The poor man's head has been turned by his sorrow,"--a good pretext
for not wishing to upset their own balance.
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