"Forgive us, ye Dead," the dialogue of the country with its children, is
published. At first no one heeds the pamphlet. But after a time it
arouses public animosity. A storm of indignation bursts upon
Clerambault, threatening to lay his life in ruins. Friends forsake him.
Envy, which had long been crouching for a spring, now sends whole
regiments to the attack. Ambitious colleagues seize the opportunity of
proclaiming their patriotism in contrast with his deplorable sentiments.
Worst of all for Clerambault in that his innocent wife and daughter
have to suffer on his account. They do not upbraid him, but he feels as
if he had aimed a shaft against them. He who has hitherto sunned himself
in the warmth of family life and has enjoyed the comforts of modest
fame, is now absolutely alone.
Nevertheless he continues on his course, although these stations of the
cross become harder and harder. Rolland shows how Clerambault finds new
friends, only to discover that they too fail to understand him. How his
words are mutilated, his ideas misapplied. How he is overwhelmed to
learn that his fellows, those whom he wishes to help, have no desire for
truth, but are nourished by falsehood; that they are continually in
search, not of freedom, but of some new form of slavery. (In these
wonderful passages the reader is again and again reminded of
Dostoievsky's Grand Inquisitor.) He perseveres in his pilgrimage even
when he has lost faith in his power to help his fellow men, for this is
no longer his goal. He passes men by, marching onward towards the
unseen, towards truth; his love for truth exposing him ever more
pitilessly to the hatred of men. By degrees he becomes entangled in a
net of calumnies; his troubles develop into a "Clerambault affair"; at
length a prosecution is initiated. The state has recognized its enemy in
the free man. But while the case is still in progress, the "defeatist"
meets his fate from the pistol bullet of a fanatic. Clerambault's end
recalls the opening of the world catastrophe with the assassination of
Jaurès.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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