trouble, but he did raise it into an atmosphere where it could be borne.
"If you only knew how we crave a word of real sympathy; it is all very well to be hardened, or old,--there are grey-haired, bent men among us--but after what we have seen, suffered, and done to others, there are times when we are like lost children, looking for their mother to console them. Even our mothers seem far away. At times we get strange letters from home, as if we were deserted by our own flesh and blood."
Clerambault hid his face in his hands with a groan.
"What is the matter?" said Moreau, "are you ill?"
"You remind me of all the harm that I did."
"You? No, it was other people that did the harm."
"Yes, I, as much as the others. You must try to forgive us all."
"You are the last who ought to say so."
"If the truth were known, I should be among the first. For I am one of the few who see clearly how wicked I was." He began to inveigh against his generation, but broke off with a discouraged gesture:
"None of that does any good.... Tell me about yourself."
His voice was so humble that Moreau was really touched to see the older man blame himself so severely. All his distrust melted away, and he threw wide the door of his bitter, wounded spirit, confessing that he had come several times as far as the house, but could not make up his mind to leave his letter. He never did consent to show it. Since he came out of the hospital he had not been able to talk to anyone; these people back here sickened him with their little preoccupations, their business, their pleasures, the restrictions to their pleasures, their selfishness, their ignorance and lack of comprehension. He felt like a stranger among them, more than if he were with African
