The god of all these powers was
force; no matter what they were called, empires, or republics, it was
the mailed fist, disguised, gloved but hard and sure of itself. It
became also, like a rising tide, the law of the oppressed, a dark
struggle between two contrary pressures. Where the metal had worn
thin--in Russia first--the boiler had burst. Where there were cracks
in the cover--as in neutral countries--the hissing steam escaped,
but a deceitful calm reigned over the countries at war, kept down by
oppression. To the oppressors this calm was reassuring; they were
armed equally against the enemy or their own citizens. The machine of
war is double-ended, the cover strong, made of the best steel, and
firmly screwed down; that, at least, cannot be torn off--no, but
suppose the whole thing blows up together!
Repressed, like everyone else, Clerambault saw rebellion gathering
around him. He understood it, thought it inevitable; but that was not
a reason for loving it. He did not believe in the _Amor Fati_. It was
enough to understand; the tyrant has no claim to be loved.
Clerambault's young friends were not sparing of their ideas, and it
surprised them to see how little warmth he showed towards the new idol
from the North: the rule of the proletariat.
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