“What a hideous dream.”

“That is an affair of temperament.  Wisdom liberates.  To the Hindoos, Buddha is the deliverer.  As for me, curiosity is a sufficient reward.”

“It would not be enough for me, and I cannot content myself either with the wisdom of a selfish Buddha, who sets himself free by deserting the rest.  I know the Hindoos as you do, and I love them, but even among them, Buddha has not said the last word of wisdom.  Do you remember that Bodhisattva, the Master of Pity, who swore not to become Buddha, never to find freedom in Nirvana, until he had cured all pain, redeemed all crimes, consoled all sorrows?”

Perrotin smiled and patted Clerambault’s hand affectionately as he looked at his troubled face.

“Dear old Bodhisattva,” he said, “what do you want to do?  And whom would you save?”

“Oh, I know well enough,” said Clerambault, hanging his head.  “I know how small I am, how little I can do, the weakness of my wishes and protestations.  Do not think me so vain; but how can I help it, if I feel it is my duty to speak?”

“Your duty is to do what is right and reasonable; not to sacrifice yourself in vain.”

“Do you certainly know what is in vain?  Can you tell beforehand which seed will germinate and which will turn out sterile and perish?  But you sow seed nevertheless.  What progress would ever have been made, if those who bore the germ of it had stopped terrified before the enormous mass of accumulated routine which hung ready to crush them, above their heads.”

“I admit that a scholar is bound to defend the Truth that he has discovered, but is this social question your mission?  You are a poet; keep to your dreams, and may they prove a defence to you!”

“Before considering myself as a poet, I consider myself as a man, and every honest man has a mission.”

“A mind like yours is too precious and valuable to be sacrificed, it would be murder.”

“Yes, you are willing to sacrifice people who have little to lose.”  He was silent for a moment, and then went on: 

“Perrotin, I have often thought that we, men of thought, artists, all of us, we do not live up to our obligations.  Not only now, but for a long time, perhaps always.  We are custodians of the portion of Truth that is in us, a little light, which we have prudently kept for ourselves.  More than once this has troubled me, but I shut my eyes to it then; now they have been unsealed by suffering.  We are the privileged ones, and that lays duties upon us which we have not fulfilled; we are afraid of compromising ourselves.  There is an aristocracy of the mind, which claims to succeed to that of blood; but it forgets that the privileges of the old order were first purchased with blood.  For ages mankind has listened to words of wisdom, but it is rare to see the wise men offer themselves as a sacrifice, though it would do no harm if the world should see some of them stake their lives