The Forerunners Part 1

The Forerunners.

by Romain Rolland.

INTRODUCTION

This book is a sequel to _Above the Battle_. It consists of a number of articles written and published in Switzerland between the end of 1915 and the beginning of 1919. As collective t.i.tle for the work, I have chosen "The Forerunners," for nearly all the essays relate to the dauntless few who, the world over, amid the tempests of war and universal reaction, have been able to keep their thoughts free, their international faith inviolate. The future will reverence the names of these great harbingers, who have been flouted, reviled, threatened, found guilty, and imprisoned. I speak of such as Bertrand Russell, E. D.

Morel, Maxim Gorki, G. F. Nicolai, Auguste Forel, Andreas Latzko, Henri Barbusse, Stefan Zweig, and the choice spirits of France, America, and Switzerland, who have fought for freedom.

To these essays I have prefixed an ode, "Ara Pacis," written during the first days of the war. It is an act of faith in Peace and Concord.

Another act of faith will comprise the final chapter. This time it will be faith in action; the faith which, in the face of the brute force of states and of tyrannical opinion, proclaims the invincible independence of Thought.

I was half inclined to add to this collection a meditation upon _Empedocles of Agrigentum and the Reign of Hatred_.[1] But it was somewhat too long, and its inclusion would have impaired the symmetry of the volume.

In republis.h.i.+ng the articles, I have not kept to a strictly chronological order. It appeared preferable to group them in accordance with the nature of their contents or under the guidance of artistic considerations. But at the close of each essay I have mentioned the date of original publication, and, wherever possible, the date of composition.

A few more words of explanation will help the reader to understand my general design.

_Above the Battle_ and _The Forerunners_ are no more than a part of my writings on the war, writings composed during the last five years. The volumes contain those essays only which I have published in Switzerland.

Even so, the collection is far from complete, for I have not been able to gather together all these writings. Moreover, the most important materials at my disposal, as to scope and permanent value, are a register made day by day of the letters, the confidences, the moral confessions, which I have uninterruptedly received throughout these years from the free spirits and the persecuted of all nations. Here, likewise, as soberly as possible, I have recorded my own thoughts and my own part in the struggle. Unus ex multis. The register is, as it were, a picture of the untrammelled souls of the world wrestling with the unchained forces of fanaticism, violence, and falsehood. A long time must doubtless elapse before it will be judicious to publish this record. Enough that the doc.u.ments in question, of which several copies have been made, will serve in times to come as a witness of our efforts, our sufferings, our unconquerable faith.

ROMAIN ROLLAND.

PARIS, _June, 1919._

THE FORERUNNERS

I

ARA PACIS

De profundis clamans, out of the abyss of all the hates, To thee, Divine Peace, will I lift up my song.

The din of the armies shall not drown it.

Imperturbable, I behold the rising flood incarnadine, Which bears the beauteous body of mutilated Europe, And I hear the raging wind which stirs the souls of men.

Though I stand alone, I shall be faithful to thee.

I shall not take my place at the sacrilegious communion of blood.

I shall not eat my share of the Son of Man.

I am brother to all, and I love you all, Men, ephemerals who rob yourselves of your one brief day.

Above the laurels of glory and above the oaks, May there spring from my heart upon the Holy Mount, The olive tree, with the sunlight in its boughs, where the cicadas sing.

Sublime Peace who holdest, Beneath thy sovran sway, The turmoil of the world, And who, from out the hurtling of the waves, Makest the rhythm of the seas;

Cathedral established Upon the perfect balance of opposing forces; Dazzling rose-window, Where the blood of the sun Gushes forth in diapered sheaves of flame Which the harmonising eye of the artist has bound together;

Like to a huge bird Which soars in the zenith, Sheltering the plain beneath its wings, Thy flight embraces, Beyond what is, that which has been and will be.

Thou art sister to joy and sister to sorrow, Youngest and wisest of sisters; Thou holdest them both by the hand.

Thus art thou like a limpid channel linking two rivers, A channel wherein the skies are mirrored betwixt two rows of pale poplars.

Thou art the divine messenger, Pa.s.sing to and fro like the swallow From bank to bank, Uniting them.

To some saying, "Weep not, joy will come again"; To others, "Be not over-confident, happiness is fleeting."

Thy shapely arms tenderly enfold Thy froward children, And thou smilest, gazing on them As they bite thy swelling breast.

Thou joinest the hands and the hearts Of those who, while seeking one another, flee one another; And thou subjectest to the yoke the unruly bulls, So that instead of wasting In fights the pa.s.sion which makes their flanks to smoke, Thou turnest this pa.s.sion to account for ploughing in the womb of the land The furrow long and deep where the seed will germinate.

Thou art the faithful helpmate Who welcomest the weary wrestlers on their return.

Victors or vanquished, they have an equal share of thy love.

For the prize of battle Is not a strip of land Which one day the fat of the victor Will nourish, mingled with that of his foe.

The prize is, to have been the tool of Destiny, And not to have bent in her hand.

O my Peace who smilest, thy soft eyes filled with tears, Summer rainbow, sunny evening, Who, with thy golden fingers, Fondlest the besprinkled fields, Carest for the fallen fruits, And healest the wounds Of the trees which the wind and the hail have bruised;

Shed on us thy healing balm, and lull our sorrows to sleep!

They will pa.s.s, and we also.

Thou alone endurest for ever.

Brothers, let us unite; and you, too, forces within me, Which clash one upon another in my riven heart!

Join hands and dance along!

We move forward calmly and without haste, For Time is not our quarry.

Time is on our side.

With the osiers of the ages my Peace weaves her nest.

I am like the cricket who chirps in the fields.

A storm bursts, rain falls in torrents, drowning The furrows and the chirping.

But as soon as the flurry is over, The little musician, undaunted, resumes his song.

In like manner, having heard, in the smoking east, on the devastated earth, The thunderous charge of the Four Hors.e.m.e.n, Whose gallop rings still from the distance, I uplift my head and resume my song, Puny, but obstinate.

Written August 15 to 25, 1914.[2]

"Journal de Geneve" and "Neue Zurcher Zeitung,"

December 24 and 25, 1915; "Les Tablettes,"