There seemed to be two men in him; one who threw himself on
the ground in terror, and cried: "I will not fight," and the other
who dragged him along by the collar, without trying to persuade him,
saying simply: "Yes, you will."
It would be praising him too highly to say that he acted in this
manner through bravery; he felt that he could not act otherwise, even
if he had wished to stop; something forced him to go on, to speak....
It was his "mission." He did not understand it, did not know why he
was chosen, he, the poet of tenderness, made for a calm, peaceful
life, free from sacrifices; while other men--strong, war-like, good
fighters with the souls of athletes--remained unemployed. But it
was of no use to dispute it; the word had gone forth, and there was
nothing for it but to obey.
When the stronger of his two souls had once asserted itself, the
duality of his nature led him to yield to it entirely. A more normal
man would have tried to unite them, or combine them, or find some kind
of compromise to satisfy the demands of the one and the prudence of
the other; but with Clerambault it was everything or nothing. Whether
he liked it or not, once he had chosen his road, he followed it
straight before him; and the same causes that had made him accept
absolutely the views of those around him, drove him to cast off every
consideration now that he had begun to see the falsehoods which had
deceived him.
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