ade 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 worl