made of rotteness; he saw with despair the defeats, failures, flaws carved on the destiny of the race from the very beginning—­the worm in the bud—­and he could not endure the idea of this absurd and tragic fate, which man can never escape.  Like Clerambault, he recognized the poison which is in the intelligence, since he had it in his veins, but unlike his elder, who had passed the crisis and only saw danger in the irregularity of thought and not in its essence, Moreau was maddened by the idea that the poison was a necessary part of intelligence.  His diseased imagination tortured him by all sorts of bugbears; thought appeared to him as a sickness, setting an indelible mark on the human race; and he pictured to himself in advance all the cataclysms to which it led.  Already, thought he, we behold reason staggering with pride before the forces that science has put at her disposal—­demons of nature, obedient to the magical formulas of chemistry and distracted by this suddenly-acquired power, turning to self-destruction.

Nevertheless Moreau was too young to remain in the grip of these terrors.  He wanted action at any price, anything sooner than to be left alone with them.  Why not urge him to act, instead of trying to hold him back?

“My dear boy,” said Clerambault, “it is not right to urge another man to a dangerous act, unless you are ready to share it.  I have no use for agitators, even if they are sincere, who send others to the stake and do not set the example of martyrdom themselves.  There is but one truly sacred type of revolutionary, the Crucified; but very few men are made for the aureole of the cross.  The trouble is that we always assign duties to ourselves which are superhuman or inhuman.  It is not good for the ordinary man to strive after the “Uebermenschheit,” and it can only prove to him a source of useless suffering; but each man can aspire to shed light, order, peace, and kindness around him in his little circle; and that should be happiness enough.”

“Not quite enough for me,” said Moreau.  “Doubt would creep in; it must be all or nothing.”

“I know.  Your revolution would leave no place for doubt.  Your hearts are hard and burning; your brains like geometric patterns.  Everything or nothing.  No shading!  But what would life be without it?  It is its greatest charm and its chief merit as well; fragile beauty and goodness, weakness everywhere.  We must offer love and help; day by day, and step by step.  The world is not transformed by force, or by a miracle, in the twinkling of an eye; but second by second it moves forward in infinity and the humblest who feels it partakes of infinity.  Patience, and let us not think that one wrong effaced will save humanity; it will only make one day bright, but other days and more light will come; each will bring its sun.  You would not wish to stay its course?”