An artist's thought is the ray of light from the depths,
the best of himself, the most enduring; it supports his lower nature.
Man, whether he likes it or not, leans on his works and is led by
them. They have an existence outside of his own, and so restore
his lost vigour, recall him to his duty, guide and command him.
Clerambault would have preferred to remain silent, but he wrote once
more.
This time he did not go very far. "Tremble, poor carcass, you know
where I am going to drag you," said Turenne to his body before the
battle. The carcass of Clerambault was not more courageous, though the
conflict to which it was driven was of a humbler sort. It was none the
less hard, for he was alone with no army at his back. As he watched by
his arms, he was a pitiable spectacle in his own eyes. He saw himself,
an ordinary man, of a timid, rather cowardly, disposition, depending
greatly on the affection and approval of others. It was terribly
painful to break these ties, to meet the hatred of others halfway....
Was he strong enough to resist?... All his doubts came back upon
him.... What forced him to speak? Who would listen to him, and what
good would it do? Did not the wisest people set him the example of
silence?
Nevertheless his brain was firm, and continued to dictate to him what
he should write; his hand also wrote it down without the alteration of
a word.
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