his entire race; better still they denied his past. The tiniest
academician worked furiously to diminish the glory of the great men
asleep in the peace of the grave.

Clerambault listened and listened, absorbed, though he was one of the
few French poets who before the war had European relations and whose
work would have been appreciated in Germany. He spoke no foreign
language, it is true; petted old child of France that he was, who
would not take the trouble to visit other people, sure that they would
come to him. But at least he welcomed them kindly, his mind was free
from national prejudices, and the intuitions of his heart made up for
his lack of instruction and caused him to pour out without stint his
admiration for foreign genius. But now that he had been warned to
distrust everything, by the constant: "Keep still,--take care," and
knew that Kant led straight to Krupp, he dared admire nothing without
official sanction. The sympathetic modesty that caused him in times
of peace to accept with the respect due to words of Holy Writ the
publications of learned and distinguished men, now in the war took on
the proportions of a fabulous credulity. He swallowed without a gulp
the strange discoveries made at this time by the intellectuals of his
country, treading under foot the art, the intelligence, the science
of the enemy throughout the centuries; an effort frantically
disingenuous, which denied all genius to our adversary, and either
found in its highest claims to glory the mark of its present infamy
or rejected its achievements altogether and bestowed them on another
race.

Clerambault was overwhelmed, beside himself, but (though he did not
admit it), in his heart he was glad.