diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 7967-8.txt | 19997 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 7967-8.zip | bin | 0 -> 425519 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 |
5 files changed, 20013 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/7967-8.txt b/7967-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a1fee7e --- /dev/null +++ b/7967-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,19997 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Jean-Christophe Journey's End, by Romain Rolland + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Jean-Christophe Journey's End + +Author: Romain Rolland + +Release Date: April, 2005 [EBook #7967] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on June 7, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-Latin-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEAN-CHRISTOPHE JOURNEY'S END *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + +JEAN-CHRISTOPHE +JOURNEY'S END + +LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP +THE BURNING BUSH +THE NEW DAWN + +BY +ROMAIN ROLLAND + +Translated by +GILBERT CANNAN + +WITH PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR + + + + +CONTENTS + + +LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP + +THE BURNING BUSH + +THE NEW DAWN + + + + +LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP + +I + + +In spite of the success which was beginning to materialize outside +France, the two friends found their financial position very slow in +mending. Every now and then there recurred moments of penury when they +were obliged to go without food. They made up for it by eating twice as +much as they needed when they had money. But, on the whole, it was a +trying existence. + +For the time being they were in the period of the lean kine. Christophe +had stayed up half the night to finish a dull piece of musical +transcription for Hecht: he did not get to bed until dawn, and slept +like a log to make up for lost time. Olivier had gone out early: he had +a lecture to give at the other end of Paris. About eight o'clock the +porter came with the letters, and rang the bell. As a rule he did not +wait for them to come, but just slipped the letters under the door. This +morning he went on knocking. Only half awake, Christophe went to the +door growling: he paid no attention to what the smiling, loquacious +porter was saying about an article in the paper, but just took the +letters without looking at them, pushed the door to without closing it, +went to bed, and was soon fast asleep once more. + +An hour later he woke up with a start on hearing some one in his room: +and he was amazed to see a strange face at the foot of his bed, a +complete stranger bowing gravely to him. It was a journalist, who, +finding the door open, had entered without ceremony. Christophe was +furious, and jumped out of bed: + +"What the devil are you doing here?" he shouted. + +He grabbed his pillow to hurl it at the intruder, who skipped back. He +explained himself. A reporter of the Nation wished to interview M. +Krafft about the article which had appeared in the _Grand Journal_. + +"What article?" + +"Haven't you read it?" + +The reporter began to tell him what it was about. + +Christophe went to bed again. If he had not been so sleepy he would have +kicked the fellow out: but it was less trouble to let him talk. He +curled himself up in the bed, closed his eyes, and pretended to be +asleep. And very soon he would really have been off, but the reporter +stuck to his guns, and in a loud voice read the beginning of the +article. At the very first words Christophe pricked up his ears. M. +Krafft was referred to as the greatest musical genius of the age. +Christophe forgot that he was pretending to be asleep, swore in +astonishment, sat up in bed, and said: + +"They are mad! Who has been pulling their legs?" + +The reporter seized the opportunity, and stopped reading to ply +Christophe with a series of questions, which he answered unthinkingly. +He had picked up the paper, and was gazing in utter amazement at his own +portrait, which was printed as large as life on the front page: but he +had no time to read the article, for another journalist entered the +room. This time Christophe was really angry. He told them to get out: +but they did not comply until they had made hurried notes of the +furniture in the room, and the photographs on the wall, and the features +of the strange being who, between laughter and anger, thrust them out of +the room, and, in his nightgown, took them to the door and bolted it +after them. + +But it was ordained that he should not be left in peace that day. He had +not finished dressing when there came another knock at the door, a +prearranged knock which was only known to a few of their friends. +Christophe opened the door, and found himself face to face with yet +another stranger, whom he was just about to dismiss in a summary +fashion, when the man protested that he was the author of the +article.... How are you to get rid of a man who regards you as a genius! +Christophe had grumpily to submit to his admirer's effusions. He was +amazed at the sudden notoriety which had come like a bolt from the blue, +and he wondered if, without knowing it, he had had a masterpiece +produced the evening before. But he had no time to find out. The +journalist had come to drag him, whether he liked it or not, there and +then, to the offices of the paper where the editor, the great Arsène +Gamache himself, wished to see him: the car was waiting downstairs. +Christophe tried to get out of it: but, in spite of himself, he was so +naïvely responsive to the journalist's friendly protestations that in +the end he gave way. + +Ten minutes later he was introduced to a potentate in whose presence all +men trembled. He was a sturdy little man, about fifty, short and stout, +with a big round head, gray hair brushed up, a red face, a masterful way +of speaking, a thick, affected accent, and every now and then he would +break out into a choppy sort of volubility. He had forced himself on +Paris by his enormous self-confidence. A business man, with a knowledge +of men, naïve and deep, passionate, full of himself, he identified his +business with the business of France, and even with the affairs of +humanity. His own interests, the prosperity of his paper, and the +_salus publica_, all seemed to him to be of equal importance and to +be narrowly associated. He had no doubt that any man who wronged him, +wronged France also: and to crush an adversary, he would in perfectly +good faith have overthrown the Government. However, he was by no means +incapable of generosity. He was an idealist of the after-dinner order, +and loved to be a sort of God Almighty, and to lift some poor devil or +other out of the mire, by way of demonstrating the greatness of his +power, whereby he could make something out of nothing, make and unmake +Ministers, and, if he had cared to, make and unmake Kings. His sphere +was the universe. He would make men of genius, too, if it so pleased +him. + +That day he had just "made" Christophe. + + * * * * * + +It was Olivier who in all innocence had belled the cat. + +Olivier, who could do nothing to advance his own interests, and had a +horror of notoriety, and avoided journalists like the plague, took quite +another view of these things where his friend was in question. He was +like those loving mothers, the right-living women of the middle-class, +those irreproachable wives, who would sell themselves to procure any +advantage for their rascally young sons. + +Writing for the reviews, and finding himself in touch with a number of +critics and dilettanti, Olivier never let slip an opportunity of talking +about Christophe: and for some time past he had been surprised to find +that they listened to him. He could feel a sort of current of curiosity, +a mysterious rumor flying about literary and polite circles. What was +its origin? Were there echoes of newspaper opinion, following on the +recent performances of Christophe's work in England and Germany? It +seemed impossible to trace it to any definite source. It was one of +those frequent phenomena of those men who sniff the air of Paris, and +can tell the day before, more exactly than the meteorological +observatory of the tower of Saint-Jacques, what wind is blowing up for +the morrow, and what it will bring with it. In that great city of +nerves, through which electric vibrations pass, there are invisible +currents of fame, a latent celebrity which precedes the actuality, the +vague gossip of the drawing-rooms, the _nescio quid majus nascitur +Iliade_, which, at a given moment, bursts out in a puffing article, +the blare of the trumpet which drives the name of the new idol into the +thickest heads. Sometimes that trumpet-blast alienates the first and +best friends of the man whose glory it proclaims. And yet they are +responsible for it. + +So Olivier had a share in the article in the _Grand Journal_. He +had taken advantage of the interest displayed in Christophe, and had +carefully stoked it up with adroitly worded information. He had been +careful not to bring Christophe directly into touch with the +journalists, for he was afraid of an outburst. But at the request of the +_Grand Journal_ he had slyly introduced Christophe to a reporter in +a café without his having any suspicion. All these precautions only +pricked curiosity, and made Christophe more interesting. Olivier had +never had anything to do with publicity before: he had not stopped to +consider that he was setting in motion a machine which, once it got +going, it was impossible to direct or control. + +He was in despair when, on his way to his lecture, he read the article +in the _Grand Journal_. He had not foreseen such a calamity. Above +all, he had not expected it to come so soon. He had reckoned on the +paper waiting to make sure and verify its facts before it published +anything. He was too naïve. If a newspaper takes the trouble to discover +a new celebrity, it is, of course, for its own sake, so that its rivals +may not have the honor of the discovery. It must lose no time, even if +it means knowing nothing whatever about the person in question. But an +author very rarely complains: if he is admired, he has quite as much +understanding as he wants. + +The _Grand Journal_, after setting out a few ridiculous stories +about Christophe's struggles, representing him as a victim of German +despotism, an apostle of liberty, forced to fly from Imperial Germany +and take refuge in France, the home and shelter of free men,--(a fine +pretext for a Chauvinesque tirade!)--plunged into lumbering praise of +his genius, of which it knew nothing,--nothing except a few tame +melodies, dating from Christophe's early days in Germany, which +Christophe, who was ashamed of them, would have liked to have seen +destroyed. But if the author of the article knew nothing at all about +Christophe's work, he made up for it in his knowledge of his plans--or +rather such plans as he invented for him. A few words let fall by +Christophe or Olivier, or even by Goujart, who pretended to be +well-informed, had been enough for him to construct a fanciful +Jean-Christophe, "a Republican genius,--the great musician of +democracy." He seized the opportunity to decry various contemporary +French musicians, especially the most original and independent among +them, who set very little store by democracy. He only excepted one or +two composers, whose electoral opinions were excellent in his eyes. It +was annoying that their music was not better. But that was a detail. And +besides, his eulogy of these men, and even his praise of Christophe, was +of not nearly so much account as his criticism of the rest. In Paris, +when you read an article eulogizing a man's work, it is always as well +to ask yourself: + +"Whom is he decrying?" + +Olivier went hot with shame as he read the paper, and said to himself: + +"A fine thing I've done!" + +He could hardly get through his lecture. As soon as he had finished he +hurried home. What was his consternation to find that Christophe had +already gone out with the journalists! He delayed lunch for him. +Christophe did not return. Hours passed, and Olivier grew more and more +anxious and thought: + +"What a lot of foolish things they will make him say!" + +About three o'clock Christophe came home quite lively. He had had lunch +with Arsène Gamache, and his head was a little muzzy with the champagne +he had drunk. He could not understand Olivier's anxiety, who asked him +in fear and trembling what he had said and done. + +"What have I been doing? I've had a splendid lunch. I haven't had such a +good feed for a long time." + +He began to recount the menu. + +"And wine.... I had wine of every color." + +Olivier interrupted him to ask who was there. + +"Who was there?... I don't know. There was Gamache, a little round man, +true as gold: Clodomir, the writer of the article, a charming fellow: +three or four journalists whom I didn't know, very jolly, all very nice +and charming to me--the cream of good fellows." + +Olivier did not seem to be convinced. Christophe was astonished at his +small enthusiasm. + +"Haven't you read the article?" + +"Yes. I have. Have you read it?" + +"Yes.... That is to say, I just glanced at it. I haven't had time." + +"Well: read it." + +Christophe took it up. At the first words he spluttered. + +"Oh! The idiot!" he said. + +He roared with laughter. + +"Bah!" he went on. "These critics are all alike. They know nothing at +all about it." + +But as he read farther he began to lose his temper: it was too stupid, +it made him look ridiculous. What did they mean by calling him "a +Republican musician"; it did not mean anything.... Well, let the fib +pass.... But when they set his "Republican" art against the "sacristy +art" of the masters who had preceded him,--(he whose soul was nourished +by the souls of those great men),--it was too much.... + +"The swine! They're trying to make me out an idiot!..." + +And then, what was the sense of using him as a cudgel to thwack talented +French musicians, whom he loved more or less,--(though rather less than +more),--though they knew their trade, and honored it? And--worst of +all--with an incredible want of tact he was credited with odious +sentiments about his country!... No, that, that was beyond +endurance.... + +"I shall write and tell them so," said Christophe. + +Olivier intervened. + +"No, no," he said, "not now! You are too excited. Tomorrow, when you are +cooler...." + +Christophe stuck to it. When he had anything to say he could not wait +until the morrow. He promised Olivier to show him his letter. The +precaution was useful. The letter was duly revised, so as to be confined +practically to the rectification of the opinions about Germany with +which he had been credited, and then Christophe ran and posted it. + +"Well," he said, when he returned, "that will save half the harm being +done: the letter will appear to-morrow." + +Olivier shook his head doubtfully. He was still thoughtful, and he +looked Christophe straight in the face, and said: + +"Christophe, did you say anything imprudent at lunch?" + +"Oh no," said Christophe with a laugh. + +"Sure?" + +"Yes, you coward." + +Olivier was somewhat reassured. But Christophe was not. He had just +remembered that he had talked volubly and unguardedly. He had been quite +at his ease at once. It had never for a moment occurred to him to +distrust any of them: they seemed so cordial, so well-disposed towards +him! As, in fact, they were. We are always well-disposed to people when +we have done them a good turn, and Christophe was so frankly delighted +with it all that his joy infected them. His affectionate easy manners, +his jovial sallies, his enormous appetite, and the celerity with which +the various liquors vanished down his throat without making him turn a +hair, were by no means displeasing to Arsène Gamache, who was himself a +sturdy trencherman, coarse, boorish, and sanguine, and very contemptuous +of people who had ill-health, and those who dared not eat and drink, and +all the sickly Parisians. He judged a man by his prowess at table. He +appreciated Christophe. There and then he proposed to produce his +_Gargantua_ as an opera at the Opéra.--(The very summit of art was reached +for these bourgeois French people in the production on the stage +of the _Damnation of Faust_, or the _Nine Symphonies_.)--Christophe, who +burst out laughing at the grotesqueness of the idea, had great difficulty +in preventing him from telephoning his orders to the directors of the +Opéra, or the Minister of Fine Arts.--(If Gamache were to be believed, all +these important people were apparently at his beck and call.)--And, the +proposal reminding him of the strange transmutation which had taken place +in his symphonic poem, _David_, he went so far as to tell the story of the +performance organized by Deputy Roussin to introduce his mistress to the +public. Gamache, who did not like Roussin, was delighted: and Christophe, +spurred on by the generous wines and the sympathy of his hearers, plunged +into other stories, more or less indiscreet, the point of which was not +lost on those present. Christophe was the only one to forget them when the +party broke up. And now, on Olivier's question, they rushed back to his +memory. He felt a little shiver run down his spine. For he did not deceive +himself: he had enough experience to know what would happen: now that he +was sober again he saw it as clearly as though it had actually happened: +his indiscretions would be twisted and distorted, and scattered broadcast +as malicious blabbing, his artistic sallies would be turned into weapons +of war. As for his letter correcting the article, he knew as well as +Olivier how much that would avail him: it is a waste of ink to answer a +journalist, for he always has the last word. + +Everything happened exactly to the letter as Christophe had foreseen it +would. His indiscretions were published, his letter was not. Gamache +only went so far as to write to him that he recognized the generosity of +his feelings, and that his scruples were an honor to him: but he kept +his scruples dark: and the falsified opinions attributed to Christophe +went on being circulated, provoking biting criticism in the Parisian +papers, and later in Germany, where much indignation was felt that a +German artist should express himself with so little dignity about his +country. + +Christophe thought he would be clever, and take advantage of an +interview by the reporter of another paper to protest his love for the +_Deutsches Reich_, where, he said, people were at least as free as +in the French Republic.--He was speaking to the representative of a +Conservative paper, who at once credited him with anti-Republican views. + +"Better and better!" said Christophe. "But what on earth has my music to +do with politics?" + +"It is usual with us," said Olivier. "Look at the battles that have +taken place over Beethoven. Some people will have it that he was a +Jacobin, others a mountebank, others still a Père Duchesne, and others a +prince's lackey." + +"He'd knock their heads together." + +"Well, do the same." + +Christophe only wished he could. But he was too amiable with people who +were friendly towards him. Olivier never felt happy when he left him +alone. For they were always coming to interview him: and it was no use +Christophe promising to be guarded: he could not help being confidential +and unreserved. He said everything that came into his head. Women +journalists would come and make a fuss of him, and get him to talk about +his sentimental adventures. Others would make use of him to speak ill of +such-an-one, or so-and-so. When Olivier came in he would find Christophe +utterly downcast. + +"Another howler?" he would ask. + +"Of course," Christophe would reply in despair. + +"You are incorrigible!" + +"I ought to be locked up.... But I swear that it is the last time." + +"Yes, I know. Until the next...." + +"No. This really is the last." + +Next day Christophe said triumphantly to Olivier: + +"Another one came to-day. I shut the door in his face." + +"Don't go too far," said Olivier. "Be careful with them. 'This animal is +dangerous.' He will attack you if you defend yourself.... It is so easy +for them to avenge themselves! They can twist the least little thing you +may have said to their uses." + +Christophe drew his hand across his forehead: + +"Oh! Good Lord!" + +"What's the matter?" + +"When I shut the door in his face I told...." + +"What?" + +"The Emperor's joke." + +"The Emperor's?" + +"Yes. His or one of his people's...." + +"How awful! You'll see it to-morrow on the front page!" + +Christophe shuddered. But, next day, what he saw was a description of +his room, which the journalist had not seen, and a report of a +conversation which he had not had with him. + +The facts were more and more embellished the farther they spread. In the +foreign papers they were garnished out of all recognition. Certain +French articles having told how in his poverty he had transposed music +for the guitar, Christophe learned from an English newspaper that he had +played the guitar in the streets. He did not only read eulogies. Far +from it. It was enough for Christophe to have been taken up by the +_Grand Journal_, for him to be taken to task by the other papers. +They could not as a matter of dignity allow the possibility of a rival's +discovering a genius whom they had ignored. Some of them were rabid +about it. Others commiserated Christophe on his ill-luck. Goujart, +annoyed at having the ground cut away from under his feet, wrote an +article, as he said, to set people right on certain points. He wrote +familiarly of his old friend Christophe, to whom, when he first came to +Paris, he had been guide and comforter: he was certainly a highly gifted +musician, but--(he was at liberty to say so, since they were +friends)--very deficient in many ways, ill-educated, unoriginal, and +inordinately vain; so absurdly to flatter his vanity, as had been done, +was to serve him but ill at a time when he stood in need of a mentor who +should be wise, learned, judicious, benevolent, and severe, etc.--(a +fancy portrait of Goujart).--The musicians made bitter fun of it all. +They affected a lofty contempt for an artist who had the newspapers at +his back: and, pretending to be disgusted with the _vulgum pecus_, +they refused the presents of Artaxerxes, which were not offered them. +Some of them abused Christophe: others overwhelmed him with their +commiseration. Some of them--(his colleagues)--laid the blame on +Olivier.--They were only too glad to pay him out for his intolerance and +his way of holding aloof from them,--rather, if the truth were known, +from a desire for solitude than from scorn of any of them. But men are +least apt to pardon those who show that they can do without them.--Some +of them almost went so far as to hint that he had made money by the +articles in the _Grand Journal_. There were others who took upon +themselves to defend Christophe against him: they appeared to be +broken-hearted at Olivier's callousness in dragging a sensitive artist, +a dreamer, ill-equipped for the battle of life,--Christophe,--into the +turmoil of the market-place, where he could not but be ruined: for they +regarded Christophe as a little boy not strong enough in the head to be +allowed to go out alone. The future of this man, they said, was being +ruined, for, even if he were not a genius, such good intentions and such +tremendous industry deserved a better fate, and he was being intoxicated +with incense of an inferior brand. It was a great pity. Why could they +not leave him in his obscurity to go on working patiently for years? + +Olivier might have had the answer pat: + +"A man must eat to work. Who will give him his bread?" + +But that would not have abashed them. They would have replied with their +magnificent serenity: + +"That is a detail. An artist must suffer. And what does a little +suffering matter?" + +Of course, they were men of the world, quite well off, who professed +these Stoic theories. As the millionaire once said to the simple person +who came and asked him to help a poverty-stricken artist: + +"But, sir, Mozart died of poverty." + +They would have thought it very bad taste on Olivier's part if he had +told them that Mozart would have asked nothing better than to go on +living, and that Christophe was determined to do so. + + * * * * * + +Christophe was getting heartily sick of the vulgar tittle-tattle. He +began to wonder if it were going on forever.--But it was all over in a +fortnight. The newspapers gave up talking about him. However, he had +become known. When his name was mentioned, people said, not: + +"The author of _David_ or _Gargantua_," but: + +"Oh yes! The _Grand Journal_ man!..." + +He was famous. + +Olivier knew it by the number of letters that came for Christophe, and +even for himself, in his reflected glory: offers from librettists, +proposals from concert-agents, declarations of friendship from men who +had formerly been his enemies, invitations from women. His opinion was +asked, for newspaper inquiries, about anything and everything: the +depopulation of France, idealist art, women's corsets, the nude on the +stage,--and did he believe that Germany was decadent, or that music had +reached its end, etc., etc. They used to laugh at them all. But, though +he laughed, lo and behold! Christophe, that Huron, steadily accepted the +invitations to dinner! Olivier could not believe his eyes. + +"You?" he said. + +"I! Certainly," replied Christophe jeeringly. "You thought you were the +only man who could go and see the beautiful ladies? Not at all, my boy! +It's my turn now. I want to amuse myself!" + +"You? Amuse yourself? My dear old man!" + +The truth was that Christophe had for so long lived shut up in his own +room that he felt a sudden longing to get away from it. Besides, he took +a naïve delight in tasting his new fame. He was terribly bored at +parties, and thought the people idiotic. But when he came home he used +to take a malicious pleasure in telling Olivier how much he had enjoyed +himself. He would go to people's houses once, but never again: he would +invent the wildest excuses, with a frightful want of tact, to get out of +their renewed invitations. Olivier would be scandalized, and Christophe +would shout with laughter. He did not go to their houses to spread his +fame, but to replenish his store of life, his collection of expressions +and tones of voice--all the material of form, and sound, and color, with +which an artist has periodically to enrich his palette. A musician does +not feed only on music. An inflection of the human voice, the rhythm of +a gesture, the harmony of a smile, contain more suggestion of music for +him that another man's symphony. But it must be said that the music of +faces and human souls is as stale and lacking in variety in polite +society as the music of polite musicians. Each has a manner and becomes +set in it. The smile of a pretty woman is as stereotyped in its studied +grace as a Parisian melody. The men are even more insipid than the +women. Under the debilitating influence of society, their energy is +blunted, their original characters rot away and finally disappear with a +frightful rapidity. Christophe was struck by the number of dead and +dying men he met among the artists: there was one young musician, full +of life and genius, whom success had dulled, stupefied, and wiped out of +existence: he thought of nothing but swallowing down the flattery in +which he was smothered, enjoying himself, and sleeping. What he would be +like twenty years later was shown in another corner of the room, in the +person of an old pomaded _maestro_, who was rich, famous, a member +of all the Academies, at the very height of his career, and, though +apparently he had nothing to fear and no more wires to pull, groveled +before everything and everybody, and was fearful of opinion, power, and +the Press, dared not say what he thought, and thought nothing at all--a +man who had ceased to exist, showing himself off, an ass saddled with +the relics of his own past life. + +Behind all these artists and men of intellect who had been great, or +might have been great, there was certain to be some woman preying upon +them. They were all dangerous, both the fools and those who were by no +means fools: both those who loved and those who loved themselves: the +best of them were the worst: for they were all the more certain to snuff +out the artist with their immoderate affection, which made them in all +good faith try to domesticate genius, turn it to their own uses, drag it +down, prune it, pare it down, scent it, until they had brought it into +line with their sensibility, their petty vanity, their mediocrity, and +the mediocrity of the world they lived in. + +Although Christophe only passed through that section of society, he saw +enough of it to feel its danger. More than one woman, of course, tried +to take possession of him for her circle, to press him into her service: +and, of course, Christophe nibbled at the hook baited with friendly +words and alluring smiles. But for his sturdy common sense and the +disquieting spectacle of the transformations already effected in the men +about them by these modern Circes, he would not have escaped +uncontaminated. But he had no mind to swell the herd of these lovely +goose-girls. The danger would have been greater for him if there had not +been so many of them angling for him. Now that everybody, men and women, +were properly convinced that they had a genius in their midst, as usual, +they set to work to stifle him. Such people, when they see a flower, +have only one idea: to put it in a pot,--a bird: to put it in a cage,-- +a free man: to turn him into a smooth lackey. + +Christophe was shaken for a moment, pulled himself together, and sent +them all packing. + +Fate is ironical. Those who do not care slip through the meshes of the +net: but those who are suspicious, those who are prudent, and +forewarned, are never suffered to escape. It was not Christophe who was +caught in the net of Paris, but Olivier. + +He had benefited by his friend's success: Christophe's fame had given +him a reflected glory. He was better known now, for having been +mentioned in a few papers as the man who had discovered Christophe, than +for anything he had written during the last six years. He was included +in many of the invitations that came for Christophe: and he went with +him, meaning carefully and discreetly to look after him. No doubt he was +too much absorbed in doing so to look after himself. Love passed by and +caught him. + +She was a little fair girl, charmingly slender, with soft hair waving in +little ripples about her pure narrow forehead: she had fine eyebrows and +rather heavy eyelids, eyes of a periwinkle blue, a delicately carved +nose with sensitive nostrils; her temples were slightly hollowed: she +had a capricious chin, and a mobile, witty, and rather sensual mouth, +turning up at the corners, and the _Parmigianninesque_ smile of a +pure faun. She had a long, delicate throat, a pretty waist, a slender, +elegant figure, and a happy, pensive expression in her girlish face, in +every line of which there was the disturbing poetic mystery of the +waking spring,--_Frühlingserwachen_. Her name was Jacqueline Langeais. + +She was not twenty. She came of a rich Catholic family, of great +distinction and broad-mindedness. Her father was a clever engineer, a +man of some invention, clear-headed and open to new ideas, who had made +a fortune, thanks to his own hard work, his political connections, and +his marriage. He had married both for love and money--(the proper +marriage for love for such people)--a pretty woman, very Parisian, who +was bred in the world of finance. The money had stayed: but love had +gone. However, he had managed to preserve a few sparks of it, for it had +been very ardent on both sides: but they did not stickle for any +exaggerated notion of fidelity. They went their ways and had their +pleasures: and they got on very well together, as friends, selfishly, +unscrupulously, warily. + +Their daughter was a bond between them, though she was the object of an +unspoken rivalry between them: for they both loved her jealously. They +both saw themselves in her with their pet faults idealized by the grace +of childhood: and each strove cunningly to steal her from the other. And +the child had in due course become conscious of it, with the artful +candor of such little creatures, who are only too ready to believe that +the universe gravitates round themselves: and she turned it to good +account. She had them perpetually outbidding each other for her +affection. She never had a whim but she was sure that one of them would +indulge it if the other refused: and the other would be so vexed at +being outdone that she would at once be offered an even greater +indulgence than the first. She had been dreadfully spoiled: and it was +very fortunate for her that there was no evil in her nature,--outside +the egoism common to almost all children, though in children who are too +rich and too much pampered it assumes various morbid shapes, due to the +absence of difficulties and the want of any goal to aim at. + +Though they adored her, neither M. nor Madame Langeais ever thought of +sacrificing their own personal convenience to her. They used to leave +the child alone, for the greater part of the day, to gratify her +thousand and one fancies. She had plenty of time for dreaming, and she +wasted none of it. She was precocious and quick to grasp at incautious +remarks let fall in her presence--(for her parents were never very +guarded in what they said),--and when she was six years old she used to +tell her dolls love-stories, the characters in which were husband, wife, +and lover. It goes without saying that she saw no harm in it. Directly +she began to perceive a shade of feeling underlying the words it was all +over for the dolls: she kept her stories to herself. There was in her a +strain of innocent sensuality, which rang out in the distance like the +sound of invisible bells, over there, over there, on the other side of +the horizon. She did not know what it was. Sometimes it would come +wafted on the wind: it came she did not know from whence, and wrapped +her round and made the blood mount to her cheeks, and she would lose her +breath in the fear and pleasure of it. She could not understand it. And +then it would disappear as strangely as it had come. There was never +another sound. Hardly more than a faint buzzing, an imperceptible +resonance, fainter and fainter, in the blue air. Only she knew that it +was yonder, on the other side of the mountain, and thither she must go, +go as soon as possible: for there lay happiness. Ah! If only she could +reach it!... + +In the meanwhile, until she should reach that land of happiness, she +wove strange dreams of what she would find there. For the chief +occupation of the child's mind was guessing at its nature. She had a +friend of her own age, Simone Adam, with whom she used often to discuss +these great subjects. Each brought to bear on them the light of her +twelve years' experience, conversations overheard and stolen reading. On +tip-toe, clinging to the crannies in the stones, the two little girls +strained to peer over the old wall which hid the future from them. But +it was all in vain, and it was idle for them to pretend that they could +see through the chinks: they could see nothing at all. They were both a +mixture of innocence, poetic salaciousness, and Parisian irony. They +used to say the most outrageous things without knowing it, and they were +always making mountains out of molehills. Jacqueline, who was always +prying, without anybody to find fault with her, used to burrow in all +her father's books. Fortunately, she was protected from coming to any +harm by her very innocence and her own young, healthy instincts: an +unduly described scene or a coarse word disgusted her at once: she would +drop the book at once, and she passed through the most infamous company, +like a frightened cat through puddles of dirty water,--without so much +as a splash. + +As a rule, novels did not attract her: they were too precise, too dry. +But books of poetry used to make her heart flutter with emotion and hope +of finding the key to the riddle,--love-poems, of course. They coincided +to a certain extent with her childish outlook on things. The poets did +not see things as they were, they imagined them through the prism of +desire or regret: they seemed, like herself, to be peering through the +chinks of the old wall. But they knew much more, they knew all the +things which she was longing to know, and clothed them with sweet, +mysterious words, which she had to unravel with infinite care to find +... to find ... Ah! She could find nothing, but she was always sure that +she was on the very brink of finding it.... + +Their curiosity was indomitable. They would thrill as they whispered +verses of Alfred de Musset and Sully Prudhomme, into which they read +abyss on abyss of perversity: they used to copy them out, and ask each +other about the hidden meanings of passages, which generally contained +none. These little women of thirteen, who knew nothing of love, used, in +their innocent effrontery, to discuss, half in jest, half in earnest, +love and the sweets of love: and, in school, under the fatherly eye of +the master--a very polite and mild old gentleman--verses like the +following, which he confiscated one day, when they made him gasp: + + "Let, oh! let me clasp you in my arms, + And in your kisses drink insensate love + Drop by drop in one long draught...." + +They attended lectures at a fashionable and very prosperous school, the +teachers of which were Masters of Art of the University. There they +found material for their sentimental aspirations. Almost all the girls +were in love with their masters. If they were young and not too ugly, +that was quite enough for them to make havoc of their pupils' +hearts--who would work like angels to please their sultan. And they +would weep when he gave them bad marks in their examinations: though +they did not care when anybody else did the same. If he praised them, +they would blush and go pale by turns, and gaze at him coquettishly in +gratitude. And if he called them aside to give them advice or pay them a +compliment, they were in Paradise. There was no need for him to be an +eagle to win their favor. When the gymnastic instructor took Jacqueline +in his arms to lift her up to the trapeze, she would be in ecstasies. +And what furious emulation there was between them! How coaxingly and +with what humility they would make eyes at the master to attract his +attention from a presumptuous rival! At lectures, when he opened his +lips to speak, pens and pencils would be hastily produced to take down +what he said. They made no attempt to understand: the chief thing was +not to lose a syllable. And while they went on writing and writing +without ceasing, with stealthy glances to take in their idol's play of +expression and gestures, Jacqueline and Simone would whisper to each +other: + +"Do you think he would look nice in a tie with blue spots?" + +Then they had a chromo-lithographic ideal, based on romantic and +fashionable books of verses, and poetic fashion-plates,--they fell in +love with actors, virtuosi, authors, dead and alive--Mounet-Sully, +Samain, Debussy,--they would exchange glances with young men at concerts, +or in a drawing-room, or in the street, and at once begin to weave +fanciful and passionate love-affairs,--they could not help always +wanting to fall in love, to have their lives filled with a love-affair, +to find some excuse for being in love. Jacqueline and Simone used to +confide everything to each other: proof positive that they did not feel +anything much: it was the best sort of preventive to keep them from ever +having any deep feeling. On the other hand, it became a sort of chronic +illness with them: they were the first to laugh at it, but they used +lovingly to cultivate it. They excited each other. Simone was more +romantic and more cautious, and used to invent wilder stories. But +Jacqueline, being more sincere and more ardent, came nearer to realizing +them. She was twenty times on the brink of the most hopeless +folly.--However, she did not commit herself, as is the way with young +people. There are times when these poor little crazy creatures--(such as +we have all been)--are within an ace, some of suicide, others of +flinging themselves into the arms of the first man who comes along. +Only, thank God, almost all of them stop short at that. Jacqueline wrote +countless rough drafts of passionate letters to men whom she hardly knew +by sight: but she never sent any of them, except one enthusiastic +letter, unsigned, to an ugly, vulgar, selfish critic, who was as +cold-hearted as he was narrow-minded. She fell in love with him over a +few lines in which she had discovered a rare wealth of sensibility. She +was fired also by a great actor, who lived near her: whenever she passed +his door she used to say to herself: + +"Shall I go in?" +And once she made so bold as to go up to the door of his flat. When she +found herself there, she turned and fled. What could she have talked to +him about? She had nothing, nothing at all to say to him. She did not +love him. And she knew it. In the greater part of her folly she was +deceiving herself. And for the rest it was the old, old, delicious, +stupid need of being in love. As Jacqueline was naturally intelligent, +she knew that quite well, and it kept her from making a fool of herself. +A fool who knows his folly is worth two who don't. + +She went out a good deal. There were many young men who felt her charm, +and more than one of them was in love with her. She did not care what +harm she did. A pretty girl makes a cruel game of love. It seems to her +quite natural that she should be loved, and never considers that she +owes anything to those who love her: she is apt to believe that her +lover is happy enough in loving her. It must be said, by way of excuse, +that she has no idea of what love is, although she thinks of nothing +else all day long. One is inclined to think that a young girl in +society, brought up in the hot-house atmosphere of a great town, would +be more precocious than a country girl: but the opposite is the case. +Her reading and conversation have made her obsessed by love, so obsessed +that in her idle life it often borders on mania: and sometimes it +happens that she has read the play beforehand, and knows it word for +word by heart. But she never feels it. In love, as in art, it is useless +to read what others have said: we can but say what we feel: and those +who make haste to speak before they have anything to say are as likely +as not to say nothing. + +Jacqueline, like most young people, lived in an atmosphere clouded by +the dust of the feelings of others, which, while it kept her in a +perpetual fever, with her hands burning, and her throat dry, and her +eyes sore, prevented her seeing anything. She thought she knew +everything. It was not that she lacked the wish to know. She read and +listened. She had picked up a deal of information, here and there, in +scraps, from conversation and books. She even tried to read what was +written in herself. She was much better than the world in which she +lived, for she was more sincere. + +There was one woman who had a good influence--only too brief--over her. +This was a sister of her father's, a woman of between forty and fifty, +who had never married. Tall, with regular features, though sad and +lacking in beauty, Marthe Langeais was always dressed in black: she had +a sort of stiff distinction of feature and movement: she spoke very +little, and she had a deep voice, almost like a man's. But for the clear +light in her intelligent gray eyes and the kind smile on her sad lips +she would have passed unnoticed. + +She only appeared at the Langeais' on certain days, when they were +alone. Langeais had a great respect for her, though she bored him. +Madame Langeais made no attempt to disguise from her husband how little +pleasure his sister's visits gave her. However, they faced their duty, +and had her to dinner once a week, and they did not let it appear too +glaringly that they regarded it as a duty. Langeais used to talk about +himself, which she always found interesting. Madame Langeais would think +of something else, and, as a matter of habit, smile affably when she was +spoken to. The dinner always went off very well, and she was invariably +polite. Sometimes, even, she would be effusively affectionate when her +tactful sister-in-law went away earlier than she had hoped: and Madame +Langeais's charming smile would be most radiant when she had any +particularly pleasant memories to think of. Marthe saw through it all: +very little escaped her eyes: and she saw many things in her brother's +house which shocked and distressed her. But she never let it appear: +what was the good? She loved her brother, and had been proud of his +cleverness and success, like the rest of the family, who had not thought +the triumph of the eldest son too dear a price to pay for their poverty. +She, at least, had preserved her independence of opinion. She was as +clever as he was, and of a finer moral fiber, more virile--(as the women +of France so often are; they are much superior to the men),--and she knew +him through and through: and when he asked her advice she used to give +it frankly. But for a long time he had not asked it of her! He found it +more prudent not to know, or--(for he knew the truth as much as she +did),--to shut his eyes. She was proud, and drew aside. Nobody ever +troubled to look into her inward life, and it suited the others to +ignore her. She lived alone, went out very little, and had only a few +not very intimate friends. It would have been very easy to her to turn +her brother's influence and her own talents to account: but she did not +do so. She had written a few articles for the leading reviews in Paris, +historical and literary portraits, which had attracted some attention by +their sober, just, and striking style. But she had gone no farther. She +might have formed interesting friendships with certain distinguished men +and women, who had shown a desire to know her, whom also she would, +perhaps, have been glad to know. She did not respond to their advances. +Though she had a reserved seat for a theater when the program contained +music that she loved, she did not go: and though she had the opportunity +of traveling to a place where she knew that she would find much +pleasure, she preferred to stay at home. Her nature was a curious +compound of stoicism and neurasthenia, which, however, in no wise +impaired the integrity of her ideas. Her life was impaired, but not her +mind. An old sorrow, known only to herself, had left its mark on her +heart. And even more profound, even less suspected--unknown to herself, +was the secret illness which had begun to prey upon her. However, the +Langeais saw only the clear expression of her eyes, which sometimes made +them feel embarrassed. + +Jacqueline used to take hardly any notice of her aunt in the days when +she was careless and gay--which was her usual condition when she was a +child. But when she reached the age at which there occurs a mysterious +change and growth in body and soul, which bring agony, disgust, terror, +and fearful moments of depression in their train, and moments of absurd, +horrible dizziness, which, happily, do not last, though they make their +victim feel at the point of death,--the child, sinking and not daring to +cry for help, found only her Aunt Marthe standing by her side and +holding out her hand. Ah! the others were so far away! Her father and +mother were as strangers to her, with their selfish affection, too +satisfied with themselves to think of the small troubles of a doll of +fourteen! But her aunt guessed them, and comforted her. She did not say +anything. She only smiled: across the table she exchanged a kindly +glance with Jacqueline, who felt that her aunt understood her, and she +took refuge by her side. Marthe stroked Jacqueline's head and kissed +her, and spoke no word. + +The little girl trusted her. When her heart was heavy she would go and +see her friend, who would know and understand as soon as she arrived; +she would be met always with the same indulgent eyes, which would infect +her with a little of their own tranquillity. She told her aunt hardly +anything about her imaginary love-affairs: she was ashamed of them, and +felt that there was no truth in them. But she confessed all the vague, +profound uneasiness that was in her, and was more real, her only real +trouble. + +"Aunt," she would sigh sometimes, "I do so long to be happy!" + +"Poor child!" Marthe would say, with a smile. + +Jacqueline would lay her head in her aunt's lap, and kiss her hands as +they caressed her face: + +"Do you think I shall be happy? Aunt, tell me; do you think I shall be +happy?" + +"I don't know, my dear. It rather depends on yourself.... People can +always be happy if they want to be." + +Jacqueline was incredulous. + +"Are you happy?" + +Marthe smiled sadly: "Yes." + +"No? Really? Are you happy?" + +"Don't you believe it?" + +"Yes. But...." + +Jacqueline stopped short. + +"What is it?" + +"I want to be happy, but not like you." + +"Poor child! I hope so, too!" said Marthe. + +"No." Jacqueline went on shaking her head decisively. "But I couldn't +be." + +"I should not have thought it possible, either. Life teaches one to be +able to do many things." + +"Oh! But I don't want to learn," protested Jacqueline anxiously. "I want +to be happy in the way I want." + +"You would find it very hard to say how!" + +"I know quite well what I want." + +She wanted many things. But when it came to saying what they were, she +could only mention one, which recurred again and again, like a refrain: + +"First of all, I want some one to love me." +Marthe went on sewing without a word. After a moment she said: + +"What good will it be to you if you do not love?" + +Jacqueline was taken aback, and exclaimed: + +"But, aunt, of course I only mean some one I loved! All the rest don't +count." + +"And suppose you did not love anybody?" + +"The idea! One loves always, always." + +Marthe shook her head doubtfully. + +"No," she said. "We don't love. We want to love. Love is the greatest +gift of God. Pray to Him that He may grant it you." + +"But suppose my love is not returned?" + +"Even if your love is not returned, you will be all the happier." + +Jacqueline's face fell: she pouted a little: + +"I don't want that," she said. "It wouldn't give me any pleasure." + +Marthe laughed indulgently, looked at Jacqueline, sighed, and then went +on with her work. + +"Poor child!" she said once more. + +"Why do you keep on saying: 'Poor child'?" asked Jacqueline uneasily. "I +don't want to be a poor child. I want--I want so much to be happy!" + +"That is why I say: 'Poor child!'" + +Jacqueline sulked for a little. But it did not last long. Marthe laughed +at her so kindly that she was disarmed. She kissed her, pretending to be +angry. But in their hearts children of that age are secretly flattered +by predictions of suffering in later life, which is so far away. When it +is afar off there is a halo of poetry round sorrow, and we dread nothing +so much as a dull, even life. + +Jacqueline did not notice that her aunt's face was growing paler and +paler. She observed that Marthe was going out less and less, but she +attributed it to her stay-at-home disposition, about which she used +often to tease her. Once or twice, when she called, she had met the +doctor coming out. She had asked her aunt: + +"Are you ill?" + +Marthe replied: + +"It's nothing." + +But now she had even given up her weekly dinner at the Langeais'. +Jacqueline was hurt, and went and reproached her bitterly. + +"My dear," said Marthe gently, "I am rather tired." + +But Jacqueline would not listen to anything. That was a poor sort of +excuse! + +"It can't be very exhausting for you to come to our house for a couple +of hours a week! You don't love me," she would say. "You love nothing +but your own fireside." + +But when at home she proudly told them how she had scolded her aunt, +Langeais cut her short with: + +"Let your aunt be! Don't you know that the poor creature is very ill!" + +Jacqueline grew pale: and in a trembling voice she asked what was the +matter with her aunt. They tried not to tell her. Finally, she found out +that Marthe was dying of cancer: she had had it for some months. + +For some days Jacqueline lived in a state of terror. She was comforted a +little when she saw her aunt. Marthe was mercifully not suffering any +great pain. She still had her tranquil smile, which in her thin +transparent face seemed to shine like the light of an inward lamp. +Jacqueline said to herself: + +"No. It is impossible. They must be mistaken. She would not be so +calm...." + +She went on with the tale of her little confidences, to which Marthe +listened with more interest than heretofore. Only, sometimes, in the +middle of a conversation, her aunt would leave the room, without giving +any sign to show that she was in pain: and she would not return until +the attack was over, and her face had regained its serenity. She did not +like anybody to refer to her condition, and tried to hide it: she had a +horror of the disease that held her in its grip, and would not think of +it: all her efforts were directed towards preserving the peace of her +last months. The end came sooner than it was expected. Very soon she saw +nobody but Jacqueline. Then Jacqueline's visits had to be curtailed. +Then came the day of parting. Marthe was lying in her bed, which she had +not left for some weeks, when she took a tender farewell of her little +friend with a few gentle, comforting words. And then she shut herself +up, to die. + +Jacqueline passed through months of despair. Marthe's death came at the +same time as the very worst hours of her moral distress, against which +Marthe had been the only person who could help her. She was horribly +deserted and alone. She needed the support of a religion. There was +apparently no reason why she should have lacked that support: she had +always been made to practise the duties of religion: her mother +practised them regularly. But that was just the difficulty: her mother +practised them, but her Aunt Marthe did not. And how was she to avoid +comparison? The eyes of a child are susceptible to many untruths, to +which her elders never give a thought, and children notice many +weaknesses and contradictions. Jacqueline noticed that her mother and +those who said that they believed had as much fear of death as though +there had been no faith in them. No: religion was not a strong enough +support.... And in addition there were certain personal experiences, +feelings of revolt and disgust, a tactless confessor who had hurt +her.... She went on practising, but without faith, just as she paid +calls, because she had been well brought up. Religion, like the world, +seemed to her to be utterly empty. Her only stay was the memory of the +dead woman, in which she was wrapped up. She had many grounds for +self-reproach in her treatment of her aunt, whom in her childish +selfishness she had often neglected, while now she called to her in +vain. She idealized her image: and the great example which Marthe had +left upon her mind of a profound life of meditation helped to fill her +with distaste for the life of the world, in which there was no truth or +serious purpose. She saw nothing but its hypocrisy, and those amiable +compromises, which at any other time would have amused her, now revolted +her. She was in a condition of moral hypersensitiveness, and everything +hurt her: her conscience was raw. Her eyes were opened to certain facts +which hitherto had escaped her in her heedlessness. + +One afternoon she was in the drawing-room with her mother. Madame +Langeais was receiving a caller,--a fashionable painter, a good-looking, +pompous man, who was often at the house, but not on terms of intimacy. +Jacqueline had a feeling that she was in the way, but that only made her +more determined to stay. Madame Langeais was not very well; she had a +headache, which made her a little dull, or perhaps it was one of those +headache preventives which the ladies of to-day eat like sweets, so that +they have the result of completely emptying their pretty heads, and she +was not very guarded in what she said. In the course of the conversation +she thoughtlessly called her visitor: + +"My dear...." + +She noticed the slip at once. He did not flinch any more than she, and +they went on talking politely. Jacqueline, who was pouring out tea, was +so amazed that she almost dropped a cup. She had a feeling that they +were exchanging a meaning smile behind her back. She turned and +intercepted their privy looks, which were immediately disguised.--The +discovery upset her completely. Though she had been brought up with the +utmost freedom, and had often heard and herself laughed and talked about +such intrigues, it hurt her so that she could hardly bear it when she +saw that her mother.... Her mother: no, it was not the same thing!... +With her habitual exaggeration she rushed from one extreme to the +other. Till then she had suspected nothing. Thereafter she suspected +everything. Implacably she read new meanings into this and that detail +of her mother's behavior in the past. And no doubt Madame Langeais's +frivolity furnished only too many grounds for her suppositions: but +Jacqueline added to them. She longed to be more intimate with her +father, who had always been nearer to her, his quality of mind having a +great attraction for her. She longed to love him more, and to pity him. +But Langeais did not seem to stand in much need of pity: and a +suspicion, more dreadful even than the first, crossed the girl's heated +imagination,--that her father knew nothing, but that it suited him to +know nothing, and that, so long as he were allowed to go his own way, he +did not care. + +Then Jacqueline felt that she was lost. She dared not despise them. She +loved them. But she could not go on living in their house. Her +friendship with Simone Adam was no help at all. She judged severely the +foibles of her former boon companion. She did not spare herself: +everything that was ugly and mediocre in herself made her suffer +terribly: she clung desperately to the pure memory of Marthe. But that +memory was fading: she felt that the stream of time, one day following +another, would cover it up and wash away all trace of it. And then there +would be an end of everything: she would be like the rest, sunk deep in +the mire.... Oh! if she could only escape from, such a world, at any +cost! Save me! Save me!... + +It was just when she was in this fever of despair, feeling her utter +destitution, filled with passionate disgust and mystic expectancy, +holding out her arms to an unknown saviour, that she met Olivier. + +Madame Langeais, of course, invited Christophe, who, that winter, was +the musician of the hour. Christophe accepted, and, as usual, did not +take any trouble to make himself pleasant. However, Madame Langeais +thought him charming;--he could do anything he liked, as long as he was +the fashion: everybody would go on thinking him charming, while the +fashion ran its allotted course of a few months.--Jacqueline, who, for +the time being, was outside the current, was not so charmed with him: +the mere fact that Christophe was belauded by certain people was enough +to make her diffident about him. Besides, Christophe's bluntness, and +his loud way of speaking, and his noisy gaiety, offended her. In her +then state of mind the joy of living seemed a coarse thing to her: her +eyes were fixed on the twilight melancholy of the soul, and she fancied +that she loved it. There was too much sunlight in Christophe. + +But when she talked to him he told her about Olivier: he always had to +bring his friend into every pleasant thing that happened to him: it +would have seemed to him a selfish use of a new friendship if he had not +set aside a part of it for Olivier. He told Jacqueline so much about +him, that she felt a secret emotion in thus catching a glimpse of a soul +so much in accordance with her ideas, and made her mother invite him +too. Olivier did not accept at first, so that Christophe and Jacqueline +were left to complete their imaginary portrait of him at their leisure, +and, of course, he was found to be very like it when at last he made up +his mind to go. + +He went, but hardly spoke a word. He did not need to speak. His +intelligent eyes, his smile, his refined manners, the tranquillity that +was in and inundated by his personality, could not but attract +Jacqueline. Christophe, by contrast, stood as a foil to Olivier's +shining qualities. She did not show anything, for she was fearful of the +feeling stirring in her: she confined herself to talking to Christophe, +but it was always about Olivier. Christophe was only too happy to talk +about his friend, and did not notice Jacqueline's pleasure in the +subject of their conversation. He used to talk about himself, and she +would listen agreeably enough, though she was not in the least +interested: then, without seeming to do so, she would bring the +conversation round to those episodes in his life which included Olivier. + +Jacqueline's pretty ways were dangerous for a man who was not on his +guard. Without knowing it Christophe fell in love with her: it gave him +pleasure to go to the house again: he took pains with his dress: and a +feeling, which he well knew, began to tinge all his ideas with its +tender smiling languor. Olivier was in love with her too, and had been +from their first meeting: he thought she had no regard for him, and +suffered in silence. Christophe made his state even worse by telling him +joyously, as they left the Langeais' house, what he had said to +Jacqueline and what she had said to him. The idea never occurred to +Olivier that Jacqueline should like him. Although, by dint of living +with Christophe, he had become more optimistic, he still distrusted +himself: he could not believe that any woman would ever love him, for he +saw himself too clearly, and with eyes that saw too truthfully:--what +man is there would be worthy to be loved; if it were for his merits, and +not by the magic and indulgence of love? + +One evening when he had been invited to the Langeais', he felt that it +would make him too unhappy to feel Jacqueline's indifference: he said +that he was too tired and told Christophe to go without him. Christophe +suspected nothing, and went off in high delight. In his naïve egoism he +thought only of the pleasure of having Jacqueline all to himself. He was +not suffered to rejoice for long. When she heard that Olivier was not +coming, Jacqueline at once became peevish, irritable, bored, and +dispirited: she lost all desire to please: she did not listen to +Christophe, and answered him at random: and he had the humiliation of +seeing her stifle a weary yawn. She was near tears. Suddenly she went +away in the middle of the evening, and did not appear again. + +Christophe went home discomfited. All the way home he tried to explain +this sudden change of front: and the truth began dimly to dawn on him. +When he reached his rooms he found Olivier waiting for him, and then, +with a would-be indifferent air, Olivier asked him about the party. +Christophe told him of his discomfiture, and he saw Olivier's face +brighten as he went on. + +"Still tired?" he asked. "Why didn't you go to bed?" + +"Oh! I'm much better," said Olivier. "I'm not the least tired now." + +"Yes," said Christophe slyly, "I fancy it has done you a lot of good not +going." + +He looked at him affectionately and roguishly, and went away into his +own room: and then, when he was alone, he began to laugh quietly, and +laughed until he cried: + +"Little minx!" he thought. "She was making a game of me! And he was +deceiving me, too. What a secret they made of it!" + +From that moment he plucked out every personal thought of Jacqueline +from his heart: and, like a broody hen hatching her eggs, he hatched the +romance of the young lovers. Without seeming to know their secret, and +without betraying either to the other, he helped them, though they never +knew it. + +He thought it his solemn duty to study Jacqueline's character to see if +Olivier could be happy with her. And, being very tactless, he horrified +Jacqueline with the ridiculous questions he put to her about her tastes, +her morality, etc., etc. + +"Idiot! What does he mean?" Jacqueline would think angrily, and refuse +to answer him, and turn her back on him. + +And Olivier would be delighted to see Jacqueline paying no more +attention to Christophe. And Christophe would be overjoyed at seeing +Olivier's happiness. His joy was patent, and revealed itself much more +obstreperously than Olivier's. And as Jacqueline could not explain it, +and never dreamed that Christophe had a much clearer knowledge of their +love than she had herself, she thought him unbearable: she could not +understand how Olivier could be so infatuated with such a vulgar, +cumbersome friend. Christophe divined her thoughts, and took a malicious +delight in infuriating her: then he would step aside, and say that he +was too busy to accept the Langeais' invitations, so as to leave +Jacqueline and Olivier alone together. + +However, he was not altogether without anxiety concerning the future. He +regarded himself as responsible in a large measure for the marriage that +was in the making, and he worried over it, for he had a fair insight +into Jacqueline's character, and he was afraid of many things: her +wealth first of all, her up-bringing, her surroundings, and, above all, +her weakness. He remembered his old friend Colette, though, no doubt, he +admitted that Jacqueline was truer, more frank, more passionate: there +was in the girl an ardent aspiration towards a life of courage, an +almost heroic desire for it. + +"But desiring isn't everything," thought Christophe, remembering a jest +of Diderot's: "the chief thing is a straight backbone." + +He would have liked to warn Olivier of the danger. But when he saw him +come back from being with Jacqueline, with his eyes lit with joy, he had +not the heart to speak, and he thought: + +"The poor things are happy. I won't disturb their happiness." + +Gradually his affection for Olivier made him share his friend's +confidence. He took heart of grace, and at last began to believe that +Jacqueline was just as Olivier saw her and as she wished to appear in +her own eyes. She meant so well! She loved Olivier for all the qualities +which made him different from herself and the world she lived in: +because he was poor, because he was uncompromising in his moral ideas, +because he was awkward and shy in society. Her love was so pure and so +whole that she longed to be poor too, and, sometimes, almost ... yes, +almost to be ugly, so that she might be sure that he loved her for +herself, and for the love with which her heart was so full, the love for +which her heart was so hungry.... Ah! Sometimes, when he was not with +her, she would go pale and her hands would tremble. She would seem to +scoff at her emotion, and pretend to be thinking of something else, and +to take no notice of it. She would talk mockingly of things. But +suddenly she would break off, and rush away and shut herself up in her +room: and then, with the doors locked, and the curtains drawn over the +window, she would sit there, with her knees tight together, and her +elbows close against her sides, and her arms folded across her breast, +while she tried to repress the beating of her heart: she would sit there +huddled together, never stirring, hardly breathing: she dared not move +for fear lest her happiness should escape if she so much as lifted a +finger. She would sit holding her love close, close to her body in +silence. + +And now Christophe was absolutely determined that Olivier should succeed +in his wooing. He fussed round him like a mother, supervised his +dressing, presumed to give him advice as to what he should wear, and +even--(think of it!)--tied his tie for him. Olivier bore with him +patiently at the cost of having to retie his tie on the stairs when +Christophe was no longer present. He smiled inwardly, but he was touched +by such great affection. Besides, his love had made him timid, and he +was not sure of himself, and was glad of Christophe's advice. He used to +tell him everything that happened when he was with Jacqueline, and +Christophe would be just as moved by it as himself, and sometimes at +night he would lie awake for hours trying to find the means of making +the path of love smoother for his friend. + +It was in the garden of the Langeais' villa, near Paris, on the +outskirts of the forest of Isle-Adam, that Olivier and Jacqueline had +the interview which was the turning-point in their lives. + +Christophe had gone down with his friend, but he had found a harmonium +in the house, and sat playing so as to leave the lovers to walk about +the garden in peace.--Truth to tell, they did not wish it. They were +afraid to be left alone. Jacqueline was silent and rather hostile. On +his last visit Olivier had been conscious of a change in her manner, a +sudden coldness, an expression in her eyes which was strange, hard, and +almost inimical. It froze him. He dared not ask her for an explanation, +for he was fearful of hearing cruel words on the lips of the girl he +loved. He trembled whenever he saw Christophe leave them, for it seemed +to him that his presence was his only safeguard against the blow which +threatened to fall upon him. + +It was not that Jacqueline loved Olivier less. Rather she was more in +love with him, and it was that that made her hostile. Love, with which +till then she had only played, love, to which she had so often called, +was there, before her eyes: she saw it gaping before her like an abyss, +and she flung back in terror: she could not understand it, and wondered: + +"Why? Why? What does it mean?" + +Then she would look at Olivier with the expression which so hurt him, +and think: + +"Who is this man?" + +And she could not tell. He was a stranger. + +"Why do I love him?" + +She could not tell. + +"Do I love him?" + +She could not tell.... She did not know: and yet she knew that she was +caught: she was in the toils of love: she was on the point of losing +herself in love, losing herself utterly; her will, her independence, her +egoism, her dreams of the future, all were to be swallowed up by the +monster. And she would harden herself in anger, and sometimes she would +feel that she almost hated Olivier. + +They went to the very end of the garden, into the kitchen-garden, which +was cut off from the lawns by a hedge of tall trees. They sauntered down +the paths bordered on either side with gooseberry bushes, with their +clusters of red and golden fruit, and beds of strawberries, the +fragrance of which scented the air. It was June: but there had been +storms, and the weather was cold. The sky was gray and the light dim: +the low-hanging clouds moved in a heavy mass, drifting with the wind, +which blew only in the higher air, and never touched the earth; no leaf +stirred: but the air was very fresh. Everything was shrouded in +melancholy, even their hearts, swelling with the grave happiness that +was in them. And from the other end of the garden, through the open +windows of the villa, out of sight, there came the sound of the +harmonium, grinding out the Fugue in E Flat Minor of Johann Sebastian +Bach. They sat down on the coping of a well, both pale and silent. And +Olivier saw tears trickling down Jacqueline's cheeks. + +"You are crying?" he murmured, with trembling lips. + +And the tears came to his own eyes. + +He took her hand. She laid her head on Olivier's shoulder. She gave up +the struggle: she was vanquished, and it was such sweet comfort to her! +... They wept silently as they sat listening to the music under the +moving canopy of the heavy clouds, which in their noiseless flight +seemed to skim the tops of the trees. They thought of all that they had +suffered, and perhaps--who knows?--of all that they were to suffer in +the future. There are moments when music summons forth all the sadness +woven into the woof of a human being's destiny.... + +After a moment or two Jacqueline dried her eyes and looked at Olivier. +And suddenly they kissed. O boundless happiness! Religious happiness! +So sweet and so profound that it is almost sorrow! + +[Illustration: Musical notation] + +Jacqueline asked: + +"Was your sister like you?" + +Olivier felt a sudden pang. He said: + +"Why do you ask me about her? Did you know her?" + +She replied: + +"Christophe told me.... You have suffered?" + +Olivier nodded: he was too much moved to speak. + +"I have suffered too," she said. + +She told him of the friend who had been taken from her, her beloved +Marthe and with her heart big with emotion she told him how she had +wept, wept until she thought she was going to die. + +"You will help me?" she said, in a beseeching tone. "You will help me +to live, and be good, and to be a little like her? Poor Marthe, you will +love her too?" + +"We will love them both, as they both love each other." + +"I wish they were here." + +"They are here." + +They sat there locked in each other's arms: they hardly breathed, and +could feel heart beating to heart. A gentle drizzle was falling, +falling. Jacqueline shivered. + +"Let us go in," she said. + +Under the trees it was almost dark. Olivier kissed Jacqueline's wet +hair: she turned her face up to him, and, for the first time, he felt +loving lips against his, a girl's lips, warm and parted a little. They +were nigh swooning. + +Near the house they stopped once more: + +"How utterly alone we were!" he said. + +He had already forgotten Christophe. + +They remembered him at length. The music had stopped. They went in. +Christophe was sitting at the harmonium with his head in his hands, +dreaming, he too, of many things in the past. When he heard the door +open, he started from his dream, and turned to them affectionately with +a solemn, tender smile lighting up his face. He saw in their eyes what +had happened, pressed their hands warmly, and said: + +"Sit down, and I'll play you something." + +They sat down, and he played the piano, telling in music all that was in +his heart, and the great love he had for them. When he had done they all +three sat in silence. Then he got up and looked at them. He looked so +kind, and so much older, so much stronger than they! For the first time +she began to appreciate what he was. He hugged them both, and said to +Jacqueline: + +"You will love him dearly, won't you? You will love him dearly?" + +They were filled with gratitude towards him. But at once he turned the +conversation, laughed, went to the window, and sprang out into the +garden. + + * * * * * + +During the days following he kept urging Olivier to go and propose his +suit to Jacqueline's parents. Olivier dared not, dreading the refusal +which he anticipated. Christophe also insisted on his setting about +finding work, for even supposing the Langeais accepted him, he could not +take Jacqueline's fortune unless he were himself in a position to earn +his living. Olivier was of the same opinion, though he did not share his +violent and rather comic distrust of wealthy marriages. It was a rooted +idea in Christophe's mind that riches are death to the soul. It was on +the tip of his tongue to quote the saying of a wise beggar to a rich +lady who was worried in her mind about the next life: + +"What, madame, you have millions, and you want to have an immortal soul +into the bargain?" + +"Beware of women," he would say to Olivier--half in jest, half in +earnest--"beware of women, but be twenty times more wary of rich women. +Women love art, perhaps, but they strangle the artist. Rich women poison +both art and artists. Wealth is a disease. And women are more +susceptible to it than men. Every rich man is an abnormal being.... You +laugh? You don't take me seriously? Look you: does a rich man know what +life is? Does he keep himself in touch with the raw realities of life? +Does he feel on his face the stinging breath of poverty, the smell of +the bread that he must earn, of the earth that he must dig? Can he +understand, does he even see people and things as they are?... When I +was a little boy I was once or twice taken for a drive in the Grand +Duke's landau. We drove through fields in which I knew every blade of +grass, through woods that I adored, where I used to run wild all by +myself. Well: I saw nothing at all. The whole country had become as +stiff and starched as the idiots with whom I was driving. Between the +fields and my heart there was not only the curtain of the souls of those +formal people. The wooden planks beneath my feet, the moving platform +being rolled over the face of Nature, were quite enough. To feel that +the earth is my mother, I must have my feet firmly planted on her womb, +like a newborn child issuing to the light. Wealth severs the tie which +binds men to the earth, and holds the sons of the earth together. And +then how can you expect to be an artist? The artist is the voice of the +earth. A rich man cannot be a great artist. He would need a thousand +times more genius to be so under such unfavorable conditions. Even if he +succeeds his art must be a hot-house fruit. The great Goethe struggled +in vain: parts of his soul were atrophied, he lacked certain of the +vital organs, which were killed by his wealth. You have nothing like the +vitality of a Goethe, and you would be destroyed by wealth, especially +by a rich woman, a fate which Goethe did at least avoid. Only the man +can withstand the scourge. He has in him such native brutality, such a +rich deposit of rude, healthy instincts binding him to the earth, that +he alone has any chance of escape. But the woman is tainted by the +poison, and she communicates the taint to others. She acquires a taste +for the reeking scent of wealth, and cannot do without it. A woman who +can be rich and yet remain sound in heart is a prodigy as rare as a +millionaire who has genius.... And I don't like monsters. Any one who +has more than enough to live on is a monster--a human cancer preying +upon the lives of the rest of humanity." + +Olivier laughed: + +"What do you want?" he said. "I can't stop loving Jacqueline because she +is not poor, or force her to become poor for love of me." + +"Well, if you can't save her, at least save yourself. That's the best +way of saving her. Keep yourself pure. Work." + +Olivier did not need to go to Christophe for scruples. He was even more +nicely sensitive than he in such matters. Not that he took Christophe's +diatribes against money seriously: he had been rich himself, and did not +loathe riches, and thought them a very good setting for Jacqueline's +pretty face. But it was intolerable to think that his love might in any +way be contaminated with an imputation of interest. He applied to have +his name restored to the University list. For the time being he could +not hope for anything better than a moderate post in a provincial +school. It was a poor wedding-present to give to Jacqueline. He told her +about it timidly. Jacqueline found it difficult at first to see his +point of view: she attributed it to an excessive pride, put into his +head by Christophe, and she thought it ridiculous: was it not more +natural between lovers to set no store by riches or poverty, and was it +not rather shabby to refuse to be indebted to her when it would give her +such great joy?... However, she threw herself in with Olivier's plans: +their austerity and discomfort were the very things that brought her +round, for she found in them an opportunity of gratifying her desire for +moral heroism. In her condition of proud revolt against her surroundings +which had been induced by the death of her aunt, and was exalted by her +love, she had gone so far as to deny every element in her nature which +was in contradiction to her mystic ardor: in all sincerity her whole +being was strained, like a bow, after an ideal of a pure and difficult +life, radiant with happiness.... The obstacles, the very smallness and +dullness of her future condition in life, were a joy to her. How good +and beautiful it would all be!... + +Madame Langeais was too much taken up with herself to pay much attention +to what was going on about her. For some time past she had been thinking +of little outside her health: she spent her whole time in treating +imaginary illnesses, and trying one doctor after another: each of them +in turn was her saviour, and went on enjoying that position for a +fortnight: then it was another's turn. She would stay away from home for +months in expensive sanatoria, where she religiously carried out all +sorts of preposterous prescriptions to the letter. She had forgotten her +husband and daughter. + +M. Langeais was not so indifferent, and had begun to suspect the existence +of the affair. His paternal jealousy made him feel it. He had +for Jacqueline that strange pure affection which many fathers feel for +their daughters, an elusive, indefinable feeling, a mysterious, +voluptuous, and almost sacred curiosity, in living once more in the +lives of fellow-creatures who are of their blood, who are themselves, +and are women. In such secrets of the heart there are many lights and +shadows which it is healthier to ignore. Hitherto it had amused him to +see his daughter making calfish young men fall in love with her: he +loved her so, romantic, coquettish, and discreet--(just as he was +himself).--But when he saw that this affair threatened to become more +serious, he grew anxious. He began by making fun of Olivier to +Jacqueline, and then he criticised him with a certain amount of +bitterness. Jacqueline laughed at first, and said: + +"Don't say such hard things, father: you would find it awkward later on, +supposing I wanted to marry him." + +M. Langeais protested loudly, and said she was mad: with the result that +she lost her head completely. He declared that he would never let her +marry Olivier. She vowed that she would marry him. The veil was rent. He +saw that he was nothing to her. In his fatherly egoism it had never +occurred to him, and he was angry. He swore that neither Olivier nor +Christophe should ever set foot inside his house again. Jacqueline lost +her temper, and one fine morning Olivier opened the door to admit a +young woman, pale and determined looking, who rushed in like a +whirlwind, and said: + +"Take me away with you! My father and mother won't hear of it. I _will_ +marry you. You must compromise me." + +Olivier was alarmed though touched by it, and did not even try to argue +with her. Fortunately Christophe was there. Ordinarily he was the least +reasonable of men, but now he reasoned with them. He pointed out what a +scandal there would be, and how they would suffer for it. Jacqueline bit +her lip angrily, and said: + +"Very well. We will kill ourselves." + +So far from frightening Olivier, her threat only helped to make up his +mind to side with her. Christophe had no small difficulty in making the +crazy pair have a little patience: before taking such desperate measures +they might as well try others: let Jacqueline go home, and he would go +and see M. Langeais and plead their cause. + +A queer advocate! M. Langeais nearly kicked him out on the first words +he said: but then the absurdity of the situation struck him, and it +amused him. Little by little the gravity of his visitor and his +expression of honesty and absolute sincerity began to make an +impression: however, he would not fall in with his contentions, and went +on firing ironical remarks at him. Christophe pretended not to hear: +but every now and then as a more than usually biting shaft struck home he +would stop and draw himself up in silence; then he would go on again. +Once he brought his fist down on the table with a thud, and said: + +"I beg of you to believe that it has given me no pleasure to call on +you: I have to control myself to keep from retaliating on you for +certain things you have said: but I think it my duty to speak to you, +and I am doing so. Forget me, as I forget myself, and weigh well what I +am telling you." + +M. Langeais listened: and when he heard of the project of suicide, he +shrugged his shoulders and pretended to laugh: but he was shaken. He was +too clever to take such a threat as a joke: he knew that he had to deal +with the insanity of a girl in love. One of his mistresses, a gay, +gentle creature, whom he had thought incapable of putting her boastful +threat into practice, had shot herself with a revolver before his eyes: +she did not kill herself at once, but the scene lived in his memory.... +No, one can never be sure with women. He felt a pang at his heart.... +"She wishes it? Very well: so be it, and so much the worse for her, +little fool!..." He would have granted anything rather than drive his +daughter to extremes. In truth he might have used diplomacy, and +pretended to give his consent to gain time, gently to wean Jacqueline +from Olivier. But doing so meant giving himself more trouble than he +could or would be bothered with. Besides, he was weak: and the mere fact +that he had angrily said "No!" to Jacqueline, now inclined him to say +"Yes." After all, what does one know of life? Perhaps the child was +right. The great thing was that they should love each other. M. Langeais +knew quite well that Olivier was a serious young man, and perhaps had +talent.... He gave his consent. + + * * * * * + +The day before the marriage the two friends sat up together into the +small hours. They did not wish to lose the last hours of their dear life +together.--But already it was in the past. It was like those sad +farewells on the station platform when there is a long wait before the +train moves: one insists on staying, and looking and talking. But one's +heart is not in it: one's friend has already gone.... Christophe tried +to talk. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, seeing the absent look +in Olivier's eyes, and he said, with a smile: + +"You are so far away!" + +Olivier was confused and begged his pardon. It made him sad to realize +that his thoughts were wandering during the last intimate moments with +his friend. But Christophe pressed his hand, and said: + +"Come, don't constrain yourself. I am happy. Go on dreaming, my boy." + +They stayed by the window, leaning out side by side, and looking through +the darkness down into the garden. After some time Christophe said to +Olivier: + +"You are running away from me. You think you can escape me? You are +thinking of your Jacqueline. But I shall catch you up. I, too, am +thinking of her." + +"Poor old fellow," said Olivier, "and I was thinking of you! And +even...." + +He stopped. + +Christophe laughed and finished the sentence for him. + +"... And even taking a lot of trouble over it!..." + + * * * * * + +Christophe turned out very fine, almost smart, for the wedding. There +was no religious ceremony: neither the indifferent Olivier nor the +rebellious Jacqueline had wished it. Christophe had written a symphonic +fragment for the ceremony at the _mairie_, but at the last moment +he gave up the idea when he realized what a civil marriage is: he +thought such ceremonies absurd. People need to have lost both faith and +liberty before they can have any belief in them. When a true Catholic +takes the trouble to become a free-thinker he is not likely to endow a +functionary of the civil State with a religious character. Between God +and his own conscience there is no room for a State religion. The State +registers, it does not bind man and wife together. + +The marriage of Olivier and Jacqueline was not likely to make Christophe +regret his decision. Olivier listened with a faintly ironical air of +aloofness to the Mayor ponderously fawning upon the young couple, and +the wealthy relations, and the witnesses who wore decorations. +Jacqueline did not listen: and she furtively put out her tongue at +Simone Adam, who was watching her: she had made a bet with her that +being "married" would not affect her in the least, and it looked as +though she would win it: it hardly seemed to occur to her that it was +she who was being married: the idea of it tickled her. The rest were +posing for the onlookers: and the onlookers were taking them all in. M. +Langeais was showing off: in spite of his sincere affection for his +daughter, he was chiefly occupied in taking stock of the guests to find +out whether he had left any gaps in his list of invitations. Only +Christophe was moved: not one of the rest, relations, bride, and +bridegroom, or the Mayor officiating, showed any emotion: he stood +gazing hungrily at Olivier, who did not look at him. + +In the evening the young couple left for Italy. Christophe and M. +Langeais went with them to the station. They seemed happy, not at all +sorry to be going, and did not conceal their impatience for the train to +move. Olivier looked like a boy, and Jacqueline like a little girl.... +What a tender, melancholy charm is in such partings! The father is a +little sad to see his child taken away by a stranger, and for what!... +and to see her go away from him forever. But they feel nothing but a new +intoxicating sense of liberty. There are no more hindrances to life: +nothing can stop them ever again: they seem to have reached the very +summit: now might they die readily, for they have everything, and +nothing to fear.... But soon they see that it was no more than a stage +in the journey. The road still lies before them, and winds round the +mountain: and there are very few who reach the second stage.... + +The train bore them away into the night. Christophe and M. Langeais went +home together. Christophe said with naive archness: + +"Now we are both widowed!" + +M. Langeais began to laugh. He liked Christophe now that he knew him +better. They said good-by, and went their ways. They were both unhappy, +with an odd mixture of sadness and sweetness. Sitting alone in his room +Christophe thought: + +"The best of my soul is happy." + +Nothing had been altered in Olivier's room. They had arranged that until +Olivier returned and settled in a new house his furniture and belongings +should stay with Christophe. It was as though he himself was still +present. Christophe looked at the portrait of Antoinette, placed it on +his desk, and said to it: + +"My dear, are you glad?" + +He wrote often--rather too often--to Olivier. He had a few vaguely +written letters, which were increasingly distant in tone. He was +disappointed, but not much affected by it. He persuaded himself that it +must be so, and he had no anxiety as to the future of their friendship. + +His solitude did not trouble him. Far from it: he did not have enough of +it to suit his taste. He was beginning to suffer from the patronage of +the _Grand Journal_. Arsène Gamache had a tendency to believe that +he had proprietary rights in the famous men whom he had taken the +trouble to discover: he took it as a matter of course that their fame +should be associated with his own, much as Louis XIV. grouped Molière, +Le Brun, and Lulli about his throne. Christophe discovered that the +author of the _Hymn to Aegis_ was not more imperial or more of a +nuisance to art than his patron of the _Grand Journal_. For the +journalist, who knew no more about art than the Emperor, had opinions no +less decided about it: he could not tolerate the existence of anything +he did not like: he decreed that it was bad and pernicious: and he would +ruin it in the public interest. It is both comic and terrible to see +such coarse-grained uncultivated men of affairs presuming to control not +only politics and money, but also the mind, and offering it a kennel +with a collar and a dish of food, or, if it refuses, having the power to +let loose against it thousands of idiots whom they have trained into a +docile pack of hounds!--Christophe was not the sort of man to let +himself be schooled and disciplined. It seemed to him a very bad thing +that an ignoramus should take upon himself to tell him what he ought and +ought not to do in music: and he gave him to understand that art needed +a much more severe training than politics. Also, without any sort of +polite circumlocution, he declined a proposal that he should set to +music a libretto, which the author, a leading member of the staff of the +paper, was trying to place, while it was highly recommended by his +chief. It had the effect of cooling his relations with Gamache. + +Christophe did not mind that in the least. Though he had so lately risen +from his obscurity, he was longing to return to it. He found himself +"exposed to that great light in which a man is lost among the many." +There were too many people bothering their heads about him. He pondered +these words of Goethe: + +_"When a writer has attracted attention by a good piece of work, the +public tries to prevent his producing another.... The brooding talent is +dragged out into the hurly-burly of the world, in spite of itself, +because every one thinks he will be able to appropriate a part of +it."_ + +He shut his door upon the outside world, and began to seek the company +of some of his old friends in his own house. He revisited the Arnauds, +whom he had somewhat neglected. Madame Arnaud, who was left alone for +part of the day, had time to think of the sorrows of others. She thought +how empty Christophe's life must be now that Olivier was gone: and she +overcame her shyness so far as to invite him to dinner. If she had +dared, she would even have offered to go in from time to time and tidy +his rooms: but she was not bold enough: and no doubt it was better so: +for Christophe did not like to have people worrying about him. But he +accepted the invitation to dinner, and made a habit of going in to the +Arnauds' every evening. + +He found them just as united, living in the same atmosphere of rather +sad, sorrowful tenderness, though it was even grayer than before, Arnaud +was passing through a period of depression, brought on by the wear and +tear of his life as a teacher,--a life of exhausting labor, in which one +day is like unto another, and each day's work is like that of the next, +like a wheel turning in one place, without ever stopping, or ever +advancing. Though he was very patient, the good man was passing through +a crisis of discouragement. He let certain acts of injustice prey upon +him, and was inclined to think that all his zeal was futile. Madame +Arnaud would comfort him with kind words: she seemed to be just as calm +and peaceful as in the old days: but her face was thinner. In her +presence Christophe would congratulate Arnaud on having such a sensible +wife. + +"Yes," Arnaud would say, "she is a good little creature; nothing ever puts +her out. She is lucky: so am I. If she had suffered in this cursed +life, I don't see how I could have got through." + +Madame Arnaud would blush and say nothing. Then in her even tones she +would talk of something else.--Christophe's visits had their usual good +effect: they brought light in their train: and he, for his part, found +it very pleasant to feel the warmth of their kind, honest hearts. + +Another friend, a girl, came into his life. Or rather he sought her out: +for though she longed to know him, she could not have made the effort to +go and see him. She was a young woman of a little more than twenty-five, +a musician, and she had taken the first prize at the Conservatoire: her +name was Cécile Fleury. She was short and rather thick-set. She had +heavy eyebrows, fine, large eyes, with a soft expression, a short, +broad, turned-up nose, inclined to redness, like a duck's beak, thick +lips, kind and tender, an energetic chin, heavy and solid, and her +forehead was broad, but not high. Her hair was done up in a large bun at +the back of her neck. She had strong arms and a pianist's hands, very +long, with a splayed thumb and square finger-tips. The general +impression she gave was one of a rather sluggish vitality and of rude +rustic health. She lived with her mother, who was very dear to her: a +good, kind woman, who took not the smallest interest in music though she +used to talk about it, because she was always hearing about it, and knew +everything that happened in Musicopolis. She had a dull, even life, gave +lessons all day long, and sometimes concerts, of which nobody took any +notice. She used to go home late at night, on foot or in an omnibus, +worn out, but quite good-tempered: and she used to practise her scales +bravely and trim her own hats, talking a great deal, laughing readily, +and often singing for nothing. + +She had not been spoiled by life. She knew the value of a little comfort +when she had earned it by her own efforts,--the joy of a little +pleasure, or a little scarcely perceptible advance in her position or +her work. Indeed, if one month she could only earn five francs more than +in the last, or if she could at length manage to play a certain passage +of Chopin which she had been struggling with for weeks,--she would be +quite happy. Her work, which was not excessive, exactly fitted her +aptitude for it, and gave her a healthy satisfaction. Playing, singing, +giving lessons gave her a pleasant feeling of satisfied activity, normal +and regular, and at the same time a modest competence and a comfortable +placid success. She had a healthy appetite, ate much, slept well, and +was never ill. + +She was clear-headed, sensible, modest, perfectly balanced, and never +worried about anything: for she always lived in and for the present, +without bothering her head about what had happened or what was going to +happen in the future. And as she was always well, and as her life was +comparatively secure from the sudden turns of fate, she was almost +always satisfied. She took the same pleasure in practising her piano as +in keeping house, or talking about things domestic, or doing nothing. +She had the art of living, not from day to day--(she was economical and +provident)--but from minute to minute. She was not possessed of any sort +of idealism: the only ideal she had, if it could be called so, was +bourgeois, and was unostentatiously expressed in her every action, and +evenly distributed through every moment of the day: it consisted in +peacefully loving everything she was doing, whatever it might be. She +went to church on Sundays: but the feeling of religion had practically +no place in her life. She admired enthusiasts, like Christophe, who had +faith or genius: but she did not envy them: what could she have done +with their uneasiness and their genius? + +How came it, then, that she could feel their music? She would have found +it hard to say. But it was very certain that she did feel it. She was +superior to other virtuosi by reason of her sturdy quality of balance, +physical and moral: in her abounding vitality, in the absence of +personal passion, the passions of others found a rich soil in which to +come to flower. She was not touched by them. She could translate in all +their energy the terrible passions which had consumed the artist without +being tainted by their poison: she only felt their force and the great +weariness that came after its expression. When it was over, she would be +all in a sweat, utterly exhausted: she would smile calmly and feel very +happy. + +Christophe heard her one evening, and was struck by her playing. He went +and shook hands with her after the concert. She was grateful to him for +it: there were very few people at the concert, and she was not so used +to compliments as to take no delight in them. As she had never been +clever enough to throw in her lot with any musical coterie, or cunning +enough to surround herself with a group of worshipers, and as she never +attempted to make herself particular, either by technical mannerisms or +by a fantastic interpretation of the hallowed compositions, or by +assuming an exclusive right to play some particular master, such as +Johann Sebastian Bach, or Beethoven, and as she had no theories about +what she played, but contented herself with playing simply what she +felt--nobody paid any attention to her, and the critics ignored her: for +nobody told them that she played well, and they were not likely to find +it out for themselves. + +Christophe saw a good deal of Cécile. Her strength and tranquillity +attracted him as a mystery. She was vigorous and apathetic. In his +indignation at her not being better known he proposed that he should get +his friends of the _Grand Journal_ to write about her. But although +she would have liked to be praised, she begged him not to do anything to +procure it. She did not want to have the struggle or the bother or the +jealousies it would entail: she wanted to be left in peace. She was not +talked about: so much the better! She was not envious, and she was the +first to be enthusiastic about the technique of other virtuosi. She had +no ambition, and no desire for anything. She was much too lazy in mind! +When she had not any immediate and definite work to do, she did nothing, +nothing; she did not even dream, not even at night, in bed: she either +slept or thought of nothing. She had not the morbid preoccupation with +marriage, which poisons the lives of girls who shiver at the thought of +dying old maids. When she was asked if she would not like to have a +husband, she would say: + +"Why not throw in fifty thousand a year? One has to take what comes. If +any one offers, so much the better! If not, one goes without. Because +one can't have cake, I don't see why one shouldn't be glad of honest +bread. Especially when one has had to eat stale bread for so long!" + +"Besides," her mother would say, "there are plenty of people who never +get any bread to eat at all!" + +Cécile had good reason to fight shy of men. Her father, who had been +dead some years, was a weak, lazy creature: he had wronged his wife and +his family. She had also a brother who had turned out badly and did not +know what had become of him: every now and then he would turn up and ask +for money: she and her mother were afraid of him and ashamed of him, and +fearful of what they might hear about him any day: and yet they loved +him. Christophe met him once. He was at Cécile's house: there was a ring +at the door: and her mother answered it. He heard a conversation being +carried on in the next room, and the voices were raised every now and +then. Cécile seemed ill at ease, and went out also, leaving Christophe +alone. The discussion went on, and the stranger's voice assumed a +threatening tone: Christophe thought it time to intervene, and opened +the door. He hardly had time to do more than catch a glimpse of a young +and slightly deformed man, whose back was turned towards him, for Cécile +rushed towards him and implored him to go back. She went with him, and +they sat in silence. In the next room the visitor went on shouting for a +few minutes longer, and then took his leave and slammed the door. Then +Cécile sighed, and said to Christophe: + +"Yes.... He is my brother." + +Christophe understood: + +"Ah!" he said.... "I know.... I have a brother, too...." + +Cécile took his hand with an air of affectionate commiseration: + +"You too?" + +"Yes," he said.... "These are the joys of a family." + +Cécile laughed, and they changed the conversation. No, the joys of a +family had no enchantment for her, nor had the idea of marriage any +fascination: men were rather a worthless lot on the whole. Her +independent life had many advantages: her mother had often sighed after +her liberty: she had no desire to lose it. The only day-dream in which +she indulged was that some day--Heaven knows when!--she would not have +to give lessons any more, and would be able to live in the country. But +she did not even take the trouble to imagine such a life in detail: she +found it too fatiguing to think of anything so uncertain: it was better +to sleep,--or do her work.... + +In the meanwhile, in default of her castle in Spain, she used to hire a +little house in the outskirts of Paris for the summer, and lived there +with her mother. It was twenty minutes' journey by train. The house was +some distance away from the station, standing alone in the midst of a +stretch of waste lands which were called "fields," and Cécile used often +to return late at night. But she was not afraid, and did not believe +there was any danger. She had a revolver, but she always used to leave +it at home. Besides, it was doubtful if she would have known how to use +it. + +Sometimes, when he went to see her, Christophe would make her play. It +amused him to see her keen perception of the music, especially when he +had dropped a hint which put her on the track of a feeling that called +for expression. He had discovered that she had an excellent voice, but +she had no idea of it. He made her practise it, and would give her old +German _lieder_ or his own music to sing: it gave her pleasure, and +she made such progress as to surprise herself as much as him. She was +marvelously gifted. The fire of music had miraculously descended upon +this daughter of Parisian middle-class parents who were utterly devoid +of any artistic feeling. Philomela--(for so he used to call her)--used +sometimes to discuss music with Christophe, but always in a practical, +never in a sentimental, way: she seemed only to be interested in the +technique of singing and the piano. Generally, when they were together +and were not playing music, they talked of the most commonplace things, +and Christophe, who could not for a moment have tolerated such +conversations with an ordinary woman, would discuss these subjects as a +matter of course with Philomela. + +They used to spend whole evenings alone together, and were genuinely +fond of each other, though their affection was perfectly calm and even +almost cold. One evening, when he had dined with her, and had stayed +talking longer than usual, a violent storm came on: she said: + +"You can't go now! Stay until to-morrow morning." + +He was fitted up with an improvised bed in the little sitting-room. Only +a thin partition was between it and Cécile's bedroom, and the doors were +not locked. As he lay there he could hear her bed creaking and her soft, +regular breathing. In five minutes she was asleep: and very soon he +followed her example without either of them having had the faintest +shadow of an uneasy thought. + +At the same time there came into his life a number of other unknown +friends, drawn to him by reading his works. Most of them lived far away +from Paris or shut up in their homes, and never met him. Even a vulgar +success does a certain amount of good: it makes the artist known to +thousands of good people in remote corners whom he could never have +reached without the stupid articles in the papers. Christophe entered +into correspondence with some of them. There were lonely young men, +living a life of hardship, their whole being aspiring to an ideal of which +they were not sure, and they came greedily to slake their thirst +at the well of Christophe's brotherly spirit. There were humble people +in the provinces who read his _lieder_ and wrote to him, like old +Schulz, and felt themselves one with him. There were poor artists,--a +composer among others,--who had not, and could not attain, not only +success, but self-expression, and it made them glad to have their ideas +realized by Christophe. And dearest of all, perhaps,--there were those +who wrote to him without giving their names, and, being thus more free +to speak, naively laid bare their touching confidence in the elder +brother who had come to their assistance. Christophe's heart would grow +big at the thought that he would never know these charming people whom +it would have given him such joy to love: he would kiss some of these +anonymous letters as the writers of them kissed his _lieder_; and +each to himself would think: + +"Dear written sheets, what a deal of good you have done me!" + +So, according with the unvaried rhythm of the universe, there was formed +about him the little family of genius, grouped about him, giving him +food and taking it from him, which grows little by little, and in the +end becomes one great collective soul, of which he is the central fire, +like a gleaming world, a moral planet moving through space, mingling its +chorus of brotherhood with the harmony of the spheres. + +And as these mysterious links were forged between Christophe and his +unseen friends, a revolution took place in his artistic faculty: it +became larger and more human. He lost all interest in music which was a +monologue, a soliloquy, and even more so in music which was a scientific +structure built entirely for the interest of the profession. He wished +his music to be an act of communion with other men. There is no vital +art save that which is linked with the rest of humanity. Johann Sebastian +Bach, even in his darkest hours of isolation, was linked with the rest +of humanity by his religious faith, which he expressed in his art. +Handel and Mozart, by dint of circumstances, wrote for an audience, and +not for themselves. Even Beethoven had to reckon with the multitude. It +is salutary. It is good for humanity to remind genius every now and then: + +"What is there for us in your art? If there is nothing, out you go!" + +In such constraint genius is the first to gain. There are, indeed, great +artists who express only themselves. But the greatest of all are those +whose hearts beat for all men. If any man would see the living God face +to face, he must seek Him, not in the empty firmament of his own brain, +but in the love of men. + +The artists of that time were far removed from that love. They wrote +only for a more or less anarchical and vain group, uprooted from the +life of the country, who preened themselves on not sharing the +prejudices and passions of the rest of humanity, or else made a mock of +them. It is a fine sort of fame that is won by self-amputation from +life, so as to be unlike other men! Let all such artists perish! We will +go with the living, be suckled at the breasts of the earth, and drink in +all that is most profound and sacred in our people, and all its love +from the family and the soil. In the greatest age of liberty, among the +people with the most ardent worship of beauty, the young Prince of the +Italian Renaissance, Raphael, glorified maternity in his transteverine +Madonnas. Who is there now to give us in music a _Madonna à la +Chaise?_ Who is there to give us music meet for every hour of life? +You have nothing, you have nothing in France. When you want to give your +people songs, you are reduced to bringing up to date the German masters +of the past. In your art, from top to bottom, everything remains to be +done, or to be done again.... + +Christophe corresponded with Olivier, who was now settled in a provincial +town. He tried to maintain in correspondence that collaboration which had +been so fruitful during the time when they had lived together. He wanted +him to write him fine poetic words closely allied with the thoughts and +deeds of everyday life, like the poems which are the substance of the old +German _lieder_. Short fragments from the Scriptures and the Hindoo poems, +and the old Greek philosophers, short religious and moral poems, little +pictures of Nature, the emotions of love or family life, the whole poetry +of morning, evening, and night, that is in simple, healthy people. Four +lines or six are enough for a _lied_: only the simplest expressions, and +no elaborate development or subtlety of harmony. What have I to do with +your esthetic tricks? Love my life, help me to love it and to live it. +Write me the _Hours of France_, my _Great_ and _Small Hours_. And let us +together find the clearest melody. Let us avoid like the plague any +artistic language that belongs to a caste like that of so many writers, +and especially of so many French musicians of to-day. We must have the +courage to speak like men, and not like "artists." We must draw upon the +common fund of all men, and unashamedly make use of old formulae, upon +which the ages have set their seal, formulas which the ages have filled +with their spirit. Look at what our forefathers have done. It was by +returning to the musical language of all men that the art of the German +classics of the eighteenth century came into being. The melodies of Gluck +and the creators of the symphony are sometimes trivial and commonplace +compared with the subtle and erudite phrases of Johann Sebastian Bach and +Rameau. It is their raciness of the soil that gives such zest to, and has +procured such immense popularity for the German classics. They began with +the simplest musical forms, the _lied_ and the _Singspiel_, the little +flowers of everyday life which impregnated the childhood of men like +Mozart and Weber.--Do you do the same. Write songs for all and sundry. +Upon that basis you will soon build quartettes and symphonies. What is +the good of rushing ahead? The pyramids were not begun at the top. Your +symphonies at present are trunkless heads, ideas without any stuffing. +Oh, you fair spirits, become incarnate! There must be generations of +musicians patiently and joyously and piously living in brotherhood with +these people. No musical art was ever built in a day. + +Christophe was not content to apply these principles in music: he urged +Olivier to set himself at the head of a similar movement in literature: + +"The writers of to-day," he said, "waste their energy in describing +human rarities, or cases that are common enough in the abnormal groups +of men and women living on the fringe of the great society of active, +healthy human beings. Since they themselves have shut themselves off +from life, leave them and go where there are men. Show the life of every +day to the men and women of every day: that life is deeper and more vast +than the sea. The smallest among you bears the infinite in his soul. The +infinite is in every man who is simple enough to be a man, in the lover, +in the friend, in the woman who pays with her pangs for the radiant +glory of the day of childbirth, in every man and every woman who lives +in obscure self-sacrifice which will never be known to another soul: it +is the very river of life, flowing from one to another, from one to +another, and back again and round.... Write the simple life of one of +these simple men, write the peaceful epic of the days and nights +following, following one like to another, and yet all different, all +sons of the same mother, from the dawning of the first day in the life +of the world. Write it simply, as simple as its own unfolding. Waste no +thought upon the word, and the letter, and the subtle vain researches in +which the force of the artists of to-day is turned to nought. You are +addressing all men: use the language of all men. There are no words +noble or vulgar; there is no style chaste or impure: there are only +words and styles which say or do not say exactly what they have to say. +Be sound and thorough in all you do: think just what you think,--and +feel just what you feel. Let the rhythm of your heart prevail in your +writings! The style is the soul." + +Olivier agreed with Christophe, but he replied rather ironically: + +"Such a book would be fine: but it would never reach the people who +would care to read it. The critics would strangle it on the way." + +"There speaks my little French bourgeois!" replied Christophe. "Worrying +his mind about what the critics will or will not think of his work!... +The critics, my boy, are only there to register victory or defeat. The +great thing is to be victor.... I have managed to get along without +them! You must learn how to disregard them, too...." + + * * * * * + +But Olivier had learned how to disregard something entirely different! +He had turned aside from art, and Christophe, and everybody. At that +time he was thinking of nothing but Jacqueline, and Jacqueline was +thinking of nothing but him. + +The selfishness of their love had cut them off from everything and +everybody: they were recklessly destroying all their future resources. + +They were in the blind wonder of the first days, when man and woman, +joined together, have no thought save that of losing themselves in each +other.... With every part of themselves, body and soul, they touch and +taste and seek to probe into the very inmost depths. They are alone +together in a lawless universe, a very chaos of love, when the confused +elements know not as yet what distinguishes one from the other, and +strive greedily to devour each other. Each in other finds nothing save +delight: each in other finds another self. What is the world to them? +Like the antique Androgyne slumbering in his dream of voluptuous and +harmonious delights, their eyes are closed to the world, All the world +is in themselves.... + +O days, O nights, weaving one web of dreams, hours fleeting like the +floating white clouds in the heavens, leaving nought but a shimmering +wake in dazzled eyes, the warm wind breathing the languor of spring, the +golden warmth of the body, the sunlit arbor of love, shameless chastity, +embraces, and madness, and sighs, and happy laughter, happy tears, what +is there left of the lovers, thrice happy dust? Hardly, it seems, that +their hearts could ever remember to beat: for when they were one then +time had ceased to exist. + +And all their days are one like unto another.... Sweet, sweet dawn.... +Together, embracing, they issue from the abyss of sleep: they smile +and their breath is mingled, their eyes open and meet, and they kiss.... +There is freshness and youth in the morning hours, a virgin air +cooling their fever.... There is a sweet languor in the endless day +still throbbing with the sweetness of the night.... Summer +afternoons, dreams in the fields, on the velvety sward, beneath the +rustling of the tall white poplars.... Dreams in the lovely evenings, +when, under the gleaming sky, they return, clasping each other, to the +house of their love. The wind whispers in the bushes. In the clear lake +of the sky hovers the fleecy light of the silver moon. A star falls and +dies,--hearts give a little throb--a world is silently snuffed out. +Swift silent shadows pass at rare intervals on the road near by. The +bells of the town ring in the morrow's holiday. They stop for a moment, +she nestles close to him, they stand so without a word.... Ah! if only +life could be so forever, as still and silent as that moment!... She +sighs and says: + +"Why do I love you so much?..." + +After a few weeks' traveling in Italy they had settled in a town in the +west of France, where Olivier had gained an appointment. They saw hardly +anybody. They took no interest in anything. When they were forced to pay +calls, their scandalous indifference was so open that it hurt some, +while it made others smile. Anything that was said to them simply made +no impression. They had the impertinently solemn manner common to young +married people, who seem to say: + +"You people don't know anything at all...." + +Jacqueline's pretty pouting face, with its absorbed expression, +Olivier's happy eyes that looked so far away, said only: + +"If you knew how boring we find you!... When shall we be left alone?" + +Even the presence of others could not embarrass them. It was hard not to +see their exchange of glances as they talked. They did not need to look +to see each other: and they would smile: for they knew that they were +thinking of the same things at the same time. When they were alone once +more, after having suffered the constraint of the presence of others, +they would shout for joy--indulge in a thousand childish pranks. They +would talk baby-language, and find grotesque nicknames for each other. +She used to call him Olive, Olivet, Olifant, Fanny, Mami, Mime, Minaud, +Quinaud, Kaunitz, Cosima, Cobourg, Panot, Nacot, Ponette, Naquet, and +Canot. She would behave like a little girl; but she wanted to be all +things at once to him, to give him every kind of love: mother, sister, +wife, sweetheart, mistress. + +It was not enough for her to share his pleasures: as she had promised +herself, she shared his work: and that, too, was a game. At first she +brought to bear on it the amused ardor of a woman to whom work is +something new: she seemed really to take a pleasure in the most +ungrateful tasks, copying in the libraries, and translating dull books: +it was part of her plan of life, that it should be pure and serious, and +wholly consecrated to noble thoughts and work in common. And all went +well as long as the light of love was in them: for she thought only of +him, and not of what she was doing. The odd thing was that everything +she did in that way was well done. Her mind found no difficulty in +taking in abstract ideas, which at any other time of her life she would +have found it hard to follow: her whole being was, as it were, uplifted +from the earth by love; she did not know it; like a sleep-walker moving +easily over roofs, gravely and gaily, without seeing anything at all, +she lived on in her dream.... + +And then she began to see the roofs: but that did not give her any +qualms: only she asked what she was doing so high up, and became herself +again. Work bored her. She persuaded herself that it stood in the way of +her love: no doubt because her love had already become less ardent. But +there was no evidence of that. They could not bear to be out of each +other's sight. They shut themselves off from the world, and closed their +doors and refused all invitations. They were jealous of the affections +of other people, even of their occupations, of everything which +distracted them from their love. Olivier's correspondence with +Christophe dwindled. Jacqueline did not like it: he was a rival to her, +representing a part of Olivier's past life in which she had had no +share; and the more room he filled in Olivier's life, the more she +sought, instinctively, to rob him of it. Without any deliberate +intention, she gradually and steadily alienated Olivier from his friend: +she made sarcastic comments on Christophe's manners, his face, his way +of writing, his artistic projects: there was no malice in what she said, +nor slyness: she was too good-natured for that. Olivier was amused by +her remarks, and saw no harm in them: he thought he still loved +Christophe as much as ever, but he loved only his personality: and that +counts for very little in friendship: he did not see that little by +little he was losing his understanding of him, and his interest in his +ideas, and the heroic idealism in which they had been so united.... Love +is too sweet a joy for the heart of youth: compared with it, what other +faith can hold its ground? The body of the beloved and the soul that +breathes in it are all science and all faith. With what a pitying smile +does a lover regard the object of another's adoration and the things +which he himself once adored! Of all the might of life and its bitter +struggles the lover sees nothing but the passing flower, which he +believes must live forever.... Love absorbed Olivier. In the beginning +his happiness was not so great but it left him with the energy to +express it in graceful verse. Then even that seemed vain to him: it was +a theft of time from love. And Jacqueline also set to work to destroy +their every source of life, to kill the tree of life, without the +support of which the ivy of love must die. Thus in their happiness they +destroyed each other. + +Alas! we so soon grow used to happiness! When selfish happiness is the +sole aim of life, life is soon left without an aim. It becomes a habit, +a sort of intoxication which we cannot do without. And how vitally +important it is that we should do without it.... Happiness is an instant +in the universal rhythm, one of the poles between which the pendulum of +life swings: to stop the pendulum it must be broken.... + +They knew the "boredom of well-being which sets the nerves on edge." +Their hours of sweetness dragged, drooped, and withered like flowers +without water. The sky was still blue for them, but there was no longer +the light morning breeze. All was still: Nature was silent. They were +alone, as they had desired.--And their hearts sank. + +An indefinable feeling of emptiness, a vague weariness not without a +certain charm, came over them. They knew not what it was, and they were +darkly uneasy. They became morbidly sensitive. Their nerves, strained in +the close watching of the silence, trembled like leaves at the least +unexpected clash of life. Jacqueline was often in tears without any +cause for weeping, and although she tried hard to convince herself of +it, it was not only love that made them flow. After the ardent and +tormented years that had preceded her marriage the sudden stoppage of +her efforts as she attained--attained and passed--her end,--the sudden +futility of any new course of action--and perhaps of all that she had +done in the past,--flung her into a state of confusion, which she could +not understand, so that it appalled and crushed her. She would not allow +that it was so: she attributed it to her nerves, and pretended to laugh +it off: but her laughter was no less uneasy than her tears. She tried +bravely to take up her work again: but as soon as she began she could +not understand how she could ever have taken any interest in such stupid +things, and she flung them aside in disgust. She made an effort to pick +up the threads of her social life once more: but with no better success: +she had committed herself, and she had lost the trick of dealing with +the commonplace people and their commonplace remarks that are inevitable +in life: she thought them grotesque; and she flung back into her +isolation with her husband, and tried hard to persuade herself, as a +result of these unhappy experiences, that there was nothing good in the +world save love. And for a time she seemed really to be more in love +than ever. Olivier, being less passionate and having a greater store of +tenderness, was less susceptible to these apprehensions: only every now +and then he would feel a qualm of uneasiness. Besides, his love was +preserved in some measure by the constraint of his daily occupation, his +work, which was distasteful to him. But as he was highly strung and +sensitive, and everything that happened in the heart of the woman he +loved affected him also, Jacqueline's secret uneasiness infected him. + +One fine afternoon they went for a walk together in the country. They +had looked forward to the walk eagerly and happily. All the world was +bright and gay about them. But as soon as they set out gloom and heavy +sadness descended upon them: they felt chilled to the heart. They could +find nothing to say to each other. However, they forced themselves to +speak, but every word they said rang hollowly, and made them feel the +emptiness of their lives at that moment. They finished their walk +mechanically, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. They returned home sick +at heart. It was twilight: their rooms were cold, black, and empty. They +did not light up at once, to avoid seeing each other. Jacqueline went +into her room, and, instead of taking off her hat and cloak, she sat in +silence by the window. Olivier sat, too, in the next room with his arms +resting on the table. The door was open between the two rooms; they were +so near that they could have heard each other's breathing. And in the +semi-darkness they both wept, in silence, bitterly. They held their +hands over their mouths, so that they should make no sound. At last, in +agony, Olivier said: + +"Jacqueline...." + +Jacqueline gulped down her sobs, and said: + +"What is it?" + +"Aren't you coming?" + +"Yes, I'm coming." + +She took off her hat and cloak, and went and bathed her eyes. He lit the +lamp. In a few minutes she came into the room. They did not look at each +other. Each knew that the other had been weeping. And they could not +console each other, for they knew not why it was. + +Then came a time when they could no longer conceal their unhappiness. +And as they would not admit the true cause of it, they cast about for +another, and had no difficulty in finding it. They set it down to the +dullness of provincial life and their surroundings. They found comfort +in that. M. Langeais was informed of their plight by his daughter, and +was not greatly surprised to hear that she was beginning to weary of +heroism. He made use of his political friends, and obtained a post in +Paris for his son-in-law. + +When the good news reached them, Jacqueline jumped for joy and regained +all her old happiness. Now that they were going to leave it, they found +that they were quite fond of the dull country: they had sown so many +memories of love in it! They occupied their last days in going over the +traces of their love. There was a tender melancholy in their pilgrimage. +Those calm stretches of country had seen them happy. An inward voice +murmured: + +"You know what you are leaving behind you. Do you know what lies before +you?" + +Jacqueline wept the day before they left. Olivier asked her why. She +would not say. They took a sheet of paper, and as they always did when +they were fearful of the sound of words, wrote: + +"My dear, dear Olivier...." + +"My dear, dear Jacqueline...." + +"I am sorry to be going away." + +"Going away from what?" + +"From the place where we have been lovers." + +"Going where?" + +"To a place where we shall be older." + +"To a place where we shall be together." + +"But never so loving." + +"Always more loving." + +"Who can tell?" + +"I know." + +"I will be." + +Then they drew two circles at the bottom of the paper for kisses. And +then she dried her tears, laughed, and dressed him up as a favorite of +Henri III by putting her toque on his head and her white cape with its +collar turned up like a ruff round his shoulders. + +In Paris they resumed all their old friendships, but they did not find +their friends just as they had left them. When he heard of Olivier's +arrival, Christophe rushed to him delightedly. Olivier was equally +rejoiced to see him. But as soon as they met they felt an unaccountable +constraint between them. They both tried to break through it, but in +vain. Olivier was very affectionate, but there was a change in him, and +Christophe felt it. A friend who marries may do what he will: he cannot +be the friend of the old days. The woman's soul is, and must be, merged +in the man's. Christophe could detect the woman in everything that +Olivier said and did, in the imperceptible light of his expression, in +the unfamiliar turn of his lips, in the new inflections of his voice and +the trend of his ideas. Olivier was oblivious of it: but he was amazed +to find Christophe so different from the man he had left. He did not go +so far as to think that it was Christophe who had changed: he recognized +that the change was in himself, and ascribed it to normal evolution, the +inevitable result of the passing years; and he was surprised not to find +the same progress in Christophe: he thought reproachfully that he had +remained stationary in his ideas, which had once been so dear to him, +though now they seemed naïve and out of date. The truth was that they +did not sort well with the stranger soul which, unknown to himself, had +taken up its abode in him. He was most clearly conscious of it when +Jacqueline was present when they were talking: and then between +Olivier's eyes and Christophe there was a veil of irony. However, they +tried to conceal what they felt. Christophe went often to see them, and +Jacqueline innocently let fly at him her barbed and poisoned shafts. He +suffered her. But when he returned home he would feel sad and sorry. + +Their first months in Paris were fairly happy for Jacqueline, and +consequently for Olivier. At first she was busy with their new house: +they had found a nice little flat looking on to a garden in an old +street at Passy. Choosing furniture and wallpapers kept her time full +for a few weeks. Jacqueline flung herself into it energetically, and +almost passionately and exaggeratedly: it was as though her eternal +happiness depended on the color of her hangings or the shape of an old +chest. Then she resumed intercourse with her father and mother and her +friends. As she had entirely forgotten them during her year of love, it +was as though she had made their acquaintance for the first time: just +as part of her soul was merged in Olivier's, so part of Olivier's soul was +merged in hers, and she saw her old friends with new eyes. They +seemed to her to have gained much. Olivier did not lose by it at first. +They were a set-off to each other. The moral reserve and the poetic +light and shade of her husband made Jacqueline find more pleasure in +those worldly people who only think of enjoying themselves, and of being +brilliant and charming: and the seductive but dangerous failings of +their world, which she knew so much better because she belonged to it, +made her appreciate the security of her lover's affection. She amused +herself with these comparisons, and loved to linger over them, the +better to justify her choice.--She lingered over them to such an extent +that sometimes she could not tell why she had made that choice. Happily, +such moments never lasted long. She would be sorry for them, and was +never so tender with Olivier as when they were past. Thereupon she would +begin again. By the time it had become a habit with her it had ceased to +amuse her: and the comparison became more aggressive: instead of +complementing each other, the two opposing worlds declared war on each +other. She began to wonder why Olivier lacked the qualities, if not some +of the failings, which she now admired in her Parisian friends. She did +not tell him so: but Olivier often felt his wife looking at him without +any indulgence in her eyes, and it hurt him and made him uneasy. + +However, he had not lost the ascendancy over Jacqueline which love had +given him: and they would have gone on quite happily living their life +of tender and hard-working intimacy for long enough had it not been for +circumstances which altered their material condition and destroyed its +delicate balance. + +_Quivi trovammo Pluto il gran némico...._ + +A sister of Madame Langeais died. She was the widow of a rich +manufacturer, and had no children. Her whole estate passed to the +Langeais. Jacqueline's fortune was more than doubled by it. When she +came in for her legacy, Olivier remembered what Christophe had said +about money, and remarked: + +"We were quite well off without it: perhaps it will be a bad thing for +us." + +Jacqueline laughed at him: + +"Silly!" she said. "As though money could ever do any harm! We won't +make any change in our way of living just yet." + +Their life remained the same to all appearances: so much the same that +after a certain time Jacqueline began to complain that they were not +well enough off: proof positive that there was a change somewhere. And, +in fact, although their income had been doubled or tripled, they spent +the whole of it without knowing how they did it. They began to wonder +how they had managed to live before. The money flew, and was swallowed +up by a thousand new expenses, which seemed at once to be habitual and +indispensable. Jacqueline had begun to patronize the great dressmakers: +she had dismissed the family sempstress who came by the day, a woman she +had known since she was a child. The days of the little fourpenny hats +made out of nothing, though they were quite pretty all the same, were +gone,--gone the days of the frocks which were not impeccably smart, +though they had much of her own grace, and were, indeed, a part of +herself! The sweet intimate charm which shone upon all about her grew +fainter every day. The poetry of her nature was lost. She was becoming +commonplace. + +They changed their flat. The rooms which they had furnished with so much +trouble and pleasure seemed narrow and ugly. Instead of the cozy little +rooms, all radiant with her spirit, with a friendly tree waving its +delicate foliage against the windows, they took an enormous, +comfortable, well-arranged flat which they did not, could not, love, +where they were bored to death. Instead of their old friendly +belongings, they obtained furniture and hangings which were strangers to +them. There was no place left for memories. The first years of their +married life were swept away from their thoughts.... It is a great +misfortune for two people living together to have the ties which bind +them to their past love broken! The image of their love is a safeguard +against the disappointment and hostility which inevitably succeed the +first years of tenderness.... The power to spend largely had brought +Jacqueline, both in Paris and abroad--(for now that they were rich they +often traveled)--into touch with a class of rich and useless people, +whose society gave her a sort of contempt for the rest of mankind, all +those who had work to do. With her marvelous power of adaptation, she +very quickly caught the color of these sterile and rotten men and women. +She could not fight against it. At once she became refractory and +irritable, regarding the idea that it was possible--and right--to be +happy in her domestic duties and the _auréa mediocritus_ as mere +"vulgar manners." She had lost even the capacity to understand the +bygone days when she had so generously given herself in love. + +Olivier was not strong enough to fight against it. He, too, had changed. +He had given up his work, and had no fixed and compulsory occupation. He +wrote, and the balance of his life was adjusted by it. Till then he had +suffered because he could not give his whole life to art. Now that he +could do so he felt utterly lost in the cloudy world. Art which is not also +a profession, and supported by a healthy practical life, art which +knows not the necessity of earning the daily bread, loses the best part +of its force and its reality. It is only the flower of luxury. It is +not--(what in the greatest, the only great, artists it is)--the sacred +fruit of human suffering.--Olivier felt a disinclination to work, a +desire to ask: "What is the good of it?" There was nothing to make him +write: he would let his pen run on, he dawdled about, he had lost his +bearings. He had lost touch with his own class of men and women +patiently plowing the hard furrow of their lives. He had fallen into a +different world, where he was ill at ease, though on the whole he did +not find it unpleasant. Weak, amiable, and curious, he fell complacently +to observing that world which was entirely lacking in consistency, +though it was not without charm; and he did not see that little by +little he was becoming contaminated by it: it was undermining his faith. + +No doubt the transformation was not so rapid in him as it was in +Jacqueline.--Women have the terrible privilege of being able suddenly to +undergo a complete change. The way in which they suddenly die and then +as suddenly come to life again is appalling to those who love them. And +yet it is perfectly natural for a human being who is full of life +without the curb of the will not to be to-morrow what it is to-day. A +woman is like running water. The man who loves her must follow the +stream or divert it into the channel of his own life. In both cases +there must be change. But it is a dangerous experience, and no man +really knows love until he has gone through it. And its harmony is so +delicate during the first years of married life that often the very +smallest change in either husband or wife is enough to destroy their +whole relationship. How much more perilous, then, is a sudden change of +fortune or of circumstance! They must needs be very strong--or very +indifferent to each other--to withstand it. + +Jacqueline and Olivier were neither indifferent nor strong. They began +to see each other in a new light: and the face of the beloved became +strange to them. When first they made the sad discovery, they hid it +from each other in loving pity: for they still loved each other. Olivier +took refuge in his work, and by applying himself to it regularly, though +with even less conviction than before, won through to tranquillity. +Jacqueline had nothing. She did nothing. She would stay in bed for +hours, or dawdle over her toilette, sitting idly, half dressed, +motionless, lost in thought: and gradually a dumb misery crept over her +like an icy mist. She could not break away from the fixed idea of +love.... Love! Of things human the most Divine when it is the gift of +self, a passionate and blind sacrifice. But when it is no more than the +pursuit of happiness, it is the most senseless and the most elusive.... +It was impossible for her to conceive any other aim in life. In moments +of benevolence she had tried to take an interest in the sorrows of other +people: but she could not do it. The sufferings of others filled her +with an ungovernable feeling of repulsion: her nerves were not strong +enough to bear them. To appease her conscience she had occasionally done +something which looked like philanthropy: but the result had been tame +and disappointing. + +"You see," she would say to Christophe, "when one tries to do good one +does harm. It is much better not to try. I'm not cut out for it." + +Christophe would look at her: and he would think of a girl he had met, a +selfish, immoral little grisette, absolutely incapable of real +affection, though, as soon as she saw anybody suffering, she was filled +with motherly pity for him, even though she had not cared a rap for him +before, even though he were a stranger to her. She was not abashed by +the most horrible tasks, and she would even take a strange pleasure in +doing those which demanded the greatest self-denial. She never stopped +to think about it: she seemed to find in it a use for her obscure, +hereditary, and eternally unexpressed idealism: her soul was atrophied +as far as the rest of her life was concerned, but at such rare moments +it breathed again: it gave her a sense of well-being and inward joy to +be able to allay suffering: and her joy was then almost misplaced.--The +goodness of that woman, who was selfish, the selfishness of Jacqueline, +who was good in spite of it, were neither vice nor virtue, but in both +cases only a matter of health. But the first was in the better case. +Jacqueline was crushed by the mere idea of suffering. She would have +preferred death to physical illness. She would have preferred death to +the loss of either of her sources of joy: her beauty or her youth. That +she should not have all the happiness to which she thought herself +entitled,--(for she believed in happiness, it was a matter of faith with +her, wholeheartedly and absurdly, a religious belief),--and that others +should have more happiness than herself, would have seemed to her the +most horrible injustice. Happiness was not only a religion to her; it +was a virtue. To be unhappy seemed to her to be an infirmity. Her whole +life gradually came to revolve round that principle. Her real character +had broken through the veils of idealism in which in girlish bashful +modesty she had enshrouded herself. In her reaction against the idealism +of the past she began to see things in a hard, crude light. Things were +only true for her in proportion as they coincided with the opinion of +the world and the smoothness of life. She had reached her mother's state +of mind: she went to church, and practised religion punctiliously and +indifferently. She never stopped to ask herself whether there was any +real truth in it: she had other more positive mental difficulties: and +she would think of the mystical revolt of her childhood with pitying +irony.--And yet her new positivism was no more real than her old +idealism. She forced it. She was neither angel nor brute. She was just a +poor bored woman. + +She was bored, bored, bored: and her boredom was all the greater in that +she could not excuse herself on the score of not being loved, or by +saying that she could not endure Olivier. Her life seemed to be stunted, +walled up, with no future prospect: she longed for a new happiness that +should be perpetually renewed; her longing was utterly childish, for it +never took into account her indifferent capacity for happiness. She was +like so many women living idle lives with idle husbands, who have every +reason to be happy, and yet never cease torturing themselves. There are +many such couples, who are rich and blessed with health and lovely +children, and clever and capable of feeling fine things, and possessed +of the power to keep themselves employed and to do good, and to enrich +their own lives and the lives of others. And they spend their time in +moaning and groaning that they do not love each other, that they love +some one else, or that they do not love somebody else--perpetually taken +up with themselves, and their sentimental or sensual relations, and +their pretended right to happiness, their conflicting egoism, and +arguing, arguing, arguing, playing with their sham grand passion, their +sham great suffering, and in the end believing in it, and--suffering.... +If only some one would say to them: + +"You are not in the least interesting. It is indecent to be so sorry for +yourselves when you have so many good reasons for being happy!" + +If only some one would take away their money, their health, all the +marvelous gifts of which they are so unworthy! If only some one would +once more lay the yoke of poverty and real suffering on these slaves who +are incapable of being free and are driven mad by their liberty! If they +had to earn their bread in the sweat of their brows, they would be glad +enough to eat it. And if they were to come face to face with grim +suffering, they would never dare to play with the sham.... + +But, when all is said and done, they do suffer. They are ill. How, then, +are they not to be pitied?--Poor Jacqueline was quite innocent, as +innocent in drifting apart from Olivier as Olivier was in not holding +her. She was what Nature had made her. She did not know that marriage is +a challenge to Nature, and that, when one has thrown down the gauntlet +to Nature, it is only to be expected that she will arise and begin +valiantly to wage the combat which one has provoked. She saw that she +had been mistaken, and she was exasperated with herself; and her +disillusion turned to hostility towards the thing she had loved, +Olivier's faith, which had also been her own. An intelligent woman has, +much more than a man, moments of an intuitive perception of things +eternal: but it is more difficult for her to maintain her grip on them. +Once a man has come by the idea of the eternal, he feeds it with his +life-blood. A woman uses it to feed her own life: she absorbs it, and +does not create it. She must always be throwing fresh fuel into her +heart and mind: she cannot be self-sufficing. And if she cannot believe +and love, she must destroy--except she possess the supreme virtue of +serenity. + +Jacqueline had believed passionately in a union based on a common faith, +in the happiness of struggling and suffering together in accomplishment. +But she had only believed in that endeavor, that faith, while they were +gilded by the sun of love: and as the sun died down she saw them as +barren, gloomy mountains standing out against the empty sky: and her +strength failed her, so that she could go no farther on the road: what +was the good of reaching the summit? What was there on the other side? +It was a gigantic phantom and a snare!... Jacqueline could not +understand how Olivier could go on being taken in by such fantastic +notions which consumed life: and she began to tell herself that he was +not very clever, nor very much alive. She was stifling in his +atmosphere, in which she could not breathe, and the instinct of +self-preservation drove her on to the attack, in self-defense. She +strove to scatter and bring to dust the injurious beliefs of the man she +still loved: she used every weapon of irony and seductive pleasure in +her armory: she trammeled him with the tendrils of her desires and her +petty cares: she longed to make him a reflection of herself, ... +herself who knew neither what she wanted nor what she was! She was +humiliated by Olivier's want of success: and she did not care whether it +were just or unjust; for she had come to believe that the only thing +which saves a man of talent from failure is success. Olivier was +oppressed by his consciousness of her doubts, and his strength was +sapped by it. However, he struggled on as best he could, as so many men +have struggled, and will struggle, for the most part vainly, in the +unequal conflict in which the selfish instinct of the woman upholds +itself against the man's intellectual egoism by playing upon his +weakness, his dishonesty, and his common sense, which is the name with +which he disguises the wear and tear of life and his own cowardice.--At +least, Jacqueline and Olivier were better than the majority of such +combatants. For he would never have betrayed his ideal, as thousands of +men do who drift with the demands of their laziness, their vanity, and +their loves, into renunciation of their immortal souls. And, if he had +done so, Jacqueline would have despised him. But, in her blindness, she +strove to destroy that force in Olivier, which was hers also, their common +safeguard: and by an instinctive strategical movement she undermined the +friendship by which that force was upheld. + +Since the legacy Christophe had become a stranger in their household. +The affectation of snobbishness and a dull practical outlook on life +which Jacqueline used wickedly to exaggerate in her conversations with +him were more than he could bear. He would lash out sometimes, and say +hard things, which were taken in bad part. They could never have brought +about a rupture between the two friends: they were too fond of each +other. Nothing in the world would have induced Olivier to give up +Christophe. But he could not make Jacqueline feel the same about him; +and, his love making him weak, he was incapable of hurting her. +Christophe, who saw what was happening to him, and how he was suffering, +made the choice easy by a voluntary withdrawal. He saw that he could not +help Olivier in any way by staying, but rather made things worse. He was +the first to give his friend reasons for turning from him: and Olivier, +in his weakness, accepted those inadequate reasons, while he guessed +what the sacrifice must have cost Christophe, and was bitterly sorry for +it. + +Christophe bore him no ill-will. He thought that there was much truth in +the saying that a man's wife is his better half. For a man married is +but the half of a man. + +He tried to reconstruct his life without Olivier. But it was all in +vain, and it was idle for him to pretend that the separation would only +be for a short time: in spite of his optimism, he had many hours of +sadness. He had lost the habit of loneliness. He had been alone, it is +true, during Olivier's sojourn in the provinces: but then he had been +able to pretend and tell himself that his friend was away for a time, +and would return. Now that his friend had come back he was farther away +than ever. His affection for him, which had filled his life for a number +of years, was suddenly taken from him: it was as though he had lost his +chief reason for working. Since his friendship for Olivier he had grown +used to thinking with him and bringing him into everything he did. His +work was not enough to supply the gap: for Christophe had grown used to +weaving the image of his friend into his work. And now that his friend +no longer took any interest in him, Christophe was thrown off his +balance: he set out to find another affection to restore it. + +Madame Arnaud and Philomela did not fail him. But just then such +tranquil friendship as theirs was not enough. However, the two women +seemed to divine Christophe's sorrow, and they secretly sympathized with +him. Christophe was much surprised one evening to see Madame Arnaud come +into his room. Till then she had never ventured to call on him. She +seemed to be somewhat agitated. Christophe paid no heed to it, and set +her uneasiness down to her shyness. She sat down, and for some time said +nothing. To put her at her ease, Christophe did the honors of his room. +They talked of Olivier, with memories of whom the room was filled. +Christophe spoke of him gaily and naturally, without giving so much as +a hint of what had happened. But Madame Arnaud, knowing it, could not help +looking at him pityingly and saying: + +"You don't see each other now?" + +He thought she had come to console him, and felt a gust of impatience, +for he did not like any meddling with his affairs. He replied: + +"Whenever we like." + +She blushed, and said: + +"Oh! it was not an indiscreet question!" + +He was sorry for his gruffness, and took her hands: + +"I beg your pardon," he said. "I am always afraid of his being blamed. +Poor boy! He is suffering as much as I.... No, we don't see each other +now." + +"And he doesn't write to you?" + +"No," said Christophe, rather shamefacedly.... + +"How sad life is!" said Madame Arnaud, after a moment. + +"No; life is not sad," he said. "But there are sad moments in it." + +Madame Arnaud went on with veiled bitterness: + +"We love, and then we love no longer. What is the good of it all?" + +Christophe replied: + +"It is good to have loved." + +She went on: + +"You have sacrificed yourself for him. If only our self-sacrifice could +be of any use to those we love! But it makes them none the happier!" + +"I have not sacrificed myself," said Christophe angrily. "And if I have, +it is because it pleased me to do so. There's no room for arguing about +it. One does what one has to do. If one did not do it, one would be +unhappy, and suffer for it! There never was anything so idiotic as this +talk of sacrifice! Clergymen, in the poverty of their hearts, mix it up +with a cramped and morose idea of Protestant gloom. Apparently, if an +act of sacrifice is to be good, it must be besotted.... Good Lord! if a +sacrifice means sorrow to you, and not joy, then don't do it; you are +unworthy of it. A man doesn't sacrifice himself for the King of Prussia, +but for himself. If you don't feel the happiness that lies in the gift +of yourself, then get out! You don't deserve to live." + +Madame Arnaud listened to Christophe without daring to look at him. +Suddenly she got up and said: + +"Good-by." + +Then he saw that she had come to confide in him, and said: + +"Oh! forgive me. I'm a selfish oaf, and can only talk about myself. +Please stay. Won't you?" + +She said: + +"No: I cannot.... Thank you...." + +And she left him. + +It was some time before they met again. She gave no sign of life; and he +did not go to see either her or Philomela. He was fond of both of them: +but he was afraid of having to talk to them about things that made him +sad. And, besides, for the time being, their calm, dull existence, with +its too rarefied air, was not suited to his needs. He wanted to see new +faces; it was imperative that he should find a new interest, a new love, +to occupy his mind. + +By way of being taken out of himself he began to frequent the theaters +which he had neglected for a long time. The theater seemed to him to be +an interesting school for a musician who wishes to observe and take note +of the accents of the passions. + +It was not that he had any greater sympathy with French plays than when +he first came to live in Paris. Outside his small liking for their +eternal stale and brutal subjects connected with the psycho-physiology +of love, it seemed to him that the language of the French theater, +especially in poetic drama, was ultra-false. Neither their prose nor +their verse had anything in common with the living language and the +genius of the people. Their prose was an artificial language, the +language of a polite chronicle with the best, that of a vulgar +feuilletonist with the worst. Their poetry justified Goethe's gibe: + +"_Poetry is all very well for those who have nothing to say_." + +It was a wordy and inverted prose: the profusion of metaphors clumsily +tacked on to it in imitation of the lyricism of other nations produced +an effect of utter falsity upon any sincere person. Christophe set no +more store by these poetic dramas than he did by the Italian operas with +their shrill mellifluous airs and their ornamental vocal exercises. He +was much more interested in the actors than the plays. And the authors +had tried hard to imitate them. "_It was hopeless to think that a play +could be performed with any success unless the author had looked to it +that his characters were modeled on the vices of the actors_." The +situation was hardly at all changed since the time when Diderot wrote +those lines. The actors had become the models of the art of the theater. +As soon as any one of them reached success, he had his theater, his +compliant tailor-authors, and his plays made to measure. + +Among these great mannikins of literary fashions Françoise Oudon +attracted Christophe. Paris had been infatuated with her for a couple of +years or so. She, too, of course, had her theater and her purveyors of +parts: however, she did not only act in plays written for her: her mixed +repertory ranged from Ibsen to Sardou, from Gabriele d'Annunzio to Dumas +_fils_, from Bernard Shaw to the latest Parisian playwrights. Upon +occasion she would even venture into the Versailles' avenues of the +classic hexameter, or on to the deluge of images of Shakespeare. But she +was ill at ease in that galley, and her audience was even more so. +Whatever she played, she played herself, nothing but herself, always. It +was both her weakness and her strength. Until the public had been +awakened to an interest in her personality, her acting had had no +success. As soon as that interest was roused, everything she did +appeared marvelous. And, indeed, it was well worth while in watching her +to forget the usually pitiful plays which she betrayed by endowing and +adorning them with her vitality. The mystery of the woman's body, swayed +by a stranger soul, was to Christophe far more moving than the plays in +which she acted. + +She had a fine, clear-cut, rather tragic profile. She had not the marked +heavy lines of the Roman style: on the contrary, her lines were delicate +and Parisian, _à la _Jean Goujon--as much like a boy's as a +woman's. A short, finely-modeled nose. A beautiful mouth, with thin +lips, curling rather bitterly. Bright cheeks, girlishly thin, in which +there was something touching, the light of inward suffering. A strong +chin. Pale complexion. One of those habitually impassive faces which are +transparent in spite of themselves, and reveal the soul quivering behind +it, as though it were exposed in its nakedness; one of those faces in +which the soul seems to be ever, in every part of it, just beneath the +skin. She had very fine hair and eyebrows, and her changing eyes were +gray and amber-colored, passing quickly from one light to another, +greenish and golden, like the eyes of a cat. And there was something +catlike in all her nature, in her apparent torpor, her semi-somnolence, +with eyes wide open, always on the watch, always suspicious, while +suddenly she would nervously and rather cruelly relax her watchfulness. +She was not so tall as she appeared, nor so slender; she had beautiful +shoulders, lovely arms, and fine, long hands. She was very neat in her +dress, and her coiffure, always trim and tasteful, with none of the +Bohemian carelessness or the exaggerated smartness of many artists--even +in that she was catlike, instinctively aristocratic, although she had +risen from the gutter. At bottom she was incurably shy and wild. + +She must have been a little less than thirty. Christophe had heard +people speak of her at Gamache's with coarse admiration, as a woman of +great freedom, intelligence, and boldness, tremendous and inflexible +energy, and burning ambition, but bitter, fantastic, perplexing, and +violent, a woman who had waded through a deal of mud before she had +reached her present pinnacle of fame, and had since avenged herself. + +One day, when Christophe was going by train to see Philomela at Meudon, +as he opened the door of a compartment, he saw the actress sitting +there. She seemed to be agitated and perturbed, and Christophe's +appearance annoyed her. She turned her back on him, and looked +obstinately out of the opposite window. But Christophe was so struck by +the changed expression in her face, that he could not stop gazing at her +with a naïve and embarrassing compassion. It exasperated her, and she +flung an angry look at him which he did not understand. At the next +station she got out and went into another compartment. Then for the +first time it occurred to him--rather late in the day--that he had +driven her away: and he was greatly distressed. A few days later, at a +station on the same line, he was sitting on the only seat in the +platform, waiting for the train back to Paris. She appeared, and came +and sat by his side. He began to move, but she said: + +"Stay." + +They were alone. He begged her pardon for having forced her to go to +another compartment the other day, saying that if he had had any idea +that he was incommoding her he would have got out himself. She smiled +ironically, and only replied: + +"You were certainly unbearable with your persistent staring." + +He said: + +"I begged your pardon: I could not help it.... You looked so unhappy." + +"Well, what of it?" she said. + +"It was too strong for me. If you saw a man drowning, wouldn't you hold +out your hand to him?" + +"I? Certainly not," she said. "I would push him under water, so as to +get it over quickly." + +She spoke with a mixture of bitterness and humor: and, when he looked at +her in amazement, she laughed. + +The train came in. It was full up, except for the last carriage. She got +in. The porter told them to hurry up. Christophe, who had no mind to +repeat the scene of a few days before, was for finding another +compartment, but she said: + +"Come in." + +He got in, and she said: + +"To-day I don't mind." + +They began to talk. Christophe tried very seriously to prove to her that +it was not right not to take an interest in others, and that people +could do so much for each other by helping and comforting each other.... + +"Consolation," she said, "is not much in my line...." + +And as Christophe insisted: + +"Yes," she said, with her impertinent smile; "the part of comforter is +all very well for the man who plays it." + +It was a moment or two before he grasped her meaning. When he +understood, when he fancied that she suspected him of seeking his own +interest, while he was only thinking of her, he got up indignantly and +opened the door, and made as though to climb out, although the train was +moving. She prevented him, though not without difficulty. He sat down +again angrily, and shut the door just as the train shot into a tunnel. + +"You see," she said, "you might have been killed." + +"I don't care," he said. + +He refused to speak to her again. + +"People are so stupid," he said. "They make each other suffer, they +suffer, and when a man goes to help another fellow-creature, he is +suspected. It is disgusting. People like that are not human." + +She laughed and tried to soothe him. She laid her gloved hand on his: +she spoke to him gently, and called him by his name. + +"What?" he said. "You know me?" + +"As if everybody didn't know everybody in Paris! We're all in the same +boat. But it was horrid of me to speak to you as I did. You are a good +fellow. I can see that. Come; calm yourself. Shake hands! Let us make +peace!" + +They shook hands, and went on talking amicably. She said: + +"It is not my fault, you know. I have had so many experiences with men +that I have become suspicious." + +"They have deceived me, too, many a time," said Christophe. "But I +always give them credit for something better." + +"I see; you were born to be gulled." + +He began to laugh: + +"Yes; I've been taken in a good many times in my life; I've gulped down +a good many lies. But it does me no harm. I've a good stomach. I can put +up with worse things, hardship, poverty, and, if necessary, I can gulp +down with their lies the poor fools who attack me. It does me good, if +anything." + +"You're in luck," she said. "You're something like a man." + +"And you. You're something like a woman." + +"That's no great thing." + +"It's a fine thing," he said, "and it may be a good thing, too!" + +She laughed: + +"To be a woman!" she said. "But what does the world make of women?" + +"You have to defend yourself." + +"But goodness never lasts long." + +"Then you can't have much of it." + +"Possibly. And then, I don't think one ought to suffer too much. There +is a point beyond which suffering withers you up." + +He was just about to tell her how he pitied her, but he remembered how +she had received it a short while before.... + +"You'll only talk about the advantages of the part of comforter...." + +"No," she said, "I won't say it again. I feel that you are kind and +sincere. Thank you. Only, don't say anything. You cannot know.... Thank +you." + +They had reached Paris. They parted without exchanging addresses or +inviting each other to call. + + * * * * * + +A few months later she came of her own accord and knocked at +Christophe's door. + +"I came to see you. I want to talk to you. I have been thinking of you +sometimes since our meeting." + +She took a seat. + +"Only for a moment. I shan't disturb you for long." + +He began to talk to her. She said: + +"Wait a moment, please." + +They sat in silence. Then she said with a smile: + +"I couldn't bear it any longer. I feel better now." + +He tried to question her. + +"No," she said. "Not that!" + +She looked round the room, examined and appraised the things in it, and +saw the photograph of Louisa: + +"Your mother?" she said. + +"Yes." + +She took it and looked at it sympathetically. + +"What a good old woman!" she said. "You are lucky!" + +"Alas! she is dead." + +"That is nothing. You have had the luck to have her for your mother." + +"Yes. And you?" + +But she turned the subject with a frown. She would not let him question +her about herself. + +"No; tell me about yourself. Tell me.... Something about your life...." + +"How can it be of any interest to you?" + +"Tell me, all the same...." + +He would not tell her: but he could not avoid answering her questions, +for she cross-examined him very skilfully: so much so, that he told her +something of what he was suffering, the story of his friendship, and how +Olivier had left him. She listened with a pitying ironical smile.... +Suddenly she asked: + +"What time is it? Oh! good Heavens! I've been here two whole hours!... +Please forgive me.... Ah! what a rest it has been!..." + +She added: + +"Will you let me come again?... Not often.... Sometimes.... It would do +me good. But I wouldn't like to bore you or waste your time.... Only a +minute or two every now and then...." + +"I'll come and see you," said Christophe. + +"No, don't do that. I would much rather come to see you...." + +But she did not come again for a long time. One evening he heard by +accident that she was seriously ill, and had not been acting for some +weeks. He went to see her, although she had forbidden it. She was not at +home: but when she heard who it was, she sent and had him brought back +as he was going down the stairs. She was in bed, but much better: she +had had pneumonia, and looked altered: but she still had her ironical +manner and her watchful expression, which there was no disarming. +However, she seemed to be really pleased to see Christophe. She made him +sit by her bedside, and talked about herself in a mocking, detached way, +and said that she had almost died. He was much moved, and showed it. +Then she teased him. He reproached her for not having let him know. + +"Let you know? And have you coming to see me? Never!" + +"I bet you never even thought of me." + +"You've won," she said, with her sad little mocking smile. "I didn't +think of you for a moment while I was ill. To be precise, I never +thought of you until to-day. There's nothing to be glum about, come. +When I am ill I don't think of anybody. I only ask one thing of people; +to be left alone in peace. I turn my face to the wall and wait: I want +to be alone. I want to die alone, like a rat in a hole." + +"And yet it is hard to suffer alone." + +"I'm used to it. I have been unhappy for years. No one ever came to my +assistance. Now it has become a habit.... Besides, it is better so. No +one can do anything for you. A noise in the room, worrying attentions, +hypocritical jeremiads.... No; I would rather die alone." + +"You are very resigned!" + +"Resigned? I don't even know what the word means. No: I set my teeth and +I hate the illness which makes me suffer." + +He asked her if she had no one to see her, no one to look after her. She +said that her comrades at the theater were kind enough,--idiots,--but +obliging and compassionate (in a superficial sort of way). + +"But I tell you, I don't want to see them. I'm a surly sort of +customer." + +"I would put up with it," he said. + +She looked at him pityingly: + +"You, too! You're going to talk like the rest?" + +He said: + +"Pardon, pardon.... Good Heavens! I'm becoming a Parisian! I am +ashamed.... I swear that I didn't even think what I was saying...." + +He buried his face in the bedclothes. She laughed frankly, and gave him +a tap on the head! + +"Ah! that's not Parisian! That's something like! I know you again. Come, +show your face. Don't weep all over my bed." + +"Do you forgive me?" + +"I forgive you. But don't do it again." + +She talked to him a little more, asked him what he was doing, and was +then tired, bored, and dismissed him. + +He had arranged to go and see her again the following week. But just as +he was setting out he received a telegram from her telling him not to +come: she was having a bad day.--Then, the next day but one, she sent +for him. He went, and found her convalescent, sitting by the window, +with her feet up. It was early spring, with a sunny sky and the young +buds on the trees. She was more gentle and affectionate than he had yet +seen her. She told him that she could not see anybody the other day, and +would have detested him as much as anybody else. + +"And to-day?" + +"To-day I feel young and fresh, and I feel fond of everything else about +me that feels young and fresh--as you do." + +"And yet I am neither very young nor very fresh." + +"You will be both until the day of your death." + +They talked about what he had been doing since their last meeting, and +about the theater in which she was going to resume her work soon: and on +that she told him what she thought of the theater, which disgusted her, +while it held her in its grip. + +She did not want him to come again, and promised to resume her visits to +his flat. He told her the times when she would be least likely to +disturb his work. They arranged a countersign. She was to knock at the +door in a certain way, and he was to open or not as he felt inclined.... + +She did not go beyond bounds at first. But once, when she was going to a +society At Home, where she was to recite, the idea of it bored her at +the last moment: she stopped on the way and telephoned to say that she +could not come, and she told her man to drive to Christophe's. She only +meant to say good-night to him as she passed. But, as it turned out, she +began to confide in him that night, and told him all her life from her +childhood on. + +A sad childhood! An accidental father whom she had never known. A mother +who kept an ill-famed inn in a suburb of a town in the north of France: +the carters used to go and drink there, use the proprietress, and bully +her. One of them married her because she had some small savings: he used +to beat her and get drunk. Françoise had an elder sister who was a +servant in the inn: she was worked to death; the proprietor made her his +mistress in the sight and knowledge of her mother; she was consumptive, +and had died. Françoise had grown up amid scenes of violence and +shameful things. She saw her mother and sister weep, suffer, accept, +degrade themselves, and die. And desperately she made up her mind not to +submit to it, and to escape from her infamous surroundings: she was a +rebel by instinct: certain acts of injustice would set her beside +herself: she used to scratch and bite when she was thrashed. Once she +tried to hang herself. She did not succeed: she had hardly set about it +than she was afraid lest she might succeed only too well; and, even +while she was beginning to choke and desperately clutching at the rope +and trying to loosen it with stiff fumbling fingers, there was writhing +in her a furious desire to live. And since she could not escape by +death,--(Christophe smiled sadly, remembering his own experiences,)--she +swore that she would win, and be free, rich, and trample under foot all +those who oppressed her. She had made it a vow in her lair one evening, +when in the next room she could hear the oaths of the man, and the cries +of her mother as he beat her, and her sister's sobs. How utterly +wretched she felt! And yet her vow had been some solace. She clenched +her teeth and thought: + +"I will crush the lot of you." + +In that dark childhood there had been one ray of light: + +One day, one of the little grubby boys with whom she used to lark in the +gutter, the son of the stage-door keeper of the theater, got her in to +the rehearsal, although it was strictly forbidden. They stole to the +very back of the building in the darkness. She was gripped by the +mystery of the stage, gleaming in the darkness, and by the magnificent +and incomprehensible things that the actors were saying, and by the +queenly bearing of the actress,--who was, in fact, playing a queen in a +romantic melodrama. She was chilled by emotion: and at the same time her +heart thumped.... "That--that is what I must be some day!" ... Oh! if +she could ever be like that!...--When it was over she wanted at all +costs to see the evening performance. She let her companion go out, and +pretended to follow him: and then she turned back and hid herself in the +theater: she cowered away under a seat, and stayed there for three hours +without stirring, choked by the dust: and when the performance was about +to begin and the audience was arriving, just as she was creeping out of +her hiding-place, she had the mortification of being pounced on, +ignominiously expelled amid jeers and laughter, and taken home, where +she was whipped. She would have died that night had she not known now +what she must do later on to master these people and avenge herself on +them. + +Her plan was made. She took a situation as a servant in the _Hôtel et +Café du Théâtre_, where the actors put up. She could hardly read or +write: and she had read nothing, for she had nothing to read. She wanted +to learn, and applied herself to it with frantic energy. She used to +steal books from the guests' rooms, and read them at night by moonlight +or at dawn, so as not to use her candle. Thanks to the untidiness of the +actors, her larcenies passed unnoticed or else the owners put up with +cursing and swearing. She used to restore their books when she had read +them,--except one or two which had moved her too much for her to be able +to part with them;--but she did not return them intact. She used to tear +out the pages which had pleased her. When she took the books back, she +used carefully to slip them under the bed or the furniture, so as to +make the owners of them believe that they had never left the room. She +used to glue her ears to the door to listen to the actors going over +their parts. And when she was alone, sweeping the corridor, she would +mimic their intonations in a whisper and gesticulate. When she was +caught doing so she was laughed at and jeered at. She would say nothing, +and boil with rage.--That sort of education might have gone on for a +long time had she not on one occasion been imprudent enough to steal the +script of a part from the room of an actor. The actor stamped and swore. +No one had been to his room except the servant: he accused her. She +denied it boldly: he threatened to have her searched: she threw herself +at his feet and confessed everything, even to her other pilferings and +the pages she had torn out of the books: the whole boiling. He cursed +and swore frightfully: but he was not so angry as he seemed. He asked +why she had done it. When she told him that she wanted to become an +actress he roared with laughter. He questioned her, and she recited +whole pages which she had learned by heart: he was struck by it, and +said: + +"Look here, would you like me to give you lessons?" + +She was in the highest heaven of delight, and kissed his hands. + +"Ah!" she said to Christophe, "how I should have loved him!" + +But at once he added: + +"Only, my dear, you know you can't have anything for nothing...." + +She was chaste, and had always been scared and modest with those who had +pursued her with their overtures. Her absolute chastity, her ardent need +of purity, her disgust with things unclean and ignoble loveless +sensuality, had been with her always from her childhood on, as a result +of the despair and nausea of the sad sights which she saw about her on +all sides at home:--and they were with her still.... Ah! unhappy +creature! She had borne much punishment!... What a mockery of Fate!... + +"Then," asked Christophe, "you consented?" + +"Ah!" she said, "I would have gone through fire to get out of it. He +threatened to have me arrested as a thief. I had no choice.--That was +how I was initiated into art--and life." + +"The blackguard!" said Christophe. + +"Yes, I hated him. But I have met so many men since that he does not +seem to me to be one of the worst. He did at least keep his word. He +taught me what he knew--(not much!)--of the actor's trade. He got me +into his company. At first I was everybody's servant, I played little +scraps of parts. Then one night, when the soubrette was ill, they risked +giving me her part. I went on from that. They thought me impossible, +grotesque, uncouth. I was ugly then. I remained ugly until I was +decreed,--if not 'divine' like the other Woman,--the highest, the ideal +type of woman, ... 'Woman.' ... Idiots! As for my acting, it was thought +extravagant and incorrect. The public did not like me. The other players +used to make fun of me. I was kept on because I was useful in spite of +everything, and was not expensive. Not only was I not expensive, but I +paid! Ah! I paid for every step, every advance, rung by rung, with my +suffering, with my body. Fellow-actors, the manager, the impresario, the +impresario's friends...." + +She stopped: her face was very pale, her lips were pressed together, +there was a hard stare in her eyes: no tears came, but it was plain to +see that her soul was shedding tears of blood. In a flash she was living +through the shameful past, and the consuming desire to conquer which had +upheld her--a desire that burned the more with every fresh stain and +degradation that she had had to endure. She would sometimes have been +glad to die: but it would have been too abominable to succumb in the +midst of humiliation and to go no farther. Better to take her life +before--if so it must be--or after victory. But not when she had +degraded herself and not enjoyed the price of it.... + +She said no more. Christophe was pacing up and down the room in anger: +he was in a mood to slay these men who had made this woman suffer and +besmirched her. Then he looked at her with the eyes of pity: and he +stood near her and took her face in his hands and pressed it fondly, and +said: + +"Poor little woman!" + +She made to thrust him away. He said: + +"You must not be afraid of me. I love you." + +Then the tears trickled down her pale cheeks. He knelt down by her and +kissed-- + + "_La lunga man d'ogni bellezza piena_...." + +--the long delicate hands on which two tears had fallen. + +He sat down again, and she recovered herself and calmly went on with her +story: + +An author had at last launched her. He had discovered in the strange +little creature a daimon, a genius,--and, even better for his purpose, +"a dramatic type, a new woman, representative of an epoch." Of course, +he made her his mistress after so many others had done the same. And she +let him take her, as she had suffered the others, without love, and even +with the opposite of love. But he had made her famous: and she had done +the same for him. + +"And now," said Christophe, "the others cannot do anything to you: you +can do what you like with them." + +"You think so?" she said bitterly. + +Then she told him of Fate's other mockery,--her passion for a knave whom +she despised: a literary man who had exploited her, had plucked out the +most sorrowful secrets of her soul, and turned them into literature, and +then had left her. + +"I despise him," she said, "as I despise the dirt on my boots: and I +tremble with rage when I think that I love him, that he has but to hold +up his finger, and I should go running to him, and humble myself before +such a cur. But what can I do? I have a heart that will never love what +my mind desires. And I am compelled alternately to sacrifice and +humiliate one or the other. I have a heart: I have a body. And they cry +out and cry out and demand their share of happiness. And I have nothing +to curb them with, for I believe in nothing. I am free.... Free? I am +the slave of my heart and my body, which often, almost always, in spite +of myself, desire and have their will. They carry me away, and I am +ashamed. But what can I do?..." + +She stopped for a moment, and mechanically moved the cinders in the fire +with the tongs. + +"I have read in books," she said, "that actors feel nothing. And, +indeed, those whom I meet are nearly all conceited, grown-up children +who are never troubled by anything but petty questions of vanity. I do +not know if it is they who are not true comedians, or myself. I fancy it +must be I. In any case, I pay for the others." + +She stopped speaking. It was three in the morning. She got up to go. +Christophe told her to wait until the morning before she went home, and +proposed that she should go and lie down on his bed. She preferred to +stay in the arm-chair by the dead fire, and went on talking quietly +while all the house was still. + +"You will be tired to-morrow." + +"I am used to it. But what about you?... What are you doing to-morrow?" + +"I am free. I have a lesson to give about eleven.... Besides, I am +strong." + +"All the more reason why you should sleep soundly." + +"Yes; I sleep like a log. Not even pain can stand out against it. I am +sometimes furious with myself for sleeping so well. So many hours +wasted!... I am delighted to be able to take my revenge on sleep for +once in a way, and to cheat it of a night." + +They went on talking in low tones, with long intervals of silence. And +Christophe went to sleep. Françoise smiled and supported his head to +keep him from falling.... She sat by the window dreaming and looking +down into the darkness of the garden, which presently was lit up. About +seven o'clock she woke Christophe gently, and said good-by. + +In the course of the month she came at times when Christophe was out, +and found the door shut. Christophe sent her a key to the flat, so that +she could go there when she liked. She went more than once when +Christophe was away, and she would leave a little bunch of violets on +the table, or a few words scribbled on a sheet of paper, or a sketch, or +a caricature--just to show that she had been. + +And one evening, when she left the theater, she went to the flat to +resume their pleasant talk. She found him at work, and they began to +talk. But at the very outset they both felt that the friendly +comfortable mood of the last occasion was gone. She tried to go: but it +was too late. Not that Christophe did anything to prevent her. It was +her own will that failed her and would not let her go. They stayed there +with the gathering consciousness of the desire that was in them. + +Following on that night she disappeared for some weeks. In him there had +been roused a sensual ardor that had lain dormant for months before, and +he could not live without her. She had forbidden him to go to her house: +he went to see her at the theater. He sat far back, and he was aflame +with love and devotion: every nerve in his body thrilled: the tragic +intensity which she brought to her acting consumed him also in its fire. +At last he wrote to her: + +"My Dear,--Are you angry with me? Forgive me if I have hurt you." +When she received his humble little note she hastened to him and flung +herself into his arms. + +"It would have been better to be just friends, good friends. But since +it is impossible, it is no good holding out against the inevitable. Come +what may!" + +They lived together. They kept on in their separate flats, and each of +them was free. Françoise could not have submitted to living openly with +Christophe. Besides, her position would not allow it. She used to go to +Christophe's flat and spend part of the day and night with him; but she +used to return to her own place every day and also sleep there. + +During the vacation, when the theater was closed, they took a house +together outside Paris, near Gif. They had many happy days there, though +there were clouds of sadness too. They were days of confidence and work. +They had a beautiful light room, high up, with a wide view over the +fields. At night through the window they could see the strange shadows +of the clouds floating across the clear, dull darkness of the sky. Half +asleep, they could hear the joyous crickets chirping and the showers +falling; the breath of the autumn earth--honeysuckle, clematis, glycine, +and new-mown hay--filled the house and soothed their senses. The silence +of the night. In the distance dogs barked. Cocks crowed. Dawn comes. The +tinkling angelus rings in the distant belfry, through the cold, gray +twilight, and they shiver in the warmth of their nest, and yet more +lovingly hold each other close. The voices of the birds awake in the +trellis on the wall. Christophe opens his eyes, holds his breath, and +his heart melts as he looks down at the dear tired face of his sleeping +beloved, pale with the paleness of love.... + +Their love was no selfish passion. It was a profound love in +comradeship, in which the body also demanded its share. They did not +hinder each other. They both went on with their work. Christophe's +genius and kindness and moral fiber were dear to Françoise. She felt +older than he in many ways, and she found a maternal pleasure in the +relation. She regretted her inability to understand anything he played: +music was a closed book to her, except at rare moments, when she would +be overcome by a wild emotion, which came less from the music than from +her own inner self, from the passion in which she was steeped at that +time, she and everything about her, the country, people, color, and +sound. But she was none the less conscious of Christophe's genius, +because it was expressed in a mysterious language which she did not +understand. It was like watching a great actor playing in a foreign +language. Her own genius was rekindled by it. Christophe, thanks to +love, could project his ideas and body forth his passions in the mind of +the woman and her beloved person: they seemed to him more beautiful +there than they were in himself--endowed with an antique and seemingly +eternal beauty. Intimacy with such a soul, so feminine, so weak and kind +and cruel, and genial in flashes, was a source of boundless wealth. She +taught him much about life, and men--about women, of whom he knew very +little, while she judged them with swift, unerring perception. But +especially he was indebted to her for a better understanding of the +theater; she helped him to pierce through to the spirit of that +admirable art, the most perfect of all arts, the fullest and most sober. +She revealed to him the beauty of that magic instrument of the human +dream,--and made him see that he must write for it and not for himself, +as he had a tendency to do,--(the tendency of too many artists, who, +like Beethoven, refuse to write "_for a confounded violin when the +Spirit speaks to them_").--A great dramatic poet is not ashamed to +work for a particular theater and to adapt his ideas to the actors at +his disposal: he sees no belittlement in that: but he knows that a vast +auditorium calls for different methods of expression than those +necessary for a smaller space, and that a man does not write +trumpet-blares for the flute. The theater, like the fresco, is art +fitted to its place. And therefore it is above all else the human art, +the living art. + +Françoise's ideas were in accordance with Christophe's, who, at that +stage in his career, was inclined towards a collective art, in communion +with other men. Françoise's experience helped him to grasp the +mysterious collaboration which is set up between the audience and the +actor. Though Françoise was a realist, and had very few illusions, yet +she had a great perception of the power of reciprocal suggestion, the +waves of sympathy which pass between the actor and the multitude, the +great silence of thousands of men and women from which arises the single +voice of their interpreter. Naturally she could only feel it in +intermittent flashes, very, very rare, which were hardly ever reproduced +at the same passages in the same play. For the rest her work was a +soulless trade, an intelligent and coldly mechanical routine. But the +interest of it lay in the exception--the flash of light which pierced +the darkness of the abyss, the common soul of millions of men and women +whose living force was expressed in her for the space of a second of +eternity. + +It was this common soul which it was the business of the great artist to +express. His ideal should be a living objectivism, in which the poet +should throw himself into those for whom he sings, and denude himself of +self, to clothe the collective passions which are blown over the world +like a mighty wind. Françoise was all the more keenly conscious of the +necessity, inasmuch as she was incapable of such disinterestedness, and +always played herself.--For the last century and a half the disordered +efflorescence of individual lyricism has been tinged with morbidity. +Moral greatness consists in feeling much and controlling much, in being +sober in words and chaste in thought, in not making a parade of it, in +making a look speak and speak profoundly, without childish exaggeration +or effeminate effusiveness, to those who can grasp the half-spoken +thought, to men. Modern music, which is so loquaciously introspective, +dragging in indiscreet confidences at every turn, is immodest and +lacking in taste. It is like those invalids who can think of nothing but +their illnesses, and never weary of discussing them with other people +and going into repulsive petty details. This travesty of art has been +growing more and more prevalent for the last century. Françoise, who was +no musician, was disposed to see a sign of decadence in the development +of music at the expense of poetry, like a polypus sucking it dry. +Christophe protested: but, upon reflection, he began to wonder whether +there might not be some truth in it. The first _lieder_ written to +poems of Goethe were sober and apt: soon Schubert came and infused his +romantic sentimentality into them and gave them a twist: Schumann +introduced his girlish languor: and, down to Hugo Wolf, the movement had +gone on towards more stress in declamation, indecent analysis, a +presumptuous endeavor to leave no smallest corner of the soul unlit. +Every veil about the mysteries of the heart was rent. Things said in all +earnestness by a man were now screamed aloud by shameless girls who +showed themselves in their nakedness. + +Christophe was rather ashamed of such art, by which he was himself +conscious of being contaminated: and, without seeking to go back to the +past,--(an absurd, unnatural desire),--he steeped himself in the spirit +of those of the masters of the past who had been haughtily discreet in +their thought and had possessed the sense of a great collective art: +like Handel, who, scorning the tearful piety of his time and country, +wrote his colossal _Anthems_ and his oratorios, those heroic epics +which are songs of the nations for the nations. The difficulty was to +find inspiring subjects, which, like the Bible in Handel's time, could +arouse emotions common to all the nations of modern Europe. Modern +Europe had no common book: no poem, no prayer, no act of faith which was +the property of all. Oh! the shame that should overwhelm all the +writers, artists, thinkers, of to-day! Not one of them has written, not +one of them has thought, for all. Only Beethoven has left a few pages of +a new Gospel of consolation and brotherhood: but only musicians can read +it, and the majority of men will never hear it. Wagner, on the hill at +Bayreuth, has tried to build a religious art to bind all men together. +But his great soul had too little simplicity and too many of the +blemishes of the decadent music and thought of his time: not the fishers +of Galilee have come to the holy hill, but the Pharisees. + +Christophe felt sure what he had to do: but he had no poet, and he was +forced to be self-sufficing and to confine himself to music. And music, +whatever people say, is not a universal language: the bow of words is +necessary to send the arrow of sound into the hearts of all men. + +Christophe planned to write a suite of symphonies inspired by everyday +life. Among others he conceived a Domestic Symphony, in his own manner, +which was very different from that of Richard Strauss. He was not +concerned with materializing family life in a cinematograph picture, by +making use of a conventional alphabet, in which musical themes expressed +arbitrarily the various characters whom, if the auditor's eyes and ears +could stand it, were presently to be seen going through divers +evolutions together. That seemed to him a pedantic and childish game for +a great contrapuntist. He did not try to describe characters or actions, +but only to express emotions familiar to every man and woman, in which +they could find the echo of their own souls, and perhaps comfort and +relief. The first movement expressed the grave and simple happiness of a +loving young couple, with its tender sensuality, its confidence in the +future, its joy and hopes. The second movement was an elegy on the death +of a child. Christophe had avoided with horror any effort to depict +death, and realistic detail in the expression of sorrow: there was only +the utter misery of it,--yours, mine, everybody's, of being face to face +with a misfortune which falls or may fall to the lot of everybody. The +soul, prostrate in its grief, from which Christophe had banned the usual +effects of sniveling melodrama, recovered bit by bit, in a sorrowful +effort, to offer its suffering as a sacrifice to God. Once more it set +bravely out on the road, in the next movement, which was linked with the +second,--a headstrong fugue, the bold design and insistent rhythm of +which captivated, and, through struggles and tears, led on to a mighty +march, full of indomitable faith. The last movement depicted the evening +of life. The themes of the opening movement reappeared in it with their +touching confidence and their tenderness which could not grow old, but +riper, emerging from the shadow of sorrow, crowned with light, and, like +a rich blossoming, raising a religious hymn of love to life and God. + +Christophe also rummaged in the books of the past for great, simple, +human subjects speaking to the best in the hearts of all men. He chose +two such stories: _Joseph_ and _Niobe_. But then Christophe +was brought up not only against his need of a poet, but against the +vexed question, which has been argued for centuries and never solved, of +the union of poetry and music. His talks with Françoise had brought him +back to his idea, sketched out long ago with Corinne, of a form of +musical drama, somewhere between recitative opera and the spoken +drama,--the art of the free word united with free music,--an art of +which hardly any artist of to-day has a glimmering, an art also which +the routine critics, imbued with the Wagnerian tradition, deny, as they +deny every really new work: for it is not a matter of following in the +footsteps of Beethoven, Weber, Schumann, Bizet, although they used the +melodramatic form with genius: it is not a matter of yoking any sort of +speaking voice to any sort of music, and producing, at all costs, with +absurd tremolos, coarse effects upon coarse audiences: it is a matter of +creating a new form, in which musical voices will be wedded to +instruments attuned to those voices, discreetly mingling with their +harmonious periods the echo of dreams and the plaintive murmur of music. +It goes without saying that such a form could only be applied to a +narrow range of subjects, to intimate and introspective moments of the +soul, so as to conjure up its poetic perfume. In no art should there be +more discretion and aristocracy of feeling. It is only natural, +therefore, that it should have little chance of coming to flower in an +age which, in spite of the pretensions of its artists, reeks of the +deep-seated vulgarity of upstarts. + +Perhaps Christophe was no more suited to such an art than the rest: his +very qualities, his plebeian force, were obstacles in the way. He could +only conceive it, and with the aid of Françoise realize a few rough +sketches. + +In this way he set to music passages from the Bible, almost literally +transcribed,--like the immortal scene in which Joseph makes himself +known to his brothers, and, after so many trials, can no longer contain +his emotion and tender feeling, and whispers the words which have wrung +tears from old Tolstoy, and many another: + +"_Then Joseph could not refrain himself.... I am Joseph; doth my +father yet live? I am Joseph, your brother, whom ye sold into Egypt. I +am Joseph...._" + +Their beautiful and free relation could not last. They had moments +splendid and full of life: but they were too different. They were both +strong-willed, and then often clashed. But their differences were never +of a vulgar character: for Christophe had won Françoise's respect. And +Françoise, who could sometimes be so cruel, was kind to those who were +kind to her; no power on earth could have made her do anything to hurt +them. And besides, both of them had a fund of gay humor. She was always +the first to laugh at herself. She was still eating her heart out: for +the old passion still had its grip on her: she still thought of the +blackguard she loved: and she could not bear to be in so humiliating a +position or, above all, to have Christophe suspecting what she was +feeling. + +Christophe would sometimes find her for days together silent and +restless and given up to melancholy, and could not understand how she +could be unhappy. She had achieved her end: she was a great artist, +admired, flattered.... + +"Yes," she would say; "that would be all very well if I were one of +those famous actresses, with, no soul above shopkeeping, who run the +theater just as they would run any other business. They are quite happy +when they have 'realized' a good position, a commonplace, wealthy +marriage, and--the _ne plus ultra_--been decorated. I wanted more +than that. Unless one is a fool, success is even more empty than +failure. You must know that!" + +"I know," said Christophe. "Ah! Dear God, that is not what I imagined +fame to be when I was a child. How I longed for it, and what a shining +thing it seemed to be! It was almost a religion to me then.... No +matter! There is one divine virtue in success: the good it gives one the +power to do." + +"What good? One has conquered. But what's the good of it? Nothing is +altered. Theaters, concerts, everything is just the same. A new fashion +succeeds the old: that is all. They do not understand one, or only +superficially: and they begin to think of something else at once.... Do +you yourself understand other artists? In any case, they don't +understand you. The people you love best are so far away from you! Look +at your Tolstoy...." + +Christophe had written to him: he had been filled with enthusiasm for +him, and had wept over his books: he wanted to set one of the peasant +tales to music, and had asked for his authority, and had sent him his +_lieder_. Tolstoy did not reply, any more than Goethe replied to +Schubert or Berlioz when they sent him their masterpieces. He had had +Christophe's music played to him, and it had irritated him: he could +make nothing of it. He regarded Beethoven as a decadent, and Shakespeare +as a charlatan. On the other hand, he was infatuated with various little +pretty-pretty masters, and the harpsichord music which used to charm the +_Roi-Perruque_: and he regarded _La Confession d'une Femme de +Chambre_ as a Christian book.... + +"Great men have no need of us," said Christophe. "We must think of the +others." + +"Who? The dull public, the shadows who hide life from us? Act, write for +such people? Give your life for them? That would be bitter indeed!" + +"Bah!" said Christophe. "I see them as they are just as you do: but I +don't let it make me despondent. They are not as bad as you say." + +"Dear old German optimist!" + +"They are men, like myself. Why should they not understand me?...--And +suppose they don't understand me, why should I despair? Among all the +thousands of people there will surely be one or two who will be with me: +that is enough for me, and gives me window enough to breathe the outer +air.... Think of all the simple playgoers, the young people, the old +honest souls, who are lifted out of their tedious everyday life by your +appearance, your voice, your revelation of tragic beauty. Think of what +you were yourself when you were a child! Isn't it a fine thing to give +to others--perhaps even only to one other--the happiness that others +gave you, and to do to them the good that others did to you?" + +"Do you really believe that there is one such in the world? I have come +to doubt it.... Besides, what sort of love do we get from the best of +those who love us? How do they see us? They see so badly! They admire +you while they degrade you: they get just as much pleasure out of +watching any old stager act: they drag you down to the level of the +idiots you despise. In their eyes all successful people are exactly the +same." + +"And yet, when all is told, it is the greatest of all who go down to +posterity with the greatest." + +"It is only the backward movement of time. Mountains grow taller the +farther you go away from them. You see their height better: but you are +farther away from them.... And besides, who is to tell us who are the +greatest? What do you know of the men who have disappeared?" + +"Nonsense!" said Christophe. "Even if nobody were to feel what I think +and what I am, I think my thoughts and I am what I am just the same. I +have my music, I love it, I believe in it: it is the truest thing in my +life." + +"You are free in your art,--you can do what you like. But what can I do? +I am forced to act in the plays they give me, and go on acting until I +am sick of it. We are not yet, in France, such beasts of burden as those +American actors who play _Rip_ or _Robert Macaire_ ten thousand times, and +for twenty-five years of their lives go on grinding out and grinding out +an idiotic part. But we are on the road to it. Our theaters are so +poverty-stricken! The public will only stand genius in infinitesimal +doses, sprinkled with mannerisms and fashionable literature.... A +'fashionable genius'! Doesn't that make you laugh?... What waste of power! +Look at what they have made of a Mounet. What has he had to play the whole +of his life? Two or three parts that are worth the struggle for life: the +_Oedipus_ and _Polyeucte_. The rest has been rot! Isn't that enough to +disgust one? And just think of all the great and glorious things he might +have had to do!... Things are no better outside France? What have they +made of a Duse? What has her life been given up to? Think of the futile +parts she has played?" + +"Your real task," said Christophe, "is to force great works of art on +the world." + +"We should exhaust ourselves in a vain endeavor. It isn't worth it. As +soon as a great work of art is brought into the theater it loses its +great poetic quality. It becomes a hollow sham. The breath of the public +sullies it. The public consists of people living in stifling towns and +they have lost all knowledge of the open air, and Nature, and healthy +poetry: they must have their poetry theatrical, glittering, painted, +reeking.--Ah! And besides ... besides, even suppose one did succeed ... +no, that would not fill one's life, it would not fill my life...." + +"You are still thinking of him." + +"Who?" + +"You know. That man." + +"Yes." + +"Even if you could have him and he loved you, confess that you would not +be happy even then: you would still find some means of tormenting +yourself." + +"True.... Ah! What is the matter with me?... I think I have had too hard +a fight. I have fretted too much: I can't ever be calm again: there is +always an uneasiness in me, a sort of fever...." + +"It must have been in you even before your struggles." + +"Possibly. Yes. It was in me when I was a little girl, as far back as I +can remember.... It was devouring me then." + +"What do you want?" + +"How do I know? More than I can have." + +"I know that," said Christophe. "I was like that when I was a boy." + +"Yes, but you have become a man. I shall never be grown-up as long as I +live. I am an incomplete creature." + +"No one is complete. Happiness lies in knowing one's limitations and +loving them." + +"I can't do that. I've lost it. Life has cheated me, tricked me, +crippled me. And yet I fancy that I could never have been a normal and +healthy and beautiful woman without being like the rest of the gang." + +"There's no reason why you shouldn't be all these things. I can see you +being like that!" + +"Tell me how you can see me." + +He described her, in conditions under which she might have developed +naturally and harmoniously, and been happy, loved, and loving. And it +did her good to hear it. But when he had done, she said: + +"No. It is impossible now." + +"Well," he said, "in that case you must say to yourself, like dear old +Handel when he went blind: + +[Illustration: Musical notation with caption: _What ever is, is right."_] + +He went to the piano and sang it for her. She kissed him and called him +her dear, crazy optimist. He did her good. But she did him harm: or at +least, she was afraid of him. She had violent fits of despair, and could +not conceal them from him: her love made her weak. At night she would +try to choke down her agony, he would guess, and beg the beloved +creature who was so near and yet so far, to share with him the burden +which lay so heavy on her: then she could not hold out any longer, and +she would turn weeping to his arms; and he would spend hours in +comforting her, kindly, without a spark of anger: but in the long-run +her perpetual restlessness was bound to tell on him. Françoise trembled +lest the fever that was in her should infect him. She loved him too much +to be able to bear the idea that he should suffer because of her. She +was offered an engagement in America, and she accepted it, so as to tear +herself away from him. She left him a little humiliated. She was as +humiliated as he, in the knowledge that they could not make each other +happy! + +"My poor dear," she said to him, smiling sadly and tenderly. "Aren't we +stupid? We shall never have such a friendship again, never such a +glorious opportunity. But it can't be helped, it can't be helped. We are +too stupid!" + +They looked at each other mournfully and shamefacedly. They laughed to +keep themselves from weeping, kissed, and parted with tears in their +eyes. Never had they loved so well as when they parted. + +And after she was gone he returned to art, his old companion.... Oh, the +peace of the starry sky! + +It was not long before Christophe received a letter from Jacqueline. It +was only the third time she had written to him, and her tone was very +different from that to which she had accustomed him. She told him how +sorry she was not to have seen him for so long, and very nicely invited +him to come and see her, unless he wished to hurt two friends who loved +him. Christophe was delighted, but not greatly surprised. He had been +inclined to think that Jacqueline's unjust disposition towards him would +not last. He was fond of quoting a jest of his old grandfather's: + +"Sooner or later women have their good moments: one only needs the +patience to wait for them." + +He went to see Olivier, and was welcomed with delight. Jacqueline was +most attentive to him: she avoided the ironical manner which was natural +to her, took care not to say anything that might hurt Christophe, showed +great interest in what he was doing, and talked intelligently about +serious subjects. Christophe thought her transformed. But she was only +so to please him. Jacqueline had heard of Christophe's affair with the +popular actress, the tale of which had gone the rounds of Parisian +gossip: and Christophe had appeared to her in an altogether new light: +she was filled with curiosity about him. When she met him again she +found him much more sympathetic. Even his faults seemed to her to be not +without attraction. She realized that Christophe had genius, and that it +would be worth while to make him love her. + +The position between the young couple was no better, but rather worse. +Jacqueline was bored, bored, bored: she was bored to death.... How +utterly lonely a woman is! Except children, nothing can hold her: and +children are not enough to hold her forever: for when she is really a +woman, and not merely a female, when she has a rich soul and an +abounding vitality, she is made for so many things which she cannot +accomplish alone and with none to help her!... A man is much less +lonely, even when he is most alone: he can people the desert with his +own thoughts: and when he is lonely in married life he can more easily +put up with it, for he notices it less, and can always live in the +soliloquy of his own thoughts. And it never occurs to him that the sound +of his voice going on imperturbably babbling in the desert, makes the +silence more terrible and the desert more frightful for the woman by his +side, for whom all words are dead that are not kindled by love. He does +not see it: he has not, like the woman, staked his whole life on love: +his life has other occupations.... What man is there can fill the life +of a woman and satisfy her immense desire, the millions of ardent and +generous forces that, through the forty thousand years of the life of +humanity, have burned to no purpose, as a holocaust offered up to two +idols: passing love and motherhood, that sublime fraud, which is refused +to thousands of women and never fills more than a few years in the lives +of the rest? + +Jacqueline was in despair. She had moments of terror that cut through +her like swords. She thought: + +"Why am I alive? Why was I ever born?" And her heart would ache and +throb in agony. + +"My God, I am going to die! My God, I am going to die!" + +That idea haunted her, obsessed her through the night. She used to dream +that she was saying: + +"It is 1889." + +"No," the answer would come. "It is 1909." And the thought that she was +twenty years older than she imagined would make her wretched. + +"It will all be over, and I have never lived! What have I done with +these twenty years? What have I made of my life?" + +She would dream that she was _four_ little girls, all four lying in +the same room in different beds. They were all of the same figure and +the same face: but one was eight, one was fifteen, one was twenty, and +the fourth was thirty. There was an epidemic. Three of them had died. +The fourth looked at herself in the mirror, and she was filled with +terror: she saw herself with the skin drawn tight over her nose, and her +features pinched and withered... she was going to die too--and then it +would be all over.... + +"... What have I done with my life?..." She would wake up in tears; and +the nightmare would not vanish with the day: the nightmare was real. +What had she done with her life? Who had robbed her of it?... She would +begin to hate Olivier, the innocent accomplice--(innocent! What did it +matter if the harm done was the same!)--of the blind law which was +crushing her. She would be sorry for it at once, for she was kind of +heart: but she was suffering too much: and she could not help wreaking +her vengeance on the man who was bound to her and was stifling her life, +by making him suffer more than he was indeed suffering. Then she would +be more sorry than ever: she would loathe herself and feel that if she +did not find some way of escape she would do things even more evil. She +groped blindly about to find some way of escape: she clutched at +everything like a drowning woman: she tried to take an interest in +something, work, or another human being, that might be in some sort her +own, her work, a creature belonging to herself. She tried to take up +some intellectual work, and learned foreign languages: she began an +article, a story: she began to paint, to compose.... In vain: she grew +tired of everything, and lost heart the very first day. They were too +difficult. And then, "books, works of art! What are they? I don't know +whether I love them, I don't even know whether they +exist...."--Sometimes she would talk excitedly and laugh with Olivier, +and seem to be keenly interested in the things they talked about, or in +what he was doing: she would try to bemuse and benumb herself.... In +vain: suddenly her excitement would collapse, her heart would go icy +cold, she would hide away, with never a tear, hardly a breath, utterly +prostrate.--She had in some measure succeeded in destroying Olivier. He +was growing skeptical and worldly. She did not mind: she found him as +weak as herself. Almost every evening they used to go out: and she would +go in an agony of suffering and boredom from one fine house to another, +and no one would ever guess the feeling that lay behind the irony of her +unchanging smile. She was seeking for some one to love her and keep her +back from the edge of the abyss.... In vain, in vain, in vain. There was +nothing but silence in answer to her cry of despair. + +She did not love Christophe: she could not bear his rough manner, his +painful frankness, and, above all, his indifference. She did not love +him: but she had a feeling that he at least was strong,--a rock towering +above death. And she tried to clutch hold of the rock, to cling to the +swimmer whose head rose above the waves, to cling to him or to drown +with him.... + +Besides, it was not enough for her to have cut her husband off from his +friends: now she was driven on to take them from him. Even the best of +women sometimes have an instinct which impels them to try and see how +far their power goes, and to go beyond it. In that abuse of their power +their weakness proves its strength. And when the woman is selfish and +vain she finds a malign pleasure in robbing her husband of the +friendship of his friends. It is easily done: she has but to use her +eyes a little. There is hardly a single man, honorable or otherwise, who +is not weak enough to nibble at the bait. Though the friend be never so +true and loyal, he may avoid the act, but he will almost always betray +his friend in thought. And if the other man sees it, there is an end of +their friendship: they no longer see each other with the same eyes.--The +woman who plays such a dangerous game generally stops at that and asks +no more: she has them both, disunited, at her mercy. + +Christophe observed Jacqueline's new graces and charming treatment of +himself, but he was not surprised. When he had an affection for any one +he had a naïve way of taking it as a matter of course that the affection +should be returned without any ulterior thought. He responded gladly to +Jacqueline's advances; he thought her charming, and amused himself +thoroughly with her: and he thought so well of her that he was not far +from thinking Olivier rather a bungler not to be able to be happy with +her and to make her happy. + +He went with them for a few days' tour in a motor-car: and he was their +guest at the Langeais' country house in Burgundy--an old family mansion +which was kept because of its associations, though they hardly ever went +there. It was in a lovely situation, in the midst of vineyards and +woods: it was very shabby inside, and the windows were loose in their +frames: there was a moldy smell in it, a smell of ripe fruit, of cold +shadow, and resinous trees warmed by the sun. Living constantly in +Jacqueline's company for days together, a sweet insidious feeling crept +into Christophe's veins, without in the least disturbing his peace of +mind: he took an innocent, though by no means immaterial, delight in +seeing her, hearing her, feeling the contact of her beautiful body, and +sipping the breath of her mouth. Olivier was a little anxious and +uneasy, but said nothing. He suspected nothing: but he was oppressed by +a vague uneasiness which he would have been ashamed to admit to himself: +by way of punishing himself for it he frequently left them alone +together. Jacqueline saw what he was thinking, and was touched by it: +she longed to say to him: + +"Come, don't be anxious, my dear. I still love you the best." + +But she did not say it: and they all three went on drifting: Christophe +entirely unconscious, Jacqueline not knowing what she really wanted, and +leaving it to chance to tell her, and Olivier alone seeing and feeling +what was in the wind, but in the delicacy of vanity and love, refusing +to think of it. When the will is silent, instinct speaks: in the absence +of the soul, the body goes its own way. + +One evening, after dinner, the night seemed to them so lovely--a +moonless, starry night,--that they proposed to go for a walk in the +garden. Olivier and Christophe left the house. Jacqueline went up to her +room to fetch a shawl. She did not come down. Christophe went to look +for her, fuming at the eternal dilatoriness of woman.--(For some time +without knowing it he had slipped into playing the part of the +husband.)--He heard her coming. The shutters of her room were closed and +he could not see. + +"Come along, you dilly-dallying madam," cried Christophe gaily. "You'll +wear your mirror out if you look at yourself so much." + +She did not reply. She had stopped still. Christophe felt that she was +in the room: but she did not stir. + +"Where are you?" he said. + +She did not reply. Christophe said nothing either, and began groping in +the dark, and suddenly his heart grew big and began to thump, and he +stood still. Near him he could hear Jacqueline breathing lightly. He +moved again and stopped once more. She was near him: he knew it, but he +could not move. There was silence for a second or two. Suddenly he felt +her hands on his, her lips on his. He held her close. They stood still +and spoke no word.--Their lips parted; they wrenched away from each +other. Jacqueline left the room. Christophe followed her, trembling. His +legs shook beneath him. He stopped for a moment to lean against the wall +until the tumult in his blood died down. At last he joined them again. +Jacqueline was calmly talking to Olivier. They walked on a few yards in +front. Christophe followed them in a state of collapse. Olivier stopped +to wait for him. Christophe stopped too. Olivier, knowing his friend's +temper and the capricious silence in which he would sometimes bar +himself, did not persist, and went on walking with Jacqueline. And +Christophe followed them mechanically, lagging ten yards behind them +like a dog. When they stopped, he stopped. When they walked on, he +walked on. And so they went round the garden and back into the house. +Christophe went up to his room and shut himself in. He did not light the +lamp. He did not go to bed. He could not think. About the middle of the +night he fell asleep, sitting, with his head resting in his arms on the +table. He woke up an hour later. He lit a candle, feverishly flung +together his papers and belongings, packed his bag, and then flung +himself on the bed and slept until dawn. Then he went down with his +luggage and left the house. They waited for him all morning, and spent +the day looking for him. Jacqueline hid her furious anger beneath a mask +of indifference, and sarcastically pretended to go over her plate. It +was not until the following evening that Olivier received a letter from +Christophe: + + "_My dear Old Fellow_, + + "_Don't lie angry with me for having gone away like a madman. + I am mad, you know. But what can I do? I am what I am. Thanks + for your dear hospitality. I enjoyed it much. But, you know, I + am not fit to live with other people. I'm not so sure either + that I am fit to live. I am only fit to stay in my corner and + love people--at a distance: it is wiser so. When I see them at + too close quarters, I become misanthropic. And I don't want to + be that. I want to love men and women, I want to love you all. + Oh! How I long to help you all! If I could only help you to + be--to be happy! How gladly would I give all the happiness I may + have in exchange!... But that is forbidden. One can only show + others the way. One cannot go their way in their stead. Each of + us must save himself. Save yourself! Save yourselves! I love + you._ + + "CHRISTOPHE. + + "_My respects to Madame Jeannin_." + +"Madame Jeannin" read the letter with a smile of contempt and her lips +tightly pressed together, and said dryly: + +"Well. Follow his advice. Save yourself." + +But when Olivier held out his hand for the letter, Jacqueline crumpled +it up and flung it down, and two great tears welled up into her eyes. +Olivier took her hands. + +"What's the matter?" he asked, with some emotion. + +"Let me be!" she cried angrily. + +She went out. As she reached the door she cried: + +"Egoists!" + +Christophe had contrived to make enemies of his patrons of the _Grand +Journal_, as was only likely. Christophe had been endowed by Heaven +with the virtue extolled by Goethe: _non-gratitude_. + +_"The horror of showing gratitude,"_ wrote Goethe ironically, _"is rare, +and only appears in remarkable men who have risen from the poorest class, +and at every turn have been forced to accept assistance, which is almost +invariably poisoned by the churlishness of the benefactor...."_ + +Christophe was never disposed to think himself obliged to abase himself +in return for service rendered, nor--what amounted to the same thing--to +surrender his liberty. He did not lend his own benefactions at so much +per cent.: he gave them. His benefactors, however, were of a very +different way of thinking. Their lofty moral feeling of the duties of +their debtors was shocked by Christophe's refusal to write the music for +a stupid hymn for an advertising festivity organized by the paper. They +made him feel the impropriety of his conduct. Christophe sent them +packing. And finally he exasperated them by the flat denial which he +gave shortly afterwards to certain statements attributed to him by the +paper. + +Then they began a campaign against him. They used every possible weapon. +They dragged out once more the old pettifogging engine of war which has +always served the impotent against creative men, and, though it has +never killed anybody, yet it never fails to have an effect upon the +simple-minded and the fools: they accused him of plagiarism. They went +and picked out artfully selected and distorted passages from his +compositions and from those of various obscure musicians, and they +proved that he had stolen his inspiration from others. He was accused of +having tried to stifle various young artists. It would have been well +enough if he had only had to deal with those whose business it is to +bark, with those critics, those mannikins, who climb on the shoulders of +a great man and cry; + +"I am greater than you!" + +But no: men of talent must be wrangling among themselves: each man does +his best to make himself intolerable to his colleagues: and yet, as +Christophe said, the world was large enough for all of them to be able +to work in peace: and each of them in his own talent had quite enough to +struggle against. + +In Germany he found artists so jealous of him that they were ready to +furnish his enemies with weapons against him, and even, if need be, to +invent them. He found the same thing in France. The nationalists of the +musical press--several of whom were foreigners,--flung his nationality +in his teeth as an insult. Christophe's success had grown widely; and as +he had a certain vogue, they pretended that his exaggeration must +irritate even those who had no definite views--much more those who had. +Among the concert-going public, and among people in society and the +writers on the young reviews, Christophe by this time had enthusiastic +partisans, who went into ecstasies over everything he did, and were wont +to declare that music did not exist before his advent. Some of them +explained his music and found philosophic meanings in it which simply +astounded him. Others would see in it a musical revolution, an assault +on the traditions which Christophe respected more than anybody. It was +useless for him to protest. They would have proved to him that he did +not know what he had written. They admired themselves by admiring him. +And so the campaign against Christophe met with great sympathy among his +colleagues, who were exasperated by the "log-rolling" to which he was no +party. They did not need to rely on such reasons for not liking his +music: most of them felt with regard to it the natural irritation of the +man who has no ideas and no difficulty in expressing them according to +parrot-like formulæ, with the man who is full of ideas and employs them +clumsily in accordance with the apparent disorder of his creative +faculty. How often he had had to face the reproach of not being able to +write hurled at him by scribes, for whom style consisted in recipes +concocted by groups or schools, kitchen molds into which thought was +cast! Christophe's best friends, those who did not try to understand +him, and were alone in understanding him, because they loved him, +simply, for the pleasure he gave them, were obscure auditors who had no +voice in the matter. The only man who could have replied vigorously in +Christophe's name--Olivier--was at that time out of friends with him, +and had apparently forgotten him. Thus Christophe was delivered into the +hands of his adversaries and admirers, who vied with each other in doing +him harm. He was too disgusted to reply. When he read the +pronunciamentos directed against him in the pages of an important +newspaper by one of those presumptuous critics who usurp the sovereignty +of art with all the insolence of ignorance and impunity, he would shrug +his shoulders and say: + +"Judge me. I judge you. Let us meet in a hundred years!" + +But meanwhile the outcry against him took its course: and the public, as +usual, gulped down the most fatuous and shameful accusations. + +As though his position was not already difficult enough, Christophe +chose that moment to quarrel with his publisher. He had no reason at all +to complain of Hecht, who published each new work as it was written, and +was honest in business. It is true that his honesty did not prevent his +making contracts disadvantageous to Christophe: but he kept his +contracts. He kept them only too well. One day Christophe was amazed to +see a septette of his arranged as a quartette, and a suite of piano +pieces clumsily transcribed as a duet, without his having been +consulted. He rushed to Heeht's office and thrust the offending music +under his nose, and said: + +"Do you know these?" + +"Of course," said Hecht. + +"And you dared ... you dared tamper with my work without asking my +permission!..." + +"What permission?" said Hecht calmly. "Your compositions are mine." + +"Mine, too, I suppose?" + +"No," said Hecht quietly. + +Christophe started. + +"My own work does not belong to me?" + +"They are not yours any longer. You sold them to me." + +"You're making fun of me! I sold you the paper. Make money out of that +if you like. But what is written on it is my life-blood; it is mine." + +"You sold me everything. In exchange for these particular pieces, I gave +you a sum of three hundred francs in advance of a royalty of thirty +centimes on every copy sold of the original edition. Upon that +consideration, without any restriction or reserve, you have assigned to +me all your rights in your work." + +"Even the right to destroy it?" + +Hecht shrugged his shoulders, rang the bell, and said to a clerk. + +"Bring me M. Kraff's account." + +He gravely read Christophe the terms of the contract, which he had +signed without reading--from which it appeared, in accordance with the +ordinary run of contracts signed by music publishers in those very +distant times--"that M. Hecht was the assignee of all the rights, +powers, and property of the author, and had the exclusive right to edit, +publish, engrave, print, translate, hire, sell to his own profit, in any +form he pleased, to have the said work performed at concerts, +café-concerts, balls, theaters, etc., and to publish any arrangement of +the said work for any instrument and even with words, and also to change +the title ... etc., etc." + +"You see," he said, "I am really very moderate." + +"Evidently," said Christophe. "I ought to thank you. You might have +turned my septette into a café-concert song." + +He stopped in horror and held his head in his hands. + +"I have sold my soul," he said over and over again. + +"You may be sure," said Hecht sarcastically, "that I shall not abuse +it." + +"And to think," said Christophe, "that your Republic authorizes such +practices! You say that man is free. And you put ideas up to public +auction." + +"You have had your money," said Hecht. + +"Thirty pieces of silver. Yes," said Christophe. "Take them back." + +He fumbled in his pockets, meaning to give the three hundred francs back +to Hecht. But he had nothing like that sum. Hecht smiled a little +disdainfully. His smile infuriated Christophe. + +"I want my work back," he said. "I will buy them back from you." + +"You have no right to do so," said Hecht. "But as I have no desire to +keep a man against his will, I am quite ready to give them back to +you,--if you are in a position to pay the indemnity stated in the +contract." + +"I will do it," said Christophe, "even if I have to sell myself." + +He accepted without discussion the conditions which Hecht submitted to +him a fortnight later. It was an amazing act of folly, and he bought +back his published compositions at a price five times greater than the +sum they had brought him in, though it was by no means exorbitant: for +it was scrupulously calculated on the basis of the actual profits which +had accrued to Hecht. Christophe could not pay, and Hecht had counted on +it. He had no intention of squeezing Christophe, of whom he thought more +highly, both as a musician and as a man, than of any other young +musician: but he wanted to teach him a lesson: for he could not permit +his clients to revolt against what was after all within his rights. He +had not made the laws: they were those of the time, and they seemed to +him equitable. Besides, he was quite sincerely convinced that they were +to the benefit of the author as much as to the benefit of the publisher, +who knows better than the author how to circulate his work, and is not, +like the author, hindered by scruples of a sentimental, respectable +order, which are contrary to his real interests. He had made up his mind +to help Christophe to succeed, but in his own way, and on condition that +Christophe was delivered into his hands, tied hand and foot. He wanted +to make him feel that he could not so easily dispense with his services. +They made a conditional bargain: if, at the end of six months, +Christophe could not manage to pay, his work should become Hecht's +absolute property. It was perfectly obvious that Christophe would not be +able to collect a quarter of the sum requisite. + +However, he stuck to it, said good-by to the rooms which were so full of +memories for him, and took a less expensive flat,--selling a number of +things, none of which, to his great surprise, were of any +value,--getting into debt, and appealing to Mooch's good nature, who, +unfortunately, was at that time very badly off and ill, being confined +to the house with rheumatism,--trying to find another publisher, and +everywhere finding conditions as grasping as Hecht's, and in some cases +a point-blank refusal. + +It was just at the time when the attack on him in the musical press was +at its height. One of the leading Parisian papers was especially +implacable: he was like a red rag to a bull to one of the staff who did +not sign his name; not a week passed but there appeared in the column +headed _Échos_ a spiteful paragraph ridiculing him. The musical +critic completed the work of his anonymous colleague: the very smallest +pretext served him as an opportunity of expressing his animosity. But +that was only the preliminary skirmishing: he promised to return to the +subject and deal with it at leisure, and to proceed in due course to +execution. They were in no hurry, knowing that a definite accusation has +nothing like the same effect on the public as a succession of +insinuations repeated persistently. They played with Christophe like a +cat with a mouse. The articles were all sent to Christophe, and he +despised them, though they made him suffer for all that. However, he +said nothing: and, instead of replying--(could he have done so, even if +he had wanted to?)--he persisted in the futile and unequal fight with +his publisher, provoked by his own vanity. He wasted his time, his +strength, his money, and his only weapons, since in the lightness of his +heart he was rash enough to deprive himself of the publicity which his +music gained through Hecht. + +Suddenly there was a complete change. The article announced in the paper +never appeared. The insinuations against him were dropped. The campaign +stopped short. More than that: a few weeks later, the critic of the +paper published incidentally a few eulogistic remarks which seemed to +indicate that peace was made. A great publisher at Leipzig wrote to +Christophe offering to publish his work, and the contract was signed on +terms very advantageous to him. A flattering letter, bearing the seal of +the Austrian Embassy, informed Christophe that it was desired to place +certain of his compositions on the programs of the galas given at the +Embassy. Philomela, whom Christophe was pushing forward, was asked to +sing at one of the galas: and, immediately afterwards, she was in great +demand in the best houses of the German and Italian colonies in Paris. +Christophe himself, who could not get out of going to one of the +concerts, was very well received by the Ambassador. However, a very +short conversation showed him that his host, who knew very little about +music, was absolutely ignorant of his work. How, then, did this sudden +interest come about? An invisible hand seemed to be protecting him, +removing obstacles, and making the way smooth for him. Christophe made +inquiries. The Ambassador alluded to friends of Christophe--Count and +Countess Berény, who were very fond of him. Christophe did not even know +their name: and on the night of his visit to the Embassy he had no +opportunity of being introduced to them. He did not make any effort to +meet them. He was passing through a period of disgust with men, in which +he set as little store by his friends as by his enemies: friends and +enemies were equally uncertain: they changed with the wind: he would +have to learn how to do without them, and say, like the old fellow of +the seventeenth century: + +"_God gave me friends: He took them from me. They have left me. I will +leave them and say no more about it_." + +Since the day when he left Olivier's house, Olivier had given no sign of +life: all seemed over between them. Christophe had no mind to form new +friendships. He imagined Count and Countess Berény to be like the rest +of the snobs who called themselves his friends: and he made no attempt +to meet them. He was more inclined to avoid them. He longed to be able +to escape from Paris. He felt an urgent desire to take refuge for a few +weeks in soothing solitude. If only he could have a few days, only a few +days, to refresh himself in his native country! Little by little that +idea became a morbid obsession. He wanted once more to see his dear +river, his own native sky, the land of his dead kinsfolk. He felt that +he must see them. He could not without endangering his freedom: he was +still subject to the warrant of arrest issued against him at the time of +his flight from Germany. But he felt that he was prepared to go to any +lengths if he could return, though it were only for one day. + +As good luck would have it, he spoke of his longing to one of his new +patrons. A young attaché of the German Embassy, whom he met at an At +Home where he was playing, happened to say to him that his country was +proud of so fine a musician as himself, to which Christophe replied +bitterly: + +"Our country is so proud of me that she lets me die on her doorstep +rather than open to me." + +The young diplomatist asked him to explain the situation, and, a few +days later, he came to see Christophe, and said: + +"People in high places are interested in you. A very great personage who +alone has the power to suspend the consequence of the sentence which is +the cause of your wretchedness has been informed of your position: and +he deigns to be touched by it. I don't know how it is that your music +can have given him any pleasure: for--(between ourselves)--his taste is +not very good: but he is intelligent, and he has a generous heart. +Though he cannot, for the moment, remove the sentence passed upon you, +the police are willing to shut their eyes, if you care to spend +forty-eight hours in your native town to see your family once more. Here +is a passport. You must have it endorsed when you arrive and when you +leave. Be wary, and do not attract attention to yourself." + +Once more Christophe saw his native land. He spent the two days which +had been granted him in communion with the earth and those who were +beneath it. He visited his mother's grave. The grass was growing over +it: but flowers had lately been laid on it. His father and grandfather +slept side by side. He sat at their feet. Their grave lay beneath the +wall of the cemetery. It was shaded by a chestnut-tree growing in the +sunken road on the other side of the low wall, over which he could see +the golden crops, softly waving in the warm wind: the sun was shining in +his majesty over the drowsy earth: he could hear the cry of the quails +in the corn, and the soft murmuring of the cypress-trees above the +graves. Christophe was alone with his dreams. His heart was at peace. He +sat there with his hands clasping his knees, and his back against the +wall, gazing up at the sky. He closed his eyes for a moment. How simple +everything was! He felt at home here with his own people. He stayed +there near them, as it were hand in hand. The hours slipped by. Towards +evening he heard footsteps scrunching on the gravel paths. The custodian +passed by and looked at Christophe sitting there. Christophe asked him +who had laid the flowers on the grave. The man answered that the +farmer's wife from Buir came once or twice a year. + +"Lorchen?" said Christophe. + +They began to talk. + +"You are her son?" said the man. + +"She had three," said Christophe. + +"I mean the one at Hamburg. The other two turned out badly." + +Christophe sat still with his head thrown back a little, and said +nothing. The sun was setting. + +"I'm going to lock up," said the custodian. + +Christophe got up and walked slowly round the cemetery with him. The +custodian did the honors of the place. Christophe stopped every now and +then to read the names carved on the gravestones. How many of those he +knew were of that company! Old Euler,--his son-in-law,--and farther off, +the comrades of his childhood, little girls with whom he had played, +--and there, a name which stirred his heart: Ada.... Peace be with all of +them.... + +The fiery rays of the setting sun put a girdle round the calm horizon. +Christophe left the cemetery. He went for a long walk through the +fields. The stars were peeping.... + +Next day he came again, and once more spent the afternoon at his vigil. +But the fair silent calm of the day before was broken and thrilling with +life. His heart sang a careless, happy hymn. He sat on the curb of the +grave, and set down the song he heard in pencil in a notebook resting on +his knees. So the day passed. It seemed to him that he was working in +his old little room, and that his mother was there on the other side of +the partition. When he had finished and was ready to go--he had moved a +little away from the grave,--he changed his mind and returned, and +buried the notebook in the grass under the ivy. A few drops of rain were +beginning to fall. Christophe thought: + +"It will soon be blotted out. So much the better!... For you alone. For +nobody else." + +And he went to see the river once more, and the familiar streets where +so many things were changed. By the gates of the town along the +promenade of the old fortifications a little wood of acacia-trees which +he had seen planted had overrun the place, and they were stifling the +old trees. As he passed along the wall surrounding the Von Kerichs' +garden, he recognized the post on which he used to climb when he was a +little boy, to look over into the grounds: and he was surprised to see +how small the tree, the wall, and the garden had become. + +He stopped for a moment before the front gateway. He was going on when a +carriage passed him. Mechanically he raised his eyes: and they met those +of a young lady, fresh, plump, happy-looking, who stared at him with a +puzzled expression. She gave an exclamation of surprise. She ordered the +carriage to stop, and said: + +"Herr Krafft!" + +He stopped. + +She said laughingly: + +"Minna...." + +He ran to her almost as nervous as he had been on the day when he first +met her. [Footnote: See "Jean-Christophe: Morning."] + +She was with a tall, stout, bald gentleman, with mustachios brushed up +belligerently, whom she introduced as "Herr Reichsgerichtsrat von +Brombach"--her husband. She wanted Christophe to go home with her. He +tried to excuse himself. But Minna exclaimed: + +"No, no. You must come; come and dine with us." + +She spoke very loud and very quickly, and, without waiting to be asked, +began to tell him her whole life. Christophe was stupefied by her +volubility and the noise she made, and only heard half what she said, +and stood looking at her. So that was his little Minna. She looked +blooming, healthy, well-fed: she had a pretty skin and pink complexion, +but her features were rather coarse, and her nose in particular was +thick and heavy. Her gestures, manners, pretty little ways, were just +the same; but her size was greatly altered. + +However, she never stopped talking: she told Christophe all the stories +of her past; her whole private history, and how she had come to love her +husband and her husband her. Christophe was embarrassed. She was an +uncritical optimist, who found everything belonging to herself perfect +and superior to other people's possessions--(at least, when she was with +other people)--her town, her house, her family, her husband, her +cooking, her four children, and herself. She said of her husband in his +presence that he was "the most splendid man she had even seen," and that +there was in him "a superhuman force." "The most splendid man" pinched +Minna's cheeks laughingly, and assured Christophe that she "was a very +remarkable woman." + +It seemed that _Herr Reichsgerichtsrat_ was informed of +Christophe's position, and did not exactly know whether he ought to +treat him with or without respect, having regard on the one hand to the +warrant out against him, and on the other to the august protection which +shielded him: he solved the difficulty by affecting a compromise between +the two manners. As for Minna, she went on talking. When she had talked +her fill about herself to Christophe, she began to talk about him: she +battered him with questions as intimate as her answers had been to the +supposititious questions which he had never asked. She was delighted to +see Christophe again: she knew nothing about his music: but she knew +that he was famous: it flattered her to think that she had loved +him,--(and that she had rejected him).--She reminded him of it jokingly +without much delicacy. She asked him for his autograph for her album. +She pestered him with questions about Paris. She showed a mixture of +curiosity and contempt for that city. She pretended that she knew it, +having been to the Folies-Bergère, the Opéra, Montmartre, and +Saint-Cloud. According to her, the women of Paris were all _cocottes_, bad +mothers, who had as few children as possible, and did not look after them, +and left them at home while they went to the theater or the haunts of +pleasant vice. She did not suffer contradiction. In the course of the +evening she asked Christophe to play the piano. She thought it charming. +But at bottom she admired her husband's playing just as much, for she +thought him as superior all round as she was herself. + +Christophe had the pleasure of meeting Minna's mother once more, Frau +von Kerich. He still had a secret tenderness for her because she had +been kind to him. She had not lost any of her old kindness, and she was +more natural than Minna: but she still treated Christophe with that +ironical affection which used to irritate him in the old days. She had +stayed very much where he had left her: she liked the same things; and +it did not seem possible for her to admit that any one could do better +or differently: she set the Jean-Christophe of the old days against the +new Jean-Christophe, and preferred the former. + +Of those about her no one had changed in mind save Christophe. The +rigidity of the little town, and its narrowness of outlook, were painful +to him. His hosts spent part of the evening in talking scandal about +people he did not know. They picked out the ridiculous points of their +neighbors, and they decreed everything ridiculous which was different +from themselves or their own way of doing things. Their malicious +curiosity, which was perpetually occupied with trifles, at last made +Christophe feel quite sick. He tried to talk about his life abroad. But +at once he became conscious of the impossibility of making them +understand French civilization which had made him suffer, and now became +dear to him when he stood for it in his own country--the free Latin +spirit, whose first law is understanding: to understand as much as possible +of life and mind, at the risk of cheapening moral codes. In his +hosts, especially in Minna, he found once more the arrogant spirit with +which he had come into such violent contact in the old days, though he +had almost forgotten it since,--the arrogance of weakness as much as of +virtue,--honesty without charity, pluming itself on its virtue, and +despising the weaknesses which it could not understand, a worship of the +conventional, and a shocked disdain of "irregular" higher things. Minna +was calmly and sententiously confident that she was always right. There +were no degrees in her judgment of others. For the rest, she never made +any attempt to understand them, and was only occupied with herself. Her +egoism was thinly coated with a blurred metaphysical tinge. She was +always talking of her "ego" and the development of her "ego." She may +have been a good woman, one capable of loving. But she loved herself too +much. And, above all, her respect for herself was too great. She seemed +to be perpetually saying a _Paternoster_ and an _Ave_ to her "ego." One +felt that she would have absolutely and forever ceased to love the man she +might have loved the best, if for a single instant he had failed--(even +though he were to regret it a thousand times when it was done)--to show a +due and proper respect for the dignity of her "ego."... Hang your "ego"! +Think a little of the second person singular!... + +However, Christophe did not regard her severely. He who was ordinarily +so irritable listened to her chatter with the patience of an archangel. +He would not judge her. He surrounded her, as with a halo, with the +religious memory of his childish love, and he kept on trying to find in +her the image of his little Minna. It was not impossible to find her in +certain of her gestures: the quality of her voice had certain notes +which awoke echoes that moved him. He was absorbed in them, and said +nothing, and did not listen to what she was saying, though he seemed to +listen and always treated her with tender gentle respect. But he found +it hard to concentrate his thoughts: she made too much noise, and +prevented his hearing Minna. At last he got up, and thought a little +wearily: + +"Poor little Minna! They would like me to think that you are there, in +that comely, stout woman, shouting at the top of her voice, and boring +me to death. But I know that it is not so. Come away, Minna. What have +we to do with these people?" + +He went away, giving them to understand that he would return on the +morrow. If he had said that he was going away that very night, they +would not have let him go until it was time to catch the train. He had +only gone a few yards in the darkness when he recovered the feeling of +well-being which he had had before he met the carriage. The memory of +his tiresome evening was wiped out as though a wet sponge had been over +it: nothing was left of it: it was all drowned in the voice of the +Rhine. He walked along its banks by the house where he was born. He had +no difficulty in recognizing it. The shutters were closed: all were +asleep in it. Christophe stopped in the middle of the road: and it +seemed to him that if he knocked at the door, familiar phantoms would +open to him. He went into the field round the house, near the river, and +came to the place where he used to go and talk to Gottfried in the +evening. He sat down. And the old days came to life again. And the dear +little girl who had sipped with him the dream of first love was conjured +up. Together they lived through their childish tenderness again, with +its sweet tears and infinite hopes. And he thought with a simple smile: + +"Life has taught me nothing. All my knowledge is vain.... All my +knowledge is vain.... I have still the same old illusions." + +How good it is to love and to believe unfailingly! Everything that is +touched by love is saved from death. + +"Minna, you are with me,--with me, not with _the other_,--Minna, +you will never grow old!..." + +The veiled moon darted from her clouds, and made the silver scales on +the river's back gleam in her light. Christophe had a vague feeling that +the river never used to pass near the knoll where he was sitting. He +went near it. Yes. Beyond the pear-tree there used to be a tongue of +sand, a little grassy slope, where he had often played. The river had +swept them away: the river was encroaching, lapping at the roots of the +pear-tree. Christophe felt a pang at his heart: he went back towards the +station. In that direction a new colony--mean houses, sheds half-built, +tall factory chimneys--was in course of construction. Christophe thought +of the acacia-wood he had seen in the afternoon, and he thought: + +"There, too, the river is encroaching...." + +The old town, lying asleep in the darkness, with all that it contained +of the living and the dead, became even more dear to him: for he felt +that a menace hung over it.... + +_Hostis habet muros...._ + +Quick, let us save our women and children! Death is lying in wait for +all that we love. Let us hasten to carve the passing face upon eternal +bronze. Let us snatch the treasure of our motherland before the flames +devour the palace of Priam. + +Christophe scrambled into the train as it was going, like a man fleeing +before a flood. But, like those men who saved the gods of their city +from the wreck, Christophe bore away within his soul the spark of life +which had flown upwards from his native land, and the sacred spirit of +the past. + +Jacqueline and Olivier had come together again for a time. Jacqueline +had lost her father, and his death had moved her deeply. In the presence +of real misfortune she had felt the wretched folly of her other sorrows: +and the tenderness which Olivier showed towards her had revived her +affection for him. She was taken back several years to the sad days +which had followed on the death of her Aunt Marthe--days which had been +followed by the blessed days of love. She told herself that she was +ungrateful to life, and that she ought to be thankful that the little it +had given her was not taken from her. She hugged that little to herself +now that its worth had been revealed to her. A short absence from Paris, +ordered by her doctor to distract her in her grief, travel with Olivier, +a sort of pilgrimage to the places where they had loved each other +during the first year of her marriage, softened her and filled her with +tenderness. In the sadness of seeing once more at the turn of the road +the dear face of the love which they thought was gone forever, of seeing +it pass and knowing that it would vanish once more,--for how long? +perhaps forever?--they clutched at it passionately and desperately.... + +"Stay, stay with us!" + +But they knew that they must lose it.... + +When Jacqueline returned to Paris she felt a little new life, kindled by +love, thrilling in her veins. But love had gone already. The burden +which lay so heavy upon her did not bring her into sympathy with Olivier +again. She did not feel the joy she expected. She probed herself +uneasily. Often when she had been so tormented before she had thought +that the coming of a child might be her salvation. The child had come, +but it brought no salvation. She felt the human plant rooted in her +flesh growing, and sucking up her blood and her life. She would stay for +days together lost in thought, listening with vacant eyes, all her being +exhausted by the unknown creature that had taken possession of her. She +was conscious of a vague buzzing, sweet, lulling, agonizing. She would +start suddenly from her torpor--dripping with sweat, shivering, with a +spasm of revolt. She fought against the meshes in which Nature had +entrapped her. She wished to live, to live freely, and it seemed to her +that Nature had tricked her. Then she was ashamed of such thoughts, and +seemed monstrous in her own eyes, and asked herself if she were more +wicked than, or made differently from, other women. And little by little +she would grow calm again, browsing like a tree over the sap, and the +dream of the living fruit ripening in her womb. What was it? What was it +going to be?... + +When she heard its first cry to the light, when she saw its pitiable +touching little body, her heart melted. In one dazzling moment she knew +the glorious joy of motherhood, the mightiest in all the world: in her +suffering to have created of her own flesh a living being, a man. And +the great wave of love which moves the universe, caught her whole body, +dashed her down, rushed over her, and lifted her up to the heavens.... O +God, the woman who creates is Thy equal: and thou knowest no joy like +unto hers: for thou hast not suffered.... + +Then the wave rolled back, and her soul dropped back into the depths. +Olivier, trembling with emotion, stooped over the child: and, smiling at +Jacqueline, he tried to understand what bond of mysterious life there +was between themselves and the wretched little creature that was as yet +hardly human. Tenderly, with a little feeling of disgust, he just +touched its little yellow wrinkled face with his lips. Jacqueline +watched him: jealously she pushed him away: she took the child and +hugged it to her breast, and covered it with kisses. The child cried and +she gave it back, and, with her face turned to the wall, she wept. +Olivier came to her and kissed her, and drank her tears: she kissed him +too, and forced herself to smile: then she asked to be left alone to +rest with the child by her side.... Alas! what is to be done when love +is dead? The man who gives more than half of himself up to intelligence +never loses a strong feeling without preserving a trace, an idea, of it +in his brain. He cannot love any more, but he cannot forget that he has +loved. But the woman who has loved wholly and without reason, and +without reason ceases wholly to love, what can she do? Will? Take refuge +in illusions? And what if she be too weak to will, too true to take +refuge in illusions?... + +Jacqueline, lying on her side with her head propped up by her hand, +looked down at the child with tender pity. What was he? Whatever he was, +he was not entirely hers. He was also something of "the other." And she +no longer loved "the other." Poor child! Dear child! She was exasperated +with the little creature who was there to bind her to the dead past: and +she bent over him and kissed and kissed him.... + +It is the great misfortune of the women of to-day that they are too free +without being free enough. If they were more free, they would seek to +form ties, and would find charm and security in them. If they were less +free, they would resign themselves to ties which they would not know how +to break: and they would suffer less. But the worst state of all is to +have ties which do not bind, and duties from which it is possible to +break free. + +If Jacqueline had believed that her little house was to be her lot for +the whole of her life, she would not have found it so inconvenient and +cramped, and she would have devised ways of making it comfortable: she +would have ended as she began, by loving it. But she knew that it was +possible to leave, it, and it stifled her. It was possible for her to +revolt, and at last she came to think it her duty to do so. + +The present-day moralists are strange creatures. All their qualities +have atrophied to the profit of their faculties of observation. They +have given up trying to see life, hardly attempt to understand it, and +never by any chance WILL it. When they have observed and noted down the +facts of human nature, they seem to think their task is at an end, and +say: + +"That is a fact." + +They make no attempt to change it. In their eyes, apparently, the mere +fact of existence is a moral virtue. Every sort of weakness seems to +have been inserted with a sort of Divine right. The world is growing +democratic. Formerly only the King was irresponsible. Nowadays all men, +preferably the basest, have that privilege. Admirable counselors! With +infinite pains and scrupulous care they set themselves to prove to the +weak exactly how weak they are, and that it has been decreed that they +should be so and not otherwise from all eternity. What can the weak do +but fold their arms? We may think ourselves lucky if they do not admire +themselves! By dint of hearing it said over and over again that she is a +sick child, a woman soon takes a pride in being so. It is encouraging +cowardice, and making it spread. If a man were to amuse himself by +telling children complacently that there is an age in adolescence when +the soul, not yet having found its balance, is capable of crimes, and +suicide, and the worst sort of physical and moral depravity, and were to +excuse these things--at once these offenses would spring into being. And +even with men it is quite enough to go on telling them that they are not +free to make them cease to be so and descend to the level of the beasts. +Tell a woman that she is a responsible being, and mistress of her body +and her will, and she will be so. But you moralists are cowards, and +take good care not to tell her so: for you have an interest in keeping +such knowledge from her!... + +The unhappy surroundings in which Jacqueline found herself led her +astray. Since she had broken with Olivier she had returned to that +section of society which she despised when she was a girl. About her and +her friends, among married women, there gathered a little group of +wealthy young men and women, smart, idle, intelligent, and licentious. +They enjoyed absolute liberty of thought and speech, tempered only by +the seasoning of wit. They might well have taken for their motto the +device of the Rabelaisian abbey: + + _"Do what thou wilt."_ + +But they bragged a little: for they did not will anything much: they +were like the enervated people of Thelema. They would complacently +profess the freedom of their instincts: but their instincts were faded +and faint; and their profligacy was chiefly cerebral. They delighted in +feeling themselves sink into the great piscina of civilization, that +warm mud-bath in which human energy, the primeval and vital forces, +primitive animalism, and its blossom of faith, will, duties, and +passions, are liquefied. Jacqueline's pretty body was steeped in that +bath of gelatinous thought. Olivier could do nothing to keep her from +it. Besides, he too was touched by the disease of the time: he thought +he had no right to tamper with the liberty of another human being: he +would not ask anything of the woman he loved that he could not gain +through love. And Jacqueline did not in the least resent his +non-interference, because she regarded her liberty as her right. + +The worst of it was that she went into that amphibious section of +society with a wholeness of heart which made anything equivocal +repulsive to her: when she believed she gave herself: in the generous +ardor of her soul, even in her egoism, she always burned her boats; and, +as a result of living with Olivier, she had preserved a moral inability +to compromise, which she was apt to apply even in immorality. + +Her new friends were too cautious to let others see them as they were. +In theory they paraded absolute liberty with regard to the prejudices of +morality and society, though in practice they so contrived their affairs +as not to fall out with any one whose acquaintance might be useful to +them: they used morality and society, while they betrayed them like +unfaithful servants, robbing their masters. They even robbed each other +for want of anything better to do, and as a matter of habit. There was +more than one of the men who knew that his wife had lovers. The wives +were not ignorant of the fact that their husbands had mistresses. They +both put up with it. Scandal only begins when one makes a noise about +these things. These charming marriages rested on a tacit understanding +between partners--between accomplices. But Jacqueline was more frank, +and played to win or lose. The first thing was to be sincere. Again, to +be sincere. Again and always, to be sincere. Sincerity was also one of +the virtues extolled by the ideas of that time. But herein it is proved +once again that everything is sound for the sound in heart, while +everything is corrupt for the corrupt. How hideous it is sometimes to be +sincere! It is a sin for mediocre people to try to look into the depths +of themselves. They see their mediocrity: and their vanity always finds +something to feed on. + +Jacqueline spent her time in looking at herself in her mirror: she saw +things in it which it were better she had never seen: for when she saw +them she could not take her eyes off them: and instead of struggling +against them she watched them grow: they became enormous and in the end +captured her eyes and her mind. + +The child was not enough to fill her life. She had not been able to +nurse it: the baby pined with her. She had to procure a wet nurse. It +was a great grief to her at first.... Soon it became a solace. The child +became splendidly healthy: he grew lustily, and became a fine little +fellow, gave no trouble, spent his time in sleeping, and hardly cried at +all at night. The nurse--a strapping Nivernaise who had fostered many +children, and always had a jealous and embarrassing animal affection for +each of them in turn--was like the real mother. Whenever Jacqueline +expressed an opinion, the woman went her own way: and if Jacqueline +tried to argue, in the end she always found that she knew nothing at all +about it. She had never really recovered from the birth of the child: a +slight attack of phlebitis had dragged her down, and as she had to lie +still for several weeks she worried and worried: she was feverish, and +her mind went on and on indefinitely beating out the same monotonous +deluded complaint: + +"I have not lived, I have not lived: and now my life is finished...." + +For her imagination was fired: she thought herself crippled for life: +and there rose in her a dumb, harsh, and bitter rancor, which she did +not confess to herself, against the innocent cause of her illness, the +child. The feeling is not so rare as is generally believed: but a veil +is drawn over it: and even those who feel it are ashamed to submit to it +in their inmost hearts. Jacqueline condemned herself: there was a sharp +conflict between her egoism and her mother's love. When she saw the +child sleeping so happily, she was filled with tenderness: but a moment +later she would think bitterly: + +"He has killed me." + +And she could not suppress a feeling of irritation and revolt against +the untroubled sleep of the creature whose happiness she had bought at +the price of her suffering. Even after she had recovered, when the child +was bigger, the feeling of hostility persisted dimly and obscurely. As +she was ashamed of it, she transferred it to Olivier. She went on +fancying herself ill: and her perpetual care of her health, her +anxieties, which were bolstered up by the doctors, who encouraged the +idleness which was the prime cause of it all,--(separation from the +child, forced inactivity, absolute isolation, weeks of emptiness spent +in lying in bed and being stuffed with food, like a beast being fatted +for slaughter),--had ended by concentrating all her thoughts upon, +herself. The modern way of curing neurasthenia is very strange, being +neither more nor less than the substitution of hypertrophy of the ego +for a disease of the ego! Why not bleed their egoism, or restore the +circulation of the blood from head to heart, if they do not have too +much, by some violent, moral reagent! + +Jacqueline came out of it physically stronger, plumper, and +rejuvenated,--but morally she was more ill than ever. Her months of +isolation had broken the last ties of thought which bound her to +Olivier. While she lived with him she was still under the ascendancy of +his idealism, for, in spite of all his failings, he remained constant to +his faith: she struggled in vain against the bondage in which she was +held by a mind more steadfast than her own, against the look which +pierced to her very soul, and forced her sometimes to condemn herself, +however loath she might be to do so. But as soon as chance had separated +her from her husband--as soon as she ceased to feel the weight of his +all-seeing love--as soon as she was free--the trusting friendship that +used to exist between them was supplanted by a feeling of anger at +having broken free, a sort of hatred born of the idea that she had for +so long lived beneath the yoke of an affection which she no longer +felt.--Who can tell the hidden, implacable, bitter feelings that seethe +and ferment in the heart of a creature he loves, by whom he believes +that he is loved? Between one day and the next, all is changed. She +loved the day before, she seemed to love, she thought she loved. She +loves no longer. The man she loved is struck out from her thoughts. She +sees suddenly that he is nothing to her: and he does not understand: he +has seen nothing of the long travail through which she has passed: he +has had no suspicion of the secret hostility towards himself that has +been gathering in her: he does not wish to know the reasons for her +vengeful hatred. Reasons often remote, complex, and obscure,--some +hidden deep in the mysteries of their inmost life,--others arising from +injured vanity, secrets of the heart surprised and judged,--others.... +What does she know of them herself? It is some hidden offense committed +against her unwittingly, an offense which she will never forgive. It is +impossible to find out, and she herself is not very sure what it is: but +the offense is marked deep in her flesh: her flesh will never forget it. + +To fight against such an appalling stream of disaffection called for a +very different type of man from Olivier--one nearer nature, a simpler +man and a more supple one not hampered with sentimental scruples, a man +of strong instincts, capable, if need be, of actions which his reason +would disavow. He lost the fight before ever it began, for he had lost +heart: his perception was too clear, and he had long since recognized in +Jacqueline a form of heredity which was stronger than her will, her +mother's soul reappearing in her: he saw her falling like a stone down +to the depths of the stock from which she sprang: and his weak and +clumsy efforts to stay her only accelerated her downfall. He forced +himself to be calm. She, from an unconsciously selfish motive, tried to +break down his defenses and make him say violent, brutal, boorish things +to her so as to have a reason for despising him. If he gave way to +anger, she despised him. If at once he were ashamed and became +apologetic, she despised him even more. And if he did not, would not, +give way to anger--then she hated him. And worst of all was the silence +which for days together would rise like a wall between them. A +suffocating, crushing, maddening silence which brings even the gentlest +creatures to fury and exasperation, and makes them have moments when +they feel a savage desire to hurt, to cry out, or make the other cry +out. The black silence in which love reaches its final stage of +disintegration, and the man and the woman, like the worlds, each +following its own orbit, pass onward into the night.... They had reached +a point at which everything they did, even an attempt to come together +again, drove them farther and farther apart. Their life became +intolerable. Events were precipitated by an accident. + +During the past year Cécile Fleury had often been to the Jeannins'. +Olivier had met her at Christophe's: then Jacqueline had invited her to +the house; and Cécile went on seeing them even after Christophe had +broken with them. Jacqueline had been kind to her: although she was +hardly at all musical and thought Cécile a little common, she felt the +charm of her singing and her soothing influence. Olivier liked playing +with her, and gradually she became a friend of the family. She inspired +confidence: when she came into the Jeannins' drawing-room with her +honest eyes and her air of health and high spirits, and her rather loud +laugh which it was good to hear, it was like a ray of sunlight piercing +the mist. She brought a feeling of inexpressible relief and solace to +Olivier and Jacqueline. When she was leaving they longed to say to her: + +"No. Stay, stay a little while longer, for I am cold!" + +During Jacqueline's absence Olivier saw Cécile more often: he could not +help letting her see something of his troubles. He did it quite +unthinkingly, with the heedlessness of a weak and tender creature who is +stifling and has need of some one to confide in, with an absolute +surrender. Cécile was touched by it: she soothed him with motherly words +of comfort. She pitied both of them, and urged Olivier not to lose +heart. But whether it was that she was more embarrassed than he by his +confidences, or that there was some other reason, she found excuses for +going less often to the house. No doubt it seemed to her that she was +not acting loyally towards Jacqueline, for she had no right to know her +secrets. At least, that was how Olivier interpreted her estrangement: +and he agreed with her, for he was sorry that he had spoken. But the +estrangement made him feel what Cécile had become to him. He had grown +used to sharing his ideas with her, and she was the only creature who +could deliver him from the pain he was suffering. He was too much +skilled in reading his own feelings to have any doubt as to the name of +what he felt for her. He would never have said anything to Cécile. But +he could not resist the imperative desire to write down what he felt. +For some little time past he had returned to the dangerous habit of +communing with his thoughts on paper. He had cured himself of it during +the years of love: but now that he found himself alone once more, his +inherited mania took possession of him: it was a relief from his +sufferings, and it was the artist's need of self-analysis. So he +described himself, and set his troubles down in writing, as though he +were telling them to Cécile--more freely indeed; since she was never to +read it. And as luck would have it the manuscript came into Jacqueline's +hands. It happened one day when she was feeling nearer Olivier than she +had been for years. As she was clearing out her cupboard she read once +more the old love-letters he had sent her: she had been moved to tears +by them. Sitting in the shadow of the cupboard, unable to go on with her +tidying, she lived through the past once more: and then was filled with +sorrow and remorse to think that she had destroyed it. She thought of +the grief it must be to Olivier; she had never been able to face the +idea of it calmly: she could forget it: but she could not bear to think +that he had suffered through her. Her heart ached. She longed to throw +herself into his arms and say: + +"Oh! Olivier, Olivier, what have we done? We are mad, we are mad! Don't +let us ever again hurt each other!" + +If only he had come in at that moment! + +And it was exactly at that moment that she found his letters to +Cécile.... It was the end.--Did she think that Olivier had really +deceived her? Perhaps. But what does it signify? To her the betrayal was +not so much in the act as in the thought and intention. She would have +found it easier to forgive the man she loved for taking a mistress than +for secretly giving his heart to another woman. And she was right. + +"A pretty state of things!" some will say....--(They are poor creatures +who only suffer from the betrayal of love when it is consummated!... +When the heart remains faithful, the sordid offenses of the body are of +small account. When the heart turns traitor, all the rest is +nothing.)... + +Jacqueline did not for a moment think of regaining Olivier's love. It +was too late! She no longer cared for him enough. Or perhaps she cared +for him too much. All her trust in him crumbled away, all that was left +in her secret heart of her faith and hope in him. She did not tell +herself that she had scorned him, and had discouraged him, and driven +him to his new love, or that his love was innocent: and that after all +we are not masters of ourselves sufficiently to choose whether we will +love or not. It never occurred to her to compare his sentimental impulse +with her flirtation with Christophe: she did not love Christophe, and so +he did not count! In her passionate exaggeration she thought that +Olivier was lying to her, and that she was nothing to him. Her last stay +had failed her at the moment when she reached out her hand to grasp +it.... It was the end. + +Olivier never knew what she had suffered that day. But when he next saw +her he too felt that it was the end. + +From that moment on they never spoke to each other except in the +presence of strangers. They watched each other like trapped beasts +fearfully on their guard. Jeremias Gotthelf somewhere describes, with +pitiless simplicity, the grim situation of a husband and a wife who no +longer love each other and watch each other, each carefully marking the +other's health, looking for symptoms of illness, neither actually +thinking of hastening or even wishing the death of the other, but +drifting along in the hope of some sudden accident: and each of them +living in the flattering thought of being the healthier of the two. +There were moments when both Jacqueline and Olivier almost fancied that +such thoughts were in the other's mind. And they were in the mind of +neither: but it was bad enough that they should attribute them to each +other, as Jacqueline did at night when she would lie feverishly awake +and tell herself that her husband was the stronger, and that he was +wearing her down gradually, and would soon triumph over her.... The +monstrous delirium of a crazy heart and brain!--And to think that in +their heart of hearts, with all that was best in them, they loved each +other!... + +Olivier bent beneath the weight of it, and made no attempt to fight +against it; he held aloof and dropped the rudder of Jacqueline's soul. +Left to herself with no pilot to steer her, her freedom turned her +dizzy: she needed a master against whom to revolt: if she had no master +she had to make one. Then she was the prey of a fixed idea. Till then, +in spite of her suffering, she had never dreamed of leaving Olivier. +From that time on she thought herself absolved from every tie. She +wished to love, before it was too late:--(for, young as she was, she +thought herself an old woman).--She loved, she indulged in those +imaginary devouring passions, which fasten on the first object they +meet, a face seen in a crowd, a reputation, sometimes merely a name, +and, having laid hold of it cannot let go, telling the heart that it +cannot live without the object of its choice, laying it waste, and +completely emptying it of all the memories of the past that filled it; +other affections, moral ideas, memories, pride of self, and respect for +others. And when the fixed idea dies in its time for want of anything to +feed it, after it has consumed everything, who can tell what the new +nature may be that will spring from the ruins, a nature often without +kindness, without pity, without youth, without illusions, thinking of +nothing but devouring life as grass smothers and devours the ruins of +monuments! + +In this case, as usual, the fixed idea fastened on a creature of the +type that most easily tricks the heart. Poor Jacqueline fell in love +with a philanderer, a Parisian writer, who was neither young nor +handsome, a man who was heavy, red-faced, dissipated, with bad teeth, +absolutely and terribly heartless, whose chief merit was that he was a man +of the world and had made a great many women unhappy. She had not +even the excuse that she did not know how selfish he was: for he paraded +it in his art. He knew perfectly what he was doing: egoism enshrined in +art is like a mirror to larks, like a candle to moths. More than one +woman in Jacqueline's circle had been caught: quite recently one of her +friends, a young, newly-married woman, whom he had had no great +difficulty in seducing, had been deserted by him. Their hearts were not +broken by it, though they found it hard to conceal their discomfiture +from the delight of the gossips. Even those who were most cruelly hurt +were much too careful of their interests and their social interests not +to keep their perturbation within the bounds of common sense. They made +no scandal. Whether they deceived their husbands or their lovers, or +whether they were themselves deceived and suffered, it was all done in +silence. They were the heroines of scandalous rumors. + +But Jacqueline was mad: she was capable not only of doing what she said, +but also of saying what she did. She brought into her folly an absolute +lack of selfish motive, and an utter disinterestedness. She had the +dangerous merit of always being frank with herself and of never shirking +the consequences of her own actions. She was a better creature than the +people she lived with: and for that reason she did worse. When she +loved, when she conceived the idea of adultery, she flung herself into +it headlong with desperate frankness. + + * * * * * + +Madame Arnaud was alone in her room, knitting with the feverish +tranquillity with which Penelope must have woven her famous web. Like +Penelope, she was waiting for her husband's return. M. Arnaud used to +spend whole days away from home. He had classes in the morning and +evening. As a rule he came back to lunch. Although he was a slow walker +and his school was at the other end of Paris, he forced himself to take +the long walk home, not so much from affection, as from habit, and for +the sake of economy. But sometimes he was detained by lectures, or he +would take advantage of being in the neighborhood of a library to go and +work there. Lucile Arnaud would be left alone in the empty flat. Except +for the charwoman who came from eight to ten to do the cleaning, and the +tradesmen who came to fetch and bring orders, no one ever rang the bell. +She knew nobody in the house now. Christophe had removed, and there were +newcomers in the lilac garden. Céline Chabran had married André +Elsberger. Élie Elsberger had gone away with his family to Spain, where +he had been appointed manager of a mine. Old Weil had lost his wife and +hardly ever lived in his flat in Paris. Only Christophe and his friend +Cécile had kept up their relations with Lucile Arnaud: but they lived +far away, and they were busy and hard at work all day long, so that they +often did not come to see her for weeks together. She had nothing +outside herself. + +She was not bored. She needed very little to keep her interest in things +alive: the very smallest daily task was enough, or a tiny plant, whose +delicate foliage she would clean with motherly care every morning. She +had her quiet gray cat, who had lost something of his manners, as is apt +to happen with domestic animals who are loved by their masters: he used +to spend the day, like herself, sitting by the fire, or on the table +near the lamp watching her fingers as she sewed, and sometimes gazing at +her with his strange eyes, which watched her for a moment and then +closed again. Even the furniture was company to her. Every piece was +like a familiar face. She took a childlike pleasure in looking after +them, in gently wiping off the dust which settled on their sides, and in +carefully replacing them in their usual corners. She would hold silent +conversations with them. She would smile at the fine Louis XVI. +round-topped bureau, which was the only piece of old furniture she had. +Every day she would feel the same joy in seeing it. She was always +absorbed in going over her linen, and she would spend hours standing on +a chair, with her hands and arms deep in the great country cupboard, +looking and arranging, while the cat, whose curiosity was roused, would +spend hours watching her. + +But her real happiness came when, after her work was done and she had +lunched alone, God knows how--(she never had much of an appetite)--and +had gone the necessary errands, and her day was at an end, she would +come in about four and sit by the window or the fire with her work and +her cat. Sometimes she would find some excuse for not going out at all; +she was glad when she could stay indoors, especially in the winter when +it was snowing. She had a horror of the cold, and the wind, and the mud, +and the rain, for she was something of a cat herself, very clean, +fastidious, and soft. She would rather not eat than go and procure her +lunch when the tradespeople forgot to bring it. In that case she would +munch a piece of chocolate or some fruit from the sideboard. She was +very careful not to let Arnaud know. These were her escapades. Then +during the days when the light was dim, and also sometimes on lovely +sunny days,--(outside the blue sky would shine, and the noise of the +street would buzz round the dark silent rooms; like a sort of mirage +enshrouding the soul),--she would sit in her favorite corner, with her +feet on her hassock, her knitting in her hands, and go off into +day-dreams while her fingers plied the needles. She would have one of +her favorite books by her side: as a rule one of those humble, +red-backed volumes, a translation of an English novel. She would read +very little, hardly more than a chapter a day; and the book would lie on +her knees open at the same page for a long time together, or sometimes +she would not even open it: she knew it already, and the story of it +would be in her dreams. So the long novels of Dickens and Thackeray +would be drawn out over weeks, and in her dreams they would become +years. They wrapped her about with their tenderness. The people of the +present day, who read quickly and carelessly, do not know the marvelous +vigor irradiated by those fine books which must be taken in slowly. +Madame Arnaud had no doubt that the lives of the characters in the +novels were not as real as her own. There were some for whom she would +have laid down her life: the tender jealous creature, Lady Castlewood, +the woman who loved in silence with her motherly virginal heart, was a +sister to her: little Dombey was her own dear little boy: she was Dora, +the child-wife, who was dying: she would hold out her arms to all those +childlike souls which pass through the world with the honest eyes of +purity: and around her there would pass a procession of friendly beggars +and harmless eccentrics, all in pursuit of their touchingly preposterous +cranks and whims,--and at their head the fond genius of dear Dickens, +laughing and crying together at his own dreams. At such times, when she +looked out of the window, she would recognize among the passers-by the +beloved or dreaded figure of this or that personage in that imaginary +world. She would fancy similar lives, the same lives, being lived behind +the walls of the houses. Her dislike for going out came from her dread +of that world with its moving mysteries. She saw around her hidden +dramas and comedies being played. It was not always an illusion. In her +isolation she had come by the gift of mystical intuition which in the +eyes of the passers-by can perceive the secrets of their lives of +yesterday and to-morrow, which are often unknown to themselves. She +mixed up what she actually saw with what she remembered of the novels +and distorted it. She felt that she must drown in that immense universe. +And she would have to go home to regain her footing. + +But what need had she to read or to look at others? She had but to gaze +in upon herself. Her pale, dim existence--seeming so when seen from +without--was gloriously lit up within. There was abundance and fullness +of life in it. There were memories, and treasures, the existence of +which lay unsuspected.... Had they ever had any reality?--No doubt they +were real, since they were real to her.... Oh! the wonder of such lowly +lives transfigured by the magic wand of dreams! + +Madame Arnaud would go back through the years to her childhood: each of +the little frail flowers of her vanished hopes sprang silently into life +again.... Her first childish love for a girl, whose charm had fascinated +her at first sight: she loved her with the love which is only possible +to those who are infinitely pure: she used to think she would die at the +touch of her: she used to long to kiss her feet, to be her little girl, +to marry her: the girl had married, had not been happy, had had a child +which died, and then she too had died.... Another love, when she was +about twelve years old, for a little girl of her own age, who tyrannized +over her: a fair-haired mad-cap, gay and imperious, who used to amuse +herself by making her cry, and then would devour her with kisses: she +laid a thousand romantic plans for their future together: then, +suddenly, the girl became a Carmelite nun, without anybody knowing why: +she was said to be happy.... Then there had been a great passion for a +man much older than herself. No one had ever known anything about it, +not even the object of it. She had given to it a great and ardent +devotion and untold wealth of tenderness.... Then another passion: this +time she was loved. But from a strange timidity, and mistrust of +herself, she had not dared to believe that she was loved, or to let the +man see that she loved him. And happiness passed without her grasping +it.... Then.... But what is the use of telling others what only has a +meaning for oneself? So many trivial facts which had assumed a profound +significance: a little attention at the hands of a friend: a kind word +from Olivier, spoken without his attaching any importance to it: +Christophe's kindly visits, and the enchanted world evoked by his music: +a glance from a stranger: yes, and even in that excellent woman, so +virtuous and pure, certain involuntary infidelities in thought, which +made her uneasy and feel ashamed, while she would feebly thrust them +aside, though all the same--being so innocent--they brought a little +sunshine into her heart.... She loved her husband truly, although he was +not altogether the husband of her dreams. But he was kind, and one day +when he said to her: "My darling wife, you do not know all you are to +me; you are my whole life," her heart melted: and that day she felt that +she was one with him, wholly and forever, without any possibility of +going back on it. Each year brought them closer to each other, and +tightened the bond between them. They had shared lovely dreams: of work, +traveling, children. What had become of them?... Alas!... Madame Arnaud +was still dreaming them. There was a little boy of whom she had so often +and so profoundly dreamed, that she knew him almost as well as though he +really existed. She had slowly begotten him through the years, always +adorning him with all the most beautiful things she saw, and the things +she loved most dearly.... Silence!... + +That was all. It meant worlds to her. There are so many tragedies +unknown, even the most intimate, in the depths of the most tranquil and +seemingly most ordinary lives! And the greatest tragedy of all perhaps +is:--_that nothing happens_ in such lives of hope crying for what +is their right, their just due promised, and refused, by Nature--wasting +away in passionate anguish--showing nothing of it all to the outside +world! Madame Arnaud, happily for herself, was not only occupied with +herself. Her own life filled only a part of her dreams. She lived also +in the lives of those she knew, or had known, and put herself in their +place: she thought much of Christophe and his friend Cécile. She was +thinking of them now. The two women had grown fond of one another. The +strange thing was that of the two it was the sturdy Cécile who felt most +need to lean on the frail Madame Arnaud. In reality the healthy, +high-spirited young woman was not so strong as she seemed to be. She was +passing through a crisis. Even the most tranquil hearts are not immune +from being taken by surprise. Unknown to herself, a feeling of +tenderness had crept into her heart: she refused to admit it at first: +but it had grown so that she was forced to see it:--she loved Olivier. +His sweet and affectionate disposition, the rather feminine charm of his +personality, his weakness and inability to defend himself, had attracted +her at once:--(a motherly nature is attracted by the nature which has +need of her).--What she had learned subsequently of his marital troubles +had inspired her with a dangerous pity for Olivier. No doubt these +reasons would not have been enough. Who can say why one human being +falls in love with another? Neither counts for anything in the matter, +but often it merely happens that a heart which is for the moment of its +guard is taken by surprise, and is delivered up to the first affection +it may meet on the road,--As soon as she had no room left for doubt as +to her state of mind, Cécile bravely struggled to pluck out the barb of +a love which she thought wicked and absurd: she suffered for a long time +and did not recover. No one would have suspected what was happening to +her: she strove valiantly to appear happy. Only Madame Arnaud knew what +it must have cost her. Not that Cécile had told her her secret. But she +would sometimes come and lay her head on Madame Arnaud's bosom. She +would weep a little, without a word, kiss her, and then go away +laughing. She adored this friend of hers, in whom, though she seemed so +fragile, she felt a moral energy and faith superior to her own. She did +not confide in her. But Madame Arnaud could guess volumes on a hint. The +world seemed to her to be a sad misunderstanding. It is impossible to +dissolve it. One can only love, have pity, and dream. + +And when the swarm of her dreams buzzed too loudly, when her thoughts +stopped, she would go to her piano and let her hands fall lightly on the +keys, at random, and play softly to wreathe the mirage of life about +with the subdued light of music.... + +But the good little creature would not forget to perform her everyday +duties: and when Arnaud came home he would find the lamp lit, the supper +ready, and his wife's pale, smiling face waiting for him. And he would +have no idea of the universe in which she had been living. + +The great difficulty was to keep the two lives going side by side +without their clashing: her everyday life and that other, the great life +of the mind, with its far-flung horizons. It was not always easy. +Fortunately Arnaud also lived to some extent in an imaginary life, in +books, and works of art, the eternal fire of which fed the flickering +flames of his soul. But during the last few years he had become more and +more preoccupied with the petty annoyances of his profession, injustice +and favoritism, and friction with his colleagues or his pupils: he was +embittered: he began to talk politics, and to inveigh against the +Government and the Jews: and he made Dreyfus responsible for his +disappointments at the university. His mood of soreness infected Madame +Arnaud a little. She was at an age when her vital force was upset and +uneasy, groping for balance. There were great gaps in her thoughts. For +a time they both lost touch with life, and their reason for existence: for +they had nothing to which to bind their spider's web, which was left +hanging in the void. Though the support of reality be never so weak, yet +for dreams there must be one. They had no sort of support. They could +not contrive any means of propping each other up. Instead of helping +her, he clung to her. And she knew perfectly well that she was not +strong enough to hold him up, for she could not even support herself. +Only a miracle could save her. She prayed for it to come. It came from +the depths of her soul. In her solitary pious heart Madame Arnaud felt +the irony of the sublime and absurd hunger for creation in spite of +everything, the need of weaving her web in spite of everything, through +space, for the joy of weaving, leaving it to the wind, the breath of +God, to carry her whithersoever it was ordained that she should go. And +the breath of God gave her a new hold on life, and found her an +invisible support. Then the husband and wife both set patiently to work +once more to weave the magnificent and vain web of their dreams, a web +fashioned of their purest suffering and their blood. + +Madame Arnaud was alone in her room.... It was near evening. + +The door-bell rang. Madame Arnaud, roused from her reverie before the +usual time, started and trembled. She carefully arranged her work and +went to open the door. Christophe came in. He was in a great state of +emotion. She took his hands affectionately. + +"What is it, my dear?" she asked. + +"Ah!" he said. "Olivier has come back." + +"Come back?" + +"He came this morning and said: 'Christophe, help me!' I embraced him. +He wept. He told me: I have nothing but you now. She has gone." + +Madame Arnaud gasped, and clasped her hands and said: + +"Poor things!" + +"She has gone," said Christophe. "Gone with her lover." + +"And her child?" asked Madame Arnaud. + +"Husband, child--she has left everything." + +"Poor thing!" said Madame Arnaud again. + +"He loved her," said Christophe. "He loved her, and her alone. He will +never recover from the blow. He keeps on saying: 'Christophe, she has +betrayed me.... My dearest friend has betrayed me.' It is no good my +saying to him, 'Since she has betrayed you, she cannot have been your +friend. She is your enemy. Forget her or kill her!'" + +"Oh! Christophe, what are you saying! It is too horrible!" + +'Yes, I know. You all think it barbaric and prehistoric to kill! It is +jolly to hear these Parisians protesting against the brutal instincts +which urge the male to kill the female if she deceives him, and +preaching indulgence and reason! They're splendid apostles! It is a fine +thing to see the pack of mongrel dogs waxing wrath against the return to +animalism. After outraging life, after having robbed it of its worth, +they surround it with religious worship.... What! That heartless, +dishonorable, meaningless life, the mere physical act of breathing, the +beating of the blood in a scrap of flesh, these are the things which +they hold worthy of respect! They are never done with their niceness +about the flesh: it is a crime to touch it. You may kill the soul if you +like, but the body is sacred...." + +"The murderers of the soul are the worst of all: but one crime is no +excuse for another. You know that." + +"I know it. Yes. You are right. I did not think what I was saying.... +Who knows? I should do it, perhaps." + +"No. You are unfair to yourself. You are so kind." + +"If I am roused to passion, I am as cruel as the rest. You see how I had +lost control of myself!... But when you see a friend brought to tears, +how can you not hate the person who has caused them? And how can one be +too hard on a woman who leaves her child to run after her lover?" + +"Don't talk like that, Christophe. You don't know." + +"What! You defend her?" + +"I pity her, too." + +"I pity those who suffer. Not those who cause suffering." + +"Well! Do you think she hasn't suffered too? Do you think she has left +her child and wrecked her life out of lightness of heart? For her life +is wrecked too. I hardly know her, Christophe. I have only seen her a +few times, and that only in passing: she never said a friendly word to +me, she was not in sympathy with me. And yet I know her better than you. +I am sure she is not a bad woman. Poor child! I can guess what she has +had to go through...." + +"You.... You whose life is so worthy and so right and sensible!..." + +"Yes, Christophe, I. You do not know. You are kind, but you are a man +and, like all men, you are hard, in spite of your kindness--a man hard +and set against everything which is not in and of yourself. You have no +real knowledge of the women who live with you. You love them, after your +fashion; but you never take the trouble to understand them. You are so +easily satisfied with yourselves! You are quite sure that you know +us.... Alas! If you knew how we suffer sometimes when we see, not that +you do not love us, but how you love us, and that that is all we are to +those we love the best! There are moments, Christophe, when we clench +our fists so that the nails dig into our hands to keep ourselves from +crying to you: 'Oh! Do not love us, do not love us! Anything rather than +love us like that!'... Do you know the saying of a poet: 'Even in her +home, among her children, surrounded with sham honors, a woman endures a +scorn a thousand times harder to bear than the most utter misery'? Think +of that, Christophe. They are terrible words." + +"What you say has upset me. I don't rightly understand. But I am +beginning to see.... Then, you yourself...." + +"I have been through all these torments." + +"Is it possible?... But, even so, you will never make me believe that +you would have done the same as that woman." + +"I have no child, Christophe. I do not know what I should have done in +her place." + +"No. That is impossible. I believe in you. I respect you too much. I +swear that you could not." + +"Swear nothing! I have been very near doing what she has done.... It +hurts me to destroy the good idea you had of me. But you must learn to +know us a little if you do not want to be unjust. Yes, I have been +within an ace of just such an act of folly. And you yourself had +something to do with my not going on with it. It was two years ago. I +was going through a period of terrible depression, that seemed to be +eating my life away. I kept on telling myself that I was no use in the +world, that nobody needed me, that even my husband could do without me, +that I had lived for nothing.... I was on the very point of running +away, to do Heaven knows what! I went up to your room.... Do you +remember?... You did not understand why I came. I came to say good-bye +to you.... And then, I don't know what happened, I can't remember +exactly ... but I know that something you said ... (though you had no +idea of it....) ... was like a flash of light to me.... Perhaps it was +not what you said.... Perhaps it was only a matter of opportunity; at +that moment the least thing was enough to make or mar me.... When I left +you I went back to my own room, locked myself in, and wept the whole day +through.... I was better after that: the crisis had passed." + +"And now," asked Christophe, "you are sorry?" + +"Now?" she said. "Ah! If I had been so mad as to do it I should have +been at the bottom of the Seine long ago. I could not have borne the +shame of it, and the injury I should have done to my poor husband." + +"Then you are happy?" + +"Yes. As happy as one can be in this life. It is so rare for two people +to understand each other, and respect each other, and know that they are +sure of each other, not merely with a simple lover's belief, which is +often an illusion, but as the result of years passed together, gray, +dull, commonplace years even--especially with the memory of the dangers +through which they have passed together. And as they grow older their +trust grows greater and finer." + +She stopped and blushed suddenly. + +"Oh, Heavens! How could I tell you that?... What have I done?... Forget +it, Christophe, I beg of you. No one must know." + +"You need not be afraid," said Christophe, pressing her hand warmly. "It +shall be sacred to me." + +Madame Arnaud was unhappy at what she had said, and turned away for a +moment. + +Then she went on: + +"I ought not to have told you.... But, you see, I wanted to show you +that even in the closest and best marriages, even for the women ... whom +you respect, Christophe ... there are times, not only of aberration, as +you say, but of real, intolerable suffering, which may drive them to +madness, and wreck at least one life, if not two. You must not be too +hard. Men and women make each other suffer terribly even when they love +each other dearly." + +"Must they, then, live alone and apart?" + +"That is even worse for us. The life of a woman who has to live alone, +and fight like men (and often against men), is a terrible thing in a +society which is not ready for the idea of it, and is, in a great +measure, hostile to it...." + +She stopped again, leaning forward a little, with her eyes fixed on the +fire in the grate; then she went on softly, in a rather hushed tone, +hesitating every now and then, stopping, and then going on: + +"And yet it is not our fault when a woman lives like that, she does not +do so from caprice, but because she is forced to do so; she has to earn +her living and learn how to do without a man, since men will have +nothing to do with her if she is poor. She is condemned to solitude +without having any of its advantages, for in France she cannot, like a +man, enjoy her independence, even in the most innocent way, without +provoking scandal: everything is forbidden her. I have a friend who is a +school-mistress in the provinces. If she were shut up in an airless +prison she could not be more lonely and more stifled. The middle-classes +close their doors to women who struggle to earn their living by their +work; they are suspected and contemned; their smallest actions are spied +upon and turned to evil. The masters at the boys' school shun them, +either because they are afraid of the tittle-tattle of the town, or from +a secret hostility, or from shyness, and because they are in the habit +of frequenting cafés and consorting with low women, or because they are +too tired after the day's work and have a dislike, as a result of their +work, for intellectual women. And the women themselves cannot bear each +other, especially if they are compelled to live together in the school. +The head-mistress is often a woman absolutely incapable of understanding +young creatures with a need of affection, who lose heart during the +first few years of such a barren trade and such inhuman solitude; she +leaves them with their secret agony and makes no attempt to help them; +she is inclined to think that they are only vain and haughty. There is +no one to take an interest in them. Having neither fortune nor +influence, they cannot marry. Their hours of work are so many as to +leave them no time in which to create an intellectual life which might +bind them together and give them some comfort. When such an existence is +not supported by an exceptional religious or moral feeling,--(I might +say abnormal and morbid; for such absolute self-sacrifice is not +natural),--it is a living death....--In default of intellectual work, +what resources does charity offer to women? What great disappointments +it holds out for those women who are too sincere to be satisfied with +official or polite charity, philanthropic twaddle, the odious mixture of +frivolity, beneficence, and bureaucracy, the trick of dabbling in +poverty in the intervals of flirtation! And if one of them in disgust +has the incredible audacity to venture out alone among the poor or the +wretched, whose life she only knows by hearsay, think of what she will +see! Sights almost beyond bearing! It is a very hell. What can she do to +help them? She is lost, drowned in such a sea of misfortune. However, +she struggles on, she tries hard to save a few of the poor wretches, she +wears herself out for them, and drowns with them. She is lucky if she +succeeds in saving one or two of them! But who is there to rescue her? +Who ever dreams of going to her aid? For she, too, suffers, both with +her own and the suffering of others: the more faith she gives, the less +she has for herself; all these poor wretches cling desperately to her, +and she has nothing with which to stay herself. No one holds out a hand +to her. And sometimes she is stoned.... You knew, Christophe, the +splendid woman who gave herself to the humblest and most meritorious +charitable work; she took pity on the street prostitutes who had just +been brought to child-bed, the wretched women with whom the Public Aid +would have nothing to do, or who were afraid of the Public Aid; she +tried to cure them physically and morally, to look after them and their +children, to wake in them the mother-feeling, to give them new homes and +a life of honest work. She taxed her strength to the utmost in her grim +labors, so full of disappointment and bitterness--(so few are saved, so +few wish to be saved! And think of all the babies who die! Poor innocent +little babies, condemned in the very hour of their birth!...)--That +Woman who had taken upon herself the sorrows of others, the blameless +creature who of her own free will expiated the crimes of human +selfishness--how do you think she was judged, Christophe? The +evil-minded public accused her of making money out of her work, and even +of making money out of the poor women she protected. She had to leave +the neighborhood, and go away, utterly downhearted....--You cannot +conceive the cruelty of the struggles which independent women have to +maintain against the society of to-day, a conservative, heartless +society, which is dying and expends what little energy it has left in +preventing others from living." + +"My dear creature, it is not only the lot of women. We all know these +struggles. And I know the refuge." + +"What is it?" + +"Art," + +"All very well for you, but not for us. And even among men, how many are +there who can take advantage of it?" + +"Look at your friend Cécile. She is happy." + +"How do you know? Ah! You have jumped to conclusions! Because she puts a +brave face on it, because she does not stop to think of things that make +her sad, because she conceals them from others, you say that she is +happy! Yes. She is happy to be well and strong, and to be able to fight. +But you know nothing of her struggles. Do you think she was made for +that deceptive life of art? Art! Just think of the poor women who long +for the glory of being able to write or play or sing as the very summit +of happiness! Their lives must be bare indeed, and they must be so hard +pressed that they can find no affection to which to turn! Art! What have +we to do with art, if we have all the rest with it? There is only one +thing in the world which can make a woman forget everything else, +everything else: and that is the child." "And when she has a child, you +see, even that is not enough." + +"Yes. Not always.... Women are not very happy. It is difficult to be a +woman. Much more difficult than to be a man. You men never realize that +enough. You can be absorbed in an intellectual passion or some outside +activity. You mutilate yourselves, but you are the happier for it. A +healthy woman cannot do that without suffering for it. It is inhuman to +stifle a part of yourself. When we women are happy in one way, we regret +that we are not happy in another. We have several souls. You men have +but one, a more vigorous soul, which is often brutal and even monstrous. +I admire you. But do not be too selfish. You are very selfish without +knowing it. You hurt us often, without knowing it." + +"What are we to do? It is not our fault." + +"No, it is not your fault, my dear Christophe. It is not your fault, nor +is it ours. The truth is, you know, that life is not a simple thing. +They say that there we only need to live naturally. But which of us is +natural?" + +"True. Nothing is natural in our way of living. Celibacy is not natural. +Nor is marriage. And free love delivers the weak up to the rapaciousness +of the strong. Even our society is not a natural thing: we have +manufactured it. It is said that man is a sociable animal. What +nonsense! He was forced to be so to live. He has made himself sociable +for the purposes of utility, and self-defence, and pleasure, and the +rise to greatness. His necessity has led him to subscribe to certain +compacts. Nature kicks against the constraint and avenges herself. +Nature was not made for us. We try to quell her. It is a struggle, and +it is not surprising that we are often beaten. How are we to win through +it? By being strong." + +"By being kind." + +"Heavens! To be kind, to pluck off one's armor of selfishness, to +breathe, to love life, light, one's humble work, the little corner of +the earth in which one's roots are spread. And if one cannot have +breadth to try to make up for it in height and depth, like a tree in a +cramped space growing upward to the sun." + +"Yes. And first of all to love one another. If a man would feel more +that he is the brother of a woman, and not only her prey, or that she +must be his! If both would shed their vanity and each think a little +less of themselves, and a little more of the other!... We are weak: help +us. Let us not say to those who have fallen: 'I do not know you.' But: +'Courage, friend. We'll pull through.'" + +They sat there in silence by the hearth, with the cat between them, all +three still, lost in thought, gazing at the fire It was nearly out; but +a little flame flickered up, and with its wing lightly touched Madame +Arnaud's delicate face, which was suffused with the rosy light of an +inward exaltation which was strange to her. She was amazed at herself +for having been so open. She had never said so much before, and she +would never say so much again. + +She laid her hand on Christophe's and said: + +"What will you do with the child?" + +She had been thinking of that from the outset. She talked and talked and +became another woman, excited and exalted. But she was thinking of that +and that only. With Christophe's first words she had woven a romance in +her heart. She thought of the child left by its mother, of the happiness +of bringing it up, and weaving about its little soul the web of her +dreams and her love. And she thought: + +"No. It is wicked of me: I ought not to rejoice in the misfortunes of +others." + +But the idea was too strong for her. She went on talking and talking, +and her silent heart was flooded with hope. + +Christophe said: + +"Yes, of course we have thought it over. Poor child! Both Olivier and I +are incapable of rearing it. It needs a woman's care. I thought perhaps +one of our friends would like to help us...." + +Madame Arnaud could hardly breathe. + +Christophe said: + +"I wanted to talk to you about it. And then Cécile came in just as we +were talking about it. When she heard of our difficulty, when she saw +the child, she was so moved, she seemed so delighted, she said: +'Christophe....'" + +Madame Arnaud's heart stopped; she did not hear what else he said: there +was a mist in front of her eyes. She was fain to cry out: + +"No, no. Give him to me...." + +Christophe went on speaking. She did not hear what he was saying. But +she controlled herself. She thought of what Cécile had told her, and she +thought: + +"Her need is greater than mine. I have my dear Arnaud ... and ... and +everything ... and besides, I am older...." + +And she smiled and said: + +"It is well." + +But the flame in the dying fire had flickered out: so too had the rosy +light in her face. And her dear tired face wore only its usual +expression of kindness and resignation. + + * * * * * + +"My wife has betrayed me." + +Olivier was crushed by the weight of that idea. In vain did Christophe +try affectionately to shake him out of his torpor. + +"What would you?" he said. "The treachery of a friend is an everyday +evil like illness, or poverty, or fighting the fools. We have to be +armed against it. It is a poor sort of man that cannot bear up against +it." + +"That's just what I am. I'm not proud of it ... a poor sort of man: yes: +a man who needs tenderness, and dies if it is taken from him." + +"Your life is not finished: there are other people to love." + +"I can't believe in any one. There are none who can be friends." + +"Olivier!" + +"I beg your pardon. I don't doubt you, although there are moments when +I doubt everybody--myself included.... But you are strong: you don't need +anybody: you can do without me." + +"So can she--even better." + +"You are cruel, Christophe." + +"My dear fellow. I'm being brutal to you just to make you lash out. Good +Lord! It is perfectly shameful of you to sacrifice those who love you, +and your life, to a woman who doesn't care for you." + +"What do I care for those who love me? I love her." + +"Work. Your old interests...." + +"... Don't interest me any longer. I'm sick of it all. I seem to have +passed out of life altogether. Everything seems so far away.... I see, +but I don't understand.... And to think that there are men who never +grow tired of winding up their clockwork every day, and doing their dull +work, and their newspaper discussions, and their wretched pursuit of +pleasure, men who can be violently for or against a Government, or a +book, or an actress.... Oh! I feel so old! I feel nothing, neither +hatred, nor rancor against anybody. I'm bored with everything. I feel +that there is nothing in the world.... Write? Why write? Who understands +you? I used to write only for one person: everything that I did was for +her.... There is nothing left: I'm worn out, Christophe, fagged out. I +want to sleep." + +"Sleep, then, old fellow. I'll sit by you." + +But sleep was the last thing that Olivier could have. Ah! if only a +sufferer could sleep for months until his sorrow is no more and has no +part in his new self; if only he could sleep until he became a new man! +But that gift can never be his: and he would not wish to have it. The +worst suffering of all were to be deprived of suffering. Olivier was +like a man in a fever, feeding on his fever: a real fever which came in +regular waves, being at its height in the evening when the light began +to fade. And the rest of the day it left him shattered, intoxicated by +love, devoured by memory, turning the same thought over and over like an +idiot chewing the same mouthful again and again without being able to +swallow it, with all the forces of his brain paralyzed, grinding slowly +on with the one fixed idea. + +He could not, like Christophe, resort to cursing his injuries and +honestly blackguarding the woman who had dealt them. He was more +clear-sighted and just, and he knew that he had his share of the +responsibility, and that he was not the only one to suffer: Jacqueline +also was a victim:--she was his victim. She had trusted herself to him: +how had he dealt with his trust? If he was not strong enough to make her +happy, why had he bound her to himself? She was within her rights in +breaking the ties which chafed her. + +"It is not her fault," he thought. "It is mine. I have not loved her +well. And yet I loved her truly. But I did not know how to love since I +did not know how to win her love." + +So he blamed himself: and perhaps he was right. But it is not much use +to hold an inquest on the past: if it were all to do again, it would be +just the same, inquiry or no inquiry: and such probing stands in the way +of life. The strong man is he who forgets the injury that has been done +him--and also, alas! that which he has done himself, as soon as he is +sure that he cannot make it good. But no man is strong from reason, but +from passion. Love and passion are like distant relations: they rarely +go together. Olivier loved: he was only strong against himself. In the +passive state into which he had fallen he was an easy prey to every kind +of illness. Influenza, bronchitis, pneumonia, pounced on him. He was ill +for part of the summer. With Madame Arnaud's assistance, Christophe +nursed him devotedly: and they succeeded in checking his illness. But +against his moral illness they could do nothing: and little by little +they were overcome by the depression and utter weariness of his +perpetual melancholy, and were forced to run away from it. + +Illness plunges a man into a strange solitude. Men have an instinctive +horror of it. It is as though they were afraid lest it should be +contagious: and at the very least it is boring, and they run away from +it. How few people there are who can forgive the sufferings of others! +It is always the old story of the friends of Job. Eliphaz the Temanite +accuses Job of impatience. Bildad the Shuhite declares that Job's +afflictions are the punishment of his sins. Sophar of Naamath charges +him with presumption. _"Then was kindled the wrath of Elihu, the son +of Barachel the Buzite, of the kindred of Ram: against Job was his wrath +kindled, because he justifieth himself, rather than God."_--Few men +are really sorrowful. Many are called, but few are chosen. Olivier was +one of these. As a misanthrope once observed: "He seemed to like being +maltreated. There is nothing to be gained by playing the part of the +unhappy man. You only make yourself detested." + +Olivier could not tell even his most intimate friends what he felt. He +saw that it bored them. Even his friend Christophe lost patience with +such tenacious and importunate grief. He knew that he was clumsy and +awkward in remedying it. If the truth must be told, Christophe, whose +heart was generous, Christophe who had gone through much suffering on +his own account, could not feel the suffering of his friend. Such is the +infirmity of human nature. You may be kind, full of pity, understanding, +and you may have suffered a thousand deaths, but you cannot feel the +pain of your friend if he has but a toothache. If illness goes on for a +long time, there is a temptation to think that the sufferer is +exaggerating his complaint. How much more, then, must this be so when +the illness is invisible and seated in the very depths of the soul! A +man who is outside it all cannot help being irritated by seeing his +friend moaning and groaning about a feeling which does not concern him +in the very least. And in the end he says: by way of appeasing his +conscience: + +"What can I do? He won't listen to reason, whatever I say." + +To reason: true. One can only help by loving the sufferer, by loving him +unreasoningly, without trying to convince him, without trying to cure +him, but just by loving and pitying him. Love is the only balm for the +wounds of love. But love is not inexhaustible even with those who love +the best: they have only a limited store of it. When the sick man's +friends have once written all the words of affection they can find, when +they have done what they consider their duty, they withdraw prudently, +and avoid him like a criminal. And as they feel a certain secret shame +that they can help him so little, they help him less and less: they try +to let him forget them and to forget themselves. And if the sick man +persists in his misfortune and, indiscreetly, an echo of it penetrates +to their ears, then they judge harshly his want of courage and inability +to bear up against his trials. And if he succumbs, it is very certain +that lurking beneath their really genuine pity lies this disdainful +under-thought: + +"Poor devil! I had a better opinion of him." + +Amid such universal selfishness what a marvelous amount of good can be +done by a simple word of tenderness, a delicate attention, a look of +pity and love! Then the sick man feels the worth of kindness. And how +poor is all the rest compared with that!... Kindness brought Olivier +nearer to Madame Arnaud than anybody else, even his friend Christophe. +However, Christophe most meritoriously forced himself to be patient, and +in his affection for him, concealed what he really thought of him. But +Olivier, with his natural keenness of perception sharpened by suffering, +saw the conflict in his friend, and what a burden he was upon him with +his unending sorrow. It was enough, to make him turn from Christophe, +and fill him with a desire to cry: + +"Go away. Go." + +So unhappiness often divides loving hearts. As the winnower sorts the +grain, so sorrow sets on one side those who have the will to live, and +on the other those who wish to die. It is the terrible law of life, +which is stronger than love! The mother who sees her son dying, the +friend who sees his friend drowning,--if they cannot save them, they do +not cease their efforts to save themselves: they do not die with them. +And yet, they love them a thousand times better than their lives.... + +In spite of his great love, there were moments when Christophe had to +leave Olivier. He was too strong, too healthy, to be able to live and +breathe in such airless sorrow. He was mightily ashamed of himself! He +would feel cold and dead at heart to think that he could do nothing for +his friend: and as he needed to avenge himself on some one, he visited +his wrath upon Jacqueline. In spite of Madame Arnaud's words of +understanding and sympathy, he still judged her harshly, as a young, +ardent, and whole-hearted man must, until he has learned enough of life +to have pity on its weaknesses. + +He would go and see Cécile and the child who had been entrusted to her. +That refreshed his soul. Cécile was transfigured by her borrowed +motherhood: she seemed to be young again, and happy, more refined and +tender. Jacqueline's departure had not given her any unavowed hope of +happiness. She knew that the memory of Jacqueline must leave her farther +away from Olivier than her presence. Besides, the little puff of wind +that had set her longing had passed: it had been a moment of crisis, +which the sight of poor Jacqueline's frenzied mistake had helped to +dissipate: she had returned to her normal tranquillity, and she could +not rightly understand what it was that had dragged her out of it. All +that was best in her need of love was satisfied by her love for the +child. With the marvelous power of illusion--of intuition--of women, she +found the man she loved in the little child: in that way she could have +him, weak and utterly dependent, utterly her own: he belonged to her: +and she could love him, love him passionately, with a love as pure as +the heart of the innocent child, and his dear blue eyes, like little +drops of light.... True, there was mingled with her tenderness a +regretful melancholy. Ah! It could never be the same thing as a child of +her own blood!... But it was good, all the same. + +Christophe now regarded Cécile with very different eyes. He remembered +an ironic saying of Françoise Oudon: + +"How is it that you and Philomela, who would do so well as husband and +wife, are not in love with each other?" + +But Françoise knew the reason better than Christophe: it is very rarely +that a man like Christophe loves those who can do him good: rather he is +apt to love those who can do him harm. Opposites meet: his nature seeks +its own destruction, and goes to the burning and intense life rather +than to the cautious life which is sparing of itself. And a man like +Christophe is quite right, for his law is not to live as long as +possible, but as mightily as possible. + +However, Christophe, having less penetration than Françoise, said to +himself that love is a blind, inhuman force, throwing those together who +cannot bear with each other. Love joins those together who are like each +other. And what love inspires is very small compared with what it +destroys. If it be happy it dissolves the will. If unhappy it breaks +hearts. What good does it ever do? + +And as he thus maligned love he saw its ironic, tender smile saying to +him: + +"Ingrate!" + + * * * * * + +Christophe had been unable to get out of going to one of the At Homes +given at the Austrian Embassy. Philomela was to sing _lieder_ by +Schumann, Hugo Wolf, and Christophe. She was glad of her success and +that of her friend, who was now made much of by a certain set. +Christophe's name was gaining ground from day to day, even with the +great public: it had become impossible for the Lévy-Coeurs to ignore him +any longer. His works were played at concerts: and he had had an opera +accepted by the Opéra Comique. The sympathies of some person unknown +were enlisted on his behalf. The mysterious friend, who had more than +once helped him, was still forwarding his claims. More than once +Christophe had been conscious of that fondly helping hand in everything +he did: some one was watching over him and jealously concealing his or +her identity. Christophe had tried to discover it: but it seemed as +though his friend were piqued by his not having attempted sooner to find +out who he was, and he remained unapproachable. Besides, Christophe was +absorbed by other preoccupations: he was thinking of Olivier, he was +thinking of Françoise: that very morning he had just read in the paper +that she was lying seriously ill at San Francisco: he imagined her alone +in a strange city, in a hotel bedroom, refusing to see anybody, or to +write to her friends, clenching her teeth, and waiting, alone, for +death. + +He was obsessed by these ideas and avoided the company present: and he +withdrew into a little room apart: he stood leaning against the wall in +a recess that was half in darkness, behind a curtain of evergreens and +flowers, listening to Philomela's lovely voice, with its elegiac warmth, +singing _The Lime-tree_ of Schubert: and the pure music called up +sad memories. Facing him on the wall was a large mirror which reflected +the lights and the life of the next room. He did not see it: he was +gazing in upon himself: and the mist of tears swam before his eyes.... +Suddenly, like Schubert's rustling tree, he began to tremble for no +reason. He stood so for a few seconds, very pale, unable to move. Then +the veil fell from before his eyes, and he saw in the mirror in front of +him his "friend," gazing at him.... His "friend"? Who was she? He knew +nothing save that she was his friend and that he knew her: and he stood +leaning against the wall, his eyes meeting hers, and he trembled. She +smiled. He could not see the lines of her face or her body, nor the +expression in her eyes, nor whether she was tall or short, nor how she +was dressed. Only one thing he saw: the divine goodness of her smile of +compassion. + +And suddenly her smile conjured up in Christophe an old forgotten memory +of his early childhood.... He was six or seven, at school, unhappy: he +had just been humiliated and bullied by some older, stronger boys, and +they were all jeering at him, and the master had punished him unjustly: +he was crouching in a corner, utterly forlorn, while the others were +playing: and he wept softly. There was a sad-faced little girl who was +not playing with the others,--(he could see her now, though he had never +thought of her since then; she was short, and had a big head, fair, +almost white hair and eyebrows, very pale blue eyes, broad white cheeks, +thick lips, a rather puffy face, and small red hands),--and she came +close up to him, then stopped, with her thumb in her mouth and stood +watching him cry: then she laid her little hand on Christophe's head and +said hurriedly and shyly, with just the same smile of compassion: + +"Don't cry! Don't cry!" + +Then Christophe could not control himself any longer, and he burst into +sobs, and buried his face in the little girl's pinafore, while, in a +quavering, tender voice, she went on saying: + +"Don't cry...." + +She died soon afterwards, a few weeks perhaps: the hand of death must +have been upon her at the time of that little scene.... Why should he +think of her now? There was no connection between the child who was dead +and forgotten, the humble daughter of the people in a distant German +town, and the aristocratic young lady who was gazing at him now. But +there is only one soul for all: and although millions of human beings +seem to be all different one from another, different as the worlds +moving in the heavens, it is the same flash of thought or love which +lights up the hearts of men and women though centuries divide them. +Christophe had just seen once more the light that he had seen shining +upon the pale lips of the little comforter.... + +It was all over in a second. A throng of people filled the door and shut +out Christophe's view of the other room. He stepped back quickly into +the shade, out of sight of the mirror: he was afraid lest his emotion +should be noticed. But when he was calm again he wanted to see her once +more. He was afraid she would be gone. He went into the room and he +found her at once in the crowd, although she did not look in the least +like what he had seen in the mirror. Now he saw her in profile sitting +in a group of finely dressed ladies: her elbow was resting on the arm of +her chair, she was leaning forward a little, with her head in her hand, +and listening to what they were saying with an intelligent absent smile: +she had the expression and features of the young St. John, listening and +looking through half-closed eyes, and smiling at his own thoughts, of +_The Dispute_ of Raphael.... Then she raised her eyes, saw him, and +showed no surprise. And he saw that her smile was for himself. He was +much moved, and bowed, and went up to her. + +"You don't recognize me?" she said. + +He knew her again that very moment. + +"Grazia".... he said. [Footnote: See "Jean-Christophe in Paris: The +Market Place."] + +At the same moment the ambassador's wife passed by, and smiled with +pleasure to see that the long-sought meeting had at last come about: and +she introduced Christophe to "Countess Berény." But Christophe was so +moved that he did not even hear her, and he did not notice, the new +name. She was still his little Grazia to him. + + * * * * * + +Grazia was twenty-two. She had been married for a year to a young +attaché of the Austrian Embassy, a nobleman, a member of a great family, +related to one of the Emperor's chief ministers, a snob, a man of the +world, smart, prematurely worn out; with whom she had been genuinely in +love, while she still loved him, though she judged him. Her old father +was dead. Her husband had been appointed to the Embassy in Paris. +Through Count Berény's influence, and her own charm and intelligence, +the timid little girl, whom the smallest thing used to set in a flutter, +had become one of the best-known women in Parisian society, though she +did nothing to procure that distinction, which embarrassed her not at +all. It is a great thing to be young and pretty, and to give pleasure, +and to know it. And it is a thing no less great to have a tranquil +heart, sound and serene, which can find happiness in the harmonious +coincidence of its desires and its fate. The lonely flower of her life +had unfolded its petals: but she had lost some of the calm music of her +Latin soul, fed by the light and the mighty peace of Italy. Quite +naturally she had acquired a certain influence in Parisian society: it +did not surprise her, and she was discreet and adroit in using it to +further the artistic or charitable movements which turned to her for aid: +she left the official patronage of these movements to others: for +although she could well maintain her rank, she had preserved a secret +independence from the days of her rather wild childish days in the +lonely villa in the midst of the fields, and society wearied while it +amused her, though she always disguised her boredom by the amiable smile +of a courteous and kind heart. + +She had not forgotten her great friend Christophe. No doubt there was +nothing left of the child in whom an innocent love had burned in +silence. This new Grazia was a very sensible woman, not at all given to +romance. She regarded the exaggerations of her childish tenderness with +a gentle irony. And yet she was always moved by the memory of it. The +thought of Christophe was associated with the purest hours of her life. +She could not hear his name spoken without feeling pleasure: and each of +his successes delighted her as though she had shared in it herself: for +she had felt that they must come to him. As soon as she arrived in Paris +she tried to meet him again. She had invited him to her house, and had +appended her maiden name to her letter. Christophe had paid no attention +to it, and had flung the invitation into the waste-paper basket +unanswered. She was not offended. She had gone on following his doings +and, to a certain extent, his life, without his knowing it. It was she +whose helping hand had come to his aid in the recent campaign against +him in the papers. Grazia was in all things correct and had hardly +any connection with the world of the Press: but when it came to doing a +friend a service, she was capable of a malicious cunning in wheedling +the people whom she most disliked. She invited the editor of the paper +which was leading the snarling pack, to her house: and in less than no +time she turned his head: she skilfully flattered his vanity: and she +gained such an ascendancy over him, while she overawed him, that it +needed only a few careless words of contemptuous astonishment at the +attacks on Christophe for the campaign to be stopped short. The editor +suppressed the insulting article which was to appear next day: and when +the writer asked why it was suppressed he rated him soundly. He did +more: he gave orders to one of his factotums to turn out an enthusiastic +article about Christophe within a fortnight: the article was turned out +to order; it was enthusiastic and stupid. It was Grazia, too, who +thought of organizing performances of her friend's music at the Embassy, +and, knowing that he was interested in Cécile, helped her to make her +name. And finally, through her influence among the German diplomatists, +she began gently, quietly, and adroitly to awaken the interest of the +powers that be in Christophe, who was banished from Germany: and little +by little she did create a current of opinion directed towards obtaining +from the Emperor a decree reopening the gates of his country to a great +artist who was an honor to it. And though it was too soon to expect such +an act of grace, she did at least succeed in procuring an undertaking +that the Government would close its eyes to his two days' visit to his +native town. + +And Christophe, who was conscious of the presence of his invisible +friend hovering about him without being able to find out who she was, at +last recognized her in the young St. John whose eyes smiled at him in +the mirror. + + * * * * * + +They talked of the past. Christophe hardly knew what they said. A man +hears the woman he loves just as little as he sees her. He loves her. +And when a man really loves he never even thinks whether he is loved or +no. Christophe never doubted it. She was there: that was enough. All the +rest had ceased to exist.... + +Grazia stopped speaking. A very tall young man, quite handsome, +well-dressed, clean-shaven, partly bald, with a bored, contemptuous +manner, stood appraising Christophe through his eye-glass, and then +bowed with haughty politeness. + +"My husband," said she. + +The clatter and chatter of the room rushed back to his ears. The inward +light died down. Christophe was frozen, said nothing, bowed, and +withdrew at once. + +How ridiculous and consuming are the unreasonable demands of the souls +of artists and the childish laws which govern their passionate lives! +Hardly had he once more found the friend whom he had neglected in the +old days when she loved him, while he had not thought of her for years, +than it seemed to him that she was his, his very own, and that if +another man had taken her he had stolen her from him: and she herself +had no right to give herself to another. Christophe did not know clearly +what was happening to him. But his creative daimon knew it perfectly, +and in those days begat some of his loveliest songs of sorrowful love. + +Some time passed before he saw her again. He was obsessed by thoughts of +Olivier's troubles and his health. At last one day he came upon the +address she had given him and he made up his mind to call on her. + +As he went up the steps he heard the sound of workmen hammering. The +anteroom was in disorder and littered with boxes and trunks. The footman +replied that the Countess was not at home. But as Christophe was +disappointedly going away after leaving his card, the servant ran after +him and asked him to come in and begged his pardon. Christophe was shown +into a little room in which the carpets had been rolled up and taken +away. Grazia came towards him with her bright smile and her hand held +out impulsively and gladly. All his foolish rancor vanished. He took her +hand with the same happy impulsiveness and kissed it. + +"Ah!" she said, "I am glad you came! I was so afraid I should have to go +away without seeing you again!" + +"Go away? You are going away!" + +Once more darkness descended upon him. + +"You see...." she said, pointing to the litter in the room. "We are +leaving Paris at the end of the week." + +"For long?" + +She shrugged: + +"Who knows?" + +He tried to speak. But his throat was dry. + +"Where are you going?" + +"To the United States. My husband has been appointed first secretary to +the Embassy." + +"And so, and so...." he said ... (his lips trembled) ... "it is all +over?" + +"My dear friend!" she said, touched by his tone.... "No: it is not all +over." + +"I have found you again only to lose you?" + +There were tears in her eyes. + +"My dear friend," she said again. + +He held his hand over his eyes and turned away to hide his emotion. + +"Do not be so sad," she said, laying her hand on his. + +Once more, just then, he thought of the little girl in Germany. They +were silent. + +"Why did you come so late?" she asked at last, "I tried to find you. You +never replied." + +"I did not know. I did not know," he said.... "Tell me, was it you who +came to my aid so many times without my guessing who it was?... Do I owe +it to you that I was able to go back to Germany? Were you my good angel, +watching over me?" + +She said: + +"I was glad to be able to do something for you. I owe you so much!" + +"What do you owe?" he asked. "I have done nothing for you." + +"You do not know," she said, "what you have been to me." + +She spoke of the days when she was a little girl and met him at the +house of her uncle, Stevens, and he had given her through his music the +revelation of all that is beautiful in the world. And little by little, +with growing animation she told him with brief allusions, that were both +veiled and transparent, of her childish feeling for him, and the way in +which she had shared Christophe's troubles, and the concert at which he +had been hissed, and she had wept, and the letter she had written and he +had never answered: for he had not received it. And as Christophe +listened to her, in all good faith, he projected his actual emotion and +the tenderness he felt for the tender face so near his own into the +past. + +They talked innocently, fondly, and joyously. And, as he talked, +Christophe took Grazia's hand. And suddenly they both stopped: for +Grazia saw that Christophe loved her. And Christophe saw it too.... + +For some time Grazia had loved Christophe without Christophe knowing or +caring. Now Christophe loved Grazia: and Grazia had nothing for him but +calm friendship: she loved another man. As so often happens, one of the +two clocks of their lives was a little faster than the other, and it was +enough to have changed the course of both their lives.... + +Grazia withdrew her hand, and Christophe did not stay her. And they sat +there for a moment, mum, without a word. + +And Grazia said: + +"Good-bye." + +Christophe said plaintively once more: + +"And it is all over?" + +"No doubt it is better that it should be so." + +"We shall not meet again before you go." + +"No," she said. + +"When shall we meet again?" + +She made a sad little gesture of doubt. + +"Then," said Christophe, "what's the good, what's the good of our having +met again?" + +Her eyes reproached him, and he said quickly: + +"No. Forgive me. I am unjust." + +"I shall always think of you," said she. + +"Alas!" he replied, "I cannot even think of you. I know nothing of your +life." + +Very quietly she described her ordinary life in a few words and told him +how her days were spent. She spoke of herself and of her husband with +her lovely affectionate smile. + +"Ah!" he said jealously. "You love him?" + +"Yes," she said. +He got up. + +"Good-bye." + +She got up too. Then only he saw that she was with child. And in his +heart there was an inexpressible feeling of disgust, and tenderness, and +jealousy, and passionate pity. She walked with him to the door of the +little room. There he turned, bent over her hands, and kissed them +fervently. She stood there with her eyes half closed and did not stir. +At last he drew himself up, turned, and hurried away without looking at +her. + + + ... _E chi allora m'avesse domandalo di cosa alcuna, la mia + risponsione sarebbe stata solamente AMORE, con viso vestito + d'umiltà_.... + + +All Saints' Day. Outside, a gray light and a cold wind. Christophe was +with Cécile, who was sitting near the cradle, and Madame Arnaud was +bending over it. She had dropped in. Christophe was dreaming. He was +feeling that he had missed happiness: but he never thought of +complaining: he knew that happiness existed.... Oh! sun, I have no need +to see thee to love thee! Through the long winter days, when I shiver in +the darkness, my heart is full of thee: my love keeps me warm: I know +that thou art there.... + +And Cécile was dreaming too. She was pondering the child, and she had +come to believe that it was indeed her own. Oh, blessed power of dreams, +the creative imagination of life! Life.... What is life? It is not as +cold reason and our eyes tell us that it is. Life is what we dream, and +the measure of life is love. + +Christophe gazed at Cécile, whose peasant face with its wide-set eyes +shone with the splendor of the maternal instinct,--she was more a mother +than the real mother. And he looked at the tender weary face of Madame +Arnaud. In it, as in books that moved him, he read the hidden sweetness +and suffering of the life of a married woman which, though none ever +suspects it, is sometimes as rich in sorrow and joy as the love of +Juliet or Ysolde: though it touches a greater height of religious +feeling .... + + _Socia rei humanæ atque divinæ...._ + +And he thought that children or the lack of children has as much to do +with the happiness or unhappiness of those who marry and those who do +not marry as faith and the lack of faith. Happiness is the perfume of +the soul, the harmony that dwells, singing, in the depths of the heart. +And the most beautiful of all the music of the soul is kindness. + +Olivier came in. He was quite calm and reposeful in his movements: a new +serenity shone in him. He smiled at the child, shook hands with Cécile +and Madame Arnaud, and began to talk quietly. He watched them with a +sort of surprised affection. He was no longer the same. In the isolation +in which he had shut himself up with his grief, like a caterpillar in +the nest of its own spinning, he had succeeded after a hard struggle in +throwing off his sorrow like an empty shell. Some day we shall tell how +he thought he had found a fine cause to which to devote his life, in +which he had no interest save that of sacrifice: and, as it is ordered, +on the very day when in his heart he had come to a definite renunciation +of life, it was kindled once more. His friends looked at him. They did +not know what had happened, and dared not ask him: but they felt that he +was free once more, and that there was in him neither regret nor +bitterness for anything or against anybody in the whole wide world. + +Christophe got up and went to the piano, and said to Olivier: + +"Would you like me to sing you a melody of Brahms?" + +"Brahms?" said Olivier. "Do you play your old enemy's music nowadays?" + +"It is All Saints' Day," said Christophe. "The day when all are +forgiven." + +Softly, so as not to wake the child, he sang a few bars of the old +Schwabian folk-song: + + _"... Für die Zeit, wo du g'liebt mi hast, + Da dank' i dir schön, + Und i wünsch', dass dir's anders wo + Besser mag geh'n...."_ + + "... For the time when thou did'st love me, + I do thank thee well; + And I hope that elsewhere + Thou may'st better fare...." + +"Christophe!" said Olivier. + +Christophe hugged him close. + +"Come, old fellow," he said. "We have fared well." + +The four of them sat near the sleeping child. They did not speak. And if +they had been asked what they were thinking,--_with the countenance of +humility, they would have replied only:_ + +"Love." + + + + +THE BURNING BUSH + +I + + +Came calmness to his heart. No wind stirred. The air was still.... + +Christophe was at rest: peace was his. He was in a certain measure proud +of having conquered it: but secretly, in his heart of hearts, he was +sorry for it. He was amazed at the silence. His passions were +slumbering: in all good faith he thought that they would never wake +again. + +The mighty, somewhat brutal force that was his was browsing listlessly +and aimlessly. In his inmost soul there was a secret void, a hidden +question: "What's the good?": perhaps a certain consciousness of the +happiness which he had failed to grasp. He had not force enough to +struggle either with himself or with others. He had come to the end of a +stage in his progress: he was reaping the fruits of all his former +efforts, cumulatively: too easily he was tapping the vein of music that +he had opened and while the public was naturally behindhand, and was +just discovering and admiring his old work, he was beginning to break +away from them without knowing as yet whether he would be able to make +any advance on them. He had now a uniform and even delight in creation. +At this period of his life art was to him no more than a fine instrument +upon which he played like a virtuoso. He was ashamedly conscious of +becoming a dilettante. + +"_If_," said Ibsen, "_a man is to persevere in his art; he must +have something else, something more than his native genius: passions, +sorrows, which shall fill his life and give it a direction. Otherwise he +will not create, he will write books."_ + +Christophe was writing books. He was not used to it. His books were +beautiful. He would have rather had them less beautiful and more alive. +He was like an athlete resting, not knowing to what use to turn his +muscles, and, yawning in boredom like a caged wild beast, he sat looking +ahead at the years and years of peaceful work that awaited him. And as, +with his old German capacity for optimism, he had no difficulty in +persuading himself that everything was for the best, he thought that +such a future was no doubt the appointed inevitable end: he flattered +himself that he had issued from his time of trial and tribulation and +had become master of himself. That was not saying much.... Oh, well! A +man is sovereign over that which is his, he is what he is capable of +being.... He thought that he had reached his haven. + +The two friends were not living together. After Jacqueline's flight, +Christophe had thought that Olivier would come back and take up his old +quarters with him. But Olivier could not. Although he felt keenly the +need of intimacy with Christophe, yet he was conscious of the +impossibility of resuming their old existence together. After the years +lived with Jacqueline, it would have seemed intolerable and even +sacrilegious to admit another human being to his most intimate +life,--even though he loved and were loved by that other a thousand +times more than Jacqueline.--There was no room for argument. + +Christophe had found it hard to understand. He returned again and again +to the charge, he was surprised, saddened, hurt, and angry. Then his +instinct, which was finer and quicker than his intelligence, bade him +take heed. Suddenly he ceased, and admitted that Olivier was right. + +But they saw each other every day: and they had never been so closely +united even when they were living under the same roof. Perhaps they did +not exchange their most intimate thoughts when they talked. They did not +need to do so. The exchange was made naturally, without need of words, +by grace of the love that was in their hearts. + +They talked very little, for each was absorbed: one in his art, the other +in his memories. Olivier's sorrow was growing less: but he did +nothing to mitigate it, rather almost taking a pleasure in it: for a +long time it had been his only reason for living. He loved his child: +but his child--a puling baby--could occupy no great room in his life. +There are men who are more lovers than fathers, and it is useless to cry +out against them. Nature is not uniform, and it would be absurd to try +to impose identical laws upon the hearts of all men. No man has the +right to sacrifice his duty to his heart. At least the heart must be +granted the right to be unhappy where a man does his duty. What Olivier +perhaps most loved in his child was the woman of whose body it was made. + +Until quite recently he had paid little attention to the sufferings of +others. He was an intellectual living too much shut up in himself. It +was not egoism so much as a morbid habit of dreaming. Jacqueline had +increased the void about him: her love had traced a magic circle about +Olivier to cut him off from other men, and the circle endured after love +had ceased to be. In addition he was a little aristocratic by temper. +From his childhood on, in spite of his soft heart, he had held aloof +from the mob for reasons rooted in the delicacy of his body and his +soul. The smell of the people and their thoughts were repulsive to him. + +But everything had changed as the result of a commonplace tragedy which +he had lately witnessed. + + * * * * * + +He had taken a very modest lodging at the top of the Mont-rouge quarter, +not far from Christophe and Cécile. The district was rather common, and +the house in which he lived was occupied by little gentlepeople, clerks, +and a few working-class families. At any other time he would have suffered +from such surroundings in which he moved as a stranger: but now +it mattered very little to him where he was: he felt that he was a +stranger everywhere. He hardly knew and did not want to know who his +neighbors were. When he returned from his work--(he had gone into a +publishing-house)--he withdrew into his memories, and would only go out +to see his child and Christophe. His lodging was not home to him: it was +the dark room in which the images of the past took shape and dwelling: +the darker it was the more clearly did the inward images emerge. He +scarcely noticed the faces of those he passed on the stairs. And yet +unconsciously he was aware of certain faces that were impressed upon his +mind. There is a certain order of mind which only really sees things +after they have passed. But then, nothing escapes them, the smallest +details are graven on the plate. Olivier's was such a mind: he bore +within himself multitudes of the shadowy shapes of the living. With any +emotional shock they would come mounting up in crowds: and Olivier would +be amazed to recognize those whom he had never known, and sometimes he +would hold out his hands to grasp them.... Too late. + +One day as he came out of his rooms he saw a little crowd collected in +front of the house-door round the housekeeper, who was making a +harangue. He was so little interested that he was for going his way +without troubling to find out what was the matter: but the housekeeper, +anxious to gain another listener, stopped him, and asked him if he knew +what had happened to the poor Roussels. Olivier did not even know who +"the poor Roussels" were, and he listened with polite indifference. When +he heard that a working-class family, father, mother, and five children, +had committed suicide to escape from poverty in the house in which he +lived, he stopped, like the rest, and looked up at the walls of the +building, and listened to the woman's story, which she was nothing loth +to begin again from the beginning. As she went on talking, old memories +awoke in him, and he realized that he had seen the wretched family: he +asked a few questions.... Yes, he remembered them: the man--(he used to +hear him breathing noisily on the stairs)--a journeyman baker, with a +pale face, all the blood drawn out of it by the heat of the oven, hollow +cheeks always ill shaven: he had had pneumonia at the beginning of the +winter: he had gone back to work only half cured: he had had a relapse: +for the last three weeks he had had no work and no strength. The woman +had dragged from childbirth to childbirth: crippled with rheumatism, she +had worn herself out in trying to make both ends meet, and had spent her +days running hither and thither trying to obtain from the Public Charity +a meager sum which was not readily forthcoming. Meanwhile the children +came, and went on coming: eleven, seven, three--not to mention two others +who had died in between:--and, to crown all, twins who had chosen +the very dire moment to make their appearance: they had been born only +the month before. + +--On the day of their birth, a neighbor said, the eldest of the five, a +little girl of eleven, Justine--poor little mite!--had begun to cry and +asked how ever she could manage to carry both of them. + +Olivier at once remembered the little girl,--a large forehead, with +colorless hair pulled back, and sorrowful, gray bulging eyes. He was +always meeting her, carrying provisions or her little sister: or she +would be holding her seven-year-old brother by the hand, a little +pinch-faced, cringing boy he was, with one blind eye. When they met on +the stairs Olivier used to say, with his absent courteous manner: + +"Pardon, mademoiselle." + +But she never said anything: she used to go stiffly by, hardly moving +aside: but his illusory courtesy used to give her a secret pleasure. +Only the evening before, at six o'clock, as he was going downstairs, he +had met her for the last time: she was carrying up a bucket of charcoal. +He had not noticed it, except that he did remark that the burden seemed +to be very heavy. But that is merely in the order of things for the +children of the people. Olivier had bowed, as usual, without looking at +her. A few steps lower down he had mechanically looked up to see her +leaning over the balustrade of the landing, with her little pinched +face, watching him go down. She turned away at once, and resumed her +climb upstairs. Did she know whither she was climbing?--Olivier had no +doubt that she did, and he was obsessed by the thought of the child +bearing death in the load that was too heavy for her, death the +deliverer--the wretched children for whom to cease to be meant an end of +suffering! He was unable to continue his walk. He went back to his room. +But there he was conscious of the proximity of the dead.... Only a few +thin walls between him and them.... To think that he had lived so near +to such misery! + +He went to see Christophe. He was sick at heart: he told himself that it +was monstrous for him to have been so absorbed as he had been in vain +regrets for love while there were so many creatures suffering +misfortunes a thousand times more cruel, and it was possible to help and +save them. His emotion was profound: there was no difficulty In +communicating it. Christophe was easily impressionable, and he in his +turn was moved. When he heard Olivier's story he tore up the page of +music he had just been writing, and called himself a selfish brute to be +amusing himself with childish games. But, directly after, he picked up +the pieces. He was too much under the spell of his music. And his +instinct told him that a work of art the less would not make one happy +man the more. The tragedy of want was no new thing to him: from his +childhood on he had been used to treading on the edge of such abysmal +depths, and contriving not to topple over. But he was apt to judge +suicide harshly, being conscious as he was of such a fullness of force, +and unable to understand how a man, under the pressure of any suffering +whatsoever, could give up the struggle. Suffering, struggling, is there +anything more normal? These things are the backbone of the universe. + +Olivier also had passed through much the same sort of experience: but he +had never been able to resign himself to it, either on his own account +or for others. He had a horror of the poverty in which the life of his +beloved Antoinette had been consumed. After his marriage with +Jacqueline, when he had suffered the softening influence of riches and +love, he had made haste to thrust back the memory of the sorrowful years +when he and his sister had worn themselves out each day in the struggle +to gain the right to live through the next, never knowing whether they +would succeed or no. The memories of those days would come to him now +that he no longer had his youthful egoism to preserve. Instead of flying +before the face of suffering he set out to look for it. He did not need +to go far to find it. In the state of mind in which he was he was prone +to find it everywhere. The world was full of it, the world, that +hospital.... Oh, the agony, the sorrow! Pains of the wounded body, +quivering flesh, rotting away in life. The silent torture of hearts +under gnawing grief. Children whom no one loves, poor hopeless girls, +women seduced or betrayed, men deceived in their friends, their loves, +their faith, the pitiable herd of the unfortunates whom life has broken +and forgotten!... Not poverty and sickness were the most frightful +things to see, but the cruelty of men one to another. Hardly had Olivier +raised the cover of the hell of humanity than there rose to his ears the +plaint of all the oppressed, the exploited poor, the persecuted peoples, +massacred Armenians, Finland crushed and stifled, Poland rent in pieces, +Russia martyred, Africa flung to the rapacious pack of Europe, all the +wretched creatures of the human race. It stifled him: he heard it +everywhere, he could no longer close his ears to it, he could no longer +conceive the possibility of there being people with any other thought. +He was for ever talking about it to Christophe. Christophe grew anxious, +and said: + +"Be quiet! Let me work." + +And as he found it hard to recover his balance he would lose his temper +and swear. + +"Damnation! My day is wasted! And you're a deal the better for it, +aren't you?" + +Olivier would beg his pardon. + +"My dear fellow," said Christophe, "it's no good always looking down +into the pit. It stops your living." + +"One must lend a hand to those who are in the pit." + +"No doubt. But how? By flinging ourselves down as well? For that is what +you want. You've got a propensity for seeing nothing but the sad side of +life. God bless you! Your pessimism is charitable, I grant you, but it +is very depressing. Do you want to create happiness? Very well, then, be +happy." + +"Happy! How can one have the heart to be happy when one sees so much +suffering? There can only be happiness in trying to lessen it and +fighting the evil." + +"Very good. But I don't help the unfortunate much by lashing out blindly +in all directions. It means only one bad soldier the more. But I can +bring comfort by my art and spread force and joy. Have you any idea how +many wretched beings have been sustained in their suffering by the +beauty of an idea, by a winged song? Every man to his own trade! You +French people, like the generous scatterbrains that you are, are always +the first to protest against the injustice of, say, Spain or Russia, +without knowing what it is all about. I love you for it. But do you +think you are helping things along? You rush at it and bungle it and the +result is nil,--if not worse.... And, look you, your art has never been +more weak and emaciated than now, when your artists claim to be taking +part in the activities of the world. It is the strangest thing to see so +many little writers and artists, all dilettante and rather dishonest, +daring to set themselves up as apostles! They would do much better if +they were to give the people wine to drink that was not so +adulterated.--My first duty is to do whatever I am doing well, and to +give you healthy music which shall set new blood coursing in your veins +and let the sun shine in upon you." + + * * * * * + +If a man is to shed the light of the sun upon other men, he must first +of all have it within himself. Olivier had none of it. Like the best man +of to-day, he was not strong enough to radiate force by himself. But in +unison with others he might have been able to do so. But with whom could +he unite? He was free in mind and at heart religious, and he was +rejected by every party political and religious. They were all +intolerant and narrow and were continually at rivalry. Whenever they +came into power they abused it. Only the weak and the oppressed +attracted Olivier. In this at least he agreed with Christophe's opinion, +that before setting out to combat injustice in distant lands, it were as +well to fight injustice close at hand, injustice everywhere about, +injustice for which each and every man is more or less responsible. +There are only too many people who are quite satisfied with protesting +against the evil wrought by others, without ever thinking of the evil +that they do themselves. + +At first he turned his attention to the relief of the poor. His friend, +Madame Arnaud, helped to administer a charity. Olivier got her to allow +him to help. But at the outset he had more than one setback: the poor +people who were given into his charge were not all worthy of interest, +or they were unresponsive to his sympathy, distrusted him, and shut +their doors against him. Besides, it is hard for a man of intellect to +be satisfied with charity pure and simple: it waters such a very small +corner of the kingdom of wretchedness! Its effects are almost always +piecemeal, fragmentary: it seems to move by chance, and to be engaged +only in dressing wounds as fast as it discovers them: generally it is +too modest and in too great a hurry to probe down to the roots of the +evil. Now it was just this probing that Olivier's mind found +indispensable. + +He began to study the problem of social poverty. There was no lack of +guides to point the way. In those days the social question had become a +society question. It was discussed in drawing-rooms, in the theater, in +novels. Everybody claimed some knowledge of it. Some of the young men +were expending the best part of their powers upon it. + +Every new generation needs to have some splendid mania or other. Even +the most selfish of young people are endowed with a superfluity of life, +a capital sum of energy which has been advanced to them and cannot be +left idle and unproductive: they are for ever seeking to expend it on a +course of action, or--(more prudently)--on a theory. Aviation or +Revolution, a muscular or intellectual exercise. When a man is young he +needs to be under the illusion that he is sharing in some great movement +of humanity and is renewing the life of the world. It is a lovely thing +when the senses thrill in answer to every puff of the winds of the +universe! Then a man is so free, so light! Not yet is he laden with the +ballast of a family, he has nothing, risks next to nothing. A man is +very generous when he can renounce what is not yet his. Besides, it is +so good to love and to hate, and to believe that one is transforming the +earth with dreams and shouting! Young people are like watch-dogs: they +are for ever howling and barking at the wind. An act of injustice +committed at the other end of the world will send them off their heads. + +Dogs barking through the night. From one farm to another in the heart of +the forest they were yelping to one another, never ceasing. The night +was stormy. It was not easy to sleep in those days. The wind bore +through the air the echoes of so many acts of injustice!... The tale of +injustice is unnumbered: in remedying one there is danger of causing +others. What is injustice?--To one man it means a shameful peace, the +fatherland dismembered. To another it signifies war. To another it means +the destruction of the past, the banishment of princes: to another, the +spoliation of the Church: to yet another the stifling of the future to +the peril of liberty. For the people, injustice lies in inequality: for +the upper ten, in equality. There are so many different kinds of +injustice that each age chooses its own,--the injustice that it fights +against, and the injustice that it countenances. + +At the present time the mightiest efforts of the world were directed +against social injustice,--and unconsciously were tending to the +production of fresh injustice. + +And, in truth, such injustice had waxed great and plain to see since the +working-classes, growing in numbers and power, had become part of the +essential machinery of the State. But in spite of the declamations of +the tribunes and bards of the people, their condition was not worse, but +rather better than it had ever been in the past: and the change had come +about not because they suffered more, but because they had grown +stronger. Stronger by reason of the very power of the hostile ranks of +Capital, by the fatality of economic and industrial development which +had banded the workers together in armies ready for the fight, and, by +the use of machinery, had given weapons into their hands, and had turned +every foreman into a master with power over light, lightning, movement, +all the energy of the world. From this enormous mass of elementary +forces, which only a short time ago the leaders of men were trying to +organize, there was given out a white heat, electric waves gradually +permeating the whole body of human society. + +It was not by reason of its justice, or its novelty, or the force of the +ideas bound up in it that the cause of the people was stirring the minds +of the intelligent middle-class, although they were fain to think so. +Its appeal lay in its vitality. + +Its justice? Justice was everywhere and every day violated thousands of +times without the world ever giving a thought to it. Its ideas? Scraps +of truth, picked up here and there and adjusted to the interests and +requirements of one class at the expense of the other classes. Its creed +was as absurd as every other creed,--the Divine Right of Kings, the +Infallibility of the Popes, Universal Suffrage, the Equality of +Man,--all equally absurd if one only considers them by their rational +value and not in the light of the force by which they are animated. What +did their mediocrity matter? Ideas have never conquered the world as +ideas, but only by the force they represent. They do not grip men by +their intellectual contents, but by the radiant vitality which is given +off from them at certain periods in history. They give off as it were a +rich scent which overpowers even the dullest sense of smell. The +loftiest and most sublime idea remains ineffective until the day when it +becomes contagious, not by its own merits, but by the merits of the +groups of men in whom it becomes incarnate by the transfusion of their +blood. Then the withered plant, the rose of Jericho, comes suddenly to +flower, grows to its full height, and fills all the air with its +powerful aroma.--Some of the ideas which were now the flaming standard +under which the working-classes were marching on to the assault upon the +capitalistic citadel, emanated from the brains of dreamers of the +comfortable classes. While they had been left in their comfortable +books, they had lain dead: items in a museum, mummies packed away in +glass cases with no one to look at them. But as soon as the people laid +hands on them, they had become part and parcel of the people, they had +been given their feverish reality, which deformed them while it gave +them life, breathing into such abstract reason, their hallucinations, +and their hopes, like a burning wind of Hegira. They were quickly spread +from man to man. Men succumbed to them without knowing from whom they +came or how they had been brought. They were no respecters of persons. +The moral epidemic spread and spread: and it was quite possible for +limited creatures to communicate it to superior men. Every man was +unwittingly an agent in the transmission. + +Such phenomena of intellectual contagion are to be observed in all times +and in all countries: they make themselves felt even in aristocratic +States where there is the endeavor to maintain castes hermetically +sealed one against the other. But nowhere are they more electric than in +democracies which preserve no sanitary barrier between the elect and the +mob. The elect are contaminated at once whatever they do to fight +against it. In spite of their pride and intelligence they cannot resist +the contagion; for the elect are much weaker than they think. +Intelligence is a little island fretted by the tides of humanity, +crumbling away and at last engulfed. It only emerges again on the ebb of +the tide.--One wonders at the self-denial of the French privileged +classes when on the night of August 4 they abdicated their rights. Most +wonderful of all, no doubt, is the fact that they could not do +otherwise. I fancy a good many of them when they returned home must have +said to themselves: "What have I done? I must have been drunk...." A +splendid drunkenness! Blessed be wine and the vine that gives it forth! +It was not the privileged classes of old France who planted the vine +whose blood brought them to drunkenness. The wine was extracted, they +had only to drink it. He who drank must lose his wits. Even those who +did not drink turned dizzy only from the smell of the vat that caught +them as they passed. The vintages of the Revolution!... Hidden away in +the family vaults there are left only a few empty bottles of the wine of +'89: but our grandchildren's children will remember that their +great-grandfathers had their heads turned by it. + +It was a sourer wine but a wine no less strong that was mounting to the +heads of the comfortable young people of Olivier's generation. They were +offering up their class as a sacrifice to the new God, _Deo +ignoto_:--the people. + + * * * * * + +To tell the truth, they were not all equally sincere. Many of them were +only able to see in the movement an opportunity of rising above their +class by affecting to despise it. For the majority it was an +intellectual pastime, an oratorical enthusiasm which they never took +altogether seriously. There is a certain pleasure in believing that you +believe in a cause, that you are fighting, or will fight, for it,--or +at least could fight. There is a by no means negligible satisfaction in the +thought that you are risking something. Theatrical emotions. + +They are quite innocent so long as you surrender to them simply without +any admixture of interested motive.--But there were men of a more +worldly type who only played the game of set purpose: the popular +movement was to them only a road to success. Like the Norse pirates, +they made use of the rising tide to carry their ships up into the land: +they aimed at reaching the innermost point of the great estuaries so as +to be left snugly ensconced in the conquered cities when the sea fell +back once more. The channel was narrow and the tide was capricious: +great skill was needed. But two or three generations of demagogy have +created a race of corsairs who know every trick and secret of the trade. +They rushed boldly in with never even so much as a glance back at those +who foundered on the way. + +This piratical rabble is made up of all parties: thank Heaven, no party +is responsible for it. But the disgust with which such adventurers had +inspired the sincere and all men of conviction had led some of them to +despair of their class. Olivier came in contact with rich young men of +culture who felt very strongly that the comfortable classes were +moribund and that they themselves were useless. He was only too much +inclined to sympathize with them. They had begun by believing in the +reformation of the people by the elect, they had founded Popular +Universities, and taken no account of the time and money spent upon +them, and now they were forced to admit the futility of their efforts: +their hopes had been pitched too high, their discouragement sank too +low. The people had either not responded to their appeal or had run away +from it. When the people did come, they understood everything all wrong, +and only assimilated the vices and absurdities of the culture of the +superior classes. And in the end more than one scurvy knave had stolen +into the ranks of the burgess apostles, and discredited them by +exploiting both people and apostles at the same time. Then it seemed to +honest men that the middle-class was doomed, that it could only infect +the people who, at all costs, must break free and go their way alone. So +they were left cut off from all possibility of action, save to predict +and foresee a movement which would be made without and against +themselves. Some of them found in this the joy of renunciation, the joy +of deep disinterested human sympathy feeding upon itself and the +sacrifice of itself. To love, to give self! Youth is so richly endowed +that it can afford to do without repayment: youth has no fear of being +left despoiled. And it can do without everything save the art of +loving.--Others again found in it a pleasurable rational satisfaction, a +sort of imperious logic: they sacrificed themselves not to men so much +as to ideas. These were the bolder spirits. They took a proud delight in +deducing the fated end of their class from their reasoned arguments. It +would have hurt them more to see their predictions falsified than to be +crushed beneath the weight of circumstance. In their intellectual +intoxication they cried aloud to those outside: "Harder! Strike harder! +Let there be nothing left of us!"--They had become the theorists of +violence. + +Of the violence of others. For, as usual, these apostles of brute force +were almost always refined and weakly people. Many of them were +officials of the State which they talked of destroying, industrious, +conscientious, and orderly officials. + +Their theoretical violence was the throwback from their weakness, their +bitterness, and the suppression of their vitality. But above all it was +an indication of the storms brewing all around them. Theorists are like +meteorologists: they state in scientific terms not what the weather will +be, but what the weather is. They are weathercocks pointing to the +quarter whence the wind blows. When they turn they are never far from +believing that they are turning the wind. + +The wind had turned. + +Ideas are quickly used up in a democracy, and the more quickly they are +propagated, the more quickly are they worn out. There are any number of +Republicans in France who in less than fifty years have grown disgusted +with the Republic, with Universal Suffrage, with all the manifestations +of liberty won with such blind intoxication! After the fetish worship of +numbers, after the gaping optimism which had believed in the sanctity of +the majority and had looked to it for the progress of humanity, there +came the wind of brute force: the inability of the majority to govern +themselves, their venality, their corruption, their base and fearful +hatred of all superiority, their oppressive cowardice, raised the spirit +of revolt: the minorities of energy--every kind of minority--appealed +from the majority to force. A queer, yet inevitable alliance was brought +about between the royalists of the _Action Française_ and the +syndicalists of the C. G. T. Balzac speaks somewhere of the men of his +time who _"though aristocrats by inclination, yet became Republicans +in spite, of themselves, only to find many inferiors among their +equals."_--A scant sort of pleasure. Those who are inferior must be +made to accept themselves as such: and to bring that about there is +nothing to be done but to create an authority which shall impose the +supremacy of the elect--of either class, working or burgess--upon the +oppressive majority. Our young intellectuals, being proud and of the +better class, became royalists or revolutionaries out of injured vanity +and hatred of democratic equality. And the disinterested theorists, the +philosophers of brute force, like good little weathercocks, reared their +heads above them and were the oriflammes of the storm. + +Last of all there was the herd of literary men in search of +inspiration--men who could write and yet knew not what to write: like +the Greeks at Aulis, they were becalmed and could make no progress, and +sat impatiently waiting for a kindly wind from any quarter to come and +belly out their sails.--There were famous men among them, men who had +been wrenched away from their stylistic labors and plunged into public +meetings by the Dreyfus affair. An example which had found only too many +followers for the liking of those who had set it. There was now a mob of +writing men all engrossed in politics, and claiming to control the +affairs of the State. On the slightest excuse they would form societies, +issue manifestoes, save the Capitol. After the intellectuals of the +advance guard came the intellectuals of the rear: they were much of a +muchness. Each of the two parties regarded the other as intellectual and +themselves as intelligent. Those who had the luck to have in their veins +a few drops of the blood of the people bragged about it: they dipped +their pens into it, wrote with it.--They were all malcontents of the +burgess class, and were striving to recapture the authority which that +class had irreparably lost through its selfishness. Only in rare +instances were these apostles known to keep up their apostolic zeal for +any length of time. In the beginning the cause meant a certain amount of +success to them, success which in all probability was in no wise due to +their oratorical gifts. It gave them a delicious flattery for their +vanity. Thereafter they went on with less success and a certain secret +fear of being rather ridiculous. In the long-run the last feeling was +apt to dominate the rest, being increased by the fatigue of playing a +difficult part for men of their distinguished tastes and innate +skepticism. But they waited upon the favor of the wind and of their +escort before they could withdraw. For they were held captive both by +wind and escort. These latter-day Voltaires and Joseph de Maistres, +beneath their boldness in speech and writing, concealed a dread +uncertainty, feeling the ground, being fearful of compromising +themselves with the young men, and striving hard to please them and to +be younger than the young. They were revolutionaries or +counter-revolutionaries merely as a matter of literature, and in the end +they resigned themselves to following the literary fashion which they +themselves had helped to create. + +The oddest of all the types with which Olivier came in contact in the +small burgess advance guard of the Revolution was the revolutionary who +was so from timidity. + +The specimen presented for his immediate observation was named Pierre +Canet. He was brought up in a rich, middle-class, and conservative +family, hermetically sealed against any new idea: they were magistrates +and officials who had distinguished themselves by crabbing authority or +being dismissed: thick-witted citizens of the Marais who flirted with +the Church and thought little, but thought that little well. He had +married, for want of anything better to do, a woman with an aristocratic +name, who had no great capacity for thought, but did her thinking no +less well than he. The bigoted, narrow, and retrograde society in which +he lived, a society which was perpetually chewing the cud of its own +conceit and bitterness, had finally exasperated him,--the more so as his +wife was ugly and a bore. He was fairly intelligent and open-minded, and +liberal in aspiration, without knowing at all clearly in what liberalism +consisted: there was no likelihood of his discovering the meaning of +liberty in his immediate surroundings. The only thing he knew for +certain was that liberty did not exist there: and he fancied that he had +only to leave to find it. On his first move outwards he was lucky enough +to fall in with certain old college friends, some of whom had been +smitten with syndicalistic ideas. He was even more at sea in their +company than in the society which he had just quitted: but he would not +admit it: he had to live somewhere: and he was unable to find people of +his own cast of thought (that is to say, people of no cast of thought +whatever), though, God knows, the species is by no means rare in France! +But they are ashamed of themselves: they hide themselves, or they take +on the hue of one of the fashionable political colors, if not of +several, all at once. Besides, he was under the influence of his +friends. + +As always happens, he had particularly attached himself to the very man +who was most different from himself. This Frenchman, French, burgess and +provincial to his very soul, had become the _fidus Achates_ of a +young Jewish doctor named Manousse Heimann, a Russian refugee, who, like +so many of his fellow-countrymen, had the twofold gift of settling at +once among strangers and making himself at home, and of being so much at +his ease in any sort of revolution as to rouse wonder as to what it was +that most interested him in it: the game or the cause. His experiences +and the experiences of others were a source of entertainment to him. He +was a sincere revolutionary, and his scientific habit of mind made him +regard the revolutionaries and himself as a kind of madmen. His excited +dilettantism and his extreme instability of mind made him seek the +company of men the most opposite. He had acquaintances among those in +authority and even among the police: he was perpetually prying and +spying with that morbid and dangerous curiosity which makes so many +Russian revolutionaries seem to be playing a double game, and sometimes +reduces the appearance to reality. It is not treachery so much as +versatility, and it is thoroughly disinterested. There are so many men +of action to whom action is a theater into which they bring their +talents as comedians, quite honestly prepared at any moment to change +their part! Manousse was as faithful to the revolutionary part as it was +possible for him to be: it was the character which was most in accord +with his natural anarchy, and his delight in demolishing the laws of the +countries through which he passed. But yet, in spite of everything, it +was only a part. It was always impossible to know how much was true and +how much invented in what he said, and even he himself was never very +sure. He was intelligent and skeptical, endowed with the psychological +subtlety of his twofold nationality, could discern quite marvelously the +weaknesses of others, and his own, and was extremely skilful in playing +upon them, so that he had no difficulty in gaining an ascendancy over +Canet. It amused him to drag this Sancho Panza into Quixotic pranks. He +made no scruple about using him, disposing of his will, his time, his +money,--not for his own benefit, (he needed none, though no one knew how +or in what way he lived),--but in the most compromising demonstrations +of the cause. Canet submitted to it all: he tried to persuade himself +that he thought like Manousse. He knew perfectly well that this was not +the case: such ideas scared him: they were shocking to his common sense. +And he had no love for the people. And, in addition, he had no courage. +This big, bulky, corpulent young man, with his clean-shaven pinkish face, +his short breathing, his pleasant, pompous, and rather childish way of +speaking, with a chest like the Farnese Hercules, (he was a fair hand at +boxing and singlestick), was the most timid of men. If he took a certain +pride in being taken for a man of a subversive temper by his own people, +in his heart of hearts he used to tremble at the boldness of his +friends. No doubt the little thrill they gave him was by no means +disagreeable as long as it was only in fun. But their fun was becoming +dangerous. His fervent friends were growing aggressive, their hardy +pretensions were increasing: they alarmed Canet's fundamental egoism, +his deeply rooted sense of propriety, his middle-class pusillanimity. He +dared not ask: "Where are you taking me to?" But, under his breath, he +fretted and fumed at the recklessness of these young men who seemed to +love nothing so much as breaking their necks, and never to give a +thought as to whether they were not at the same time running a risk of +breaking other people's.--What was it impelled him to follow them? Was +he not free to break with them? He had not the courage. He was afraid of +being left alone, like a child who gets left behind and begins to +whimper. He was like so many men: they have no opinions, except in so +far as they disapprove of all enthusiastic opinion: but if a man is to +be independent he must stand alone, and how many men are there who are +capable of that? How many men are there, even amongst the most clear +sighted, who will dare to break free of the bondage of certain +prejudices, certain postulates which cramp and fetter all the men of the +same generation? That would mean setting up a wall between themselves +and others. On the one hand, freedom in the wilderness, on the other, +mankind. They do not hesitate: they choose mankind, the herd. The herd +is evil smelling, but it gives warmth. Then those who have chosen +pretend to think what they do not in fact think. It is not very +difficult for them: they know so little what they think!... _"Know +thyself!"_... How could they, these men who have hardly a _Me_ +to know? In every collective belief, religious or social, very rare are +the men who believe, because very rare are the men who are men. Faith is +an heroic force: its fire has kindled but a very few human torches, and +even these have often flickered. The apostles, the prophets, even Jesus +have doubted. The rest are only reflections,--save at certain hours when +their souls are dry and a few sparks falling from a great torch set +light to all the surface of the plain: then the fire dies down, and +nothing gleams but the glowing embers beneath the ashes. Not more than a +few hundred Christians really believe in Christ. The rest believe that +they believe, or else they only try to believe. + +Many of these revolutionaries were like that. Our friend Canet tried +hard to believe that he was a revolutionary: he did believe it. And he +was scared at his own boldness. + +All these comfortable people invoked divers principles: some followed +the bidding of their hearts, others that of their reason, others again +only their interests: some associated their way of thinking with the +Gospel, others with M. Bergson, others, again, with Karl Marx, with +Proudhon, with Joseph de Maistre. with Nietzsche, or with M. Sorel. +There were men who were revolutionaries to be in the fashion, some who +were so out of snobbishness, and some from shyness: some from hatred, +others from love: some from a need of active, hot-headed heroism: and +some in sheer slavishness, from the sheeplike quality of their minds. +But all, without knowing it, were at the mercy of the wind. All were no +more than those whirling clouds of dust which are to be seen like smoke +in the far distance on the white roads in the country, clouds of dust +foretelling the coming of the storm. + +Olivier and Christophe watched the wind coming. Both of them had strong +eyes. But they used them in different ways. Olivier, whose clear gaze, +in spite of himself, pierced to the very inmost thoughts of men, was +saddened by their mediocrity: but he saw the hidden force that sustained +them: he was most struck by the tragic aspect of things. Christophe was +more sensible of their comic aspect. Men interested him, ideas not at +all. He affected a contemptuous indifference towards them. He laughed at +Socialistic Utopias. In a spirit of contradiction and out of instinctive +reaction against the morbid humanitarianism which was the order of the +day, he appeared to be more selfish than he was: he was a self-made man, +a sturdy upstart, proud of his strength of body and will, and he was a +little too apt to regard all those who had not his force as shirkers. In +poverty and alone he had been able to win through: let others do the +same! Why all this talk of a social question? What question? Poverty? + +"I know all about that," he would say. "My father, my mother, I myself, +we have been through it. It's only a matter of getting out of it." + +"Not everybody can," Olivier would reply. "What about the sick and the +unlucky?" + +"One must help them, that's all. But that is a very different thing from +setting them on a pinnacle, as people are doing nowadays. Only a short +while ago people were asserting the odious doctrine of the rights of the +strongest man. Upon my word, I'm inclined to think that the rights of +the weakest are even more detestable: they're sapping the thought of +to-day, the weakest man is tyrannizing over the strong, and exploiting +them. It really looks as though it has become a merit to be diseased, +poor, unintelligent, broken,--and a vice to be strong, upstanding, happy +in fighting, and an aristocrat in brains and blood. And what is most +absurd of all is this, that the strong are the first to believe it.... +It's a fine subject for a comedy, my dear Olivier!" + +"I'd rather have people laugh at me than make other people weep." + +"Good boy!" said Christophe. "But, good Lord, who ever said anything to +the contrary? When I see a hunchback, my back aches for him.... We're +playing the comedy, we won't write it." + +He did not suffer himself to be bitten by the prevalent dreams of social +justice. His vulgar common sense told him and he believed that what had +been would be. + +"But if anybody said that to you about art you'd be up in arms against +him." + +"May be. Anyhow, I don't know about anything except art. Nor do you. +I've no faith in people who talk about things without knowing anything +about them." + +Olivier's faith in such people was no greater. Both of them were +inclined to push their distrust a little too far: they had always held +aloof from politics. Olivier confessed, not without shame, that he could +not remember ever having used his rights as an elector: for the last ten +years he had not even entered his name at the _mairie_. + +"Why," he asked, "should I take part in a comedy which I know to be +futile? Vote? For whom should I vote? I don't see any reason for +choosing between two candidates, both of whom are unknown to me, while I +have only too much reason to expect that, directly the election is over, +they will both be false to all their professions of faith. Keep an eye +on them? Remind them of their duty? It would take up the whole of my +life, with no result. I have neither time, nor strength, nor the +rhetorical weapons, nor sufficient lack of scruple, nor is my heart +steeled against all the disgust that action brings. Much better to keep +clear of it all. I am quite ready to submit to the evil. But at least I +won't subscribe to it." + +But, in spite of his excessive clear-sightedness, Olivier, to whom the +ordinary routine of politics was repulsive, yet preserved a chimerical +hope in a revolution. He knew that it was chimerical: but he did not +discard it. It was a sort of racial mysticism in him. Not for nothing +does a man belong to the greatest destructive and constructive people of +the Western world, the people who destroy to construct and construct to +destroy,--the people who play with ideas and life, and are for ever +making a clean sweep so as to make a new and better beginning, and shed +their blood in pledge. + +Christophe was endowed with no such hereditary Messianism. He was too +German to relish much the idea of a revolution. He thought that there +was no changing the world. Why all these theories, all these words, all +this futile uproar? + +"I have no need," he would say, "to make a revolution--or long speeches +about revolution--in order to prove to my own satisfaction that I am +strong. I have no need, like these young men of yours, to overthrow the +State in order to restore a King or a Committee of Public Safety to +defend me. That's a queer way of proving your strength! I can defend +myself. I am not an anarchist: I love all necessary order and I revere +the laws which govern the universe. But I don't want an intermediary +between them and myself. My will knows how to command, and it knows also +how to submit. You've got the classics on the tip of your tongue. Why +don't you remember your Corneille: _'Myself alone, and that is +enough.'_ Your desire for a master is only a cloak for your weakness. +Force is like the light: only the blind can deny it. Be strong, calmly, +without all your theories, without any act of violence, and then, as +plants turn to the sun, so the souls of the weak will turn to you." + +But even while he protested that he had no time to waste on political +discussions, he was much less detached from it all than he wished to +appear. He was suffering, as an artist, from the social unrest. In his +momentary dearth of strong passion he would sometimes pause to look +around and wonder for what people he was writing. Then he would see the +melancholy patrons of contemporary art, the weary creatures of the +upper-classes, the dilettante men and women of the burgess-class, and he +would think: + +"What profits it to work for such people as these?" In truth there was +no lack of men of refinement and culture, men sensitive to skill and +craft, men even who were not incapable of appreciating the novelty +or--(it is all the same)--the archaism of fine feeling. But they were +bored, too intellectual, not sufficiently alive to believe in the +reality of art: they were only interested in tricks,--tricks of sound, +or juggling with ideas; most of them were distraught by other worldly +interests, accustomed to scattering their attention over their +multifarious occupations, none of which was "necessary." It was almost +impossible for them to pierce the outer covering of art, to feel its +heart deep down: art was not flesh and blood to them; it was literature. +Their critics built up their impotence to issue from dilettantism into a +theory, an intolerant theory. When it happened that a few here and there +were vibrant enough to respond to the voice of art, they were not strong +enough to bear it, and were left disgruntled and nerve-ridden for life. +They were sick men or dead. What could art do in such a hospital?--And +yet in modern society he was unable to do without these cripples: for +they had money, and they ruled the Press: they only could assure an +artist the means of living. So then he must submit to such humiliation: +an intimate and sorrowful art, music in which is told the secret of the +artist's inmost life, offered up as an amusement--or rather as a +palliative of boredom, or as another sort of boredom--in the theaters or +in fashionable drawing-rooms, to an audience of snobs and worn-out +intellectuals. + +Christophe was seeking the real public, the public which believes in the +emotions of art as in those of life, and feels them with a virgin soul. +And he was vaguely attracted by the new promised world--the people. The +memories of his childhood, Gottfried and the poor, who had revealed to +him the living depths of art, or had shared with him the sacred bread of +music, made him inclined to believe that his real friends were to be +found among such people. Like many another young man of a generous heart +and simple faith, he cherished great plans for a popular art, concerts, +and a theater for the people, which he would have been hard put to it to +define. He thought that a revolution might make it possible to bring +about a great artistic renascence, and he pretended that he had no other +interest in the social movement. But he was hoodwinking himself: he was +much too alive not to be attracted and drawn onward by the sight of the +most living activity of the time. + +In all that he saw he was least of all interested in the middle-class +theorists. The fruit borne by such trees is too often sapless: all the +juices of life are wasted in ideas. Christophe did not distinguish +between one idea and another. He had no preference even for ideas which +were his own when he came upon them congealed in systems. With +good-humored contempt he held aloof from the theorists of force as from +the theorists of weakness. In every comedy the one ungrateful part is +that of the _raisonneur_. The public prefers not only the +sympathetic characters to him, but the unsympathetic characters also. +Christophe was like the public in that. The _raisonneurs_ of the +social question seemed tiresome to him. But he amused himself by +watching the rest, the simple, the men of conviction, those who believed +and those who wanted to believe, those who were tricked and those who +wanted to be tricked, not to mention the buccaneers who plied their +predatory trade, and the sheep who were made to be fleeced. His sympathy +was indulgent towards the pathetically absurd little people like fat +Canet. Their mediocrity was not offensive to him as it was to Olivier. +He watched them all with affectionate and mocking interest: he believed +that he was outside the piece they were playing: and he did not see that +little by little he was being drawn into it. He thought only of being a +spectator watching the wind rush by. But already the wind had caught +him, and was dragging him along into its whirling cloud of dust. + + * * * * * + +The social drama was twofold. The piece played by the intellectuals was +a comedy within a comedy; the people hardly heeded it. The real drama +was that of the people. It was not easy to follow it: the people +themselves did not always know where they were in it. It was all +unexpected, unforeseen. + +It was not only that there was much more talk in it than action. Every +Frenchman, be he burgess or of the people, is as great an eater of speeches +as he is of bread. But all men do not eat the same sort of +bread. There is the speech of luxury for delicate palates, and the more +nourishing sort of speech for hungry gullets. If the words are the same, +they are not kneaded into the same shape: taste, smell, meaning, all are +different. + +The first time Olivier attended a popular meeting and tasted of the fare +he lost his appetite: his gorge rose at it, and he could not swallow. He +was disgusted by the platitudinous quality of thought, the drab and +uncouth clumsiness of expression, the vague generalizations, the +childish logic, the ill-mixed mayonnaise of abstractions and +disconnected facts. The impropriety and looseness of the language were +not compensated by the raciness and vigor of the vulgar tongue. The +whole thing was compounded of a newspaper vocabulary, stale tags picked +up from the reach-me-downs of middle-class rhetoric. Olivier was +particularly amazed at the lack of simplicity. He forgot that literary +simplicity is not natural, but acquired: it is a thing achieved by the +people of the elect. Dwellers in towns cannot be simple: they are rather +always on the lookout for far-fetched expressions. + +Olivier did not understand the effect such turgid phrases might have on +their audience. He had not the key to their meaning. We call foreign the +languages of other races, and it never occurs to us that there are +almost as many languages in our nation as there are social grades. It is +only for a limited few that words retain their traditional and age-old +meaning: for the rest they represent nothing more than their own +experience and that of the group to which they belong. Many of such +words, which are dead for the select few and despised by them, are like +an empty house, wherein, as soon as the few are gone, new energy and +quivering passion take up their abode. If you wish to know the master of +the house, go into it. + +That Christophe did. + + * * * * * + +He had been brought into touch with the working-classes by a neighbor of +his who was employed on the State Railways. He was a little man of +forty-five, prematurely old, with a pathetically bald head, deep-sunken +eyes, hollow cheeks, a prominent nose, fleshy and aquiline, a clever +mouth, and malformed ears with twisted lobes: the marks of degeneracy. +His name was Alcide Gautier. He was not of the people, but of the lower +middle-class. + +He came of a good family who had spent all they had on the education of +their only son, but, for want of means, had been unable to let him go +through with it. As a very young man he had obtained one of those +Government posts which seem to the lower middle-class a very heaven, and +are in reality death,--living death.--Once he had gone into it, it had +been impossible for him to escape. He had committed the offense--(for it +is an offense in modern society)--of marrying for love a pretty +workgirl, whose innate vulgarity had only increased with time. She gave +him three children and he had to earn a living for them. This man, who +was intelligent and longed with all his might to finish his education, +was cramped and fettered by poverty. He was conscious of latent powers +in himself which were stifled by the difficulties of his existence: he +could not take any decisive step. He was never alone. He was a +bookkeeping clerk and had to spend his days over purely mechanical work +in a room which he had to share with several of his colleagues who were +vulgar chattering creatures: they were for ever talking of idiotic +things and avenged themselves for the absurdity of their existence by +slandering their chiefs and making fun of him and his intellectual point +of view which he had not been prudent enough to conceal from them. When +he returned home it was to find an evil-smelling charmless room, a noisy +common wife who did not understand him and regarded him as a humbug or a +fool. His children did not take after him in anything: they took after +their mother. Was it just that it should be so? Was it just? Nothing but +disappointment and suffering and perpetual poverty, and work that took +up his whole day from morning to night, and never the possibility of +snatching an hour for recreation, an hour's silence, all this had +brought him to a state of exhaustion and nervous +irritability.--Christophe, who had pursued his acquaintance with him, +was struck by the tragedy of his lot: an incomplete nature, lacking +sufficient culture and artistic taste, yet made for great things and +crushed by misfortune. Gautier clung to Christophe as a weak man +drowning grasps at the arm of a strong swimmer. He felt a mixture of +sympathy and envy for Christophe. He took him to popular meetings, and +showed him some of the leaders of the syndicalist party to which he +belonged for no other reason than his bitterness against society. For he +was an aristocrat gone wrong. It hurt him terribly to mix with the +people. + +Christophe was much more democratic than he--the more so as nothing +forced him to be so--and enjoyed the meetings. The speeches amused him. +He did not share Olivier's feeling of repulsion: he was hardly at all +sensible of the absurdities of the language. In his eyes a windbag was +as good as any other man. He affected a sort of contempt for eloquence +in general. But though he took no particular pains to understand their +rhetoric, he did feel the music which came through the man who was +speaking and the men who were listening. The power of the speaker was +raised to the hundredth degree by the echo thrown back from hie hearers. +At first Christophe only took stock of the speakers, and he was +interested enough to make the acquaintance of some of them. + +The man who had the most influence on the crowd was Casimir Joussier,--a +little, pale, dark man, between thirty and thirty-five, with a Mongolian +cast of countenance, thin, puny, with cold burning eyes, scant hair, and +a pointed beard. His power lay not so much in his gesture, which was +poor, stilted, and rarely in harmony with the, words,--not so much in +his speech, which was raucous and sibilant, with marked pauses for +breathing,--as in his personality and the emphatic assurance and force +of will which emanated from it. He never seemed to admit the possibility +of any one thinking differently from himself: and as what he thought was +what his audience wanted to think they had no difficulty in +understanding one another. He would go on saying thrice, four times, ten +times, the things they expected him to say: he never stopped hammering +the same nail with a tenacious fury: and his audience, following his +example, would hammer, hammer, hammer, until the nail was buried deep in +the flesh.--Added to this personal ascendancy was the confidence +inspired by his past life, the _prestige_ of many terms in prison, +largely deserved by his violent writings. He breathed out an indomitable +energy: but for the seeing eye there was revealed beneath it all an +accumulated fund of weariness, disgust with so much continual effort, +anger against fate. He was one of those men who every day spend more +than their income of vitality. From his childhood on he had been ground +down by work and poverty. He had plied all sorts of trades: journeyman +glass-blower, plumber, printer: his health was ruined: he was a prey to +consumption, which plunged him into fits of bitter discouragement and +dumb despair of the cause and of himself: at other times it would raise +him up to a pitch of excitement. He was a mixture of calculated and +morbid violence, of policy and recklessness. He was educated up to a +certain point: he had a good knowledge of many things, science, +sociology, and his various trades: he had a very poor knowledge of many +others: and he was just as cocksure with both: he had Utopian notions, +just ideas, ignorance in many directions, a practical mind, many +prejudices, experience, and suspicion and hatred of burgess society. +That did not prevent his welcoming Christophe. His pride was tickled by +being sought out by a well-known artist. He was of the race of leaders, +and, whatever he did, he was brusque with ordinary workmen. Although in +all good faith he desired perfect equality, he found it easier to +realize with those above than with those beneath him. + +Christophe came across other leaders of the working-class movement. +There was no great sympathy between them. If the common fight--with +difficulty--produced unity of action, it was very far from creating +unity of feeling. It was easy to see the external and purely transitory +reality to which the distinction between the classes corresponded. The +old antagonisms were only postponed and marked: but they continued to +exist. In the movement were to be found men of the north and men of the +south with their fundamental scorn of each other. The trades were +jealous of each other's wages, and watched each other with an +undisguised feeling of superiority to all others in each. But the great +difference lay--and always will lie--in temperament. Foxes and wolves +and horned beasts, beasts with sharp teeth, and beasts with four +stomachs, beasts that are made to eat, and beasts that are made to be +eaten, all sniffed at each other as they passed in the herd that had been +drawn together by the accident of class and common interest: and +they recognized each other: and they bristled. + +Christophe sometimes had his meals at a little creamery and restaurant +kept by a former colleague of Gautier's, one Simon, a railway clerk who +had been dismissed for taking part in a strike. The shop was frequented +by syndicalists. There were five or six of them who used to sit in a +room at the back, looking on to an inclosed courtyard, narrow and +ill-lit, from which there arose the never-ceasing desperate song of two +caged canaries straining after the light. Joussier used to come with +his mistress, the fair Berthe, a large coquettish young woman, with a pale +face, and a purple cap, and merry, wandering eyes. She had under her +thumb a good-looking boy, Léopold Graillot, a journeyman mechanic, who +was clever and rather a _poseur_: he was the esthete of the +company. Although he called himself an anarchist, and was one of the +most violent opponents of the burgess-class, his soul was typical of +that class at its very worst. Every morning for years he had drunk in +the erotic and decadent news of the halfpenny literary papers. His +reading had given him a strongly addled brain. His mental subtlety in +imagining the pleasures of the senses was allied in him with an absolute +lack of physical delicacy, indifference to cleanliness, and the +comparative coarseness of his life. He had acquired a taste for an +occasional glass of such adulterated wine--the intellectual alcohol of +luxury, the unwholesome stimulants of unhealthy rich men. Being unable +to take these pleasures in the flesh, he inoculated his brain with them. +That means a bad tongue in the morning and weakness in the knees. But it +puts you on an equality with the rich. And you hate them. + +Christophe could not bear him. He was more in sympathy with Sebastien +Coquard, an electrician, who, with Joussier, was the speaker with the +greatest following. He did not overburden himself with theories. He did +not always know where he was going. But he did go straight ahead. He was +very French. He was heavily built, about forty, with a big red face, a +round head, red hair, a flowing beard, a bull neck, and a bellowing +voice. Like Joussier, he was an excellent workman, but he loved drinking +and laughter. The sickly Joussier regarded his superabundant health with +the eyes of envy: and, though they were friends, there was always a +simmering secret hostility between them. + +Amélie, the manageress of the creamery, a kind creature of forty-five, +who must have been pretty once, and still was, in spite of the wear of +time, used to sit with them, with some sewing in her hands, listening to +their talk with a jolly smile, moving her lips in time to their words: +every now and then she would drop a remark into the discussion, and she +would emphasize her words with a nod of her head as she worked. She had +a married daughter and two children of seven and ten--a little girl and +a boy--who used to do their home lessons at the corner of a sticky +table, putting out their tongues, and picking up scraps of conversations +which were not meant for their ears. + +On more than one occasion Olivier tried to go with Christophe. But he +could not feel at ease with these people. When these working-men were +not tied down by strict factory hours or the insistent scream of a +hooter, they seemed to have an incredible amount of time to waste, +either after work, or between jobs, in loafing or idleness. Christophe, +being in one of those periods when the mind has completed one piece of +work and is waiting until a new piece of work presents itself, was in no +greater hurry than they were: and he liked sitting there with his elbows +on the table, smoking, drinking, and talking. But Olivier's respectable +burgess instincts were shocked, and so were his traditional habits of +mental discipline, and regular work, and scrupulous economy of time: and +he did not relish such a waste of so many precious hours. Besides that, +he was not good at talking or drinking. Above all there was his physical +distaste for it all, the secret antipathy which raises a physical +barrier between the different types of men, the hostility of the senses, +which stands in the way of the communion of their souls, the revolt of +the flesh against the heart. When Olivier was alone with Christophe he +would talk most feelingly about the duty of fraternizing with the +people: but when he found himself face to face with the people, he was +impotent to do anything, in spite of his good will. Christophe, on the +other hand, who laughed at his ideas, could, without the least effort, +meet any workman he chanced to come across in brotherhood. It really +hurt Olivier to find himself so cut off from these men. He tried to be +like them, to think like them, to speak like them. He could not do it. +His voice was dull, husky, had not the ring that was in theirs. When he +tried to catch some of their expressions the words would stick in his +throat or sound queer and strange. He watched himself; he was +embarrassed, and embarrassed them. He knew it. He knew that to them he +was a stranger and suspect, that none of them was in sympathy with him, +and then, when he was gone, everybody would sigh with relief: "Ouf!" As +he passed among them he would notice hard, icy glances, such hostile +glances as the working-classes, embittered by poverty, cast at any +comfortable burgess. Perhaps Christophe came in for some of it too: but +he never noticed it. + +Of all the people in that place the only ones who showed any inclination +to be friendly with Olivier were Amélie's children. They were much more +attracted by their superior in station than disposed to hate him. The +little boy was fascinated by the burgess mode of thought: he was clever +enough to love it, though not clever enough to understand it: the little +girl, who was very pretty, had once been taken by Olivier to see Madame +Arnaud, and she was hypnotized by the comfort and ease of it all: she +was silently delighted to sit in the fine armchairs, and to feel the +beautiful clothes, and to be with lovely ladies: like the little +simpleton she was, she longed to escape from the people and soar upwards +to the paradise of riches and solid comfort. Olivier had no desire or +taste for the cultivation of these inclinations in her: and the simple +homage she paid to his class by no means consoled him for the silent +antipathy of her companions. Their ill-disposition towards him pained +him. He had such a burning desire to understand them! And in truth he +did understand them, too well, perhaps: he watched them too closely, and +he irritated them. It was not that he was indiscreet in his curiosity, +but that he brought to bear on it his habit of analyzing the souls of +men and his need of love. + +It was not long before he perceived the secret drama of Joussier's life: +the disease which was undermining his constitution, and the cruelty of +his mistress. She loved him, she was proud of him: but she had too much +vitality: he knew that she was slipping away from him, would slip away +from him: and he was aflame with jealousy. She found his jealousy +diverting: she was for ever exciting the men about her, bombarding them +with her eyes, flinging around them her sensual provocative atmosphere: +she loved to play with him like a cat. Perhaps she deceived him with +Graillot. Perhaps it pleased her to let him think so. In any case if she +were not actually doing so, she very probably would. Joussier dared not +forbid her to love whomsoever she pleased: did he not profess the woman's +right to liberty equally with the man's? She reminded him of +that slyly and insolently one day when he was upbraiding her. He was +delivered up to a terrible struggle within himself between his theories +of liberty and his violent instincts. At heart he was still a man like +the men of old, despotic and jealous: by reason he was a man of the +future, a Utopian. She was neither more nor less than the woman of +yesterday, to-morrow, and all time.--And Olivier, looking on at their +secret duel, the savagery of which was known to him by his own +experience, was full of pity for Joussier when he realized his weakness. +But Joussier guessed that Olivier was reading him: and he was very far +from liking him for it. + +There was another interested witness, an indulgent spectator of this +game of love and hate. This was the manageress, Amélie. She saw +everything without seeming to do so. She knew life. She was an honest, +healthy, tranquil, easy-going woman, and in her youth had been free +enough. She had been in a florist's shop: she had had a lover of the +class above her own: she had had other lovers. Then she had married a +working-man. She had become a good wife and mother. But she understood +everything, all the foolish ways of the heart, Joussier's jealousy, as +well as the young woman's desire for amusement. She tried to help them +to understand each other with a few affectionate words: + +"You must make allowances: it is not worth while creating bad blood +between you for such a trifle...." + +She was not at all surprised when her words produced no result.... + +"That's the way of the world. We must always be torturing ourselves...." + +She had that splendid carelessness of the people, from which misfortune +of every sort seems harmlessly to glide. She had had her share of +unhappiness. Three months ago she had lost a boy of fifteen whom she +dearly loved: it had been a great grief to her: but now she was once +more busy and laughing. She used to say: + +"If one were to think of these things one could not live." + +So she ceased to think of it. It was not selfishness. She could not do +otherwise: her vitality was too strong: she was absorbed by the present: +it was impossible for her to linger over the past. She adapted herself +to things as they were, and would adapt herself to whatever happened. If +the revolution were to come and turn everything topsy-turvy she would +soon manage to be standing firmly on her feet, and do everything that +was there to do; she would be in her place wherever she might be set +down. At heart she had only a modified belief in the revolution. She had +hardly any real faith in anything whatever. It is hardly necessary to +add that she used to consult the cards in her moments of perplexity, and +that she never failed to make the sign of the cross when she met a +funeral. She was very open-minded and very tolerant, and she had the +skepticism of the people of Paris, that healthy skepticism which doubts, +as a man breathes, joyously. Though she was the wife of a revolutionary, +nevertheless she took up a motherly and ironical attitude towards her +husband's ideas and those of his party--and those of the other +parties,--the sort of attitude she had towards the follies of youth--and +of maturity. She was never much moved by anything. But she was +interested in everything. And she was equally prepared for good and bad +luck. In fine, she was an optimist. + +"It's no good getting angry.... Everything settles itself so long as +your health is good...." + +That was clearly to Christophe's way of thinking. They did not need much +conversation to discover that they belonged to the same family. Every +now and then they would exchange a good-humored smile, while the others +were haranguing and shouting. But, more often, she would laugh to +herself as she looked at Christophe, and saw him being caught up by the +argument to which he would at once bring more passion than all the rest +put together. + + * * * * * + +Christophe did not observe Olivier's isolation and embarrassment. He +made no attempt to probe down to the inner workings of his companions. +But he used to eat and drink with them, and laugh and lose his temper. +They were never distrustful of him, although they used to argue heatedly +enough. He did not mince his words with them. At bottom he would have +found it very hard to say whether he was with or against them. He never +stopped to think about it. No doubt if the choice had been forced upon +him he would have been a syndicalist as against Socialism and all the +doctrines of the State--that monstrous entity, that factory of +officials, human machines. His reason approved of the mighty effort of +the cooperative groups, the two-edged ax of which strikes at the same +time at the dead abstractions of the socialistic State, and at the +sterility of individualism, that corrosion of energy, that dispersion of +collective force in individual frailties,--the great source of modern +wretchedness for which the French Revolution is in part responsible. + +But Nature is stronger than reason. When Christophe came in touch with +the syndicates--those formidable coalitions of the weak--his vigorous +individuality drew back. He could not help despising those men who +needed to be linked together before they could march on--to the fight; +and if he admitted that it was right for them to submit to such a law, +he declared that such a law was not for him. Besides, if the weak and +the oppressed are sympathetic, they cease altogether to be so when they +in their turn become oppressors. Christophe, who had only recently been +shouting out to the honest men living in isolation: "Unite! Unite!" had +a most unpleasant sensation when for the first time he found himself in +the midst of such unions of honest men, all mixed up with other men who +were less honest, and yet were endowed with their force, their rights, +and only too ready to abuse them. The best people, those whom Christophe +loved, the friends whom he had met in The House, on every floor, drew no +sort of profit from these fighting combinations. They were too sensitive +at heart and too timid not to be scared: they were fated to be the first +to be crushed out of existence by them. Face to face with the +working-class movement they were in the same position as Olivier and the +most warmly generous of the young men of the middle-class. Their +sympathies were with the workers organizing themselves. But they had +been brought up in the cult of liberty: now liberty was exactly what the +revolutionaries cared for least of all. Besides, who is there nowadays +that cares for liberty? A select few who have no sort of influence over +the world. Liberty is passing through dark days. The Popes of Rome +proscribe the light of reason. The Popes of Paris put out the light of +the heavens. And M. Pataud puts out the lights of the streets. +Everywhere imperialism is triumphant: the theocratic imperialism of the +Church of Rome: the military imperialism of the mercantile and mystic +monarchies: the bureaucratic imperialism of the republics of Freemasonry +and covetousness: the dictatorial imperialism of the revolutionary +committees. Poor liberty, thou art not in this world!... The abuse of +power preached and practised by the revolutionaries revolted Christophe +and Olivier. They had little regard for the blacklegs who refuse to +suffer for the common cause. But it seemed abominable to them that the +others should claim the right to use force against them.--And yet it is +necessary to take sides. Nowadays the choice in fact lies not between +imperialism and liberty, but between one imperialism and another. +Olivier said: + +"Neither. I am for the oppressed." + +Christophe hated the tyranny of the oppressors no less. But he was +dragged into the wake of force in the track of the army of the +working-classes in revolt. + +He was hardly aware that it was so. He would tell his companions in the +restaurant that he was not with them. + +"As long as you are only out for material interests," he would say, "you +don't interest me. The day when you march out for a belief then I shall +be with you. Otherwise, what have I to do with the conflict between one +man's belly and another's? I am an artist; it is my duty to defend art; +I have no right to enroll myself in the service of a party. I am +perfectly aware that recently certain ambitious writers, impelled by a +desire for an unwholesome popularity, have set a bad example. It seems +to me that they have not rendered any great service to the cause which +they defended in that way: but they have certainly betrayed art. It is +our, the artists', business to save the light of the intellect. We have +no right to obscure it with your blind struggles. Who shall hold the +light aloft if we let it fall? You will be glad enough to find it still +intact after the battle. There must always be workers busy keeping up +the fire in the engine, while there is fighting on the deck of the ship. +To understand everything is to hate nothing. The artist is the compass +which, through the raging of the storm, points steadily to the north." + +They regarded him as a maker of phrases, and said that, if he were +talking of compasses, it was very clear that he had lost his: and they +gave themselves the pleasure of indulging in a little friendly contempt +at his expense. In their eyes an artist was a shirker who contrived to +work as little and as agreeably as possible. + +He replied that he worked as hard as they did, harder even, and that he +was not nearly so afraid of work. Nothing disgusted him so much as +_sabotage_, the deliberate bungling of work, and skulking raised to +the level of a principle. + +"All these wretched people," he would say, "afraid for their own +skins!... Good Lord! I've never stopped working since I was eight. You +people don't love your work; at heart you're just common men.... If only +you were capable of destroying the Old World! But you can't do it. You +don't even want to. No, you don't even want to. It is all very well for +you to go about shrieking menace and pretending you're going to +exterminate the human race. You have only one thought: to get the upper +hand and lie snugly in the warm beds of the middle-classes. Except for a +few hundred poor devils, navvies, who are always ready to break their +bones or other people's bones for no particular reason,--just for +fun--or for the pain, the age-old pain with which they are simply +bursting, the whole lot of you think of nothing but deserting the camp +and going over to the ranks of the middle-classes on the first +opportunity. You become Socialists, journalists, lecturers, men of +letters, deputies, Ministers.... Bah! Bah! Don't you go howling about +so-and-so! You're no better. You say he is a traitor?... Good. Whose +turn next? You'll all come to it. There is not one of you who can resist +the bait. How could you? There is not one of you who believes in the +immortality of the soul. You are just so many bellies, I tell you. Empty +bellies thinking of nothing but being filled." + +Thereupon they would all lose their tempers and all talk at once. And in +the heat of the argument it would often happen that Christophe, whirled +away by his passion, would become more revolutionary than the others. In +vain did he fight against it: his intellectual pride, his complacent +conception of a purely esthetic world, made for the joy of the spirit, +would sink deep into the ground at the sight of injustice. Esthetic, a +world in which eight men out of ten live in nakedness and want, in +physical and moral wretchedness? Oh! come! A man must be an impudent +creature of privilege who would dare to claim as much. An artist like +Christophe, in his inmost conscience, could not but be on the side of +the working-classes. What man more than the spiritual worker has to +suffer from the immorality of social conditions, from the scandalously +unequal partition of wealth among men? The artist dies of hunger or +becomes a millionaire for no other reason than the caprice of fashion +and of those who speculate on fashion. A society which suffers its best +men to die or gives them extravagant rewards is a monstrous society: it +must be swept and put in order. Every man, whether he works or no, has a +right to a living minimum. + +Every kind of work, good or mediocre, should be rewarded, not according +to its real value--(who can be the infallible judge of that?)--but +according to the normal legitimate needs of the worker. Society can and +should assure the artist, the scientist, and the inventor an income +sufficient to guarantee that they have the means and the time yet +further to grace and honor it. Nothing more. The _Gioconda_ is not +worth a million. There is no relation between a sum of money and a work +of art: a work of art is neither above nor below money: it is outside +it. It is not a question of payment: it is a question of allowing the +artist to live. Give him enough to feed him, and allow him to work in +peace. It is absurd and horrible to try to make him a robber of +another's property. This thing must be put bluntly: every man who has +more than is necessary for his livelihood and that of his family, and +for the normal development of his intelligence, is a thief and a robber. +If he has too much, it means that others have too little. How often have +we smiled sadly to hear tell of the inexhaustible wealth of France, and +the number of great fortunes, we workers, and toilers, and +intellectuals, and men and women who from our very birth have been given +up to the wearying task of keeping ourselves from dying of hunger, often +struggling in vain, often seeing the very best of us succumbing to the +pain of it all,--we who are the moral and intellectual treasure of the +nation! You who have more than your share of the wealth of the world are +rich at the cost of our suffering and our poverty. That troubles you not +at all: you have sophistries and to spare to reassure you: the sacred +rights of property, the fair struggle for life, the supreme interests of +that Moloch, the State and Progress, that fabulous monster, that +problematical Better to which men sacrifice the Good,--the Good of other +men.--But for all that, the fact remains, and all your sophistries will +never manage to deny it: "You have too much to live on. We have not +enough. And we are as good as you. And some of us are better than the +whole lot of you put together." + + * * * * * + +So Christophe was affected by the intoxication of the passions with +which he was surrounded. Then he was astonished at his own bursts of +eloquence. But he did not attach any importance to them. He was amused +by such easily roused excitement, which he attributed to the bottle. His +only regret was that the wine was not better, and he would belaud the +wines of the Rhine. He still thought that he was detached from +revolutionary ideas. But there arose the singular phenomenon that +Christophe brought into the discussion, if not the upholding of them, a +steadily increasing passion, while that of his companions seemed in +comparison to diminish. + +As a matter of fact, they had fewer illusions than he. Even the most +violent leaders, the men who were most feared by the middle-classes, +were at heart uncertain and horribly middle-class. Coquard, with his +laugh like a stallion's neigh, shouted at the top of his voice and made +terrifying gestures: but he only half believed what he was saying: it +was all for the pleasure of talking, giving orders, being active: he was +a braggart of violence. He knew the cowardice of the middle-classes +through and through, and he loved terrorizing them by showing that he +was stronger than they: he was quite ready to admit as much to +Christophe, and to laugh over it. Graillot criticized everything, and +everything anybody tried to do: he made every plan come to nothing. +Joussier was for ever affirming, for he was unwilling ever to be in the +wrong. He would be perfectly aware of the inherent weakness of his line +of argument, but that would make him only the more obstinate in sticking +to it: he would have sacrificed the victory of his cause to his pride of +principle. But he would rush from extremes of bullet-headed faith to +extremes of ironical pessimism, when he would bitterly condemn the lie +of all systems of ideas and the futility of all efforts. + +The majority of the working-classes were just the same. They would +suddenly relapse from the intoxication of words into the depths of +discouragement. They had immense illusions: but they were based upon +nothing: they had not won them in pain or forged them for themselves: +they had received them ready-made, by that law of the smallest effort +which led them for their amusements to the slaughter-house and the +blatant show. They suffered from an incurable indolence of mind for +which there were only too many excuses: they were like weary beasts +asking only to be suffered to lie down and in peace to ruminate over +their end and their dreams. But once they had slept off their dreams +there was nothing left but an even greater weariness and the doleful +dumps. They were for ever flaring up to a new leader: and very soon they +became suspicious of him and spurned him. The sad part of it all was +that they were never wrong: one after another their leaders were dazzled +by the bait of wealth, success, or vanity: for one Joussier, who was +kept from temptation by the consumption under which he was wasting away, +a brave crumbling to death, how many leaders were there who betrayed the +people or grew weary of the fight! They were victims of the secret sore +which was devouring the politicians of every party in those days: +demoralization through women and money, women and money,--(the two +scourges are one and the same).--In the Government as in the ministry +there were men of first-rate talent, men who had in them the stuff of +which great statesmen are made--(they, might have been great statesmen +in the days of Richelieu, perhaps);--but they lacked faith and +character: the need, the habit, the weariness of pleasure, had sapped +them: when they were engaged upon vast schemes they fumbled into +incoherent action, or they would suddenly fling up the whole thing, +while important business was in progress, desert their country or their +cause for rest and pleasure. They were brave enough to meet death in +battle: but very few of the leaders were capable of dying in harness, at +their posts, never budging, with their hands upon the rudder and their +eyes unswervingly fixed upon the invisible goal. + +The revolution was hamstrung by the consciousness of the fundamental +weakness. The leaders of the working-classes spent part of their time in +blaming each other. Their strikes always failed as a result of the +perpetual dissensions between the leaders and the trades-unions, between +the reformers and the revolutionaries--and of the profound timidity +that underlay their blustering threats--and of the inherited +sheepishness that made the rebels creep once more beneath the yoke upon +the first legal sentence,--and of the cowardly egoism and the baseness +of those who profited by the revolt of others to creep a little nearer +the masters, to curry favor and win a rich reward for their +disinterested devotion. Not to speak of the disorder inherent in all +crowds, the anarchy of the people. They tried hard to create corporate +strikes which should assume a revolutionary character: but they were not +willing to be treated as revolutionaries. They had no liking for +bayonets. They fancied that it was possible to make an omelette without +eggs. In any case, they preferred the eggs to be broken by other people. + +Olivier watched, observed, and was not surprised. From the very outset +he had recognized the great inferiority of these men to the work which +they were supposed to be accomplishing: but he had also recognized the +inevitable force that swept them on: and he saw that Christophe, unknown +to himself, was being carried on by the stream. But the current would +have nothing to do with himself, who would have asked nothing better +than to let himself be carried away. + +It was a strong current: it was sweeping along an enormous mass of +passions, interest, and faith, all jostling, pushing, merging into each +other, boiling and frothing and eddying this way and that. The leaders +were in the van; they were the least free of all, for they were pushed +forward, and perhaps they had the least faith of all: there had been a +time when they believed: they were like the priests against whom they +had so loudly railed, imprisoned by their vows, by the faith they once +had had, and were forced to profess to the bitter end. Behind them the +common herd was brutal, vacillating, and short-sighted. The great +majority had a sort of random faith, because the current had now set in +the direction of Utopia: but a little while, and they would cease to +believe because the current had changed. Many believed from a need of +action, a desire for adventure, from romantic folly. Others believed +from a sort of impertinent logic, which was stripped of all common +sense. Some believed from goodness of heart. The self-seeking only made +use of ideas as weapons for the fight: their eye was for the main +chance: they were fighting for a definite sum as wages for a definite +number of hours' work. The worst of all were nursing a secret hope of +wreaking a brutal revenge for the wretched lives they had led. + +But the current which bore them all along was wiser than they: it knew +where it was going. What did it matter that at any moment it might dash +up against the dyke of the Old World! Olivier foresaw that a social +revolution in these days would be squashed. But he knew also that +revolution would achieve its end through defeat as well as through +victory: for the oppressors only accede to the demands of the oppressed +when the oppressed inspire them with fear. And so the violence of the +revolutionaries was of no less service to their cause than the justice +of that cause. Both violence and justice were part and parcel of the +plan of that blind and certain force which moves the herd of human +kind.... + +_"For consider what you are, you whom the Master has summoned. If the +body be considered there are not many among you who are wise, or strong, +or noble. But He has chosen the foolish things of the world to confound +the wise; and He has chosen the weak things of the world to confound the +strong: and He has chosen the vile things of the world and the despised +things, and the things that are not, to the destruction of those things +that are...."_ + +And yet, whatever may be the Master who orders all things,--(Reason or +Unreason),--and although the social organization prepared by syndicalism +might constitute a certain comparative stage in progress for the future, +Olivier did not think it worth while for Christophe and himself to +scatter the whole of their power of illusion and sacrifice in this +earthy combat which would open no new world. His mystic hopes of the +revolution were dashed to the ground. The people seemed to him no better +and hardly any more sincere than the other classes: there was not enough +difference between them and others. In the midst of the torrent of +interests and muddy passions, Olivier's gaze and heart were attracted by +the little islands of independent spirits, the little groups of true +believers who emerged here and there like flowers on the face of the +waters. In vain do the elect seek to mingle with the mob: the elect +always come together,--the elect of all classes and all parties,--the +bearers of the fire of the world. And it is their sacred duty to see to +it that the fire in their hands shall never die down. + +Olivier had already made his choice. + +A few houses away from that in which he lived was a cobbler's booth, +standing a little below the level of the street,--a few planks nailed +together, with dirty windows and panes of paper. It was entered by three +steps down, and you had to stoop to stand up in it. There was just room +for a shelf of old shoes, and two stools. All day long, in accordance +with the classic tradition of cobbling, the master of the place could be +heard singing. He used to whistle, drum on the soles of the boots, and +in a husky voice roar out coarse ditties and revolutionary songs, or +chaff the women of the neighborhood as they passed by. A magpie with a +broken wing, which was always hopping about on the pavement, used to +come from a porter's lodge and pay him a visit. It would stand on the +first step at the entrance to the booth and look at the cobbler. He +would stop for a moment to crack a dirty joke with the bird in a piping +voice, or he would insist on whistling the _Internationale_. The +bird would stand with its beak in the air, listening gravely: every now +and then it would bob with its beak down by way of salutation, and it +would awkwardly flap its wings in order to regain its balance: then it +would suddenly turn round, leaving the cobbler in the middle of a +sentence, and fly away with its wing and a bit on to the back of a +bench, from whence it would hurl defiance at the dogs of the quarter. +Then the cobbler would return to his leather, and the flight of his +auditor would by no means restrain him from going through with his +harangue. + +He was fifty-six, with a jovial wayward manner, little merry eyes under +enormous eyebrows, with a bald top to his head rising like an egg out of +the nest of his hair, hairy ears, a black gap-toothed mouth that gaped +like a well when he roared with laughter, a very thick dirty beard, at +which he used to pluck in handfuls with his long nails that were always +filthy with wax. He was known in the district as Daddy Feuillet, or +Feuillette, or Daddy la Feuillette--and to tease him they used to call +him La Fayette: for politically the old fellow was one of the reds: as a +young man he had been mixed up in the Commune, sentenced to death, and +finally deported: he was proud of his memories, and was always +rancorously inclined to lump together Badinguet, Galliffet, and +Foutriquet. He was a regular attendant at the revolutionary meetings, +and an ardent admirer of Coquard and the vengeful idea that he was +always prophesying with much beard-wagging and a voice of thunder. He +never missed one of his speeches, drank in his words, laughed at his +jokes with head thrown back and gaping mouth, foamed at his invective, +and rejoiced in the fight and the promised paradise. Next day, in his +booth, he would read over the newspaper report of the speeches: he would +read them aloud to himself and his apprentice: and to taste their full +sweetness he would have them read aloud to him, and used to box his +apprentice's ears if he skipped a line. As a consequence he was not +always very punctual in the delivery of his work when he had promised +it: on the other hand, his work was always sound: it might wear out the +user's feet, but there was no wearing out his leather.... + +The old fellow had in his shop a grandson of thirteen, a hunchback, a +sickly, rickety boy, who used to run his errands, and was a sort of +apprentice. The boy's mother had left her family when she was seventeen +to elope with a worthless fellow who had sunk into hooliganism, and +before very long had been caught, sentenced, and so disappeared from the +scene. She was left alone with the child, deserted by her family, and +devoted herself to the upbringing of the boy Emmanuel. She had +transferred to him all the love and hatred she had had for her lover. +She was a woman of a violent and jealous character, morbid to a degree. +She loved her child to distraction, brutally ill-treated him, and, when +he was ill, was crazed with despair. When she was in a bad temper she +would send him to bed without any dinner, without so much as a piece of +bread. When she was dragging him along through the streets, if he grew +tired and would not go on and slipped down to the ground, she would kick +him on to his feet again. She was amazingly incoherent in her use of +words, and she used to pass swiftly from tears to a hysterical mood of +gaiety. She died. The cobbler took the boy, who was then six years old. +He loved him dearly: but he had his own way of showing it, which +consisted in bullying the boy, battering him with a large assortment of +insulting names, pulling his ears, and clouting him over the head +from morning to night by way of teaching him his job: and at the same time +he grounded him thoroughly in his own social and anti-clerical catechism. + +Emmanuel knew that his grandfather was not a bad man: but he was always +prepared to raise his arm to ward off his blows: the old fellow used to +frighten him, especially on the evenings when he got drunk. For Daddy la +Feuillette had not come by his nickname for nothing: he used to get +tipsy twice or thrice a month: then he used to talk all over the place, +and laugh, and act the swell, and always in the end he used to give the +boy a good thrashing. His bark was worse than his bite. But the boy +was terrified: his ill-health made him more sensitive than other children: +he was precociously intelligent, and he had inherited a fierce and +unbalanced capacity for feeling from his mother. He was overwhelmed by +his grandfather's brutality, and also by his revolutionary +harangues,--(for the two things went together: it was particularly when +the old man was drunk that he was inclined to hold forth).--His whole +being quivered in response to outside impressions, just as the booth +shook with the passing of the heavy omnibuses. In his crazy imagination +there were mingled, like the humming vibrations of a belfry, his +day-to-day sensations, the wretchedness of his childhood, his deplorable +memories of premature experience, stories of the Commune, scraps of +evening lectures and newspaper feuilletons, speeches at meetings, and +the vague, uneasy, and violent sexual instincts which his parents had +transmitted to him. All these things together formed a monstrous grim +dream-world, from the dense night, the chaos and miasma of which there +darted dazzling rays of hope. + +The cobbler used sometimes to drag his apprentice with him to Amélie's +restaurant. There it was that Olivier noticed the little hunchback with +the voice of a lark. Sitting and never talking to the workpeople, he had +had plenty of time to study the boy's sickly face, with its jutting brow +and shy, humiliated expression: he had heard the coarse jokes that had +been thrown at the boy, jokes which were met with silence and a faint +shuddering tremor. During certain revolutionary utterances he had seen +the boy's soft brown eyes light up with the chimerical ecstasy of the +future happiness,--a happiness which, even if he were ever to realize +it, would make but small difference in his stunted life. At such moments +his expression would illuminate his ugly face in such a way as to make +its ugliness forgotten. Even the fair Berthe was struck by it; one day +she told him of it, and, without a word of warning, kissed him on the +lips. The boy started back: he went pale and shuddering, and flung away +in disgust. The young woman had no time to notice him: she was already +quarreling with Joussier. Only Olivier observed Emmanuel's uneasiness: +he followed the boy with his eyes, and saw him withdraw into the shadow +with his hands trembling, head down, looking down at the floor, and +darting glances of desire and irritation at the girl. Olivier went up to +him, spoke to him gently and politely and soothed him.... Who can tell +all that gentleness can bring to a heart deprived of all consideration? +It is like a drop of water falling upon parched earth, greedily to be +sucked up. It needed only a few words, a smile, for the boy Emmanuel in +his heart of hearts to surrender to Olivier, and to determine to have +Olivier for his friend. Thereafter, when he met him in the street and +discovered that they were neighbors, it seemed to him to be a mysterious +sign from Fate that he had not been mistaken. He used to watch for +Olivier to pass the booth, and say good-day to him: and if ever Olivier +were thinking of other things and did not glance in his direction, then +Emmanuel would be hurt and sore. + +It was a great day for him when Olivier came into Daddy Feuillette's +shop to leave an order. When the work was done Emmanuel took it to +Olivier's rooms; he had watched for him to come home so as to be sure of +finding him in. Olivier was lost in thought, hardly noticed him, paid +the bill, and said nothing: the boy seemed to wait, looked from right to +left, and began reluctantly to move away. Olivier, in his kindness, +guessed what was happening inside the boy: he smiled and tried to talk +to him in spite of the awkwardness he always felt in talking to any of +the people. But now he was able to find words simple and direct. An +intuitive perception of suffering made him see in the boy--(rather too +simply)--a little bird wounded by life, like himself, seeking +consolation with his head under his wing, sadly huddled up on his perch, +dreaming of wild flights into the light. A feeling that was something +akin to instinctive confidence brought the boy closer to him: he felt +the attraction of the silent soul, which made no moan and used no harsh +words, a soul wherein he could take shelter from the brutality of the +streets; and the room, thronged with books, filled with bookcases +wherein there slumbered the dreams of the ages, filled him with an +almost religious awe. He made no attempt to evade Olivier's questions: +he replied readily, with sudden gasps and starts of shyness and pride: +but he had no power of expression. Carefully, patiently, Olivier +unswathed his obscure stammering soul: little by little he was able to +read his hopes and his absurdly touching faith in the new birth of the +world. He had no desire to laugh, though he knew that the dream was +impossible, and would never change human nature. The Christians also +have dreamed of impossible things, and they have not changed human +nature. From the time of Pericles to the time of M. Fallières when has +there been any moral progress?... But all faith is beautiful: and when +the light of an old faith dies down it is meet to salute the kindling of +the new: there will never be too many. With a curious tenderness Olivier +saw the uncertain light gleaming in the boy's mind. What a strange mind +it was!... Olivier was not altogether able to follow the movement of his +thoughts, which were incapable of any sustained effort of reason, +progressing in hops and jerks, and lagging behind in conversation, +unable to follow, clutching in some strange way at an image called up by +a word spoken some time before, then suddenly catching up, rushing +ahead, weaving a commonplace thought or an ordinary cautious phrase into +an enchanted world, a crazy and heroic creed. The boy's soul, slumbering +and waking by fits and starts, had a puerile and mighty need of +optimism: to every idea in art or science thrown out to it, it would add +some complacently melodramatic tag, which would link it up with and +satisfy its own chimerical dreams. + +As an experiment Olivier tried reading aloud to the boy on Sundays. He +thought that he was most likely to be interested by realistic and +familiar stories: he read him Tolstoy's _Memories of Childhood_. +They made no impression on the boy: he said: + +"That's quite all right. Things are like that. One knows that." + +And he could not understand why anybody should take so much trouble to +write about real things.... + +"He's just a boy," he would say disdainfully, "just an ordinary little +boy." + +He was no more responsive to the interest of history: and science bored +him: it was to him no more than a tiresome introduction to a fairy-tale: +the invisible forces brought into the service of man were like terrible +genii laid low. What was the use of so much explanation? When a man +finds something it is no good his telling how he found it, he need +only tell what it is that he has found. The analysis of thought is a luxury +of the upper-classes. The souls of the people demand synthesis, ideas +ready-made, well or ill, or rather ill-made than well, but all tending +to action, and composed of the gross realities of life, and charged with +electricity. Of all the literature open to Emmanuel that which most +nearly touched him was the epic pathos of certain passages in Hugo and +the fuliginous rhetoric of the revolutionary orators, whom he did not +rightly understand, characters who no more understood themselves than +Hugo did. To him as to them the world was not an incoherent collection +of reasons or facts, but an infinite space, steeped in darkness and +quivering with light, while through the night there passed the beating +of mighty wings all bathed in the sunlight. Olivier tried in vain to +make him grasp his cultivated logic. The boy's rebellious and weary soul +slipped through his fingers: and it sank back with a sigh of comfort and +relief into the indeterminate haze and the chafing of its own sensation +and hallucinations, like a woman in love giving herself with eyes closed +to her lover. + +Olivier was at once attracted and disconcerted by the qualities in the +child so much akin to his own:--loneliness, proud weakness, idealistic +ardor,--and so very different,--the unbalanced mind, the blind and +unbridled desires, the savage sensuality which had no idea of good and +evil, as they are defined in ordinary morality. He had only a partial +glimpse of that sensuality which would have terrified him had he known +its full extent. He never dreamed of the existence of the world of +uneasy passions stirring and seething in the heart and mind of his +little friend. Our bourgeois atavism has given us too much wisdom. We +dare not even look within ourselves. If we were to tell a hundredth part +of the dreams that come to an ordinary honest man, or of the desires +which come into being in the body of a chaste woman, there would be a +scandal and an outcry. Silence such monsters! Bolt and bar their cage! +But let us admit that they exist, and that in the souls of the young +they are insecurely fettered.--The boy had all the erotic desires and +dreams which we agree among ourselves to regard as perverse: they would +suddenly rise up unawares and take him by the throat: they would come in +gusts and squalls: and they only gained in intensity and heat through +the irritation set up by the isolation to which his ugliness condemned +him. Olivier knew nothing of all this. Emmanuel was ashamed in his +presence. He felt the contagion of such peace and purity. The example of +such a life was a taming influence upon him. The boy felt a passionate +love for Olivier. And his suppressed passions rushed headlong into +tumultuous dreams of human happiness, social brotherhood, fantastic +aviation, wild barbaric poetry--a whole heroic, erotic, childish, +splendid, vulgar world in which his intelligence and his will were +tossed hither and thither in mental loafing and fever. + +He did not have much time for indulging himself in this way, especially +in his grandfather's booth, for the old man was never silent for a +minute on end, but was always whistling, hammering, and talking from +morning to night; but there is always room for dreams. How many voyages +of the mind one can make standing up with wide-open eyes in the space of +a second!--Manual labor is fairly well suited to intermittent thought. +The working-man's mind would be hard put to it without an effort of the +will to follow a closely reasoned chain of argument: if he does manage +to do so he is always certain to miss a link here and there: but in the +intervals of rhythmic movement ideas crop up and mental images come +floating to the surface: the regular movements of the body send them +flying upwards like sparks under the smith's bellows. The thought of the +people! It is just smoke and fire, a shower of glittering sparks fading +away, glowing, then fading away once more! But sometimes a spark will be +carried away by the wind to set fire to the dried forests and the fat +ricks of the upper-classes.... + +Olivier procured Emmanuel a place in a printing house. It was the boy's +wish, and his grandfather did not oppose it; he was glad to see his +grandson better educated than himself, and he had a great respect for +printer's ink. In his new trade the boy found his work more exhausting +than in the old: but he felt more free to think among the throng of +workers than in the little shop where he used to sit alone with his +grandfather. + +The best time of day was the dinner hour. He would escape and get right +away from the horde of artisans crowding round the little tables on the +pavement and into the wineshops of the district, and limp along to the +square hard by: and there he would sit astride a bench under a spreading +chestnut-tree, near a bronze dancing faun with grapes in his hands, and +untie his brown-paper parcel of bread and meat, and munch it slowly, +surrounded by a little crowd of sparrows. Over the green turf little +fountains spread the trickling web of their soft rain. Round-eyed, +slate-blue pigeons cooed in a sunlit tree. And all about him was the +perpetual hum of Paris, the roar of the carriages, the surging sea of +footsteps, the familiar street-cries, the gay distant whistle of a +china-mender, a navvy's hammer ringing out on the cobblestones, the +noble music of a fountain--all the fevered golden trappings of the +Parisian dream.--And the little hunchback, sitting astride his bench, +with his mouth full, never troubling to swallow, would drowse off into a +delicious torpor, in which he lost all consciousness of his twisted +spine and his craven soul, and was all steeped in an indeterminate +intoxicating happiness. + +"... Soft warm light, sun of justice that art to shine for us to-morrow, +art thou not shining now? It is all so good, so beautiful! We are rich, +we are strong, we are hale, we love ... I love, I love all men, all men +love me.... Ah! How splendid it all is! How splendid it will be +to-morrow!..." + + * * * * * + +The factory hooters would sound: the boy would come to his senses, +swallow down his mouthful, take a long drink at the Wallace fountain +near by, slip back into his hunchbacked shell, and go limping and +hobbling back to his place in the printing works in front of the cases +of magic letters which would one day write the _Mene, Mene, Tekel, +Upharsin_, of the Revolution. + +Daddy Feuillet had a crony, Trouillot, the stationer on the other side +of the street. He kept a stationery and haberdashery shop, in the +windows of which were displayed pink and green bonbons in green bottles, +and pasteboard dolls without arms or legs. Prom either side of the +street, one standing on his doorstep, the other in his shop, the two old +men used to exchange winks and nods and a whole elaborate code of +pantomimic gesture. At intervals, when the cobbler was tired of +hammering, and had, as he used to say, the cramp in his buttocks, they +would hail each other, La Feuillette in his shrill treble, Trouillot +with a muffled roar, like a husky calf; and they would go off together +and take a nip at a neighboring bar. They were never in any hurry to +return. They were both infernally loquacious. They had known each other +for half a century. The stationer also had played a little walking-on +part in the great melodrama of 1871. To see the fat placid creature with +his black cap on his head and his white blouse, and his gray, +heavy-dragoon mustache, and his dull light-blue bloodshot eyes with +heavy pouches under the lids, and his flabby shining cheeks, always in a +perspiration, slow-footed, gouty, out of breath, heavy of speech, no one +would ever have thought it. But he had lost none of the illusions of the +old days. He had spent some years as a refugee in Switzerland, where he +had met comrades of all nations, notably many Russians, who had +initiated him in the beauties of anarchic brotherhood. On that point he +disagreed with La Feuillette, who was a proper Frenchman, an adherent of +the strong line and of absolutism in freedom. For the rest, they were +equally firm in their belief in the social revolution and the +working-class _salente_ of the future. Each was devoted to a leader +in whose person he saw incarnate the ideal man that each would have +liked to be. Trouillot was for Joussier, La Feuillette for Coquard. They +used to engage in interminable arguments about the points on which they +were divided, being quite confident that the thoughts upon which they +agreed were definitely decided;--(and they were so sure of their common +ground that they were never very far from believing, in their cups, that +it was a matter of hard fact).--The cobbler was the more argumentative +of the two. He believed as a matter of reason: or at least he flattered +himself that he did, for, Heaven knows, his reason was of a very +peculiar kind, and could have fitted the foot of no other man. However, +though he was less skilled in argument than in cobbling, he was always +insisting that other minds should be shod to his own measure. The +stationer was more indolent and less combative, and never worried about +proving his faith. A man only tries to prove what he doubts himself. He +had no doubt. His unfailing optimism always made him see things as he +wanted to see them, and not see things or forget them immediately when +they were otherwise. Whether he did so wilfully or from apathy he saved +himself from trouble of any sort: experience to the contrary slipped off +his hide without leaving a mark.--The two of them were romantic babies +with no sense of reality, and the revolution, the mere sound of the name +of which was enough to make them drunk, was only a jolly story they told +themselves, and never knew whether it would ever happen, or whether it +had actually happened. And the two of them firmly believed in the God of +Humanity merely by the transposition of the habits they had inherited +from their forbears, who for centuries had bowed before the Son of +Man.--It goes without saying that both men were anti-clerical. + +The amusing part of it was that the honest stationer lived with a very +pious niece who did just what she liked with him. She was a very dark +little woman, plump, with sharp eyes and a gift of volubility spiced +with a strong Marseilles accent, and she was the widow of a clerk in the +Department of Commerce. When she was left alone with no money, with a +little girl, and received a home with her uncle, the common little +creature gave herself airs, and was more than a little inclined to think +that she was doing her shop-keeping relation a great favor by serving in +his shop: she reigned there with the airs of a fallen queen, though, +fortunately for her uncle's business and his customers, her arrogance +was tempered by her natural exuberance and her need of talking. As +befitted a person of her distinction, Madame Alexandrine was royalist +and clerical, and she used to parade her feelings with a zeal that was +all the more indiscreet as she took a malicious delight in teasing the +old miscreant in whose house she had taken up her abode. She had set +herself up as mistress of the house, and regarded herself as responsible +for the conscience of the whole household: if she was unable to convert +her uncle--(she had vowed to capture him _in extremis_),--she +busied herself to her heart's content with sprinkling the devil with +holy water. She fixed pictures of Our Lady of Lourdes and Saint Anthony +of Padua on the walls: she decorated the mantelpiece with little painted +images in glass cases: and in the proper season she made a little chapel +of the months of Mary with little blue candles in her daughter's +bedroom. It was impossible to tell which was the predominant factor in +her aggressive piety, real affection for the uncle she desired to +convert or a wicked joy in worrying the old man. + +He put up with it apathetically and sleepily: he preferred not to run +the risk of rousing the tempestuous ire of his terrible niece: it was +impossible to fight against such a wagging tongue: he desired peace +above all things. Only once did he lose his temper, and that was when a +little Saint Joseph made a surreptitious attempt to creep into his room +and take up his stand above his bed: on this point he gained the day: +for he came very near to having an apoplectic fit, and his niece was +frightened: she did not try the experiment again. For the rest he gave +in, and pretended not to see: the odor of sanctity made him feel very +uncomfortable: but he tried not to think of it. On the other hand they +were at one in pampering the girl, little Reine, or Rainette. + +She was twelve or thirteen, and was always ill. For some months past she +had been on her back with hip disease, with the whole of one side of her +body done up in plaster of Paris like a little Daphne in her shell. She +had eyes like a hurt dog's, and her skin was pallid and pale like a +plant grown out of the sun: her head was too big for her body, and her +fair hair, which was very soft and very tightly drawn back, made it +appear even bigger: but she had an expressive and sweet face, a sharp +little nose, and a childlike expression. The mother's piety had assumed +in the child, in her sickness and lack of interest, a fervid character. +She used to spend hours in telling her beads, a string of corals, +blessed by the Pope: and she would break off in her prayers to kiss it +passionately. She did next to nothing all day long: needlework made her +tired: Madame Alexandrine had not given her a taste for it. She did +little more than read a few insipid tracts, or a stupid miraculous +story, the pretentious and bald style of which seemed to her the very +flower of poetry,--or the criminal reports illustrated in color in the +Sunday papers which her stupid mother used to give her. She would +perhaps do a little crochet-work, moving her lips, and paying less +attention to her needle than to the conversation she would hold with +some favorite saint or even with God Himself. For it is useless to +pretend that it is necessary to be Joan of Are to have such visitations: +every one of us has had them. Only, as a rule, our celestial visitors +leave the talking to us as we sit by the fireside: and they say never a +word. Rainette never dreamed of taking exception to it: silence gives +consent. Besides, she had so much to tell them that she hardly gave them +time to reply: she used to answer for them. She was a silent chatterer: +she had inherited her mother's volubility: but her fluency was drawn off +in inward speeches like a stream disappearing underground.--Of course +she was a party to the conspiracy against her uncle with the object of +procuring his conversion: she rejoiced over every inch of the house +wrested by the spirit of light from the spirit of darkness: and on more +than one occasion she had sewn a holy medallion on to the inside of the +lining of the old man's coat or had slipped into one of his pockets the +bead of a rosary, which her uncle, in order to please her, had pretended +not to notice.--This seizure by the two pious women of the bitter foe of +the priests was a source of indignation and joy to the cobbler. He had +an inexhaustible store of coarse pleasantries on the subject of women +who wear breeches: and he used to jeer at his friend for letting himself +be under their thumb. As a matter of fact he had no right to scoff: for +he had himself been afflicted for twenty years with a shrewish +cross-grained wife, who had always regarded him as an old scamp and had +taken him down a peg or two. But he was always careful not to mention +her. The stationer was a little ashamed, and used to defend himself +feebly, and in a mealy voice profess a Kropotkinesque gospel of +tolerance. + +Rainette and Emmanuel were friends. They had seen each other every day +ever since they were children. To be quite accurate, Emmanuel only +rarely ventured to enter the house. Madame Alexandrine used to regard +him with an unfavorable eye as the grandson of an unbeliever and a +horrid little dwarf. But Rainette used to spend the day on a sofa near +the window on the ground floor. Emmanuel used to tap at the window as he +passed, and, flattening his nose against the panes, he would make a face +by way of greeting. In summer, when the window was left open, he would +stop and lean his arms on the windowsill, which was a little high for +him;--(he fancied that this attitude was flattering to himself and that, +his shoulders being shrugged up in such a pose of intimacy, it might +serve to disguise his actual deformity);--and they would talk. Rainette +did not have too many visitors, and she never noticed that Emmanuel was +hunchbacked. Emmanuel, who was afraid and mortified in the presence of +girls, made an exception in favor of Rainette. The little invalid, who +was half petrified, was to him something intangible and far removed, +something almost outside existence. Only on the evening when the fair +Berthe kissed him on the lips, and the next day too, he avoided Rainette +with an instinctive feeling of repulsion: he passed the house without +stopping and hung his head: and he prowled about far away, fearfully and +suspiciously, like a pariah dog. Then he returned. There was so little +woman in her! As he was passing on his way home from the works, trying +to make himself as small as possible among the bookbinders in their long +working-blouses like nightgowns--busy merry young women whose hungry +eyes stripped him as he passed,--how eagerly he would scamper away to +Rainette's window! He was grateful for his little friend's infirmity: +with her he could give himself airs of superiority and even be a little +patronizing. With a little swagger he would tell her about the things +that happened in the street and always put himself in the foreground. +Sometimes in gallant mood he would bring Rainette a little present, +roast chestnuts in winter, a handful of cherries in summer. And she used +to give him some of the multi-colored sweets that filled the two glass +jars in the shop-window: and they would pore over picture postcards +together. Those were happy moments: they could both forget the pitiful +bodies in which their childish souls were held captive. + +But sometimes they would begin to talk, like their elders, of politics +and religion. Then they would become as stupid as their elders. It put +an end to their sympathy and understanding. She would talk of miracles +and the nine days' devotion, or of pious images tricked out with paper +lace, and of days of indulgence. He used to tell her that it was all +folly and mummery, as he had heard his grandfather say. But when he in +turn tried to tell her about the public meetings to which the old man +had taken him, and the speeches he had heard, she would stop him +contemptuously and tell him that all such folk were drunken sots. +Bitterness would creep into their talk. They would get talking about +their relations: they would recount the insulting things that her mother +and his grandfather had said of each other respectively. Then they would +talk about themselves. They tried to say disagreeable things to each +other. They managed that without much difficulty. They indulged in +coarse gibes. But she was always the more malicious of the two. Then he +would go away: and when he returned he would tell her that he had been +with other girls, and how pretty they were, and how they had joked and +laughed, and how they were going to meet again next Sunday. She would +say nothing to that: she used to pretend to despise what he said: and +then, suddenly, she would grow angry, and throw her crochet-work at his +head, and shout at him to go, and declare that she loathed him: and she +would hide her face in her hands. He would leave her on that, not at all +proud of his victory. He longed to pull her thin little hands away from +her face and to tell her that it was not true. But his pride would not +suffer him to return. + +One day Rainette had her revenge.--He was with some of the other boys at +the works. They did not like him because he used to hold as much aloof +from them as possible and never spoke, or talked too well, in a naïvely +pretentious way, like a book, or rather like a newspaper article--(he +was stuffed with newspaper articles).--That day they had begun to talk +of the revolution and the days to come. He waxed enthusiastic and made a +fool of himself. One of his comrades brought him up sharp with these +brutal words: + +"To begin with, you won't be wanted, you're too ugly. In the society of +the future, there won't be any hunchbacks. They'll be drowned at birth." + +That brought him toppling down from his lofty eloquence. He stopped +short, dumfounded. The others roared with laughter. All that afternoon +he went about with clenched teeth. In the evening he was going home, +hurrying back to hide away in a corner alone with his suffering. Olivier +met him: he was struck by his downcast expression: he guessed that he +was suffering. + +"You are hurt. Why?" + +Emmanuel refused to answer. Olivier pressed him kindly. The boy +persisted in his silence: but his jaw trembled as though he were on the +point of weeping. Olivier took his arm and led him back to his rooms. +Although he too had the cruel and instinctive feeling of repulsion from +ugliness and disease that is in all who are not born with the souls of +sisters of charity, he did not let it appear. + +"Some one has hurt you?" + +"Yes." + +"What did they do?" + +The boy laid bare his heart. He said that he was ugly. He said that his +comrades had told him that their revolution was not for him. + +"It is not for them, either, my boy, nor for us. It is not a single +day's affair. It is all for those who will come after us." + +The boy was taken aback by the thought that it would be so long +deferred. + +"Don't you like to think that people are working to give happiness to +thousands of boys like yourself, to millions of human beings?" + +Emmanuel sighed and said: + +"But it would be good to have a little happiness oneself." + +"My dear boy, you mustn't be ungrateful. You live in the most beautiful +city, in an age that is most rich in marvels; you are not a fool, and +you have eyes to see. Think of all the things there are to be seen and +loved all around you." + +He pointed out a few things. + +The boy listened, nodded his head, and said: + +"Yes, but I've got to face the fact that I shall always have to live in +this body of mine!" + +"Not at all. You will quit it." + +"And that will be the end." + +"How do you know that?" + +The boy was aghast. Materialism was part and parcel of his grandfather's +creed: he thought that it was only the priest-ridden prigs who believed +in an eternal life. He knew that his friend was not such a one: and he +wondered if Olivier could be speaking seriously. But Olivier held his +hand and expounded at length his idealistic faith, and the unity of +boundless life, that has neither beginning nor end, in which all the +millions of creatures and all the million million moments of time are +but rays of the sun, the sole source of it all. But he did not put it to +him in such an abstract form. Instinctively, when he talked to the boy, +he adapted himself to his mode of thought;--ancient legends, the +material and profound fancies of old cosmogonies were called to mind: +half in fun, half in earnest, he spoke of metempsychosis and the +succession of countless forms through which the soul passes and flows, +like a spring passing from pool to pool. All this was interspersed with +reminiscences of Christianity and images taken from the summer evening, +the light of which was cast upon them both. He was sitting by the open +window, and the boy was standing by his side, and their hands were +clasped. It was a Saturday evening. The bells were ringing. The earliest +swallows, only just returned, were skimming the walls of the houses. The +dim sky was smiling above the city, which was wrapped in shadow. The boy +held his breath and listened to the fairy-tale his man friend was +telling him. And Olivier, warmed by the eagerness of his young hearer, +was caught up by the interest of his own stories. + +There are decisive moments in life when, just as the electric lights +suddenly flash out in the darkness of a great city, so the eternal fires +flare up in the darkness of the soul. A spark darting from another soul +is enough to transmit the Promethean fire to the waiting soul. On that +spring evening Olivier's calm words kindled the light that never dies in +the mind hidden in the boy's deformed body, as in a battered lantern. He +understood none of Olivier's arguments: he hardly heard them. But the +legends and images which were only beautiful stories and parables to +Olivier, took living shape and form in his mind, and were most real. The +fairy-tale lived, moved, and breathed all around him. And the view +framed in the window of the room, the people passing in the street, rich +and poor, the swallows skimming the walls, the jaded horses dragging +their loads along, the stones of the houses drinking in the cool shadow +of the twilight, and the pale heavens where the light was dying--all the +outside world was softly imprinted on his mind, softly as a kiss. It was +but the flash of a moment. Then the light died down. He thought of +Rainette, and said; + +"But the people who go to Mass, the people who believe in God, are all +cracked, aren't they?" + +Olivier smiled. + +"They believe," he said, "as we do. We all believe the same thing. Only +their belief is less than ours. They are people who have to shut all the +shutters and light the lamp before they can see the light. They see God +in the shape of a man. We have keener eyes. But the light that we love +is the same." + +The boy went home through the dark streets in which the gas-lamps were +not yet lit. Olivier's words were ringing in his head. He thought that +it was as cruel to laugh at people because they had weak eyes as because +they were hunchbacked. And he thought that Rainette had very pretty +eyes: and he thought that he had brought tears into them. He could not +bear that. He turned and went across to the stationer's. The window was +still a little open: and he thrust his head inside and called in a +whisper: + +"Rainette." + +She did not reply. + +"Rainette. I beg your pardon." + +From the darkness came Rainette's voice, saying: + +"Beast! I hate you." + +"I'm sorry," he said. + +He stopped. Then, on a sudden impulse, he said in an even softer +whisper, uneasily, rather shamefacedly: + +"You know, Rainette, I believe in God just as you do." + +"Really?" + +"Really." + +He said it only out of generosity. But, as soon as he had said it, he +began to believe it. + +They stayed still and did not speak. They could not see each other. +Outside the night was so fair, so sweet!... The little cripple murmured: + +"How good it will be when one is dead!" + +He could hear Rainette's soft breathing. + +He said: + +"Good-night, little one." + +Tenderly came Rainette's voice: + +"Good-night." + +He went away comforted. He was glad that Rainette had forgiven him. And, +in his inmost soul, the little sufferer was not sorry to think that he +had been the cause of suffering to the girl. + + * * * * * + +Olivier had gone into retirement once more. It was not long before +Christophe rejoined him. It was very certain that their place was not +with the syndicalist movement: Olivier could not throw in his lot with +such people. And Christophe would not. Olivier flung away from them in +the name of the weak and the oppressed; Christophe in the name of the +strong and the independent. But though they had withdrawn, one to the +bows, the other to the stern, they were still traveling in the vessel +which was carrying the army of the working-classes and the whole of +society. Free and self-confident, Christophe watched with tingling +interest the coalition of the proletarians: he needed every now and then +to plunge into the vat of the people: it relaxed him: he always issued +from it fresher and jollier. He kept up his relation with Coquard, and +he went on taking his meals from time to time at Amélie's. When he was +there he lost all self-control, and would whole-heartedly indulge his +fantastic humor: he was not afraid of paradox: and he took a malicious +delight in pushing his companions to the extreme consequences of their +absurd and wild principles. They never knew whether he was speaking in +jest or in earnest: for he always grew warm as he talked, and always in +the end lost sight of the paradoxical point of view with which he had +begun. The artist in him was carried away by the intoxication of the rest. +In one such moment of esthetic emotion in Amélie's back-shop, he +improvised a revolutionary song, which was at once tried, repeated, and +on the very next day spread to every group of the working-classes. He +compromised himself. He was marked by the police. Manousse, who was in +touch with the innermost chambers of authority, was warned by one of his +friends, Xavier Bernard, a young official in the police department, who +dabbled in literature and expressed a violent admiration for +Christophe's music:--(for dilettantism and the spirit of anarchy had +spread even to the watchdogs of the Third Republic). + +"That Krafft of yours is making himself a nuisance," said Bernard to +Manousse. "He's playing the braggart. We know what it means: but I tell +you that those in high places would be not at all sorry to catch a +foreigner--what's more, a German--in a revolutionary plot: it is the +regular method of discrediting the party and casting suspicion upon its +doings. If the idiot doesn't look out we shall be obliged to arrest him. +It's a bore. You'd better warn him." + +Manousse did warn Christophe: Olivier begged him to be careful. +Christophe did not take their advice seriously. + +"Bah!" he said. "Everybody knows there's no harm in me. I've a perfect +right to amuse myself. I like these people. They work as I do, and they +have faith, and so have I. As a matter of fact, it isn't the same faith; +we don't belong to the same camp.... Very well! We'll fight. Not that I +don't like fighting. What would you? I can't do as you do, and stay +curled up in my shell. I must breathe. I'm stifled by the comfortable +classes." + +Olivier, whose lungs were not so exacting, was quite at his ease in his +small rooms with the tranquil society of his two women friends, though +one of them, Madame Arnaud, had flung herself into charitable work, and +the other, Cécile, was entirely taken up with looking after the baby, to +such an extent that she could talk of nothing else and to nobody else, +in that twittering, beatific tone which is an attempt to emulate the +note of a little bird, and to mold its formless song into human speech. + +His excursion into working-class circles had left him with two +acquaintances. Two men of independent views, like himself. One of them, +Guérin, was an upholsterer. He worked when he felt so disposed, +capriciously, though he was very skilful. He loved his trade. He had a +natural taste for artistic things, and had developed it by observation, +work, and visits to museums. Olivier had commissioned him to repair an +old piece of furniture: it was a difficult job, and the upholsterer had +done it with great skill: he had taken a lot of time and trouble over +it: he sent in a very modest bill to Olivier because he was so delighted +with his success. Olivier became interested in him, questioned him about +his life, and tried to find out what he thought of the working-class +movement. Guérin had no thought about it: he never worried about it. At +bottom he did not belong to the working-class, or to any class. He read +very little. All his intellectual development had come about through his +senses, eyes, hands, and the taste innate in the true Parisian. He was a +happy man. The type is by no means rare among the working people of the +lower middle-class, who are one of the most intelligent classes in the +nation: for they realize a fine balance between manual labor and healthy +mental activity. + +Olivier's other acquaintance was a man of a more original kind. He was a +postman, named Hurteloup. He was a tall, handsome creature, with bright +eyes, a little fair beard and mustache, and an open, merry expression. +One day he came with a registered letter, and walked into Olivier's +room. While Olivier was signing the receipt, he wandered round, looking +at the books, with his nose thrust close up to their backs: + +"Ha! Ha!" he said. "You have the classics...." + +He added: + +"I collect books on history. Especially books about Burgundy." + +"You are a Burgundian?" asked Olivier. + + _"Bourguignon salé, + L'épée au côté, + La barbe au menton, + Sante Bourguignon,"_ + +replied the postman with a laugh. "I come from the Avallon country. I +have family papers going back to 1200 and something...." + +Olivier was intrigued, and tried to find out more about him. Hurteloup +asked nothing better than to be allowed to talk. He belonged, in fact, +to one of the oldest families in Burgundy. One of his ancestors had been +on crusade with Philippe Auguste: another had been secretary of State +under Henri II. The family had begun to decay in the seventeenth +century. At the time of the Revolution, ruined and despairing, they had +taken the plunge into the ocean of the people. Now they were coming to +the surface again as the result of honest work and the physical and +moral vigor of Hurteloup the postman, and his fidelity to his race. His +greatest hobby had been collecting historical and genealogical documents +relating to his family and their native country. In off hours he used to +go to the Archives and copy out old papers. Whenever he did not +understand them he would go and ask one of the people on his beat, a +Chartist or a student at the Sorbonne, to explain. His illustrious +ancestry did not turn his head: he would speak of it laughingly, with +never a shade of embarrassment or of indignation at the hardness of +fate. His careless sturdy gaiety was a delightful thing to see. And when +Olivier looked at him he thought of the mysterious ebb and flow of the +life of human families, which for centuries flows burningly, for +centuries disappears under the ground, and then comes bubbling forth +again, having gathered fresh energy from the depths of the earth. And +the people seemed to him to be an immense reservoir into which the +rivers of the past plunge, while the rivers of the future spring forth +again, and, though they bear a new name, are sometimes the same as those +of old. + +He was in sympathy with both Guérin and Hurteloup: but it is obvious +that they could not be company for him: between him and them there was +no great possibility of conversation. The boy Emmanuel took up more of +his time: he came now almost every evening. Since their magical talk +together a revolution had taken place in the boy. He had plunged into +reading with a fierce desire for knowledge. He would come back from his +books bewildered and stupefied. Sometimes he seemed even less +intelligent than before: he would hardly speak: Olivier could only get +him to answer in monosyllables: the boy would make fatuous replies to +his questions. Olivier would lose heart: he would try not to let it be +seen: but he thought he had made a mistake, and that the boy was +thoroughly stupid. He could not see the frightful fevered travail in +incubation that was going on in the inner depths of the boy's soul. +Besides, he was a bad teacher, and was more fitted to sow the good seed +at random in the fields than to weed the soil and plow the furrows. +Christophe's presence only served to increase the difficulty. Olivier +felt a certain awkwardness in showing his young protégé to his friend: +he was ashamed of Emmanuel's stupidity, which was raised to alarming +proportions when Jean-Christophe was in the room. Then the boy would +withdraw into bashful sullenness. He hated Christophe because Olivier +loved him: he could not bear any one else to have a place in his +master's heart. Neither Christophe nor Olivier had any idea of the love +and jealousy tugging at the boy's heart. And yet Christophe had been +through it himself in old days. But he was unable to see himself in the +boy who was fashioned of such different metal from that of which he +himself was made. In the strange obscure combination of inherited +taints, everything, love, hate, and latent genius, gave out an entirely +different sound. + + * * * * * + +The First of May was approaching. A sinister rumor ran through Paris. +The blustering leaders of the C.G.T. were doing their best to spread it. +Their papers were announcing the coming of the great day, mobilizing the +forces of the working-classes, and directing the word of terror upon the +point in which the comfortable classes were mostly sensitive--namely, +upon the stomach.... _Feri ventrem_.... They were threatening them +with a general strike. The scared Parisians were leaving for the country +or laying in provisions as against a siege. Christophe had met Canet, in +his motor, carrying two hams and a sack of potatoes: he was beside +himself: he did not in the least know to which party he belonged: he was +in turn an old Republican, a royalist, and a revolutionary. His cult of +violence was like a compass gone wrong, with the needle darting from +north to south and from south to north. In public he still played the +part of chorus to the wild speeches of his friends: but he would have +taken _in petto_ the first dictator who came along and swept away +the red spectre. + +Christophe was tickled to death by such universal cowardice. He was +convinced that nothing would come of it all. Olivier was not so sure. +His birth into the burgess-class had given him something of the +inevitable and everlasting tremulation which the comfortable classes +always feel upon the recollection or the expectation of Revolution. + +"That's all right!" said Christophe. "You can sleep in peace. Your +Revolution isn't going to happen to-morrow. You're all afraid. Afraid of +being hurt. That sort of fear is everywhere. In the upper-classes, in +the people, in every nation, in all the nations of the West. There's not +enough blood in the whole lot of them: they're afraid of spilling a +little. For the last forty years all the fighting has been done in words, +in newspaper articles. Just look at your old Dreyfus Affair. You +shouted loud enough: 'Death! Blood! Slaughter!'... Oh! you Gascons! +Spittle and ink! But how many drops of blood?" + +"Don't you be so sure," said Olivier. "The fear of blood is a secret +instinctive feeling that on the first shedding of it the beast in man +will see red, and the brute will appear again under the crust of +civilization: and God knows how it will ever be muzzled! Everybody +hesitates to declare war: but when the war does come it will be a +frightful thing." + +Christophe shrugged his shoulders and said that it was not for nothing +that the heroes of the age were lying heroes, Cyrano the braggart and +the swaggering cock, Chantecler. + +Olivier nodded. He knew that in France bragging is the beginning of +action. However, he had no more faith than Christophe in an immediate +movement: it had been too loudly proclaimed, and the Government was on +its guard. There was reason to believe that the syndicalist strategists +would postpone the fight for a more favorable opportunity. + +During the latter half of April Olivier had an attack of influenza: he +used to get it every winter about the same time, and it always used to +develop into his old enemy, bronchitis. Christophe stayed with him for a +few days. The attack was only a slight one, and soon passed. But, as +usual, it left Olivier morally and physically worn out, and he was in +this condition for some time after the fever had subsided. He stayed in +bed, lying still for hours without any desire to get up or even to move: +he lay there watching Christophe, who was sitting at his desk, working, +with his back towards him. + +Christophe was absorbed in his work. Sometimes, when he was tired of +writing, he would suddenly get up and walk over to the piano: he would +play, not what he had written, but just whatever came into his mind. +Then there came to pass a very strange thing. While the music he had +written was conceived in a style which recalled that of his earlier +work, what he played was like that of another man. It was music of a +world raucous and uncontrolled. There were in it a disorder and a +violence, and incoherence which had no resemblance at all to the +powerful order and logic which were everywhere present in his other +music. These unconsidered improvizations, escaping the scrutiny of his +artistic conscience, sprang, like the cry of an animal, from the flesh +rather than from the mind; and seemed to reveal a disturbance of the +balance of his soul, a storm brewing in the depths of the future. +Christophe was quite unconscious of it: but Olivier would listen, look +at Christophe, and feel vaguely uneasy. In his weak condition he had a +singular power of penetration, a far-seeing eye: he saw things that no +other man could perceive. + +Christophe thumped out a final chord and stopped all in a sweat, and +looking rather haggard: he looked at Olivier, and there was still a +troubled expression in his eyes; then he began to laugh, and went back +to his desk. Olivier asked him: + +"What was that, Christophe?" + +"Nothing," replied Christophe. "I'm stirring the water to attract my +fish." + +"Are you going to write that?" + +"That? What do you mean?" + +"What you've just said." + +"What did I say? I don't remember." +"What were you thinking of?" + +"I don't know," said Christophe, drawing his hand across his forehead. + +He went on writing. Silence once mere filled the room. Olivier went on +looking at Christophe. Christophe felt that he was looking, and turned. +Olivier's eyes were upon him with such a hunger of affection! + +"Lazy brute!" he said gaily. + +Olivier sighed. + +"What's the matter?" asked Christophe. + +"Oh! Christophe! To think there are so many things in you, sitting +there, close at hand, treasures that you will give to others, and I +shall never be able to share!..." + +"Are you mad? What's come to you?" + +"I wonder what your life will be. I wonder what peril and sorrow you +have still to go through.... I would like to follow you. I would like to +be with you.... But I shan't see anything of it all. I shall be left +stuck stupidly by the wayside." + +"Stupid? You are that. Do you think that I would leave you behind even +if you wanted to be left?" + +"You will forget me," said Olivier. + +Christophe got up and went and sat on the bed by Olivier's side: he took +his wrists, which were wet with a clammy sweat of weakness. His +nightshirt was open at the neck, showing his weak chest, his too +transparent skin, which was stretched and thin like a sail blown out by +a puff of wind to rending point. Christophe's strong fingers fumbled as +he buttoned the neckband of Olivier's nightshirt. Olivier suffered him. + +"Dear Christophe!" he said tenderly. "Yet I have had one great happiness +in my life!" + +"Oh! what on earth are you thinking of?" said Christophe. "You're as +well as I am." + +"Yes," said Olivier. + +"Then why talk nonsense?" + +"I was wrong," said Olivier, ashamed and smiling. "Influenza is so +depressing." + +"Pull yourself together, though! Get up." + +"Not now. Later on." + +He stayed in bed, dreaming. Next day he got up. But he was only able to +sit musing by the fireside. It was a mild and misty April. Through the +soft veil of silvery mist the little green leaves were unfolding their +cocoons, and invisible birds were singing the song of the hidden sun. +Olivier wound the skein of his memories. He saw himself once more as a +child, in the train carrying him away from his native town, through the +mist, with his mother weeping. Antoinette was sitting by herself at the +other end of the carriage.... Delicate shapes, fine landscapes, were +drawn in his mind's eye. Lovely verses came of their own accord, with +every syllable and charming rhythm in due order. He was near his desk: +he had only to reach out his hand to take his pen and write down his +poetic visions. But his will failed him: he was tired: he knew that the +perfume of his dreams would evaporate so soon as he tried to catch and +hold them. It was always so: the best of himself could never find +expression: his mind was like a little valley full of flowers: but +hardly a soul had access to it: and as soon as they were picked the +flowers faded. No more than just a few had been able languidly to +survive, a few delicate little tales, a few pieces of verse, which all +gave out a fragrant, fading scent. His artistic impotence had for a long +time been one of Olivier's greatest griefs. It was so hard to feel so +much life in himself and to be able to save none of it!...--Now he was +resigned. Flowers do not need to be seen to blossom. They are only the +more beautiful in the fields where no hand can pluck them. Happy, happy +fields with flowers dreaming in the sun!--Here in the little valley +there was hardly any sun; but Olivier's dreams flowered all the better +for it. What stories he wove for his own delight in those days, stories +sad and tender and fantastic! They came he knew not whence, sailing like +white clouds in a summer sky, melted into thin air, and others followed +them: he was full of them. Sometimes the sky was clear: in the light of +it Olivier would sit drowsily until once more, with all sail set, there +would come gliding the silent ships of dreams. + +In the evening the little hunchback would come in. Olivier was so full +of stories that he told him one, smiling, eager and engrossed in the +tale. Often he would go on talking to himself, with the boy breathing +never a word. In the end he would altogether forget his presence.... +Christophe arrived in the middle of the story, and was struck by its +beauty, and asked Olivier to begin all over again. Olivier refused: + +"I am in the same position as yourself," he said. "I don't know anything +about it." + +"That is not true," said Christophe. "You're a regular Frenchman, and +you always know exactly what you are doing and saying. You never forget +anything." + +"Alas!" said Olivier. + +"Begin again, then." + +"I'm too tired. What's the good?" + +Christophe was annoyed. + +"That's all wrong," he said. "What's the good of your having ideas? You +throw away what you have. It's an utter waste." "Nothing is ever lost," +said Olivier. + +The little hunchback started from the stillness he had maintained during +Olivier's story--sitting with his face towards the window, with eyes +blankly staring, and a frown on his face and a fierce expression so that +it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. He got up and said: + +"It will be fine to-morrow." + +"I bet," said Christophe to Olivier, "that he didn't even listen." + +"To-morrow, the First of May," Emmanuel went on, while his morose +expression lighted up. + +"That is his story," said Olivier. "You shall tell it me tomorrow." +"Nonsense!" said Christophe. + +Next day Christophe called for Olivier to take him for a walk in Paris. +Olivier was better: but he still had the same strange feeling of +exhaustion: he did not want to go out, he had a vague fear, he did not +like mixing with the crowd. His heart and mind were brave: but the flesh +was weak. He was afraid of a crush, an affray, brutality of all sorts: +he knew only too well that he was fated to be a victim, that he could +not, even would not, defend himself: for he had as great a horror of +giving pain as of suffering it himself. Men who are sick in body shudder +away from physical suffering more readily than others, because they are +more familiar with it, because they have less power to resist, and +because it is presented more immediately and more poignantly to their +heated imagination. Olivier was ashamed of this physical cowardice of +his which was in entire contradiction to the stoicism of his will: and +he tried hard to fight it down. But this morning the thought of human +contact of any sort was painful to him, and he would gladly have +remained indoors all day long. Christophe scolded him, rallied him, +absolutely insisted on his going out and throwing off his stupor: for +quite ten days he had not had a breath of air. Olivier pretended not to +pay any attention. Christophe said: + +"Very well. I'll go without you. I want to see their First of May. If I +don't come back to-night, you will know that I have been locked up." + +He went out. Olivier caught him up on the stairs. He would not leave +Christophe to go alone. + +There were very few people in the streets. A few little work-girls +wearing sprays of lily-of-the-valley. Working-people in their Sunday +clothes were walking about rather listlessly. At the street corners, and +near the Métro stations were groups of policemen in plain clothes. The +gates of the Luxembourg were closed. The weather was still foggy and +damp. It was a long, long time since the sun had shown himself!... The +friends walked arm in arm. They spoke but little, but they were very +glad of each other. A few words were enough to call up all their tender +memories of the intimate past. They stopped in front of a _mairie_ +to look at the barometer, which had an upward tendency. + +"To-morrow," said Olivier, "I shall see the sun." + +They were quite near the house where Cécile lived. They thought of going +in and giving the baby a hug. + +"No. We can do it when we come back." + +On the other side of the river they began to fall in with more people. +Just ordinary peaceful people taking a walk, wearing their Sunday +clothes and faces; poor people with their babies: workmen loafing. A few +here and there wore the red eglantine in their buttonholes: they looked +quite inoffensive: they were revolutionaries by dint of self-persuasion: +they were obviously quite benevolent and optimistic at heart, well +satisfied with the smallest opportunities for happiness: whether it were +fine or merely passable for their holiday, they were grateful for it ... +they did not know exactly to whom ... to everything and everybody about +them. They walked along without any hurry, expansively admiring the new +leaves of the trees and the pretty dresses of the little girls who went +by: they said proudly: + +"Only in Paris can you see children so well dressed as that." + +Christophe made fun of the famous upheaval that had been predicted.... +Such nice people!... He was quite fond of them, although a little +contemptuous. + +As they got farther along the crowd thickened. Men with pale hangdog +faces and horrible mouths slipped into the stream of people, all on the +alert, waiting for the time to pounce on their prey. The mud was stirred +up. With every inch the river grew more and more turbid. Now it flowed +slowly thick, opaque, and heavy. Like air-bubbles rising from the depths +to the greasy surface, there came up calling voices, shrill whistles, +the cries of the newsboys, piercing the dull roar of the multitude, and +made it possible to take the measure of its strata. At the end of a +street, near Amélie's restaurant, there was a noise like that of a +mill-race. The crowd was stemmed up against several ranks of police and +soldiers. In front of the obstacles a serried mass was formed, howling, +whistling, singing, laughing, and eddying this way and that.... The +laughter of the people is the only means they have of expressing a +thousand obscure and yet deep feelings which cannot find an outlet in +words!... + +The multitude was not hostile. The people did not know what they wanted. +Until they did know they were content to amuse themselves--after their +own nervous, brutal fashion, still without malice--to amuse themselves +with pushing and being pushed, insulting the police and each other. But +little by little, they lost their ardor. Those who came up from behind +got tired of being able to see nothing, and were the more provocative +inasmuch as they ran little risk behind the shelter of the human +barricade in front of them. Those in front, being crushed between those +who were pushing and those who were offering resistance, grew more and +more exasperated as their position became more and more intolerable: the +force of the current pushing them on increased their own force an +hundredfold. And all of them, as they were squeezed closer and closer +together, like cattle, felt the warmth of the whole herd creeping +through their breasts and their loins: and it seemed to them then that +they formed a solid block: and each was all, each was a giant with the +arms of Briareus. Every now and then a wave of blood would surge to the +heart of the thousand-headed monster: eyes would dart hatred, murderous +cries would go up. Men cowering away in the third and fourth row began +to throw stones. Whole families were looking down from the windows of +the houses: it was like being at the play: they excited the mob and +waited with a little thrill of agonized impatience for the troops to +charge. + +Christophe forced his way through the dense throng with elbows and +knees, like a wedge. Olivier followed him. The living mass parted for a +moment to let them pass and closed again at once behind them. Christophe +was in fine fettle. He had entirely forgotten that only five minutes ago +he had denied the possibility of an upheaval of the people. Hardly had +he set foot inside the stream than he was swept along: though he was a +foreigner in this crowd of Frenchmen and a stranger to their demands, +yet he was suddenly engulfed by them: little he cared what they wanted: +he wanted it too: little he cared whither they were going: he was going +too, drinking in the breath of their madness. + +Olivier was dragged along after him, but it was no joy to him; he saw +clearly, he never lost his self-consciousness, and was a thousand times +more a stranger to the passions of these people who were his people than +Christophe, and yet he was carried away by them like a piece of +wreckage. His illness, which had weakened him, had also relaxed +everything that bound him to life. How far removed he felt from these +people!... Being free from the delirium that was in them and having all +his wits at liberty, his mind took in the minutest details. It gave him +pleasure to gaze at the bust of a girl standing in front of him and at +her pretty, white neck. And at the same time he was disgusted by the +sickly, thick smell that was given off from the close-packed heap of +bodies. + +"Christophe!" he begged. + +Christophe did not hear him. + +"Christophe!" + +"Eh?" + +"Let's go home." + +"You're afraid?" said Christophe. + +He pushed on. Olivier followed him with a sad smile. + +A few rows in front of them, in the danger zone where the people were so +huddled together as to form a solid barricade, he saw his friend the +little hunchback perched on the roof of a newspaper kiosk. He was +clinging with both hands, and crouching in a most uncomfortable +position, and laughing as he looked over the wall of soldiers: and then +he would turn again and look back at the crowd with an air of triumph. +He saw Olivier and beamed at him: then once more he began to peer across +the soldiers, over the square, with his eyes wide staring in hope and +expectation ... of what?--Of the thing which was to come to pass.... He +was not alone. There were many, many others all around him waiting for +the miracle! And Olivier, looking at Christophe, saw that he too was +expecting it. + +He called to the boy and shouted to him to come down. Emmanuel pretended +not to hear and looked away. He had seen Christophe. He was glad to be +in a position of peril in the turmoil, partly to show his courage to +Olivier, partly to punish him for being with Christophe. + +Meanwhile they had come across some of their friends in the +crowd,--Coquard, with his golden beard, who expected nothing more than a +little jostling and crushing, and with the eye of an expert was watching +for the moment when the vessel would overflow. Farther on they met the +fair Berthe, who was slanging the people about her and getting roughly +mauled. She had succeeded in wriggling through to the front row, and she +was hurling insults at the police. Coquard came up to Christophe. When +Christophe saw him he began to chaff him: + +"What did I tell you? Nothing is going to happen." + +"That remains to be seen!" said Coquard. "Don't you be too sure. It +won't be long before the fun begins." + +"Rot!" said Christophe. + +At that very moment the cuirassiers, getting tired of having stones +flung at them, marched forward to clear the entrances to the square: the +central body came forward at a double. Immediately the stampede began. +As the Gospel has it, the first were last. But they took good care not +to be last for long. By way of covering their confusion the runaways +yelled at the soldiers following them and screamed: "Assassins!" long +before a single blow had been struck. Berthe wriggled through the crowd +like an eel, shrieking at the top of her voice. She rejoined her +friends; and taking shelter behind Coquard's broad back, she recovered +her breath, pressed close up against Christophe, gripped his arm, in +fear or for some other reason, ogled Olivier, and shook her fist at the +enemy, and screeched. Coquard took Christophe's arm and said: + +"Let's go to Amélie's," + +They had very little way to go. Berthe had preceded them with Graillot +and a few workmen. Christophe was on the point of entering followed by +Olivier. The street had a shelving ridge. The pavement, by the creamery, +was five or six steps higher than the roadway. Olivier stopped to take a +long breath after his escape from the crowd. He disliked the idea of +being in the poisoned air of the restaurant and the clamorous voices of +these fanatics. He said to Christopher: + +"I'm going home." + +"Very well, then, old fellow," said Christophe. "I'll rejoin you in an +hour from now." + +"Don't run any risks, Christophe!" + +"Coward!" said Christophe, laughing. + +He turned into the creamery. + +Olivier walked along to the corner of the shop. A few steps more and he +would be in a little by-street which would take him out of the uproar. +The thought of his little protege crossed his mind. He turned to look +for him. He saw him at the very moment when Emmanuel had slipped down +from his coign of vantage and was rolling on the ground being trampled +underfoot by the rabble: the fugitives were running over his body: the +police were just reaching the spot. Olivier did not stop to think: he +rushed down the steps and ran to his aid. A navvy saw the danger, the +soldiers with drawn sabers. Olivier holding out his hand to the boy to +help him up, the savage rush of the police knocked them both over. He +shouted out, and in his turn rushed in. Some of his comrades followed at +a run. Others rushed down from the threshold of the restaurant, and, on +their cries, came those who had already entered. The two bodies of men +hurled themselves at each other's throats like dogs. And the women, +standing at the top of the steps, screamed and yelled.--So Olivier, the +aristocrat, the essentially middle-class nature, released the spring of +the battle, which no man desired less than he. + +Christophe was swept along by the workmen and plunged into the fray +without knowing who had been the cause of it. Nothing was farther from +his thoughts than that Olivier had taken part in it. He thought him far +away in safety. It was impossible to see anything of the fight. Every +man had enough to do in keeping an eye on his opponent. Olivier had +disappeared in the whirlpool like a foundered ship. He had received a +jab from a bayonet, meant for some one else, in his left breast: he +fell: the crowd trampled him underfoot. Christophe had been swept away +by an eddy to the farthest extremity of the field of battle. He did not +fight with any animosity: he jostled and was jostled with a fierce zest +as though he was in the throng at a village fair. So little did he think +of the serious nature of the affair that when he was gripped by a huge, +broad-shouldered policeman and closed with him, he saw the thing in +grotesque and said: + +"My waltz, I think." + +But when another policeman pounced on to his back, he shook himself like +a wild boar, and hammered away with his fists at the two of them: he had +no intention of being taken prisoner. One of his adversaries, the man +who had seized him from behind, rolled down on the ground. The other +lost his head and drew his sword. Christophe saw the point of the saber +come within a hand's breadth of his chest: he dodged, and twisted the +man's wrist and tried to wrench his weapon from him. He could not +understand it: till then it had seemed to him just a game. They went on +struggling and battering at each other's faces. He had no time to stop +to think. He saw murder in the other man's eyes: and murderous desire +awoke in him. He saw that the man would slit him up like a sheep. With a +sudden movement he turned the man's hand and sword against himself: he +plunged the sword into his breast, felt that he was killing him, and +killed him. And suddenly the whole thing was changed: he was mad, +intoxicated, and he roared aloud. + +His yells produced an indescribable effect. The crowd had smelt blood. +In a moment it became a savage pack. On all sides swords were drawn. The +red flag appeared in the windows of the houses. And old memories of +Parisian revolutions prompted them to build a barricade. The stones were +torn up from the street, the gas lamps were wrenched away, trees were +pulled up, an omnibus was overturned. A trench that had been left open +for months in connection with work on the _Métropolitain_ was +turned to account. The cast-iron railings round the trees were broken up +and used as missiles. Weapons were brought out of pockets and from the +houses. In less than an hour the scuffle had grown into an insurrection: +the whole district was in a state of siege. And, on the barricade, was +Christophe, unrecognizable, shouting his revolutionary song, which was +taken up by a score of voices. Olivier had been carried to Amélie's. He +was unconscious. He had been laid on a bed in the dark back-shop. At the +foot of the bed stood the hunchback, numbed and distraught. At first +Berthe had been overcome with emotion: at a distance she had thought it +was Graillot who had been wounded, and, when she recognized Olivier, her +first exclamation had been: + +"What a good thing! I thought it was Léopold." + +But now she was full of pity.. And she kissed Olivier and held his head +on the pillow. With her usual calmness Amélie had undone his clothes and +dressed his wound. Manousse Heimann was there, fortunately, with his +inseparable Canet. Like Christophe they had come out of curiosity to see +the demonstration: they had been present at the affray and seen Olivier +fall. Canet was blubbering like a child: and at the same time he was +thinking: + +"What on earth am I doing here?" + +Manousse examined Olivier: at once he saw that it was all over. He had a +great feeling for Olivier: but he was not a man to worry about what +can't be helped: and he turned his thoughts to Christophe. He admired +Christophe though he regarded him as a pathological case. He knew his +ideas about the Revolution: and he wanted to deliver him from the +idiotic danger he was running in a cause that was not his own. The risk +of a broken head in the scuffle was not the only one: if Christophe were +taken, everything pointed to his being used as an example and getting +more than he bargained for. Manousse had long ago been warned that the +police had their eye on Christophe: they would saddle him not only with +his own follies but with those of others. Xavier Bernard, whom Manousse +had just encountered, prowling through the crowd, for his own amusement +as well as in pursuit of duty, had nodded to him as he passed and said: + +"That Krafft of yours is an idiot. Would you believe that he's putting +himself up as a mark on the barricade! We shan't miss him this time. +You'd better get him out of harm's way." + +That was easier said than done. If Christophe were to find out that +Olivier was dying he would become a raging madman, he would go out to +kill, he would be killed. Manousse said to Bernard: + +"If he doesn't go at once, he's done for. I'll try and take him away." + +"How?" + +"In Canet's motor. It's over there at the corner of the street." + +"Please, please...." gulped Canet. + +"You must take him to Laroche," Manousse went on. "You will get there in +time to catch the Pontarlier express. You must pack him off to +Switzerland." + +"He won't go." + +"He will. I'll tell him that Jeannin will follow him, or has already +gone." + +Without paying any attention to Canet's objections Manousse set out to +find Christophe on the barricade. He was not very courageous, he started +every time he heard a shot: and he counted the cobble-stones over which +he stepped--(odd or even), to make out his chances of being killed. He +did not stop, but went through with it. When he reached the barricade he +found Christophe, perched on a wheel of the overturned omnibus, amusing +himself by firing pistol-shots into the air. Round the barricade the +riff-raff of Paris, spewed up from the gutters, had swollen up like the +dirty water from a sewer after heavy rain. The original combatants were +drowned by it. Manousse shouted to Christophe, whose back was turned to +him. Christophe did not hear him. Manousse climbed up to him and plucked +at his sleeve. Christophe pushed him away and almost knocked him down. +Manousse stuck to it, climbed up again, and shouted: + +"Jeannin...." + +In the uproar the rest of the sentence was lost. Christophe stopped +short, dropped his revolver, and, slipping down from his scaffolding, he +rejoined Manousse, who started pulling him away. + +"You must clear out," said Manousse. + +"Where is Olivier?" + +"You must clear out," repeated Manousse. + +"Why?" said Christophe. + +"The barricade will be captured in an hour. You will be arrested +to-night." + +"What have I done?" + +"Look at your hands.... Come!... There's no room for doubt, they won't +spare you. Everybody recognized you. You've not got a moment to lose." + +"Where is Olivier?" + +"At home." + +"I'll go and join him." + +"You can't do that. The police are waiting for you at the door. He sent +me to warn you. You must cut and run." + +"Where do you want me to go?" + +"To Switzerland. Canet will take you out of this in his car." + +"And Olivier?" + +"There's no time to talk...." + +"I won't go without seeing him." + +"You'll see him there. He'll join you to-morrow. He'll go by the first +train. Quick! I'll explain." + +He caught hold of Christophe. Christophe was dazed by the noise and the +wave of madness that had rushed through him, could not understand what +he had done and what he was being asked to do, and let himself be +dragged away. Manousse took his arm, and with his other hand caught hold +of Canet, who was not at all pleased with the part allotted to him in +the affair: and he packed the two of them into the car. The worthy Canet +would have been bitterly sorry if Christophe had been caught, but he +would have much preferred some one else to help him to escape. Manousse +knew his man. And as he had some qualms about Canet's cowardice, he +changed his mind just as he was leaving them and the car was getting +into its stride and climbed up and sat with them. + +Olivier did not recover consciousness. Amélie and the little hunchback +were left alone in the room. Such a sad room it was, airless and gloomy! +It was almost dark.... For one instant Olivier emerged from the abyss. +He felt Emmanuel's tears and kisses on his hand. He smiled faintly, and +painfully laid his hand on the boy's head. Such a heavy hand it was!... +Then he sank back once more.... + +By the dying man's head, on the pillow, Amélie had laid a First of May +nosegay, a few sprays of lily-of-the-valley. A leaky tap in the +courtyard dripped, dripped into a bucket. For a second mental images +hovered tremblingly at the back of his mind, like a light flickering and +dying down ... a house in the country with glycine on the walls: a +garden where a child was playing: a boy lying on the turf: a little +fountain plashing in its stone basin: a little girl laughing.... + + + + +II + + +They drove out of Paris. They crossed the vast plains of France shrouded +in mist. It was an evening like that on which Christophe had arrived in +Paris ten years before. He was a fugitive then, as now. But then his +friend, the man who loved him, was alive: and Christophe was fleeing +towards him.... + +During the first hour Christophe was still under the excitement of the +fight: he talked volubly in a loud voice: in a breathless, jerky fashion +he kept on telling what he had seen and heard: he was proud of his +achievement and felt no remorse. Manousse and Canet talked too, by way +of making him forget. Gradually his feverish excitement subsided, and +Christophe stopped talking: his two companions went on making +conversation alone. He was a little bewildered by the afternoon's +adventures, but in no way abashed. He recollected the time when he had +come to France, a fugitive then, always a fugitive. It made him laugh. +No doubt he was fated to be so. It gave him no pain to be leaving Paris: +the world is wide: men are the same everywhere. It mattered little to +him where he might be so long as he was with his friend. He was counting +on seeing him again next day. They had promised him that. + +They reached Laroche. Manousse and Canet did not leave him until they +had seen him into the train. Christophe made them say over the name of +the place where he was to get out, and the name of the hotel, and the +post-office where he would find his letters. In spite of themselves, as +they left him, they both looked utterly dejected. Christophe wrung their +hands gaily. + +"Come!" he shouted, "don't look so like a funeral Good Lord, we shall +meet again! Nothing easier! We'll write to each other to-morrow." + +The train started. They watched it disappear. + +"Poor devil!" said Manousse. + +They got back into the car. They were silent. After a short time Canet +said to Manousse: + +"Bah! the dead are dead. We must help the living." + +As night fell Christophe's excitement subsided altogether. He sat +huddled in a corner of the carriage, and pondered. He was sobered and +icy cold. He looked down at his hands and saw blood on them that was not +his own. He gave a shiver of disgust. The scene of the murder came +before him once more. He remembered that he had killed a man: and now he +knew not why. He began to go over the whole battle from the very +beginning; but now he saw it in a very different light. He could not +understand how he had got mixed up in it. He went back over every +incident of the day from the moment when he had left the house with +Olivier: he saw the two of them walking through Paris until the moment +when he had been caught up by the whirlwind. There he lost the thread: +the chain of his thoughts was snapped: how could he have shouted and +struck out and moved with those men with whose beliefs he disagreed? It +was not he, it was not he!... It was a total eclipse of his will!... He +was dazed by it and ashamed. He was not his own master then? Who was his +master?... He was being carried by the express through the night: and +the inward night through which he was being carried was no less dark, +nor was the unknown force less swift and dizzy.... He tried hard to +shake off his unease: but one anxiety was followed by another. The +nearer he came to his destination, the more he thought of Olivier; and +he was oppressed by an unreasoning fear. + +As he arrived he looked through the window across the platform for the +familiar face of his friend.... There was no one. He got out and still +went on looking about him. Once or twice he thought he saw.... No, it +was not "he." He went to the appointed hotel. Olivier was not there. +There was no reason for Christophe to be surprised: how could Olivier +have preceded him?... But from that moment on he was in an agony of +suspense. + +It was morning. Christophe went up to his room. Then he came down again, +had breakfast, sauntered through the streets. He pretended to be free of +anxiety and looked at the lake and the shop-windows, chaffed the girl in +the restaurant, and turned over the illustrated papers.... Nothing +interested him. The day dragged through, slowly and heavily. About seven +o'clock in the evening, Christophe having, for want of anything else to +do, dined early and eaten nothing, went up to his room, and asked that +as soon as the friend he was expecting arrived, he should be brought up +to him. He sat down at the desk with his back turned to the door. He had +nothing to busy himself with, no baggage, no books: only a paper that he +had just bought: he forced himself to read it: but his mind was +wandering: he was listening for footsteps in the corridor. All his +nerves were on edge with the exhaustion of a day's anxious waiting and a +sleepless night. + +Suddenly he heard some one open the door. Some indefinable feeling made +him not turn around at once. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Then he +turned and saw Olivier smiling at him. He was not surprised, and said: + +"Ah, here you are at last!" + +The illusion vanished. + +Christophe got up suddenly, knocking over chair and table. His hair +stood on end. He stood still for a moment, livid, with his teeth +chattering. + +At the end of that moment--(in vain did he shut his eyes to it and tell +himself: "I know nothing")--he knew everything: he was sure of what he +was going to hear. + +He could not stay in his room. He went down into the street and walked +about for an hour. When he returned the porter met him in the hall of +the hotel and gave him a letter. _The_ letter. He was quite sure it +would be there. His hand trembled as he took it. He opened it, saw that +Olivier was dead, and fainted. + +The letter was from Manousse. It said that in concealing the disaster +from him the day before, and hurrying him off, they had only been +obeying Olivier's wishes, who had desired to insure his friend's +escape,--that it was useless for Christophe to stay, as it would mean +the end of him also,--that it was his duty to seek safety for the sake +of his friend's memory, and for his other friends, and for the sake of +his own fame, etc., etc.... Amélie had added three lines in her big, +scrawling handwriting, to say that she would take every care of the poor +little gentleman.... + +When Christophe came back to himself he was furiously angry. He wanted +to kill Manousse. He ran to the station. The hall of the hotel was +empty, the streets were deserted: in the darkness the few belated +passers-by did not notice his wildly staring eyes or his furious +breathing. His mind had fastened as firmly as a bulldog with its fangs +on to the one fixed idea: "Kill Manousse! Kill!..." He wanted to return +to Paris. The night express had gone an hour before. He had to wait +until the next morning. He could not wait. He took the first train that +went in the direction of Paris, a train which stopped at every station. +When he was left alone in the carriage Christophe cried over and over +again: + +"It is not true! It is not true!" + +At the second station across the French frontier the train stopped +altogether: it did not go any farther. Shaking with fury, Christophe got +out and asked for another train, battering the sleepy officials with +questions, and only knocking up against indifference. Whatever he did he +would arrive too late. Too late for Olivier. He could not even manage to +catch Manousse. He would be arrested first. What was he to do? Which way +to turn? To go on? To go back? What was the use? What was the use?... He +thought of giving himself up to a gendarme who went past him. He was +held back by an obscure instinct for life which bade him return to +Switzerland. There was no train in either direction for a few hours. +Christophe sat down in the waiting-room, could not keep still, left the +station, and blindly followed the road on through the night. He found +himself in the middle of a bare countryside--fields, broken here and +there with clumps of pines, the vanguard of a forest. He plunged into +it. He had hardly gone more than a few steps when he flung himself down +on the ground and cried: + +"Olivier!" + +He lay across the path and sobbed. + +A long time afterwards a train whistling in the distance roused him and +made him get up. He tried to go back to the station, but took the wrong +road. He walked on all through the night. What did it matter to him +where he went? He went on walking to keep from thinking, walking, +walking, until he could not think, walking on in the hope that he might +fall dead. Ah! if only he might die!... + +At dawn he found himself in a French village a long way from the +frontier. All night he had been walking away from it. He went into an +inn, ate a huge meal, set out once more, and walked on and on. During +the day he sank down in the middle of a field and lay there asleep until +the evening. When he woke up it was to face another night. His fury had +abated. He was left only with frightful grief that choked him. He +dragged himself to a farmhouse, and asked for a piece of bread and a +truss of straw for a bed. The farmer stared hard at him, cut him a slice +of bread, led him into the stable, and locked it. Christophe lay in the +straw near the thickly-smelling cows, and devoured his bread. Tears were +streaming down his face. Neither his hunger nor his sorrow could be +appeased. During the night sleep once more delivered him from his agony +for a few hours. He woke up next day on the sound of the door opening. +He lay still and did not move. He did not want to come back to life. The +farmer stopped and looked down at him for a long time: he was holding in +his hand a paper, at which he glanced from time to time. At last he +moved forward and thrust his newspaper in front of Christophe. His +portrait was on the front page. + +"It is I," said Christophe. "You'd better give me up." + +"Get up," said the farmer. + +Christophe got up. The man motioned to him to follow. They went behind +the barn and walked along a winding path through an orchard. They came +to a cross, and then the farmer pointed along a road and said to +Christophe: + +"The frontier is over there." + +Christophe walked on mechanically. He did not know why he should go on. +He was so tired, so broken in body and soul, that he longed to stop with +every stride. But he felt that if he were to stop he would never be able +to go on again, never budge from the spot where he fell. He walked on +right through the day. He had not a penny to buy bread. Besides, he +avoided the villages. He had a queer feeling which entirely baffled his +reason, that, though he wished to die, he was afraid of being taken +prisoner: his body was like a hunted animal fleeing before its captors. +His physical wretchedness, exhaustion, hunger, an obscure feeling of +terror which was augmented by his worn-out condition, for the time being +smothered his moral distress. His one thought was to find a refuge where +he could in safety be alone with his distress and feed on it. + +He crossed the frontier. In the distance he saw a town surmounted with +towers and steeples and factory chimneys, from which the thick smoke +streamed like black rivers, monotonously, all in the same direction +across the gray sky under the rain. He was very near a collapse. Just +then he remembered that he knew a German doctor, one Erich Braun, who +lived in the town, and had written to him the year before, after one of +his successes, to remind him of their old acquaintance. Dull though +Braun might be, little though he might enter into his life, yet, like a +wounded animal, Christophe made a supreme effort before he gave in to +reach the house of some one who was not altogether a stranger. + +Under the cloud of smoke and rain, he entered the gray and red city. He +walked through it, seeing nothing, asking his way, losing himself, going +back, wandering aimlessly. He was at the end of his tether. For the last +time he screwed up his will that was so near to breaking-point to climb +up the steep alleys, and the stairs which went to the top of a stiff +little hill, closely overbuilt with houses round a gloomy church. There +were sixty red stone steps in threes and sixes. Between each little +flight of steps was a narrow platform for the door of a house. On each +platform Christophe stopped swaying to take breath. Far over his head, +above the church tower, crows were whirling. + +At last he came upon the name he was looking for. He knocked.--The alley +was in darkness. In utter weariness he closed his eyes. All was dark +within him.... Ages passed. + +The narrow door was opened. A woman appeared on the threshold. Her face +was in darkness: but her outline was sharply shown against the +background of a little garden which could be clearly seen at the end of +a long passage, in the light of the setting sun. She was tall, and stood +very erect, without a word, waiting for him to speak. He could not see +her eyes: but he felt them taking him in. He asked for Doctor Erich +Braun and gave his name. He had great difficulty in getting the words +out. He was worn out with fatigue, hunger, and thirst. Without a word +the woman went away, and Christophe followed her into a room with closed +shutters. In the darkness he bumped into her: his knees and body brushed +against her. She went out again and closed the door of the room and left +him in the dark. He stayed quite still, for fear of knocking something +over, leaning against the wall with his forehead against the soft +hangings: his ears buzzed: the darkness seemed alive and throbbing to +his eyes. + +Overhead he heard a chair being moved, an exclamation of surprise, a +door slammed. Then came heavy footsteps down the stairs. + +"Where is he?" asked a voice that he knew. + +The door of the room was opened once more. + +"What! You left him in the dark! Anna! Good gracious! A light!" + +Christophe was so weak, he was so utterly wretched, that the sound of +the man's loud voice, cordial as it was, brought him comfort in his +misery. He gripped the hand that was held out to him. The two men looked +at each other. Braun was a little man: he had a red face with a black, +scrubby and untidy beard, kind eyes twinkling behind spectacles, a +broad, bumpy, wrinkled, worried, inexpressive brow, hair carefully +plastered down and parted right down to his neck. He was very ugly: but +Christophe was very glad to see him and to be shaking hands with him. +Braun made no effort to conceal his surprise. + +"Good Heavens! How changed he is! What a state he is in!" + +"I'm just come from Paris," said Christophe, "I'm a fugitive." + +"I know, I know. We saw the papers. They said you were caught. Thank +God! You've been much in our thoughts, mine and Anna's." + +He stopped and made Christophe known to the silent creature who had +admitted him: + +"My wife." + +She had stayed in the doorway of the room with a lamp in her hand. She +had a taciturn face with a firm chin. The light fell on her brown hair +with its reddish shades of color, and on her pallid cheeks. She held out +her hand to Christophe stiffly with the elbow close against her side: he +took it without looking at her. He was almost done. + +"I came...." he tried to explain. "I thought you would be so kind ... if +it isn't putting you out too much ... as to put me up for a day--" + +Braun did not let him finish. + +"A day!... Twenty days, fifty, as long as you like. As long as you are +in this country you shall stay in our house: and I hope you will stay +for a long time. It is an honor and a great happiness for us." + +Christophe was overwhelmed by his kind words. He flung himself into +Braun's arms. + +"My dear Christophe, my dear Christophe!" said Braun.... "He is +weeping.... Well, well what is it?... Anna! Anna!... Quick, he has +fainted...." + +Christophe had collapsed in his host's arms. He had succumbed to the +fainting fit which had been imminent for several hours. + +When he opened his eyes again he was lying in a great bed. A smell of +wet earth came up through the open window. Braun was bending over him. + +"Forgive me," murmured Christophe, trying to get up. + +"He is dying of hunger!" cried Braun. + +The woman went out and returned with a cup and gave him to drink. Braun +held his head. Christophe was restored to life: but his exhaustion was +stronger than his hunger: hardly was his head laid back on the pillow +than he went to sleep. Braun and his wife watched over him: then, seeing +that he only needed rest, they left him. + +He fell into the sort of sleep that seems to last for years, a heavy +crushing sleep, dropping like a piece of lead to the bottom of a lake. +In such a sleep a man is a prey to his accumulated weariness and the +monstrous hallucinations which are forever prowling at the gates of his +will. He tried to wake up, burning, broken, lost in the impenetrable +darkness: he heard the clocks striking the half hours: he could not +breathe, or think, or move: he was bound and gagged like a man flung +into water to drown: he tried to struggle, but only sank down +again.--Dawn came at length, the tardy gray dawn of a rainy day. The +intolerable heat that consumed him grew less: but his body was pinned +under the weight of a mountain. He woke up. It was a terrible awakening. + +"Why open my eyes? Why wake up? Rather stay, like my poor friend, who is +lying under the earth...." + +He lay on his back and never moved, although he was cramped by his +position in the bed: his legs and arms were heavy as stone. He was in a +grave. A dim pale light. A few drops of rain dashed against the windows. +A bird in the garden was uttering a little plaintive cry. Oh! the misery +of life! The cruel futility of it all!... + +The hours crept by. Braun came in. Christophe did not turn his head. +Seeing his eyes open, Braun greeted him joyfully: and as Christophe went +on grimly staring at the ceiling he tried to make him shake off his +melancholy: he sat down on the bed and chattered noisily. Christophe +could not bear the noise. He made an effort, superhuman it seemed to +him, and said: + +"Please leave me alone." + +The good little man changed his tone at once. + +"You want to be alone? Why, of course. Keep quiet. Rest, don't talk, +we'll bring you up something to eat, and no one shall say a word." + +But it was impossible for him to be brief. After endless explanations he +tiptoed from the room with his huge slippers creaking on the floor. +Christophe was left alone once more, and sank back into his mortal +weariness. His thoughts were veiled by the mist of suffering. He wore +himself out in trying to understand.... "Why had he known him? Why had +he loved him? What good had Antoinette's devotion been? What was the +meaning of all the lives and generations,--so much experience and +hope--ending in that life, dragged down with it into the void?"... Life +was meaningless. Death was meaningless. A man was blotted out, shuffled +out of existence, a whole family disappeared from the face of the earth, +leaving no trace. Impossible to tell whether it is more odious or more +grotesque. He burst into a fit of angry laughter, laughter of hatred and +despair. His impotence in the face of such sorrow, his sorrow in the +face of such impotence, were dragging him down to death. His heart was +broken.... + +There was not a sound in the house, save the doctor's footsteps as he +went out on his rounds. Christophe had lost all idea of the time, when +Anna appeared. She brought him some dinner on a tray. He watched her +without stirring, without even moving his lips to thank her: but in his +staring eyes, which seemed to see nothing, the image of the young woman +was graven with photographic clarity. Long afterwards, when he knew her +better, it was always thus that he saw her: later impressions were never +able to efface that first memory of her. She had thick hair done up in a +heavy knob, a bulging forehead, wide cheeks, a short, straight nose, +eyes perpetually cast down, and when they met the eyes of another, they +would turn away with an expression in which there was little frankness +and small kindness: her lips were a trifle thick, and closely pressed +together, and she had a stubborn, rather hard expression. She was tall, +apparently big and well made, but her clothes were very stiff and tight, +and she was cramped in her movements. She came silently and noiselessly +and laid the tray on the table by the bed and went out again with her +arms close to her sides and her head down. Christophe felt no surprise +at her strange and rather absurd appearance: he did not touch his food +and relapsed into his silent suffering. + +The day passed. Evening came and once more Anna with more food. She +found the meal she had brought in the morning still untouched: and she +took it away without a remark. She had none of those fond observations +which all women seem instinctively to produce for the benefit of an +invalid. It was as though Christophe did not exist for her, as though +she herself hardly existed. This time Christophe felt a sort of dumb +hostility as impatiently he followed her awkward hasty movements. +However, he was grateful to her for not trying to talk.--He was even +more grateful to her when, after she had gone, he had to put up with the +doctor's protestations, when he observed that Christophe had not touched +the earlier meal. He was angry with his wife for not having forced +Christophe to eat, and now tried to compel him to do so. For the sake of +peace, Christophe had to gulp down a little milk. After that he turned +his back on him. + +The next night was more tranquil. Heavy sleep once more drew Christophe +into its state of nothingness. Not a trace of hateful life was +left.--But waking up was even more suffocating than before. He went on +turning over and over all the details of the fateful day, Olivier's +reluctance to leave the house, his urgent desire to go home, and he said +to himself in despair: + +"It was I who killed him...." + +He could not bear to stay there any longer, shut up in that room, lying +motionless beneath the claws of the fierce-eyed sphinx that went on +battering him with its dizzy rain of questions and its deathlike breath. +He got up all in a fever: he dragged himself out of the room and went +downstairs: in his instinctive fear he was driven to cling to other +human creatures. And as soon as he heard another voice he felt a longing +to rush away. + +Braun was in the dining-room. He received Christophe with his usual +demonstrations of friendship and at once began to ply him with questions +as to what had happened in Paris. Christophe seized him by the arm: + +"No," he said. "Don't ask me. Later on.... You mustn't mind. I can't, +now. I'm dead tired, worn out...." + +"I know, I know," said Braun kindly. "Your nerves are shaken. The +emotions of the last few days. Don't talk. Don't put yourself out in any +way. You are free, you are at home here. No one will worry about you." + +He kept his word. By way of sparing his guest he went to the opposite +extreme: he dared not even talk to his wife in Christophe's presence: he +talked in whispers and walked about on tiptoe: the house became still +and silent. Exasperated by the whispering and the silence and the +affectation of it all, Christophe had to beg Braun to go on living just +as he usually did. + +For some days no one paid any attention to Christophe. He would sit for +hours together in the corner of a room, or he would wander through the +house like a man in a dream. What were his thoughts? He hardly knew. He +hardly had even strength enough to suffer. He was crushed. The dryness +of his heart was a horror to him. He had only one desire: to be buried +with "him" and to make an end.--One day he found the garden-door open +and went out. But it hurt him so much to be in the light of day that he +returned hurriedly and shut himself up in his room with all the shutters +closed. Fine days were torture to him. He hated the sun. The brutal +serenity of Nature overwhelmed him. At meals he would eat in silence the +food that Braun laid before him, and he would sit with never a word +staring down at the table. One day Braun pointed to the piano in the +drawing-room: Christophe turned from it in terror. Noise of any sort was +detestable to him. Silence, silence, and the night!... There was +nothing in him save an aching void, and a need of emptiness. Gone was +his joy in life, gone the splendid bird of joy that once used to soar +blithely, ecstatically upwards, pouring out song. There were days when, +sitting in his room, he had no more feeling of life than the halting +tic-tac of the clock in the next room, that seemed to be beating in his +own brain. And yet, the wild bird of joy was still in him, it would +suddenly take flight, and flutter against the bars of its cage: and in +the depths of his soul there was a frightful tumult of sorrow--"the +bitter cry of one living in the wilderness...." + +The world's misery lies in this, that a man hardly ever has a companion. +Women perhaps, and chance friendships. We are reckless in our use of the +lovely word, friend. In reality we hardly have a single friend all +through our lives. Rare, very rare, are those men who have real friends. +But the happiness of it is so great that it is impossible to live when +they are gone. The friend filled the life of his friend, unbeknown to +him, unmarked. The friend goes: and life is empty. Not only the beloved +is lost, but every reason for loving, every reason for having loved. Why +had he lived? Why had either lived? + +The blow of Olivier's death was the more terrible to Christophe in that +it fell just at a time when his whole nature was in a state of upheaval. +There are in life certain ages when there takes place a silently working +organic change in a man: then body and soul are more susceptible to +attack from without; the mind is weakened, its power is sapped by a +vague sadness, a feeling of satiety, a sort of detachment from what it +is doing, an incapacity for seeing any other course of action. At such +periods of their lives when these crises occur, the majority of men are +bound by domestic ties, forming a safeguard for them, which, it is true, +deprives them of the freedom of mind necessary for self-judgment, for +discovering where they stand, and for beginning to build up a healthy +new life. For them so many sorrows, so much bitterness and disgust +remain concealed!... Onward! Onward! A man must ever be pressing on.... +The common round, anxiety and care for the family for which he is +responsible, keep a man like a jaded horse, sleeping between the shafts, +and trotting on and on.--But a free man has nothing to support him in +his hours of negation, nothing to force him to go on. He goes on as a +matter of habit: he knows not whither he is going. His powers are +scattered, his consciousness is obscured. It is an awful thing for him +if, just at the moment when he is most asleep, there comes a thunderclap +to break in upon his somnambulism! Then he comes very nigh to +destruction. + +A few letters from Paris, which at last reached him, plucked Christophe +for a moment out of his despairing apathy. They were from Cécile and +Madame Arnaud. They brought him messages of comfort. Cold comfort. +Futile condolence. Those who talk about suffering know it not. The +letters only brought him an echo of the voice that was gone.... He had +not the heart to reply: and the letters ceased. In his despondency he +tried to blot out his tracks. To disappear.... Suffering is unjust: all +those who had loved him dropped out of his existence. Only one creature +still existed: the man who was dead. For many weeks he strove to bring +him to life again: he used to talk to him, write to him: + +"My dear, I had no letter from you to-day. Where are you? Come back, +come back, speak to me, write to me!..." + +But at night, hard though he tried, he could never succeed in seeing him +in his dreams. We rarely dream of those we have lost, while their loss +is still a pain. They come back to us later on when we are beginning to +forget. + +However, the outside world began gradually to penetrate to the sepulcher +of Christophe's soul. At first he became dimly conscious of the +different noises in the house and to take an unwitting interest in them. +He marked the time of day when the front door opened and shut, and how +often during the day, and the different ways in which it was opened for +the various visitors. He knew Braun's step: he used to visualize the +doctor coming back from his rounds, stopping in the hall, hanging up his +hat and cloak, always with the same meticulous fussy way. And when the +accustomed noises came up to him out of the order in which he had come +to look for them, he could not help trying to discover the reason for +the change. At meals he began mechanically to listen to the +conversation. He saw that Braun almost always talked single-handed. His +wife used only to give him a curt reply. Braun was never put out by the +want of anybody to talk to: he used to chat pleasantly and verbosely +about the houses he had visited and the gossip he had picked up. At +last, one day, Christophe looked at Braun while he was speaking: Braun +was delighted, and laid himself out to keep him interested. + +Christophe tried to pick up the threads of life again.... It was utterly +exhausting! He felt old, as old as the world!... In the morning when he +got up and saw himself in the mirror he was disgusted with his body, his +gestures, his idiotic figure. Get up, dress, to what end?... He tried +desperately to work: it made him sick. What was the good of creation, +when everything ends in nothing? Music had become impossible for him. +Art--(and everything else)--can only be rightly judged in unhappiness. +Unhappiness is the touchstone. Only then do we know those who can stride +across the ages, those who are stronger than death. Very few bear the +test. In unhappiness we are struck by the mediocrity of certain souls +upon whom we had counted--(and of the artists we had loved, who had been +like friends to our lives).--Who survives? How hollow does the beauty of +the world ring under the touch of sorrow! + +But sorrow grows weary, the force goes from its grip. Christophe's +nerves were relaxed. He slept, slept unceasingly. It seemed that he +would never succeed in satisfying his hunger for sleep. + +At last one night he slept so profoundly that he did not wake up until +well on into the afternoon of the next day. The house was empty. Braun +and his wife had gone out. The window was open, and the smiling air was +quivering with light. Christophe felt that a crushing weight had been +lifted from him. He got up and went down into the garden. It was a +narrow rectangle, inclosed within high walls, like those of a convent. +There were gravel paths between grass-plots and humble flowers; and an +arbor of grape-vines and climbing roses. A tiny fountain trickled from a +grotto built of stones: an acacia against the wall hung its +sweet-scented branches over the next garden. Above stood the old tower +of the church, of red sandstone. It was four o'clock in the evening. The +garden was already in shadow. The sun was still shining on the top of +the tree and the red belfry. Christophe sat in the arbor, with his back +to the wall, and his head thrown back, looking at the limpid sky through +the interlacing tendrils of the vine and the roses. It was like waking +from a nightmare. Everywhere was stillness and silence. Above his head +nodded a cluster of roses languorously. Suddenly the most lovely rose of +all shed its petals and died: the snow of the rose-leaves was scattered +on the air. It was like the passing of a lovely innocent life. So +simply!... In Christophe's mind it took on a significance of a rending +sweetness. He choked: he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed.... + +The bells in the church tower rang out. From one church to another +called answering voices.... Christophe lost all consciousness of the +passage of time. When he raised his head, the bells were silent and the +sun had disappeared. Christophe was comforted by his tears: they had +washed away the stains from his mind. Within himself he heard a little +stream of music well forth and he saw the little crescent moon glide +into the evening sky. He was called to himself by the sound of footsteps +entering the house. He went up to his room, locked the door, and let the +fountain of music gush forth. Braun summoned him to dinner, knocked at +the door, and tried to open it: Christophe made no reply. Anxiously +Braun looked through the keyhole and was reassured when he saw +Christophe lying half over the table surrounded with paper which he was +blackening with ink. + +A few hours later, worn out, Christophe went downstairs and found the +doctor reading, impatiently waiting for him in the drawing-room. He +embraced the little man, asked him to forgive him for his strange +conduct since his arrival, and, without waiting to be asked, he began to +tell Braun about the dramatic events of the past weeks. It was the only +time he ever talked to him about it: he was never sure that Braun had +understood him, for he talked disconnectedly, and it was very late, and, +in spite of his eager interest, Braun was nearly dead with sleep. At +last--(the clock struck two)--Christophe saw it and they said +good-night. + +From that time on Christophe's existence was reconstituted. He did not +maintain his condition of transitory excitement: he came back to his +sorrow, but it was normal sorrow which did not interfere with his life. +He could not help returning to life! Though he had just lost his dearest +friend in the world, though his grief had undermined him and Death had +been his most intimate companion, there was in him such an abundant, +such a tyrannical force of life, that it burst forth even in his +elegies, shining forth from his eyes, his lips, his gestures. But a +gnawing canker had crept into the heart of his force. Christophe had +fits of despair, transports rather. He would be quite calm, trying to +read, or walking: suddenly he would see Olivier's smile, his tired, +gentle face.... It would tug at his heart.... He would falter, lay his +hand on his breast, and moan. One day he was at the piano playing a +passage from Beethoven with his old zest.... Suddenly he stopped, flung +himself on the ground, buried his face in the cushions of a chair, and +cried: + +"My boy...." + +Worst of all was the sensation of having "already lived" that was +constantly with him. He was continually coming across familiar gestures, +familiar words, the perpetual recurrence of the same experiences. He +knew everything, had foreseen everything. One face would remind him of a +face he had known and the lips would say--(as he was quite sure they +would)--exactly the same things as he had heard from the original: +beings similar to each other would pass through similar phases, knock up +against the same obstacles, suffer from them in exactly the same way. If +it is true that "nothing so much brings weariness of life as the new +beginning of love," how much more then the new beginning of everything! +It was elusive and delusive.--Christophe tried not to think of it, since +it was necessary to do so, if he were to live, and since he wished to +live. It is the saddest hypocrisy, such rejection of self-knowledge, in +shame or piety, it is the invincible imperative need of living hiding +away from itself! Knowing that no consolation is possible, a man invents +consolations. Being convinced that life has no reason, he forges reasons +for living. He persuades himself that he must live, even when no one +outside himself is concerned. If need be he will go so far as to pretend +that the dead man encourages him to live. And he knows that he is +putting into the dead man's mouth the words that he wishes him to say. O +misery!... + +Christophe set out on the road once more: his step seemed to have +regained its old assurance: the gates of his heart were closed upon his +sorrow: he never spoke of it to others: he avoided being left alone with +it himself: outwardly he seemed calm. + +"_Real sorrows_," says Balzac, "_are apparently at peace in the deep bed +that they have made for themselves, where they seem to sleep, though all +the while they never cease to fret and eat away the soul_." + +Any one knowing Christophe and watching him closely, seeing him coming +and going, talking, composing, even laughing--(he could laugh +now!)--would have felt that for all his vigor and the radiance of life +in his eyes, something had been destroyed in him, in the inmost depths +of his life. + + * * * * * + +As soon as he had regained his hold on life he had to look about him for +a means of living. There could be no question of his leaving the town. +Switzerland was the safest shelter for him: and where else could he have +found more devoted hospitality?--But his pride could not suffer the idea +of his being any further a burden upon his friend. In spite of Braun's +protestations, and his refusal to accept any payment, he could not rest +until he had found enough pupils to permit of his paying his hosts for +his board and lodging. It was not an easy matter. The story of his +revolutionary escapade had been widely circulated: and the worthy +families of the place were reluctant to admit a man who was regarded as +dangerous, or at any rate extraordinary, and, in consequence, not quite +"respectable," to their midst. However, his fame as a musician and +Braun's good offices gained him access to four or five of the less +timorous or more curious families, who were perhaps artistically +snobbish enough to desire to gain particularity. They were none the less +careful to keep an eye on him, and to maintain a respectable distance +between master and pupils. + +The Braun household fell into a methodically ordered existence. In the +morning each member of it went about his business: the doctor on his +rounds, Christophe to his pupils, Madame Braun to the market and about +her charitable works. Christophe used to return about one, a little +before Braun, who would not allow them to wait for him; and he used to +sit down to dinner alone with the wife. He did not like that at all: for +she was not sympathetic to him, and he could never find anything to say +to her. She took no trouble to remove his impression, though it was +impossible for her not to be aware of it; she never bothered to put +herself out in dress or in mind to please him: she never spoke to +Christophe first: her notable lack of charm in movement and dress, her +awkwardness, her coldness, would have repelled any man who was as +sensitive as Christophe to the charm of women. When he remembered the +sparkling elegance of the Parisian women, he could not help thinking, as +he looked at Anna: + +"How ugly she is!" + +Yet that was unjust: and he was not slow to notice the beauty of her +hair, her hands, her mouth, her eyes,--on the rare occasions when he +chanced to meet her gaze, which she always averted at once. But his +opinion was never modified. As a matter of politeness he forced himself +to speak to her: he labored to find subjects of conversation: she never +gave him the smallest assistance. Several times he tried to ask her +about the town, her husband, herself: he could get nothing out of her. +She would make the most trivial answers: she would make an effort to +smile: but the effort was painfully evident; her smile was forced, her +voice was hollow: she drawled and dragged every word: her every sentence +was followed by a painful silence. At last Christophe only spoke to her +as little as possible; and she was grateful to him for it. It was a +great relief to both of them when the doctor came in. He was always in a +good humor, talkative, busy, vulgar, worthy. He ate, drank, talked, +laughed, plentifully. Anna used to talk to him a little: but they hardly +ever touched on anything but the food in front of them or the price of +things. Sometimes Braun would jokingly tease her about her pious works +and the minister's sermons. Then she would stiffen herself, and relapse +into an offended silence until the end of the meal. More often the +doctor would talk about his patients: he would delight in describing +repulsive cases, with a pleasant elaboration of detail which used to +exasperate Christophe. Then he would throw his napkin on the table and +get up, making faces of disgust which simply delighted the teller. Braun +would stop at once, and soothe his friend and laugh. At the next meal he +would begin again. His hospital pleasantries seemed to have the power to +enliven the impassive Anna. She would break her silence with a sudden +nervous laugh, which was something animal in quality. Perhaps she felt +no less disgust than Christophe at the things that made her laugh. + +In the afternoon Christophe had very few pupils. Then, as a rule, he +would stay at home with Anna, while the doctor went out. They never saw +each other. They used to go about their separate business. At first +Braun had begged Christophe to give his wife a few lessons on the piano: +she was, he said, an excellent musician. Christophe asked Anna to play +him something. She did not need to be pressed, although she disliked +doing it: but she did it with her usual ungraciousness: she played +mechanically, with an incredible lack of sensibility: each note was like +another: there was no sort of rhythm or expression: when she had to turn +the page she stopped short in the middle of a bar, made no haste about +it, and went on with the next note. Christophe was so exasperated by it +that he was hard put to it to keep himself from making an insulting +remark: he could not help going out of the room before she had finished. +She was not put out, but went on imperturbably to the very last note, +and seemed to be neither hurt nor indignant at his rudeness: she hardly +seemed to have noticed it. But the matter of music was never again +mentioned between them. Sometimes in the afternoons when Christophe was +out and returned unexpectedly, he would find Anna practising the piano, +with icy, dull tenacity, going over and over one passage fifty times, +and never by any chance showing the least animation. She never played when +she knew that Christophe was at home. She devoted all the time that +was not consecrated to her religious duties to her household work. She +used to sew, and mend, and darn, and look after the servant: she had a +mania for tidiness and cleanliness. Her husband thought her a fine +woman, a little odd--"like all women," he used to say--but "like all +women," devoted. On that last point Christophe made certain reservations +_in petto_: such psychology seemed to him too simple; but he told +himself that, after all, it was Braun's affair; and he gave no further +thought to the matter. + +They used to sit together after dinner in the evening. Braun and +Christophe would talk. Anna would sit working. On Braun's entreaty, +Christophe had consented to play the piano sometimes: and he would +occasionally play on to a very late hour in the big gloomy room looking +out on to the garden. Braun would go into ecstasies.... Who is there +that does not know the type that has a passionate love for things they +do not understand, or understand all wrong!--(which is why they love +them!)--Christophe did not mind: he had met so many idiots in the course +of his life! But when Braun gave vent to certain mawkish expressions of +enthusiasm, he would stop playing, and go up to his room without a word. +Braun grasped the truth at last, and put a stopper on his reflections. +Besides, his love for music was quickly sated: he could never listen +with any attention for more than a quarter of an hour on end: he would +pick up his paper, or doze off, and leave Christophe in peace. Anna +would sit back in her chair and say nothing: she would have her work in +her lap and seem to be working: but her eyes were always staring and her +hands never moved. Sometimes she would go out without a sound in the +middle of a piece, and be seen no more. + + * * * * * + +So the days passed. Christophe regained his strength. Braun's heavy but +kindly attentions, the tranquillity of the household, the restful +regularity of such a domestic life, the extremely nourishing German +food, restored him to his old robustness. His physical health was +repaired: but his moral machinery was still out of gear. His new vigor +only served to accentuate the disorder of his mind, which could not +recover its balance, like a badly ballasted ship which will turn turtle +on the smallest shock. + +He was profoundly lonely. He could have no intellectual intimacy with +Braun. His relations with Anna were reduced, with a few exceptions, to +saying good-morning and good-night. His dealings with his pupils were +rather hostile than otherwise: for he hardly hid from them his opinion +that the best thing for them to do was to give up music altogether. He +knew nobody. It was not only his fault, though he had hidden himself +away since his loss. People held aloof from him. + +He was living in an old town, full of intelligence and vitality, but +also full of patrician pride, self-contained, and self-satisfied. There +was a bourgeois aristocracy with a taste for work and the higher +culture, but narrow and pietistic, who were calmly convinced of their +own superiority and the superiority of their city, and quite content to +live in family isolation. There were enormous families with vast +ramifications. Each family had its day for a general gathering of the +clan. They were hardly at all open to the outside world. All these great +houses, with fortunes generations old, felt no need of showing their +wealth. They knew each other, and that was enough: the opinion of others +was a thing of no consequence. There were millionaires dressed like +humble shopkeepers, talking their raucous dialect with its pungent +expressions, going conscientiously to their offices, every day of their +lives, even at an age when the most industrious of men will grant +themselves the right to rest. Their wives prided themselves on their +domestic skill. No dowry was given to the daughters. Rich men let their +sons in their turn go through the same hard apprenticeship that they +themselves had served. They practised strict economy in their daily +lives. But they made a noble use of their fortune in collecting works of +art, picture galleries, and in social work: they were forever giving +enormous sums, nearly always anonymously, to found charities and to +enrich the museums. They were a mixture of greatness and absurdity, both +of another age. This little world, for which the rest of the world +seemed not to exist--(although its members knew it thoroughly through +their business, and their distant relationships, and the long and +extended voyages which they forced their sons to take,)--this little +world, for which fame and celebrity in another land only were esteemed +from the moment when they were welcomed and recognized by +itself,--practised the severest discipline upon itself. Every member of +it kept a watch upon himself and upon the rest. The result of all this +was a collective conscience which masked all individual differences +(more marked than elsewhere among the robust personalities of the place) +under the veil of religious and moral uniformity. Everybody practised +it, everybody believed in it. Not a single soul doubted it or would +admit of doubt. It were impossible to know what took place in the depths +of souls which were the more hermetically sealed against prying eyes +inasmuch as they knew that they were surrounded by a narrow scrutiny, +and that every man took upon himself the right to examine into the +conscience of other men. It was said that even those who had left the +country and thought themselves emancipated--as soon as they set foot in +it again were dominated by the traditions, the habits, the atmosphere of +the town: even the most skeptical were at once forced to practise and to +believe. Not to believe would have seemed to them an offense against +Nature. Not to believe was the mark of an inferior caste, a sign of bad +breeding. It was never admitted that a man of their world could possibly +be absolved of his religious duties. If a man did not practise their +religion, he was at once unclassed, and all doors were closed to him. + +Even the weight of such discipline was apparently not enough for them. +The men of this little world were not closely bound enough within their +caste. Within the great _Verein_ they had formed a number of smaller +_Verein_ by way of binding their fetters fast. There were several hundred +of them: and they were increasing every year. There were _Verein_ for +everything: for philanthropy, charitable work, commercial work, work that +was both charitable and commercial, for the arts, for the sciences, for +singing, music, spiritual exercises, physical exercises, merely to provide +excuses for meeting and taking their amusement collectively: there were +_Verein_ for the various districts and the various corporations: there +were _Verein_ for men of the same position in the world, the same degree +of wealth, men of the same social weight, who wore the same handle to +their names. It was even said that an attempt had been made to form a +_Verein_ for the _Vereinlosen_ (those who did not belong to any _Verein_): +though not twelve such people had been forthcoming. + +Within this triple bandage of town, caste, and union, the soul was +cramped and bound. Character was suppressed by a secret constraint. The +majority were brought up to it from childhood--had been for centuries: +and they found it good: they would have thought it improper and +unhealthy to go without these bandages. Their satisfied smiles gave no +indication of the discomfort they might be feeling. But Nature always +took her revenge. Every now and then there would arise some individual +in revolt, some vigorous artist or unbridled thinker who would brutally +break his bonds and set the city fathers by the ears. They were so +clever that, if the rebel had not been stifled in the embryo, and became +the stronger, they never troubled to fight him--(a fight might have +produced all sorts of scandalous outbreaks):--they bought him up. If he +were a painter, they sent him to the museum: if he were a thinker, to +the libraries. It was quite useless for him to roar out all sorts of +outrageous things: they pretended not to hear him. It was in vain for +him to protest his independence: they incorporated him as one of +themselves. So the effect of the poison was neutralized: it was the +homeopathic treatment.--But such cases were rare, most of the rebellions +never reached the light of day. Their peaceful houses concealed +unsuspected tragedies. The master of a great house would go quietly and +throw himself into the river, and leave no explanation. Sometimes a man +would go into retirement for six months, sometimes he would send his +wife to an asylum to restore her mind. Such things were spoken of quite +openly, as though they were quite natural, with that placidity which is +one of the great features of the town, the inhabitants of which are able +to maintain it in the face of suffering and death. + +These solid burgesses, who were hard upon themselves because they knew +their own worth, were much less hard on others because they esteemed +them less. They were quite liberal towards the foreigners dwelling in +the town like Christophe, German professors, and political refugees, +because they had no sort of feeling about them. And, besides, they loved +intelligence. Advanced ideas had no terrors for them: they knew that +their sons were impervious to their influence. They were coldly cordial +to their guests, and kept them at a distance. + +Christophe did not need to have these things underlined. He was in a +state of raw sensitiveness which left his feelings absolutely +unprotected: he was only too ready to see egoism and indifference +everywhere, and to withdraw into himself. + +To make matters worse, Braun's patients, and the very limited circle to +which his wife belonged, all moved in a little Protestant society which +was particularly strict. Christophe was ill-regarded by them both as a +Papist by origin and a heretic in fact. For his part, he found many +things which shocked him. Although he no longer believed, yet he bore +the marks of his inherited Catholicism, which was more poetic than a +matter of reason, more indulgent towards Nature, and never suffered the +self-torment of trying to explain and understand what to love and what +not to love: and also he had the habits of intellectual and moral +freedom which he had unwittingly come by in Paris. It was inevitable +that he should come into collision with the little pious groups of +people in whom all the defects of the Calvinistic spirit were marked and +exaggerated: a rationalistic religion, which clipped the wings of faith +and left it dangling over the abyss: for it started with an _a +priori_ reason which was open to discussion like all mysticism: it +was no longer poetry, nor was it prose, it was poetry translated into +prose. They had pride of intellect, an absolute, dangerous faith in +reason--in _their_ reason. They could not believe in God or in +immortality: but they believed in reason as a Catholic believes in the +Pope, or as a fetish-worshiper believes in his idol. They never even +dreamed of discussing the matter. In vain did life contradict it; they +would rather have denied life. They had no psychology, no understanding +of Nature, or of the hidden forces, the roots of humanity, the "Spirit +of the Earth." They fashioned a scheme of life and nature that were +childish, silly, arbitrary figments. Some of them were cultured and +practical people who had seen and read much. But they never saw or read +anything as it actually was: they always reduced it to an abstraction. +They were poor-blooded: they had high moral qualities: but they were not +human enough: and that is the cardinal sin. Their purity of heart, which +was often very real, noble, and naive, sometimes comic, unfortunately, +in certain cases, became tragic: it made them hard in their dealings +with others, and produced in them a tranquil inhumanity, self-confident +and free from anger, which was quite appalling. How should they +hesitate? Had they not truth, right, virtue, on their side? Did they not +receive revelation direct from their hallowed reason? Reason is a hard +sun: it gives light, but it blinds. In that withering light, without +shade or mist, human beings grow pallid, the blood is sucked up from +their hearts. + +Now, if there was one thing in the world that was utterly meaningless to +Christophe at that time it was reason. To his eyes its sun only lit up +the walls of the abyss, and neither showed him the means of escape nor +even enabled him to sound its depths. + +As for the artistic world, Christophe had little opportunity and less +desire to mix with it. The musicians were for the most part worthy +conservatives of the neo-Schumann period and "Brahmins" of the type +against which Christophe had formerly broken many a lance. There were +two exceptions: Krebs, the organist, who kept a famous confectioner's +shop, an honest man and a good musician, who would have been an even +better one if, to adapt the quip of one of his fellow-countrymen, "he +had not been seated on a Pegasus which he overfed with hay,"--and a +young Jewish composer of an original talent, a man full of a vigorous +and turbid sap, who had a business in the Swiss trade: wood carvings, +chalets, and Berne bears. They were more independent than the others, no +doubt because they did not make a trade of their art, and they would +have been very glad to come in touch with Christophe: and at any other +time Christophe would have been interested to know them: but at this +period of his life, all artistic and human curiosity was blunted in him: +he was more conscious of the division between himself and other men than +of the bond of union. + +His only friend, the confidant of his thoughts, was the river that ran +through the city--the same mighty fatherly river that washed the walls +of his native town up north. In the river Christophe could recover the +memory of his childish dreams.... But in his sorrow they took on, like +the Rhine itself, a darkling hue. In the dying day he would lean against +the parapet of the embankment and look down at the rushing river, the +fused and fusing, heavy, opaque, and hurrying mass, which was always +like a dream of the past, wherein nothing could be clearly seen but +great moving veils, thousands of streams, currents, eddies twisting into +form, then fading away: it was like the blurred procession of mental +images in a fevered mind: forever taking shape, forever melting away. +Over this twilight dream there skimmed phantom ferry-boats, like +coffins, with never a human form in them. Darker grew the night. The +river became bronze. The lights upon its banks made its armor shine with +an inky blackness, casting dim reflections, the coppery reflections of +the gas lamps, the moon-like reflections of the electric lights, the +blood-red reflections of the candles in the windows of the houses. The +river's murmur filled the darkness with its eternal muttering that was +far more sad than the monotony of the sea.... + +For hours together Christophe would stand drinking in the song of death +and weariness of life. Only with difficulty could he tear himself away: +then he would climb up to the house again, up the steep alleys with +their red steps, which were worn away in the middle: broken in soul and +body he would cling to the iron hand-rail fastened to the walls, which +gleamed under the light thrown down from the empty square on the hilltop +in front of the church that was shrouded in darkness.... + +He could not understand why men went on living. When he remembered the +struggles he had seen, he felt a bitter admiration for the undying faith +of humanity. Ideas succeeded the ideas most directly opposed to them, +reaction followed action:--democracy, aristocracy: socialism, +individualism: romanticism, classicism: progress, tradition:--and so on +to the end of time. Each new generation, consumed in its own heat in +less than ten years, believed steadfastly that it alone had reached the +zenith, and hurled its predecessors down and stoned them: each new +generation bestirred itself, and shouted, and took to itself the power +and the glory, only to be hurled down and stoned in turn by its +successors and so to disappear. Whose turn next?... + +The composition of music was no longer a refuge for Christophe: it was +intermittent, irregular, aimless. Write? For whom? For men? He was +passing through an acute phase of misanthropy. For himself? He was only +too conscious of the vanity of art with its impotence to top the void of +death. Only now and then the blind force that was in him would raise him +on its mighty beating wing and then fall back, worn out by the effort. +He was like a storm cloud rumbling in the darkness. With Olivier gone, +he had nothing left. He hurled himself against everything that had +filled his life, against the feelings that he had thought to share with +others, against the thoughts which he had in imagination had in common +with the rest of humanity. It seemed to him now that he had been the +plaything of an illusion: the whole life of society was based upon a +colossal misunderstanding originating in speech. We imagine that one +man's thought can communicate with the thought of other men. In reality +the connection lies only in words. We say and hear words: not one word +has the same meaning in the mouths of two different men. Words outrun +the reality of life. We speak of love and hatred. There is neither love +nor hatred, friends nor enemies, no faith, no passion, neither good nor +evil. There are only cold reflections of the lights falling from +vanished suns, stars that have been dead for ages.... Friends? There is +no lack of people to claim that name. But what a stale reality is +represented by their friendship! What is friendship in the sense of the +everyday world? How many minutes of his life does he who thinks himself +a friend give to the pale memory of his friend? What would he sacrifice +to him, not of the things that are necessary, but of his superfluity, +his leisure, his waste time? What had Christophe sacrificed for +Olivier?--(For he made no exception in his own case: he excepted only +Olivier from the state of nothingness into which he cast all human +beings).--Art is no more true than love. What room does it really occupy +in life? With what sort of love do they love it, they who declare their +devotion to it?... The poverty of human feeling is inconceivable. +Outside the instincts of species, the cosmic force which is the lever of +the world, nothing exists save a scattered dust of emotion. The majority +of men have not vitality enough to give themselves wholly to any +passion. They spare themselves and save their force with cowardly +prudence. They are a little of everything and nothing absolutely. A man +who gives himself without counting the cost, to everything that he does, +everything that he suffers, everything that he loves, everything that he +hates, is a prodigy, the greatest that is granted to us here on earth. +Passion is like genius: a miracle, which is as much as to say that it +does not exist. + +So thought Christophe: and life was on the verge of giving him the lie +in a terrible fashion. The miracle is everywhere, like fire in stone: +friction brings it forth. We have little notion of the demons who lie +slumbering within ourselves.... + + ... _Pero non mi destar, deh! parla basso!_... + +One evening when he was improvising at the piano, Anna got up and went +out, as she often did when Christophe was playing. Apparently his music +bored her. Christophe had ceased to notice it: he was indifferent to +anything she might think. He went on playing: then he had an idea which +he wished to write down, and stopped short and hurried up to his room +for the necessary paper. As he opened the door into the next room and, +with head down, rushed into the darkness, he bumped violently against a +figure standing motionless just inside. Anna.... The shock and the +surprise made her cry out. Christophe was anxious to know if he had hurt +her, and took her hands in his. Her hands were frozen. She seemed to +shiver,--no doubt from the shock. She muttered a vague explanation of +her presence there: + +"I was looking in the dining-room...." + +He did not hear what she was looking for: and perhaps she did not say +what it was. It seemed to him odd that she should go about looking for +something without a light. But he was used to Anna's singular ways and +paid no attention to it. An hour later he returned to the little parlor +where he used to spend the evening with Braun and Anna. He sat at the +table near the lamp, writing. Anna was on his right at the table, +sewing, with her head bent over her work. Behind them, in an armchair, +near the fire, Braun was reading a magazine. They were all three silent. +At intervals they could hear the pattering of the rain on the gravel in +the garden. To get away from her Christophe sat with his back turned to +Anna. Opposite him on the wall was a mirror which reflected the table, +the lamp, the two faces bending over their work. It seemed to Christophe +that Anna was looking at him. At first he did not pay much attention to +it; then, as he could not shake off the idea, he began to feel uneasy +and he looked up at the mirror and saw.... She was looking at him. And +in such a way! He was petrified with amazement, held his breath, watched +her. She did not know that he was watching her. The light of the lamp +was cast upon her pale face, the silent solemnity of which seemed now to +be fiercely concentrated. Her eyes--those strange eyes that he had never +been able squarely to see--were fixed upon him: they were dark blue, +with large pupils, and the expression in them was burning and hard: they +were fastened upon him, searching through him with dumb insistent ardor. +Her eyes? Could they be her eyes? He saw them and could not believe it. +Did he really see them? He turned suddenly.... Her eyes were lowered. He +tried to talk to her, to force her to look up at him. Impassively she +replied without raising her eyes from her work or from their refuge +behind the impenetrable shadow of her bluish eyelids with their short +thick lashes. If Christophe had not been quite positive of what he had +seen, he would have believed that he had been the victim of an illusion. +But he knew what he had seen, and he could not explain it away. + +However, as his mind was engrossed in his work and he found Anna very +uninteresting, the strange impression made on him did not occupy him for +long. + +A week later Christophe was trying over a song he had just composed, on +the piano. Braun, who had a mania, due partly to marital vanity and +partly to love of teasing, for worrying his wife to sing and play, had +been particularly insistent that evening. As a rule Anna only replied +with a curt "No"; after which she would not even trouble to reply to his +requests, entreaties, and pleasantries: she would press her lips +together and seem not to hear. On this occasion, to Braun's and +Christophe's astonishment, she folded up her work, got up, and went to +the piano. She sang the song which she had never even read. It was a +sort of miracle:--_the_ miracle. The deep tones of her voice bore +not the faintest resemblance to the rather raucous and husky voice in +which she spoke. With absolute sureness from the very first note, +without a shade of difficulty, without the smallest effort, she endued +the melody with a grandeur that was both moving and pure: and she rose +to an intensity of passion which made Christophe shiver: for it seemed +to him to be the very voice of his own heart. He looked at her in +amazement while she was singing, and at last, for the first time, he saw +her as she was. He saw her dark eyes in which there was kindled a light +of wildness, he saw her wide, passionate mouth with its clear-cut lips, +the voluptuous, rather heavy and cruel smile, her strong white teeth, +her beautiful strong hands, one of which was laid on the rack of the +piano, and the sturdy frame of her body cramped by her clothes, +emaciated by a life of economy and poverty, though it was easy to divine +the youth, the vigor, and the harmony, that were concealed by her gown. + +She stopped singing, and went and sat down with her hands folded in her +lap. Braun complimented her: but to his way of thinking there had been a +lack of softness in her singing. Christophe said nothing. He sat +watching her. She smiled vaguely, knowing that he was looking at her. +All the evening there was a complete silence between them. She knew +quite well that she had risen above herself, or rather, that she had +been "herself," for the first time. And she could not understand why. + + * * * * * + +From that day on Christophe began to observe Anna closely. She had +relapsed into her sullenness, her cold indifference, and her mania for +work, which exasperated even her husband, while beneath it all she +lulled the obscure thoughts of her troubled nature. It was in vain that +Christophe watched her, he never found her anything but the stiff +ordinary woman of their first acquaintance. Sometimes she would sit lost +in thought, doing nothing, with her eyes staring straight in front of +her. They would leave her so, and come back a quarter of an hour later +and find her just the same: she would never stir. When her husband asked +her what she was thinking of, she would rouse herself from her torpor +and smile and say that she was thinking of nothing. And she spoke the +truth. + +There was nothing capable of upsetting her equanimity. One day when she +was dressing, her spirit-lamp burst. In an instant Anna was a mass of +flames. The maid rushed away screaming for help. Braun lost his head, +flung himself about, shouted and yelled, and almost fell ill. Anna tore +away the hooks of her dressing-gown, slipped off her skirt just as it +was beginning to burn, and stamped on it. When Christophe ran in +excitedly with a water-bottle which he had blindly seized, he found Anna +standing on a chair, in her petticoat with her arms bare, calmly putting +out the burning curtains with her hands. She got burnt, said nothing +about it, and only seemed to be put out at being seen in such a costume. +She blushed, awkwardly covered her shoulders with her arms, and with an +air of offended dignity ran away into the next room. Christophe admired +her calmness: but he could not tell whether it proved her courage or her +insensibility. He was inclined to the latter explanation. Indeed, Anna +seemed to take no interest in anything, or in other people, or in +herself. Christophe doubted even whether she had a heart. + +He had no doubt at all after a little scene which he happened to +witness. Anna had a little black dog, with intelligent soft eyes, which +was the spoiled darling of the household. Braun adored it. Christophe +used to take it to his room when he shut himself up to work; and often, +when the door was closed, instead of working, he would play with it. +When he went out, the dog was always waiting for him at the door, +looking out for him, to follow at his heels: for he always wanted a +companion in his walks. She would run in front of him, pattering along +with her little paws moving so fast that they seemed to fly. Every now +and then she would stop in pride at walking faster than he: and she +would look at him and draw herself up archly. She used to beg, and bark +furiously at a piece of wood: but directly she saw another dog in the +distance she would tear away as fast as she could and tremblingly take +refuge between Christophe's legs. Christophe loved her and used to laugh +at her. Since he had held aloof from men he had come nearer to the +brutes: he found them pitiful and touching. The poor beasts surrender +with such absolute confidence to those who are kind to them! Man is so +much the master of their life and death that those who are cruel to the +weak creatures delivered into their hands are guilty of an abominable +abuse of power. + +Affectionate though the pretty creature was with every one, she had a +marked preference for Anna. She did nothing to attract the dog: but she +liked to stroke her and let her snuggle down in her lap, and see that +she was fed, and she seemed to love her as much as she was capable of +loving anything. One day the dog failed to get out of the way of a +motor-car. She was run over almost under the very eyes of her masters. +She was still alive and yelping pitiably. Braun ran out of the house +bareheaded: he picked up the bleeding mass and tried to relieve the +dog's suffering. Anna came up, looked down without so much as stooping, +made a face of disgust, and went away again. Braun watched the little +creature's agony with tears in his eyes. Christophe was striding up and +down the garden with clenched fists. He heard Anna quietly giving orders +to the servant. He could not help crying out: + +"It doesn't affect you at all?" + +She replied: + +"There's nothing to be done. It is better not to think of it." + +He felt that he hated her: then he was struck by the grotesqueness of +her reply: and he laughed. He thought it would be well if Anna could +give him her recipe for avoiding the thought of sad things, and that +life must be very easy for those who are lucky enough to have no heart. +He fancied that if Braun were to die, Anna would hardly be put out by +it, and he felt glad that he was not married. His solitude seemed less +sad to him than the fetters of habit that bind a man for life to a +creature to whom he may be an object of hatred, or worse still, nothing +at all. It was very certain that this woman loved no one. She hardly +existed. The atmosphere of piety had withered her. + +She took Christophe by surprise one day at the end of October.--They +were at dinner. He was talking to Braun about a crime of passion which +was the sole topic in the town. In the country two Italian girls, +sisters, had fallen in love with the same man. They were both unable to +make the sacrifice with a good grace, and so they had drawn lots as to +who should yield. But when the lot was cast the girl who had lost showed +little inclination to abide by the decision. The other was enraged by +such faithlessness. From insult they came to blows, and even to fighting +with knives: then, suddenly, the wind changed: they kissed each other, +and wept, and vowed that they could not live without each other: and, as +they could not submit to sharing the lover, they made up their minds +that he should be killed. This they did. One night the two girls invited +the lover to their room, and he was congratulating himself upon such +twofold favor; and, while one girl clasped him passionately in her arms, +the other no less passionately stabbed him in the back. It chanced that +his cries were heard. People came and tore him in a pitiable condition +from the embraces of his charmers, and they were arrested. They +protested that it was no one's business, and that they alone were +interested in the matter, and that, from the moment when they had agreed +to rid themselves of their own property, it was no one else's concern. +Their victim was not a little inclined to agree with their line of +argument: but the law was unable to follow it. And Braun could not +understand it either. + +"They are mad," he said. "They should be shut up in an asylum. +Beasts!... I can understand a man killing himself for love. I can even +understand a man killing the woman he loves if she deceives him.... I +don't mean that I would excuse his doing so: but I am prepared to admit +that there is a remnant of primitive savagery in us: it is barbarous, +but it is logical: you kill the person who makes you suffer. But for a +woman to kill the man she loves, without bitterness, without hatred, +simply because another woman loves him, is nothing but madness.... Can +you understand it, Christophe?" + +"Peuh!" said Christophe. "I'm quite used to being unable to understand +things. Love is madness." + +Anna, who had said nothing, and seemed not to be listening, said in her +calm voice: + +"There is nothing irrational in it. It is quite natural. When a woman +loves, she wants to destroy the man she loves so that no one else may +have him." + +Braun looked at his wife aghast, thumped on the table, folded his arms, +and said: + +"Where on earth did you get that from?... What? So you must put your oar +in, must you? What the devil do you know about it?" + +Anna blushed a little, and said no more. Braun went on: + +"When a woman loves, she wants to destroy, does she? That's a nice sort +of thing to say! To destroy any one who is dear to you is to destroy +yourself.--On the contrary, when one loves, the natural feeling is to do +good to the person you love, to cherish him, to defend him, to be kind +to him, to be kind to everything and everybody. Love is paradise on +earth." + +Anna sat staring into the darkness, and let him talk, and then shook her +head, and said coldly: + +"A woman is not kind when she loves." + +Christophe did not renew the experiment of hearing Anna sing. He was +afraid ... of disillusion, or what? He could not tell. Anna was just as +fearful. She would never stay in the room when he began to play. + +But one evening in November, as he was reading by the fire, he saw Anna +sitting with her sewing in her lap, deep in one of her reveries. She was +looking blankly in front of her, and Christophe thought he saw in her +eyes the strangely burning light of the other evening. He closed his +book. She felt his eyes upon her, and picked up her sewing. With her +eyelids down she saw everything. He got up and said: + +"Come." + +She stared at him, and there was still a little uneasiness in her eyes: +she understood, and followed him. + +"Where are you going?" asked Braun. + +"To the piano," replied Christophe. + +He played. She sang. At once he found her just as she had been on the +first occasion. She entered the heroic world of music as a matter of +course, as though it were her own. He tested her yet further, and went +on to a second song, then to a third, more passionate, which let loose +in her the whole gamut of passion, uplifting both herself and him: then, +as they reached a very paroxysm, he stopped short and asked her, staring +straight into her eyes: + +"Tell me, what woman are you?" + +Anna replied: + +"I do not know." + +He said brutally: + +"What is there in you that makes you sing like that?" + +She replied: + +"Only what you put there to make me sing." + +"Yes? Well, it is not out of place. I'm wondering whether I created it +or you. How do you come to think of such things?" + +"I don't know. I think I am no longer myself when I am singing." + +"I think it is only then that you are yourself." + +They said no more. Her cheeks were wet with a slight perspiration. Her +bosom heaved, but she spoke no word. She stared at the lighted candles, +and mechanically scratched away the wax that had trickled down the side +of the candlestick. He drummed on the keys as he sat looking at her. +They exchanged a few awkward remarks, brusquely and roughly, and then +they tried a commonplace remark or two, and finally relapsed into +silence, being fearful of probing any farther.... + +Next day they hardly spoke: they stole glances at each other in a sort +of dread. But they made it a habit to play and sing together in the +evening. Before long they began in the afternoon, giving a little more +time to it each day. Always the same incomprehensible passion would take +possession of her with the very first bars, and set her flaming from +head to foot, and, while the music lasted, make of the ordinary little +woman an imperious Venus, the incarnation of all the furies of the soul. +Braun was surprised at Anna's sudden craze for singing, but did not take +the trouble to discover any explanation for a mere feminine caprice: he +was often present at their little concerts, marked time with his head, +gave his advice, and was perfectly happy, although he would have +preferred softer, sweeter music: such an expenditure of energy seemed to +him exaggerated and unnecessary. Christophe breathed freely in the +atmosphere of danger: but he was losing his head: he was weakened by the +crisis through which he had passed, and could not resist, and lost +consciousness of what was happening to him without perceiving what was +happening to Anna. One afternoon, in the middle of a song, with all the +frantic ardor of it in full blast, she suddenly stopped, and left the +room without making any explanation. Christophe waited for her: she did +not return. Half an hour later, as he was going down the passage past +Anna's room, through the half-open door he saw her absorbed in grim +prayer, with all expression frozen from her face. + +However, a slight, very slight, feeling of confidence cropped up between +them. He tried to make her talk about her past: only with great +difficulty could he induce her to tell him a few commonplace details. +Thanks to Braun's easy, indiscreet good nature, he was able to gain a +glimpse into her intimate life. + +She was a native of the town. Her maiden name was Anna Maria Senfl. Her +father, Martin Senfl, was a member of an old commercial house, very old +and enormously rich, in whom pride of caste and religious strictness +were ingrained. Being of an adventurous temper, like many of his +fellow-countrymen, he had spent several years abroad in the East and in +South America: he had even made bold exploring expeditions in Central +Asia, whither he had gone to advance the commercial interests of his +house, for love of science, and for his own pleasure. By dint of rolling +through the world, he had not only gathered no moss, but had also rid +himself of that which covered him, the moss of his old prejudices. When, +therefore, he returned to his own country, being of a warm temper and an +obstinate mind, he married, in face of the indignant protests of his +family, the daughter of a farmer of the surrounding country, a lady of +doubtful reputation who had originally been his mistress. Marriage had +been the only available means of keeping the beautiful girl to himself, +and he could not do without her. After having exercised its veto in +vain, his family absolutely closed its doors to its erring member who +had set aside its sacrosanct authority. The town--all those, that is, +who mattered, who, as usual, were absolutely united in any matter that +touched the moral dignity of the community--sided bodily against the +rash couple. The explorer learned to his cost that it is no less +dangerous to traverse the prejudice of the people in a country inhabited by +the sectaries of Christ, than in a country inhabited by those of the +Grand Lania. He had not been strong enough to live without public +opinion. He had more than jeopardized his patrimony: he could find no +employment: everything was closed to him. He wore himself out in futile +wrath against the affronts of the implacable town. His health, +undermined by excess and fever, could not bear up against it. He died of +a flux of blood five months after his marriage. Four months later, his +wife, a good creature, but weak and feather-brained, who had never lived +through a day since her marriage without weeping, died in childbirth, +casting the infant Anna upon the shores which she was leaving. + +Martin's mother was alive. Even when they were dying she had not +forgiven her son or the woman whom she had refused to acknowledge as her +daughter-in-law. But when the woman died--and Divine vengeance was +appeased--she took the child and looked after her. She was a woman of +the narrowest piety: she was rich and mean, and kept a draper's shop in +a gloomy street in the old town. She treated her son's daughter less as +a grandchild than as an orphan taken in out of charity, and therefore +occupying more or less the position of a servant by way of payment. +However, she gave her a careful education; but she never departed from +her attitude of suspicious strictness towards her; it seemed as though +she considered the child guilty of her parents' sin, and therefore set +herself to chasten and chastise the sin in her. She never allowed her +any amusement: she punished everything that was natural in her gestures, +words, thoughts, as a crime. She killed all joy in her young life. From +a very early age Anna was accustomed to being bored in church and +disguising the fact: she was hemmed in by the terrors of hell: every +Sunday the child's heavy-lidded eyes used to see them at the door of the +old _Münster_, in the shape of the immodest and distorted statues +with a fire burning between their legs, while round their loins crawled +toads and snakes. She became accustomed to suppressing her instincts and +lying to herself. As soon as she was old enough to help her grandmother, +she was kept busy from morning to night in the dark gloomy shop. She +assimilated the habits of those around her, the spirit of order, grim +economy, futile privations, the bored indifference, the contemptuous, +ungracious conception of life, which is the natural consequence of +religious beliefs in those who are not naturally religious. She was +so wholly given up to her piety as to seem rather absurd even to the old +woman: she indulged in far too many fasts and macerations: at one period +she even went so far as to wear corsets embellished with pins, which +stuck into her flesh with every movement. She was seen to go pale, but +no one knew what was the matter. At last, when she fainted, a doctor was +called in. She refused to allow him to examine her--(she would have died +rather than undress in the presence of a man)--but she confessed: and +the doctor was so angry about it that she promised not to do it again. +To make quite sure her grandmother thereafter took to inspecting her +clothes. In such self-torture Anna did not, as might have been supposed, +find any mystic pleasure: she had little imagination, she would never +have understood the poetry of saints like Francis of Assisi or Teresa. +Her piety was sad and materialistic. When she tormented herself, it was +not in any hope of advantage to be gained in the next world, but came +only from a cruel boredom which rebounded against herself, so that she +only found in it an almost angry pleasure in hurting herself. Singularly +enough, her hard, cold spirit was, like her grandmother's, open to the +influence of music, though she never knew how profound that influence +was. She was impervious to all the other arts: probably she had never +looked at a picture in her life: she seemed to have no sense of plastic +beauty, for she was lacking in taste, owing to her proud and wilful +indifference; the idea of a beautiful body only awoke in her the idea of +nakedness, that is to say, like the peasant of whom Tolstoy speaks, a +feeling of repugnance, which was all the stronger in Anna inasmuch as +she was dimly aware, in her relations with other people whom she liked, +of the vague sting of desire far more than of the calm impression of +esthetic judgment. She had no more idea of her own beauty than of her +suppressed instincts: or rather, she refused to have any idea of it: and +with her habitual self-deception she succeeded in deluding herself. + +Braun met her at a marriage feast at which she was present, quite +unusually for her: for she was hardly ever invited because of the evil +reputation which clung to her from her improper origin. She was +twenty-two. He marked her out; not that she made any attempt to attract +attention. She sat next him at dinner: she was very stiff and badly +dressed, and she hardly ever opened her mouth. But Braun never stopped +talking to her, in a monologue, all through the meal, and he went away +in raptures. With his usual penetration, he had been struck by his +neighbor's air of original simplicity: he had admired her common sense +and her coolness: also he appreciated her healthiness and the solid +domestic qualities which she seemed to him to possess. He called on her +grandmother, called again, proposed, and was accepted. She was given no +dowry: Madame Senfl had left all the wealth of her family to the town to +encourage trade abroad. + +At no point in her life had the young wife had any love for her husband; +the idea of such a thing never seemed to her to play any part in the +life of an honest woman, but rather to be properly set aside as guilty. +But she knew the worth of Braun's kindness: she was grateful to him, +though she never showed it, for having married her in spite of her +doubtful origin. Besides, she had a very strong feeling of honor between +husband and wife. For the first seven years of their married life +nothing had occurred to disturb their union. They lived side by side, as +it were, did not understand each other, and never worried about it: in +the eyes of the world they were a model couple. They went out very +little. Braun had a fairly practice, but he had never succeeded in +making his friends accept his wife. No one liked her: and the stigma of +her birth was not yet quite obliterated. Anna, for her part, never put +herself out in order to gain admission to society. She was resentful on +account of the scorn which had cast a cloud on her childhood. Besides, +she was never at her ease in society, and she was not sorry to be left +out of it. She paid and received a few inevitable calls, such as her +husband's interests made necessary. Her callers were inquisitive and +scandalous women of the middle-class. Anna had not the slightest +interest in their gossip, and she never took the trouble to conceal her +indifference. That is what such people never forgive. So her callers +grew fewer and more far between, and Anna was left alone. That was what +she wanted: nothing could then come and break in upon the dreams over +which she brooded, and the obscure thrill and humming of life that was +ever in her body. Meanwhile for some weeks Anna looked very unwell. Her +face grew thin and pale. She avoided both Christophe and Braun. She +spent her days in her room, lost in thought, and she never replied when +she was spoken to. Usually Braun did not take much notice of her +feminine caprices. He would explain them to Christophe at length. Like +all men fated to be deceived by women he flattered himself that he knew +them through and through. He did know something about them, as a matter +of fact, but a little knowledge is quite useless. He knew that women +often have fits of persistent moodiness and blindly sullen antagonism: +and it was his opinion that it was necessary at such times to leave them +alone, and to make no attempt to understand or, above all, to find out +what they were doing in the dangerous unconscious world in which their +minds were steeped. Nevertheless he did begin to grow anxious about +Anna. He thought that her pining must be the result of her mode of life, +always shut up, never going outside the town, hardly ever out of the +house. He wanted her to go for walks: but he could hardly ever go with +her: the whole day on Sunday was taken up with her pious duties, and on +the other days of the week he had consultations all day long. As for +Christophe, he avoided going out with her. Once or twice they had gone +for a short walk together, as far as the gates of the town: they were +bored to death. Their conversation came to a standstill. Nature seemed +not to exist for Anna: she never saw anything: the country was to her +only grass and stones: her insensibility was chilling. Christophe tried +once to make her admire a beautiful view. She looked, smiled coldly, and +said, with an effort towards being pleasant: + +"Oh! yes, it is very mystic...." + +She said it just as she might have said: + +"The sun is very hot." + +Christophe was so irritated that he dug his nails into the palms of his +hands. After that he never asked her anything: and when she was going +out he always made some excuse and stayed in his room. + +In reality it was not true that Anna was insensible to Nature. She did +not like what are conventionally called beautiful landscapes: she could +see no difference between them and other landscapes. But she loved the +country whatever it might be like--just earth and air. Only she had no +more idea of it than of her other strong feelings: and those who lived +with her had even less idea of it. + +Braun so far insisted as to induce his wife to make a day's excursion +into the outskirts of the town. She was so bored with him that she +consented for the sake of peace. It was arranged that they should go on +the Sunday. At the last moment, the doctor, who had been looking forward +to it with childlike glee, was detained by an urgent case of illness. +Christophe went with Anna. + +It was a fine winter day with no snow: a pure cold air, a clear sky, a +flaming sun, and an icy wind. They went out on a little local railway +which took them to one of the lines of blue hills which formed a distant +halo round the town. Their compartment was full: they were separated. +They did not speak to each other. Anna was in a gloomy mood: the day +before she had declared, to Braun's surprise, that she would not go to +church on Sunday. For the first time in her life she missed a service. +Was it revolt?... Who could tell what struggles were taking place in +her? She stared blankly at the seat in front of her, she was pale: she +was eating her heart out. + +They got out of the train. The coldness and antagonism between them did +not disappear during the first part of their walk. They stepped out side +by side: she walked with a firm stride and looked at nothing: her hands +were free: she swung her arms: her heels rang out on the frozen +earth.--Gradually her face quickened into life. The swiftness of their +pace brought the color to her pale cheeks. Her lips parted to drink in +the keen air. At the turn of a zigzag path she began to climb straight +up the hillside like a goat; she scrambled along the edge of a quarry, +where she was in great danger of failing, clinging to the shrubs. +Christophe followed her. She climbed faster and faster, slipping, +stopping herself by clutching at the grass with her hands. Christophe +shouted to her to stop. She made no reply, but went on climbing on all +fours. They passed through the mists which hung above the valley like a +silvery gauze rent here and there by the bushes: and they stood in the +warm sunlight of the uplands. When she reached the summit she stopped: +her face was aglow: her mouth was open, and she was breathing heavily. +Ironically she looked down at Christophe scaling the slope, took off her +cloak, flung it at him, then without giving him time to take his breath, +she darted on. Christophe ran after her. They warmed to the game: the +air intoxicated them. She plunged down a steep slope: the stones gave +way under her feet: she did not falter, she slithered, jumped, sped down +like an arrow. Every now and then she would dart a glance behind her to +see how much she had gained on Christophe. He was close upon her. She +plunged into a wood. The dead leaves crackled under their footsteps: the +branches which she thrust aside whipped back into his face. She stumbled +over the roots of a tree. He caught her. She struggled, lunging out with +hands and feet, struck him hard, trying to knock him off: she screamed +and laughed. Her bosom heaved against him: for a moment their cheeks +touched: he tasted the sweat that lay on Anna's brow: he breathed the +scent of her moist hair. She pushed away from him and looked at him, +unmoved, with defiant eyes. He was amazed at her strength, which all +went for nothing in her ordinary life. + +They went to the nearest village, joyfully trampling the dry stubble +crisping beneath their feet. In front of them whirled the crows who were +ransacking the fields. The sun was burning, the wind was biting. He held +Anna's arm. She had on a rather thin dress: through the stuff he could +feel the moisture and the tingling warmth of her body. He wanted her to +put on her cloak once more: she refused, and in bravado undid the hooks +at her neck. They lunched at an inn, the sign of which bore the figure +of a "wild man" (_Zum wilden Mann_). A little pine-tree grew in +front of the door. The dining-room was decorated with German quatrains, +and two chromolithographs, one of which was sentimental: _In the +Spring (Im Frühling)_, and the other patriotic: _The Battle of +Saint Jacques_, and a crucifix with a skull at the foot of the cross. +Anna had a voracious appetite, such as Christophe had never known her to +have. They drank freely of the ordinary white wine. After their meal +they set out once more across the fields, in a blithe spirit of +companionship. In neither was there any equivocal thought. They were +thinking only of the pleasure of their walk, the singing in their blood, +and the whipping, nipping air. Anna's tongue was loosed. She was no +longer on her guard: she said just whatever came into her mind. + +She talked about her childhood, and how her grandmother used to take her +to the house of an old friend who lived near the cathedral: and while the +old ladies talked they sent her into the garden over which there +hung the shadow of the _Münster_. She used to sit in a corner and +never stir: she used to listen to the shivering of the leaves, and watch +the busy swarming insects: and she used to be both pleased and +afraid.--(She made no mention of her fear of devils: her imagination was +obsessed by it: she had been told that they prowled round churches but +never dared enter: and she used to believe that they appeared in the +shape of animals: spiders, lizards, ants, all the hideous creatures that +swarmed about her, under the leaves, over the earth, or in the crannies +of the walls).--Then she told him about the house she used to live in, +and her sunless room: she remembered it with pleasure: she used to spend +many sleepless nights there, telling herself things.... + +"What things?" + +"Silly things." + +"Tell me." + +She shook her head in refusal. + +"Why not?" + +She blushed, then laughed, and added: + +"In the daytime too, while I was at work." + +She thought for a moment, laughed once more, and then said: + +"They were silly things, bad things." + +He said, jokingly: +"Weren't you afraid?" + +"Of what?" + +"Of being damned?" + +The expression in her eyes froze. + +"You mustn't talk of that," she said. + +He turned the conversation. He marveled at the strength she had shown a +short while before in their scuffle. She resumed her confiding +expression and told him of her girlish achievements--(she said "boyish," +for, when she was a child she had always longed to join in the games and +rights of the boys).--On one occasion when she was with a little boy who +was a head taller than herself she had suddenly struck him with her +fist, hoping that he would strike her back. But he ran away yelling that +she was beating him. Once, again, in the country she had climbed on to +the back of a black cow as she was grazing: the terrified beast flung +her against a tree, and she had narrowly escaped being killed. Once she +took it into her head to jump out of a first-floor window because she +had dared herself to do it: she was lucky enough to get off with a +sprain. She used to invent strange, dangerous gymnastics when she was +left alone in the house: she used to subject her body to all sorts of +queer experiments. + +"Who would think it of you now, to see you looking so solemn?..." + +"Oh!" she said, "if you were to see me sometimes when I am alone in my +room!" + +"What! Even now?" + +She laughed. She asked him--jumping from one subject to another--if he +were a shot. + +He told her that he never shot. She said that she had once shot at a +blackbird with a gun and had wounded it. He waxed indignant. + +"Oh!" she said. "What does it matter?" + +"Have you no heart?" + +"I don't know." + +"Don't you ever think the beasts are living creatures like ourselves?" + +"Yes," she said. "Certainly. I wanted to ask you: do you think the +beasts have souls?" + +"Yes. I think so." + +"The minister says not. But I think they have souls.... Sometimes," she +added, "I think I must have been an animal in a previous existence." + +He began to laugh. + +"There's nothing to laugh at," she said (she laughed too). "That is one +of the stories I used to tell myself when I was little. I used to +pretend to be a cat, a dog, a bird, a foal, a heifer. I was conscious of +all their desires. I wanted to be in their skins or their feathers for a +little while: and it used to be as though I really was. You can't +understand that?" + +"You are a strange creature. But if you feel such kinship with the +beasts how can you bear to hurt them?" + +"One is always hurting some one. Some people hurt me. I hurt other +people. That's the way of the world. I don't complain. We can't afford +to be squeamish in life! I often hurt myself for the pleasure of it." + +"Hurt yourself?" + +"Myself. One day I hammered a nail into my hand, here." + +"Why?" + +"There wasn't any reason." + +(She did not tell him that she had been trying to crucify herself.) + +"Give me your hand," she said. + +"What do you want it for?" + +"Give it me." + +He gave her his hand. She took it and crushed it until he cried out. +They played, like peasants, at seeing how much they could hurt each +other. They were happy and had no ulterior thought. The rest of the +world, the fetters of their ordinary life, the sorrows of the past, fear +of the future, the gathering storm within themselves, all had +disappeared. + +They had walked several miles, but they were not at all tired. Suddenly +she stopped, flung herself down on the ground, and lay full length on +the stubble, and said no more. She lay on her back with her hands behind +her head and looked up at the sky. Oh! the peace of it, and the +sweetness!... A few yards away a spring came bubbling up in an +intermittent stream, like an artery beating, now faintly, now more +strongly. The horizon took on a pearly hue. A mist hung over the purple +earth from which the black naked trees stood out. The late winter sun +was shining, the little pale gold sun sinking down to rest. Like +gleaming arrows the birds cleft the air. The gentle voices of the +country bells called and answered calling from village to village.... +Christophe sat near Anna and looked down at her. She gave no thought to +him. She was full of a heartfelt joy. Her beautiful lips smiled +silently. He thought: + +"Is that you? I do not know you." + +"Nor I. Nor I. I think I must be some one else. I am no longer afraid: I +am no longer afraid of Him.... Ah! How He stifled me, how He made me +suffer! I seemed to have been nailed down in my coffin.... Now I can +breathe: this body and this heart are mine. My body. My dear body. My +heart is free and full of love. There is so much happiness in me! And I +knew it not. I never knew myself! What have you done to me?..." + +So he thought he could hear her softly sighing to herself. But she was +thinking of nothing, only that she was happy, only that all was well. + +The evening had begun to fall. Behind the gray and lilac veils of mist, +about four o'clock, the sun, weary of life, was setting. Christophe got +up and went to Anna. He bent down to her. She turned her face to him, +still dizzy with looking up into the vast sky over which she seemed to +have been hanging. A few seconds passed before she recognized him. Then +her eyes stared at him with an enigmatic smile that told him of the +unease that was in her. To escape the knowledge of it he closed his eyes +for a moment. When he opened them again she was still looking at him: +and it seemed to him that for many days they had so looked into each +other's eyes. It was as though they were reading each other's soul. But +they refused to admit what they had read there. + +He held out his hand to her. She took it without a word. They went back +to the village, the towers of which they could see shaped like the +pope's nose in the heart of the valley: one of the towers had an empty +storks' nest on the top of its roof of mossy tiles, looking just like a +toque on a woman's head. At a cross-roads just outside the village they +passed a fountain above which stood a little Catholic saint, a wooden +Magdalene, graciously and a little mincingly holding out her arms. With +an instinctive movement Anna responded to the gesture and held out her +arms also, and she climbed on to the curb and filled the arms of the +pretty little goddess with branches of holly and mountain-ash with such +of their red berries as the birds and the frost had spared. + +On the road they passed little groups of peasants and peasant women in +their Sunday clothes: women with brown skins, very red cheeks, thick +plaits coiled round their heads, light dresses, and hats with flowers. +They wore white gloves and red cuffs. They were singing simple songs +with shrill placid voices not very much in tune. In a stable a cow was +mooing. A child with whooping-cough was coughing in a house. A little +farther on there came up the nasal sound of a clarionet and a cornet. +There was dancing in the village square between the little inn and the +cemetery. Four musicians, perched on a table, were playing a tune. Anna +and Christophe sat in front of the inn and watched the dancers. The +couples were jostling and slanging each other vociferously. The girls +were screaming for the pleasure of making a noise. The men drinking were +beating time on the tables with their fists. At any other time such +ponderous coarse joy would have disgusted Anna: but now she loved it: +she had taken off her hat and was watching eagerly. Christophe poked fun +at the burlesque solemnity of the music and the musicians. He fumbled in +his pockets and produced a pencil and began to make lines and dots on +the back of a hotel bill: he was writing dance music. The paper was soon +covered: he asked for more, and these too he covered like the first with +his big scrawling writing. Anna looked over his shoulder with her face +near his and hummed over what he wrote: she tried to guess how the +phrases would end, and clapped her hands when she guessed right or when +her guesses were falsified by some unexpected sally. When he had done +Christophe took what he had written to the musicians. They were honest +Suabians who knew their business, and they made it out without much +difficulty. The melodies were sentimental, and of a burlesque humor, +with strongly accented rhythms, punctuated, as it were, with bursts of +laughter. It was impossible to resist their impetuous fun: nobody's feet +could help dancing. Anna rushed into the throng; she gripped the first +pair of hands held out to her and whirled about like a mad thing; a +tortoise-shell pin dropped out of her hair and a few locks of it fell +down and hung about her face. Christophe never took his eyes off her: he +marveled at the fine healthy animal who hitherto had been condemned to +silence and immobility by a pitiless system of discipline: he saw her as +no one had ever seen her, as she really was under her borrowed mask: a +Bacchante, drunk with life. She called to him. He ran to her and put his +arms round her waist. They danced and danced until they whirled crashing +into a wall. They stopped, dazed. Night was fully come. They rested for +a moment and then said good-by to the company. Anna, who was usually so +stiff with the common people, partly from embarrassment, partly from +contempt, held out her hand to the musicians, the host of the inn, the +village boys with whom she had been dancing. + +Once more they were alone under the brilliant frozen sky retracing the +paths across the fields by which they had come in the morning. Anna was +still excited. She talked less and less, and then ceased altogether, as +though she had succumbed to fatigue or to the mysterious emotion of the +night. She leaned affectionately on Christophe. As they were going down +the slope up which they had so blithely scrambled a few hours before, +she sighed. They approached the station. As they came to the first house +he stopped and looked at her. She looked up at him and smiled sadly. The +train was just as crowded as it had been before, and they could not +talk. He sat opposite her and devoured her with his eyes. Her eyes were +lowered: she raised them and looked at him when she felt his eyes upon +her: then she glanced away and he could not make her look at him again. +She sat gazing out into the night. A vague smile hovered about her lips +which showed a little weariness at the corners. Then her smile +disappeared. Her expression became mournful. He thought her mind must be +engrossed by the rhythm of the train and he tried to speak to her. She +replied coldly, without turning her head, with a single word. He tried +to persuade himself that her fatigue was responsible for the change: but +he knew that it was for a very different reason. The nearer they came to +the town the more he saw Anna's face grow cold, and life die down in +her, and all her beautiful body with its savage grace drop back into its +casing of stone. She did not make use of the hand he held out to her as +she stepped out of the carriage. They returned home in silence. + +A few days later, about four o'clock in the evening, they were alone +together. Braun had gone out. Since the day before the town had been +shrouded in a pale greenish fog. The murmuring of the invisible river +came up. The lights of the electric trams glared through the mist. The +light of day was dead, stifled: time seemed to be wiped out: it was one +of those hours when men lose all consciousness of reality, an hour which +is outside the march of the ages. After the cutting wind of the +preceding days, the moist air had suddenly grown warmer, too damp and +too soft. The sky was filled with snow, and bent under the load. + +They were alone together in the drawing-room, the cold cramped taste of +which was the reflection of that of its mistress. They said nothing. He +was reading. She was sewing. He got up and went to the window: he +pressed his face against the panes, and stood so dreaming: he was +stupefied and heavy with the dull light which was cast back from the +darkling sky upon the livid earth: his thoughts were uneasy: he tried in +vain to fix them: they escaped him. He was filled with a bitter agony: +he felt that he was being engulfed: and in the depths of his being, from +the chasm of the heap of ruins came a scorching wind in slow gusts. He +turned his back on Anna: she could not see him, she was engrossed in her +work; but a faint thrill passed through her body: she pricked herself +several times with her needle, but she did not feel it. They were both +fascinated by the approaching danger. + +He threw off his stupor and took a few strides across the room. The +piano attracted him and made him fearful. He looked away from it. As he +passed it his hand could not resist it, and touched a note. The sound +quivered like a human voice. Anna trembled, and let her sewing fall. +Christophe, was already seated and playing. Without seeing her, he knew +that Anna had got up, that she was coming towards him, that she was by +his side. Before he knew what he was doing, he had begun the religious +and passionate melody that she had sung the first time she had revealed +herself to him: he improvised a fugue with variations on the theme. +Without his saying a word to her, she began to sing. They lost all sense +of their surroundings. The sacred frenzy of music had them in its +clutches.... + +O music, that openest the abysses of the soul! Thou dost destroy the +normal balance of the mind. In ordinary life, ordinary souls are closed +rooms: within, there droop the unused forces of life, the virtues and +the vices to use which is hurtful to us: sage, practical wisdom, +cowardly common sense, are the keepers of the keys of the room. They let +us see only a few cupboards tidily and properly arranged. But music +holds the magic wand which drives back every lock. The doors are opened. +The demons of the heart appear. And, for the first time, the soul sees +itself naked.--While the siren sings, while the bewitching voice +trembles on the air, the tamer holds all the wild beasts in check with +the power of the eye. The mighty mind and reason of a great musician +fascinates all the passions that he set loose. But when the music dies +away, when the tamer is no longer there, then the passions he has +summoned forth are left roaring in their tottering cage, and they seek +their prey.... + +The melody ended. Silence.... While she was singing she had laid her +hand on Christophe's shoulder. They dared not move: and each felt the +other trembling. Suddenly--in a flash--she bent down to him, he turned +to her: their lips met: he drank her breath.... + +She flung away from him and fled. He stayed, not stirring in the dark. +Braun returned. They sat down to dinner. Christophe was incapable of +thought. Anna seemed absent-minded: she was looking "elsewhere." Shortly +after dinner she went to her room. Christophe found it impossible to +stay alone with Braun, and went upstairs also. + +About midnight the doctor was called from his bed to a patient. +Christophe heard him go downstairs and out. It had been snowing ever +since six o'clock. The houses and the streets were under a shroud. The +air was as though it were padded with cotton-wool. Not a step, not a +carriage could be heard outside. The town seemed dead. Christophe could +not sleep. He had a feeling of terror which grew from minute to minute. +He could not stir. He lay stiff in his bed, on his back, with his eyes +wide open. A metallic light cast up from the white earth and roofs fell +upon the walls of the room.... An imperceptible noise made him tremble. +Only a man at a feverish tension could have heard it. Came a soft +rustling on the floor of the passage. Christophe sat up in bed. The +faint noise came nearer, stopped; a board creaked. There was some one +behind the door: some one waiting.... Absolute stillness for a few +seconds, perhaps for several minutes.... Christophe could not breathe, +he broke out into a sweat. Outside flakes of snow brushed the window as +with a wing. A hand fumbled with the door and opened it. There appeared +a white form, and it came slowly forward: it halted a few yards away +from him. Christophe could see nothing clearly: but he could hear her +breathing: and he could hear his own heart thumping. She came nearer to +him; once more she halted. Their faces were so near that their breath +mingled. Their eyes sought each other vainly in the darkness.... She +fell into his arms. In silence, without a word, they hugged each other +close, frenziedly.... + + * * * * * + +An hour, two hours, a century later, the door of the house was opened. +Anna broke from the embrace in which they were locked, slipped away, and +left Christophe without a word, just as she had come. He heard her bare +feet moving away, just skimming the floor in her swift flight. She +regained her room, and there Braun found her in her bed, apparently +asleep. So she lay through the night, with eyes wide open, breathless, +still, in her narrow bed near the sleeping Braun. How many nights had +she passed like that! + +Christophe could not sleep either. He was utterly in despair. He had +always regarded the things of love, and especially marriage, with tragic +seriousness. He hated the frivolity of those writers whose art uses +adultery as a spicy flavoring. Adultery roused in him a feeling of +repulsion which was a combination of his vulgar brutality and high +morality. He had always felt a mixture of religious respect and physical +disgust for a woman who belonged to another man. The doglike promiscuity +in which some of the rich people in Europe lived appalled him. Adultery +with the consent of the husband is a filthy thing: without the husband's +knowledge it is a base deceit only worthy of a rascally servant hiding +away to betray and befoul his master's honor. How often had he not +piteously despised those whom he had known to be guilty of such +cowardice! He had broken with some of his friends who had thus +dishonored themselves in his eyes.... And now he too was sullied with +the same shameful thing! The circumstances of the crime only made it the +more odious. He had come to the house a sick, wretched man. His friend +had welcomed him, helped him, given him comfort. His kindness had never +flagged. Nothing had been too great a demand upon it. He owed him his +very life. And in return he had robbed the man of his honor and his +happiness, his poor little domestic happiness! He had basely betrayed +him, and with whom? With a woman whom he did not know, did not +understand, did not love.... Did he not love her? His every drop of +blood rose up against him. Love is too faint a word to express the river +of fire that rushed through him when he thought of her. It was not love, +it was a thousand times a greater thing than love.... He was in a whirl +all through the night. He got up, dipped his face in the icy water, +gasped, and shuddered. The crisis came to a head in an attack of fever. + +When he got up, aching all over, he thought that she, even more than he, +must be overwhelmed with shame. He went to the window. The sun was +shining down upon the dazzling snow. In the garden Anna was hanging out +the clothes on a line. She was engrossed in her work, and seemed to be +in no wise put out. She had a dignity in her carriage and her gesture +which was quite new to him, and made him, unconsciously, liken her to a +moving statue. + + * * * * * + +They met again at lunch. Braun was away for the whole day. Christophe +could not have borne meeting him. He wanted to speak to Anna. But they +were not alone: the servant kept going and coming: they had to keep +guard on themselves. In vain did Christophe try to catch Anna's eye. She +did not look at him or at anything. There was no indication of inward +ferment: and always in her smallest movement there was the unaccustomed +assurance and nobility. After lunch he hoped they would have an +opportunity of speaking: but the servant dallied over clearing away; and +when they went into the next room she contrived to follow them: she +always had something to fetch or to bring: she stayed bustling in the +passage near the half-open door which Anna showed no hurry to shut: it +looked as though she were spying on them. Anna sat by the window with +her everlasting sewing. Christophe leaned back in an armchair with his +back to the light, and a book on his knee which he did not attempt to +read. Anna could only see his profile, and she noticed the torment in +his face as he looked at the wall: and she gave a cruel smile. From the +roof of the house and the tree in the garden the melting snow trickled +down into the gravel with a thin tinkling noise. Some distance away was +the laughter of children chasing each other in the street and +snowballing. Anna seemed to be half-asleep. The silence was torture to +Christophe: it hurt him so that he could have cried out. + +At last the servant went downstairs and left the house. Christophe got +up, turned to Anna, and was about to say: + +"Anna! Anna! what have we done?" + +Anna looked at him: her eyes, which had been obstinately lowered, had +just opened: they rested on Christophe, and devoured him hotly, +hungrily. Christophe felt his own eyes burn under the impact, and he +reeled; everything that he wanted to say was brushed aside. They came +together, and once more they were locked in an embrace.... + +The shades of the evening were falling. Their blood was still in +turmoil. She was lying down, with her dress torn, her arms outstretched. +He had buried his face in the pillow, and was groaning aloud. She turned +towards him and raised his head, and caressed his eyes and his lips with +her fingers: she brought her face close to his, and she stared into his +eyes. Her eyes were deep, deep as a lake, and they smiled at each other +in utter indifference to pain. They lost consciousness. He was silent. +Mighty waves of feeling thrilled through them.... + +That night, when he was alone in his room, Christophe thought of killing +himself. + +Next day, as soon as he was up, he went to Anna. Now it was he whose +eyes avoided hers. As soon as he met their gaze all that he had to say +was banished from his mind. However, he made an effort, and began to +speak of the cowardice of what they had done. Hardly had she understood +than she roughly stopped his lips with her hand. She flung away from him +with a scowl, and her lips pressed together, and an evil expression upon +her face. He went on. She flung the work she was holding down on the +ground, opened the door, and tried to go out. He caught her hands, +closed the door, and said bitterly that she was very lucky to be able to +banish from her mind all idea of the evil they had done. She struggled +like an animal caught in a trap, and cried angrily: + +"Stop!... You coward, can't you see how I am suffering?... I won't let +you speak! Let me go!" + +Her face was drawn, her expression was full of hate and fear, like a +beast that has been hurt: her eyes would have killed him, if they +could.--He let her go. She ran to the opposite corner of the room to +take shelter. He had no desire to pursue her. His heart was aching with +bitterness and terror. Braun came in. He looked at them, and they stood +stockishly there. Nothing existed for them outside their own suffering. + +Christophe went out. Braun and Anna sat down to their meal. In the +middle of dinner Braun suddenly got up to open the window. Anna had +fainted. + +Christophe left the town for a fortnight on the pretext of having been +called away. For a whole week Anna remained shut up in her room except +for meal-times. She slipped back into consciousness of herself, into her +old habits, the old life from which she had thought she had broken away, +from which we never break away. In vain did she close her eyes to what +she had done. Every day anxiety made further inroads into her heart, and +finally took possession of it. On the following Sunday she refused once +more to go to church. But the Sunday after that she went, and never +omitted it again. She was conquered, but not submissive. God was the +enemy,--an enemy from whose power she could not free herself. She went +to Him with the sullen anger of a slave who is forced into obedience. +During service her face showed nothing but cold hostility: but in the +depths of her soul the whole of her religious life was a fierce, dumbly +exasperated struggle against the Master whose reproaches persecuted her. +She pretended not to hear. She had to hear: and bitterly, savagely, with +clenched teeth, hard eyes, and a deep frowning furrow in her forehead, +she would argue with God. She thought of Christophe with hatred. She +could not forgive him for having delivered her for one moment from the +prison of her soul, only to let her fall back into it again, to be the +prey of its tormentors. She could not sleep; day and night she went over +and over the same torturing thoughts: she did not complain: she went on +obstinately doing her household work and all her other duties, and +throughout maintaining the unyielding and obstinate character of her +will in her daily life, the various tasks of which she fulfilled with +the regularity of a machine. She grew thin, and seemed to be a prey to +some internal malady. Braun questioned her fondly and anxiously: he +wanted to sound her. She repulsed him angrily. The greater her remorse +grew for what she had done to him, the more harshly she spoke to him. +Christophe had determined not to return. He wore himself out. He took +long runs and violent exercise, rowed, walked, climbed mountains. +Nothing was able to quench the fire in him. + +He was more the victim of passion than an ordinary man. It is the +necessity of the nature of men of genius. Even the most chaste, like +Beethoven and Bürchner, must always be in love: every human capacity is +raised to a higher degree in them, and as, in them, every human capacity +is seized on by their imagination, their minds are a prey to a continual +succession of passions. Most often they are only transitory fires: one +destroys another, and all are absorbed by the great blaze of the +creative spirit. But if the heat of the furnace ceases to fill the soul, +then the soul is left defenseless against the passions without which it +cannot live: it must have passion, it creates passion: and the passions +will devour the soul ...--and then, besides the bitter desire that +harrows the flesh, there is the need of tenderness which drives a man +who is weary and disillusioned of life into the mothering arms of the +comforter, woman. A great man is more of a child than a lesser man: more +than any other, he needs to confide in a woman, to lay his head in the +soft hands of the beloved, in the folds of the lap of her gown. + +But Christophe could not understand.... He did not believe in the +inevitability of passion--the idiotic cult of the romantics. He believed +that a man can and must fight with all the force of his will.... His +will! Where was it? Not a trace of it was left. He was possessed. He was +stung by the barbs of memory, day and night. The scent of Anna's body +was with him everywhere. He was like a dismantled hulk, rolling +rudderless, at the mercy of the winds. In vain did he try to escape, he +strove mightily, wore himself out in the attempt: he always found +himself brought back to the same place, and he shouted to the wind: + +"Break me, break me, then! What do you want of me?" + +Feverishly he probed into himself. Why, why this woman?... Why did he +love her? It was not for her qualities of heart or mind. There were any +number of better and more intelligent women. It was not for her body. He +had had other mistresses more acceptable to his senses. What was +it?...--"We love because we love."--Yes, but there is a reason, even if +it be beyond ordinary human reason. Madness? That means nothing. Why +this madness? + +Because there is a hidden soul, blind forces, demons, which every one of +us bears imprisoned in himself. Our every effort, since the first +existence of humanity, has been directed towards the building up against +this inward sea of the dykes of our reason and our religions. But a +storm arises (and the richest souls are the most subject to storms), the +dykes are broken, the demons have free play, they find themselves in the +presence of other souls uptorn by similar powers.... They hurl +themselves at each other. Hatred or love? A frenzy of mutual +destruction?--Passion is the soul of prey. + +The sea has burst its bounds. Who shall turn it back into its bed? Then +must a man appeal to a mightier than himself. To Neptune, the God of the +tides. + + * * * * * + +After a fortnight of vain efforts to escape, Christophe returned to +Anna. He could not live away from her. He was stifled. + +And yet he went on struggling. On the evening of his return, they found +excuses for not meeting and not dining together: at night they locked +their doors in fear and dread.--But love was stronger than they. In the +middle of the night she came creeping barefooted, and knocked at his +door. She wept silently. He felt the tears coursing down her cheeks. She +tried to control herself, but her anguish was too much for her and she +sobbed. Under the frightful burden of her grief Christophe forgot his +own: he tried to calm her and gave her tender, comfortable words. She +moaned: + +"I am so unhappy. I wish I were dead...." + +Her plaint pierced his heart. He tried to kiss her. She repulsed him: + +"I hate you!... Why did you ever come?" + +She wrenched herself away from him. She turned her back on him and shook +with rage and grief. She hated him mortally. Christophe lay still, +appalled. In the silence Anna heard his choking breathing: she turned +suddenly and flung her arms round his neck: + +"Poor Christophe!" she said. "I have made you suffer...." + +For the first time he heard pity in her voice. + +"Forgive me," she said. + +He said: + +"We must forgive each other." +She raised herself as though she found it hard to breathe. She sat +there, with bowed back, overwhelmed, and said: + +"I am ruined.... It is God's will, He has betrayed me.... What can I do +against Him?" + +She stayed for a long time like that, then lay down again and did not +stir. A faint light proclaimed the dawn. In the half-light he saw her +sorrowful face so near his. He murmured: + +"The day." + +She made no movement. + +He said: + +"So be it. What does it matter?" + +She opened her eyes and left him with an expression of utter weariness. +She sat for a moment looking down at the floor. In a dull, colorless +voice she said: + +"I thought of killing him last night." + +He gave a start of terror: + +"Anna!" he said. + +She was staring gloomily at the window. + +"Anna!" he said again. "In God's name!... Not him!... He is the best of +us!..." + +She echoed; + +"Not him. Very well." + +They looked at each other. + +They had known it for a long time. They had known where the only way out +lay. They could not bear to live a lie. And they had never even +considered the possibility of eloping together. They knew perfectly well +that that would not solve the problem: for the bitterest suffering came +not from the external Obstacles that held them apart, but in themselves, +in their different souls. It was as impossible for them to live together +as to live apart. They were driven into a corner. + +From that moment on they never touched each other: the shadow of death +was upon them: they were sacred to each other. + +But they put off appointing a time for their decision. They kept on +saying: "To-morrow, to-morrow..." And they turned their eyes away from +their to-morrow, Christophe's mighty soul had Wild spasms Of revolt: he +would not consent to his defeat: he despised suicide, and he could not +resign himself to such a pitiful and abrupt conclusion of his splendid +life. As for Anna, how could she, unless she were forced, accept the +idea of a death which must lead to eternal death? But ruthless necessity +was at their heels, and the circle was slowly narrowing about them. + + * * * * * + +That morning, for the first time since the betrayal, Christophe was left +alone with Braun. Until then he had succeeded in avoiding him. He found +it intolerable to be with him. He had to make an excuse to avoid eating +at the same table: the food stuck in his throat. To shake the man's +hand, to eat his bread, to give the kiss of Judas!... Most odious for +him to think of was not the contempt he had for himself so much as the +agony of suffering that Braun must endure if he should come to know.... +The idea of it crucified him. He knew, only too well that poor Braun +would never avenge himself, that perhaps he would not even have the +strength to hate them: but what an utter wreck of all his life!... How +would he regard him! Christophe felt that he could not face the reproach +in his eyes.--And it was inevitable that sooner or later Braun would be +warned. Did he not already suspect something? Seeing him again after his +fortnight's absence Christophe was struck by the change in him: Braun +was not the same man. His gaiety had disappeared, or there was something +forced in it. At meals he would stealthily glance at Anna, who talked +not at all, ate not at all, and seemed to be burning away like the oil +in a lamp. With timid, touching kindness he tried to look after her: she +rejected his attentions harshly: then he bent his head over his plate +and relapsed into silence. Anna could bear it no longer, and flung her +napkin on the table in the middle of the meal and left the room. The two +men finished their dinner in silence, or pretended to do so, for they +ate nothing: they dared not raise their eyes. When they had finished, +Christophe was on the point of going when Braun suddenly clasped his arm +with both hands and said: + +"Christophe!" + +Christophe looked at him uneasily. + +"Christophe," said Braun again--(his voice was shaking),--"do you know +what's the matter with her?" + +Christophe stood transfixed: for a moment or two he could find nothing +to say. Braun stood looking at him timidly: very quickly he begged +his pardon: + +"You see a good deal of her, she trusts you...." + +Christophe was very near taking Braun's hands and kissing them and +begging his forgiveness. Braun saw Christophe's downcast expression, +and, at once, he was terrified, and refused to see: he cast him a +beseeching look and stammered hurriedly and gasped: + +"No, no. You know nothing? Nothing?" + +Christophe was overwhelmed and said: + +"No." + +Oh! the bitterness of not being able to lay bare his offense, to humble +himself, since to do so would be to break the heart of the man he had +wronged! Oh! the bitterness of being unable to tell the truth, when he +could see in the eyes of the man asking him for it, that he could not, +would not know the truth!... + +"Thanks, thank you. I thank you...." said Braun. + +He stayed with his hands plucking at Christophe's sleeve as though there +was something else he wished to ask, and yet dared not, avoiding his +eyes. Then he let go, sighed, and went away. + +Christophe was appalled by this new lie. He hastened to Anna. Stammering +in his excitement, he told her what had happened. Anna listened gloomily +and said: + +"Oh, well. He knows. What does it matter?" + +"How can you talk like that?" cried Christophe. "It is horrible! I will +not have him suffer, whatever it may cost us, whatever it may cost." + +Anna grew angry. + +"And what if he does suffer? Don't I have to suffer? Let him suffer +too!" + +They said bitter things to each other. He accused her of loving only +herself. She reproached him with thinking more of her husband than of +herself. + +But a moment later, when he told her that he could not go on living like +that, and that he would go and tell the whole story to Braun, then she +cried out on him for his selfishness, declaring that she did not care a +bit about Christophe's conscience, but was quite determined that Braun +should never know. + +In spite of her hard words she was thinking as much of Braun as of +Christophe. Though she had no real affection for her husband she was +fond of him. She had a religious respect for social ties and the duties +they involve. Perhaps she did not think that it was the duty of a wife +to be kind and to love her husband: but she did think that she was +compelled scrupulously to fulfil her household duties and to remain +faithful. It seemed to her ignoble to fail in that object as she herself +had done. + +And even more surely than Christophe she knew that Braun must know +everything very soon. It was something to her credit that she concealed +the fact from Christophe, either because she did not wish to add to his +troubles or more probably because of her pride. + +Secluded though the Braun household was, secret though the tragedy might +remain that was being enacted there, some hint of it had trickled away +to the outer world. + +In that town it was impossible for any one to flatter himself that the +facts of his life were hidden. This was strangely true. No one ever +looked at anybody in the streets: the doors and shutters of the houses +were closed. But there were mirrors fastened in the corners of the +windows: and as one passed the houses one could hear the faint creaking +of the Venetian shutters being pushed open and shut again. Nobody took +any notice of anybody else: everything and everybody were apparently +ignored: but it was not long before one perceived that not a single +word, not a single gesture had been unobserved: whatever one did, +whatever one said, whatever one saw, whatever one ate was known at once: +even what one thought was known, or, at least, everybody pretended to +know. One was surrounded by a universal, mysterious watchfulness. +Servants, tradespeople, relations, friends, people who were neither +friends nor enemies, passing strangers, all by tacit agreement shared in +this instinctive espionage, the scattered elements of which were +gathered to a head no one knew how. Not only were one's actions +observed, but they probed into one's inmost heart. In that town no man +had the right to keep the secrets of his conscience, and everybody had +the right to rummage amongst his intimate thoughts, and, if they were +offensive to public opinion, to call him to account. The invisible +despotism of the collective mind dominated the individual: all his life +he remained like a child in a state of tutelage: he could call nothing +his own: he belonged to the town. + +It was enough for Anna to have stayed away from church two Sundays +running to arouse suspicion. As a rule no one seemed to notice her +presence at service: she lived outside the life of the place, and the +town seemed to have forgotten her existence.--On the evening of the +first Sunday when she had stayed away her absence was known to everybody +and docketed in their memory. On the following Sunday not one of the +pious people following the blessed words in their Bibles or on the +minister's lips seemed to be distracted from their solemn attention: not +one of them had failed to notice as they entered, and to verify as they +left, the fact that Anna's place was empty. Next day Anna began to +receive visits from women she had not seen for many months: they came on +various pretexts, some fearing that she was ill, others assuming a new +interest in her affairs, her husband, her house: some of them showed a +singularly intimate knowledge of the doings of her household: not one of +them--(with clumsy ingenuity)--made any allusion to her absence from +church on two Sundays running. Anna said that she was unwell and +declared that she was very busy. Her visitors listened attentively and +applauded her: Anna knew that they did not believe a word she said. +Their eyes wandered round the room, prying, taking notes, docketing. +They did not for a moment drop their cold affability or their noisy +affected chatter: but their eyes revealed the indiscreet curiosity which +was devouring them. Two or three with exaggerated indifference inquired +after M. Krafft. + +A few days later--(during Christophe's absence),--the minister came +himself. He was a handsome, good-natured creature, splendidly healthy, +affable, with that imperturbable tranquillity which comes to a man from +the consciousness of being in sole possession of the truth, the whole +truth. He inquired anxiously after the health of the members of his +flock, politely and absently listened to the excuses she gave him, which +he had not asked for, accepted a cup of tea, made a mild joke or two, +expressed his opinion on the subject of drink that the wine referred to +in the Bible was not alcoholic liquor, produced several quotations, told +a story, and, as he was leaving, made a dark allusion to the danger of +bad company, to certain excursions in the country, to the spirit of +impiety, to the impurity of dancing, and the filthy lusts of the flesh. +He seemed to be addressing his remarks to the age in general and not to +Anna. He stopped for a moment, coughed, got up, bade Anna give his +respectful compliments to M. Braun, made a joke in Latin, bowed, and +took his leave.--Anna was left frozen by his allusion. Was it an +allusion? How could he have known about her excursion with Christophe? +They had not met a soul of their acquaintance that day. But was not +everything known in the town? The musician with the remarkable face and +the young woman in black who had danced at the inn had attracted much +attention: their descriptions had been spread abroad; and, as the story +was bandied from mouth to mouth, it had reached the town where the +watchful malice of the gossips had not failed to recognize Anna. No +doubt it amounted as yet to no more than a suspicion, but it was +singularly attractive, and it was augmented by information supplied by +Anna's maid. Public curiosity had been a-tip-toe, waiting for them to +compromise each other, spying on them with a thousand invisible eyes. +The silent crafty people of the town were creeping close upon them, like +a cat lying in wait for a mouse. + +In spite of the danger Anna would in all probability not have given in: +perhaps her consciousness of such cowardly hostility would have driven +her to some desperate act of provocation if she had not herself been +possessed by the Pharisaic spirit of the society which was so +antagonistic to her. Her education had subjugated her nature. It was in +vain that she condemned the tyranny and meanness of public opinion: she +respected it: she subscribed to its decrees even when they were directed +against herself: if they had come into conflict with her conscience, she +would have sacrificed her conscience. She despised the town: but she +could not have borne the town to despise herself. + +Now the time was coming when the public scandal would be afforded an +opportunity of discharging itself. The carnival was coming on. + + * * * * * + +In that city, the carnival had preserved up to the time of the events +narrated in this history--(it has changed since then)--a character of +archaic license and roughness. Faithfully in accordance with its origin, +by which it had been a relaxation for the profligacy of the human mind +subjugated, wilfully or involuntarily, by reason, it nowhere reached +such a pitch of audacity as in the periods and countries in which custom +and law, the guardians of reason, weighed most heavily upon the people. +The town in which Anna lived was therefore one of its most chosen +regions. The more moral stringency paralyzed action and gagged speech, +the bolder did action become and speech the more untrammeled during +those few days. Everything that was secreted away in the lower depths of +the soul, jealousy, secret hate, lewd curiosity, the malicious instincts +inherent in the social animal, would burst forth with all the vehemence +and joy of revenge. Every man had the right to go out into the streets, +and, prudently masked, to nail to the pillory, in full view of the +public gaze, the object of his detestation, to lay before all and sundry +all that he had found out by a year of patient industry, his whole hoard +of scandalous secrets gathered drop by drop. One man would display them +on the cars. Another would carry a transparent lantern on which were +pasted in writings and drawings the secret history of the town. Another +would go so far as to wear a mask in imitation of his enemy, made so +easily recognizable that the very gutter-snipes would point him out by +name. Slanderous newspapers would appear during the three days. Even the +very best people would craftily take part in the game of _Pasquino_. No +control was exercised except over political allusions,--such coarse +liberty of speech having on more than one occasion produced fierce +conflict between the authorities of the town and the representatives of +foreign countries. But there was nothing to protect the citizens against +the citizens, and this cloud of public insult, constantly hanging over +their heads, did not a little help to maintain the apparently impeccable +morality on which the town prided itself. + +Anna felt the weight of that dread--which was quite unjustified. She had +very little reason to be afraid. She occupied too small a place in the +opinion of the town for any one to think of attacking her. But in the +absolute isolation in which of her own choice she lived, in her state of +exhaustion and nervous excitement brought on by several weeks of +sleepless nights and moral suffering, her imagination was apt to welcome +the most unreasoning terrors. She exaggerated the animosity of those who +did not like her. She told herself that suspicion was on her track: the +veriest trifle was enough to ruin her: and there was nothing to assure +her that it was not already an accomplished fact. It would mean insult, +pitiless exposure, her heart laid bare to the mockery of the passers-by: +dishonor so cruel that Anna was near dying of shame at the very thought +of it. She called to mind how, a few years before, a girl, who had been +the victim of such persecution, had had to fly the country with her +family.... And she could do nothing, nothing to defend herself, nothing +to prevent it, nothing even to find out if it was going to happen. The +suspense was even more maddening than the certainty. Anna looked +desperately about her like an animal at bay. In her own house she knew +that she was hemmed in. + + * * * * * + +Anna's servant was a woman of over forty: her name was Bäbi: she was +tall and strong: her face was narrow and bony round her brow and +temples, wide and long in the lower part, fleshy under the jaw, roughly +pear-shaped: she had a perpetual smile and eyes that pierced like +gimlets, sunken, as though they had been sucked in, beneath red eyelids +with colorless lashes. She never put off her expression of coquettish +gaiety: she was always delighted with her superiors, always of their +opinion, worrying about their health with tender interest: smiling when +they gave her orders: smiling when they scolded her. Braun believed that +she was unshakably devoted. Her gushing manner was strongly in contrast +with Anna's coldness. However, she was like her in many things: like her +she spoke little and dressed in a severe neat style: like her she was +very pious, and went to service with her, scrupulously fulfilling all +her religious duties and nicely attending to her household tasks: she +was clean, methodical, and her morals and her kitchen were beyond +reproach. In a word she was an exemplary servant and the perfect type of +domestic foe. Anna's feminine instinct was hardly ever wrong in her +divination of the secret thoughts of women, and she had no illusions +about her. They detested each other, knew it, and never let it appear. + +On the night of Christophe's return, when Anna, torn by her desire and +her emotion, went to him once more in spite of her resolve never to see +him again, she walked stealthily, groping along the wall in the +darkness: just as she reached Christophe's door, instead of the ordinary +cold smooth polished floor, she felt a warm dust softly crunching under +her bare feet. She stooped, touched it with her hands, and understood: a +thin layer of ashes had been spread for the space of a few yards across +the passage. Without knowing it Bäbi had happed on the old device +employed in the days of the old Breton songs by Frocin the dwarf to +catch Tristan on his way to Yseult: so true it is that a limited number +of types, good and bad, serve for all ages. A remarkable piece of +evidence in favor of the wise economy of the universe!--Anna did not +hesitate; she did not stop or turn, but went on in a sort of +contemptuous bravado: she went to Christophe, told him nothing, in spite +of her uneasiness: but when she returned she took the stove brush and +carefully effaced every trace of her footsteps in the ashes, after she +had crossed over them.--When Anna and Bäbi met next day it was with the +usual coldness and the accustomed smile. + +Bäbi used sometimes to receive a visit from a relation who was a little +older than herself: he fulfilled the function of beadle of the church: +during _Gottesdienst_ (Divine service) he used to stand sentinel at +the church door, wearing a white armlet with black stripes and a silver +tassel, leaning on a cane with a curved handle. By trade he was an +undertaker. His name was Sami Witschi. He was very tall and thin, with a +slight stoop, and he had the clean-shaven solemn face of an old peasant. +He was very pious and knew better than any one all the tittle-tattle of +the parish. Bäbi and Sami were thinking of getting married: they +appreciated each other's serious qualities, and solid faith and malice. +But they were in no hurry to make up their minds: they prudently took +stock of each other,--Latterly Sami's visits had become more frequent. +He would come in unawares. Every time Anna went near the kitchen and +looked through the door, she would see Sami sitting near the fire, and +Bäbi a few yards away, sewing. However much they talked, it was +impossible to hear a sound. She could see Bäbi's beaming face and her +lips moving: Sami's wide hard mouth would stretch in a grin without +opening: not a sound would come up from his throat: the house seemed to +be lost in silence. Whenever Anna entered the kitchen, Sami would rise +respectfully and remain standing, without a word, until she had gone out +again. Whenever Bäbi heard the door open, she would ostentatiously break +off in the middle of a commonplace remark, and turn to Anna with an +obsequious smile and wait for her orders. Anna would think they were +talking about her: but she despised them too much to play the +eavesdropper. + +The day after Anna had dodged the ingenious trap of the ashes, as she +entered the kitchen, the first thing she saw in Sami's hand was the +little broom she had used the night before to wipe out the marks of her +bare feet. She had taken it out of Christophe's room, and that very +minute, she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to take it back +again; she had left it in her own room, where Bäbi's sharp eyes had seen +it at once. The two gossips had immediately put two and two together. +Anna did not flinch. Bäbi followed her mistress's eyes, gave an +exaggerated smile, and explained: + +"The broom was broken: I gave it to Sami to mend." + +Anna did not take the trouble to point out the gross falsehood of the +excuse: she did not seem even to hear it: she looked at Bäbi's work, +made a few remarks, and went out again impassively. But when the door +was closed she lost all her pride: she could not help hiding behind the +corner of the passage and listening--(she was humiliated to the very +depths of her being at having to stoop to such means: but fear mastered +her).--She heard a dry chuckle of laughter. Then whispering, so low that +she could not make out what was said. But in her desperation Anna +thought she heard: her terror breathed into her ears the words she was +afraid of hearing: she imagined that they were speaking of the coming +masquerades and a charivari. There was no doubt: they would try to +introduce the episode of the ashes. Probably she was wrong: but in her +state of morbid excitement, having for a whole fortnight been haunted by +the fixed idea of public insult, she did not stop to consider whether +the uncertain could be possible: she regarded it as certain. + +From that time on her mind was made up. + + * * * * * + +On the evening of the same day--(it was the Wednesday preceding the +carnival)--Braun was called away to a consultation twenty miles out of +the town: he would not return until the next morning. Anna did not come +down to dinner and stayed in her room. She had chosen that night to +carry out the tacit pledge she had made with herself. But she had +decided to carry it out alone, and to say nothing to Christophe. She +despised him. She thought: + +"He promised. But he is a man, he is an egoist and a liar. He has his +art. He will soon forget." + +And then perhaps there was in her passionate heart that seemed so +inaccessible to kindness, room for a feeling of pity for her companion. +But she was too harsh and too passionate to admit it to herself. + +Bäbi told Christophe that her mistress had bade her to make her excuses +as she was not very well and wished to rest. Christophe dined alone +under Bäbi's supervision, and she bored him with her chatter, tried to +make him talk, and protested such an extraordinary devotion to Anna, +that, in spite of his readiness to believe in the good faith of men, +Christophe became suspicious. He was counting on having a decisive +interview with Anna that night. He could no more postpone matters than +she. He had not forgotten the pledge they had given each other at the +dawn of that sad day. He was ready to keep it if Anna demanded it of +him. But he saw the absurdity of their dying together, how it would not +solve the problem, and how the sorrow of it and the scandal must fall +upon Braun's shoulders. He was inclined to think that the best thing to +do was to tear themselves apart and for him to try once more to go right +away,--to see at least if he were strong enough to stay away from her: +he doubted it after the vain attempt he had made before: but he thought +that, in case he could not bear it, he would still have time to turn to +the last resort, alone, without anybody knowing. + +He hoped that after supper he would be able to escape for a moment to go +up to Anna's room. But Bäbi dogged him. As a rule she used to finish her +work early: but that night she seemed never to have done with scrubbing +her kitchen: and when Christophe thought he was rid of her, she took it +into her head to tidy a cupboard in the passage leading to Anna's room. +Christophe found her standing on a stool, and he saw that she had no +intention of moving all evening. He felt a furious desire to knock her +over with her piles of plates: but he restrained himself and asked her +to go and see how her mistress was and if he could say good-night to +her. Bäbi went, returned, and said, as she watched him with a malicious +joy, that Madame was better and was asleep and did not want anybody to +disturb her. Christophe tried irritably and nervously to read, but could +not, and went up to his room. Bäbi watched his light until it was put +out, and then went upstairs to her room, resolving to keep watch: she +carefully left her door open so that she could hear every sound in the +house. Unfortunately for her, she could not go to bed without at once +falling asleep and sleeping so soundly that not thunder, not even her +own curiosity, could wake her up before daybreak. Her sound sleep Was no +secret. The echo of it resounded through the house even to the lower +floor. + +As soon as Christophe heard the familiar noise he went to Anna's room. +It was imperative that he should speak to her. He was profoundly uneasy. +He reached her door, turned the handle: the door was locked. He knocked +lightly: no reply. He placed his lips to the keyhole and begged her in a +whisper, then more loudly, to open: not a movement, not a sound. +Although he told himself that Anna was asleep, he was in agonies. And +as, in a vain attempt to hear, he laid his cheek against the door, a +smell came to his nostrils which seemed to be issuing from the room: he +bent down and recognised it; it was the smell of gas. His blood froze. +He shook the door, never thinking that he might wake Bäbi: the door did +not give.... He understood: in her dressing-room, which led out of her +room, Anna had a little gas-stove: she had turned it on. He must break +open the door: but in his anxiety Christophe kept his senses enough to +remember that at all costs Bäbi must not hear. He leaned against one of +the leaves of the door and gave an enormous shove as quietly as he +could. The solid, well-fitting door creaked on its hinges, but did not +yield. There was another door which led from Anna's room to Braun's +dressing-room. He ran to it. That too was locked: but the lock was +outside. He started to tug it off. It was not easy. He had to remove the +four big screws which were buried deep in the wood. He had only his +knife and he could not see: for he dared not light a candle; it would +have meant blowing the whole place up. Fumblingly he managed to fit his +knife, into the head of a screw, then another, breaking the blades and +cutting himself; the screws seemed to be interminably long, and he +thought he would never be able to get them out: and, at the same time, +in the feverish haste which was making his body break out into a cold +sweat, there came to his mind a memory of his childhood: he saw himself, +a boy of ten, shut up in a dark room as a punishment: he had taken off +the lock and run out of the house.... The last screw came out. The lock +gave with a crackling noise like the sawing of wood. Christophe plunged +into the room, rushed to the window, and opened it. A flood of cold air +swept in. Christophe bumped into the furniture in the dark and came to +the bed, groped with his hands, and came on Anna's body, tremblingly +felt her legs lying still under the clothes, and moved his hands up to +her waist: Anna was sitting up in bed, trembling. She had not had time +to feel the first effects of asphyxiation: the room was high: the air +came through the chinks in the windows and the doors, Christophe caught +her in his arms. She broke away from him angrily, crying: + +"Go away!... Ah! What have you done?" + +She raised her hands to strike him: but she was worn out with emotion: +she fell back on her pillow and sobbed: + +"Oh! Oh! We've to go through it all over again!" + +Christophe took her hands in his, kissed her, scolded her, spoke to her +tenderly and roughly: + +"You were going to die, to die, alone, without me!" + +"Oh! You!" she said bitterly. + +Her tone was as much as to say: + +"You want to live." + +He spoke harshly to her and tried to break down her will. + +"You are mad!" he said. "You might have blown the house to pieces!" +"I wanted to," she said angrily. + +He tried to play on her religious fears: that was the right note. As +soon as he touched on it she began to scream and to beg him to stop. He +went on pitilessly, thinking that it was the only means of bringing her +back to the desire to live. She said nothing more, but lay sobbing +convulsively. When he had done, she said in a tone of intense hatred: + +"Are you satisfied now? You've done your work well. You've brought me to +despair. And now, what am I to do?" + +"Live," he said. + +"Live!" she cried. "You don't know how impossible it is! You know +nothing! You know nothing!" + +He asked: + +"What is it?" + +She shrugged her shoulders: + +"Listen." + +In a few brief disconnected sentences she told him all that she had +concealed from him: Bäbi's spying on her, the ashes, the scene with +Sami, the carnival, the public insult that was before her. As she told +her story she was unable to distinguish between the figments of her fear +and what she had any reason to fear. He listened in utter consternation, +and was no more capable than she of discerning between the real and the +imaginary in her story. Nothing had ever been farther from his mind than +to suspect how they were being dogged. He tried to understand: he could +find nothing to say: against such enemies he was disarmed. Only he was +conscious of a blind fury, a desire to strike and to destroy. He said: + +"Why didn't you dismiss Bäbi?" + +She did not deign to reply. Bäbi dismissed would have been even more +venomous than Bäbi tolerated: and Christophe saw the idiocy of his +question. His thoughts were in a whirl: he was trying to discover a way +out, some immediate action upon which to engage. He clenched his fists +and cried: + +"I'll kill them?" + +"Who?" she said, despising him for his futile words. + +He lost all power of thought or action. He felt that he was lost in such +a network of obscure treachery, in which it was impossible to clutch at +anything since all were parties to it. He writhed. + +"Cowards!" he cried, in sheer despair. + +He slipped down on to his knees and buried his face against Anna.--They +were silent for a little. She felt a mixture of contempt and pity for +the man who could defend neither himself nor her. He felt Anna's limbs +trembling with cold against his cheek. The window had been left open, +and outside it was freezing: they could see the icy stars shivering in +the sky that was smooth and gleaming as a mirror. + +When she had fully tasted the bitter joy of seeing him as broken as +herself, she said in a hard, weary voice: + +"Light the candle." + +He did so. Anna's teeth were chattering, she was sitting huddled up, +with her arms tight folded across her chest and her knees up to her +chin. He closed the window. Then he sat on the bed. He laid his hands on +Anna's feet: they were cold as ice, and he warmed them with his hands +and lips. She was softened. + +"Christophe!" she said. + +Her eyes were pitiful to see. + +"Anna!" said he. + +"What are we going to do?" + +He looked at her and replied: + +"Die." + +She gave a cry of joy. + +"Oh! You will? You will?... I shall not be alone!" + +She kissed him. + +"Did you think I was going to let you?" + +She replied in a whisper: + +"Yes." + +A few moments later he questioned her with his eyes. She understood. + +"In the bureau," she said. "On the right. The bottom drawer." + +He went and looked. At the back of the drawer he found a revolver. Braun +had bought it as a student. He had never made use of it. In an open box +Christophe found some cartridges. He took them to the bed. Anna looked +at them, and at once turned her eyes away to the wall. + +Christophe waited, and then asked: + +"You don't want to...?" + +Anna turned abruptly: + +"I will.... Quick!" + +She thought: + +"Nothing can save me now from the everlasting pit. A little more or +less, it will be just the same." + +Christophe awkwardly loaded the revolver. + +"Anna," he said, and his voice trembled. "One of us will see the other +die." + +She wrenched the pistol out of his hands and said selfishly: + +"I shall be the first." + +They looked at each other once more.... Alas! At the very moment when +they were to die for each other they felt so far apart!... Each was +thinking in terror: + +"What am I doing? What am I doing?" + +And each was reading the other's eyes. The absurdity of the thing was +what struck Christophe most. All his life gone for nothing: vain his +struggles: vain his suffering: vain his hopes: all botched, flung to the +winds: one foolish act was to wipe all away.... In his normal state he +would have wrenched the revolver away from Anna and flung it out of the +window and cried: + +"No, no! I will not." + +But eight months of suffering, of doubt and torturing grief, and on top +of that the whirlwind of their crazy passion, had wasted his strength +and broken his will: he felt that he could do nothing now, that he was +no longer master of himself.... Ah! what did it matter, after all? + +Anna, feeling certain that she was doomed to everlasting death, +stretched every nerve to catch and hold the last minute of her life: +Christophe's sorrowful face lit by the flickering candle, the shadows on +the wall, a footstep in the street, the cold contact of the steel in her +hand.... She clung to these sensations, as a shipwrecked man clings to +the spar that sinks beneath his weight. Afterwards all was terror. Why +not prolong the time of waiting? But she said to herself: + +"I must...." + +She said good-by to Christophe, with no tenderness, with the haste of a +hurried traveler fearful of losing the train: she bared her bosom, felt +for her heart, and laid the mouth of the revolver against it. Christophe +hid his face. Just as she was about to fire she laid her left hand on +Christophe's. It was the gesture of a child dreading to walk in the +darkness.... + +Then a few frightful seconds passed.... Anna did not fire. Christophe +wanted to raise his head, to take her in his arms: and he was afraid +that his very movement might bring her to the point of firing. He heard +nothing more: he lost consciousness.... A groan from Anna pierced his +heart. He got up. He saw Anna with her face distorted in terror. The +revolver had fallen down on to the bed. She kept on saying plaintively; + +"Christophe!... It has missed fire!..." + +He took the pistol: it had lain long forgotten and had grown rusty: but +the trigger was in working order. Perhaps the cartridges had gone bad +with exposure to the air.--Anna held out her hand for the revolver. + +"Enough! Enough!" he implored her. + +She commanded him: + +"The cartridges!" + +He gave them to her. She examined them, took one, loaded the pistol, +trembling, put the pistol to her breast, and fired.--Once more it missed +fire. + +Anna flung the revolver out into the room. + +"Oh! It is horrible, horrible!" she cried. "_He_ will not let me die!" + +She writhed and sobbed: she was like a madwoman. He tried to touch her: +she beat him off, screaming. Finally she had a nervous attack. +Christophe stayed with her until morning. At last she was pacified: but +she lay still and breathless, with her eyes closed and the livid skin +stretched tight over the bones of her forehead and cheeks: she looked +like one dead. + +Christophe repaired the disorder of her bed, picked up the revolver, +fastened on the lock he had wrenched away, tidied up the whole room., +and went away: for it was seven o'clock and Bäbi might come at any +moment. + + * * * * * + +When Braun returned next morning he found Anna in the same prostrate +condition. He saw that something extraordinary had happened: but he +could glean nothing either from Bäbi or Christophe. All day long Anna +did not stir: she did not open her eyes: her pulse was so weak that he +could hardly feel it: every now and then it would stop, and, for a +moment, Braun would be in a state of agony, thinking that her heart had +stopped. His affection made him doubt his own knowledge: he ran and +fetched a colleague. The two men examined Anna and could not make up +their minds whether it was the beginning of a fever, or a case of +nervous hysteria: they had to keep the patient under observation. Braun +never left Anna's bedside. He refused to eat. Towards evening Anna's +pulse gave no signs of fever, but was extremely weak. Braun tried to +force a few spoonfuls of milk between her lips: she brought it back at +once. Her body lay limp in her husband's arms like a broken doll. Braun +spent the night with her, getting up every moment to listen to her +breathing. Bäbi, who was hardly at all put out by Anna's illness, played +the devoted servant and refused to go to bed and sat up with Braun. + +On the Friday Anna opened her eyes. Braun spoke to her: she took no +notice of him. She lay quite still with her eyes staring at a mark on +the wall. About midday Braun saw great tears trickling down her thin +cheeks: he dried them gently: one by one the tears went on trickling +down. Once more Braun tried to make her take some food. She took it +passively. In the evening she began to talk: loose snatches of +sentences. She talked about the Rhine: she had tried to drown herself, +but there was not enough water. In her dreams she persisted in +attempting suicide, imagining all sorts of strange forms of death; +always death was at the back of her thoughts. Sometimes she was arguing +with some one, and then her face would take on an expression of fear and +anger: she addressed herself to God, and tried obstinately to prove that +it was all His fault. Or the flame of desire would kindle in her eyes, +and she would say shameless things which it seemed impossible that she +should know. Once she saw Bäbi, and gave precise orders for the morrow's +washing. At night she dozed. Suddenly she got up: Braun ran to her. She +looked at him strangely, and babbled impatient formless words. He asked +her: + +"My dear Anna, what do you want?" + +She said harshly: + +"Go and bring him." + +"Who?" he asked. + +She looked at him once more with the same expression and suddenly burst +out laughing: then she drew her hands over her forehead and moaned: + +"Oh! my God! Let me forget!..." + +Sleep overcame her. She was at peace until day. About dawn she moved a +little: Braun raised her head to give her to drink: she gulped down a +few mouthfuls, and, stooping to Braun's hands, she kissed them. Once more +she dozed off. + +On the Saturday morning she woke up about nine o'clock. Without saying a +word, she began to slip out of bed. Braun went quickly to her and tried +to make her lie down again. She insisted. He asked her what she wanted +to do. She replied: + +"Go to church." + +He tried to argue with her and to remind her that it was not Sunday and +the church was closed. She relapsed into silence: but she sat in a chair +near the bed, and began to put on her clothes with trembling fingers. +Braun's doctor-friend came in. He joined Braun in his entreaties: then, +seeing that she would not give in, he examined her, and finally +consented. He took Braun aside, and told him that his wife's illness +seemed to be altogether moral, and that for the time being he must avoid +opposing her wishes, and that he could see no danger in her going out, +so long as Braun went with her. Braun told Anna that he would go with +her. She refused, and insisted on going alone. But she stumbled as soon +as she tried to walk across the room. Then, without a word, she took +Braun's arm, and they went out. She was very weak, and kept stopping. +Several times he asked her if she wanted to go home. She began to walk +on. When they reached the church, as he had told her, they found the +doors closed. Anna sat down on a bench near the door, and stayed, +shivering, until the clock struck twelve. Then she took Braun's arm +again, and they came home in silence. But in the evening she wanted to +go to church again. Braun's entreaties were useless. He had to go out +with her once more. + +Christophe had spent the two days alone. Braun was too anxious to think +about him. Only once, on the Saturday morning, when he was trying to +divert Anna's mind from her fixed idea of going out, he had asked her if +she would like to see Christophe. She had looked at him with such an +expression of fear and loathing that he could not but remark it: and he +never pronounced Christophe's name again. + +Christophe had shut himself up in his room. Anxiety, love, remorse, a +very chaos of sorrow was whirling in him. He blamed himself for +everything. He was overwhelmed by self-disgust. More than once he had +got up to go and confess the whole story to Braun--and each time he had +immediately been arrested by the thought of bringing wretchedness to yet +another human being by his self-accusation. At the same time he was +spared nothing of his passion. He prowled about in the passage outside +Anna's room; and when he heard footsteps inside coming to the door he +rushed away to his own room. + +When Braun and Anna went out in the afternoon, he looked out for them +from behind his window-curtains. He saw Anna. She who had been so erect +and proud walked now with bowed back, lowered head, yellow complexion: +she was an old woman bending under the weight of the cloak and shawl her +husband had thrown about her: she was ugly. But Christophe did not see +her ugliness: he saw only her misery; and his heart ached with pity and +love. He longed to run to her, to prostrate himself in the mud, to kiss +her feet: her dear body so broken and destroyed by passion, and to +implore her forgiveness. And he thought as he looked after her: + +"My work.... That is what I have done!" + +But when he looked into the mirror and saw his own face, he was shown +the same devastation in his eyes, in all his features: he saw the marks +of death upon himself, as upon her, and he thought: + +"My work? No. It is the work of the cruel Master who drives us mad and +destroys us." + +The house was empty. Bäbi had gone out to tell the neighbors of the +day's events. Time was passing. The clock struck five. Christophe was +filled with terror as he thought of Anna's return and the coming of the +night. He felt that he could not bear to stay under the same roof with +her for another night. He felt his reason breaking beneath the weight of +passion. He did not know what to do, he did not know what he wanted, +except that he wanted Anna at all costs. He thought of the wretched face +he had just seen going past his window, and he said to himself: + +"I must save her from myself!..." + +His will stirred into life. + +He gathered together the litter of papers on the table, tied them up, +took his hat and cloak, and went out. In the passage, near the door of +Anna's room, he hurried forward in a spasm of fear. Downstairs he +glanced for the last time into the empty garden. He crept away like a +thief in the night. An icy mist pricked his face and hands. Christophe +skirted the walls of the houses, dreading a meeting with any one he +knew. He went to the station, and got into a train which was just +starting for Lucerne. At the first stopping-place he wrote to Braun. He +said that he had been called away from the town on urgent business for a +few days, and that he was very sorry to have to leave him at such a +time: he begged him to send him news, and gave him an address. At +Lucerne he took the St. Gothard train. Late at night he got out at a +little station between Altorf and Goeschenen. He did not know the name, +never knew it. He went into the nearest inn by the station. The road was +filled with pools of water. It was raining in torrents: it rained all +night and all next day. The water was rushing and roaring like a +cataract from a broken gutter. Sky and earth were drowned, seemingly +dissolved and melted like his own mind. He went to bed between damp +sheets which smelt of railway smoke. He could not lie still. The idea of +the danger hanging over Anna was too much in his mind for him to feel +his own suffering as yet. Somehow he must avert public malignity from +her, somehow turn it aside upon another track. In his feverish condition +a queer idea came to him: he decided to write to one of the few +musicians with whom he had been acquainted in the little town, Krebs, +the confectioner-organist. He gave him to understand that he was off to +Italy upon an affair of the heart, that he had been possessed by the +passion when he first took up his abode with the Brauns, and that he had +tried to shake free of it, but it had been too strong for him. He put +the whole thing clearly enough for Krebs to understand, and yet so +veiled as to enable him to improve on it as he liked. Christophe +implored Krebs to keep his secret. He knew that the good little man +simply could not keep anything to himself, and--quite rightly--he +reckoned on Krebs hastening to spread the news as soon as it came into +his hands. To make sure of hoodwinking the gossips of the town +Christophe closed his letter with a few cold remarks about Braun and +about Anna's illness. + +He spent the rest of the night and the next day absorbed by his fixed +Idea.... Anna.... Anna.... He lived through the last few months with +her, day by day: he did not see her as she was, but enveloped her with a +passionate atmosphere of illusion. From the very beginning he had +created her in the image of his own desire, and given her a moral +grandeur, a tragic consciousness which he needed to heighten his love +for her. These lies of passion gained in intensity of conviction now +that they were beyond the control of Anna's presence. He saw in her a +healthy free nature, oppressed, struggling to shake off its fetters, +reaching upwards to a wider life of liberty in the open air of the soul, +and then, fearful of it, struggling against her dreams, wrestling with +them, because they could not be brought into line with her destiny, and +made it only the more sorrowful and wretched. She cried to him: "Help +me." He saw once more her beautiful body, clasped it to him. His +memories tortured him: he took a savage delight in mortifying the wounds +they dealt him. As the day crept on, the feeling of all that he had lost +became so frightful that he could not breathe. + +Without knowing what he was doing, he got up, went out, paid his bill, +and took the first train back to the town in which Anna lived. He +arrived in the middle of the night: he went straight to the house. There +was a wall between the alley and the garden next to Braun's. Christophe +climbed the wall, jumped down into the next-door garden, and then into +Braun's. He stood outside the house. It was in darkness save for a +night-light which cast a yellow glow upon a window--the window of Anna's +room. Anna was there. She was suffering. He had only to make one stride +to enter. He laid his hand on the handle of the door. Then he looked at +his hand, the door, the garden: suddenly he realized what he was doing: +and, breaking free of the hallucination which had been upon him for the +last seven or eight hours, he groaned, wrenched free of the inertia +which held him riveted to the ground whereon he stood, ran to the wall, +scaled it, and fled. + +That same night he left the town for the second time: and next day he +went and buried himself in a mountain village, hidden from the world by +driving blizzards.--There he would bury his heart, stupefy his thoughts, +and forget, and forget!... + + --"_Éperò leva su, vinci l'ambascia + Con l'animo che vinea ogni battaglia, + Se col suo grave corpo non s'accascia. + + "Leva'mi allor, mostrandomi fornito + Meglio di lena ch'io non mi sentía; + E dissi: 'Va, ch'io son forte edardito._'" + + INF. XXIV. + +Oh! God, what have I done to Thee? Why dost Thou overwhelm me? Since I +was a little child Thou hast appointed misery and conflict to be my lot. +I have struggled without complaint. I have loved my misery. I have tried +to preserve the purity of the soul Thou gavest me, to defend the fire +which Thou hast kindled in me.... Lord, it is Thou, it is Thou who art +so furious to destroy what Thou hast created. Thou hast put out the +fire, Thou hast besmirched my soul. Thou hast despoiled me of all that +gave me life. I had but two treasurable things in the world: my friend +and my soul. Now I have nothing, for Thou hast taken everything from me. +One only creature was mine in the wilderness of the world: Thou hast +taken him from me. Our hearts were one. Thou hast torn them asunder: +Thou hast made us know the sweetness of being together only to make us +know the horror of being lost to each other. Thou hast created emptiness +all about me. Thou hast created emptiness within me. I was broken and +sick, unarmed and robbed of my will. Thou hast chosen that hour to +strike me down. Thou hast come stealthily with silent feet from behind +treacherously, and Thou hast stabbed me: Thou hast let loose upon me Thy +fierce dogs of passion; I was weak, and Thou knewest it, and I could not +struggle: passion has laid me low, and thrown me into confusion, and +befouled me, and destroyed all that I had.... I am left only in +self-disgust. If I could only cry aloud my grief and my shame! or forget +them in the rushing stream of creative force! But my strength is broken, +and my creative power is withered up. I am like a dead tree.... Would I +were dead! O God, deliver me, break my body and my soul, tear me from +this earth, leave me not to struggle blindly in the pit, leave me not in +this endless agony! I cry for mercy.... Lord, make an end! + + * * * * * + +So in his sorrow Christophe cried upon a God in whom his reason did not +believe. + + * * * * * + +He had taken refuge in a lonely farm in the Swiss Jura Mountains. The +house was built in the woods tucked away in the folds of a high humpy +plateau. It was protected from the north winds by crags and boulders. In +front of it lay a wide stretch of fields, and long wooded slopes: the +rock suddenly came to an end in a sheer precipice: twisted pines hung on +the edge of it; behind were wide-spreading beeches. The sky was blotted +out. There was no sign of life. A wide stretch of country with all its +lines erased. The whole place lay sleeping under the snow. Only at night +in the forest foxes barked. It was the end of the winter. Slow dragging +winter. Interminable winter. When it seemed like to break up, snow would +fall once more, and it would begin again. + +However, for a week now the old slumbering earth had felt its heart slow +beating to new birth. The first deceptive breath of spring crept into +the air and beneath the frozen crust. From the branches of the +beech-trees, stretched out like soaring wings, the snow melted. Already +through the white cloak of the fields there peered a few thin blades of +grass of tender green: around their sharp needles, through the gaps in +the snow, like so many little mouths, the dank black earth was +breathing. For a few hours every day the voice of the waters, sleeping +beneath their robe of ice, murmured. In the skeleton woods a few birds +piped their shrill clear song. + +Christophe noticed nothing. All things were the same to him. He paced up +and down, up and down his room. Or be would walk outside. He could not +keep still. His soul was torn in pieces by inward demons. They fell upon +and rent each other. His suppressed passion never left off beating +furiously against the walls of the house of its captivity. His disgust +with passion was no less furiously in revolt: passion and disgust flew +at each other's throats, and, in their conflict, they lacerated his +heart. And at the same time he was delivered up to the memory of +Olivier, despair at his death, the hunger to create which nothing could +satisfy, and pride rearing on the edge of the abyss of nothingness. He +was a prey to all devils. He had no moment of respite. Or, if there came +a seeming calm, if the rushing waves did fall back for a moment, it was +only that he might find himself alone, and nothing in himself: thought, +love, will, all had been done to death. + +To create! That was the only loophole. To abandon the wreck of his life +to the mercy of the waves! To save himself by swimming in the dreams of +art!... To create! He tried.... He could not. + +Christophe had never had any method of working. When he was strong and +well he had always rather suffered from his superabundance than been +disturbed at seeing it diminish: he followed his whim: he used to work +first as the fancy took him, as circumstances chanced, with no fixed +rule. As a matter of fact, he was always working everywhere: his brain +was always busy. Often and often Olivier, who was less richly endowed +and more reflective, had warned him: + +"Take care. You are trusting too much to your force. It is a mountain +torrent. Full to-day, perhaps dry to-morrow. An artist must coax his +genius: he must not let it scatter itself at random. Turn your force +into a channel. Train yourself in habits of mind and a healthy system of +daily work, at fixed hours. They are as necessary to the artist as the +practice of military movements and steps to a man who is to go into +battle. When moments of crisis come--(and they always do come)--the +bracing of steel prevents the soul from destruction. I know. It is just +that that has saved me from death." + +But Christophe used to laugh and say: + +"That's all right for you, my boy I There's no danger of my losing my +taste for life. My appetite's too good." + +Olivier would shrug his shoulders: + +"Too much ends in too little. There are no worse invalids than the men +who have always had too much health." + +And now Olivier's words had come true. After the death of his friend the +source of his inward life had not all at once dried up: but it had +become strangely intermittent: it flowed in sudden gushes, then stopped, +then disappeared under the earth. Christophe had paid no heed to it: +what did it matter to him? His grief and his budding passion had +absorbed his mind.--But after the storm had passed, when once more he, +turned to the fountain to drink, he could find no trace of it. All was +barren. Not a trickle of water. His soul was dried up. In vain did he +try to dig down into the sand, and force the water up from the +subterranean wells, and create at all costs: the machine of his mind +refused to obey. He could not invoke the aid of habit, the faithful +ally, which, when we have lost every reason for living, alone, constant +and firmly loyal, stays with us, and speaks no word, and makes no sign, +but with eyes fixed, and silent lips, with its sure unwavering hand +leads us by the hand through the dangerous chasm until the light of day +and the joy of life return. Christophe was helpless: and his hand could +find no guiding hand in the darkness. He could not find his way back to +the light of day. + +It was the supreme test. Then he felt that he was on the verge of +madness. Sometimes he would wage an absurd and crazy battle with his own +brain, maniacal obsessions, a nightmare of numbers: he would count the +boards on the floor, the trees in the forest: figures and chords, the +choice of which was beyond his reason. Sometimes he would lie in a state +of prostration, like one dead. + +Nobody worried about him. He lived apart in one wing of the house. He +tidied his own room--or left it undone, every day. His meals were laid +for him downstairs: he never saw a human face. His host, an old peasant, +a taciturn, selfish creature, took no interest in him. Whether +Christophe ate or did not eat was his affair. He hardly ever noticed +whether Christophe came in at night. Once he was lost in the forest, +buried up to his hips in the snow: he was very near never returning. He +tried to wear himself out to keep himself from thinking. He could not +succeed. Only now and then could he snatch a few hours of troubled +sleep. + +Only one living creature seemed to take any notice of his existence: +this was an old St. Bernard, who used to come and lay his big head with +its mournful eyes on Christophe's knees when Christophe was sitting on +the seat in front of the house. They would look long at each other. +Christophe would not drive him away. Unlike the sick Goethe, the dog's +eyes had no uneasiness for him. Unlike him, he had no desire to cry: + +"Go away!... Thou goblin, thou shalt not catch me, whatever thou doest!" + +He asked nothing better than to be engrossed by the dog's suppliant +sleepy eyes and to help the beast: he felt that there must be behind +them an imprisoned soul imploring his aid. + +In those hours when he was weak with suffering, torn alive away from +life, devoid of human egoism, he saw the victims of men, the field of +battle in which man triumphed in the bloody slaughter of all other +creatures: and his heart was filled with pity and horror. Even in the +days when he had been happy he had always loved the beasts: he had never +been able to bear cruelty towards them: he had always had a detestation +of sport, which he had never dared to express for fear of ridicule: +perhaps even he had never dared to admit it to himself: but his feeling +of repulsion had been the secret cause of the apparently inexplicable +feeling of dislike he had had for certain men: he had never been able to +admit to his friendship a man who could kill an animal for pleasure. It +was not sentimentality: no one knew better than he that life is based on +suffering and infinite cruelty: no man can live without making others +suffer. It is no use closing our eyes and fobbing ourselves off with +words. It is no use either coming to the conclusion that we must +renounce life and sniveling like children. No. We must kill to live, if, +at the time, there is no other means of living. But the man who kills +for the sake of killing is a miscreant. An unconscious miscreant, I +know. But, all the same, a miscreant. The continual endeavor of man +should be to lessen the sum of suffering and cruelty: that is the first +duty of humanity. + +In ordinary life those ideas remained buried in Christophe's inmost heart. +He refused to think of them. What was the good? What could he do? +He had to be Christophe, he had to accomplish his work, live at all +costs, live at the cost of the weak.... It was not he who had made the +universe.... Better not think of it, better not think of it.... But when +unhappiness had dragged him down, him, too, to the level of the +vanquished, he had to think of these things Only a little while ago he +had blamed Olivier for plunging into futile remorse and vain compassion +for all the wretchedness that men suffer and inflict. Now he went even +farther: with all the vehemence of his mighty nature he probed to the +depths of the tragedy of the universe: he suffered all the sufferings of +the world, and was left raw and bleeding. He could not think of the +animals without shuddering in anguish. He looked into the eyes of the +beasts and saw there a soul like his own, a soul which could not speak; +but the eyes cried for it: + +"What have I done to you? Why do you hurt me?" + +He could not bear to see the most ordinary sights that he had seen +hundreds of times--a calf crying in a wicker pen, with its big, +protruding eyes, with their bluish whites and pink lids, and white +lashes, its curly white tufts on its forehead, its purple snout, its +knock-kneed legs:--a lamb being carried by a peasant with its four legs +tied together, hanging head down, trying to hold its head up, moaning +like a child, bleating and lolling its gray tongue:--fowls huddled +together in a basket:--the distant squeals of a pig being bled to +death:--a fish being cleaned on the kitchen-table.... The nameless +tortures which men inflict on such innocent creatures made his heart +ache. Grant animals a ray of reason, imagine what a frightful nightmare +the world is to them: a dream of cold-blooded men, blind and deaf, +cutting their throats, slitting them open, gutting them, cutting them +into pieces, cooking them alive, sometimes laughing at them and their +contortions as they writhe in agony. Is there anything more atrocious +among the cannibals of Africa? To a man whose mind is free there is +something even more intolerable in the sufferings of animals than in the +sufferings of men. For with the latter it is at least admitted that +suffering is evil and that the man who causes it is a criminal. But +thousands of animals are uselessly butchered every day without a shadow +of remorse. If any man were to refer to it, he would be thought +ridiculous.--And that is the unpardonable crime. That alone is the +justification of all that men may suffer. It cries vengeance upon all +the human race. If God exists and tolerates it, it cries vengeance upon +God. If there exists a good God, then even the most humble of living +things must be saved. If God is good only to the strong, if there is no +justice for the weak and lowly, for the poor creatures who are offered +up as a sacrifice to humanity, then there is no such thing as goodness, +no such thing as justice.... + +Alas! The slaughter accomplished by man is so small a thing of itself in +the carnage of the universe! The animals devour each other. The peaceful +plants, the silent trees, are ferocious beasts one to another. The +serenity of the forests is only a commonplace of easy rhetoric for the +literary men who only know Nature through their books!... In the forest +hard by, a few yards away from the house, there were frightful struggles +always toward. The murderous beeches flung themselves upon the pines +with their lovely pinkish stems, hemmed in their slenderness with +antique columns, and stifled them. They rushed down upon the oaks and +smashed them, and made themselves crutches of them. The beeches were +like Briareus with his hundred arms, ten trees in one tree! They dealt +death all about them. And when, failing foes, they came together, they +became entangled, piercing, cleaving, twining round each other like +antediluvian monsters. Lower down, in the forest, the acacias had left +the outskirts and plunged into the thick of it and attacked the +pinewoods, strangling and tearing up the roots of their foes, poisoning +them with their secretions. It was a struggle to the death in which the +victors at once took possession of the room and the spoils of the +vanquished. Then the smaller monsters would finish the work of the +great. Fungi, growing between the roots, would suck at the sick tree, +and gradually empty it of its vitality. Black ants would grind exceeding +small the rotting wood. Millions of invisible insects were gnawing, +boring, reducing to dust what had once been life.... And the silence of +the struggle!... Oh! the peace of Nature, the tragic mask that covers +the sorrowful and cruel face of Life! Christophe was going down and +down. But he was not the kind of man to let himself drown without a +struggle, with his arms held close to his sides. In vain did he wish to +die: he did everything in his power to remain alive. He was one of those +men of whom Mozart said: _"They must act until at last they have no +means of action."_ He felt that he was sinking, and in his fall he +cast about, striking out with his arms to right and left, for some +support to which to cling. It seemed to him that he had found it. He had +just remembered Olivier's little boy. At once he turned on him all his +desire for life: he clung to him desperately. Yes: he must go and find +him, claim him, bring him up, love him, take the place of his father, +bring Olivier to life again in his son. Why had he not thought of it in +the selfishness of his sorrow? He wrote to Cécile, who had charge of the +boy. He waited feverishly for her reply. His whole being was bent upon +the one thought. He forced himself to be calm: he still had reason for +hope. He was quite confident about it: he knew how kind Cécile was. + +Her answer came. Cécile said that three months after Olivier's death, a +lady in black had come to her house and said: + +"Give me back my child!" + +It was Jacqueline, who had deserted her child and Olivier,--Jacqueline, +but so changed that she had hardly recognized her. Her mad love affair +had not lasted. She had wearied of her lover more quickly than her lover +had done of her. She had come back broken, disgusted, aged. The too +flagrant scandal of her adventure had closed many doors to her. The +least scrupulous had not been the least severe. Even her mother had been +so offensive and so contemptuous that Jacqueline had found it impossible +to stay with her. She had seen through and through the world's +hypocrisy. Olivier's death had been the last blow. She seemed so utterly +sorrowful that Cécile had not thought it right to refuse to let her have +her boy. It was hard for her to have to give up the little creature, +whom she had grown so used to regarding as her own. But how could she +make things even harder for a woman who had more right than herself, a +woman who was further more unhappy? She had wanted to write to +Christophe to ask his advice. But Christophe had never answered the +letters she had written him, she did not know his address, she did not +even know whether he was alive or dead.... Joy comes and goes. What +could she do? Only resign herself to the inevitable. The main thing was +for the child to be happy and to be loved.... + +The letter reached him in the evening. A belated gust of winter brought +back the snow. It fell all night. In the forest, where already the young +leaves had appeared, the trees cracked and split beneath the weight of +it. They went off like a battery of artillery. Alone in his room, +without a light, surrounded only by the phosphorescent darkness, +Christophe sat listening to the tragic sounds of the forest, and started +at every crack: and he was like one of the trees bending beneath its +load and snapping. He said to himself: + +"Now the end has come." + +Night passed. Day came. The tree was not broken. All through the new day +and the following night the tree went on bending and cracking: but it +did not break. Christophe had no reason for living left: and he went on +living. He had no motive for struggling; and he struggled, body to body, +foot to foot, with the invisible enemy who was bending his back. He was +like Jacob with the angel. He expected nothing from the fight, he +expected nothing now but the end, rest; and he went on fighting. And he +cried aloud: + +"Break me and have done! Why dost thou not throw me down?" + + * * * * * + +Days passed. Christophe issued from the fight, utterly lifeless. Yet he +would not lie down, and insisted on going out and walking. Happy are +those men who are sustained by the fortitude of their race in the hours +of eclipse of their lives! Though the body of the son was near +breaking-point, the strength of the father and the grandfather held him +up: the energy and impetus of his robust ancestors sustained his broken +soul, like a dead knight being carried along by his horse. + + * * * * * + +Along a precipitous road he went with a ravine on either hand: he went +down the narrow path, thick with sharp stones, among which coiled the +gnarled roots of the little stunted oaks: he did not know where he was +going, and yet he was more surefooted than if he had been moving under +the lucid direction of his will. He had not slept, he had hardly eaten +anything for several days. He saw a mist in front of his eyes. He walked +down towards the valley.--It was Easter-week. A cloudy day. The last +assault of winter had been overcome. The warmth of spring was brooding. +From the villages far down the sound of bells came up: first from a +village nestling in a hollow at the foot of the mountain, with its +dappled thatched roofs, dark and light in patches, covered with thick, +velvety moss. Then from another, out of sight, on the other slope of the +hill. Then, others down on the plain beyond the river. And the distant +hum of a town seen hazily in the mist. Christophe stopped. His heart +almost stopped beating. Their voices seemed to be saying: + +"Come with us. Here is peace. Here sorrow is dead. Dead, and thought is +dead too. We croon so sweetly to the soul that it sleeps in our arms, +Come, and rest, and thou shalt not wake again." + +He felt so worn out! He was so fain to sleep! But he shook his head and +said: + +"It is not peace that I seek, but life." + +He went on his way. He walked for miles without noticing it. In his +state of weakness and hallucination the simplest sensations came to him +with unexpected resonance. Over earth and air his mind cast fantastic +lights. A shadow, with nothing to cause it that he could see, going +before him on the white and sunless road, made him tremble. + +As he emerged from a wood he found himself near a village. He turned +back: the sight of men hurt him. However, he could not avoid passing by +a lonely house above the hamlet: it was built on the side of the +mountain, and looked like a sanatorium: it was surrounded by a large +garden open to the sun; a few men were wandering with faltering +footsteps along the gravel paths. Christophe did not look at it +particularly: but at a turn of the path he came face to face with a man +with pale eyes and a fat, yellow face, staring blankly, who had sunk +down on a seat at the foot of two poplar trees. Another man was sitting +by his side: they were both silent. Christophe walked past them. But, a +few yards on, he stopped: the man's eyes had seemed familiar to him. He +turned. The man had not stirred: he was still staring fixedly at +something in front of him. But his companion looked at Christophe, who +beckoned to him. He came up. + +"Who is he?" asked Christophe. + +"A patient in the asylum," said the man, pointing to the house. + +"I think I know him," said Christophe. + +"Possibly," replied the man. "He was a well-known writer in Germany." + +Christophe mentioned a name.--Yes. That was the name.--He had met him +once in the days when he was writing for Mannheim's review. Then, they +were enemies: Christophe was only just beginning, and the other was +already famous. He had been a man of considerable power, very +self-confident, very contemptuous of other men's work, a novelist whose +realistic and sensual writings had stood out above the mediocrity of the +productions of his day. Christophe, who detested the man, could not help +admiring the perfection of his materialistic art, which was sincere, +though limited. + +"He went mad a year ago," said the keeper. "He was treated, regarded as +cured, and sent home. Then he went mad again. One evening he threw +himself out of the window. At first, when he came here, he used to fling +himself about and shout. But now he is quite quiet. He spends his days +sitting there, as you see." + +"What is he looking at?" asked Christophe. + +He went up to the seat, and looked pitifully at the pale face of the +madman, with his heavy eyelids drooping over his eyes: one of them +seemed to be almost shut. The madman seemed to be unaware of +Christophe's presence. Christophe spoke to him by name and took his +hand--a soft, clammy hand, which lay limp in his like a dead thing: he +had not the courage to keep it in his: the man raised his glazing eyes +to Christophe for a moment, then went on staring straight in front of +him with his besotted smile. Christophe asked: + +"What are you looking at?" + +The man said, without moving, in a whisper: + +"I am waiting." + +"What for?" + +"The Resurrection." + +Christophe started back. He walked hurriedly away. The word had burnt +into his very soul. + +He plunged into the forest, and climbed up the hillside in the direction +of his own house. In his confusion he missed his way, and found himself +in the middle of an immense pine-wood. Darkness and silence. A few +patches of sunlight of a pale, ruddy gold, come it was impossible to +tell whence, fell aslant the dense shadows. Christophe was hypnotized by +these patches of light. Round him everything seemed to be in darkness. +He walked along over the carpet of pine-needles, tripping over the roots +which stood out like swollen veins. At the foot of the trees were +neither plants nor moss. In the branches was never the song of a bird. +The lower branches were dead. All the life of the place had fled upwards +to meet the sun. Soon even the life overhead would be gone. Christophe +passed into a part of the wood which was visited by some mysterious +pestilence. A kind of long, delicate lichen, like spiders' webs, had +fastened upon the branches of the red pines, and wrapped them about with +its meshes, binding them from hand to foot, passing from tree to tree, +choking the life out of the forest. It was like the deep-sea alga with +its subtle tentacles. There was in the place the silence of the depths +of the ocean. High overhead hung the pale sun. Mists which had crept +insidiously through the forest encompassed Christophe. Everything +disappeared: there was nothing to be seen. For half an hour Christophe +wandered at random in the web of the white mist, which grew slowly +thicker, black, and crept down into his throat: he thought he was going +straight: but he was walking in a circle beneath the gigantic spiders' +webs hanging from the stifled pines: the mist, passing through them, +left them enriched with shivering drops of water. At last the meshes +were rent asunder, a hole was made, and Christophe managed to make his +way out of the submarine forest. He came to living woods and the silent +conflict of the pines and the beeches. But everywhere there was the same +stillness. The silence, which had been brooding for hours, was +agonizing. Christophe stopped to listen.... + +Suddenly, in the distance, there came a storm. A premonitory gust of +wind blew up from the depths of the forest. Like a galloping horse it +rushed over the swaying tree-tops. It was like the God of Michael Angelo +passing in a water-spout. It passed over Christophe's head. The forest +rustled, and Christophe's heart quivered. It was the Annunciation.... + +Silence came again. In a state of holy terror Christophe walked quickly +home, with his legs giving way beneath him. At the door of the house he +glanced fearfully behind him, like a hunted man. All Nature seemed dead. +The forests which covered the sides of the mountain were sleeping, lying +heavy beneath a weight of sadness. The still air was magically clear and +transparent. There was never a sound. Only the melancholy music of a +stream--water eating away the rock--sounded the knell of the earth, +Christophe went to bed in a fever. It the stable hard by the beasts +stirred as restlessly and uneasily as he.... + +Night. He had dozed off. In the silence the distant storm arose once +more. The wind returned, like a hurricane now,--the _foehn_ of the +spring, with its burning breath warming the still sleeping, chilly +earth, the _foehn_ which melts the ice and gathers fruitful rains. +It rumbled like thunder in the forests on the other side of the ravine. +It came nearer, swelled, charged up the slopes: the whole mountain +roared. In the stable a horse neighed and the cows lowed. Christophe's +hair stood on end, he sat up in bed and listened. The squall came up +screaming, set the shutters banging, the weather-cocks squeaking, made +the slates of the roof go crashing down, and the whole house shake. A +flower-pot fell and was smashed. Christophe's window was insecurely +fastened, and was burst open with a bang, and the warm wind rushed in. +Christophe received its blast full in his face and on his naked chest. +He jumped out of bed gaping, gasping, choking. It was as though the +living God were rushing into his empty soul. The Resurrection!... The +air poured down his throat, the flood of new life swelled through him +and penetrated to his very marrow. He felt like to burst, he wanted to +shout, to shout for joy and sorrow: and there would only come +inarticulate sounds from his mouth. He reeled, he beat on the walls with +his arms, while all around him were sheets of paper flying on the wind. +He fell down in the middle of the room and cried: + +"O Thou, Thou! Thou art come back to me at last!" + +"Thou art come back to me, Thou art come back to me! O Thou, whom I had +lost!... Why didst Thou abandon me?" + +"To fulfil My task, that thou didst abandon." + +"What task?" + +"My fight." + +"What need hast Thou to fight? Art Thou not master of all?" + +"I am not the master." + +"Art Thou not All that Is?" + +"I am not all that is. I am Life fighting Nothingness. I am not +Nothingness, I am the Fire which burns in the Night. I am not the Night. +I am the eternal Light; I am not an eternal destiny soaring above the +fight. I am free Will which struggles eternally. Struggle and burn with +Me." + +"I am conquered. I am good for nothing." + +"Thou art conquered? All seems lost to thee? Others will be conquerors. +Think not of thyself, think of My army." + +"I am alone. I have none but myself. I belong to no army." + +"Thou art not alone, and thou dost not belong to thyself. Thou art one +of My voices, thou art one of My arms. Speak and strike for Me. But if +the arm be broken, or the voice be weary, then still I hold My ground: I +fight with other voices, other arms than thine. Though thou art +conquered, yet art thou of the army which is never vanquished. Remember +that and thou wilt fight even unto death." + +"Lord, I have suffered much!" + +"Thinkest thou that I do not suffer also? For ages death has hunted Me +and nothingness has lain in wait for Me. It is only by victory in the +fight that I can make My way. The river of life is red with My blood." + +"Fighting, always fighting?" + +"We must always fight. God is a fighter, even He Himself. God is a +conqueror. He is a devouring lion. Nothingness hems Him in and He hurls +it down. And the rhythm of the fight is the supreme harmony. Such +harmony is not for thy mortal ears. It is enough for thee to know that +it exists. Do thy duty in peace and leave the rest to the Gods." + +"I have no strength left." + +"Sing for those who are strong." + +"My voice is gone." + +"Pray." + +"My heart is foul." + +"Pluck it out. Take Mine." + +"Lord, it is easy to forget myself, to cast away my dead soul. But how +can I cast out the dead? how can I forget those whom I have loved?" + +"Abandon the dead with thy dead soul. Thou wilt find them alive with My +living soul." + +"Thou hast left me once: wilt Thou leave me again?" + +"I shall leave thee again. Never doubt that. It is for thee never to +leave Me more." + +"But if the flame of my life dies down?" + +"Then do thou kindle others." + +"And if death is in me?" + +"Life is otherwhere. Go, open thy gates to life. Thou insensate man, to +shut thyself up in thy ruined house! Quit thyself. There are other +mansions." + +"O Life, O Life! I see ... I sought thee in myself, in my own empty +shut-in soul. My soul is broken: the sweet air pours in through the +windows of my wounds: I breathe again, I have found Thee once more, O +Life!..." + +"I have found thee again.... Hold thy peace, and listen." + + * * * * * + +And like the murmuring of a spring, Christophe heard the song of life +bubbling up in him. Leaning out of his window, he saw the forest, which +yesterday had been dead, seething with life under the sun and the wind, +heaving like the Ocean. Along the stems of the trees, like thrills of +joy, the waves of the wind passed: and the yielding branches held their +arms in ecstasy up to the brilliant sky. And the torrent rang out +merrily as a bell. The countryside had risen from the grave in which +yesterday it had been entombed: life had entered it at the time when +love passed into Christophe's heart. Oh! the miracle of the soul touched +by grace, awaking to new life! Then everything comes to life again all +round it. The heart begins to beat once more. The eye of the spirit is +opened. The dried-up fountains begin once more to flow. + +And Christophe returned to the Divine conflict.... How his own fight, +how all the conflicts of men were lost in that gigantic battle, wherein +the suns rain down like flakes of snow tossing on the wind!... He had +laid bare his soul. And, just as in those dreams in which one hovers in +space, he felt that he was soaring above himself, he saw himself from +above, in the general plan of the world; and the meaning of his efforts, +the price of his suffering, were revealed to him at a glance. His +struggles were a part of the great fight of the worlds. His overthrow +was a momentary episode, immediately repaired. Just as he fought for +all, so all fought for him. They shared his trials, he shared their +glory. + + * * * * * + +"Companions, enemies, walk over me, crush me, let me feel the cannons +which shall win victory pass over my body! I do not think of the iron +which cuts deep into my flesh, I do not think of the foot that tramples +down my head, I think of my Avenger, the Master, the Leader of the +countless army. My blood shall cement the victory of the future...." + +God was not to him the impassive Creator, a Nero from his tower of brass +watching the burning of the City to which he himself has set fire. God +was fighting. God was suffering. Fighting and suffering with all who +fight and for all who suffer. For God was Life, the drop of light fallen +into the darkness, spreading out, reaching out, drinking up the night. +But the night is limitless, and the Divine struggle will never cease: +and none can know how it will end. It was a heroic symphony wherein the +very discords clashed together and mingled and grew into a serene whole! +Just as the beech-forest in silence furiously wages war, so Life carries +war into the eternal peace. + +The wars and the peace rang echoing through Christophe. He was like a +shell wherein the ocean roars. Epic shouts passed, and trumpet calls, +and tempestuous sounds borne upon sovereign rhythms. For in that +sonorous soul everything took shape in sound. It sang of light. It sang +of darkness, sang of life and death. It sang for those who were +victorious in battle. It sang for himself who was conquered and laid +low. It sang. All was song. It was nothing but song. + +It was so drunk with it that it could not hear its own song. Like the +spring rains, the torrents of music disappeared into the earth that was +cracked by the winter. Shame, grief, bitterness now revealed their +mysterious mission: they had decomposed the earth and they had +fertilized it. The share of sorrow, breaking the heart, had opened up +new sources of life. The waste land had once more burst into flower. But +they were not the old spring flowers. A new soul had been born. + +Every moment it was springing into birth. For it was not yet shaped and +hardened, like the souls that have come to the end of their belief, the +souls which are at the point of death. It was not the finished statue. +It was molten metal. Every second made a new universe of it. Christophe +had no thought of setting bounds upon himself. He gave himself up to the +joy of a man leaving behind him the burden of his past and setting out +on a long voyage, with youth in his blood, freedom in his heart, to +breathe the sea air, and think that the voyage will never come to an +end. Now that he was caught up again by the creative force which flows +through the world, he was amazed to the point of ecstasy at the world's +wealth. He loved, he _was_, his neighbor as himself. And all things +were "neighbors" to him, from the grass beneath his feet to the man +whose hand he clasped. A fine tree, the shadow of a cloud on the +mountain, the breath of the fields borne upward on the wind, and, at +night, the hive of heaven buzzing with the swarming suns ... his blood +raced through him ... he had no desire to speak or to think, he desired +only to laugh and to cry, and to melt away into the living marvel of it +all. Write? Why should he write? Can a man write the inexpressible?... +But whether it were possible or no, he had to write. It was his law. +Ideas would come to him in flashes, wherever he might be, most often +when he was out walking. He could not wait. Then he would write with +anything, on anything that came to hand: and very often he could not +have told the meaning of the phrases which came rushing forth from him +with irresistible impetuosity: and, as he wrote, more ideas would come, +more and more: and he would write and write, on his shirt cuffs, in the +lining of his hat. Quickly though he wrote, yet his thoughts would leap +ahead, and he had to use a sort of shorthand. + +They were only rough notes. The difficulty began when he tried to turn +his ideas into the ordinary musical forms: he discovered that none of +the conventional molds were in the least suitable: if he wanted to fix +his visions with any sort of fidelity, he had to begin by forgetting all +the music he had ever heard, everything he had ever written, make a +clean sweep of all the formulae he had ever learned, and the traditional +technique; fling away all such crutches of the impotent mind, the +comfortable bed made for the indolence of those who lie back on the +thoughts of other men to save themselves the trouble of thinking for +themselves. A short while ago, when he thought that he had reached +maturity in life and art--(as a matter of fact he had only been at the +end of one of his lives and one of his incarnations in art),--he had +expressed himself in a preexisting language: his feelings had submitted +without revolt to the logic of a pre-established development, which +dictated a portion of his phrases in advance, and had led him, docilely +enough, along the beaten track to the appointed spot where the public +was awaiting him. Now there was no road marked out, and his feelings had +to carve out their own path: his mind had only to follow. It was no +longer appointed to describe or to analyze passion: it had to become +part and parcel of it, and seek to wed its inward law. + +At the same time he shed all the contradictions in which he had long +been involved, though he had never willingly submitted to them. For, +although he was a pure artist, he had often incorporated in his art +considerations which are foreign to art: he had endowed it with a social +mission. And he had not perceived that there were two men in him: the +creative artist who never worried himself about any moral aim, and the +man of action, the thinker, who wanted his art to be moral and social. +The two would sometimes bring each other to an awkward pass. But now +that he was subject to every creative idea, with its organic law, like a +reality superior to all reality, he had broken free of practical reason. +In truth, he shed none of his contempt for the flabby and depraved +immorality of the age: in truth, he still thought that its impure and +unwholesome art was the lowest rung of art, because it is a disease, a +fungus growing on a rotting trunk: but if art for pleasure's sake is the +prostration of art, Christophe by no means opposed to it the +short-sighted utilitarianism of art for morality's sake, that winged +Pegasus harnessed to the plow. The highest art, the only art which is +worthy of the name, is above all temporary laws: it is a comet sweeping +through the infinite. It may be that its force is useful, it may be that +it is apparently useless and dangerous in the existing order of the +workaday world: but it is force, it is movement and fire: it is the +lightning darted from heaven: and, for that very reason, it is sacred, +for that very reason it is beneficent. The good it does may be of the +practical order: but its real, its Divine benefits are, like faith, of +the supernatural order. It is like the sun whence it is sprung. The sun +is neither moral nor immoral. It is that which Is. It lightens the +darkness of space. And so does art. + +And Christophe, being delivered up to art, was amazed to find unknown +and unsuspected powers teeming in himself: powers quite apart from his +passions, his sorrows, his conscious soul, a stranger soul, indifferent +to all his loves and sufferings, to all his life, a joyous, fantastic, +wild, incomprehensible soul. It rode him and dug its spurs into his +sides. And, in the rare moments when he could stop to take breath, he +wondered as he read over what he had written: + +"How could such things have come out of me?" + +He was a prey to that delirium of the mind which is known to every man +of genius, that will which is independent of the will, _"the ineffable +enigma of the world and life"_ which Goethe calls _"the demoniac,"_ +against which he was always armed, though it always overcame him. + +And Christophe wrote and wrote. For days and weeks. There are times when +the mind, being impregnated, can feed upon itself and go on producing +almost indefinitely. The faintest contact with things, the pollen of a +flower borne by the wind were enough to make the inward germs, the +myriads of germs put forth and come to blossom. Christophe had no time +to think, no time to live. His creative soul reigned sovereign over the +ruins of his life. + + * * * * * + +And suddenly it stopped. Christophe came out of that state broken, +scorched, older by ten years--but saved. He had left Christophe and gone +over to God. + +Streaks of white hair had suddenly appeared in his black mane, like +those autumn flowers which spring up in the fields in September nights. +There were fresh lines on his cheeks. But his eyes had regained their +calm expression, and his mouth bore the marks of resignation. He was +appeased. He understood now. He understood the vanity of his pride, the +vanity of human pride, under the terrible hand of the Force which moves +the worlds. No man is surely master of himself. A man must watch. For if +he slumbers that Force rushes into him and whirls him headlong ... into +what dread abysses? or the torrent which bears him along sinks and +leaves him on its dry bed. To fight the fight it is not enough to will. +A man must humiliate himself before the unknown God, who _fiat ubi +vult_, who blows where and when He listeth, love, death, or life. +Human will can do nothing without God's. One second is enough for Him to +obliterate the work of years of toil and effort. And, if it so please +Him, He can cause the eternal to spring forth from dust and mud. No man +more than the creative artist feels at the mercy of God: for, if he is +truly great, he will only say what the Spirit bids him. + +And Christophe understood the wisdom of old Haydn who went down on his +knees each morning before he took pen in hand.... _Vigila et ora_. +Watch and pray. Pray to God that He may be with you. Keep in loving and +pious communion with the Spirit of life. + + * * * * * + +Towards the end of summer a Parisian friend of Christophe's, who was +passing through Switzerland, discovered his retreat. He was a musical +critic who in old days had been an excellent judge of his compositions. +He was accompanied by a well-known painter, who was avowedly a +whole-hearted admirer of Christophe's. They told him of the very +considerable success of his work, which was being played all over +Europe. Christophe showed very little interest in the news: the past was +dead to him, and his old compositions did not count. At his visitors' +request he showed them the music he had written recently. The critic +could make nothing of it. He thought Christophe had gone mad. + +"No melody, no measure, no thematic workmanship: a sort of liquid core, +molten matter which had not hardened, taking any shape, but possessing +none of its own: it is like nothing on earth: a glimmering of light in +chaos." + +Christophe smiled: + +"It is quite like that," he said. "The eyes of chaos shining through the +veil of order...." + +But the critic did not understand Novalis' words: + +("He is cleaned out," he thought.) + +Christophe did not try to make him understand. + +When his visitors were ready to go he walked with them a little, so as +to do the honors of his mountain. But he did not go far. Looking down at +a field, the musical critic called to mind the scenery of a Parisian +theater: and the painter criticised the colors, mercilessly remarking on +the awkwardness of their combination, and declaring that to him they had +a Swiss flavor, sour, like rhubarb, musty and dull, _à la_ Hodler; +further, he displayed an indifference to Nature which was not altogether +affectation. He pretended to ignore Nature. + +"Nature! What on earth is Nature? I don't know. Light, color, very well! +But I don't care a hang for Nature!" + +Christophe shook hands with them and let them go. That sort of thing had +no effect on him now. They were on the other side of the ravine. That +was well. He said to nobody in particular: + +"If you wish to come up to me, you must take the same road." + +The creative fire which had been burning for months had died down. But +its comfortable warmth was still in Christophe's heart. He knew that the +fire would flare up again: if not in himself, then around him. Wherever +it might be, he would love it just the same: it would always be the same +fire. On that September evening he could feel it burning throughout all +Nature. + + * * * * * + +He climbed up to the house. There had been a storm. The sun had come out +again. The fields were steaming. The ripe fruit was falling from the +apple-trees into the wet grass. Spiders' webs, hanging from the branches +of the trees, still glittering with the rain, were like the ancient +wheels of Mycenaean chariots. At the edge of the dripping forest the +green woodpecker was trilling his jerky laughter; and myriads of little +wasps, dancing in the sunbeams, filled the vault of the woods with their +deep, long-drawn organ note. + +Christophe came to a clearing, in the hollow of a shoulder of the +mountain, a little valley shut in at both ends, a perfect oval in shape, +which was flooded with the light of the setting sun: the earth was red: +in the midst lay a little golden field of belated crops, and +rust-colored rushes. Round about it was a girdle of the woods with their +ripe autumn tints: ruddy copper beeches, pale yellow chestnuts, rowans +with their coral berries, flaming cherry-trees with their little tongues +of fire, myrtle-bushes with their leaves of orange and lemon and brown +and burnt tinder. It was like a burning bush. And from the heart of the +flaring cup rose and soared a lark, drunk with the berries and the sun. + +And Christophe's soul was like the lark. It knew that it would soon come +down to earth again, and many times. But it knew also that it would +unwearyingly ascend in the fire, singing its "tirra-lirra" which tells +of the light of the heavens to those who are on earth below. + + + + +THE NEW DAWN + + + +HERE, AT THE END OF THIS BOOK, + +I DEDICATE IT: + +TO THE FREE SPIRITS--OF ALL NATIONS-- + +WHO SUFFER, FIGHT, AND + +WILL PREVAIL. + +R. R. + + + + + +PREFACE TO THE LAST VOLUME + +OF + +JEAN-CHRISTOPHE + + +I have written the tragedy of a generation which is nearing its end. I +have sought to conceal neither its vices nor its virtues, its profound +sadness, its chaotic pride, its heroic efforts, its despondency beneath +the overwhelming burden of a superhuman task, the burden of the whole +world, the reconstruction of the world's morality, its esthetic +principles, its faith, the forging of a new humanity.--Such we have +been. + +You young men, you men of to-day, march over us, trample us under your +feet, and press onward. Be ye greater and happier than we. +For myself, I bid the soul that was mine farewell. I cast it from me +like an empty shell. Life is a succession of deaths and resurrections. +We must die, Christophe, to be born again, + +ROMAIN ROLLAND. + +October, 1912. + +[Illustration: Musical notation with caption: Du holde Kunst, in wie +viel grauen Stunden] + + +Life passes. Body and soul flow onward like a stream. The years are +written in the flesh of the ageing tree. The whole visible world of form +is forever wearing out and springing to new life. Thou only dost not +pass, immortal music. Thou art the inward sea. Thou art the profound +depths of the soul. In thy clear eyes the scowling face of life is not +mirrored. Far, far from thee, like the herded clouds, flies the +procession of days, burning, icy, feverish, driven by uneasiness, +huddling, moving on, on, never for one moment to endure. Thou only dost +not pass. Thou art beyond the world. Thou art a whole world to thyself. +Thou hast thy sun, thy laws, thy ebb and flow. Thou hast the peace of +the stars in the great spaces of the field of night, marking their +luminous track-plows of silver guided by the sure hand of the invisible +ox-herd. + +Music, serene music, how sweet is thy moony light to eyes wearied of the +harsh brilliance of this world's sun! The soul that has lived and turned +away from the common horse-pond, where, as they drink, men stir up the +mud with their feet, nestles to thy bosom, and from thy breasts is +suckled with the clear running water of dreams. Music, thou virgin +mother, who in thy immaculate womb bearest the fruit of all passions, +who in the lake of thy eyes, whereof the color is as the color of +rushes, or as the pale green glacier water, enfoldest good and evil, +thou art beyond evil, thou art beyond good; he that taketh refuge with +thee is raised above the passing of time: the succession of days will be +but one day; and death that devours everything on such an one will never +close its jaws. + +Music, thou who hast rocked my sorrow-laden soul; music, thou who hast +made me firm in strength, calm and joyous,--my love and my treasure,--I +kiss thy pure lips, I hide my face in thy honey-sweet hair. I lay my +burning eyelids upon the cool palms of thy hands. No word we speak, our +eyes are closed, and I see the ineffable light of thine eyes, and I +drink the smile of thy silent lips: and, pressed close to thy heart, I +listen to the throb of eternal life. + + + + +I + + +Christophe loses count of the fleeting years. Drop by drop life ebbs +away. But _his_ life is elsewhere. It has no history. His history +lies wholly in his creative work. The unceasing buzzing song of music +fills his soul, and makes him insensible to the outward tumult. + +Christophe has conquered. His name has been forced upon the world. He is +ageing. His hair is white. That is nothing to him, his heart is ever +young: he has surrendered none of his force, none of his faith. Once +more he is calm, but not as he was before he passed by the Burning Bush. +In the depths of his soul there is still the quivering of the storm, the +memory of his glimpse into the abyss of the raging seas. He knows that +no man may boast of being master of himself without the permission of +the God of battle. In his soul there are two souls. One is a high +plateau swept by winds and shrouded with, clouds. The other, higher +still, is a snowy peak bathed in light. There it is impossible to dwell; +but, when he is frozen by the mists on the lower ground, well he knows +the path that leads to the sun. In his misty soul Christophe is not +alone. Near him he ever feels the presence of an invisible friend, the +sturdy Saint Cecilia, listening with wide, calm eyes to the heavens; +and, like the Apostle Paul,--in Raphael's picture,--silent and +dreaming, leaning on his sword, he is beyond exasperation, and has no +thought of fighting: he dreams, and forges his dreams into form. + +During this period of his life he mostly wrote piano and chamber music. +In such work he was more free to dare and be bold: it necessitated fewer +intermediaries between his ideas and their realization; his ideas were +less in danger of losing force in the course of their percolation. +Frescobaldi, Couperin, Schubert, and Chopin, in their boldness of +expression and style, anticipated the revolutionaries in orchestral +music by fifty years. Out of the crude stuff shaped by Christophe's +strong hands came strange and unknown agglomerations of harmony, +bewildering combinations of chords, begotten of the remotest kinships of +sounds accessible to the senses in these days; they cast a magical and +holy spell upon the mind.--But the public must have time to grow +accustomed to the conquests and the trophies which a great artist brings +back with him from his quest in the deep waters of the ocean. Very few +would follow Christophe in the temerity of his later works. His fame was +due to his earlier compositions. The feeling of not being understood, +which is even more painful in success than in the lack of it, because +there seems to be no way out of it, had, since the death of his only +friend, aggravated in Christophe his rather morbid tendency to seek +isolation from the world. + +However, the gates of Germany were open to him once more. In France the +tragic brawl had been forgotten. He was free to go whithersoever he +pleased. But he was afraid of the memories that would lie in wait for +him in Paris. And, although he had spent a few months in Germany and +returned there from time to time to conduct performances of his work, he +did not settle there. He found too many things which hurt him. They were +not particular to Germany: he found them elsewhere. But a man expects +more of his own country than any other, and he suffers more from its +foibles. It was true, too, that Germany was bearing the greatest burden +of the sins of Europe. The victor incurs the responsibility of his +victory, a debt towards the vanquished: tacitly the victor is pledged to +march in front of them to show them the way. The conquests of Louis XIV. +gave Europe the splendor of French reason. What light has the Germany of +Sedan given to the world? The glitter of bayonets? Thought without +wings, action without generosity, brutal realism, which has not even the +excuse of being the realism of healthy men; force and interest: Mars +turned bagman. Forty years ago Europe was led astray into the night, and +the terrors of the night. The sun was hidden beneath the conqueror's +helmet. If the vanquished are too weak to raise the extinguisher, and +can claim only pity mingled with contempt, what shall be given to the +victor who has done this thing? + +A little while ago, day began to peep: little shafts of light shimmered +through the cracks. Being one of the first to see the rising of the sun, +Christophe had come out of the shadow of the helmet: gladly he returned +to the country in which he had been a sojourner perforce, to +Switzerland. Like so many of the spirits of that time, spirits thirsting +for liberty, choking in the narrowing circle of the hostile nations, he +sought a corner of the earth in which he could stand above Europe and +breathe freely. Formerly, in the days of Goethe, the Rome of the free +Popes was the island upon which all the winged thought of divers nations +came to rest, like birds taking shelter from the storm. Now what refuge +is there? The island has been covered by the sea. Rome is no more. The +birds have fled from the Seven Hills.--The Alps only are left for them. +There, amid the rapacity of Europe, stands (for how long?) the little +island of twenty-four cantons. In truth it has not the poetic radiance +and glamor of the Eternal City: history has not filled its air with the +breath of gods and heroes; but a mighty music rises from the naked +Earth; there is an heroic rhythm in the lines of the mountains, and +here, more than anywhere else, a man can feel himself in contact with +elemental forces. Christophe did not go there in search of romantic +pleasure. A field, a few trees, a stream, the wide sky, were enough to +make him feel alive. The calm aspect of his native country was sweeter +and more companionable to him than the gigantic grandeur of the Alps. +But he could not forget that it was here that he had renewed his +strength: here God had appeared to him in the Burning Bush; and he never +returned thither without a thrill of gratitude and faith. He was not the +only one. How many of the combatants of life, ground beneath life's +heel, have on that soil renewed their energy to turn again to the fight, +and believe once more in its purpose! + +Living in that country he had come to know it well. The majority of +those who pass through it see only its excrescences: the leprosy of the +hotels which defiles the fairest features of that sturdy piece of earth, +the stranger cities, the monstrous marts whither all the fatted people +of the world come to browse, the _table d'hôte_ meals, the masses +of food flung into the trough for the nosing beasts: the casino bands +with their silly music mingling with the noise of the little horses, the +Italian scum whose disgusting uproar makes the bored wealthy idiots +wriggle with pleasure, the fatuous display of the shops--wooden bears, +chalets, silly knick-knacks, always the same, repeated time and again, +over and over again, with no freshness or invention; the worthy +booksellers with their scandalous pamphlets,--all the moral baseness of +those places whither every year the idle, joyless millions come who are +incapable of finding amusement in the smallest degree finer than that of +the multitude, or one tithe as keen. + +And they know nothing of the people in whose land they stay. They have +no notion of the reserves of moral force and civic liberty which for +centuries have been hoarded up in them, coals of the fires of Calvin and +Zwingli, still glowing beneath the ashes; they have no conception of the +vigorous democratic spirit which will always ignore the Napoleonic +Republic, of the simplicity of their institutions, or the breadth of +their social undertakings, or the example given to the world by these +United States of the three great races of the West, the model of the +Europe of the future. Even less do they know of the Daphne concealed +beneath this rugged bark, the wild, flashing dreams of Boecklin, the +raucous heroism of Hodler, the serene vision and humor of Gottfried +Keller, the living tradition of the great popular festivals, and the sap +of springtime swelling the trees,--the still young art, sometimes +rasping to the palate, like the hard fruits of wild pear-trees, +sometimes with the sweetish insipidity of myrtles black and blue, but at +least something smacking of the earth, is the work of self-taught men +not cut off from the people by an archaic culture, but, with them, +reading in the same book of life. + +Christophe was in sympathy with these men who strive less to seem than +to be, and, under the recent veneer of an ultramodern industrialism, +keep clearly marked the most reposeful features of the old Europe of +peasants and townsmen. Among them he had found a few good friends, +grave, serious, and faithful, who hold isolated and immured in them +regrets for the past; they were looking on at the gradual disappearance +of the old Switzerland with a sort of religious fatalism and Calvinistic +pessimism; great gray souls. Christophe seldom saw them. His old wounds +were apparently healed: but they had been too deep wholly to be cured. +He was fearful of forming new ties with men. It was something for this +reason that he liked to dwell in a country where it was easy to live +apart, a stranger amid a throng of strangers. For the rest he rarely +stayed long in any one place; often he changed his lair: he was like an +old migratory bird which needs space, and has its country in the air ... +_"Mein Reich ist in der Luft."_ + +An evening in summer. + +He was walking in the mountains above a village. He was striding along +with his hat in his hand, up a winding road. He came to a neck where the +road took a double turn, and passed into shadow between two slopes; on +either side were nut-trees and pines. It was like a little shut-in +world. On either hand the road seemed to come to an end, cut off at the +edge of the void. Beyond were blue distance and the gleaming air. The +peace of evening came down like a gentle rain. + +They came together each at the same moment turning the bend at either +end of the neck. She was dressed in black, and stood out against the +clear sky: behind her were two children, a boy and a girl, between six +and eight, who were playing and picking flowers. They recognized each +other at a distance of a few yards. Their emotion was visible in their +eyes; but neither brought it into words; each gave only an imperceptible +movement. He was deeply moved: she ... her lips trembled a little. They +stopped. Almost in a whisper: + +"Grazia!" + +"You here!" + +They held out their hands and stood without a word. Grazia was the first +to make an effort to break the silence. She told him where she lived, +and asked him where he was staying. Question and answer were mechanical, +and they hardly listened, heard later, when their hands had parted: they +were absorbed in gazing at each other. The children came back to her. +She introduced them. He felt hostile towards them, and looked at them +with no kindness, and said nothing: he was engrossed with her, occupied +only in studying her beautiful face that bore some marks of suffering +and age. She was embarrassed by his gaze, and said: + +"Will you come, this evening?" + +And she gave the name of her hotel. + +He asked her where her husband was. She pointed to her black dress. He +was too much moved to say more, and left her awkwardly. But when he had +taken a few strides he came back to the children, who were picking +strawberries, and took them roughly in his arms and kissed them, and +went away. + +In the evening he went to the hotel, and found her on the veranda, with +the blinds drawn. They sat apart. There were very few people about, only +two or three old people. Christophe was irritated by their presence. +Grazia looked at him, and he looked at her, and murmured her name over +and over again. + +"Don't you think I have changed?" she asked. + +His heart grew big. + +"You have suffered," he said. + +"You too," she answered pityingly, scanning the deep marks of agony and +passion in his face. + +They were at a loss for words. + +"Please," he said, a moment later, "let us go somewhere else. Could we +not find somewhere to be alone and talk?" + +"No, my dear. Let us stay here. It is good enough here. No one is +heeding us at all." + +"I cannot talk freely here." + +"That is all the better." + +He could not understand why. Later, when in memory he went over their +conversation, he thought she had not trusted him. But she was +instinctively afraid of emotional scenes: unconsciously she was seeking +protection from any surprise of their hearts: the very awkwardness of +their intimacy in a public room, so sheltering the modesty of her secret +emotions, was dear to her. + +In whispers, with long intervals of silence, they sketched their lives +in outline. Count Berény had been killed in a duel a few months ago; and +Christophe saw that she had not been very happy with him. Also, she had +lost a child, her first-born. She made no complaint, and turned the +conversation from herself to question Christophe, and, as he told her of +his tribulations, she showed the most affectionate compassion. Bells +rang. It was Sunday evening. Life stood still. + +She asked him to come again next day but one. He was hurt that she +should be so little eager to see him again. In his heart happiness and +sorrow were mingled. + +Next day, on some pretext, she wrote and asked him to come. He was +delighted with her little note. This time she received him in her +private room. She was with her two children. He looked at them, still a +little uneasily, but very tenderly. He thought the little girl--the +elder of the two--very like her mother: but he did not try to match the +boy's looks. They talked about the country, the times, the books lying +open on the table:--but their eyes spoke of other things. He was hoping +to be able to talk more intimately when a hotel acquaintance came in. He +marked the pleasure and politeness with which Grazia received the +stranger: she seemed to make no difference between her two visitors. He +was hurt by it, but could not be angry with her. She proposed that they +should all go for a walk and he accepted; the presence of the other woman, +though she was young and charming, paralyzed him: his day was spoiled. + +He did not see Grazia again for two days. During that time he lived but +for the hours he was to spend with her.--Once more his efforts to speak +to her were doomed to failure. While she was very gentle and kind with +him, she could not throw off her reserve. All unconsciously Christophe +added to her difficulty by his outbursts of German sentimentality, which +embarrassed her and forced her instinct into reaction. + +He wrote her a letter which touched her, saying that life was so short! +Their lives were already so far gone! Perhaps they would have only a +very little time in which to see each other, and it was pitiful, almost +criminal, not to employ it in frank converse. + +She replied with a few affectionate words, begging him to excuse her for +her distrust, which she could not avoid, since she had been so much hurt +by life: she could not break her habitual reserve: any excessive +display, even of a genuine feeling, hurt and terrified her. But well she +knew the worth of the friendship that had come to her once more: and she +was as glad of it as he. She asked him to dine with her that evening. + +His heart was brimming with gratitude. In his room, lying on his bed, he +sobbed. It was the opening of the flood-gates of ten years of solitude: +for, since Olivier's death, he had been utterly alone. Her letter gave +the word of resurrection to his heart that was so famished for +tenderness. Tenderness!... He thought he had put it from him: he had +been forced to learn how to do without it! Now he felt how sorely he +needed it, and the great stores of love that had accumulated in him.... + +It was a sweet and blessed evening that they spent together.... He +could only speak to her of trivial subjects, in spite of their intention +to hide nothing from each other. But what goodly things he told her +through the piano, which with her eyes she invited him to use to tell +her what he had to say! She was struck by the humility of the man whom +she had known in his violence and pride. When he went away the silent +pressure of their hands told them that they had found each other, and +would never lose what they had regained.--It was raining, and there was +not a breath of wind. His heart was singing. + +She was only able to stay a few days longer, and she did not postpone +her departure for an hour. He dared not ask her to do so, nor complain. +On their last day they went for a walk with the children; there came a +moment when he was so full of love and happiness that he tried to tell +her so: but, with a very gentle gesture, she stopped him and smiled: + +"Hush! I feel everything that you could say." + +They sat down at the turn of the road where they had met. Still smiling +she looked down into the valley below: but it was not the valley that +she saw. He looked at the gentle face marked with the traces of bitter +suffering: a few white tresses showed in her thick black hair. He was +filled with a pitying, passionate adoration of this beloved creature who +had travailed and been impregnated with the suffering of the soul. In +every one of the marks of time upon her the soul was visible.--And, in a +low, trembling voice, he craved, as a precious favor, which she granted +him, a white hair from her head. + + * * * * * + +She went away. He could not understand why she would not have him +accompany her. He had no doubt of her feeling for him, but her reserve +disconcerted him. He could not stay alone in that place, and set out in +another direction. He tried to occupy his mind with traveling and work. +He wrote to Grazia. She answered him, two or three week later, with +very brief letters, in which she showed her tranquil friendship, knowing +neither impatience nor uneasiness. They hurt him and he loved them. He +would not admit that he had any right to reproach her; their affection +was too recent, too recently renewed. He was fearful of losing it. And +yet every letter he had from her breathed a calm loyalty which should +have made him feel secure. But she was so different from him!... + +They had agreed to meet in Rome, towards the end of the autumn. Without +the thought of seeing her, the journey would have had little charm for +Christophe. His long isolation had made him retiring: he had no taste +for that futile hurrying from place to place which is so dear to the +indolence of modern men and women. He was fearful of a change of habit, +which is dangerous to the regular work of the mind. Besides, Italy had +no attractions for him. He knew it only in the villainous music of the +Verists and the tenor arias to which every now and then the land of +Virgil inspires men of letters on their travels. He felt towards Italy +the hostility of an advanced artist, who has too often heard the name of +Rome invoked by the worst champions of academic routine. Finally, the +old leaven of instinctive antipathy which ever lies fermenting in the +hearts of the men of the North towards the men of the South, or at least +towards the legendary type of rhetorical braggart which, in the eyes of +the men of the North, represents the men of the South. At the mere +thought of it Christophe disdainfully curled his lip.... No, he had no +desire for the more acquaintance of the musicless people--(for, in the +music of modern Europe, what is the place of their mandolin tinkling and +melodramatic posturing declamation?).--And yet Grazia belonged to this +people. To join her again, whither and by what devious ways would +Christophe not have gone? He would win through by shutting his eyes +until he came to her. + + * * * * * + +He was used to shutting his eyes. For so many years the shutters of his +soul had been closed upon his inward life. Now, in this late autumn, it +was more necessary than ever. For three weeks together it had rained +incessantly. Then a gray pall of impenetrable mists had hung over the +valleys and towns of Switzerland, dripping and wet. His eyes had +forgotten the sunlight. To rediscover in himself its concentrated energy +he had to begin by clothing himself in night, and, with his eyes closed, +to descend to the depths of the mine, the subterranean galleries of his +dreams. There in the seams of coal slept the sun of days gone by. But as +the result of spending his life crouching there, digging, he came out +burned, stiff in back and knees, with limbs deformed, half petrified, +dazed eyes, that, like a bird's, could see keenly in the night. Many a +time Christophe had brought up from the mine the fire he had so +painfully extracted to warm the chill of heart. But the dreams of the +North smack of the warmth of the fireside and the closed room. No man +notices it while he lives in it: dear is that heavy air, dear the +half-light and the soul's dreams in the drowsy head. We love the things +we have. We must be satisfied with them!... + +When, as he passed the barrier of the Alps, Christophe, dozing in a +corner of the carriage, saw the stainless sky and the limpid light +falling upon the slopes of the mountains, he thought he must be +dreaming. On the other side of the wall he had left a darkened sky and a +fading day. So sudden was the change that at first he felt more surprise +than joy. It was some time before his drowsy soul awoke and began slowly +to expand and burst the crust that was upon it, and his heart could free +itself from the shadows of the past. But as the day wore on, the mellow +light took his soul into its arms, and, wholly forgetting all that had +been, he drank greedily of the delight of seeing. + +Through the plains of Milan. The eye of day mirrored in the blue canals, +a network of veins through the downy rice fields. Mountains of Vinci, +snowy Alps soft in their brilliance, ruggedly encircling the horizon, +fringed with red and orange and greeny gold and pale blue. Evening +falling on the Apennines. A winding descent by little sheer hills, +snakelike curving, in a repeating, involved rhythm like a +farandole.--And suddenly, at the bottom of the slope, like a kiss, the +breath of the sea and the smell of orange-trees. The sea, the Latin sea +and its opal light, whereon, swaying, were the sails of little boats +like wings folded back.... + +By the sea, at a fishing-village, the train stopped for a while. It was +explained to the passengers that there had been a landslip, as a result +of the heavy rains, in a tunnel between Genoa and Pisa: all the trains +were several hours late. Christophe, who was booked through to Rome, +was delighted by the accident which provoked the loud lamentations of +his fellow-passengers. He jumped down to the platform and made use of +the stoppage to go down to the sea, which drew him on and on. The sea +charmed him so that when, a few hours later, the engine whistled as it +moved on, Christophe was in a boat, and, as the train passed, shouted: +"Good-by!" In the luminous night, on the luminous sea, he sat rocking in +the boat, as it passed along the scented coast with its promontories +fringed with tiny cypress-trees. He put up at a village and spent there +five days of unbroken joy. He was like a man issuing from a long fast, +hungrily eating. With all his famished senses he gulped down the +splendid light.... Light, the blood of the world, that flows in space +like a river of life, and through our eyes, our lips, our nostrils, +every pore of our skins, filters through to the depths of our bodies, +light, more necessary to life than bread,--he who sees thee stripped of +thy northern veils, pure, burning, naked, marvels how ever he could have +lived without knowing thee, and deeply feels that he can never live more +without possessing thee.... + +For five days Christophe was drunk with the sun. For five days he +forgot--for the first time--that he was a musician. The music of his +soul was merged into light. The air, the sea, the earth: the brilliant +symphony played by the sun's orchestra. And with what innate art does +Italy know how to use that orchestra! Other peoples paint from Nature: +the Italians collaborate with her: they paint with sunlight. The music +of color. All is music, everything sings. A wall by the roadside, red, +fissured with gold: above it, two cypress-trees with their tufted +crests: and all around the eager blue of the sky. A marble staircase, +white, steep, narrow, climbing between pink walls against the blue front +of a church. Any one of their many-colored houses, apricot, lemon, +cedrate, shining among the olive-trees, has the effect of a marvelous +ripe fruit among the leaves. In Italy seeing is sensual: the eyes enjoy +color, as the palate and the tongue delight in a juicy, scented fruit. +Christophe flung himself at this new repast with eager childlike greed: +he made up for the asceticism of the gray visions to which till then he +had been condemned. His abounding nature, stifled by Fate, suddenly +became conscious of powers of enjoyment which he had never used: they +pounced on the prey presented to them; scents, colors, the music of +voices, bells and the sea, the kisses of the air, the warm bath of light +in which his ageing, weary soul began to expand.... Christophe had no +thought of anything. He was in a state of beatific delight, and only +left it to share his joy with those he met: his boatman, an old +fisherman, with quick eyes all wrinkled round, who wore a red cap like +that of a Venetian senator;--his only fellow-boarder, a Milanese, who +ate macaroni and rolled his eyes like Othello: fierce black eyes filled +with a furious hatred; an apathetic, sleepy man;--the waiter in the +restaurant, who, when he carried a tray, bent his neck, and twisted his +arms and his body like an angel of Bernini;--the little Saint John, with +sly, winking eyes, who begged on the road, and offered the passers-by an +orange on a green branch. He would hail the carriage-drivers, sitting +huddled on their seats, who every now and then would, in a nasal, +droning, throaty voice, intone the thousand and one couplets. He was +amazed to find himself humming _Cavalleria Rusticana_. He had +entirely forgotten the end of his journey. Forgotten, too, was his haste +to reach the end and Grazia.... + +Forgotten altogether was she until the day when the beloved image rose +before him. Was it called up by a face seen on the road or a grave, +singing note in a voice? He did not know. But a time came when, from +everything about him, from the circling, olive-clad hills, from the +high, shining peaks of the Apennines, graven by the dense shadows and +the burning sun, and from the orange-groves heavy with flowers and +fruit, and the deep, heaving breath of the sea, there shone the smiling +face of the beloved. Through the countless eyes of the air, her eyes +were upon him. In that beloved earth she flowered, like a rose upon a +rose-tree. + +Then he regained possession of himself. He took the train for Rome and +never stopped. He had no interest in the old memories of Italy, or the +cities of the art of past ages. He saw nothing of Rome, nor wanted to: +and what he did see at first, in passing, the styleless new districts, +the square blocks of buildings, gave him no desire to see more. + +As soon as he arrived he went to see Grazia. She asked him: + +"How did you come? Did you stop at Milan or Florence?" + +"No," he said. "Why should I?" + +She laughed. + +"That's a fine thing to say! And what do you think of Rome?" + +"Nothing," he said. "I haven't seen it!" + +"Not yet?" + +"Nothing. Not a single monument. I came straight to you from my hotel." + +"You don't need to go far to see Rome.... Look at that wall opposite.... +You only need to see its light." + +"I only see you," he said. + +"You are a barbarian. You only see your own ideas. When did you leave +Switzerland?" + +"A week ago." + +"What have you been doing since then?" + +"I don't know. I stopped, by chance, at a place by the sea. I never +noticed its name. I slept for a week. Slept, with my eyes open. I do not +know what I have seen, or what I have dreamed. I think I was dreaming of +you. I know that it was very beautiful. But the most lovely part of it +all is that I forgot everything...." + +"Thank you!" she said. + +(He did not listen.) + +"... Everything," he went on. "Everything that was then, everything that +had been before. I am a new man. I am beginning to live again." + +"It is true," she said, looking into his laughing eyes. "You have +changed since we last met." + +He looked at her, too, and found her no less different from his memory +of her. Not that she had changed in two months, but he was seeing her +with new eyes. Yonder, in Switzerland, the image of old days, the faint +shadow of the girl Grazia, had flitted between his gaze and this new +actual beloved. Now, in the sun of Italy, the dreams of the North had +melted away: in the clear light of day he saw her real soul and body. +How far removed she was from the little, wild, imprisoned girl of Paris, +how far from the woman with the smile like Saint John, whom he had met +one evening, shortly after her marriage, only to lose her again! Out of +the little Umbrian Madonna had flowered a lovely Roman lady: + +_Color verus, corpus solidum et succi plenum._ + +Her figure had taken on an harmonious fullness: her body was bathed in a +proud languor. The very genius of tranquillity hovered in her presence. +She had that greed of sunny silence, and still contemplation, the +delightful joy in the peace of living which the people of the North will +never really know. What especially she had preserved out of the past was +her great kindness which inspired all her other feelings. But in her +luminous smile many new things were to be read: a melancholy indulgence, +a little weariness, much knowledge of the ways of men, a fine irony, and +tranquil common sense. The years had veiled her with a certain coldness, +which protected her against the illusions of the heart; rarely could she +surrender herself; and her tenderness was ever on the alert, with a +smile that seemed to know and tell everything, against the passionate +impulses that Christophe found it hard to suppress. She had her +weaknesses, moments of abandonment to the caprice of the minute, a +coquetry at which she herself mocked but never fought against. She was +never in revolt against things, nor against herself: she had come to a +gentle fatalism, and she was altogether kind, but a little weary. + + * * * * * + +She entertained a great deal, and--at least, in appearance--not very +selectively: but as, for the most part, her intimates belonged to the +same world, breathed the same atmosphere, had been fashioned by the same +habits, they were homogeneous and harmonious enough, and very different +from the polite assemblages that Christophe had known in France and +Germany. The majority were of old Italian families, vivified here and +there by foreign marriages; they all had a superficial cosmopolitanism +and a comfortable mixture of the four chief languages, and the +intellectual baggage of the four great nations of the West. Each nation +brought into the pool its personal characteristic, the Jews their +restlessness and the Anglo-Saxons their phlegm, but everything was +quickly absorbed in the Italian melting-pot. When centuries of great +plundering barons have impressed on a race the haughty and rapacious +profile of a bird of prey, the metal may change, but the imprint remains +the same. Many of the faces that seemed the most pronouncedly Italian, +with a Luini smile, or the voluptuous, calm gaze of a Titian, flowers of +the Adriatic, or the plains of Lombardy, had blossomed on the shrubs of +the North transplanted to the old Latin soil. Whatever colors be spread +on the palette of Rome, the color which stands out is always Roman. + +Christophe could not analyze his impressions, but he admired the perfume +of an age-old culture, an ancient civilization exhaled by these people, +who were often mediocre, and, in some cases, less than mediocre. It was +a subtle perfume, springing from the smallest trifles. A graceful +courtesy, a gentleness of manners that could be charming and +affectionate, and at the same time malicious and consciously superior, +an elegant finesse in the use of the eyes, the smile, the alert, +nonchalant, skeptical, diverse, and easy intelligence. There was nothing +either stiff or familiar. Nothing literary. Here there was no fear of +meeting the psychologues of a Parisian drawing-room, ensconced behind +their eyeglasses, or the corporalism of a German pedant. They were men, +quite simply, and very human men, such as were the friends of Terence +and Scipio the Æmilian.... + +_Homo sum_.... + +It was fine to see. It was a life more of appearance than reality. +Beneath it lay an incurable frivolity which is common to the polite +society of every country. But what made this society characteristic of +its race was its indolence. The frivolity of the French is accompanied +by a fever of the nerves--a perpetual agitation of the mind, even when +it is empty. The brain of the Italian knows how to rest. It knows it +only too well. It is sweet to sleep in the warm shadows, on the soft +pillow of a padded Epicureanism, and a very supple, fairly curious, and, +at bottom, prodigiously indifferent intelligence. + +All the men of this society were entirely lacking in decided opinions. +They dabbled in politics and art in the same dilettante fashion. Among +them were charming natures, handsome, fine-featured patrician, Italian +faces, with soft, intelligent eyes, men with gentle, quiet manners, who, +with exquisite taste and affectionate hearts, loved Nature, the old +masters, flowers, women, books, good food, their country, music.... They +loved everything. They preferred nothing. Sometimes one felt that they +loved nothing. Love played so large a part in their lives, but only on +condition that it never disturbed them. Their love was indolent and +lazy, like themselves; even in their passion it was apt to take on a +domestic character. Their solid, harmonious intelligence was fitted with +an inertia in which all the opposites of thought met without collision, +were tranquilly yoked together, smiling, cushioned, and rendered +harmless. They were afraid of any thorough belief, of taking sides, and +were at their ease in semi-solutions and half-thoughts. They were +conservative-liberal in temper of mind. They needed politics and art +half-way up the hill, like those health resorts where there is no danger +of asthma or palpitations. They recognized themselves in the lazy plays +of Goldoni, or the equally diffused light of Manzoni. Their amiable +indifference was never disturbed. Never could they have said like their +great ancestors: _"Primum vivere ..."_ but rather _"Dapprima, +quieto vivere."_ + +To live in peace. That was the secret vow, the aim of even the most +energetic of those who controlled politics. A little Machiavelli, master +of himself and others, with a heart as cold as his head, a lucid, bored +intelligence, knowing how and daring to use all means to gain his ends, +ready to sacrifice all his friends to his ambition, would be capable of +sacrificing his ambition to one thing only: his _quieto vivere_. +They needed long periods of absolute lassitude. When they issued from +them, as from a good sleep, they were fresh and ready: these grave men, +these tranquil Madonnas would be taken with a sudden desire to talk, to +be gay, to plunge into social life; then they would break out into a +profusion of gestures and words, paradoxical sallies, burlesque humor: +they were always playing an _opera bouffe_. In that gallery of +Italian portraits rarely would you find the marks of thought, the +metallic brilliance of the eyes, faces stained with the perpetual labor +of the mind, such as are to be found in the North. And yet, here, as +elsewhere, there was no lack of souls turned in upon themselves, to feed +upon themselves, concealing their woes, and desires and cares seething +beneath the mask of indifference, and, voluptuously, drawing on a cloak +of torpor. And, in certain faces there would peep out, queerly, +disconcertingly, indications of some obscure malady of the spirit +peculiar to very ancient races--like the excavations in the Roman +Campagna. + +There was great charm in the enigmatic indifference of these people, and +their calm, mocking eyes, wherein there slumbered hidden tragedy. But +Christophe was in no humor to recognize it. He was furious at seeing +Grazia surrounded by worldly people with their courteous, witty, and +empty manners. He hated them for it, and he was angry with her. He +sulked at her just as he sulked at Rome. His visits to her became less +and less frequent, and he began to make up his mind to go. + + * * * * * + +He did not go. Unknown to himself, he was beginning to feel the +attraction of Italian society, though it irritated him so much. + +For the time being, he isolated himself and lounged about Rome and the +environment. The Roman light, the hanging gardens, the Campagna, +encircled, as by a golden scarf, by the sunlit sea, little by little +delivered up to him the secret of the enchanted land. He had sworn not +to move a step to see the monuments of the dead, which he affected to +despise: he used grumblingly to declare that he would wait until they +came to look for him. They came; he happened on them by chance on his +rambling through the City of many hills. Without having looked for it, +he saw the Forum red under the setting sun, and the half-ruined arches +of the Palatine and behind them the deep azure vault of heaven, a gulf +of blue light. He wandered in the vast Campagna, near the ruddy Tiber, +thick with mud, like moving earth,--and along the ruined aqueducts, like +the gigantic vertebrae of antediluvian monsters. Thick masses of black +clouds rolled across the blue sky. Peasants on horseback goaded across +the desert great herds of pearly-gray cattle with long horns; and along +the ancient road, straight, dusty, and bare, goat-footed shepherds, clad +in thick skins, walked in silence. On the far horizon, the Sabine Chain, +with its Olympian lines, unfolded its hills; and on the other edge of +the cup of the sky the old walls of the city, the front of Saint John's +Church, surmounted with statues which danced in black silhouette.... +Silence.... A fiery sun.... The wind passed over the plain.... On a +headless, armless statue, almost inundated by the waving grass, a +lizard, with its heart beating tranquilly, lay motionless, absorbed, +drinking in its fill of light. And Christophe, with his head buzzing +with the sunshine (sometimes also with the _Castelli_ wine), sitting on +the black earth near the broken statue, smiling, sleepy, lost +in forgetfulness, breathed in the calm, tremendous force of Rome.--Until +nightfall.--Then, with his heart full of a sudden anguish, he fled from +the gloomy solitude in which the tragic light was sinking.... O earth, +burning earth, earth passionate and dumb! Beneath thy fevered peace I +still can hear the trumpeting of the legions. What a fury of life is +shining in thy bosom! What a mighty desire for an awakening! + +Christophe found men in whose souls there burned brands of the age-old +fire. Beneath the ruse of the dead they had been preserved. It might +be thought that the fire had died down with the closing of Mazzini's +eyes. It was springing to life again. It was the same. Very few +wished to see it. It troubled the quiet of those who were asleep. It +gave a clear and brutal light. Those who bore it aloft,--young men (the +eldest was not thirty-five), a little band of the elect come from every +point of the horizon, men of free intellect who were all different in +temperament, education, opinions, and faith--were all united in worship +of this flame of the new life. The etiquette of parties, systems of +thought, mattered not to them: the great thing was to "think with +courage." To be frank, to be brave, in mind and deed. Rudely they +disturbed the sleep of their race. After the political resurrection of +Italy, awakened from death by the summons of her heroes, after her +recent economic resurrection, they had set themselves to pluck Italian +thought from the grave. They suffered, as from an insult, from the +indolent and timid indifference of the elect, their cowardice of mind +and verbolatry. Their _Voices_ rang hollow in the midst of +rhetoric and the moral slavery which for centuries had been gathering +into a crust upon the soul of their country. They breathed into it their +merciless realism and their uncompromising loyalty. Though upon occasion +they were capable of sacrificing their own personal intellectual +preferences to the duty of discipline which national life imposes on the +individual, yet they reserved their highest altar and their purest ardor +for the truth. They loved truth with fiery, pious hearts. Insulted by +his adversaries, defamed, threatened, one of the leaders of these young +men replied, with grand, calm dignity: + +_"Respect the truth. I speak to you now, from my heart, with no shade +of bitterness. I forget the ill I have received at your hands and the +evil that I may have done you. Be true. There is no conscience, there is +no noble life, there is no capacity for sacrifice where there is not a +religious, a rigid, and a rigorous respect for truth. Strive, then, to +fulfil this difficult duty. Untruth corrupts whoever makes use of it +before it overcomes him against whom it is used. What does it matter +that you gain an immediate success? The roots of your soul will remain +withered in the air above the soil that is crumbled away with untruth. +We are on a plane superior to our disagreements, even though on your +lips your passion brings the name of our country. There is one thing +greater than a man's country, and that is the human conscience. There +are laws which you must not violate on pain of being bad Italians. You +see before you now only a man who is a seeker after truth: you must hear +his cry. You have before you now only a man who ardently desires to see +you great and pure, and to work with you. For, whether you will or no, +we all work in common with all those who in this world work truthfully. +That which comes out of our labors (and we cannot foresee what it will +be) will bear our common mark, the mark of us all, if we have labored +with truth. The essence of man lies in this, in his marvelous faculty +for seeking truth, seeing it, loving it, and sacrificing himself to +it.--Truth, that over all who possess it spends the magic breath of its +puissant health!..."_ [Footnote: The hymn to Truth here introduced is +an abridgment of an article by Giuseppe Prezzolini (_La Voce_, +April 13, 1911).] + +The first time Christophe heard these words they seemed to him like an +echo of his own voice: and he felt that these men and he were brothers. +The chances of the conflict of the nations and ideas might one day fling +them into the position of adversaries in the mêlée; but, friends or +enemies, they were, and would always be, members of the same human +family. They knew it, even as he. They knew it, before he did. They knew +him before he knew them, for they had been friends of Olivier's. +Christophe discovered that his friend's writings--(a few volumes of +verse and critical essays)--which had only been read by a very few in +Paris, had been translated by these Italians, and were as familiar to +them as to himself. + +Later on he was to discover the impassable distance which divided these +men from Olivier. In their way of judging others they were entirely +Italian, incapable of the effort necessary to see beyond themselves, +rooted in the ideas of their race. At bottom, in all good faith, in +foreign literature they only sought what their national instinct was +willing to find in it; often they only took out of it what they +themselves had unconsciously read into it. Mediocre as critics, and as +psychologists contemptible, they were too single-minded, too full of +themselves and their passions, even when they were the most enamored of +truth. Italian idealism cannot forget itself: it is not interested in +the impersonal dreams of the North; it leads everything back to itself, +its desires, its pride of race, and transfigures them. Consciously or +unconsciously, it is always toiling for the _terza Roma_. It must +be said that for many centuries it has not taken much trouble to realize +it. These splendid Italians, who are cut out for action, only act +through passion, and soon weary of it: but when the breath of passion +rushes in their veins it raises them higher than all other nations; as +has been seen, for example, in their _Risorgimento_.--Some such +great wind as that had begun to pass over the young men of Italy of all +parties: nationalists, socialists, neo-Catholics, free idealists, all the +unyielding Italians, all, in hope and will, citizens of Imperial Rome, +Queen of the universe. + +At first Christophe saw only their generous ardor and the common +antipathies which united him and them. They could not but join with him +in their contempt for the fashionable society, against which Christophe +raged on account of Grazia's preferences. More than he they hated the +spirit of prudence, the apathy, the compromise, and buffoonery, the +things half said, the amphibious thoughts, the subtle dawdling of the +mind between all possibilities, without deciding on any one, the fine +phrases, the sweetness of it all. They were all self-taught men who had +pieced themselves together with everything they could lay their hands +on, but had had neither means nor leisure to put the finishing touch to +their work, and they were prone to exaggerate their natural coarseness +and their rather bitter tone fitting to rough _contadini._ They +wished to provoke active hostility. Anything rather than indifference. +In order to rouse the energy of their race they would gladly have +consented to be among the first victims to it. + +Meanwhile they were not liked, and they did nothing to gain liking. +Christophe met with but small success when he tried to talk to Grazia of +his new friends. They were repugnant to her order-loving, peace-loving +nature. He had to recognize when he was with her that they had a way of +upholding the best of causes which sometimes provoked a desire in the +best of people to declare themselves hostile to it. They were ironical +and aggressive, in criticism harsh to the point of insult, even with +people whom they had no desire to hurt. Having reached the sphere of +publication before they had come to maturity, they passed with equal +intolerance from one infatuation to another. Passionately sincere, +giving themselves unreservedly, without stint or thought of economy, +they were consumed by their excessive intellectuality, their precocious +and blindly obstinate endeavors. It is not well for young ideas, hardly +out of the pod, to be exposed to the raw sunlight. The soul is scorched +by it. Nothing is made fruitful save with time and silence. Time and +silence these men had not allowed themselves. It is the misfortune of +only too many Italian talents. Violent, hasty action is an intoxicant. +The mind that has once tasted it is hard put to it to break the habit; +and its normal growth is then in great peril of being forced and forever +twisted. + +Christophe appreciated the acid freshness of such green frankness in +contrast with the insipidity of the people who frequented the middle +way, the _via di mezzo,_ who are in perpetual fear of being +compromised, and have a subtle talent for saying neither "Yes" nor "No." +But very soon he came to see that such people also, with their calm, +courteous minds, have their worth. The perpetual state of conflict in +which his new friends lived was very tiring. Christophe began by +thinking it his duty to go to Grazia's house to defend them. Sometimes +he went there to forget them. No doubt he was like them, too much like +them. They were now what he had been twenty years ago. And life never +goes back. At heart Christophe well knew that, for his own part, he had +forever said good-by to such violence, and that he was going towards +peace, whose secret seemed to lie for him in Grazia's eyes. Why, then, +was he in revolt against her?... Ah! In the egoism of his love he longed +to be the only one to enjoy her peace. He could not bear Grazia to +dispense its benefits without marking how to all comers she extended the +same prodigally gracious welcome. + + * * * * * + +She read his thoughts, and, with her charming frankness, she said to him +one day: + +"You are angry with me for being what I am? You must not idealize me, my +dear. I am a woman, and no better than another. I don't go out of my way +for society; but I admit that I like it, just as I like going sometimes +to an indifferent play, or reading foolish books, which you despise, +though I find them soothing and amusing. I cannot refuse anything." + +"How can you endure these idiots?" + +"Life has taught me not to be too nice. One must not ask too much. It is +a good deal, I assure you, when one finds honest people, with no harm in +them, kindly people.... (naturally, of course, supposing one expects +nothing of them; I know perfectly well that if I had need of them, I +should not find many to help me...). And yet they are fond of me, and +when I find a little real affection, I hold the rest cheap. You are +angry with me? Forgive me for being an ordinary person. I can at least +see the difference between what is best and what is not so good in +myself. And what you have is the best." + +"I want everything," he said gloweringly. + +However, he felt that what she said was true. He was so sure of her +affection that, after long hesitation, over many weeks, he asked her one +day: + +"Will you ever...?" + +"What is it?" + +"Be mine." + +He went on: + +"... and I yours." + +She smiled: + +"But you are mine, my dear." + +"You know what I mean." + +She was a little unhappy: but she took his hands and looked at him +frankly: + +"No, my dear," she said tenderly. + +He could not speak. She saw that he was hurt. + +"Forgive me. I have hurt you. I knew that you would say that to me. We +must speak out frankly and in all truth, like good friends." + +"Friends," he said sadly. "Nothing more?" + +"You are ungrateful. What more do you want? To marry me?... Do you +remember the old days when you had eyes only for my pretty cousin? I was +sad then because you would not understand what I felt for you. Our whole +lives might have been changed. Now I think it was better as it has been; +it is better that we should never expose our friendship to the test of +common life, the daily life, in which even the purest must be +debased...." + +"You say that because you love me less." + +"Oh no! I love you just the same." + +"Ah! That is the first time you have told me." + +"There must be nothing hidden from us now. You see, I have not much +faith in marriage left. Mine, I know, was not a very good example. But I +have thought and looked about me. Happy marriages are very rare. It is a +little against nature. You cannot bind together the wills of two people +without mutilating one of them, if not both, and it does not even bring +the suffering through which it is well and profitable for the soul +to pass." + +"Ah!" he said. "But I can see in it a fine thing--the union of two +sacrifices, two souls merged into one." + +"A fine thing, in your dreams. In reality you would suffer more than any +one." + +"What! You think I could never have a wife, a family, children?... Don't +say that! I should love them so! You think it impossible for me to have +that happiness?" + +"I don't know. I don't think so. Perhaps with a good woman, not very +intelligent, not very beautiful, who would be devoted to you, and would +not understand you." + +"How unkind of you!... But you are wrong to make fun of it. A good woman +is a fine thing, even if she has no mind." + +"I agree. Shall I find you one?" + +"Please! No. You are hurting me. How can you talk like that?" + +"What have I said?" + +"You don't love me at all, not at all. You can't if you can think of my +marrying another woman." + +"On the contrary, it is because I love you that I should be happy to do +anything which could make you happy." + +"Then, if that is true...." + +"No, no. Don't go back to that. I tell you, it would make you +miserable." + +"Don't worry about me. I swear to you that I shall be happy! Speak the +truth: do you think that you would be unhappy with me?" + +"Oh! Unhappy? No, my dear. I respect and admire you too much ever to be +unhappy with you.... But, I will tell you: I don't think anything could +make me very unhappy now. I have seen too much. I have become +philosophical.... But, frankly--(You want me to? You won't be +angry?)--well. I know my own weakness. I should, perhaps, be foolish +enough, after a few months, not to be perfectly happy with you; and I +will not have that, just because my affection for you is the most holy +thing in the world, and I will not have it tarnished." + +Sadly, he said: + +"Yes, you say that, to sweeten the pill. You don't like me. There are +things in me which are odious to you." + +"No, no. I assure you. Don't look so hang-dog. You are the dearest, +kindest man...." + +"Then I don't understand. Why couldn't we agree?" + +"Because we are too different--both too decided, too individual." + +"That is why I love you." + +"I too. But that is why we should find ourselves conflicting." + +"No." "Yes. Or, rather, as I know that you are bigger than I, I should +reproach myself with embarrassing you with my smaller personality, and +then I should be stifled. I should say nothing, and I should suffer." + +Tears came to Christophe's eyes. + +"Oh! I won't have that. Never! I would rather be utterly miserable than +have you suffering through my fault, for my sake." + +"My dear, you mustn't feel it like that.... You know, I say all that, +but I may be flattering myself.... Perhaps I should not be so good as to +sacrifice myself for you." + +"All the better." + +"But, then, I should sacrifice you, and that would be misery for me.... +You see, there is no solving the difficulty either way. Let us stay as +we are. Could there be anything better than our friendship?" + +He nodded his head and smiled a little bitterly. + +"Yes. That is all very well. But at bottom you don't love me enough." + +She smiled too, gently, with a little melancholy, and said, with a sigh: + +"Perhaps. You are right. I am no longer young. I am tired. Life wears +one out unless one is very strong, like you.... Oh! you, there are times +when I look at you and you seem to be a boy of eighteen." + +"Alas! With my old face, my wrinkles, my dull skin!" + +"I know that you have suffered as much as I--perhaps more. I can see +that. But sometimes you look at me with the eyes of a boy, and I feel +you giving out a fresh stream of life. I am worn out. When I think of my +old eagerness, then--alas! As one said, 'Those were great days. I was +very unhappy!' I hold to life only by a thread. I should never be bold +enough to try marriage again. Ah! Then! Then!... If you had only given a +sign!..." + +"Well, then, well, tell me...." + +"No. It is not worth the trouble." + +"Then, if in the old days, if I had...." + +"Yes. If you had...? I said nothing." + +"I understood. You are cruel." + +"Take it, then, that in the old days I was a fool." + +"You are making it worse and worse." + +"Poor Christophe! I can't say a word but it hurts you. I shan't say any +more." + +"You must.... Tell me.... Tell me something." + +"Something?" + +"Something kind." + +She laughed. + +"Don't laugh." + +"Then you must not be sad." + +"How can I be anything else?" + +"You have no reason to be sad, I assure you." + +"Why?" + +"Because you have a friend who loves you." + +"Truly?" + +"If I tell you so, won't you believe me?" + +"Tell me, then." + +"You won't be sad any longer? You won't be insatiable? You will be +content with our dear friendship?" + +"I must." + +"Oh! Ungrateful! And you say you love me? Really, I think I love you +better than you love me." + +"Ah! If it were possible." + +He said that with such an outburst of lover's egoism that she laughed. +He too. He insisted: + +"Tell me!..." + +For a moment she was silent, looking at him, then suddenly she brought +her face close to Christophe's and kissed him. It was so unexpected! His +heart leaped within him. He tried to take her in his arms. But she had +escaped. At the door of the little room she laid her finger on her +lips.--"Hush!"--and disappeared. + + * * * * * + +From that moment on he did not again speak to her of his love, and he +was less awkward in his relation with her. Their alternations of +strained silence and ill-suppressed violence were succeeded by a simple +restful intimacy. That is the advantage of frankness in friendship. No +more hidden meanings, no more illusions, no more fears. Each knew the +other's innermost thoughts. Now when Christophe was with Grazia in the +company of strangers who irritated him and he lost patience at hearing +her exchange with them the empty remarks usual in polite society, she +would notice it and look at him and smile. It was enough to let him know +that they were together, and he would find his peace restored. + +The presence of the beloved robs the imagination of its poisoned dart: +the fever of desire is cooled: the soul becomes absorbed in the chaste +possession of the loved presence.--Besides, Grazia shed on all about her +the silent charm of her harmonious nature. Any exaggeration of voice or +gesture, even if it were involuntary, wounded her, as a thing that was +not simple and beautiful. In this way she influenced Christophe little +by little. Though at first he tugged at the bridle put upon his +eagerness, he slowly gained the mastery of himself, and he was all the +stronger since his force was not wasted in useless violence. + +Their souls met and mingled. Grazia, who had smilingly surrendered to +the sweetness of living, was awaked from her slumber by contact with +Christophe's moral energy. She took a more direct and less passive +interest in the things of the mind. She used to read very little, +preferring to browse indolently over the same old books, but now she +began to be curious about new ideas, and soon came to feel their +attraction. The wealth of the world of modern ideas, which was not +unknown to her though she had never cared to adventure in it alone, no +longer frightened her now that she had a companion and guide. Insensibly +she suffered herself, while she protested against it, to be drawn on to +an understanding of the young Italians, whose ardent iconoclasm had +always been distasteful to her. + +But Christophe profited the more by this mutual perception. It has often +been observed in love that the weaker of the two gives the most: it is +not that the other loves less, but, being stronger, must take more. So +Christophe had already been enriched by Olivier's mind. But this new +mystic marriage was far more fruitful; for Grazia brought him for her +dowry the rarest treasure, that Olivier had never possessed--joy. The +joy of the soul and of the eyes. Light. The smile of the Latin sky, that +loves the ugliness of the humblest things, and sets the stones of the +old walls flowering, and endows even sadness with its calm radiance. + +The budding spring entered into alliance with her. The dream of new life +was teeming in the warmth of the slumbering air. The young green was +wedding with the silver-gray of the olive-trees. Beneath the dark red +arches of the ruined aqueducts flowered the white almond-trees. In the +awakening Campagna waved the seas of grass and the triumphant flames of +the poppies. Down the lawns of the villas flowed streams of purple +anemones and sheets of violets. The glycine clambered up the +umbrella-shaped pines, and the wind blowing over the city brought the +scent of the roses of the Palatine. + +They went for walks together. When she was able to shake off the almost +Oriental torpor, in which for hours together she would muse, she became +another creature: she loved walking; she was tall, with a fine length of +leg, and a strong, supple figure, and she looked like a Diana of +Primatice.--Most often they would go to one of the villas, left like +flotsam from the shipwreck of the Splendid Rome of the _setticento_ +under the assault of the flood of the Piedmontese barbarians. They +preferred, above all, the Villa Mattei, that promontory of ancient Rome, +beneath which the last waves of the deserted Campagna sink and die. They +used to go down the avenue of oaks that, with its deep vault, frames the +blue, the pleasant chains of the Alban hills, softly swelling like a +beating heart. Along the path through the leaves they could see the +tombs of Roman husbands and wives, lying sadly there, with hands clasped +in fidelity. They used to sit down at the end of the avenue, under an +arbor of roses against a white sarcophagus. Behind them the desert. +Profound peace. The murmuring of a slow-dropping fountain, trickling +languidly, so languidly that it seemed on the point of dying. They would +talk in whispers. Grazia's eyes would trustfully gaze into the eyes of +her friend. Christophe would tell her of his life, his struggles, his +past sorrows; and there was no more sadness in them. In her presence, +with her eyes upon him, everything was simple, everything seemed +inevitable.... She, in her turn, would tell of her life. He hardly heard +what she said, but none of her thoughts were lost upon him. His soul and +hers were wedded. He saw with her eyes. Everywhere he saw her eyes, her +tranquil eyes, in the depths of which there burned an ardent fire; he +saw them in the fair, mutilated faces of the antique statues and in the +riddle of their silent gaze: he saw them in the sky of Rome, lovely +laughing around the matted crests of the cypress-trees and through the +fingers of the _lecci,_ black, shining, riddled with the sun's arrows. + +Through Grazia's eyes the meaning of Latin art reached his heart. Till +then Christophe had been entirely indifferent to the work of the +Italians. The barbarian idealist, the great bear from the German +forests, had not yet learned to taste the delicious savor of the lovely +gilded marbles, golden as honey. The antiques of the Vatican were +frankly repulsive to him. He was disgusted by their stupid faces, their +effeminate or massive proportions, their banal, rounded modeling, all +the Gitons and gladiators. Hardly more than a few portrait-statues found +favor in his sight, and the originals had absolutely no interest for +him. He was no more kindly towards the pale, grimacing Florentines and +their sick Madonnas and pre-Raphaelite Venuses, anaemic, consumptive, +affected, and tormented. And the bestial stupidity of the red, sweating +bullies and athletes let loose upon the world by the example of the +Sistine Chapel made him think of cast-iron. Only for Michael Angelo did +he have a secret feeling of pious sympathy with his tragic sufferings, +his divine contempt, and the loftiness of his chaste passions. With a +pure barbaric love, like that of the master, he loved the religious +nudity of his youths, his shy, wild virgins, like wild creatures caught +in a trap, the sorrowful Aurora, the wild-eyed Madonna, with her Child +biting at her breast, and the lovely Lia, whom he would fain have had to +wife. But in the soul of the tormented hero he found nothing more than +the echo of his own. + +Grazia opened the gates of a new world of art for him. He entered into +the sovereign serenity of Raphael and Titian. He saw the imperial +splendor of the classic genius, which, like a lion, reigns over the +universe of form conquered and mastered. The flashing vision of the +great Venetian which goes straight to the heart of life, and with its +lightning cleaves the hovering mists that veil it, the masterful might +of these Latin minds that cannot only conquer, but also conquer +themselves, and in victory impose upon themselves the straitest +discipline, and, on the field of battle, have the art exactly to choose +their rightful booty from among the spoils of the enemy overthrown--the +Olympian portraits and the _stanze_ of Raphael filled Christophe's +heart with music richer than Wagner's, the music of serene lives, noble +architecture, harmonious grouping, the music which shines forth from the +perfect beauty of face, hands, feet, draperies, and gestures. +Intelligence. Love. The stream of love which springs from those youthful +souls and bodies. The might of the spirit and delight. Young tenderness, +ironic wisdom, the warm obsessing odor of amorous bodies, the luminous +smile in which the shadows are blotted out and passion slumbers. The +quivering force of life rearing and reined in, like the horses of the +Sun, by the sturdy hand of the master.... + +And Christophe wondered: + +"Is it impossible to unite, as they have done, the force and the peace +of the Romans? Nowadays the best men aspire only to force or peace, one +to the detriment of the other. Of all men the Italians seem most utterly +to have lost the sense of harmony which Poussin, Lorraine, and Goethe +understood. Must a stranger once more reveal to them its work?... And +what man shall teach it to our musicians? Music has not yet had its +Raphael. Mozart is only a child, a little German bourgeois, with +feverish hands and sentimental soul, who uses too many words, too many +gestures, and chatters and weeps and laughs over nothing. And neither +the Gothic Bach nor the Prometheus of Bonn, struggling with the vulture, +nor his offspring of Titans piling Pelion on Ossa, and hurling +imprecations at the Heavens, have ever seen the smile of God...." + +After he had seen it, Christophe was ashamed of his own music; his vain +agitation, his turgid passions, his indiscreet exclamations, his parade +of himself, his lack of moderation, seemed to him both pitiable and +shameful. A flock of sheep without a shepherd, a kingdom without a +king.--A man must be the king of his tumultuous soul.... + +During these months Christophe seemed to have forgotten music. He hardly +wrote at all, feeling no need for it. His mind, fertilized by Rome, was +in a period of gestation. He spent days together in a dreamy state of +semi-intoxication. Nature, like himself, was in the early spring-time, +when the languor of the awakening is mixed with a voluptuous dizziness. +Nature and he lay dreaming, locked in each other's arms, like lovers +embracing in their sleep. The feverish enigma of the Campagna was no +longer hostile and disturbing to him; he had made himself master of its +tragic beauty; in his arms he held Demeter, sleeping. + + * * * * * + +During April he received an invitation from Paris to go there and +conduct a series of concerts. Without troubling to think it over, he +decided to refuse, but thought it better to mention it to Grazia. It was +very sweet to him to consult her about his life, for it gave him the +illusion that she shared it. + +This time she gave him a shock of disillusion. She made him explain the +whole matter to her, and advised him to accept. He was very hurt, and +saw in her advice the proof of her indifference. + +Probably Grazia was sorry to give him such advice. But why did +Christophe ask her for it? The more he turned to her and asked her to +decide for him, the more she thought herself responsible for her +friend's actions. As a result of their interchange of ideas she had +gained from Christophe a little of his will-power: he had revealed to +her duty and the beauty of action. At least she had recognized duty as +far as her friend was concerned, and she would not have him fail in it. +Better than he, she knew the power of languor given off by the Italian +soil, which, like the insidious poison of its warm _scirocco_, +creeps into the veins and sends the will to sleep. How often had she not +felt its maleficent charm, and had no power to resist it! All her +friends were more or less tainted by this malaria of the soul. Stronger +men than they had in old days fallen victim to it: it had rusted away +the brass of the Roman she-wolf. Rome breathes forth death: it is too +full of graves. It is healthier to stay there for a little time than to +live there. Too easily does one slip out of one's own time, a dangerous +taste for the still young forces that have a vast duty to accomplish. +Grazia saw clearly that the society about her had not a life-giving air +for an artist. And although she had more friendship for Christophe than +for any other ... (dared she confess it?) ... she was not, at heart, +sorry for him to go. Alas! He wearied her with the very qualities that +she most loved in him, his overflowing intelligence, his abundance of +vitality, accumulated for years, and now brimming over: her tranquillity +was disturbed by it. And he wearied her, too, perhaps, because she was +always conscious of the menace of his love, beautiful and touching, but +ever-present: so that she had always to be on her guard against it; it +was more prudent to keep him at a distance. She did not admit it to +herself, and thought she had no consideration for anything but +Christophe's interests. + +There was no lack of sound reasons at hand. In Italy just then it was +difficult for a musician to live: the air was circumscribed. The musical +life of the country was suppressed and deformed. The factory of the +theater scattered its heavy ashes and its burning smoke upon the soil, +whose flowers in old days had perfumed all Europe. If a man refused to +enroll himself in the train of the brawlers, and could not, or would +not, enter the factory, he was condemned to exile or a stifled +existence. Genius was by no means dried up. But it was left to stagnate +unprofitably and to go to ruin. Christophe had met more than one young +musician in whom there lived again the soul of the melodious masters of +the race and the instinct of beauty which filled the wise and simple art +of the past. But who gave a thought to them? They could neither get +their work played nor published. No interest was taken in the symphony. +There were no ears for music except it were presented with a painted +face!... So discouraged, they sang for themselves, and soon sang no +more. What was the good of it? Sleep....--Christophe would have asked +nothing better than to help them. While they admitted that he could do +so, their umbrageous pride would not consent to it. Whatever he did, he +was a foreigner to them; and for Italians of long descent, in spite of +the warm welcome they will give him, every foreigner is really a +barbarian. They thought that the wretched condition of their art was a +question to be threshed out among themselves, and while, they extended +all kind of friendly tributes to Christophe, they could not admit him as +one of themselves.--What could he do? He could not compete with them and +dispute with them their meager place in the sun, where they were by no +means secure!... + +Besides, genius cannot do without its food. The musician must have +music--music to hear, music to make heard. A temporary withdrawal is +valuable to the mind by forcing it to recuperate. But this can only be +on condition that it will return. Solitude is noble, but fatal to an +artist who has not the strength to break out of it. An artist must live +the life of his own time, even if it be clamorous and impure: he must +forever be giving and receiving, and giving, and giving, and again +receiving.--Italy, at the time of Christophe's sojourn, was no longer +the great market of the arts that once it was, and perhaps will be +again. Nowadays the meeting-place of ideas, the exchange of the thought +and spirit of the nations, are in the North. He who has the will to live +must live in the North. + +Left to himself, Christophe would have shuddered away from the rout. But +Grazia felt his duty more clearly than he could see it. And she demanded +more of him than of herself: no doubt because she valued him more +highly, but also because it suited her. She delegated her energy upon +him, and so maintained her tranquillity.--He had not the heart to be +angry with her for it. Like Mary, hers was the better part. Each of us +has his part to play in life. Christophe's was action. For her it was +enough to be. He asked no more of her. + +He asked nothing but to love her, if it were possible, a little less for +himself, and a little more for her. For he did not altogether like her +having so little egoism in her friendship as to think only of the +interests of her friend--who asked only to be allowed to give no thought +to them. + + * * * * * + +He went away from her. And yet he did not leave her. As an old trouvère +says: "_The lover does not leave his beloved but with the sanction of +his soul._" + + + + +II + + +He was sick at heart as he reached Paris. It was the first time he had +been there since the death of Olivier. He had wished never to see the +city again. In the cab which took him from the station to his hotel he +hardly dared look out of the window; for the first few days he stayed in +his room and could not bring himself to go out. He was fearful of the +memories lying in wait for him outside. But what exactly did he dread? +Did he really know? Was it, as he tried to believe, the terror of seeing +the dead spring to life again exactly as they had been? Or was it--the +greater sorrow of being forced to know that they were dead?... Against +this renewal of grief all the half-unconscious ruses of instinct had +taken up arms. It was for this reason--(though perhaps he knew it +not)--that he had chosen a hotel in a district far removed from that in +which he had lived. And when for the first time he went out into the +streets, having to conduct rehearsals at the concert-hall, when once +more he came in contact with the life of Paris, he walked for a long +time with his eyes closed, refusing to see what he did see, insisting on +seeing only what he had seen in old days. He kept on saying to himself: + +"I know that. I know that...." + +In art as in politics there was the same intolerant anarchy. The same +Fair in the market-place. Only the actors had changed their parts. The +revolutionaries of his day had become bourgeois, and the supermen had +become men of fashion. The old independents were trying to stifle the +new independents. The young men of twenty years ago were now more +conservative than the old conservatives whom they had fought, and their +critics refused the newcomers the right to live. Apparently nothing was +different. + +But everything had changed.... + + * * * * * + +"My dear, forgive me. It is good of you not to be angry with me for my +silence. Your letter has helped me greatly. I have been through several +weeks of terrible distress. I had nothing. I had lost you. Here I was +feeling terribly the absence of those whom I have lost. All my old +friends of whom I used to tell you have disappeared--Philomela--(you +remember the singing voice that dear, sad night when, as I wandered +through a gay crowd, I saw your eyes in a mirror gazing at +me)--Philomela has realized her very reasonable dream: she inherited a +little money, and has a farm in Normandy. M. Arnaud has retired and gone +back to the provinces with his wife, to a little town near Angers. Of +the famous men of my day many are dead or gone under; none are left save +the same old puppets who twenty years ago were playing the juvenile lead +in art and politics, and with the same false faces are still playing it. +Outside these masks there are none whom I recognize. They seem to me to +be grimacing over a grave. It is a terrible feeling.--More than this: +during the first few days after my arrival I suffered physically from +the ugliness of things, from the gray light of the North after your +golden sun: the masses of dull houses, the vulgar lines of certain domes +and monuments, which had never struck me before, hurt me cruelly. Nor +was the moral atmosphere any more to my taste. + +"And yet I have no complaint to make of the Parisians. They have given +me a welcome altogether different from that which I received before. In +my absence I seem to have become a kind of celebrity. I will say nothing +of that, for I know what it is worth. I am touched by all the pleasant +things which these people say and write of me, and am obliged to them. +But what shall I say to you? I felt much nearer the people who attacked +me in old days than I do to the people who laud me now.... It is my own +fault, I know. Don't scold me. I had a moment of uneasiness. It was to +be expected. It is done now. I understand. Yes. You are right to have +sent me back among men. I was in a fair way to be buried in my solitude. +It is unhealthy to play at Zarathustra. The flood of life moves on, +moves on away from us. There comes a time when one is as a desert. Many +weary days in the burning sun are needed to dig a new channel in the +sand, to dig down to the river.--It has been done. I am no longer dizzy. +I am in the current again. I look and see. + +"My dear, what a strange people are the French! Twenty years ago I +thought they were finished.... They are just beginning again. My dear +comrade, Jeannin, foretold it. But I thought he was deceiving himself. +How could one believe it then! France was, like their Paris, full of +broken houses, plaster, and holes. I said: 'They have destroyed +everything.... What a race of rodents!'--a race of beavers. Just when +you think them prostrate on their ruins, lo, they are using the ruins to +lay the foundations of a new city. I can see it now in the scaffoldings +which are springing up on all sides.... + +_"Wenn ein Ding geschehen Selbst die Narren es verstehen,..."_ +[Footnote: "When a thing has happened, even the fools can see it."] + +"In truth there is just the same French disorder. One needs to be used +to it to see in the rout seething up from all directions, the bands of +workmen, each going about his appointed task. There are also people who +can do nothing without vilifying what their neighbors are doing. All +this is calculated to upset the stoutest head. But when you have lived, +as I have, nearly ten years with them, you cannot be deceived by their +uproar. You see then that it is their way of spurring themselves on to +work. They talk, but they work, and as each builder's yard sets about +building a house, in the end you find that the city has been re-builded. +What is most remarkable is that, taken together, all these buildings are +not discordant. They may maintain opposing theses, but all their minds +are cast in the same mold. So that, beneath their anarchy, there are +common instincts, a racial logic which takes the place of discipline, +and this discipline is, when all is told, probably more solid than that +of a Prussian regiment. + +"Everywhere the same enthusiasm, the same constructive fever: in +politics, where Socialists and Nationalists vie with one another in +tightening up the wheels of slackened power; in art, which some wish to +make into an old aristocratic mansion for the privileged few, and others +a vast hall open to the people, a hall where the collective soul can +sing; they are reconstructors of the past, or constructors of the +future. But whatever they do, these ingenious creatures are forever +building the same cells. They have the instincts of beavers or bees, and +through the ages are forever doing the same things, returning to the +same forms. The most revolutionary among them are perhaps those who most +closely cling, though they may not know it, to the most ancient +traditions. Among the syndicates and the most striking of the young +writers I have found purely medieval souls. + +"Now that I have grown used to their tumultuous ways, I can watch them +working with pleasure. Let us be frank: I am too old a bear ever to feel +at ease in any of their houses: I need the open air. But what good +workers they are! That is their highest virtue. It laves the most +mediocre and the most corrupt: and then, in their artists, what a sense +of beauty! I remarked that much less in the old days. You taught me to +see. My eyes were opened in the light of Rome. Your Renaissance men have +helped me to understand these. A page of Debussy, a torso of Rodin, a +phrase of Suarès, these are all in the direct line from your +_cinquecestenti_. + +"Not that there is not much that is distasteful to me here. I have found +my old friends of the market-place, who used to drive me to fury. They +have not changed. But, alas! I have changed. I cannot be severe. When I +feel myself wanting to judge one of them harshly I say to myself: 'You +have no right. You have done worse than these men, though you thought +yourself so strong.' Also, I have learned that nothing exists in vain, +and that even the vilest have their place in the scheme of the tragedy. +The depraved dilettantists, the foetid amoralists, have accomplished +their termitic task; the tottering ruins must be brought down before +they can be built up again. The Jews have been true to their sacred +mission, which is, in the midst of other races, to be a foreign race, +the race which, from end to end of the world, is to link up the network +of human unity. They break down the intellectual barriers between the +nations, to give Divine Reason an open field. The worst agents of +corruption, the ironic destroyers who ruin our old beliefs and kill our +well-beloved dead, toil, unwittingly, in the holy work of new life. So +the ferocious self-interest of the cosmopolitan bankers, whose labors +are attended with such and so many disasters, build, whether they will +or no, the future peace of the world, side by side with the +revolutionaries who combat them, far more surely than the idiotic +pacifists. + +"You see, I am getting old. I have lost my bite. My teeth have lost +their sharpness. When I go to the theater I am now only one of those +simple spectators who apostrophize the actors and cry shame on the +traitor. + +"My tranquil Grace, I am only talking about myself: and yet I think only +of you. If you knew how importunate is my ego! It is oppressive and +absorbing. It is like a millstone that God has tied round my neck. How I +should have loved to lay it at your feet! But what would you have done +with it? It is a poor kind of present.... Your feet were made to tread +the soft earth and the sand sinking beneath the tread. I see your feet +carelessly passing over the lawns dappled with anemones.... (Have you +been again to the Villa Doria?)... And you are tired! I see you now +half-reclining in your favorite retreat, in your drawing-room, propped +up on your elbow, holding a book which you do not read. You listen to me +kindly, without paying much attention to what I say; for I am tiresome, +and, for patience, you turn every now and then to your own thoughts; but +you are courteous, and, taking care not to upset me, when a chance word +brings you back from your distant journeying, your eyes, so absent +before, quickly take on an expression of interest. And I am as far from +what I am saying as you: I, too, hardly hear the sound of my words: and +while I follow their reflection in your lovely face, in my heart I +listen to other words which I do not speak to you. Those words, my +tranquil Grace, unlike the others, you hear quite clearly, but you +pretend not to hear them. + +"Adieu. I think you will see me again in a little while, I shall not +languish here. What should I do now that my concerts are over?--I kiss +your children on their little cheeks. They are yours and you. I must be +content!... + +"CHRISTOPHE." + + * * * * * + +"Tranquil Grace" replied: + +"My dear, + +"I received your letter in the little corner of the drawing-room that +you remember so well, and I read it, as I am clever at reading, by +letting your letter fall every now and then and resting. Don't laugh at +me. I did that to make it last a long time. In that way we spent a whole +afternoon together. The children asked me what it was I kept on reading. +I told them it was a letter from you. Aurora looked at the paper +pityingly and said: 'How tiresome it must be to write such a long +letter!' I tried to make her understand that it was not an imposition I +had set you, but a conversation we were having together. She listened +without a word, then ran away with her brother to play in the next room, +and a little later, when Lionello began to shout, I heard Aurora say: +'You mustn't make such a noise: mamma is talking to M. Christophe.' + +"What you tell me about the French interests me, but it does not +surprise me. You remember that I often used to reproach you with being +unjust towards them. It is impossible to like them. But what an +intelligent people they are! There are mediocre nations who are +preserved by their goodness of heart or their physical vigor. The French +are saved by their intelligence. It laves all their weaknesses, and +regenerates them. When you think they are down, beaten, perverted, they +find new youth in the ever-bubbling spring of their minds. + +"But I must scold you. You ask my pardon for speaking only of yourself. +You are an _ingannatore_. You tell me nothing about yourself. +Nothing of what you have been doing. Nothing of what you have been +seeing. My cousin Colette--(why did not you go and see her?)--had to +send me press-cuttings about your concerts, or I should have known +nothing of your success. You only mentioned it by the way. Are you so +detached from everything?... It is not true. Tell me that it pleased +you.... It must please you, if only because it pleases me. I don't like +you to have a disillusioned air. The tone of your letter is melancholic. +That must not be.... It is good that you are more just to others. But +that is no reason why you should abase yourself, as you do, by saying +that you are worse than the worst of them. A good Christian would +applaud you. I tell you it is a bad thing. I am not a good Christian. I +am a good Italian, and I don't like you tormenting yourself with the +past. The present is quite enough. I don't know exactly what it was that +you did. You told me the story in a very few words, and I think I +guessed the rest. It was not a nice story, but you are none the less +dear to me for it. My poor, dear Christophe, a woman does not reach my +age without knowing that an honest man is often very weak. If one did +not know his weakness one would not love him so much. Don't think any +more about what you have done. Think of what you are going to do. +Repentance is quite useless. Repentance means going back. And in good as +in evil, we must always go forward. _Sempre avanti, Savoia!_... So +you think I am going to let you come back to Rome! You have nothing to +do here. Stay in Paris, work, do: play your part in its artistic life. I +will not have you throw it all up. I want you to make beautiful things, +I want them to succeed, I want you to be strong and to help the new +young Christophes who are setting out on the same struggles, and passing +through the same trials. Look for them, help them, be kinder to your +juniors than your seniors were to you.--In fine, I want you to be strong +because I know that you are strong: you have no idea of the strength +that gives me. + +"Almost every day I go with the children to the Villa Borghese. +Yesterday we drove to Ponte Molle, and walked round the tower of Monte +Mario. You slander my powers of walking and my legs cry out against you: +'What did the fellow mean by saying at the Villa Doria that we get tired +in ten paces? He knows nothing about it. If we are not prone to give +ourselves trouble, it is because we are lazy, and not because we +cannot....' You forget, my dear, that I am a little peasant.... + +"Go and see my cousin Colette. Are you still angry with her? She is a +good creature at heart, and she swears by you! Apparently the Parisian +women are crazy about your music. (Perhaps they were in the old days.) +My Berne bear may, and he will, be the lion of Paris. Have you had +letters? And declarations? You don't mention any woman. Can you be in +love? Tell me. I am not jealous. Your friend, + +"G." + + * * * * * + +"... So you think I am likely to be pleased with your last sentence! I +would to God you were jealous! But don't look to me to make you so. I +have no taste for these mad Parisiennes, as you call them. Mad? They +would like to be so. But they are nothing like it. You need not hope +that they will turn my head. There would be more chance of it perhaps if +they were indifferent to my music. But it is only too true that they +love it; and how am I to keep my illusions? When any one tells you that +he understands you, you may be very sure that he will never do so.... + +"Don't take my joking too seriously. The feeling I have for you does not +make me unjust to other women. I have never had such true sympathy for +them as I have now since I ceased to look at them with lover's eyes. The +tremendous effort they have been making during the last thirty years to +escape from the degrading and unwholesome semi-domesticity, to which our +stupid male egoism condemned them, to their and our unhappiness, seems +to me to be one of the most splendid facts of our time. In a town like +this one learns to admire the new generation of young women, who, in +spite of so many obstacles, with so much fresh ardor rush on to the +conquest of knowledge and diplomas,--the knowledge, the diplomas which, +they think, must liberate them, open to them the arcana of the unknown +world and make them the equals of men.... + +"No doubt their faith is illusory and rather ridiculous. But progress is +never realized as we expect it to be: it is none the less realized +because it takes entirely different paths from those we have marked out +for it. This effort of the women will not be wasted. It will make women +completer and more human, as they were in the great ages. They will no +longer be without interest in the living questions of the world, as most +scandalously and monstrously they have been, for it is intolerable that +a woman, though she be never so careful in her domestic duties, should +think herself absolved from thinking of her civic duties in the modern +city. Their great-great-grandmothers of the time of Joan of Arc and +Catherine Sforza were not of this way of thinking. Woman has withered. +We have refused her air and sun. She is taking them from us again by +force. Ah! the brave little creatures!... Of course, many of those who +are now struggling will die and many will be led astray. It is an age of +crisis. The effort is too violent for those whose strength has too much +gone to seed. When a plant has been for a long time without water, the +first shower of rain is apt to scald it. But what would you? It is the +price of progress. Those who come after will flourish through their +sufferings. The poor little warlike virgins of our time, many of whom +will never marry, will be more fruitful for posterity than the +generations of matrons who gave birth before them; for, at the cost of +their sacrifices, there will issue from them the women of a new classic +age. + +"I have not found these working bees in your cousin Colette's +drawing-room. What whim was it made you send me to her? I had to obey +you; but it is not well: you are abusing your power. I had refused three +of her invitations, left two of her letters unanswered. She came and +hunted me up at one of my rehearsals--(they were going through my sixth +symphony). I saw her, during the interval, come in with her nose in the +air, sniffing and crying: 'That smacks of love! Ah! How I love such +music!...' + +"She has changed, physically; only her cat-like eyes with their bulging +pupils, and her fantastic nose, always wrinkling up and never still, are +the same. But her face is wider, big-boned, highly colored, and +coarsened. Sport has transformed her. She gives herself up to sport of +all kinds. Her husband, as you know, is one of the swells at the +Automobile Club and the Aero Club. There is not an aviation meeting, nor +a race by air, land, or water, but the Stevens-Delestrades think +themselves compelled to be present at it. They are always out on the +highways and byways. Conversation is quite impossible; they talk of +nothing but Racing, Rowing, Rugby, and the Derby. They belong to a new +race of people. The days of _Pelléas_ are forever gone for the +women. Souls are no longer in fashion. All the girls hoist a red, +swarthy complexion, tanned by driving in the open air and playing games +in the sun: they look at you with eyes like men's eyes: they laugh and +their laughter is a little coarse. In tone they have become more brutal, +more crude. Every now and then your cousin will quite calmly say the +most shocking things. She is a great eater, where she used to eat hardly +anything. She still complains about her digestion, merely out of habit, +but she never misses a mouthful for it. She reads nothing. No one reads +among these people. Only music has found favor in their sight. Music has +even profited by the neglect of literature. When these people are worn +out, music is a Turkish bath to them, a warm vapor, massage, tobacco. +They have no need to think. They pass from sport to love, and love also +is a sport. But the most popular sport among their esthetic +entertainments is dancing. Russian dancing, Greek dancing, Swiss +dancing, American dancing, everything is set to a dance in Paris: +Beethoven's symphonies, the tragedies of Æschylus, the _Clavecin bien +Tempéré_, the antiques of the Vatican, _Orpheus_, Tristan, the +Passion, and gymnastics. These people are suffering from vertigo. + +"The queer thing is to see how your cousin reconciles everything, her +estheticism, her sport, and her practical sense (for she has inherited +from her mother her sense of business and her domestic despotism). All +these things ought to make an incredible mixture, but she is quite at +her ease with them all: her most foolish eccentricities leave her mind +quite clear, just as she keeps her eyes and hands sure when she goes +whirling along in her motor. She is a masterful woman: her husband, her +guests, her servants, she leads them all, with drums beating and colors +flying. She is also busy with politics: she is for 'Monseigneur'; not +that I believe her to be a royalist, but it is another excuse for +bestirring herself. And although she is incapable of reading more than +ten pages of a book, she arranges the elections to the Academies.--She +set about extending her patronage to me. You may guess that that was not +at all to my liking. What is most exasperating is that the fact of my +having visited her in obedience to you has absolutely convinced her of +her power over me. I take my revenge in thrusting home truths at her. +She only laughs, and is never at a loss for a reply. 'She is a good +creature at heart....' Yes, provided she is occupied. She admits that +herself: if the machine has nothing to grind she is capable of anything +and everything to keep it going.--I have been to her house twice. I +shall not go again. Twice is enough to prove my obedience to you. You +don't want me to die? I leave her house broken, crushed, cramped. Last +time I saw her I had a frightful nightmare after it: I dreamed I was her +husband, all my life tied to that living whirlwind.... A foolish dream, +and it need not trouble her real husband, for of all who go to the house +he is the last to be seen with her, and when they are together they only +talk of sport. They get on very well. + +"How could these people make my music a success? I try not to understand. +I suppose it shocked them in a new way. They liked it for +brutalizing them. For the time being they like art with a body to it. +But they have not the faintest conception of the soul in the body: they +will pass from the infatuation of to-day to the indifference of +to-morrow, from the indifference of to-morrow to the abuse of the day +after, without ever having known it. That is the history of all artists. +I am under no illusion as to my success, and have not been for a long +time: and they will make me pay for it.--Meanwhile I see the most +curious things going on. The most enthusiastic of my admirers is ... (I +give him you among a thousand) ... our friend Lévy-Coeur. You remember +the gentleman with whom I fought a ridiculous duel? Now he instructs +those who used not to understand me. He does it very well too. He is the +most intelligent of all the men talking about me. You may judge what the +others are worth. There is nothing to be proud of, I assure you. + +"I don't want to be proud of it. I am too humiliated when I hear the +work for which I am belauded. I see myself in it, and what I see is not +beautiful. What a merciless mirror is a piece of music to those who can +see into it! Happily they are blind and deaf. I have put so much of my +troubles and weaknesses into my work that sometimes it seems to me +wicked to let loose upon the world such hordes of demons. I am comforted +when I see the tranquillity of the audience: they are trebly armored: +nothing can reach them: were it not so, I should be damned.... You +reproach me with being too hard on myself. You do not know me as I know +myself. They see what we are: they do not see what we might have been, +and we are honored for what is not so much the effect of our qualities +as of the events that bear us along, and the forces which control us. +Let me tell you a story.... + +"The other evening I was in one of the cafés where they play fairly good +music, though in a queer way: with five or six instruments, filled out +with a piano, they play all the symphonies, the masses, the oratorios. +It is just like the stonecutters in Rome, where they sell the Medici +chapel as an ornament for the mantelpiece. Apparently this is useful to +art, which, if it is to circulate among men, must be turned into base +coin. For the rest there is no deception in these concerts. The programs +are copious, the musicians conscientious. I found a violoncellist there +and entered into conversation with him: his eyes reminded me strangely +of my father's; he told me the story of his life. He was the grandson of +a peasant, the son of a small official, a clerk in a _mairie_ in a +village in the North. They wanted to make him a gentleman, a lawyer, and +he was sent to school in the neighboring town. He was a sturdy country +boy, not at all fitted for being cooped up over the small work of a +notary's office, and he could not stay caged in: he used to jump over +the wall, and wander through the fields, and run after the girls, and +spend his strength in brawling: the rest of the time he lounged and +dreamed of things he would never do. Only one thing had any attraction +for him: music. God knows why! There was not a single musician in his +family, except a rather cracked great-uncle, one of those odd, +provincial characters, whose often remarkable intelligence and gifts are +spent, in their proud isolation, on whims, and cranks, and trivialities. +This great-uncle had invented a new system of notation--(yet +another!)--which was to revolutionize music; he even claimed to have +found a system of stenography by which words, tune, and accompaniment +could be written simultaneously; but he never managed to transcribe it +correctly himself. They just laughed at the old man in the family, but +all the same, they were proud of him. They thought: 'He is an old +madman. Who knows? Perhaps he is a genius.'--It was no doubt from him +that the grandnephew had his mania for music. What music could he hear +in the little town?... But bad music can inspire a love as pure as good +music. + +"The unhappy part of it was that there seemed no possibility of +confessing to such a passion in such surroundings: and the boy had not +his great-uncle's cracked brains. He hid away to read the old lunatic's +lucubrations which formed the basis of his queer musical education. Vain +and fearful of his father and of public opinion, he would say nothing of +his ambitions until he had succeeded. He was crushed by his family, and +did as so many French people of the middle-class have to do when, out of +weakness or kindness, they dare not oppose the will of their relations: +they submit to all appearance, and live their true life in perpetual +secrecy. Instead of following his bent, he struggled on, against his +inclination, in the work they had marked out for him. He was as +incapable of succeeding in it as he was of coming to grief. Somehow or +other he managed to pass the necessary examinations. The main advantage +to him was that he escaped from the spying of his father and the +neighbors. The law crushed him: he was determined not to spend his life +in it. But while his father was alive he dared not declare his desire. +Perhaps it was not altogether distasteful to him to have to wait a +little before he took the decisive step. He was one of those men who all +their lives long dazzle themselves with what they will do later on, with +the things they could do. For the moment he did nothing. He lost his +bearings, and, intoxicated by his new life in Paris, gave himself up +with all his young peasant brutality to his two passions, woman and +music; he was crazed with the concerts he went to, no less than with +pleasure. He wasted years doing this without even turning to account the +means at hand of completing his musical education. His umbrageous pride, +his unfortunate independent and susceptible character kept him from +taking any course of lessons or asking anybody's advice. + +"When his father died he sent Themis and Justinian packing. He began to +compose without having had the courage to acquire the necessary +technique. His inveterate habit of idle lounging and his taste for +pleasure had made him incapable of any serious effort. He felt keenly: +but his idea, and its form, would at once slip away: when all was told +he expressed nothing but the commonplace. The worst of all was that +there was really something great in this mediocrity. I read two of his +old compositions. Here and there were striking ideas, left in the rough +and then deformed. They were like fireflies over a bog.... And what a +strange mind he had! He tried to explain Beethoven's sonatas to me. He +saw them as absurd, childish stories. But such passion as there was in +him, such profound seriousness! Tears would come to his eyes as he +talked. He would die for the thing he loves. He is, touching and +grotesque. Just as I was on the point of laughing in his face, I wanted +to take him to my arms.... He is fundamentally honest, and has a healthy +contempt for the charlatanry of the Parisian groups and their sham +reputations,--(though at the same time he cannot help having the +bourgeois admiration for successful men).... + +"He had a small legacy. In a few months it was all gone, and, finding +himself without resources, he had, like so many others of his kind, the +criminal honesty to marry a girl, also without resources, whom he had +seduced; she had a fine voice, and played music without any love for it. +He had to live on her voice and her mediocre talent until he had learned +how to play the 'cello. Naturally it was not long before they saw their +mediocrity, and could not bear each other. They had a little girl. The +father transferred his power of illusion to the child, and thought that +she would be what he had failed to be. The little girl took after her +mother: she was made to play the piano, though she had not a shadow of +talent; she adored her father, and applied herself to her work to please +him. For several years they plied the hotels in the watering-places, +picking up more insults than money. The child was ailing and overworked, +and died. The wife grew desperate, and became more shrewish every day. +So his life became one of endless misery, with no hope of escape, +brightened only by an ideal which he knew himself to be incapable of +attaining.... + +"And, my dear, when I saw that poor broken devil, whose life has been +nothing but a series of disappointments, I thought: 'That is what I +might have been.' There was much in common in our boyhood, and certain +adventures in our two lives are the same; I have even found a certain +kinship in some of our musical ideas: but his have stopped short. What +is it that has kept me from foundering as he has done? My will, no +doubt. But also the chances of life. And even taking my will, is that +due only to my merits? Is it not rather due to my descent, my friends, +and God who has aided me?... Such thoughts make a man humble. With such +thoughts he feels brotherly to all who love his art, and suffer for it. + +"Prom lowest to highest the distance is not so great.... + +"On that I thought of what you said in your letter. You are right: an +artist has no right to hold aloof, so long as he can help others. So I +shall stay: I shall force myself to spend a few months in every year +here, or in Vienna, or Berlin, although it is hard for me to grow +accustomed to these cities again. But I must not abdicate. If I do not +succeed in being of any great service, as I have good reason to think I +shall not, perhaps my sojourn in these cities will be useful to me, +myself. And I shall console myself with the thought that it was your +wish. Besides ... (I will not lie)... I am beginning to find it pleasant. +Adieu, tyrant. You have triumphed. I am beginning not only to do what +you want me to do, but to love doing it. + +"CHRISTOPHE." + + * * * * * + +So he stayed, partly to please her, but also because his artistic +curiosity was reawakened, and was drawn on to contemplation of the +renewal of art. Everything that he saw and did he presented for Grazia's +scrutiny in his letters. He knew that he was deceiving himself as to the +interest she would take in it all; he suspected her of a certain +indifference. But he was grateful to her for not letting him see it too +clearly. + +She answered him regularly once a fortnight. Affectionate, composed +letters, like her gestures. When she told him of her life she never +discarded her tender, proud reserve. She knew the violence with which +her words went resounding through Christophe's heart. She preferred that +he should think her cold, rather than to send him flying to heights +whither she did not wish to follow him. But she was too womanly not to +know the secret of not discouraging her friend's love, and of, at once, +by gentle words, soothing the dismay and disappointment caused by her +indifferent words. Christophe soon divined her tactics, and by a +counter-trick tried in his turn to control his warmth and to write more +composedly, so that Grazia's replies should not be so studiously +restrained. + +The longer he stayed in Paris the greater grew his interest in the new +activity stirring in that gigantic ant-heap. He was the more interested +in it all as in the young ants he found less sympathy with himself. He +was not deceived: his success was a Pyrrhic victory. After an absence of +ten years his return had created a sensation in Parisian society. But by +an ironic turn of events, such as is by no means rare, he found himself +patronized by his old enemies the snobs, and people of fashion: the +artists were either mutely hostile or distrustful of him. He won his way +by his name, which already belonged to the past, by his considerable +accomplishment, by his tone of passionate conviction, and the violence +of his sincerity. But if people were forced to reckon with him, to +admire or respect him, they did not understand or love him. He was +outside the art of the time. A monster, a living anachronism. He had +always been that. His ten years of solitude had accentuated the +contrast. During his absence in Europe, and especially in Paris, a +great work of reconstruction had been carried through. A new order was +springing to life. A generation was arising, desirous rather of action +than of understanding, hungry rather for happiness than for truth. It +wished to live, to grasp life, even at the cost of a lie. Lies of +pride--all manner of pride: pride of race, pride of caste, pride of +religion, pride of culture and art--all were food to this generation, +provided that they were armor of steel, provided that they could be +turned to sword and buckler, and that, sheltered by them, they could +march on to victory. + +So to this generation it was distasteful to hear the great voice of +torment reminding it of the existence of sorrow and doubt, those +whirlwinds that had troubled the night that was hardly gone, and, in +spite of its denials, went on menacing the universe, the whirlwinds that +it wished to forget. These young people turned away in despite, and they +shouted at the top of their voices to deafen themselves. But the voice +was heard above them all. And they were angry. + +Christophe, on the other hand, regarded them with a friendly eye. He +hailed the upward movement of the world towards happiness. The +deliberate narrowness of its impulse affected him not at all. When a man +wishes to go straight to his goal, he must look straight in front of +him. For his part, sitting at the turning of the world, he was rejoiced +to see behind him the tragic splendor of the night, and, in front of +him, the smile of young hope, the uncertain beauty of the fresh, fevered +dawn. And he was at the stationary point of the axis of the pendulum +while the clock was beginning to go again. Without following its onward +march, he listened joyfully to the beating of the rhythm of life. He +joined in the hope of those who denied his past agonies. What would be, +would be, as he had dreamed. Ten years before, in night and suffering, +Olivier--the little Gallic cock--had with his frail song announced the +distant day. The singer was no more; but his song was coming to pass. In +the garden of Prance the birds were singing. And, above all the singing, +clearer, louder, happier, Christophe suddenly heard the voice of Olivier +come to life again. + + * * * * * + +He was absently reading a book of poems at a bookstall. The name of the +author was unknown to him. Certain words struck him and he went on +reading. As he read on between the uncut pages he seemed to recognize a +friendly voice, the features of a friend.... He could not define his +feeling, nor could he bring himself to put the book down, and so he +bought it. When he reached his room he resumed his reading. At once the +old obsession descended on him. The impetuous rhythm of the poem evoked, +with a visionary precision, the universe and age-old souls--the gigantic +trees of which we are all the leaves and the fruit--the nations. From +the pages there arose the superhuman figure of the Mother--she who was +before us, she who will be after us. She who reigns, like the Byzantine +Madonnas, lofty as the mountains, at whose feet kneel and pray ant-like +human beings. The poet was hymning the homeric struggle of the great +goddesses, whose lances had clashed together since the beginning of the +ages: the eternal Iliad which is to that of Troy what the Alps are to +the little hills of Greece. + +Such an epic of warlike pride and action was far removed from the ideas +of a European soul like Christophe's. And yet, in gleams, in the vision +of the French soul--the graceful virgin, who bears the Aegis, Athena, +with blue eyes shining through the darkness, the goddess of work, the +incomparable artist, sovereign reason, whose glittering lance hurls down +the tumultuously shouting barbarians--Christophe perceived an +expression, a smile that he knew and had loved. But just as he was on +the point of fixing it the vision died away. And while he was +exasperated by this vain pursuit, lo! as he turned a page, he came on a +story which Olivier had told him a few days before his death.... + +He was struck dumb. He ran to the publishers, and asked for the poet's +address. It was refused, as is the custom. He lost his temper. In vain. +Finally he remembered that he could find what he wanted in a year-book. +He did find it, and went at once to the author's house. When he wanted +anything he found it impossible to wait. + +It was in the Batignolles district on the top floor. There were several +doors opening on to a common landing. Christophe knocked at the door +which had been pointed out to him. The next door opened. A young woman, +not at all pretty, very dark, with low-growing hair and a sallow +complexion--a shriveled face with very sharp eyes--asked what he wanted. +She looked suspicious. Christophe told her why he had come, and, in +answer to her next question, gave his name. She came out of her room and +opened the other door with a key which she had in her pocket. But she +did not let Christophe enter immediately. She told him to wait in the +corridor, and went in alone, shutting the door in his face. At last +Christophe reached the well-guarded sanctum. He crossed a half-empty +room which served as a dining-room and contained only a few shabby +pieces of furniture, while near the curtainless window several birds +were twittering in an aviary. In the next room, on a threadbare divan, +lay a man. He sat up to welcome Christophe. At once Christophe +recognized the emaciated face, lit up by the soul, the lovely velvety +black eyes burning with a feverish flame, the long, intelligent hands, +the misshapen body, the shrill, husky voice.... Emmanuel! The little +cripple boy who had been the innocent cause.... And Emmanuel, suddenly +rising to his feet, had also recognized Christophe. + +They stood for a moment without speaking. Both of them saw Olivier.... +They could not bring themselves to shake hands. Emmanuel had stepped +backward. After ten long years, an unconfessed rancor, the old jealousy +that he had had of Christophe, leaped forth from the obscure depths of +instinct. He stood still, defiant and hostile.--But when he saw +Christophe's emotion, when on his lips he read the name that was in +their thoughts: "Olivier"--it was stronger than he: he flung himself +into the arms held out towards him. + +Emmanuel asked: + +"I knew you were in Paris. But how did you find me?" + +Christophe said: "I read your last book: through it I heard _his_ +voice." + +"Yes," said Emmanuel. "You recognized it? I owe everything that I am now +to him." + +(He avoided pronouncing the name.) + +After a moment he went on gloomily: + +"He loved you more than me." + +Christophe smiled: + +"If a man loves truly there is neither more nor less: he gives himself +to all those whom he loves." + +Emmanuel looked at Christophe: the tragic seriousness of his stubborn +eyes was suddenly lit up with a profound sweetness. He took Christophe's +hand and made him sit on the divan by his side. + +Each told the story of his life. From fourteen to twenty-five Emmanuel +had practised many trades: printer, upholsterer, pedlar, bookseller's +assistant, lawyer's clerk, secretary to a politician, journalist.... In +all of them he had found the means of learning feverishly, here and +there finding the support of good people who were struck by the little +man's energy, more often falling into the hands of people who exploited +his poverty and his gifts, turning his worst experiences to profit, and +succeeding in fighting his way through without too much bitterness, +leaving behind him only the remains of his feeble health. His singular +aptitude for the dead languages (not so rare as one is inclined to +believe in a race imbued with humanistic traditions) gained him the +interest and support of an old Hellenizing priest. These studies, which +he had no time to push very far, served him as mental discipline and a +school of style. This man, who had risen from the dregs of the people, +whose whole education had been won by his own efforts, haphazard, so +that there were great gaps in it, had acquired a gift of verbal +expression, a mastery of thought over form, such as ten years of a +university education cannot give to the young bourgeois. He attributed +it all to Olivier. And yet others had helped him more effectively. But +from Olivier came the spark which in the night of this man's soul had +lighted the eternal flame. The rest had but poured oil into the lamp. + +He said: + +"I only began to understand him from the moment when he passed away. But +everything he ever said had become a part of me. His light never left +me." + +He spoke of his work and the task which he declared had been left to him +by Olivier; the awakening of the French, the kindling of that torch of +heroic idealism of which Olivier had been the herald: he wished to make +himself the resounding voice which should hover above the battlefield +and declare the approaching victory: he sang the epic of the new-birth +of his race. + +His poems were the product of that strange race that, through the ages, +has so strongly preserved its old Celtic aroma, while it has ever taken +a bizarre pride in clothing its ideas with the cast-off clothes and laws +of the Roman conqueror. There were to be found in it absolutely pure the +Gallic audacity, the spirit of heroic reason, of irony, the mixture of +braggadocio and crazy bravura, which set out to pluck the beards of the +Roman senators, and pillaged the temple of Delphi, and laughingly hurled +its javelins at the sky. But this little Parisian dwarf had had to shape +his passions, as his periwigged grandfathers had done, and as no doubt +his great-grandnephews would do, in the bodies of the heroes and gods of +Greece, two thousand years dead. It is a curious instinct in these +people which accords well with their need of the absolute: as they +impose their ideas on the remains of the ages, they seem to themselves +to be imposing them on the ages. The constraint of his classic form only +gave Emmanuel's passions a more violent impulse. Olivier's calm +confidence in the destinies of France had been transformed in his little +protégé into a burning faith, hungering for action and sure of triumph. +He willed it, he said it, he clamored for it. It was by his exalted +faith and his optimism that he had uplifted the souls of the French +public. His book had been as effective as a battle. He had made a breach +in the ranks of skepticism and fear. The whole younger generation had +thronged to follow him towards the new destiny.... + +He grew excited as he talked: his eyes burned, his pale face glowed pink +in patches, and his voice rose to a scream. Christophe could not help +noticing the contrast between the devouring fire and the wretched body +that was its pyre. He was only half-conscious of the irony of this +stroke of fate. The singer of energy, the poet who hymned the generation +of intrepid sport, of action, war, could hardly walk without losing his +breath, was extremely temperate, lived on a strict diet, drank water, +could not smoke, lived without women, bore every passion in his body, +and was reduced by his health to asceticism. + +Christophe watched Emmanuel, and he felt a mixture of admiration and +brotherly pity. He tried not to show it: but no doubt his eyes betrayed +his feeling. Emmanuel's pride, which ever kept an open wound in his +side, made him think he read commiseration in Christophe's eyes, and +that was more odious to him than hatred. The fire in him suddenly died +down. He stopped talking. Christophe tried in vain to win back his +confidence. His soul had closed up. Christophe saw that he was wounded. + +The hostile silence dragged on. Christophe got up. Emmanuel took him to +the door without a word. His step declared his infirmity: he knew it: it +was a point of pride with him to appear indifferent: but he thought +Christophe was watching him, and his rancor grew. + +Just as he was coldly shaking hands with his guest, and saying good-by, +an elegant young lady rang at the door. She was escorted by a +pretentious nincompoop whom Christophe recognized as a man he had seen +at theatrical first-nights, smiling, chattering, waving his hand, +kissing the hands of the ladies, and from his stall shedding smiles all +over the theater: not knowing his name, he had called him "the +buck."--The buck and his companion, on seeing Emmanuel, flung themselves +on the _"cher maître"_ with obsequious and familiar effusiveness. +As Christophe walked away he heard Emmanuel in his dry voice saying that +he was too busy to see any one. He admired the man's gift of being +disagreeable. He did not know Emmanuel's reasons for scowling at the +rich snobs who came to gratify him with their indiscreet visits; they +were prodigal of fine phrases and eulogy; but they no more thought of +helping him in his poverty than the famous friends of César Franck ever +dreamed of releasing him from the piano-lessons which he had to give up +to the last to make a living. + +Christophe went several times again to see Emmanuel. He never succeeded +in restoring the intimacy of his first visit. Emmanuel showed no +pleasure in seeing him, and maintained a suspicious reserve. Every now +and then he would be carried away by the generous need of expansion of +his genius: a remark of Christophe's would shake him to the very roots +of his being: then he would abandon himself to a fit of enthusiastic +confidence: and over his secret soul his idealism would cast the glowing +light of a flashing poetry. Then, suddenly, he would fall back: he would +shrivel up into sulky silence: and Christophe would find him hostile +once more. + +They were divided by too many things. Not the least was the difference +in their ages. Christophe was on the way to full consciousness and +mastery of himself. Emmanuel was still in process of formation and more +chaotic than Christophe had ever been. The originality of his face came +from the contradictory elements that were at grips in him; a mighty +stoicism, struggling to tame a nature consumed by atavistic +desires,--(he was the son of a drunkard and a prostitute);--a frantic +imagination which tugged against the bit of a will of steel; an immense +egoism, and an immense love for others, and of the two it were +impossible to tell which would be the conqueror; an heroic idealism and +a morbid thirst for glory which made him impatient of other +superiorities. If Olivier's ideas, and his independence, and his +disinterestedness were in him, if Emmanuel was superior to his master by +his plebeian vitality which knew not disgust in the face of action, by +his poetic genius and his thicker skin, which protected him from disgust +of all kinds, yet he was very far from reaching the serenity of +Antoinette's brother: his character was vain and uneasy: and the +restlessness of other people only augmented his own. + +He lived in a stormy alliance with a young woman who was his neighbor, +the woman who had received Christophe on his first visit. She loved +Emmanuel, and was jealously busy over him, looked after his house, +copied out his work, and wrote to his dictation. She was not beautiful, +and she bore the burden of a passionate soul. She came of the people, +and for a long time worked in a bookbinding workshop, then in the +post-office. Her childhood had been spent in the stifling atmosphere +common to all the poor workpeople of Paris: souls and bodies all huddled +together, harassing work, perpetual promiscuity, no air, no silence, +never any solitude, no opportunity for recuperation or of defending the +inner sanctuary of the heart. She was proud in spirit, with her mind +ever seething with a religious fervor for a confused ideal of truth. Her +eyes were worn out with copying out at night, sometimes without a lamp, +by moonlight, _Les Misérables_ of Hugo. She had met Emmanuel at a +time when he was more unhappy than she, ill and without resources; and +she had devoted herself to him. This passion was the first, the only +living love of her life. So she attached herself to him with a hungry +tenacity. Her affection was a terrible trial to Emmanuel, who rather +submitted to than shared it. He was touched by her devotion: he knew +that she was his best friend, the only creature to whom he was +everything, who could not do without him. But this very feeling +overwhelmed him. He needed liberty and isolation; her eyes always +greedily beseeching a look obsessed him: he used to speak harshly to +her, and longed to say: "Go!" He was irritated by her ugliness and her +clumsy manners. Though he had seen but little of fashionable society, +and though he heartily despised it,--(for he suffered at appearing even +uglier and more ridiculous there),--he was sensitive to elegance, and +alive to the attraction of women who felt towards him (he had no doubt +of it) exactly as he felt towards his friend. He tried to show her an +affection which he did not possess or, at least, which was continually +obscured by gusts of involuntary hatred. He could not do it: he had a +great generous heart in his bosom, hungering to do good, and also a +demon of violence, capable of much evil. This inward struggle and his +consciousness of his inability to end it to his advantage plunged him +into a state of acute irritation, which he vented on Christophe. + +Emmanuel could not help feeling a double antipathy towards Christophe; +firstly because of his old jealousy (one of those childish passions +which still subsist, though we may forget the cause of them): secondly, +because of his fierce nationalism. In France he had embodied all the +dreams of justice, pity, and human brotherhood conceived by the best men +of the preceding age. He did not set France against the rest of Europe +as an enemy whose fortune is swelled by the ruin of the other nations, +but placed her at their head, as the legitimate sovereign who reigns for +the good of all--the sword of the ideal, the guide of the human race. +Rather than see her commit an injustice he would have preferred to see +her dead. But he had no doubt of her. He was exclusively French in +culture and in heart, nourished wholly by the French tradition, the +profound reasons of which he found in his own instinct. Quite sincerely +he ignored foreign thought, for which he had a sort of disdainful +condescension,--and was exasperated if a foreigner did not accept his +lowly position. + +Christophe saw all that, but, being older and better versed in life, he +did not worry about it. If such pride of race could not but be +injurious, Christophe was not touched by it: he could appreciate the +illusions of filial love, and never dreamed of criticising the +exaggerations of a sacred feeling. Besides, humanity is profited by the +vain belief of the nations in their mission. Of all the reasons at hand +for feeling himself estranged from Emmanuel only one hurt him: +Emmanuel's voice, which at times rose to a shrill, piercing scream. +Christophe's ears suffered cruelly. He could not help making a face when +it happened. He tried to prevent Emmanuel's seeing it. He endeavored to +hear the music and not the instrument. There was such a beauty of +heroism shining forth from the crippled poet when he evoked the +victories of the mind, the forerunners of other victories, the conquest +of the air, the "flying God" who should upraise the peoples, and, like +the star of Bethlehem, lead them in his train, in ecstasies, towards far +distant spaces or near revenge. The splendor of these visions of energy +did not prevent Christophe's seeing their danger, and foreknowing +whither this change and the growing clamor of the new Marseillaise would +lead. He thought, with a little irony, (with no regret for past or fear +of the future), that the song would find an echo that the singer could +not foresee, and that a day would come when men would sigh for the +vanished days of the Market-Place.--How free they were then! The golden +age of liberty! Never would its like be known again. The world was +moving on to the age of strength, of health, of virile action, and +perhaps of glory, but also of harsh authority and narrow order. We shall +have called it enough with our prayers, the age of iron, the classic +age! The great classic ages--Louis XIV. or Napoleon--seem now at a +distance the peaks of humanity. And perhaps the nation therein most +victoriously realized its ideal State. But go and ask the heroes of +those times what they thought of them! Your Nicolas Poussin went to live +and die in Rome; he was stifled in your midst. Your Pascal, your Racine, +said farewell to the world. And among the greatest, how many others +lived apart in disgrace, and oppressed! Even the soul of a man like +Molière hid much bitterness.--For your Napoleon, whom you so greatly +regret, your fathers do not seem to have had any doubt as to their +happiness, and the master himself was under no illusion; he knew that +when he disappeared the world would say: "Ouf!"... What a wilderness of +thought surrounds the _Imperator!_ Over the immensity of the sands, +the African sun.... + +Christophe did not say all that was in his mind. A few hints were enough +to set Emmanuel in a fury, and he did not try the experiment again. But +it was in vain that he kept his thoughts to himself: Emmanuel knew what +he was thinking. More than that, he was obscurely conscious that +Christophe saw farther than he. And he was only irritated by it. Young +people never forgive their elders for forcing them to see what they will +see in twenty years' time. + +Christophe read his heart, and said to himself: + +"He is right. Every man his own faith. A man must believe what he +believes. God keep me from disturbing his confidence in the future!" + +But his mere presence upset Emmanuel. When two personalities are +together, however hard they try to efface themselves, one always crushes +the other, and the other always feels rancor and humiliation. Emmanuel's +pride was hurt by Christophe's superiority in experience and character. +And perhaps also he was keeping back the love which he felt growing in +himself for him. + +He became more and more shy. He locked his door, and did not answer +letters.--Christophe had to give up seeing him. + + * * * * * + +During the first days of July Christophe reckoned up what he had gained +by his few months' stay in Paris: many new ideas, but few friends. +Brilliant and derisory successes, in which he saw his own image and the +image of his work weakened or caricatured in mediocre minds; and there +is but scant pleasure in that. And he failed to win the sympathy of +those by whom he would have loved to be understood; they had not +welcomed his advances; he could not throw in his lot with them, however +much he desired to share their hopes and to be their ally; it was as +though their uneasy vanity shunned his friendship and found more +satisfaction in having him for an enemy. In short, he had let the tide +of his own generation pass without passing with it, and the tide of the +next generation would have nothing to do with him. He was isolated, and +was not surprised, for all his life he had been accustomed to it. But +now he thought he had won the right, after this fresh attempt, to return +to his Swiss hermitage, until he had realized a project which for some +time past had been taking shape. As he grew older he was tormented with +the desire to return and settle down in his own country. He knew nobody +there, and would find even less intellectual kinship than in this +foreign city: but none the less it was his country: you do not ask those +of your blood to think your thoughts: between them and you there are a +thousand secret ties; the senses learned to read in the same book of sky +and earth, and the heart speaks the same language. + +He gaily narrated his disappointments to Grazia, and told her of his +intention of returning to Switzerland: jokingly he asked her permission +to leave Paris, and assured her that he was going during the following +week. But at the end of the letter there was a postscript saying: + +"I have changed my mind. My departure is postponed." + +Christophe had entire confidence in Grazia: he gave into her hands the +secret of his inmost thoughts. And yet there was a room in his heart of +which he kept the key: it contained the memories which did not belong +only to himself, but to those whom he had loved. He kept back everything +concerning Olivier. His reserve was not deliberate. The words would not +come from his lips whenever he tried to talk to Grazia about Olivier. +She had never known him.... + +Now, on the morning when he was writing to his friend, there came a +knock on the door. He went to open it, cursing at being interrupted. A +boy of fourteen or fifteen asked for M. Krafft. Christophe gruffly bade +him come in. He was fair, with blue eyes, fine features, not very tall, +with a slender, erect figure. He stood in front of Christophe, rather +shyly, and said not a word. Quickly he pulled himself together, and +raised his limpid eyes, and looked at him with keen interest. Christophe +smiled as he scanned the boy's charming face, and the boy smiled too. + +"Well?" said Christophe. "What do you want?" + +"I came," said the boy.... + +(And once more he became confused, blushed, and was silent.) + +"I can see that you have come," said Christophe, laughing. "But why have +you come? Look at me. Are you afraid of me?" + +The boy smiled once more, shook his head, and said: + +"No." + +"Bravo! Then tell me who you are." + +"I am...." said the boy. + +He stopped once more. His eyes wandered curiously round the room, and +lighted on a photograph of Olivier on the mantelpiece. + +"Come!" said Christophe. "Courage!" + +The boy said: + +"I am his son." + +Christophe started: he got up from his chair, took hold of the boy's +arm, and drew him to him; he sank back into his chair and held him in a +close embrace: their faces almost touched; and he gazed and gazed at +him, saying: + +"My boy.... My poor boy...." + +Suddenly he took his face in his hands and kissed his brow, eyes, +cheeks, nose, hair. The boy was frightened and shocked by such a violent +demonstration, and broke away from him. Christophe let him go. He hid +his face in his hand, and leaned his brow against the wall, and sat so +for the space of a few moments. The boy had withdrawn to the other end +of the room. Christophe raised his head. His face was at rest: he looked +at the boy with an affectionate smile. + +"I frightened you," he said. "Forgive me.... You see, I loved him." + +The boy was still frightened, and said nothing. + +"How like you are to him!" said Christophe.... "And yet I should not +have recognized you. What is it that has changed?..." + +He asked: + +"What is your name?" + +"Georges." + +"Oh! yes. I remember. Christophe Olivier Georges.... How old are you?" + +"Fourteen." + +"Fourteen! Is it so long ago?... It is as though it were yesterday--or +far back in the darkness of time.... How like you are to him! The same +features. It is the same, and yet another. The same colored eyes, but +not the same eyes. The same smile, the same lips, but not the same +voice. You are stronger. You hold yourself more erect: your face is +fuller, but you blush just as he used to do. Come, sit down, let us +talk. Who sent you to me?" + +"No one." + +"You came of your own accord? How do you know about me?" + +"People have talked to me about you." + +"Who?" + +"My mother." + +"Ah!" said Christophe. "Does she know that you came to see me?" + +"No." + +Christophe said nothing for a moment; then he asked: + +"Where do you live?" + +"Near the Parc Monçeau." + +"You walked here? Yes? It is a long way. You must be tired." + +"I am never tired." + +"Good! Show me your arms." + +(He felt them.) + +"You are a strong boy.... What put it into your head to come and see +me?" + +"My father loved you more than any one." + +"Did she tell you so?" + +(He corrected himself.) + +"Did your mother tell you so?" + +"Yes." + +Christophe smiled pensively. He thought: "She too!... How they all loved +him! Why did they not let him see it?..." + +He went on: + +"Why did you wait so long before you came?" + +"I wanted to come sooner. But I thought you would not want to see me." + +"I!" + +"I saw you several weeks ago at the Chevillard concerts: I was with my +mother, sitting a little away from you: I bowed to you: you looked +through me, and frowned, and took no notice." + +"I looked at you?... My poor boy, how could you think that?... I did not +see you. My eyes are tired. That is why I frown.... You don't think me +so cruel as that?" + +"I think you could be cruel too, if you wanted to be." + +"Really?" said Christophe. "In that case, if you thought I did not want +to see you, how did you dare to come?" + +"Because I wanted to see you." + +"And if I had refused to see you?" + +"I shouldn't have let you do that." He said this with a little decided +air, at once shy and provoking. + +Christophe burst out laughing, and Georges laughed too. + +"You would have sent me packing! Think of that! You rogue!... No, +decidedly, you are not like your father." + +A shadow passed over the boy's mobile face. + +"You think I am not like him? But you said, just now...? You don't think +he would have loved me? You don't love me?" + +"What difference does it make to you whether I love you or not?" + +"A great deal of difference." + +"Because...?" + +"Because I love you." + +In a moment his eyes, his lips, all his features, took on a dozen +different expressions, like the shadows of the clouds on an April day +chasing over the fields before the spring winds. Christophe had the most +lovely joy in gazing at him and listening to him; it seemed to him that +all the cares of the past were washed away; his sorrowful experiences, +his trials, his sufferings and Olivier's sufferings, all were wiped out: +he was born again in this young shoot of Olivier's life. + +They talked on. Georges knew nothing of Christophe's music until the +last few months, but since Christophe had been in Paris, he had never +missed a concert at which his work was played. He spoke of it with an +eager expression, his eyes shining and laughing, with the tears not far +behind: he was like a lover. He told Christophe that he adored music, +and that he wanted to be a composer. But after a question or two, +Christophe saw that the boy knew not even the elements of music. He +asked about his work. Young Jeannin was at the lycée; he said cheerfully +that he was not a good scholar. + +"What are you best at? Literature or science?" + +"Very much the same." + +"What? What? Are you a dunce?" + +The boy laughed frankly and said: + +"I think so." + +Then he added confidentially: + +"But I know that I am not, all the same." + +Christophe could not help laughing. + +"Then why don't you work? Aren't you interested in anything?" + +"No. I'm interested in everything." + +"Well, then, why?" + +"Everything is so interesting that there is no time...." + +"No time? What the devil do you do?" + +He made a vague gesture: + +"Many things. I play music, and games, and I go to exhibitions. I +read...." + +"You would do better to read your school-books." + +"We never read anything interesting in school.... Besides, we travel. +Last month I went to England to see the Oxford and Cambridge match." + +"That must help your work a great deal!" + +"Bah! You learn much more that way than by staying at the lycée." + +"And what does your mother say to that?" + +"Mother is very reasonable. She does whatever I want." + +"You bad boy!... You can thank your stars I am not your father...." + +"You wouldn't have had a chance...." + +It was impossible to resist his banter. + +"Tell me, you traveler," said Christophe. "Do you know my country?" + +"Yes." + +"I bet you don't know a word of German." + +"Yes, I do. I know it quite well." + +"Let us see." + +They began to talk German. The boy jabbered on quite ungrammatically +with the most droll coolness; he was very intelligent and wide awake, +and guessed more than he understood: often he guessed wrong; but he was +the first to laugh at his mistakes. He talked eagerly about his travels +and his reading. He had read a great deal, hastily, superficially, +skipping half the pages, and inventing what he had left unread, but he +was always urged on by a keen curiosity, forever seeking reasons for +enthusiasm. He jumped from one subject to another, and his face grew +animated as he talked of plays or books that had moved him. There was no +sort of order in his knowledge. It was impossible to tell how he could +read right through a tenth-rate book, and yet know nothing of the +greatest masterpieces. + +"That is all very well," said Christophe. "But you will never do +anything if you do not work." + +"Oh! I don't need to. We are rich." + +"The devil! Then it is a very serious state of things. Do you want to be +a man who does nothing and is good for nothing?" + +"No. I should like to do everything. It is stupid to shut yourself up +all your life in a profession." + +"But it is the only means yet discovered of doing any good." + +"So they say!" + +"What do you mean? 'So they say!'... I say so. I've been working at my +profession for forty years, and I am just beginning to get a glimmer of +it." + +"Forty years, to learn a profession! When can you begin to practise it?" + +Christophe began to laugh. + +"You little disputatious Frenchman!" + +"I want to be a musician," said Georges. + +"Well, it is not too early for you to begin. Shall I teach you?" + +"Oh! I should be so glad!" + +"Come to-morrow. I'll see what you are worth. If you are worth nothing, +I shall forbid you ever to lay hands on a piano. If you have a real +inclination for it, we'll try and make something of you.... But, I warn +you, I shall make you work." + +"I will work," said Georges delightedly. + +They said good-by until the morrow. As he was going, Georges remembered +that he had other engagements on the morrow, and also for the day after. +Yes, he was not free until the end of the week. They arranged day and +hour. + +But when the day and hour came, Christophe waited in vain. He was +disappointed. He had been looking forward with childlike glee to seeing +Georges again. His unexpected visit had brightened his life. It had made +him so happy, and moved him so much that he had not slept the night +after it. With tender gratitude he thought of the young friend who had +sought him out for his friend's sake. His natural grace, his malicious +and ingenuous frankness had delighted him: he sank back into the mute +intoxication, the buzzing of happiness, which had filled his ears and +his heart during the first days of his friendship with Olivier. It was +allied now with a graver and almost religious feeling which, through the +living, saw the smile of the past.--He waited all the next day and the +day after. Nobody came. Not even a letter of excuse. Christophe was very +mournful, and cast about for excuses for the boy. He did not know where +to write to him, and he did not know his address. Had he had it he would +not have dared to write. When the heart of an older man is filled with +love for a young creature, he feels a certain modesty about letting him +see the need he has of him: he knows that the young man has not the same +need: they are not evenly matched: and nothing is so much dreaded as to +seem to be imposing oneself on a person who cares not a jot. + +The silence dragged on. Although Christophe suffered under it, he forced +himself to take no step to hunt up the Jeannins. But every day he +expected the boy, who never came. He did not go to Switzerland, but +stayed through the summer in Paris. He thought himself absurd, but he +had no taste for traveling. Only when September came did he decide to +spend a few days at Fontainebleau. + +About the end of October Georges Jeannin came and knocked at his door. +He excused himself calmly, without being in the least put out by his +long silence. + +"I could not come," he said. "And then we went away to stay in +Brittany." + +"You might have written to me," said Christophe. + +"Yes. I did try. But I never had the time.... Besides," he said, +laughing, "I forgot all about it." + +"When did you come back?" + +"At the beginning of October." + +"And it has taken you three weeks to come?... Listen. Tell me frankly: +Did your mother prevent you?... Does she dislike your seeing me?" + +"No. Not at all. She told me to come to-day." + +"What?" + +"The last time I saw you before the holidays I told her everything when +I got home. She told me I had done right, and she asked about you, and +pestered me with a great many questions. When we came home from +Brittany, three weeks ago, she made me promise to go and see you again. +A week ago she reminded me again. This morning, when she found that I +had not been, she was angry with me, and wanted me to go directly after +breakfast, without more ado." + +"And aren't you ashamed to tell me that? Must you be forced to come and +see me?" + +"No. You mustn't think that.... Oh! I have annoyed you. Forgive me.... I +am a muddle-headed idiot.... Scold me, but don't be angry with me. I +love you. If I did not love you I should not have come. I was not forced +to come. I can't be forced to do anything but what I want to do." + +"You rascal!" said Christophe, laughing in spite of himself. "And your +musical projects, what about them?" + +"Oh! I am still thinking about it." + +"That won't take you very far." + +"I want to begin now. I couldn't begin these last few months. I have had +so much to do! But now you shall see how I will work, if you still want +to have anything to do with me...." + +(He looked slyly at Christophe.) + +"You are an impostor," said Christophe. + +"You don't take me seriously." + +"No, I don't." + +"It is too dreadful. Nobody takes me seriously. I lose all heart." + +"I shall take you seriously when I see you working." + +"At once, then." + +"I have no time now. To-morrow." + +"No. To-morrow is too far off. I can't bear you to despise me for a +whole day." + +"You bore me." + +"Please!..." + +Smiling at his weakness, Christophe made him sit at the piano, and +talked to him about music. He asked him many questions, and made him +solve several little problems of harmony. Georges did not know much +about it, but his musical instinct supplied the gaps of his ignorance; +without knowing their names, he found the chords Christophe wanted; and +even his mistakes in their awkwardness showed a curiosity of taste and a +singularly acute sensibility. He did not accept Christophe's remarks +without discussion; and the intelligent questions he asked in his turn +bore witness to the sincerity of a mind that would not accept art as a +devout formula to be repeated with the lips, but desired to live it for +its own sake.--They did not only talk of music. In reference to harmony +Georges would summon up pictures, the country, people. It was difficult +to hold him in check: it was constantly necessary to bring him back to +the middle of the road: and Christophe had not always the heart to do +so. It amused him to hear the boy's joyous chatter, so full of wit and +life. What a difference there was between his nature and Olivier's! With +the one life was a subterranean river that flowed silently; with the +other all was above ground: a capricious stream disporting itself in the +sun. And yet it was the same lovely, pure water, like their eyes. With a +smile, Christophe recognized in Georges certain instinctive antipathies, +likings and dislikings, which he well knew, and the naïve intolerance, +the generosity of heart which gives itself entirely to whatsoever it +loves.... Only Georges loved so many things that he had no time to love +any one thing for long. + +He came back the next day and the days following. He was filled with a +youthful passion for Christophe, and he worked enthusiastically at his +lessons....--Then his enthusiasm palled, his visits grew less frequent. +He came less and less often. Then he came no more, and disappeared for +weeks. + +He was light-hearted, forgetful, naïvely selfish, and sincerely +affectionate; he had a good heart and a quick intelligence which he +expended piecemeal day by day. People forgave him everything because +they were so glad to see him; he was happy.... + +Christophe refused to judge him. He did not complain. He wrote to +Jacqueline to thank her for having sent her son to him. Jacqueline +replied with a short letter filled with restrained emotion: she +expressed a hope that Christophe would be interested in Georges and help +him in his life. Through shame and pride she could not bring herself to +see him again. And Christophe thought he could not visit her without +being invited.--So they stayed apart, seeing each other at a distance at +concerts, bound together only by the boy's infrequent visits. + +The winter passed. Grazia wrote but seldom. She was still faithful in +her friendship for Christophe. But, like a true Italian, she was hardly +at all sentimental, attached to reality, and needed to see people if she +were, perhaps not to think of them, but certainly to take pleasure in +talking to them. Her heart's memory needed to be supported by having her +sight's memory refreshed from time to time. Her letters became brief and +distant. She was as sure of Christophe as Christophe was of her. But +their security gave out more light than warmth. + +Christophe did not feel his new disappointments very keenly. His musical +activity was enough to fill his life. When he reaches a certain age a +vigorous artist lives much more in his art than in his life; his life +has become the dream, his art the reality. His creative powers had been +reawakened by contact with Paris. There is no stronger stimulant in the +world than the sight of that city of work. The most phlegmatic natures +are touched by its fever. Christophe, being rested by years of healthy +solitude, brought to his work an enormous accumulation of force. +Enriched by the new conquests forever being made in the fields of +musical technique by the intrepid curiosity of the French, he hurled +himself in his turn along the road to discovery: being more violent and +barbarous than they, he went farther. But nothing in his new audacities +was left to the hazardous mercies of his instinct. Christophe had begun +to feel the need of clarity; all his life his genius had obeyed the +rhythm of alternate currents: it was its law to pass from one pole to +the other, and to fill everything between them. Having greedily +surrendered in his last period to _"the eyes of chaos shining through +the veil of order,"_ even to rending the veil so as to see them more +clearly, he was now striving to tear himself away from their +fascination, and once more to throw over the face of the sphinx the +magic net of the master mind. The imperial inspiration of Rome had +passed over him. Like the Parisian art of that time, by the spirit of +which he was infected, he was aspiring to order. But not--like the +reactionaries who spent what was left of their energies in protecting +their slumber--to order in Varsovia; the good people who are always +going back to Brahms--the Brahmses of all the arts, the thematics, the +insipid neo-classics, in search of solace! Might one not say that they +are enfeebled with passion! You are soon done for, my friends.... No, it +is not of your order that I speak. Mine has no kinship with yours. Mine +is the order in harmony of the free passions and the free will.... +Christophe was studying how in his art to maintain the just balance +between the forces of life. These new chords, the new musical daimons +that he had summoned from the abyss of sounds, were used to build clear +symphonies, vast, sunlit buildings, like the Italian cupola'd basilicas. + +These plays and battles of the mind occupied him all winter. And the +winter passed quickly, although, in the evening, as he ended his day's +work and looked behind him at the tale of days, he could not have told +whether it had been long or short, or whether he was still young or very +old. + +Then a new ray of human sunshine pierced the veil of his dreams, and +once more brought in the springtime. Christophe received a letter from +Grazia, telling him that she was coming to Paris with her two children. +For a long time she had planned to do so. Her cousin Colette had often +invited her. Her dread of the effort necessary to interrupt her habits +and to tear herself away from her careless tranquillity and the home she +loved in order to plunge into the Parisian whirligig that she knew so +well, had made her postpone the journey from year to year. This spring +she was filled with melancholy, perhaps with a secret +disappointment--(how many unspoken romances there are in the heart of a +woman, unknown to others, often unconfessed to herself!)--and she longed +to go right away from Rome. A threatened epidemic gave her an excuse for +hurrying on her children's departure. She followed her letter to +Christophe in a very few days. + +Christophe hastened to her as soon as he heard she was at Colette's. He +found her still absorbed and distant. He was hurt, but did not show it. +By now he was almost rid of his egoism, and that gave him the insight of +affection. He saw that she had some grief which she wished to conceal, +and he suppressed his longing to know its nature. Only he strove to keep +her amused by giving her a gay account of his misadventures and sharing +with her his work and his plans, and he wrapped her round with his +affection. Her mournful heart rested in the heart of her friend, and he +spoke to her always of things other than that which was in both their +minds. And gradually he saw the shadow of melancholy fade from her eyes, +and their expression became nearly, and ever more nearly, intimate. So +much so, that one day, as he was talking to her, he stopped suddenly, +and in silence looked at her. + +"What is it?" she asked. + +"To-day," he said, "you have come back to me." + +She smiled, and in a low voice she replied: + +"Yes." + +It was not easy for them to talk quietly together. They were very rarely +alone. Colette gave them the pleasure of her presence more often than +they wished. In spite of her eccentricities she was extremely kind and +sincerely attached to Grazia and Christophe; but she never dreamed that +she could be a nuisance to them. She had, of course, noticed--(for her +eyes saw everything)--what she was pleased to call Christophe's +flirtation with Grazia; flirtation was her element, and she was +delighted, and asked nothing better than to encourage it. But that was +precisely what she was not required to do; she was only desired not to +meddle with things that did not concern her. It was enough for her to +appear or to make an (indiscreet) discreet allusion to their friendship +to one of them, to make Christophe and Grazia freeze and turn the +conversation. Colette cast about among all the possible reasons, except +one, and that the true one, for their reserve. Fortunately for them, she +could never stay long. She was always coming and going, coming in, going +out, superintending everything in her house, doing a dozen things at a +time. In the intervals between her appearances Christophe and Grazia, +left alone with the children, would resume the thread of their innocent +conversation. They never spoke of the feelings that bound them together. +Unrestrainedly they confided to each other their little daily +happenings. Grazia, with feminine interest, inquired into Christophe's +domestic affairs. They were in a very bad way: he was always having +ruptures with his housekeepers; he was continually being cheated and +robbed by his servants. She laughed heartily but very kindly, and with +motherly compassion for the great child's small practical sense. One +day, when Colette left them after a longer visitation than usual, Grazia +sighed: + +"Poor Colette! I love her dearly.... But how she bores me!" + +"I love her too," said Christophe, "if you mean by that that she bores +us." + +Grazia laughed: + +"Listen. Will you let me ... (it is quite impossible for us to talk in +peace here) ... will you let me come to your house one day?" + +He could hardly speak. + +"To my house! You will come?" + +"If you don't mind?" + +"Mind! Mercy, no!" + +"Well, then, will you let me come on Tuesday?" + +"Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, any day you like." + +"Tuesday, at four. It is agreed?" + +"How good of you! How good of you!" + +"Wait. There is a condition." + +"A condition? Why? Anything you like. You know that I will do it, +condition or no condition." + +"I would rather make a condition." + +"I promise." + +"You don't know what it is." + +"I don't care. I promise. Anything you like." + +"But listen. You are so obstinate." + +"Tell me!" + +"The condition is that between now and then you make no change in your +rooms--none, you understand; everything must be left exactly as it is." + +Christophe's face fell. He looked abject. + +"Ah! That's not playing the game." + +"You see, that's what comes of giving your word too hastily! But you +promised." + +"But why do you want--? + +"But I want to see you in your rooms as you are, every day, when you are +not expecting me." + +"Surely you will let me--" + +"Nothing at all. I shall allow nothing." + +"At least--" + +"No, no, no! I won't listen to you, or else I won't come, if you prefer +it--" + +"You know I would agree to anything if you will only come." + +"Then you promise." + +"Yes." + +"On your word of honor?" + +"Yes, you tyrant." + +"A good tyrant." + +"There is no such thing as a good tyrant: there are tyrants whom one +loves and tyrants whom one detests." + +"And I am both?" + +"No. You are one of the first." + +"It is very humiliating." + +On the appointed day she came. With scrupulous loyalty Christophe had +not dared even to arrange the smallest piece of paper in his untidy +rooms: he would have felt dishonored had he done so. But he was in +torture. He was ashamed of what his friend would think. Anxiously he +awaited her arrival. She came punctually, not more than four or five +minutes after the hour. She climbed up the stairs with her light, firm +step. She rang. He was at the door and opened it. She was dressed with +easy, graceful elegance. Through her veil he could see her tranquil +eyes. They said "Good-day" in a whisper and shook hands; she was more +silent than usual: he was awkward and emotional and said nothing, to +avoid showing his feeling. He led her in without uttering the sentence +he had prepared by way of excusing the untidiness of his room. She sat +down in the best chair, and he sat near her. + +"This is my work-room." + +It was all he could find to say to her. + +There was a silence. She looked round slowly, with a kindly smile, and +she, too, was much moved, though she would not admit it to herself. +(Later she told him that when she was a girl she had thought of coming +to him, but had been afraid as she reached the door.) She was struck by +the solitary aspect and the sadness of the place: the dark, narrow hall, +the absolute lack of comfort, the visible poverty, all went to her +heart: she was filled with affectionate pity for her old friend, who, in +spite of all his work and his sufferings and his celebrity, was unable +to shake free of material anxiety. And at the same time she was amused +at the absolute indifference revealed by the bareness of the room that +had no carpets, no pictures, no bric-a-brac, no armchair; no other +furniture than a table, three hard chairs, and a piano: and papers, +papers everywhere, mixed up with books, on the table, under the table, +on the floor, on the piano, on the chairs--(she smiled as she thought +how conscientiously he had kept his word). + +After a minute or two she asked him, pointing to his place at the table: + +"Is that where you work?" + +"No," he said. "There." + +He pointed to the darkest corner of the room, where there stood a low +chair with its back to the light. She went and sat in it quietly, +without a word. For a few minutes they were silent, for they knew not +what to say. He got up and went to the piano. He played and improvised +for half an hour; all around him he felt the presence of his beloved and +an immense happiness filled his heart; with eyes closed he played +marvelous things. Then she understood the beauty of the room, all +furnished with divine harmonies: she heard his loving, suffering heart +as though it were beating in her own bosom. + +When the music had died away, he stopped for a little while, quite +still, at the piano; then he turned as he heard the breath of his +beloved and knew that she was weeping. She came to him. + +"Thank you!" she murmured, and took his hand. + +Her lips were trembling a little. She closed her eyes. He did the same. +For a few seconds they remained so, hand in hand; and time stopped; it +seemed to them that for ages, ages, they had been lying pressed close +together. + +She opened her eyes, and to shake off her emotion, she asked: + +"May I see the rest of the flat?" + +Glad also to escape from his emotions, he opened the door into the next +room; but at once he was ashamed. It contained a narrow, hard iron bed. + +On the wall there was a cast of the mask of Beethoven, and near the bed, +in a cheap frame, photographs of his mother and Olivier. On the +dressing-table was another photograph: Grazia herself as a child of +fifteen. He had found it in her album in Rome, and had stolen it. He +confessed it, and asked her to forgive him. She looked at the face, and +said: + +"Can you recognize me in it?" + +"I can recognize you, and remember you." + +"Which of the two do you love best?" she asked, pointing to herself. + +"You are always the same. I love you always just the same. I recognize +you everywhere. Even in the photograph of you as a tiny child. You do +not know the emotion I feel as in this chrysalis I discern your soul. +Nothing so clearly assures me that you are eternal. I loved you before +you were born, and I shall love you ever after...." + +He stopped. She stood still and made no answer: she was filled with the +sweet sorrow of love. When she returned to the work-room, and he had +shown her through the window his little friendly tree, full of chattering +sparrows, she said: + +"Now, do you know what we will do? We will have a feast. I brought tea +and cakes because I knew you would have nothing of the kind. And I +brought something else. Give me your overcoat." + +"My overcoat?" + +"Yes. Give it me." + +She took needles and cotton from her bag. + +"What are you going to do?" + +"There were two buttons the other day which made me tremble for their +fate. Where are they now?" + +"True. I never thought of sewing them on. It is so tiresome!" + +"Poor boy! Give it me." + +"I am ashamed." + +"Go and make tea." + +He brought the kettle and the spirit-lamp into the room, so as not to +miss a moment of his friend's stay. As she sewed she watched his clumsy +ways stealthily and maliciously. They drank their tea out of cracked +cups, which she thought horrible, dodging the cracks, while he +indignantly defended them, because they reminded him of his life with +Olivier. + +Just as she was going, he asked: + +"You are not angry with me?" + +"Why should I be?" + +"Because of the litter here?" + +She laughed. + +"I will make it tidy." + +As she reached the threshold and was just going to open the door, he +knelt and kissed her feet. + +"What are you doing?" she said. "You foolish, foolish dear! Good-by!" + +They agreed that she should come once a week on a certain day. She had +made him promise that there should be no more outbursts, no more +kneelings, no more kissing of her feet. She breathed forth such a gentle +tranquillity, that even when Christophe was in his most violent mood, he +was influenced by it; and although when he was alone, he often thought +of her with passionate desire, when they were together they were always +like good comrades. Never did word or gesture escape him which could +disturb his friend's peace. + +On Christophe's birthday she dressed her little girl as she herself had +been when they first met in the old days; and she made the child play +the piece that Christophe used to make her play. + +But all her grace and tenderness and sweet friendship were mingled with +contradictory feelings. She was frivolous, and loved society, and +delighted in being courted, even by fools; she was a coquette, except +with Christophe,--even with Christophe. When he was very tender with +her, she would be deliberately cold and reserved. When he was cold and +reserved she would become tender and tease him affectionately. She was +the most honest of women. But even in the most honest and the best of +women there is always a girl. She insisted on standing well with the +world, and conformed to the conventions. She had fine musical gifts, and +understood Christophe's work; but she was not much interested in +it--(and he knew it).--To a true Latin woman, art is of worth only in +proportion as it leads back to life, to life and love.... The love which +is forever seething, slumbering, in the depths of the voluptuous +body.... What has she to do with the tragic meditations, the tormented +symphonies, the intellectual passions of the North? She must have music +in which her hidden desires can unfold, with the minimum of effort, an +opera, which is passionate life without the fatigue of the passions, a +sentimental, sensual, lazy art. + +She was weak and changing: she could only apply herself intermittently +to any serious study: she must have amusement; rarely did she do on the +morrow what she had decided to do the night before. She had so many +childish ways, so many little disconcerting caprices! The restless +nature of woman, her morbid and periodically unreasonable character. She +knew it and then tried to isolate herself. She knew her weaknesses, and +blamed herself for her failure to resist them, since they distressed her +friend; sometimes, without his knowing it, she made real sacrifices for +him; but, when all was told, her nature was the stronger. For the rest, +Grazia could not bear Christophe to seem to be commanding her; and, once +or twice, by way of asserting her independence, she did the opposite of +what he asked her. At once she regretted it; at night she would be +filled with remorse that she could not make Christophe happier; she +loved him more than she would let him see; she felt that her friendship +with him was the best part of her life. As usually happens with two very +different people, they were more united when they were not together. In +truth, if they had been thrust apart by a misunderstanding, the fault +was not altogether Christophe's, as he honestly believed. Even when in +the old days Grazia most dearly loved Christophe, would she have married +him? She would perhaps have given him her life; but would she have so +given herself as to live all her life with him? She knew (though she did +not confess it to Christophe) that she had loved her husband, and, even +now, after all the harm he had done her, loved him as she had never +loved Christophe.... The secrets of the heart, the secrets of the body, +of which one is not very proud, and hides from those dear to one, as +much out of respect for them, as in complacent pity for oneself.... +Christophe was too masculine to divine them: but every now and then, in +flashes, he would see how little the woman he most dearly loved, who +truly loved him, belonged to him--and that he could not wholly count on +any one, on any one, in life. His love was not quenched by this +perception. He even felt no bitterness. Grazia's peace spread over him. +He accepted everything. O life why should I reproach thee for that which +thou canst not give? Art thou not very beautiful and very blessed as +thou art? I must fain love thy smile, Gioconda.... + +Christophe would gaze at his beloved's beautiful face, and read in it +many things of the past and the future. During the long years when he +had lived alone, traveling, speaking little but seeing much, he had +acquired, almost unconsciously, the power of reading the human face, +that rich and complex language formed by the ages. It is a thousand +times richer and more complex than the spoken language. The spirit of +the race is expressed in it.... There are perpetual contrasts between +the lines of the face and the words that come from it. Take the profile +of a girl, clear-cut, a little hard, in the Burne-Jones style, tragic, +consumed by a secret passion, jealousy, a Shakespearian sorrow.... She +speaks: and, behold, she is a little bourgeois creature, as stupid as an +owl, a selfish, commonplace coquette, with no idea of the terrible +forces inscribed upon her body. And yet such passion, such violence are +in her. In what shape will they one day spring forth? Will it be in the +lust of gain, conjugal jealousy, or splendid energy, or morbid +wickedness? There is no knowing. It may be that she will transmit them +to another creature of her blood before the time comes for the eruption. +But it is an element with which we have to reckon as, like a fatality, +it hovers above the race. + +Grazia also bore the weight of that uneasy heritage, which, of all the +patrimony of ancient families, is the least in danger of being +dissipated in transit. She, at least, was aware of it. It is a great +source of strength to know our weakness, to make ourselves, if not the +masters, the pilots of the soul of the race to which we are bound, which +bears us like a vessel upon its waters,--to make fate our instrument, to +use it as a sail which we furl or clew up according to the wind. When +Grazia closed her eyes, she could hear within herself more than one +disturbing voice, of a tone familiar to her. But in her healthy soul +even the dissonances were blended to form a profound, soft music, under +the guiding hand of her harmonious reason. + +Unhappily it is not within our power to transmit the best of our blood +to the creatures of our blood. + +Of Grazia's two children, the little girl, Aurora, who was eleven years +old, was like her mother; she was not so pretty, being a little coarser +in fiber; she had a slight limp; she was a good little girl, +affectionate and gay, with splendid health, abundant good nature, few +natural gifts, except idleness, a passion for doing nothing. Christophe +adored her. When he saw her with Grazia he felt the charm of a twofold +creature, seen at two ages of life, two generations together.... Two +flowers upon one stem; a Holy Family of Leonardo, the Virgin and Saint +Anne, different shades of the same smile. With one glance he could take +in the whole blossoming of a woman's soul; and it was at once fair and +sad to see: he could see whence it came and whither it was going. There +is nothing more natural than for an ardent, chaste heart to love two +sisters at one and the same time, or mother and daughter. Christophe +would have loved the woman of his love through all her descendants, just +as in her he loved the stock of which she came. Her every smile, her +every tear, every line in her face, were they not living beings, the +memories of a life which was before her eyes opened to the light, the +forerunners of a life which was to come, when her eyes should be forever +closed? + +The little boy, Lionello, was nine. He was much handsomer than his +sister, of a finer stock, too fine, worn out and bloodless, wherein he +was like his father. He was intelligent, well-endowed with bad +instincts, demonstrative, and dissembling. He had big blue eyes, long, +girlish, fair hair, a pale complexion, a delicate chest, and was +morbidly nervous, which last, being a born comedian and strangely +skilled in discovering people's weaknesses, he upon occasion turned to +good account. Grazia was inclined to favor him, with the natural +preference of a mother for her least healthy child,--and also through +the attraction which all kindly, good women feel for the sons who are +neither well nor ill (for in them a part of their life which they have +suppressed finds solace). In such attraction there is something of the +memory of the husbands who have made them suffer, whom they loved even +while they despised them, or the strange flora of the soul, which wax +strong in the dark, humid hot-house of conscience. + +In spite of Grazia's care equally to bestow her tenderness upon her +children, Aurora felt the difference, and was a little hurt by it. +Christophe divined her feeling, and she divined Christophe's: they came +together instinctively; while between Christophe and Lionello there was +an antipathy which the boy covered up with exaggerated, lisping, +charming ways,--and Christophe thrust from him as a shameful feeling. He +wrestled with himself and forced himself to cherish this other man's +child as though he were the child whom it would have been ineffably +sweet for him to have had by the beloved. He would not allow himself to +see Lionello's bad nature or anything that could remind him of the +"other man": he set himself to find in him only Grazia. She, more +clear-sighted, was under no illusions about her son, and she only loved +him the more. + +However, the disease which for years had been lying dormant in the boy +broke out. Consumption supervened. Grazia resolved to go and shut +herself up in a sanatorium in the Alps with Lionello, Christophe begged +to be allowed to go with her. To avoid scandal she dissuaded him. He was +hurt by the excessive importance which she attached to the conventions. +She went away and left her daughter with Colette. It was not long before +she began to feel terribly lonely among the sick people who talked of +nothing but their illness, surrounded by the pitiless mountains rising +above the rags and tatters of men. To escape from the depressing +spectacle of the invalids with their spittoons spying upon each other +and marking the progress of death over each one of them, she left the +Palace hospital, and took a chalet, where she lived aloof with her own +little invalid. Instead of improving Lionello's condition, the high +altitude aggravated it. His fever waxed greater. Grazia spent nights of +anguish. Christophe knew it by his keen intuition, although she told him +nothing: for she was growing more and more rigid in her pride; she +longed for Christophe to be with her, but she had forbidden him to +follow her, and she could not bring herself to confess: "I am too weak, +I need you...." + +One evening, as she stood in the veranda of the chalet in the twilight +hour, which is so bitter for hearts in agony, she saw ... she thought she +saw coming up from the station of the funicular railway ... a man walking +hurriedly: he stopped, hesitating, with his back a little bowed. She +went indoors to avoid his seeing her: she held her hands over her heart, +and, quivering with emotion, she laughed. Although she was not at all +religious she knelt down, hid her face in her hands; she felt the need +of thanking some one.... But he did not come. She went back to the +window, and, hiding behind the curtains, looked out. He had stopped, +leaning against a fence round a field, near the gate of the chalet. He +dared not enter. And, even more perturbed than he, she smiled, and said +in a low voice: + +"Come...." + +At last he made up his mind and rang the bell. Already she was at the +door, and she opened it. His eyes looked at her like the eyes of a +faithful dog, who is afraid of being beaten. He said: + +"I came.... Forgive me...." + +She said: + +"Thank you." + +Then she confessed how she had expected him. Christophe helped her to +nurse the boy, whose condition was growing worse. His heart was in the +task. The boy treated him with irritable animosity: he took no pains now +to conceal it: he said many malicious things to him. Christophe put it +all down to his illness. He was extraordinarily patient. He passed many +painful days by the boy's bedside, until the critical night, on passing +through which, Lionello, whom they had given up for lost, was saved. And +they felt then such pure happiness--watching hand in hand over the +little invalid--that suddenly she got up, took her cloak and hood, and +led Christophe out of doors, along the road, in the snow, the silence +and the night, under the cold stars. Leaning on his arm, excitedly +breathing in the frozen peace of the world, they hardly spoke at all. +They made no allusion to their love. Only when they returned, on the +threshold, she said: "My dear, dear friend!..." + +And her eyes were lit up by the happiness of having saved her child. +That was all. But they felt that the bond between them had become +sacred. + +On her return to Paris after Lionello's long convalescence, she took a +little house at Passy, and did not worry any more about "avoiding +scandal": she felt brave enough to dare opinion for her friend's sake. +Their life henceforth was so intimately linked that it would have seemed +cowardly to her to conceal the friendship which united them at +the--inevitable--risk of having it slandered. She received Christophe at +all hours of the day, and was seen with him out walking and at the +theater: she spoke familiarly to him in company. Colette thought they +were making themselves too conspicuous. Grazia would stop her hints with +a smile, and quietly go her way. + +And yet she had given Christophe no new right over her. They were +nothing more than friends: he always addressed her with the same +affectionate respect. But they hid nothing from each other: they +consulted each other about everything: and insensibly Christophe assumed +a sort of paternal authority in the house: Grazia listened to and +followed his advice. She was no longer the same woman since the winter +she had spent in the sanatorium; the anxiety and fatigue had seriously +tried her health, which, till then, had been sturdy. Her soul was +affected by it. In spite of an occasional lapse into her old caprices, +she had become mysteriously more serious, more reflective, and was more +constantly desirous of being kind, of learning and not hurting any one. +Every day saw her more softened by Christophe's affection, his +disinterestedness, and the purity of his heart: and she was thinking of +one day giving him the great happiness of which he no longer dared to +dream, that of becoming his wife. + +He had never broached the subject again after her first refusal, for he +thought he had no right to do so. But regretfully he clung to his +impossible hope. Though he respected what his friend had said, he was +not convinced by her disillusioned attitude towards marriage: he +persisted in believing that the union of two people who love each other, +profoundly and devotedly, is the height of human happiness.--His regrets +were revived by coming in contact once more with the Arnauds. + +Madame Arnaud was more than fifty. Her husband was sixty-five or +sixty-six. Both seemed to be older. He had grown stout: she was very +thin and rather shrunken: spare though she had been in the old days, she +was now just a wisp of a woman. After Arnaud's retirement they had gone +to live in a house in the country. They had no link with the life of the +time save the newspaper, which in the torpor of their little town and +their drowsy life brought them the tardy echo of the voice of the world. +Once they saw Christophe's name. Madame Arnaud wrote him a few +affectionate, rather ceremonious words, to tell him how glad they were +of his fame. He took the train at once without letting them know. + +He found them in the garden, dozing under the round canopy of an ash, on +a warm summer afternoon. They were like Boecklin's old couple, sleeping +hand in hand, in an arbor. Sun, sleep, old age overwhelm them: they are +falling, they are already half-buried in the eternal dream. And, as the +last gleam of their life, their tenderness persists to the end. The +clasp of their hands, the dying warmth of their bodies....--They were +delighted to see Christophe, for the sake of all the memories of the +past he brought with him. They talked of the old days, which at that +distance seemed brilliant and full of light. + +Arnaud loved talking, but he had lost his memory for names. Madame +Arnaud whispered them to him. She liked saying nothing and preferred +listening to talking: but the image of the old times had been kept alive +and clear in her silent heart: in glimmers they would appear sharply +before her like shining pebbles in a stream. There was one such memory +that Christophe more than once saw reflected in her eyes as she looked +at him with affectionate compassion: but Olivier's name was not +pronounced. Old Arnaud plied his wife with touching, awkward little +attentions; he was fearful lest she should catch cold, or be too hot; he +would gaze hungrily with anxious love at her dear, faded face, and with +a weary smile she would try to reassure him. Christophe watched them +tenderly, with a little envy.... To grow old together. To love in the +dear companion even the wear of time. To say: "I know those lines round +her eyes and nose. I have seen them coming. I know when they came. Her +scant gray hair has lost its color, day by day, in my company, something +because of me, alas! Her sweet face has swollen and grown red in the +fires of the weariness and sorrow that have consumed us. My soul, how +much better I love thee for that thou hast suffered and grown old with +me. Every one of thy wrinkles is to me as music from the past...." The +charm of these old people, who, after the long vigil of life, spent side +by side, go side by side to sleep in the peace of the night! To see them +was both sweet and profitable and sorrowful for Christophe. Oh! How +lovely had life and death been thus!... + +When he next saw Grazia, he could not help telling her of his visit. He +did not tell her of the thoughts roused in him by his visit. But she +divined them. He was tender and wistful as he spoke. He turned his eyes +away from her and was silent every now and then. She looked at him and +smiled, and Christophe's unease infected her. + +That evening, when she was alone in her room, she lay dreaming. She went +over the story Christophe had told her; but the image she saw through it +was not that of the old couple sleeping under the ash: it was the shy, +ardent dream of her friend. And her heart was filled with love for him. +She lay in the dark and thought: + +"Yes. It is absurd, criminal and absurd, to waste the opportunity for +such happiness. What joy in the world can equal the joy of making the +man you love happy?... What! Do I love him?..." + +She was silent, deeply moved, listening to the answer of her heart. + +"I love him." + +Just then a dry, hard, hasty cough came from the next room where the +children were sleeping. Grazia pricked her ears: since the boy's illness +she had always been anxious. She called out to him. He made no reply, +and went on coughing. She sprang from her bed and went to him. He was +irritated, and moaned, and said that he was not well, and broke out +coughing again. + +"What is the matter?" + +He did not reply, but only groaned that he was ill. + +"My darling, please tell me what is the matter?" + +"I don't know." + +"Is it here?" + +"Yes. No. I don't know. I am ill all over." + +On that he had a fresh fit of coughing, violent and exaggerated. Grazia +was alarmed: she had a feeling that he was forcing himself to cough: but +she was ashamed of her thought, as she saw the boy sweating and choking +for breath. She kissed him and spoke to him tenderly: he seemed to grow +calmer; but as soon as she tried to leave him he broke out coughing +again. She had to stay shivering by his bedside, for he would not even +allow her to go away to dress herself, and insisted on her holding his +hand; and he would not let her go until he fell asleep again. Then she +went to bed, chilled, uneasy, harassed. And she found it impossible to +gather up the threads of her dreams. + +The boy had a singular power of reading his mother's thoughts. This +instinctive genius is often--though seldom in such a high degree--to be +found in creatures of the same stock: they hardly need to look at each +other to know each other's thoughts: they can guess them by the +breathing, by a thousand imperceptible signs. This natural aptness, +which is fortified by living together, was in Lionello sharpened and +refined by his ever wakeful malevolence. He had the insight of the +desire to hurt. He detested Christophe. Why? Why does a child take a +dislike to a person who has never done him any harm? It is often a +matter of chance. It is enough for a child to have begun by persuading +himself that he detests some one, for it to become a habit, and the more +he is argued with the more desperately he will cling to it. But often, +again, there are deeper reasons for it, which pass the child's +understanding: he has no idea of them.... From the first moment when he +saw Christophe, the son of Count Berény had a feeling of animosity +towards the man whom his mother had loved. It was as though he had +instinctively felt the exact moment when Grazia began to think of +marrying Christophe. From that moment on he never ceased to spy upon +them. He was always between them, and refused to leave the room whenever +Christophe came; or he would manage to burst in upon them when they were +sitting together. More than that, when his mother was alone, thinking of +Christophe, he seemed to divine her thoughts. He would sit near her and +watch her. His gaze would embarrass her and almost make her blush. She +would get up to conceal her unease.--He would take a delight in saying +unkind things about Christophe in her presence. She would bid him be +silent, but he would go on. And if she tried to punish him, he would +threaten to make himself ill. That was the strategy he had always used +successfully since he was a child. When he was quite small, one day when +he had been scolded, he had, out of revenge, undressed himself and lain +naked on the floor so as to catch cold.--Once, when Christophe brought a +piece of music that he had composed for Grazia's birthday, the boy took +the manuscript and hid it. It was found in tatters in a wood-box. Grazia +lost her patience and scolded him severely. Then he wept and howled, and +stamped his feet, and rolled on the ground, and had an attack of nerves. +Grazia was terrified, and kissed and implored him, and promised to do +whatever he wanted. + +From that day on he was the master: for he knew it: and very frequently +he had recourse to the weapon with which he had succeeded. There was +never any knowing how far his attacks were natural and how far +counterfeit. Soon he was not satisfied with using them vengefully when +he was opposed in any way, but took to using them out of spite whenever +his mother and Christophe planned to spend the evening together. He even +went so far as to play his dangerous game out of sheer idleness, or +theatricality, to discover the extent of his power. He was +extraordinarily ingenious in inventing strange, nervous accidents; +sometimes in the middle of dinner he would be seized with a convulsive +trembling, and upset his glass or break his plate; sometimes, as he was +going upstairs, he would clutch at the banisters with his hand: his +fingers would stiffen: he would pretend that he could not open them +again; or he would have a sharp pain in his side and roll about, +howling; or he would choke. Of course, in the end he developed a genuine +nervous illness. Christophe and Grazia were at their wits' end. Their +peaceful meetings--their quiet talks, their readings, their music, which +were as a festival to them--all their humble happiness was henceforth +disturbed. + +Every now and then, however, the little imp would, give them a respite, +partly because he was tired of his play-acting, partly because his +child's nature took possession of him again, and made him think of +something else. (He was sure now that he had won the day.) + +Then, quickly, quietly, they would seize their opportunity. Every hour +that they could steal in this way was the more precious to them as they +could never be sure of enjoying it to the end. How near they felt to +each other! Why could they not always be so!... One day Grazia herself +confessed to her regret. Christophe took her hand. + +"Yes. Why?" he asked. + +"You know why, my dear," she said, with a miserable smile. + +Christophe knew. He knew that she was sacrificing their happiness to her +son: he knew that she was not deceived by Lionello's lies, that she +still adored him: he knew the blind egoism of such domestic affections +which make the best pour out their reserves of devotion to the advantage +of the bad or mediocre creatures of their blood, so that there is +nothing left for them to give to those who would be more worthy, whom +they love best, but who are not of their blood. And although he was +irritated by it, although there were times when he longed to kill the +little monster who was destroying their lives, yet he bowed his head in +silence, and understood that Grazia could not do otherwise. + +So they renounced their life without vain recrimination. But if the +happiness which was their right could be snatched from them, nothing +could prevent the union of their hearts. Their very renunciation, their +common sacrifice, held them by bonds stronger than those of the flesh. +Each confided the sorrow of it all to the other, passed over the burden +of it, and took on the other's suffering: so even their sorrow became +joy. Christophe called Grazia "his confessor." He did not hide from her +the weaknesses from which his pride had to suffer: rather he accused +himself with too great contrition, and she would smilingly soothe his +boyish scruples. He even confessed to her his material poverty; but he +could only bring himself to do that after it had been agreed between +them that she should neither offer him, nor he accept from her, any +help. It was the last barrier of pride which he upheld and she +respected. In place of the well-being which she could not bring into her +friend's life, she found many ways of filling it with what was +infinitely more precious to him--namely, her tenderness. He felt the +breath of it all about him, during every hour of the day: he never +opened his eyes in the morning, never closed them at night, without a +prayer of love and adoration. And when she awoke, or at night, as often +happened, lay for hours without sleeping, she thought: + +"My dear is thinking of me." + +And a great peace came upon them and surrounded them. + + * * * * * + +However, her health had given way. Grazia was constantly in bed, or had +to spend the day lying on a sofa. Christophe used to go every day and +read to her, and show her his new work. Then she would get up from the +chair, and limp to the piano, for her feet were swollen. She would play +the music he had brought. It was the greatest joy she could give him. Of +all his pupils she and Cécile were the most gifted. But while Cécile had +an instinctive feeling for music, with hardly any understanding of it, +to Grazia it was a lovely harmonious language full of meaning for her. +The demoniac quality in life and art escaped her altogether: she brought +to bear on it the clarity of her intelligence and heart. Christophe's +genius was saturated with her clarity. His friend's playing helped him +to understand the obscure passions he had expressed. With closed eyes he +would listen, and follow her, and hold her by the hand, as she led him +through the maze of his own thoughts. By living in his music through +Grazia's soul, he was wedded to her soul and possessed it. Prom this +mysterious conjugation sprang music which was the fruit of the mingling +of their lives. One day, as he brought her a collection of his works, +woven of his substance and hers, he said: + +"Our children." + +Theirs was an unbroken communion whether they were together or apart; +sweet were the evenings spent in the peace and quiet of the old house, +which was a fit setting for the image of Grazia, where the silent, +cordial servants, who were devoted to Christophe, extended to him a +little of the respectful affection they had for their mistress. Joyous +was it to listen to the song of the fleeting hours, and to see the tide +of life ebbing away.... A shadow of anxiety was thrown on their +happiness by Grazia's failing health. But, in spite of her little +infirmities, she was so serene that her hidden sufferings did but +heighten her charm. She was his _"liebe, leidende, und doch so +rührende, heitre Freundin"_ ("his dear, suffering, touching friend, +always so bright and cheerful"). And sometimes, in the evening, when he +left her with his heart big with love so that he could not wait until +the morrow, he would write: + +"Liebe, liebe, liebe, liebe, liebe Grazia...." + +Their tranquillity lasted for months. They thought it would last +forever. The boy seemed to have forgotten them: his attention was +distracted by other things. But after this respite he returned to them +and never left them again. The horrible little boy had determined to +part his mother and Christophe. He resumed his play-acting. He did not +set about it upon any premeditated plan, but, from day to day, followed +the whimsies of his spite. He had no idea of the harm he might be doing: +he only wanted to amuse himself by boring other people. He never relaxed +his efforts until he had made Grazia promise to leave Paris and go on a +long journey. Grazia had no strength to resist him. Besides, the doctors +advised her to pay a visit to Egypt. She had to avoid another winter in +the northern climate. Too many things had tried her health: the moral +upheaval of the last few years, the perpetual anxiety about her son's +health, the long periods of uncertainty, the struggle that had taken +place in her without her giving any sign of it, the sorrow of sorrows +that she was inflicting on her friend. To avoid adding to the trouble he +divined in her, Christophe hid his own grief at the approach of the day +of parting: he made no effort to postpone it; and they were outwardly +calm, and, though inwardly they were very far from it, yet they +succeeded in forcing it upon each other. + +The day came. A September morning. They had left Paris together in the +middle of July, and spent their last weeks in Switzerland in a mountain +hotel, near the place where they had met again six years ago. + +They were unable to go out the last five days: the rain came down in +unceasing torrents: they were almost alone in the hotel, for all the +other travelers had fled. The rain stopped on their last morning, but +the mountains were still covered with clouds. The children went on ahead +with the servants in another carriage. She drove off. He accompanied her +to the place where the road began to descend in steep windings to the +plain of Italy. The mist came in under the hood of the carriage. They +were very close together, and they said no word: they hardly looked at +each other. A strange light, half-day, half-night, wrapped them +round.... Grazia's breath left little drops of water on her veil. He +pressed her little hand, warm under her cold glove. Their faces came +together. Through her wet veil he kissed her dear lips. + +They came to the turn of the road. He got down, and the carriage plunged +on into the mist and disappeared. For a long time he could hear the +rumbling of the wheels and the horses' hoofs. Great masses of white mist +rolled over the fields. Through the close tracery of the branches the +dripping trees dropped water. Not a breath of wind. The mist was +stifling life. Christophe stopped, choking.... There was nothing now. +Everything had gone.... + +He took in a long breath, filling his lungs with the mist, and walked +on. Nothing passes for him who does not pass. + + + + +III + + +Absence adds to the power of those we love. The heart retains only what +is dear to us in them. The echo of each word coming through space from +the distant friend, rings out in the silence, faithfully answering. + +The correspondence of Christophe and Grazia took on the serious and +restrained tone of a couple who are no longer in the dangerous period of +trial of love, but, having passed it, feel sure of the road and march on +hand in hand. Each was strong to sustain and direct the other, weak and +yielding to the other's support and direction. + +Christophe returned to Paris. He had vowed never to go there again. But +what are such vows worth? He knew that he would find there the shade of +Grazia. And circumstances, conspiring with his secret desires against +his will, showed him a new duty to fulfil in Paris. Colette, well +informed as to society gossip, told Christophe that his young friend +Jeannin was making a fool of himself. Jacqueline, who had always been +weak in her dealings with her son, could not hold him in check. She +herself was passing through a strange crisis, and was too much occupied +with herself to pay much heed to him. + +Since the unhappy adventure which had destroyed Olivier's marriage and +life, Jacqueline had lived a very worthy life. She withdrew from +Parisian society, which, after imposing on her a hypocritical sort of +quarantine, had made fresh advances to her, which she had rejected. She +was not at all ashamed of what she had done as far as these people were +concerned: she thought she had no reason to account to them for it, for +they were more worthless than she: what she had done openly, half the +women she knew did by stealth, under cover of their homes. She suffered +only from the thought of the wrong she had done her nearest and dearest, +the only man she had loved. She could not forgive herself for having, in +so poor a world, lost an affection like his. + +Her regrets, and her sorrow, grew less acute with time. There were left +only a sort of mute suffering, a humiliated contempt for herself and +others, and the love of her child. This affection, into which she poured +all her need of love, disarmed her before him; she could not resist +Georges's caprices. To excuse her weakness she persuaded herself that +she was paying for the wrong she had done Olivier. She had alternate +periods of exalted tenderness and weary indifference: sometimes she +would worry Georges with her exacting, anxious love, and sometimes she +would seem to tire of him, and she let him do as he liked. She admitted +to herself that she was bringing him up badly, and she would torment +herself with the admission; but she made no change. When, as she rarely +did, she tried to model her principles of conduct on Olivier's way of +thinking, the result was deplorable. At heart she wished to have no +authority over her son save that of her affection. And she was not +wrong: for between these two, however similar they might be, there were +no bonds save those of the heart. Georges Jeannin was sensible of his +mother's physical charm: he loved her voice, her gestures, her +movements, her grace, her love. But in mind he was conscious of +strangerhood to her. She only saw it as he began to grow into a man, +when he turned from her. Then she was amazed and indignant, and +attributed the estrangement to other feminine influences: and, as she +tried awkwardly to combat them, she only estranged him more. In reality, +they had always lived, side by side, each preoccupied with totally +different interests, deceiving themselves as to the gulf that lay +between them, with the aid of their common surface sympathies and +antipathies, which disappeared when the man began to spring forth from +the boy (that ambiguous creature, still impregnated with the perfume of +womanhood). And bitterly Jacqueline would say to her son: + +"I don't know whom you take after. You are not like your father or me." + +So she made him feel all that lay between them; and he took a secret +pride that was yet feverish and uneasy. + +The younger generation has always a keener sense than the elder of the +things that lie between them; they need to gain assurance of the +importance of their existence, even at the cost of injustice or of lying +to themselves. But this feeling varies in its acuteness from one period +to another. In the classic ages when, for a time, the balance of the +forces of a civilization are realized,--those high plateaux ending on +all sides with steep slopes--the difference in level is not so great +from one generation to another. But in the ages of renascence or +decadence, the young men climbing or plunging down the giddy slopes, +leave their predecessors far behind.--Georges, like the other young men +of his time, was ascending the mountain. + +He was superior neither in character nor in mind: he had many aptitudes, +none of which rose above the level of elegant mediocrity. And yet, +without any effort on his part, he found himself at the outset of his +career several grades higher than his father, who, in his short life, +had expended an incalculable amount of intellect and energy. + +Hardly were the eyes of his mind opened upon the light of day than he +saw all round him the heaped-up darkness, pierced by luminous gleams, +the masses of knowledge and ignorance, warring truths, contradictory +errors, in which his father and the men of his father's generation had +feverishly groped their way. But at the same time he became conscious of +a weapon in his power which they had never known: his force.... + +Whence did he have it?... Who can tell the mystery of the resurrections +of a race, sleeping, worn out, which suddenly awakes brimming like a +mountain torrent in the spring!... What would he do with his force? Use +it in his turn to explore the inextricable thickets of modern thought? +They had no attraction for him. He was oppressed by the menacing dangers +which lurked in them. They had crushed his father. Rather than renew +that experience and enter the tragic forest he would have set fire to +it. He had only to glance at the books of wisdom or sacred folly which +had intoxicated Olivier: the Nihilist pity of Tolstoi, the somber +destructive pride of Ibsen, the frenzy of Nietzsche, the heroic, sensual +pessimism of Wagner. He had turned away from them in anger and terror. +He hated the realistic writers who, for half a century, had killed the +joy of art. He could not, however, altogether blot out the shadows of +the sorrowful dream in which he had been cradled. He would not look +behind him, but he well knew that the shadow was there. He was too +healthy to seek a counter-irritant to his uneasiness in the lazy +skepticism of the preceding epoch: he detested the dilettantism of men +like Renan and Anatole France, with their degradation of the free +intellect, their joyless mirth, their irony without greatness: a +shameful method, fit for slaves, playing with the chains which they are +impotent to break. + +He was too vigorous to be satisfied with doubt, too weak to create the +conviction which, with all his soul, he desired. He asked for it, prayed +for it, demanded it. And the eternal snappers-up of popularity, the +great writers, the sham thinkers at bay, exploited this imperious and +agonized desire, by beating the drums and shouting the clap-trap of +their nostrum. From trestles, each of these Hippocrates bawled that his +was the only true elixir, and decried all the rest. Their secrets were +all equally worthless. None of these pedlars had taken the trouble to +find a new recipe. They had hunted about among their old empty bottles. +The panacea of one was the Catholic Church: another's was legitimate +monarchy: yet another's, the classic tradition. There were queer fellows +who declared that the remedy for all evils lay in the return to Latin. +Others seriously prognosticated, with an enormous word which imposed on +the herd, the domination of the Mediterranean spirit. (They would have +been just as ready at some other time to talk of the Atlantic spirit.) +Against the barbarians of the North and the East they pompously set up +the heirs of a new Roman Empire.... Words, words, all second-hand. The +refuse of the libraries scattered to the winds.--Like all his comrades, +young Jeannin went from one showman to another, listened to their +patter, was sometimes taken in by it, and entered the booth, only to +come out disappointed and rather ashamed of having spent his time and +his money in watching old clowns buffooning in shabby rags. And yet, +such is youth's power of illusion, such was his certainty of gaining +certainty, that he was always taken in by each new promise of each new +vendor of hope. He was very French, of a hypercritical temper, and an +innate lover of order. He needed a leader and could bear none; his +pitiless irony always riddled them through and through. + +While he was waiting for the advent of a leader who should give him the +key to the riddle ... he had no time to wait. He was not the kind of +man, like his father, to be satisfied with the lifelong search for +truth. With or without a motive, he needed always to make up his mind, +to act, to turn to account, to use his energy. Traveling, the delight of +art, and especially of music, with which he had gorged himself, had at +first been to him an intermittent and passionate diversion. He was +handsome, ardent, precocious, beset with temptations, and he early +discovered the outwardly enchanting world of love, and plunged into it +with an unbridled, poetic, greedy joy. Then this impertinently naïve and +insatiable cherub wearied of women: he needed action, so he gave himself +up uncontrollably to sport. He tried everything, practised everything. +He was always going to fencing and boxing matches: he was the French +champion runner and high-jumper, and captain of a football team. He +competed with a number of other crazy, reckless, rich young men like +himself in ridiculous, wild motor races. Finally he threw up everything +for the latest fad, and was drawn into the popular craze for flying +machines. At the Rheims meetings he shouted and wept for joy with three +hundred thousand other men; he felt that he was one with the whole +people in a religious jubilation; the human birds flying over their +heads bore them upwards in their flight: for the first time since the +dawn of the great Revolution the vast multitude had raised their eyes to +the heavens and seen them open.--To his mother's terror young Jeannin +declared that he was going to throw in his lot with the conquerors of +the air. Jacqueline implored him to give up his perilous ambition. She +ordered him to do so. He took the bit between his teeth. Christophe, in +whom Jacqueline thought she had found an ally, only gave the boy a +little prudent advice, which he felt quite sure Georges would not follow +(for, in his place, he would not have done so). He did not deem that he +had any right,--even had he been able to do so--to fetter the healthy +and normal expansion of the boy's vitality, which, if it had been forced +into inaction, would have been perverted to his destruction. + +Jacqueline could not reconcile herself to seeing her son leave her. She +had vainly thought that she had renounced love, for she could not do +without the illusion of love; all her affections, all her actions were +tinged with it. There are so many mothers who expend on their sons all +the secret ardor which they have been unable to give forth in +marriage--or out of it! And when they see how easily their sons do +without them, when suddenly they understand that they are not necessary +to them, they go through the same kind of crisis as befalls them upon +the betrayal of a lover, or the disillusion of love.--Once more +Jacqueline's whole existence crumbled away. Georges saw nothing. Young +people never have any idea of the tragedies of the heart going on around +them: they have no time to stop and see them: and they do not wish to +see: a selfish instinct bids them march straight on without looking to +right or left. + +Jacqueline was left alone to gulp down this new sorrow. She only emerged +from it when her grief was worn out, worn out like her love. She still +loved her son, but with a distant, disillusioned affection, which she +knew to be futile, and she lost all interest in herself and him. So she +dragged through a wretched, miserable year, without his paying her any +heed. And then, poor creature, since her heart could neither live nor +die without love, she was forced to find something to love. She fell +victim to a strange passion, such as often takes possession of women, +and especially, it would seem, of the noblest and most inaccessible, +when maturity comes and the fair fruit of life has not been gathered. +She made the acquaintance of a woman who, from their first meeting, +gained an ascendancy over her through her mysterious power of +attraction. + +This woman was about her own age, and she was a nun. She was always busy +with charitable works. A tall, fine, rather stout woman, dark, with +rather bold, handsome features, sharp eyes, a big, sensitive, +ever-smiling mouth, and a masterful chin. She was remarkably +intelligent, and not at all sentimental; she had the malice of a +peasant, a keen business sense, and a southern imagination, which saw +everything in exaggeration, though always exactly to scale when +necessary: she was a strangely enticing mixture of lofty mysticism and +lawyer's cunning. She was used to domination, and the exercise of it was +a habit with her. Jacqueline was drawn to her at once. She became +enthusiastic over her work, or, at least, believed herself to be so. +Sister Angèle knew perfectly what was the object of her passion: she was +used to provoking them; and without seeming to notice them, she used +skilfully to turn them to account for her work and the glory of God. +Jacqueline gave up her money, her will, her heart. She was charitable, +so she believed, through love. + +It was not long before her infatuation was observed. She was the only +person not to realize it. Georges's guardian became anxious. Georges was +too generous and too easy to worry about money matters, though he saw +his mother's subjection, and was shocked by it. He tried, too late in +the day, to resume his old intimacy with her, and saw that a veil was +drawn between them; he blamed the occult influence for it, and, both +against his mother and the nun, whom he called an intriguer, he +conceived a feeling of irritation which he made no attempt to disguise: +he could not admit a stranger to his place in a heart that he had +regarded as his natural right. It never occurred to him that his place +was taken because he had left it. Instead of trying patiently to win it +back, he was clumsy and cruel. Quick words passed between mother and +son, both of whom were hasty and passionate, and the rupture grew +marked. Sister Angèle established her ascendancy over Jacqueline, and +Georges rushed away and kicked over the traces. He plunged into a +restless, dissipated life; gambled, lost large sums of money; he put a +certain amount of exaggeration into his extravagances, partly for his +own pleasure and partly to counterbalance his mother's +extravagances.--He knew the Stevens-Delestrades. Colette had marked down +the handsome boy, and tried the effect on him of her charms, which she +never wearied of using. She knew of all Georges's freaks, and was vastly +entertained by them. But her sound common sense and the real kindness +concealed beneath her frivolity, helped her to see the danger the young +idiot was running. And, being well aware that it was beyond her to save +him, she warned Christophe, who came at once. + +Christophe was the only person who had any influence over young Jeannin. +His influence was limited and very intermittent, but all the more +remarkable in that it was difficult to explain. Christophe belonged to +the preceding generation against which Georges and his companions were +violently in reaction. He was one of the most conspicuous +representatives of that period of torment whose art and ideas rouse in +them a feeling of suspicion and hostility. He was unmoved by the new +Gospels and the charms of the minor prophets and the old cheapjacks who +were offering the young men an infallible recipe for the salvation of +the world, Rome and France. He was faithful to the free faith, free of +all religion, free of all parties, free of all countries, which was no +longer the fashion--or had never been fashionable. Finally, though he +was altogether removed from national questions, he was a foreigner in +Paris at a time when all foreigners were regarded by the natives of the +country as barbarians. + +And yet, young Jeannin, joyous, easy-going, instinctively hostile to +everything that might make him sad or uneasy, ardent in pursuit of +pleasure, engrossed in violent sports, easily duped by the rhetoric of +his time, in his physical vigor and mental indolence inclined to the +brutal doctrines of French action, nationalist, royalist, +imperialist--(he did not exactly know)--in his heart reflected only one +man: Christophe. His precocious experience and the delicate tact he had +inherited from his mother made him see (without being in the least +disturbed by it) how little worth was the world that he could not live +without, and how superior to it was Christophe. From Olivier he had +inherited a vague uneasiness, which visited him in sudden fits that +never lasted very long, a need of finding and deciding on some definite +aim for what he was doing. And perhaps it was from Olivier that he had +also inherited the mysterious instinct which drew him towards the man whom +Olivier had loved. + +He used to go and see Christophe. He was expansive by nature, and of a +rather chattering temper, and he loved indulging in confidences. He +never troubled to think whether Christophe had time to listen to him. +But Christophe always did listen, and never gave any sign of impatience. +Only sometimes he would be rather absent-minded when Georges had +interrupted him in his work, but never for more than a few minutes, when +his mind would be away putting the finishing touches to its work: then +it would return to Georges, who never noticed its absence. He used to +laugh at the evasion, and come back like a man tiptoeing into the room, +so as not to be heard. But once or twice Georges did notice it, and then +he said indignantly: + +"But you are not listening!" + +Then Christophe was ashamed: and docilely he would listen to Georges's +story, and try to win his forgiveness by redoubled attention. The +stories were often very funny: and Christophe could not help laughing at +the tale of some wild freak: for Georges kept nothing back: his +frankness was disarming. + +Christophe did not always laugh. Georges's conduct sometimes pained him. +Christophe was no saint: he knew he had no right to moralize over +anybody. Georges's love affairs, and the scandalous waste of his fortune +in folly, were not what shocked him most. What he found it most hard to +forgive was the light-mindedness with which Georges regarded his sins: +they were no burden to him: he thought them very natural. His conception +of morality was very different from Christophe's. He was one of those +young men who are fain to see in the relation of the sexes nothing more +than a game that has no moral aspect whatever. A certain frankness and a +careless kindliness were all that was necessary for an honest man. He +was not troubled with Christophe's scruples. Christophe would wax wrath. +In vain did he try not to impose his way of feeling upon others: he +could not be tolerant, and his old violence was only half tamed. Every +now and then he would explode. He could not help seeing how dirty were +some of Georges's intrigues, and he used bluntly to tell him so. Georges +was no more patient than he, and they used to have angry scenes, after +which they would not see each other for weeks. Christophe would realize +that his outbursts were not likely to change Georges's conduct, and that +it was perhaps unjust to subject the morality of a period to the moral +ideas of another generation. But his feeling was too strong for him, and +on the next opportunity he would break out again. How can one renounce +the faith for which one has lived? That were to renounce life. What is +the good of laboring to think thoughts other than one's own, to be like +one's neighbor or to meddle with his affairs? That leads to +self-destruction, and no one is benefited by it. The first duty is to be +what one is, to dare to say: "This is good, that bad." One profits the +weak more by being strong than by sharing their weakness. Be indulgent, +if you like, towards weakness and past sins. But never compromise with +any weakness.... + +Yes: but Georges never by any chance consulted Christophe about anything +he was going to do:--(did he know himself?).--He only told him about +things when they were done.--And then?... Then, what could he do but +look in dumb reproach at the culprit, and shrug his shoulders and smile, +like an old uncle who knows that he is not heeded? + +On such occasions they would sit for several minutes in silence. Georges +would look up at Christophe's grave eyes, which seemed to be gazing at +him from far away. And he would feel like a little boy in his presence. +He would see himself as he was, in that penetrating glance, which was +shot with a gleam of malice: and he was not proud of it. + +Christophe hardly ever made use of Georges's confidences against him; it +was often as though he had not heard them. After the mute dialogue of +their eyes, he would shake his head mockingly, and then begin to tell a +story without any apparent bearing on the story he had just been told, +some story about his life, or some one else's life, real or fictitious. +And gradually Georges would see his double (he recognized it at once) +under a new light, grotesquely, ridiculously postured, passing through +vagaries similar to his own. Christophe never added any commentary. The +extraordinary kindliness of the story-teller would produce far more +effect than the story. He would speak of himself just as he spoke of +others, with the same detachment, the same jovial, serene humor. Georges +was impressed by his tranquillity. It was for this that he came. When he +had unburdened himself of his light-hearted confession, he was like a +man stretching out his limbs and lying at full length in the shade of a +great tree on a summer afternoon. The dazzling fever of the scorching +day would fall away from him. Above him he would feel the hovering of +protecting wings. In the presence of this man who so peacefully bore the +heavy burden of his life, he was sheltered from his own inward +restlessness. He found rest only in hearing him speak. He did not always +listen: his mind would wander, but wheresoever it went, it was +surrounded by Christophe's laughter. + +However, he did not understand his old friend's ideas. He used to wonder +how Christophe could bear his soul's solitude, and dispense with being +bound to any artistic, political, or religious party, or any group of +men. He used to ask him: "Don't you ever want to take refuge in a camp +of some sort?" + +"Take refuge?" Christophe would say with a laugh. "It is much too good +outside. And you, an open-air man, talk of shutting yourself up?" + +"Ah!" Georges would reply. "It is not the same thing for body and soul. +The mind needs certainty: it needs to think with others, to adhere to +the principles admitted by all the men of the time. I envy the men of +old days, the men of the classic ages. My friends are right in their +desire to restore the order of the past." + +"Milksop!" said Christophe. "What have I to do with such disheartened +creatures?" + +"I am not disheartened," protested Georges indignantly. "None of us is +that." + +"But you must be," said Christophe, "to be afraid of yourselves. What! +You need order and cannot create it for yourselves? You must always be +clinging to your great-grandmother's skirts! Dear God! You must walk +alone!" + +"One must take root," said Georges, proudly echoing one of the pontiffs +of the time. + +"But do you think the trees need to be shut up in a box to take root? +The earth is there for all of us. Plunge your roots into it. Find your +own laws. Look to yourself." + +"I have no time," said Georges. + +"You are afraid," insisted Christophe. + +Georges indignantly denied it, but in the end he agreed that he had no +taste for examining his inmost soul: he could not understand what +pleasure there could be in it: there was the danger of falling over if +you looked down into the abyss. + +"Give me your hand," said Christophe. + +He would amuse himself by opening the trap-door of his realistic, tragic +vision of life. Georges would draw away from it, and Christophe would +shut it down again, laughing: + +"How can you live like that?" Georges would ask. + +"I am alive, and I am happy," Christophe would reply. + +"I should die if I were forced to see things like that always." + +Christophe would slap him on the shoulder: + +"Fine athlete you are!... Well, don't look, if your head is not strong +enough. There is nothing to make you, after all. Go ahead, my boy. But +do you need a master to brand your shoulder, like a sheep? What is the +word of command you are waiting for? The signal was given long ago. The +signal to saddle has sounded, and the cavalry is on the march. Don't +worry about anything but your horse. Take your place! And gallop!" + +"But where to?" asked Georges. + +"With your regiment to the conquest of the world. Conquer the air, +master the elements, dig the last entrenchment of Nature, set back +space, drive back death.... + +"_Expertus vacuum Dadalus aera_...." + +"... Do you know that, you champion of Latin? Can you even tell me what +it means? + +"_Perrupit Acheronta_...." + +"That is your lot, you happy _conquistadores_!" + +So clearly did he show the duty of heroic action that had devolved upon +the new generation, that Georges was amazed, and said: + +"But if you feel that, why don't you come with us?" + +"Because I have a different task. Go, my boy, do your work. Surpass me, +if you can. But I stay here and watch.... Have you read the Arabian +Night in which a genii, as tall as a mountain, is imprisoned in a bottle +sealed with the seal of Solomon?... The genii is here, in the depths of +our soul, the soul into which you are afraid to look down. I and the men +of my time spent our lives in struggling with him: we did not conquer +him: he conquered us. At present we are both recovering our breath, and, +with no rancor nor fear, we are looking at each other, satisfied with +the struggles in which we have been engaged, waiting for the agreed +armistice to expire. You are profiting by the armistice to gather your +strength and cull the world's beauty. Be happy. Enjoy the lull. But +remember that one day, you or your children, on your return from your +conquests, will have to come back to the place where I stand and resume +the combat, with new forces, against the genii by whose side I watch and +wait. And the combat will endure with intervals of armistice until one +of the two (perhaps both) will be laid low. It is your duty to be +stronger and happier than we!...--Meanwhile, indulge in your sport if +you like: stiffen your muscles and strengthen your heart: and do not be +so foolish as to waste your impatient vigor upon silly trifles: you +belong to an age that, if you are patient, will find a use for it." + + * * * * * + +Georges did not remember much of what Christophe said to him. He was +open-minded enough to grasp Christophe's ideas, but they escaped him at +once. He forgot everything before he reached the bottom of the stairs. +But all the same, he had a feeling of well-being, which endured when the +memory of the words that had produced it had long been wiped out. He had +a real veneration for Christophe. He believed in nothing that Christophe +believed in (at heart he laughed at everything and had no belief). But +he would have broken the head of any man who took upon himself to speak +ill of his old friend. + +Fortunately, no one did speak ill of him in his presence, otherwise he +would have been kept busy. + + * * * * * + +Christophe had accurately forecast the next change of the wind. The new +ideal of the new French music was very different from his own; but while +that was a reason the more for Christophe to sympathize with it, its +exponents had no sympathy with him. His vogue with the public was not +likely to reconcile the most hungry for recognition of these young men +to him; they were meagerly fed, and their teeth were long, and they bit. +Christophe was not put out by their spite. + +"How thoroughly they do it!" he would say. "These boys are cutting their +teeth...." + +He was inclined to prefer them to the other puppies who fawned on him +because of his success--those people of whom D'Aubigné writes, who +"_when a mastiff plunges his nose into a butter-pot, come and lick his +whiskers by way of congratulation._" + +He had a piece accepted at the Opéra. Almost at once it was put into +rehearsal. Through a newspaper attack Christophe learned that a certain +young composer's piece had been postponed for it. The writer of the +article waxed indignant over such abuse of power, and made Christophe +responsible for it. + +Christophe went to see the manager, and said: + +"Why didn't you tell me? You must not do it. You must put on the opera +you accepted before mine." + +The manager protested, began to laugh, refused, covered Christophe's +character, work, genius, with flattery, and said that the other man's +work was beneath contempt, and assured him that it was worthless and +would not make a sou. + +"Why did you accept it then?" + +"One can't always do as one likes. Every now and then one has to throw a +sop to public opinion. Formerly these young men could shout as much as +they pleased. And no one listened to them. But now they are able to let +loose on us the nationalist Press, which roars 'Treason' and calls you a +disloyal Frenchman because you happen to have the misfortune to be +unable to go into ecstasies over the younger school. The younger school! +Let's look at it!... Shall I tell you what I think of it? I'm sick of +it! So is the public. They bore us with their _Oremus!_... There's +no blood in their veins; they're like sacristans chanting Mass: their +love duets are like the _De Profundis_.... If I were fool enough to +put on the pieces I am compelled to accept, I should ruin my theater. I +accept them: that is all they can ask.--Let us talk of something +serious. Your work means a full house...." + +And he went on with his compliments. + +Christophe cut him short, and said angrily: + +"I am not taken in. Now that I am old and have 'arrived,' you are using +me to suppress the young men. When I was a young man you would have +suppressed me in just the same way. You must play this boy's piece, or I +shall withdraw my own." + +The manager threw up his hands, and said: + +"But don't you see that if we did what you want, it would look as if we +were giving in to these newspaper attacks?" + +"What do I care?" said Christophe. + +"As you please! You will be their first victim." + +They put the young musician's piece into rehearsal without interrupting +the preparation of Christophe's. One was in three acts, the other in +two: it was arranged to include them both in one program. Christophe +went to see the young man, for he wanted to be the first to give him the +news. The musician was loud in his promises of eternal gratitude. + +Naturally Christophe could not make the manager not devote all his +attention to his piece. The interpretation and the scenery of the other +were rather scamped. Christophe knew nothing about it. He asked to be +allowed to be present at a few rehearsals of the young man's opera: he +thought it very mediocre, as he had been told: he ventured to give a +little advice which was ill-received: he gave it up then, and did not +interfere again. On the other hand, the manager had made the young man +admit the necessity for a little cutting to have his piece produced in +time. Though the sacrifice was easily consented to at first, it was not +long before the author regretted it. + +On the evening of the performance the beginner's piece had no success, +and Christophe's caused a sensation. Some of the papers attacked +Christophe: they spoke of a trick, a plot to suppress a great young +French artist: they said that his work had been mutilated to please the +German master, whom they represented to be basely jealous of the coming +fame of all the new men. Christophe shrugged his shoulders and thought: + +"He will reply." + +"He" did not reply. Christophe sent him one of the paragraphs with these +words: + +"Have you read this?" + +The other replied: + +"How sorry I am! The writer of it has always been so well disposed +towards me! Really, I am very sorry. The best thing is to pay no +attention to it." + +Christophe laughed and thought: "He is right! The little sneak." + +And he decided to forget all about it. + +But chance would have it that Georges, who seldom read the papers, and +that hastily, except for the sporting articles, should light on the most +violent attacks on Christophe. He knew the writer. He went to the café +where he knew he would meet him, found him, struck him, fought a duel +with him, and gave him a nasty scratch on the shoulder with his rapier. +Next day, at breakfast, Christophe had a letter from a friend telling +him of the affair. He was overcome. He left his breakfast and hurried to +see Georges. Georges himself opened the door. Christophe rushed in like +a whirlwind, seized him by the arms, and shook him angrily, and began to +overwhelm him with a storm of furious reproaches. + +"You little wretch!" he cried. "You have fought a duel for me! Who gave +you leave! A boy, a fly-by-night, to meddle in my affairs! Do you think +I can't look after myself? What good have you done? You have done this +rascal the honor of fighting him. He asked no more. You have made him a +hero. Idiot! And if it had chanced ... (I am sure you rushed at it like +a madman as usual) ... if you had been wounded, killed perhaps!... You +wretch! I should never have forgiven you as long as you lived!..." + +Georges laughed uproariously at this last threat, and was so overcome +with merriment, that he cried: + +"My dear old friend, how funny you are! Ah! You're unique! Here are you +insulting me for having defended you! Next time I shall attack you. +Perhaps you'll embrace me then." + +Christophe stopped and hugged Georges, and kissed him on both cheeks, +and then once more he said: + +"My boy!... Forgive me. I am an old idiot.... But my blood boiled when I +heard the news. What made you think of fighting? You don't fight with +such people. Promise me at once that you will never do it again." + +"I'll promise nothing of the kind," said Georges. "I shall do as I +like." + +"I forbid it. Do you hear? If you do it again, I'll never see you again. +I shall publicly disown you in the newspapers I shall...." + +"You will disinherit me, you mean." + +"Come, Georges. Please. What's the good of it?" + +"My dear old friend, you are a thousand times a better man than I am, +and you know infinitely more: but I know these people better than you +do. Make yourself easy. It will do some good. They will think a little +now before they let loose their poisonous insults upon you." + +"But what can these idiots do to me? I laugh at anything they may say." + +"But I don't. And you must mind your own business." + +Thereafter Christophe lived on tenterhooks lest some fresh article might +rouse Georges's susceptibilities. It was quite comic to see him during +the next few days going to a café and devouring the newspapers, which he +never read as a rule, ready to go to all lengths (even to trickery) if +he found an insulting article, to prevent it reaching Georges. After a +week he recovered his equanimity. The boy was right. His action had +given the yelping curs food for a moment's reflection.--And, though +Christophe went on grumbling at the young lunatic who had made him waste +eight working days, he said to himself that, after all, he had no right +to lecture him. He remembered a certain day, not so very long ago, when +he himself had fought a duel for Olivier's sake. And he thought he heard +Olivier's voice saying: + +"Let be, Christophe. I am giving you back what you lent me!" + + * * * * * + +Though Christophe took the attacks on himself lightly, there was one +other man who was very far from such disinterestedness. This was +Emmanuel. + +The evolution of European thought was progressing swiftly. It was as +though it had been accelerated by mechanical inventions and the new +motors. The stock of prejudices and hopes which in old days were enough +to feed humanity for twenty years was now exhausted in five years. The +generations of the mind were galloping ahead, one behind the other, +often one trampling the other down, with Time sounding the +charge.--Emmanuel had been left behind. + +The singer of French energy had never denied the idealism of his master, +Olivier. Passionate as was his national feeling, he identified himself +with his worship of moral greatness. If in his poetry he loudly +proclaimed the triumph of France, it was because in her, by an act of +faith, he adored the loftiest ideas of modern Europe, the Athena Nike, +the victorious Law which takes its revenge on Force.--And now Force had +awakened in the very heart of Law, and it was springing up in all its +savage nakedness. The new generation, robust and disciplined, was +longing for combat, and, before its victory was won, had the attitude of +mind of the conqueror. This generation was proud of its strength, its +thews, its mighty chest, its vigorous senses so thirsting for delight, +its wings like the wings of a bird of prey hovering over the plains, +waiting to swoop down and try its talons. The prowess of the race, the +mad flights over the Alps and the sea, the new crusades, not much less +mystic, not much less interested than those of Philip Augustus and +Villehardouin, had turned the nation's head. The children of the nation +who had never seen war except in books had no difficulty in endowing it +with beauty. They became aggressive. Weary of peace and ideas, they +hymned the anvil of battle, on which, with bloody fists, action would +one day new-forge the power of France. In reaction against the +disgusting abuse of systems of ideas, they raised contempt of the idea +to the level of a profession of faith. Blusteringly they exalted narrow +common sense, violent realism, immodest national egoism, trampling +underfoot the rights of others and other nations, when it served the +turn of their country's greatness. They were xenophobes, anti-democrats, +and--even the most skeptical of them--set up the return to Catholicism, +in the practical necessity for "digging channels for the absolute," and +shutting up the infinite under the surveillance of order and authority. +They were not content to despise--they regarded the gentle dotards of +the preceding generation, the visionary idealists, the humanitarian +thinkers of the preceding generation, as public malefactors. Emmanuel +was among them in the eyes of the young men. He suffered cruelly and was +very angry. + +The knowledge that Christophe was, like himself,--more than himself--the +victim of their injustice, made him sympathetic. His ungraciousness had +discouraged Christophe's visits. He was too proud to show his regret by +seeking him out. But he contrived to meet him, as if by chance, and +forced Christophe to make the first advances. Thereafter his umbrageous +susceptibilities were at rest, and he did not conceal the pleasure he +had in Christophe's company. Thereafter they often met in each other's +rooms. + +Emmanuel confided his bitterness to Christophe. He was exasperated by +certain criticisms, and, thinking that Christophe was not sufficiently +moved by them, he made him read some of the newspaper appreciations of +himself. Christophe was accused of not knowing the grammar of his work, +of being ignorant of harmony, of having stolen from other musicians, +and, generally, of dishonoring music. He was called: "This old +toss-brain...." They said: "We have had enough of these convulsionaries. +We are order, reason, classic balance...." + +Christophe was vastly entertained. + +"It is the law," he said. "The young bury the old.... In my day, it is +true, we waited until a man was sixty before we called him an old man. +They are going faster, nowadays.... Wireless telegraphy, aeroplanes.... +A generation is more quickly exploded.... Poor devils! They won't last +long! Let them despise us and strut about in the sun!" + +But Emmanuel had not his sanity. Though he was fearless in thought, he +was a prey to his diseased nerves; with his ardent soul in his rickety +body, he was driven on to the fight and was unfitted for it. The +animosity of certain opinions of his work drew blood. + +"Ah!" he would say. "If the critics knew the harm they do artists by the +unjust words they throw out so recklessly, they would be ashamed of +their trade." + +"But they do know, my friend. That is the justification of their +existence. Everybody must live." + +"They are butchers. One is drenched with the blood of life, worn out by +the struggle we have to wage with art. Instead of holding out their +hands to us, and compassionately telling us of our faults, and brotherly +helping us to mend them, they stand there with their hands in their +pockets and watch you dragging your burden up the slope, and say: 'You +can't do it!' And when you reach the top, some of them say: 'Yes, but +that is not the way to climb up.' While the others go on blandly saying: +'You couldn't do it!...' You're lucky if they don't send great stones +rolling down on you to send you flying!" + +"Bah! There are plenty of good men among them, and think of the good +they can do! There are bad men everywhere. They're not peculiar to +criticism. Do you know anything worse than an ungenerous, vain, and +embittered artist, to whom the world is only loot, that he is furious +because he cannot grab? You must don patience for your protection. There +is no evil but it may be of good service. The worst of the critics is +useful to us; he is a trainer: he does not let us loiter by the way. +Whenever we think we have reached the goal, the pack hound us on. Get +on! Onward! Upward! They are more likely to weary of running after me +than I am of marching ahead of them. Remember the Arabian proverb: +_'It is no use flogging sterile trees. Only those are stoned whose +front is crowned with golden fruit....'_ Let us pity the artists who +are spared. They will stay half-way, lazily sitting down. When they try +to get up their legs will be so stiff that they will be unable to walk. +Long live my friend the enemy! They do me more good in my life than the +enemy, my friend!" + +Emmanuel could not help smiling. Then he said: + +"All the same, don't you think it hard for a veteran like you to be +taken to task by recruits who are just approaching their first battle?" + +"They amuse me," said Christophe. "Such arrogance is the mark of young, +hot blood tingling to be up and doing. I was like that once. They are +like the showers of March falling on the new-born soil.... Let them take +us to task! They are right, after all. Old people must learn from the +young! They have profited by us, and are ungrateful: that is in the +order of things. But, being enriched by our efforts, they will go +farther than we, and will realize what we attempted. If we still have +some youth left, let us learn in our turn, and try to rejuvenate +ourselves. If we cannot, if we are too old, let us rejoice in them. It +is fine to see the perpetual new-flowering of the human soul that +seemed, exhausted, the vigorous optimism of these young men, their +delight in action and adventures, the races springing to new life for +the conquest of the world." + +"What would they be without us? Their joy is the fruit of our tears. +Their proud force is the flower of the sufferings of a whole generation. +_Sic vos non nobis_...." + +"The old saying is wrong. It is for ourselves that we worked, and our +reward lies in the creation of a race of men who shall surpass us. We +amassed their treasury, we hoarded it in a wretched hovel open to all +the winds of Heaven: we had to strain every nerve to keep the doors +closed against death. Our arms carved out the triumphal way along which +our sons shall march. Our sufferings have saved the future. We have +borne the Ark to the threshold of the Promised Land. It will reach that +Land with them, and through us." + +"Will they ever remember those who crossed the wilderness, bearing the +sacred fire, the gods of our race, and them, those children, who now are +men? For our share we have had tribulation and ingratitude." + +"Do you regret it?" + +"No. There is a sort of intoxication in the tragic grandeur of the +sacrifice of a mighty epoch like ours to the epoch that it has brought +into being. The men of to-day would not be more capable of tasting the +sovereign joy of renunciation." + +"We have been the happier. We have scaled Mount Nebo, at whose feet lie +stretched the countries that we shall never enter. But we enjoy them +more than those who will enter them. When you descend to the plain, you +lose sight of the plain's immensity and the far horizon." + + * * * * * + +The soothing influence that Christophe exercised over Georges and +Emmanuel had the source of its power in Grazia's love. It was through +this love that he felt himself so near to all young things, and had an +inexhaustible fund of sympathy for every new form of life. Whatever the +forces might be that rekindled the earth, he was always with them, even +when they were against him: he had no fear for the immediate future of +the democracies, that future which caused such an outcry against the +egoism of a handful of privileged men: he did not cling desperately to +the paternosters of an old art: he felt quite sure that from the +fabulous visions, the realized dreams of science and action, a new art, +more puissant than the old, would spring forth: he hailed the new dawn +of the world, even though the beauty of the old world were to die with +it. + +Grazia knew the good that her love did for Christophe: and this +consciousness of her power lifted her out of herself. Through her +letters she exercised a controlling power over her friend. She was not +so absurdly pretentious as to try to control his art: she had too much +tact, and knew her limitations. But her true, pure voice was the +diapason to which he attuned his soul. Christophe had only to hear her +voice echoing his thought to think nothing that was not just, pure, and +worthy of repetition. The sound of a beautiful instrument is to a +musician like a beautiful body in which his dream at once becomes +incarnate. Mysterious is the fusion of two loving spirits: each takes +the best from the other, but only to give it back again enriched with +love. Grazia was not afraid to tell Christophe that she loved him. +Distance gave her more freedom of speech, and also, the certain +knowledge that she would never be his. Her love, the religious fervor of +which was communicated to Christophe, was a fountain of force and peace +to him. + +Grazia gave to others more of such force and peace than she had herself. +Her health was shattered, her moral balance seriously affected. Her +son's condition did not improve. For the last two years she had lived in +a perpetual state of anxiety, aggravated by Lionello's fatal skill in +playing on it. He had acquired a consummate mastery of the art of +keeping those who loved him on tenterhooks: his idle mind was most +fertile in inventing ways of rousing interest in himself and tormenting +others: it had become a mania with him. And the tragedy of it was, that, +while he aped the ravages of disease, the disease did make real inroads +upon him, and death peeped forth. Then the expected happened: Grazia, +having been tortured by her son for years with his imaginary illness, +ceased to believe in it when the illness really came. The heart has its +limitations. She had exhausted her store of pity over his lies. She +thought Lionello was still a comedian when he spoke the truth. And when +the truth was revealed to her, the rest of her life was poisoned by +remorse. + +Lionello's malice had not laid aside its weapons. Having no love for any +one in the world, he could not bear any of those near him to feel love +for any one else: jealousy was his only passion. It was not enough for +him to have separated his mother and Christophe: he tried to force her +to break off the intimacy which subsisted between them. Already he had +employed his usual weapon--his illness--to make Grazia swear that she +would not marry again. He was not satisfied with her promise. He tried +to force his mother to give up writing to Christophe. On this she +rebelled; and, being delivered by such an attempted abuse of power, she +spoke harshly and severely to Lionello about his habit of lying, and, +later on, regarded herself as a criminal for having done so: for her +words flung Lionello into a fit of fury which made him really ill. His +illness grew worse as he saw that his mother did not believe in it. +Then, in his fury, he longed to die so as to avenge himself. He never +thought that his wish would be granted. + +When the doctor told Grazia that there was no hope for her son, she was +dumfounded. But she had to disguise her despair in order to deceive the +boy who had so often deceived her. He had a suspicion that this time it +was serious, but he refused to believe it; and his eyes watched his +mother's eyes for the reproachful expression that had infuriated him +when he was lying. There came a time when there was no room for doubt. +Then it was terrible, both for him and his mother and sister: he did not +wish to die.... + +When at last Grazia saw him sinking to sleep, she gave no cry and made +no moan: she astonished those about her by her silence: she had no +strength left for suffering: she had only one desire, to sleep also. +However, she went about the business of her life with the same apparent +calm. After a few weeks her smile returned to her lips, but she was more +silent still. No one suspected her inward distress, Christophe least of +all. She had only written to tell him the news, without a word of +herself. She did not answer Christophe's anxiously affectionate letters. +He wanted to come to her: she begged him not to. At the end of two or +three months, she resumed her old grave, serene tone with him. She would +have thought it criminal to put upon him the burden of her weakness. She +knew how the echo of all her feelings reverberated in him, and how great +was his need to lean on her. She did not impose upon herself the +restraint of sorrow. This discipline was her salvation. In her weariness +of life only two things gave her life: Christophe's love, and the +fatalism, which, in sorrow as in joy, lay at the heart of her Italian +nature. There was nothing intellectual in her fatalism: it was the +animal instinct, which makes a hunted beast go on, with no consciousness +of fatigue, in a staring wide-eyed dream, forgetting the stones of the +road, forgetting its own body, until it falls. Her fatalism sustained +her body. Love sustained her heart. Now that her own life was worn out, +she lived in Christophe. And yet she was more scrupulous than ever never +in her letters to tell him of the love she had for him: no doubt because +her love was greater: but also because she was conscious of the +_veto_ of the dead boy, who had made her affection a crime. Then +she would relapse into silence, and refrain from writing for a time. + +Christophe did not understand her silence. Sometimes in the composed and +tranquil tone of one of her letters he would be conscious of an +unexpected note that seemed to be quivering with passionate moaning. +That would prostrate him: but he dared not say anything: he hardly dared +to notice it: he was like a man holding his breath, afraid to breathe, +for fear of destroying an illusion. He knew almost infallibly that in +the next letter such notes as these would be atoned for by a deliberate +coldness. Then, once more, tranquillity ... _Meeresstille_.... + + * * * * * + +Georges and Emmanuel met at Christophe's one afternoon. Both were +preoccupied with their own troubles: Emmanuel with his literary +disappointments, and Georges with some athletic failure. Christophe +listened to them good-humoredly and teased them affectionately. There +was a ring at the door. Georges went to open it. A servant had come with +a letter from Colette. Christophe stood by the window to read it. His +friends went on with their discussion, and did not see Christophe, whose +back was turned to them. He left the room without their noticing it. And +when they realized that he had done so, they were not surprised. But as +time passed and he did not return, Georges went and knocked at the door +of the next room. There was no reply. Georges did not persist, for he +knew his old friend's queer ways. A few minutes later Christophe +returned without a word. He seemed very calm, very kind, very gentle. He +begged their pardon for leaving them, took up the conversation where he +had left it, and spoke kindly about their troubles, and said many +helpful things. The tone of his voice moved them, though they knew not +why. + +They left him. Georges went straight to Colette's, and found her in +tears. As soon as she saw him she came swiftly to him and asked: + +"How did our poor friend take the blow? It is terrible." + +Georges did not understand. And Colette told him that she had just sent +Christophe the news of Grazia's death. + +She was gone, without having had time to say farewell to anybody. For +several months past the roots of her life had been almost torn out of +the earth: a puff of wind was enough to lay it low. On the evening +before the relapse of influenza which carried her off she received a +long, kind letter from Christophe. It had filled her with tenderness, +and she longed to bid him come to her: she felt that everything else, +everything that kept them apart, was absurd and culpable. She was very +weary, and put off writing to him until the next day. On the day after +she had to stay in bed. She began a letter which she did not finish: she +had an attack of giddiness, and her head swam: besides, she was +reluctant to speak of her illness, and was afraid of troubling +Christophe. He was busy at the time with rehearsals of a choral symphony +set to a poem of Emmanuel's: the subject had roused them both to +enthusiasm, for it was something symbolical of their own destiny: _The +Promised Land_. Christophe had often mentioned it to Grazia. The +first performance was to take place the following week.... She must not +upset him. In her letter Grazia just spoke of a slight cold. Then that +seemed too much to her. She tore up the letter, and had no strength left +to begin another. She told herself that she would write in the evening. +When the evening came it was too late--too late to bid him come, too +late even to write.... How swiftly everything passes! A few hours are +enough to destroy the labor of ages.... Grazia hardly had time to give +her daughter a ring she wore and beg her to send it to her friend. Till +then she had not been very intimate with Aurora. Now that her life was +ebbing away, she gazed passionately at the face of the girl: she clung +to the hand that would pass on the pressure of her own, and, joyfully, +she thought: + +"Not all of me will pass away." + +_"Quid? hic, inquam, quis est qui complet aures meas tantus et tam +dulcis sonus?..."--(The Dream of Scipio.)_ + +When he left Colette, on an impulse of sympathy Georges went back to +Christophe's. For a long time, through Colette's indiscretions, he had +known the place that Grazia filled in his old friend's heart: he had +even--(for youth is not respectful)--made fun of it. But now generously +and keenly he felt the sorrow that Christophe must be feeling at such a +loss; and he felt that he must go to him, embrace him, pity him. Knowing +the violence of his passions,--the tranquillity that Christophe had +shown made him anxious. He rang the bell. No answer. He rang once more +and knocked, giving the signal agreed between Christophe and himself. He +heard the moving of a chair and a slow, heavy tread. Christophe opened +the door. His face was so calm that Georges stopped still, just as he +was about to fling himself into his arms: he knew not what to say. +Christophe asked him gently: + +"You, my boy. Have you forgotten something?" + +Georges muttered uneasily: + +"Yes." + +"Come in." + +Christophe went and sat in the chair he had left on Georges's arrival, +near the window, with his head thrown back, looking at the roofs +opposite and the reddening evening sky. He paid no attention to Georges. +The young man pretended to look about on the table, while he stole +glances at Christophe. His face was set: the beams of the setting sun +lit up his cheek-bones and his forehead. Mechanically Georges went into +the next room--the bedroom--as though he were still looking for +something. It was in this room that Christophe had shut himself up with +the letter. It was still there on the bed, which bore the imprint of a +body. On the floor lay a book that had slipped down. It had been left +open with a page crumpled. Georges picked it up, and read the story of +the meeting of the Magdalene and the Gardener in the Gospel. + +He came back into the living-room, and moved a few things here and there +to gain countenance, and once more he looked at Christophe, who had not +budged. He longed to tell him how he pitied him. But Christophe was so +radiant with light that Georges felt that it was out of place to speak. +It was rather himself who stood in need of consolation. He said timidly: + +"I am going." + +Without turning his head, Christophe said: + +"Good-by, my boy." + +Georges went away and closed the door without a sound. + +For a long time Christophe sat there. Night came. He was not suffering: +he was not thinking: he saw no definite image. He was like a tired man +listening to some vague music without making any attempt to understand +it. The night was far gone when he got up, cramped and stiff. He flung +himself on his bed and slept heavily. The symphony went on buzzing all +around him.... + +And now he saw _her_, the well-beloved.... She held out her hands +to him, and said, smiling: + +"Now you have passed through the zone of fire." + +Then his heart melted. An indescribable peace filled the starry spaces, +where the music of the spheres flung out its great, still, profound +sheets of water.... + +When he awoke (it was day), his strange happiness still endured, with +the distant gleam of words falling upon his ears. He got up. He was +exalted with a silent, holy enthusiasm. + + "... _Or vedi, figlio, + tra Beatrice e te è questo muro...."_ + +Between Beatrice and himself, the wall was broken down. For a long time +now more than half his soul had dwelt upon the other side. The more a +man lives, the more a man creates, the more a man loves and loses those +whom he loves, the more does he escape from death. With every new blow +that we have to bear, with every new work that we round and finish, we +escape from ourselves, we escape into the work we have created, the soul +we have loved, the soul that has left us. When all is told, Rome is not +in Rome: the best of a man lies outside himself. Only Grazia had +withheld him on this side of the wall. And now in her turn.... Now the +door was shut upon the world of sorrow. + +He lived through a period of secret exaltation. He felt the weight of no +fetters. He expected nothing of the things of this world. He was +dependent upon nothing. He was set free. The struggle was at an end. +Issuing from the zone of combat and the circle where reigned the God of +heroic conflict, _Dominus Deus Sabaoth_, he looked down, and in the +night saw the torch of the Burning Bush put out. How far away it was! +When it had lit up his path he had thought himself almost at the summit. +And since then, how far he had had to go! And yet the topmost pinnacle +seemed no nearer. He would never reach it (he saw that now), though he +were to march on to eternity. But when a man enters the circle of light +and knows that he has not left those he loves behind him, eternity is +not too long a space to be journeying on with them. + +He closed his doors. No one knocked. Georges had expended all his +compassion and sympathy in the one impulse; he was reassured by the time +he reached home, and forgot all about it by the next day. Colette had +gone to Rome. Emmanuel knew nothing, and hypersensitive as usual, he +maintained an affronted silence because Christophe had not returned his +visit. Christophe was not disturbed in his long colloquy with the woman +whom he now bore in his soul, as a pregnant woman bears her precious +burden. It was a moving intercourse, impossible to translate into words. +Even music could hardly express it. When his heart was full, almost +overflowing, Christophe would lie still with eyes closed, and listen to +its song. Or, for hours together, he would sit at his piano and let his +fingers speak. During this period he improvised more than he had done in +the whole of his life. He did not set down his thoughts. What was the +good? + +When, after several weeks, he took to going out again and seeing other +men, while none of his friends, except Georges, had any suspicion of +what had happened, the daimon of improvisation pursued him still. It +would take possession of Christophe just when he was least expecting it. +One evening, at Colette's, Christophe sat down at the piano and played +for nearly an hour, absolutely surrendering himself, and forgetting that +the room was full of strangers. They had no desire to laugh. His +terrible improvisations enslaved and overwhelmed them. Even those who +did not understand their meaning were thrilled and moved: and tears came +to Colette's eyes.... When Christophe had finished he turned away +abruptly: he saw how everybody was moved, and shrugged his shoulders, +and--laughed. + +He had reached the point at which sorrow also becomes a force--a +dominant force. His sorrow possessed him no more: he possessed his +sorrow: in vain it fluttered and beat upon its bars: he kept it caged. + +From that period date his most poignant and his happiest works: a scene +from the Gospel which Georges recognized-- + +"_Mulier, quid ploras?"--"Quia tulerunt Dominium meum, et nescio ubi +posuerunt eum." + +Et cum haec dixisset, conversa est retrorsum, et vidit Jesum stantem: et +non sciebat quia Jesus est_. + +--a series of tragic _lieder_ set to verses of popular Spanish +_cantares_, among others a gloomy sad love-song, like a black +flame-- + + "_Quisiera ser el sepulcro + Donde á ti te han de enterrar, + Para tenerte en mis brazos + Por toda la eternidad_." +("Would I were the grave, where thou art to be buried, that I might hold +thee in my arms through all eternity.") + +--and two symphonies, called _The Island of Tranquillity_ and +_The Dream of Scipio_, in which, more intimately than in any other +of the works of Jean-Christophe Krafft, is realized the union of the +most beautiful of the forces of the music of his time: the affectionate +and wise thought of Germany with all its shadowy windings, the clear +passionate melody of Italy, and the quick mind of France, rich in subtle +rhythms and variegated harmonies. + +This "enthusiasm begotten of despair at the time of a great loss" lasted +for a few months. Thereafter Christophe fell back into his place in life +with a stout heart and a sure foot. The wind of death had blown away the +last mists of pessimism, the gray of the Stoic soul, and the +phantasmagoria of the mystic chiaroscura. The rainbow had shone upon the +vanishing clouds. The gaze of heaven, purer, as though it had been laved +with tears, smiled through them. There was the peace of evening on the +mountains. + + + + +IV + + +The fire smoldering in the forest of Europe was beginning to burst into +flames. In vain did they try to put it out in one place: it only broke +out in another: with gusts of smoke and a shower of sparks it swept from +one point to another, burning the dry brushwood. Already in the East +there were skirmishes as the prelude to the great war of the nations. +All Europe, Europe that only yesterday was skeptical and apathetic, like +a dead wood, was swept by the flames. All men were possessed by the +desire for battle. War was ever on the point of breaking out. It was +stamped out, but it sprang to life again. The world felt that it was the +mercy of an accident that might let loose the dogs of war. The world lay +in wait. The feeling of inevitability weighed heavily even upon the most +pacifically minded. And ideologues, sheltered beneath the massive shadow +of the cyclops, Proudhon, hymned in war man's fairest title of +nobility.... + +This, then, was to be the end of the physical and moral resurrection of +the races of the West! To such butchery they were to be borne along by +the currents of action and passionate faith! Only a Napoleonic genius +could have marked out a chosen, deliberate aim for this blind, onward +rush. But nowhere in Europe was there any genius for action. It was as +though the world had chosen the most mediocre to be its governors. The +force of the human mind was in other things.--So there was nothing to be +done but to trust to the declivity down which they were moving. This +both governors and governed were doing. Europe looked like a vast armed +vigil. + +Christophe remembered a similar vigil, when he had had Olivier's anxious +face by his side. But then the menace of war had been only a passing +cloud. Now all Europe lay under its shadow. And Christophe's heart also +had changed. He could not share in the hatred of the nations. His state +of mind was like that of Goethe in 1813. How could a man fight without +hatred? And how could he hate without youth? He had passed through the +zone of hatred. Which of the great rival nations was the dearest to him? +He had learned to know all their merits, and what the world owed to +them. When a man has reached a certain stage in the development of the +soul _"he knows no nation, he feels the happiness or unhappiness of +the neighboring peoples as his own."_ The storm-clouds are at his +feet. Around him is nothing but the sky--_"the whole Heavens, the +kingdom of the eagle."_ + +And yet Christophe was sometimes embarrassed by this ambient hostility. +In Paris he was made to feel too clearly that he was of the hostile +race: even his friend Georges could not resist the pleasure of giving +vent, in his presence, to feelings about Germany which made him sad. +Then he rushed away, on the excuse that he wanted to see Grazia's +daughter: and he went and stayed for a time in Rome. But there the +atmosphere was no more serene. The great plague of national pride had +spread there, and had transformed the Italian character. The Italians, +whom Christophe had known to be indifferent and indolent, were now +thinking of nothing but military glory, battle, conquests, Roman eagles +flying over the sands of Libya: they believed they had returned to the +time of the Emperors. The wonderful thing was that this madness was +shared, with the best faith in the world, by the opposition parties, +socialists and clericals, as well as by the monarchists, and they had +not the least idea that they were being unfaithful to their cause. So +little do politics and human reason count when the great epidemic +passions sweep over the nations. Such passions do not even trouble to +suppress individual passions; they use them; and everything converges on +the one goal. In the great periods of action it was ever thus. The +armies of Henri IV., the Councils of Louis XIV., which forged the +greatness of France, numbered as many men of faith and reason as men of +vanity, interest, and enjoyment. Jansenists and libertines, Puritans and +gallants, served the same destiny in serving their instincts. In the +forthcoming wars no doubt internationalists and pacificists will kindle +the blaze, in the conviction, like that of their ancestors of the +Convention, that they are doing it for the good of the nations and the +triumph of peace. + +With a somewhat ironical smile, Christophe, from the terrace of the +Janiculum, looked down on the disparate and harmonious city, the symbol +of the universe which it dominated; crumbling ruins, "baroque" façades, +modern buildings, cypress and roses intertwined--every age, every style, +merged into a powerful and coherent unity beneath the clear light. So +the mind should shed over the struggling universe the order and light +that are in it. + +Christophe did not stay long in Rome. The impression made on him by the +city was too strong: he was afraid of it. Truly to profit by its harmony +he needed to hear it at a distance: he felt that if he stayed he would +be in danger of being absorbed by it, like so many other men of his +race.--Every now and then he went and stayed in Germany. But, when all +was told, and in spite of the imminence of a Franco-German war, Paris +still had the greatest attraction for him. No doubt this was because his +adopted son, Georges, lived there. But he was not only swayed by reasons +of affection. There were other reasons of an intellectual order that +were no less powerful. For an artist accustomed to the full life of the +mind, who generously shares in all the sufferings, all the hopes, and +all the passions of the great human family, it was difficult to grow +accustomed to life in Germany. There was no lack of artists there. But +the artists lacked air. They were isolated from the rest of the nation, +which took no interest in them: other preoccupations, social or +practical, absorbed the attention of the public. The poets shut +themselves up in disdainful irritation in their disdained art; it became +a point of honor with them to sever the last ties which bound them to +the life of the people: they wrote only for a few, a little aristocracy +full of talent, refined and sterile, being itself divided into rival +groups of jaded initiates, and they were stifled in the narrow room in +which they were huddled together: they were incapable of expanding it, +and set themselves to dig down; they turned the soil over until it was +exhausted. Then they drifted away into their archaic dreams, and never +even troubled to bring their dreams into the common stock. Each man +fought for his place in the mist. They had no light in common. Each man +had to look for light within himself. + +Yonder, on the other hand, on the other side of the Rhine, among their +neighbors on the West, the great winds of collective passion, of public +turbulence and tribulation, swept periodically over art. And, high above +the plain, like their Eiffel Tower above Paris, shone afar off the +never-dying light of a classic tradition, handed down from generation to +generation, which, while it never enslaved nor constrained the mind, +showed it the road followed by past ages, and established the communion +of a whole nation in its light. Many a German spirit--like birds strayed +in the night--came winging towards the distant beacon. But who is there +in France can dream of the power of the sympathy which drives so many +generous hearts from the neighboring nation towards France! So many +hands stretched out: hands that are not responsible for the aims of the +politicians!... And you see no more of us, our brothers in Germany, +though we say to you: "Here are our hands. In spite of lies and hatred, +we will not be parted. We have need of you, you have need of us, to +build the greatness of our spirits and our people. We are the two wings +of the West. If one be broken, there is an end of flight! Let the war +come! It will not break the clasp of our hands or the flight of our +genius in brotherhood." + +So thought Christophe. He felt the mutual completion which the two races +could give each other, and how lame and halting were the spirit, the +art, the action of each without the help of the other. For his own part, +born in the Rhine-lands where the two civilizations mingle in one +stream, from his childhood he had instinctively felt their inevitable +union; all through his life the unconscious effort of his genius had +been to maintain the balance and equilibrium of the two mighty wings. +The greater was his wealth of Germanic dreams, the more he needed the +Latin clarity of mind and order. It was for this reason that France was +so dear to him. In France he had the joy of better knowledge and mastery +of himself. Only in France was he wholly himself. + +He turned to account all the elements that were or might be noxious to +him. He assimilated foreign energy in his own. A vigorous healthy mind +absorbs every kind of force, even that which is hostile to it, and makes +it bone and flesh of its bone and flesh. There even comes a time when a +man is most attracted by what least resembles him, for therein he finds +his most plentiful nourishment. + +Christophe did in fact find more pleasure in the work of artists who +were set up as his rivals than in the work of his imitators:--for he had +imitators who called themselves his disciples, to his great despair. +They were honest, laborious, estimable, and altogether virtuous people +who were full of respect and veneration for him. Christophe would have +given much if he could have liked their music; but--(it was just his +luck!)--he could not do it: he found it meaningless. He was a thousand +times more pleased with the talent of musicians who were personally +antipathetic to him, and in art represented tendencies hostile to his +own.... Well! What did it matter? These men were at least alive! Life +is, in itself, such a virtue, that, if a man be deprived of it, though +he possess all the other virtues, he will never be a really good man, +for he cannot really be a man. Christophe used jokingly to say that the +only disciples he recognized were the men who attacked him. And when a +young artist came and talked to him about his musical vocation, and +tried to win his sympathy by flattering him, Christophe would say: + +"So. My music satisfies you? That is how you would express your love, or +your hatred?" + +"Yes, master." + +"Well. Don't. You have nothing to say." + +His horror of the submissive temper of mind, of men born to obey, his +need of absorbing other ideas than his own, attracted him to circles +whose ideas were diametrically opposed to his own. He had friends among +men to whom his art, his idealistic faith, his moral conceptions, were a +dead letter: they had absolutely different ways of envisaging life, +love, marriage, the family, every social relationship:--but they were +good fellows, though they seemed to belong to another stage of moral +evolution: the anguish and the scruples that had consumed a part of +Christophe's life were incomprehensible to them. No doubt that was all +the better for them! Christophe had no desire to make them understand. +He did not ask others to confirm his ideas by thinking as he did: he was +sure of his own thoughts. He asked them to let him know their thoughts, +and to love their souls. He asked always to know and to love more, to +see and to learn how to see. He had reached the point not only of +admitting in others tendencies of mind that he had once combated, but +also of rejoicing in them, for they seemed to him to contribute to +the fecundity of the universe. He loved Georges the more because he did not +take life tragically, as he did. Humanity would be too poor and too gray +in color if it were to be uniformly clad in the moral seriousness, and +the heroic restraint with which Christophe was armed. Humanity needed +joy, carelessness, irreverent audacity in face of its idols, all its +idols, even the most holy. Long live "the Gallic salt which revives the +world"! Skepticism and faith are no less necessary. Skepticism, riddling +the faith of yesterday, prepares the way for the faith of to-morrow.... +How clear everything becomes to the man who stands away from life, and, +as in a fine picture, sees the contrasting colors merge into a magical +harmony, where, when they were closely seen, they clashed. + +Christophe's eyes had been opened to the infinite variety of the +material, as of the moral, world. It had been one of his greatest +conquests since his first visit to Italy. In Paris he especially sought +the company of painters and sculptors; it seemed to him that the best of +the French genius was in them. The triumphant audacity with which they +pursued and captured movement, vibrant color, and tore away the veils +that cover life, made his heart leap with delight. The inexhaustible +riches that he who has eyes to see can find in a drop of light, a second +of life! Against such sovereign delights of the mind what matters the +vain tumult of dispute and war?... But dispute and war also are a part +of the marvelous spectacle. We must embrace everything, and, valiantly, +joyously, fling into the crucible of our burning hearts both the forces +of denial and the forces of affirmation, enemies and friends, the whole +metal of life. The end of it all is the statue which takes shape in us, +the divine fruit of our minds; and all is good that helps to make it +more beautiful even at the cost of the sacrifice of ourselves. What does +the creator matter? Only that which is created is real.... You cannot +hurt us, ye enemies who seek to reach us with your hostility. We are +beyond the reach of your attacks.... You are rending the empty cloak. I +have been gone this many a day. + +His music had found a more serene form. No longer did it show the storms +of spring, which gathered, burst, and disappeared in the old days, but, +instead, the white clouds of summer, mountains of snow and gold, great +birds of light, slowly soaring, and filling the sky.... Creation. +Ripening crops in the calm August sunlight.... + +At first a vague, mighty torpor, the obscure joy of the full grape, the +swollen ear of corn, the pregnant woman brooding over her ripe fruit. A +buzzing like the sound of an organ; the hive all alive with the hum of +the bees.... Such somber, golden music, like an autumn honeycomb, slowly +gives forth the rhythm which shall mark its path: the round of the +planets is made plain: it begins to spin.... + +Then the will appears. It leaps onto the back of the whinnying dream as +it passes, and grips it with its knees. The mind recognizes the laws of +the rhythm which guides it: it tames the disordered forces and fixes the +path they shall take, the goal towards which they shall move. The +symphony of reason and instinct is organized. The darkness grows bright. +On the long ribbon of the winding road, at intervals, there are +brilliant fires, which in their turn shall be in the work of creation +the nucleus of little planetary worlds linked up in the girdle of their +solar system.... + +The main lines of the picture are henceforth fixed. Now it looms through +the uncertain light of dawn. Everything is becoming definite: the +harmony of the colors, the outline of the figures. To bring the work to +its close all the resources of his being are brought into requisition. +The scent-box of memory is opened and exhales its perfumes. The mind +unchains the senses: it lets them wax delirious and is silent: but, +crouching there, it watches them and chooses its prey.... + +All is ready: the team of workmen carries out, with the materials +snatched from the senses, the work planned by the mind. A great +architect must have good journeymen who know their trade and will not +spare themselves.--The cathedral is finished. + +"And God looked down on his work. And He saw that _it was not yet +good._" + +The Master's eyes take in the whole of His creation, and His hand +perfects its harmony.... + + * * * * * + +The dream is ended. _Te Deum_.... + +The white clouds of summer, like great birds of light, slowly soar and +hover; and the heavens are filled with their widespread wings. + +And yet his life was very far from being one with his art. A man of his +kind cannot do without love, not merely that equable love which the +spirit of an artist sheds on all things in the world, but a love that +knows _preference_: he must always be giving himself to the +creatures of his choice. They are the roots of the tree. Through them +his heart's blood is renewed. + +Christophe's heart's blood was nothing like dried up. He was steeped in +a love which was the best part of his joy, a twofold love, for Grazia's +daughter and Olivier's son. He united them in thought, and was to unite +them in reality. + + * * * * * + +Georges and Aurora had met at Colette's: Aurora lived in her cousin's +house. She spent part of the year in Rome and the rest in Paris. She +was eighteen: Georges five years older. She was tall, erect, elegant, +with a small head, and an open countenance, fair hair, a dark +complexion, a slight down on her lips, bright eyes with a laughing +expression behind which lay busy thoughts, a rather plump chin, brown +hands, beautiful round strong arms, and a fine bust; and she always +looked gay, proud, and worldly. She was not at all intellectual, hardly +at all sentimental, and she had inherited her mother's careless +indolence. She would sleep eleven hours on end. The rest of the time she +spent in lounging and laughing, only half awake. Christophe called her +_Dornröschen_--the Sleeping Beauty. She reminded him of his old +love, Sabine. She used to sing as she went to bed, and when she got up, +and laugh for no reason at all, with merry childish laughter, and then +gulp it down with a sort of hiccough. It were impossible to tell how she +spent the time. All Colette's efforts to equip her with the brilliant +artificiality which is so easily imposed on the mind of a young girl, +like a kind of lacquered varnish, had been wasted: the varnish would not +hold. She learned nothing: she would take months to read a book, and +would like it immensely, though in a week she would forget both its +title and its subject: without the least embarrassment she would make +mistakes in spelling, and when she spoke of learned matters she would +fall into the most comical blunders. She was refreshing in her youth, +her gaiety, her lack of intellectuality, even in her faults, her +thoughtlessness which sometimes amounted to indifference, and her naïve +egoism. She was always so spontaneous. Young as she was, and simple and +indolent, she could when she pleased play the coquette, though in all +innocence: then she would spread her net for young men and go sketching, +or play the nocturnes of Chopin, or carry books of poetry which she had +not read, and indulge in conversations and hats that were about equally +idealistic. + +Christophe would watch her and laugh gently to himself. He had a +fatherly tenderness, indulgent and teasing, for Aurora. And he had also +a secret feeling of worship for the woman he had loved who had come +again with new youth for another love than his. No one knew the depth of +his affection. Only Aurora ever suspected it. From her childhood she had +almost always been used to having Christophe near her, and she used to +regard him as one of her family. In her old sorrow at being less loved +than her brother she had instinctively drawn near to Christophe. She +divined that he had a similar sorrow; he saw her grief: and though they +never exchanged confidences, they shared each other's feelings. Later, +when she discovered the feeling that united her mother and Christophe, +it seemed to her that she was in the secret, though they had never told +her. She knew the meaning of the message with which Grazia had charged +her as she lay dying, and of the ring which was now on Christophe's +hand. So there existed hidden ties between her and Christophe, ties +which she did not need to understand, to feel them in their complexity. +She was sincerely attached to her old friend, although she could never +have made the effort necessary to play or to read his work. Though she +was a fairly good musician, she had never even had the curiosity to cut +the pages of a score he had dedicated to her. She loved to come and have +an intimate talk with him.--She came more often when she found out that +she might meet Georges Jeannin in his rooms. + +And Georges, too, found an extraordinary interest in Christophe's +company. + +However, the two young people were slow to realize their real feelings. +They had at first looked at each other mockingly. They were hardly at +all alike. He was quicksilver, she was still water. But it was not long +before quicksilver tried to appear more at rest, and sleeping water +awoke. Georges would criticise Aurora's clothes, and her Italian +taste--a slight want of feeling for modulation and a certain preference +for crude colors. Aurora used to delight in teasing Georges, and +imitating his rather hurried and precious way of speaking. And while +they laughed at each other, they both took pleasure ... in laughing, or +in entertaining each other? They used to entertain Christophe too, and, +far from gainsaying them, he would maliciously transpose these little +poisoned darts from one to the other. They pretended not to care: but +they soon discovered that they cared only too much; and both, especially +Georges, being incapable of concealing their annoyance, as soon as they +met they would begin sparring. Their wounds were slight: they were +afraid of hurting each other: and the hand which dealt the blow was so +dear to the recipient of it that they both found more pleasure in the +hurts they received than in those they gave. They used to watch each +other curiously, and their eyes, seeking defects, would find only +attractions. But they would not admit it. Each, to Christophe, would +declare that the other was unbearable, but, for all that, they were not +slow to seize every opportunity of meeting that Christophe gave them. + +One day when Aurora was with her old friend to tell him that she would +come and see him on the following Sunday in the morning, Georges rushed +in, like a whirlwind as usual, to tell Christophe that he was coming on +Sunday afternoon. On Sunday morning Christophe waited in vain for +Aurora. At the hour mentioned by Georges she appeared, and asked him to +forgive her because it had been impossible for her to come in the +morning: she embroidered her excuses with a circumstantial story. +Christophe was amused by her innocent roguery, and said: + +"It is a pity. You would have seen Georges: he came and lunched with me; +but he would not stay this afternoon." + +Aurora was discomfited, and did not listen to anything Christophe said. +He went on talking good-humoredly. She replied absently, and was not far +from being cross with him. Came a ring at the bell. It was Georges. +Aurora was amazed. Christophe looked at her and laughed. She saw that he +had been making fun of her, and laughed and blushed. He shook his finger +at her waggishly. Suddenly she ran and kissed him warmly. He whispered +to her: + +_"Biricchina, ladroncella, furbetta...."_ + +And she laid her hand on his lips to silence him. + +Georges could make nothing of their kissing and laughter. His expression +of astonishment, almost of vexation, added to their joy. + +So Christophe labored to bring the two young people together. And when +he had succeeded he was almost sorry. He loved them equally; but he +judged Georges more hardly: he knew his weakness: he idolized Aurora, +and thought himself responsible for her happiness even more than for +Georges's; for it seemed to him that Georges was as a son to him, a part +of himself, and he wondered whether it was not wrong to give Aurora in +her innocence a companion who was very far from sharing it. + +But one day as he passed by an arbor where the two young people were +sitting--(a short time after their betrothal)--his heart sank as he +heard Aurora laughingly questioning Georges about one of his past +adventures, and Georges telling her, nothing loth. Other scraps of +conversation, which they made no attempt to disguise, showed him that +Aurora was far more at home than himself with Georges's moral ideas. +Though they were very much in love with each other it was clear that +they did not regard themselves as bound forever; into their discussions +of questions relating to love and marriage, they brought a spirit of +liberty, which might have a beauty of its own, though it was singularly +at variance with the old ideal of mutual devotion _usque ad mortem._ And +Christophe would look at them a little sadly.... How far they were from +him already! How swiftly does the ship that bears our children speed +on!... Patience! A day will come when we shall all meet in harbor. + +Meanwhile the ship paid no heed to the way marked out for it: it trimmed +its sails to every wind.--It would have seemed natural for the spirit of +liberty, which was then tending to modify morality, to take up its stand +also in the other domains of thought and action. But it did nothing of +the kind: human nature cares little for contradiction. While morality +was becoming more free, the mind was becoming less so; it was demanding +that religion should restore its yoke. And this twofold movement in +opposite directions was, with a magnificent defiance of logic, taking +place in the same souls. Georges and Aurora had been caught up by the +new current of Catholicism which was conquering many people of fashion +and many intellectuals. Nothing could be more curious than the way in +which Georges, who was naturally critical and perfectly irreligious, +skepticism being to him as easy as breathing, Georges, who had never +cared for God or devil--a true Frenchman, laughing at +everything--suddenly declared that there lay the truth. He needed truth +of some sort, and this sorted well with his need of action, his +atavistic French bourgeois characteristics, and his weariness of +liberty. The young fool had wandered long enough, and he returned of his +own accord to be harnessed to the plow of his race. The example of a +number of his friends was enough for him. Georges was hypersensitive to +the least atmospheric pressure of the ideas that surrounded him, and he +was one of the first to be caught. And Aurora followed him, as she would +have followed him anywhere. At once they felt sure of themselves, and +despised everybody who did not think as they did. The irony of it! These +two frivolous children were sincerely devout, while the moral purity, +the serious and ardent efforts of Grazia and Olivier had never helped +them to be so, in spite of their desire. + +Christophe watched their spiritual evolution with sympathetic curiosity. +He did not try to fight against it, as Emmanuel would have done, for +Emmanuel's free idealism was up in arms against this return of the +ancient foe. It is vain to fight against the passing wind. One can only +wait for it to go. The reason of humanity was exhausted. It had just +made a gigantic effort. It was overcome with sleep, and, like a child +worn out by a long day, before going to sleep, it was saying its +prayers. The gate of dreams had reopened; in the train of religion came +little puffs of theosophy, mysticism, esoteric faiths, occultism to +visit the chambers of the Western mind. Even philosophy was wavering. +Their gods of thought, Bergson and William James, were tottering. Even +science was attainted, even science was showing the signs of the fatigue +of reason. We have a moment's respite. Let us breathe. To-morrow the +mind will awake again, more alert, more free.... Sleep is good when a +man has worked hard. Christophe, who had had little time for it, was +happy that these children of his should enjoy it in his stead, and +should have rest for the soul, security of faith, absolute, unshakable +confidence in their dreams. He would not nor could he have exchanged his +lot for theirs. But he thought that Grazia's melancholy and Olivier's +distress of mind had found solace in their children, and that it was +well. + +"All that we have suffered, I, my friends, and so many others whom I +never knew, others who lived before us, all has been, that these two +might attain joy.... The joy, Antoinette, for which thou wast made, the +joy that was refused thee!... Ah! If only the unhappy could have a +foretaste of the happiness that will one day spring forth from the +sacrifice of their lives!" + +What purpose could be served by his trying to dispute their happiness? +We must not try to make others happy in our way, but in their own. At +most he only asked Georges and Aurora not to be too contemptuous of +those who, like himself, did not share their faith. + +They did not even take the trouble to argue with him. They seemed to say +to each other: + +"He cannot understand...." + +In their eyes he belonged to the past. And, to be frank, they did not +attach much importance to the past. When they were alone they used often +to talk innocently of the things they would do when Christophe "was no +longer with them."...--However, they loved him well.... How terrible +are the children who grow up over us like creepers! How terrible is the +force of Nature, hurrying, hurrying, driving us out.... + +"Go! Go! Remove thyself! It is my turn now!..." + +Christophe, overhearing their thoughts, longed to say to them: + +"Don't be in such a hurry! I am quite happy here. Please regard me still +as a living being." + +He was amused by their naive impertinence. + +"You may as well say straight out," he observed one day when they had +crushed him with their disdainful manner. "You may as well say that I am +a stupid old man." + +"No, no, my dear old friend," said Aurora, laughing heartily. "You are +the best of men, but there are some things that you do not know." + +"And that you do know, my girl? You are very wise!" + +"Don't laugh at me. I know nothing much. But Georges knows." + +Christophe smiled: + +"Yes. You are right, my dear. The man you love always knows." + +It was much more difficult for him to tolerate their music than to put +up with their intellectual superiority. They used to try his patience +severely. The piano was given no rest when they were in his rooms. It +seemed that love had roused them to song, like the birds. But they were +by a long way not so skilled in singing. Aurora had no illusions as to +her talent, but she was quite otherwise about her fiancé: she could see +no difference between Georges's playing and Christophe's. Perhaps she +preferred Georges's style, and Georges, in spite of his ironic subtlety, +was never far from being convinced by his sweetheart's belief in him. +Christophe never contradicted them: maliciously he would concur in the +girl's opinion (except when, as sometimes happened, he could bear it no +longer, and would rush away, banging the doors). With an affectionate, +pitying smile he would listen to Georges playing _Tristan_ on the +piano. The unhappy young man would conscientiously apply himself to the +transcription of the formidable pages with all the amiable sweetness of +a young girl, and a young girl's tender feeling. Christophe used to +laugh to himself. He would never tell the boy why he laughed. He would +kiss him. He loved him as he was. Perhaps he loved him the more for +it.... Poor boy!... Oh! the vanity of art!... + +He used often to talk about "his children"--(for so he called them)--to +Emmanuel. Emmanuel, who was fond of Georges, used jokingly to say that +Christophe ought to hand him aver to him. He had Aurora, and it was not +fair. He was grabbing everything. + +Their friendship had become almost legendary in Parisian society, though +they lived apart from it. Emmanuel had grown passionately devoted to +Christophe, though his pride would not let him show it. He covered it up +with his brusque manners, and sometimes used to be absolutely rude to +Christophe. But Christophe was not deceived. He knew how deeply attached +to him Emmanuel was, and he knew the worth of his affection. No week +went by but they met two or three times. When they were prevented by +ill-health from going out, they used to write to each other. Their +letters might have been written from places far removed from Paris. They +were less interested in external happenings than in the progress of the +mind in science and art. They lived in their ideas, pondering their art, +or beneath the chaos of facts perceiving the little undistinguished +gleam which reveals the progress of the history of the human mind. + +Generally it was Christophe who visited Emmanuel. Although, since a +recent illness, he was not much better in health than his friend, he had +grown used to thinking that Emmanuel's health called for more +consideration than his own. Christophe could not now ascend Emmanuel's +six flights of stairs without difficulty, and when he reached the top he +had to wait a moment to recover his breath. They were both incapable of +taking care of themselves. In defiance of their weak throats and their +fits of despondency, they were inveterate smokers. That was one of the +reasons why Christophe preferred that they should meet in Emmanuel's +rooms rather than in his own, for Aurora used to declare war on his +habit of smoking, and he used to hide away from her. Sometimes they +would both break out coughing in the middle of their conversation, and +then they would break off and look at each other guiltily like +schoolboys, and laugh: and sometimes one would lecture the other while +he was coughing; but as soon as he had recovered his breath the other +would vigorously protest that smoking had nothing to do with it. + +On Emmanuel's table, in a clear space among the papers, a gray cat would +sit and gravely look at the smokers with an air of reproach. Christophe +used to say that it was their living conscience, and, by way of stifling +it, he would cover it up with his hat. It was a wretched beast, of the +commonest kind, that Emmanuel had picked up half-dead in the street; it had +never really recovered from the brutal handling it had received, and +ate very little, and hardly ever played, and never made any noise: it +was very gentle, and used to follow its master about with its +intelligent eyes, and be unhappy when he was absent, and quite content +to sit on the table by his side, only breaking off its musing +ecstatically, for hours together, to watch the cage where the +inaccessible birds fluttered about, purring politely at the least mark +of attention, patiently submitting to Emmanuel's capricious, and +Christophe's rough, attentions, and always being very careful not to +scratch or bite. It was very delicate, and one of its eyes was always +weeping: it used to cough: and if it had been able to speak it would +certainly not have had the effrontery, like the two men, to declare that +"the smoke had nothing to do with it"; but it accepted everything at +their hands, and seemed to think: + +"They are men. They know what they are doing." Emmanuel was fond of the +beast because he saw a certain similarity between its lot and his own. +Christophe used to declare that the resemblance was even extended to the +expression in their eyes. + +"Why not?" Emmanuel would say. + +Animals reflect their surroundings. Their faces grow refined or the +reverse according to the people with whom they live. A fool's cat has a +different expression from that of a clever man's cat. A domestic animal +will become good or bad, frank or sly, sensitive or stupid, not only +according to what its master teaches it, but also according to what its +master is. And this is true not only of the influence of men. Places +fashion animals in their own image. A clear, bright landscape will light +up the eyes of animals.--Emmanuel's gray cat was in harmony with the +stuffy garret and its ailing master, who lived under the Parisian sky. + +Emmanuel had grown more human. He was not the same man that he had been +at the time of his first acquaintance with Christophe. He had been +profoundly shaken by a domestic tragedy. His companion, whom, in a +moment of exasperation, he had made too clearly feel how tiresome the +burden of her affection was to him, had suddenly disappeared. Frantic +with anxiety, he spent a whole night looking for her, and at last he +found her in a police station where she was being retained. She had +tried to throw herself into the Seine; a passer-by had caught hold of +her by the clothes, and pulled her back just as she was clambering over +the parapet of the bridge; she had refused to give her name and address, +and made another attempt on her life. The sight of her grief had +overwhelmed Emmanuel; he could not bear the thought that, having +suffered so much at the hands of others, he, in his turn, was causing +suffering. He brought the poor crazed creature back to his rooms, and +did his best to heal the wound he had dealt her, and to win her back to +the confidence in his affection she so sorely needed. He suppressed his +feeling of revolt, and resigned himself to her absorbing love, and +devoted to her the remainder of his life. The whole sap of his genius +had rushed back to his heart. The apostle of action had come to the +belief that there was only one course of action that was really +good--not to do evil. His part was played. It seemed that the Force +which raises the great human tides had used him only as an instrument, +to let loose action. Once his orders were carried out, he was nothing: +action pursued its way without him. He watched it moving on, almost +resigned to the injustice which touched him personally, though not +altogether to that which concerned his faith. For although, as a +free-thinker, he claimed to be free of all religion and used humorously +to call Christophe a clerical in disguise, like every sturdy spirit, he +had his altar on which he deified the dreams to which he sacrificed +himself. The altar was deserted now, and Emmanuel suffered. How could he +without suffering see the blessed ideas, which he had so hardly led to +victory, the ideas for which, during the last hundred years, all the +finest men had suffered such bitter torment--how could he see them +tramped underfoot by the oncoming generation? The whole magnificent +inheritance of French idealism--the faith in Liberty, which had its +saints, martyrs, heroes, the love of humanity, the religious aspiration +towards the brotherhood of nations and races--all, all was with blind +brutality pillaged by the younger generation! What madness is it in them +that makes them sigh for the monsters we had vanquished, submit to the +yoke that we had broken, call back with great shouts the reign of Force, +and kindle Hatred and the insanity of war in the heart of my beloved +France! + +"It is not only in France," Christophe would say laughingly, "it is +throughout the entire world. From Spain to China blows the same keen +wind. There is not a corner anywhere for a man to find shelter from the +wind! It is becoming a joke: even in my little Switzerland, which is +turning nationalist!" + +"You find that comforting?" + +"Certainly. It shows that such waves of feeling are not due to the +ridiculous passions of a few men, but to a hidden God who controls the +universe. And I have learned to bow before that God. If I do not +understand Him, that is my fault, not His. Try to understand Him. But +how many of you take the trouble to do that? You live from day to day, +and see no farther than the next milestone, and you imagine that it +marks the end of the road. You see the wave that bears you along, but +you do not see the sea! The wave of to-day is the wave of yesterday; it +is the wave of our souls that prepared the way for it. The wave of +to-day will plow the ground for the wave of to-morrow, which will wipe +out its memory as the memory of ours is wiped out. I neither admire nor +dread the naturalism of the present time. It will pass away with the +present time: it is passing, it has already passed. It is a rung in the +ladder. Climb to the top of it! It is the advance-guard of the coming +army. Hark to the sound of its fifes and drums!..." + +(Christophe drummed on the table, and woke the cat, which sprang away.) + +"... Every nation now feels the imperious necessity of gathering its +forces and making up its balance-sheet. For the last hundred years all +the nations have been transformed by their mutual intercourse and the +immense contributions of all the brains of the universe, building up new +morality, new knowledge, new faith. Every man must examine his +conscience, and know exactly what he is and what he has, before he can +enter with the rest into the new age. A new age is coming. Humanity is +on the point of signing a new lease of life. Society is on the point of +springing into new vigor with new laws. It is Sunday to-morrow. Every +one is making up his accounts for the week, setting his house in order, +making it clean and tidy, that, with other men, we may go into the +presence of our common God and make a new compact of alliance with Him." + +Emmanuel looked at Christophe, and his eyes reflected the passing +vision. He was silent for some time after Christophe had finished +speaking, and then he said: + +"You are lucky, Christophe! You do not see the night!" + +"I can see in the dark," said Christophe. "I have lived in it enough. I +am an old owl." + +About this time his friends noticed a change in his manner. He was often +distracted and absent-minded. He hardly listened to what was said to +him. He had an absorbed, smiling expression. When his absent-mindedness +was commented upon he would gently excuse himself. Sometimes he would +speak of himself in the third person: + +"Krafft will do that for you...." + +or, + +"Christophe will laugh at that...." + +People who did not know him said: + +"What extraordinary self-infatuation!" + +But it was just the opposite. He saw himself from the outside, as a +stranger. He had reached the stage when a man loses interest even in the +struggle for the beautiful, because, when a man has done his work, he is +inclined to believe that others will do theirs, and that, when all is +told, as Rodin says, "the beautiful will always triumph." The +malevolence and injustice of men did not repel him.--He would laugh and +tell himself that it was not natural, that life was ebbing away from +him. + +In fact, he had lost much of his old vigor. The least physical effort, a +long walk, a fast drive, exhausted him. He quickly lost his breath, and +he had pains in his heart. Sometimes he would think of his old friend +Schulz. He never told anybody what he was feeling. It was no good. It +was useless to upset his friends, and he would never get any better. +Besides he did not take his symptoms seriously. He far more dreaded +having to take care of himself than being ill. + +He had an inward presentiment and a desire to see his country once more. +He had postponed going from year to year, always saying--"next year...." +Now he would postpone it no longer. + +He did not tell any one, and went away by stealth. The journey was +short. Christophe found nothing that he had come to seek. The changes +that had been in the making on his last visit were now fully +accomplished: the little town had become a great industrial city. The +old houses had disappeared. The cemetery also was gone. Where Sabine's +farm had stood was now a factory with tall chimneys. The river had +washed away the meadows where Christophe had played as a child. A street +(and such a street!) between black buildings bore his name. The whole of +the past was dead, even death itself.... So be it! Life was going on: +perhaps other little Christophes were dreaming, suffering, struggling, +in the shabby houses in the street that was called after him.--At a +concert in the gigantic _Tonhalle_ he heard some of his music +played, all topsy-turvy: he hardly recognized it.... So be it! Though it +were misunderstood it might perhaps arouse new energy. We sowed the +seed. Do what you will with it: feed on us.--At nightfall Christophe +walked through the fields outside the city; great mists were rolling +over them, and he thought of the great mists that should enshroud his +life, and those whom he had loved, who were gone from the earth, who had +taken refuge in his heart, who, like himself, would be covered up by the +falling night.... So be it! So be it! I am not afraid of thee, O night, +thou devourer of suns! For one star that is put out, thousands are lit up. +Like a bowl of boiling milk, the abysm of space is overflowing with +light. Thou shalt not put me out. The breath of death will set the flame +of my life flickering up once more.... + +On his return from Germany, Christophe wanted to stop in the town where +he had known Anna. Since he had left it, he had had no news of her. He +had never dared to ask after her. For years her very name was enough to +upset him....--Now he was calm and had no fear. But in the evening, in +his room in the hotel looking out on the Rhine, the familiar song of the +bells ringing in the morrow's festival awoke the images of the past. +From the river there ascended the faint odor of distant danger, which he +found it hard to understand. He spent the whole night in recollection. +He felt that he was free of the terrible Lord, and found sweet sadness +in the thought. He had not made up his mind what to do on the following +day. For a moment--(the past lay so far behind!)--he thought of calling +on the Brauns. But when the morrow came his courage failed him: he dared +not even ask at the hotel whether the doctor and his wife were still +alive. He made up his mind to go.... + +When the time came for him to go an irresistible force drove him to the +church which Anna used to attend: he stood behind a pillar from which he +could see the seat where in old days she used to come and kneel. He +waited, feeling sure that, if she were still alive, she would come. + +A woman did come, and he did not recognize her. She was like all the +rest, plump, full-faced, with a heavy chin, and an indifferent, hard +expression. She was dressed in black. She sat down in her place, and did +not stir. There was nothing in the woman to remind Christophe of the +woman he was expecting. Only once or twice she made a certain queer +little gesture as though to smooth out the folds of her skirt about her +knees. In old days, _she_ had made such a gesture,... As she went +out she passed slowly by him, with her head erect and her hands holding +her prayer-book, folded in front of her. For a moment her somber, tired +eyes met Christophe's. And they looked at each other. And they did not +recognize each other. She passed on, straight and stiff, and never +turned her head. It was only after a moment that suddenly, in a flash of +memory, beneath the frozen smile, he recognized the lips he had kissed +by a certain fold in them.... He gasped for breath and his knees +trembled. He thought: + +"Lord, is that the body in which she dwelt whom I loved? Where is she? +Where is she? And where am I, myself? Where is the man who loved her? +What is there left of us and the cruel love that consumed us?--Ashes. +Where is the fire?" + +And his God answered and said: + +"In Me." + +Then he raised his eyes and saw her for the last time in the crowd +passing through the door into the sunlight. + + * * * * * + +It was shortly after his return to Paris that he made peace with big old +enemy, Lévy-Coeur, who had been attacking him for a long time with equal +malicious talent and bad faith. Then, having attained the highest +success, glutted with honors, satiated, appeased, he had been clever +enough secretly to recognize Christophe's superiority, and had made +advances to him. Christophe pretended to notice neither attacks nor +advances. Lévy-Coeur wearied of it. They lived in the same neighborhood +and used often to meet. As they passed each other Christophe would look +through Lévy-Coeur, who was exasperated by this calm way of ignoring his +existence. + +He had a daughter between eighteen and twenty, a pretty, elegant girl, +with a profile like a lamb, a cloud of curly fair hair, soft coquettish +eyes, and a Luini smile. They used to go for walks together, and +Christophe often met them in the Luxembourg Gardens; they seemed very +intimate, and the girl would walk arm-in-arm with her father. +Absent-minded though he was, Christophe never failed to notice a pretty +face, and he had a weakness for the girl. He would think of Lévy-Coeur: + +"Lucky beast!" + +But then he would add proudly: + +"But I too have a daughter." + +And he used to compare the two. In the comparison his bias was all in +favor of Aurora, but it led him to create in his mind a sort of +imaginary friendship between the two girls, though they did not know +each other, and even, without his knowing it, to a certain feeling for +Lévy-Coeur. + +When he returned from Germany he heard that "the lamb" was dead. In his +fatherly selfishness his first thought was: + +"Suppose it had been mine!" + +And he was filled with an immense pity for Lévy-Coeur. His first impulse +was to write to him: he began two letters, but was not satisfied, was +ashamed of them, and did not send either. But a few days later when he +met Lévy-Coeur with a weary, miserable face, it was too much for him: he +went straight up to the poor wretch and held out both hands to him. +Lévy-Coeur, with a little hesitation, took them in his. Christophe said: + +"You have lost her!..." + +The emotion in his voice touched Lévy-Coeur. It was so unexpected! He +felt inexpressibly grateful.... They talked for a little sadly and +confusedly. When they parted nothing was left of all that had divided +them. They had fought: it was inevitable, no doubt: each man must fulfil +the law of his nature! But when men see the end of the tragi-comedy +coming, they put off the passions that masked them, and meet face to +face,--two men, of whom neither is of much greater worth than the other, +who, when they have played their parts to the best of their ability, +have the right in the end to shake hands. + +The marriage of Georges and Aurora had been fixed for the early spring. +Christophe's health was declining rapidly. He had seen his children +watching him anxiously. Once he heard them whispering to each other. +Georges was saying: + +"How ill he looks! He looks as though he might fall ill at any moment." + +And Aurora replied: + +"If only he does not delay our marriage!" + +He did not forget it. Poor children! They might be sure that he would +not disturb their happiness! + +But he was inconsiderate enough on the eve of the marriage--(he had been +absurdly excited as the day drew near: as excited as though it were he +who was going to be married)--he was stupid enough to be attacked by his +old trouble, a recurrence of pneumonia, which had first attacked him in +the days of the Market-Place. He was furious with himself, and dubbed +himself fool and idiot. He swore that he would not give in until the +marriage had taken place. He thought of Grazia as she lay dying, never +telling him of her illness because of his approaching concert, for fear +lest he should be distracted from his work and pleasure. Now he loved +the idea of doing for her daughter--for her--what she had done for him. +He concealed his condition, but he found it hard to keep himself going. +However, the happiness of his children made him so happy that he managed +to support the long ordeal of the religious ceremony without disaster. +But he had hardly reached Colette's house than his strength gave out: he +had just time enough to shut himself up in a room, and then he fainted. +He was found by a servant. When he came to himself Christophe forbade +them to say anything to the bride and bridegroom, who were going off on +their honeymoon in the evening. They were too much taken up with +themselves to notice anything else. They left him gaily, promising to +write to him to-morrow, and afterwards.... + +As soon as they were gone, Christophe took to his bed. He was feverish, +and could not shake off the fever. He was alone. Emmanuel was ill too, +and could not come. Christophe did not call in a doctor. He did not +think his condition was serious. Besides, he had no servant to go for a +doctor. The housekeeper who came for two hours in the morning took no +interest in him, and he dispensed with her services. He had a dozen +times begged her not to touch any of his papers when she was dusting his +room. She would do it: she thought she had a fine opportunity to do as +she liked, now that he was confined to his bed. In the mirror of his +wardrobe door he saw her from his bed turning the whole room upside +down. He was so furious--(no, assuredly the old Adam was not dead in +him!)--that he jumped out of bed, snatched a packet of papers out of her +hands, and showed her the door. His anger cost him a bout of fever and +the departure of the servant, who lost her temper and never returned, +without even taking the trouble to tell the "old madman," as she called +him. So he was left, ill, with no one to look after him. He would get up +in the morning to take in the jug of milk left at the door, and to see +if the portress had not slipped under the door the promised letter from +the lovers. The letter did not come: they had forgotten him in their +happiness. He was not angry with them, and thought that in their place +he would have done the same. He thought of their careless joy, and that +it was he had given it to them. + +He was a little better and was able to get up when at last a letter came +from Aurora. Georges had been content to add his signature. Aurora asked +very little about Christophe and told very little, but, to make up for +it, she gave him a commission, begging him to send her a necktie she had +left at Colette's. Although it was not at all important--(Aurora had +only thought of it as she sat down to write to Christophe, and then only +because she wanted something to say),--Christophe was only too delighted +to be of use, and went out at once to fetch it. The weather was cold and +gusty. The winter had taken an unpleasant turn. Melting snow, and an icy +wind. There were no carriages to be had. Christophe spent some time in a +parcels' office. The rudeness of the clerks and their deliberate +slowness made him irritable, which did not help his business on. His +illness was partly responsible for his gusts of anger, which the +tranquillity of his mind repudiated; they shook his body, like the last +tremors of an oak falling under the blows of an ax. He returned chilled +and trembling. As he entered, the portress handed him a cutting from a +review. He glanced at it. It was a spiteful attack upon himself. They +were growing rare in these days. There is no pleasure in attacking a man +who never notices the blows dealt him. The most violent of his enemies +were reduced to a feeling of respect for him, which exasperated them, +for they still detested him. + +_"We believe,"_ said Bismarck, almost regretfully, _"that nothing +is more involuntary than love. Respect is even more so...."_ + +But the writer of the article was one of those strong men, who, being +better armed than Bismarck, escape both respect and love. He spoke of +Christophe in insulting terms, and announced a series of attacks during +the following fortnight: Christophe began to laugh, and said as he went +to bed again: + +"He will be surprised! He won't find me at home!" + +They tried to make him have a nurse, but he refused obstinately, saying +that he had lived alone so much that he thought he might at least have +the benefit of his solitude at such a time. + +He was never bored. During these last years he had constantly been +engrossed in dialogues with himself; it was as though his soul was +twofold; and for some months past his inward company had been +considerably augmented: not two souls, but ten, now dwelt in him. They +held converse among themselves, though more often they sang. He would +take part in their conversation, or he would hold his peace and listen +to them. He had always on his bed, or on the table, within reach of his +hand, music-paper on which he used to take down their remarks and his +own, and laugh at their rejoinders. It was a mechanical habit: the two +actions, thinking and writing, had become almost simultaneous with him; +writing was thinking out loud to him. Everything that took him away from +the company of his many souls exhausted and irritated him, even the +friends he loved best, sometimes. He tried hard not to let them see it, +but such constraint induced an extreme lassitude. He was very happy when +he came to himself again, for he would lose himself: it was impossible +to hear the inward voices amid the chattering of human beings. Divine +silence!... + +He would only allow the portress or one of her children to come three +or four times a day to see if he needed anything. He used to give them the +notes which, up to the last, he exchanged with Emmanuel. They were +almost equally ill, and were under no illusion as to their condition. By +different ways the free religious genius of Christophe and the free +irreligious genius of Emmanuel had reached the same brotherly serenity. +In their wavering handwriting, which they found it more and more +difficult to read, they discoursed, not of their illness, but of the +perpetual subject of their conversations, their art, and the future of +their ideas. + +This went on until the day when, with his failing hand, Christophe wrote +the words of the King of Sweden, as he lay dying on the field of battle: + +_"Ich habe genug, Bruder: rette dich!"_ +[FOOTNOTE: "I have had my fill, brother: save thyself!"] + + * * * * * + +As a succession of stages he looked back over the whole of his life: the +immense effort of his youth to win self-possession, his desperate struggles +to exact from others the bare right to live, to wrest himself +from the demons of his race. And even after the victory, the forced +unending vigil over the fruits of conquest, to defend them against +victory itself. The sweetness, the tribulation of friendship opening up +the great human family through conflict to the isolated heart. The +fullness of art, the zenith of life. His proud dominion over his +conquered spirit. His belief that he had mastered his destiny. And then, +suddenly at the turn of the road, his meeting with the knights of the +Apocalypse, Grief, Passion, Shame, the vanguard of the Lord. Then laid +low, trampled underfoot by the horses, dragging himself bleeding to the +heights, where, in the midst of the clouds, flames the wild purifying +fire. His meeting face to face with God. His wrestling with Him, like +Jacob with the Angel. His issue, broken from the fight. His adoration of +his defeat, his understanding of his limitations, his striving to fulfil +the will of the Lord, in the domain assigned to him. Finally, when the +labors of seed-time and harvest, the splendid hard work, were at an end, +having won the right to rest at the feet of the sunlit mountains, and to +say to them: + +"Be ye blessed! I shall not reach your light, but very sweet to me is +your shade...." + +Then the beloved had appeared to him: she had taken him by the hand; and +death, breaking down the barrier of her body, had poured the pure soul +of the beloved into the soul of her lover. Together they had issued from +the shadow of days, and they had reached the happy heights where, like +the three Graces, in a noble round, the past, the present, and the +future, clasped hands, where the heart at rest sees griefs and joys in +one moment spring to life, flower, and die, where all is Harmony.... + +He was in too great a hurry. He thought he had already reached that +place. The vise which gripped his panting bosom, and the tumultuous +whirl of images beating against the walls of his burning brain, reminded +him that the last stage and the hardest was yet to run.... Onward!... + + * * * * * + +He lay motionless upon his bed. In the room above him some silly woman +would go on playing the piano for hours. She only knew one piece, and +she would go on tirelessly repeating the same bars; they gave her so +much pleasure! They were a joy, an emotion to her; every color, every +kind of form was in them. And Christophe could understand her happiness, +but she made him weep with exasperation. If only she would not hit the +keys so hard! Noise was as odious to Christophe as vice.... In the end +he became resigned to it. It was hard to learn not to hear. And yet it +was less difficult than he thought. He would leave his sick, coarse +body. How humiliating it was to have been shut up in it for so many +years! He would watch its decay and think: + +"It will not go on much longer." + +He would feel the pulse of his human egoism and wonder: + +"Which would you prefer? To have the name and personality of Christophe +become immortal and his work disappear, or to have his work endure and +no trace be left of his personality and name?" + +Without a moment's hesitation he replied: + +"Let me disappear and my work endure! My gain is twofold: for only what +is most true of me, the real truth of myself will remain. Let Christophe +perish!..." + +But very soon he felt that he was becoming as much a stranger to his +work as to himself. How childish was the illusion of believing that his +art would endure! He saw clearly not only how little he had done, but +how surely all modern music was doomed to destruction. More quickly than +any other the language of music is consumed by its own heat; at the end +of a century or two it is understood only by a few initiates. For how +many do Monteverdi and Lully still exist? Already the oaks of the +classic forest are eaten away with moss. Our buildings of sound, in +which our passions sing, will soon be empty temples, will soon crumble +away into oblivion.--And Christophe was amazed to find himself gazing at +the ruins untroubled. + +"Have I begun to love life less?" he wondered. + +But at once he understood that he loved it more.... Why weep over the +ruins of art? They are not worth it. Art is the shadow man casts upon +Nature. Let them disappear together, sucked up by the sun's rays! They +prevent my seeing the sun.--The vast treasure of Nature passes through +our fingers. Human intelligence tries to catch the running water in the +meshes of a net. Our music is an illusion. Our scale of sounds is an +invention. It answers to no living sound. It is a compromise of the mind +between real sounds, the application of the metric system to the moving +infinite. The mind needs such a lie as this to understand the +incomprehensible, and the mind has believed the lie, because it wished +to believe it. But it is not true. It is not alive. And the delight +which the mind takes in this order of its own creation has only been +obtained by falsifying the direct intuition of what is. From time to time, +a genius, in passing contact with the earth, suddenly perceives +the torrent of reality, overflowing the continents of art. The dykes +crack for a moment. Nature creeps in through a fissure. But at once the +gap is stopped up. It must be done to safeguard the reason of mankind. +It would perish if its eyes met the eyes of Jehovah. Then once more it +begins to strengthen the walls of its cell, which nothing enters from +without, except it have first been wrought upon. And it is beautiful, +perhaps, for those who will not see.... But for me, I will see Thy face, +Jehovah! I will hear the thunder of Thy voice, though it bring me to +nothingness. The noise of art is an hindrance to me. Let the mind hold +its peace! Let man be silent!... + + * * * * * + +But a few minutes after this harangue he groped for one of the sheets of +paper that lay scattered on his bed, and he tried to write down a few +more notes. When he saw the contradiction of it, he smiled and said: + +"Oh, my music, companion of all my days, thou art better than I. I am an +ingrate: I send thee away from me. But thou wilt not leave me: thou wilt +not be repulsed at my caprice. Forgive me. Thou knowest these are but +whimsies. I have never betrayed thee, thou hast never betrayed me; and +we are sure of each other. We will go home together, my friend. Stay +with me to the end." + + _Bleib bei uns...._ + +[Illustration: Musical notation] + +He awoke from a long torpor, heavy with fever and dreams. Strange dreams +of which he was still full. And now he looked at himself, touched +himself, sought and could not find himself. He seemed to himself to be +"another." Another, dearer than himself.... Who?... It seemed to him +that in his dreams another soul had taken possession of him. Olivier? +Grazia?... His heart and his head were so weak! He could not distinguish +between his loved ones. Why should he distinguish between them? He loved +them all equally. + +He lay bound in a sort of overwhelming beatitude. He made no attempt to +move. He knew that sorrow lay in ambush for him, like a cat waiting for +a mouse. He lay like one dead. Already.... There was no one in the room. +Overhead the piano was silent. Solitude. Silence. Christophe sighed. + +"How good it is to think, at the end of life, that I have never been +alone even in my greatest loneliness!... Souls that I have met on the +way, brothers, who for a moment have held out their hands to me, +mysterious spirits sprung from my mind, living and dead--all living.--O +all that I have loved, all that I have created! Ye surround me with your +warm embrace, ye watch over me. I hear the music of your voices. Blessed +be destiny, that has given you to me! I am rich, I am rich.... My heart +is full!..." + +He looked out through the window.... It was one of those beautiful +sunless days, which, as old Balzac said, are like a beautiful blind +woman.... Christophe was passionately absorbed in gazing at the branch +of a tree that grew in front of the window. The branch was swelling, the +moist buds were bursting, the little white flowers were expanding; and +in the flowers, in the leaves, in the whole tree coming to new life, +there was such an ecstasy of surrender to the new-born force of spring, +that Christophe was no longer conscious of his weariness, his +depression, his wretched, dying body, and lived again in the branch of +the tree. He was steeped in the gentle radiance of its life. It was like +a kiss. His heart, big with love, turned to the beautiful tree, smiling +there upon his last moments. He thought that at that moment there were +creatures loving each other, that to others this hour, that was so full +of agony for him, was an hour of ecstasy, that it is ever thus, and that +the puissant joy of living never runs dry. And in a choking voice that +would not obey his thoughts--(possibly no sound at all came from his +lips, but he knew it not)--he chanted a hymn to life. + +An invisible orchestra answered him. Christophe said within himself: + +"How can they know? We did not rehearse it. If only they can go on to +the end without a mistake!" + +He tried to sit up so as to see the whole orchestra, and beat time with +his arms outstretched. But the orchestra made no mistake; they were sure +of themselves. What marvelous music! How wonderfully they improvised the +responses! Christophe was amused. + +"Wait a bit, old fellow! I'll catch you out." + +And with a tug at the tiller he drove the ship capriciously to left and +right through dangerous channels. + +"How will you get out of that?... And this? Caught!... And what about +this?" + +But they always extricated themselves: they countered all his audacities +with even bolder ventures. + +"What will they do now?... The rascals!..." + +Christophe cried "bravo!" and roared with laughter. + +"The devil! It is becoming difficult to follow them! Am I to let them +beat me?... But, you know, this is not a game! I'm done, now.... No +matter! They shan't say that they had the last word...." + +But the orchestra exhibited such an overpoweringly novel and abundant +fancy that there was nothing to be done but to sit and listen +open-mouthed. They took his breath away.... Christophe was filled with +pity for himself. + +"Idiot!" he said to himself. "You are empty. Hold your peace! The +instrument has given all that it can give. Enough of this body! I must +have another." + +But his body took its revenge. Violent fits of coughing prevented his +listening: + +"Will you hold your peace?" + +He clutched his throat, and thumped his chest, wrestled with himself as +with an enemy that he must overthrow. He saw himself again in the middle +of a great throng. A crowd of men were shouting all around him. One man +gripped him with his arms. They rolled down on the ground. The other man +was on top of him. He was choking. + +"Let me go. I will hear!... I will hear! Let me go, or I'll kill +you!..." + +He banged the man's head against the wall, but the man would not let him +go. + +"Who is it, now? With whom am I wrestling? What is this body that I hold +in my grasp, this body warm against me?..." + +A crowd of hallucinations. A chaos of passions. Fury, lust, murderous +desires, the sting of carnal embraces, the last stirring of the mud at +the bottom of the pond.... + +"Ah! Will not the end come soon? Shall I not pluck you off, you leeches +clinging to my body?... Then let my body perish with them!" + +Stiffened in shoulders, loins, knees, Christophe thrust back the +invisible enemy.... He was free.... Yonder, the music was still playing, +farther and farther away. Dripping with sweat, broken in body, +Christophe held his arms out towards it: + +"Wait for me! Wait for me!" + +He ran after it. He stumbled. He jostled and pushed his way.... He had +run so fast that he could not breathe. Has heart beat, his blood roared +and buzzed in his ears, like a train rumbling through a tunnel.... + +"God! How horrible!" + +He made desperate signs to the orchestra not to go on without him.... At +last! He came out of the tunnel!... Silence came again. He could hear +once more. + +"How lovely it is! How lovely! Encore! Bravely, my boys!... But who +wrote it, who wrote it?... What do you say? You tell me that +Jean-Christophe Krafft wrote it? Oh! come! Nonsense! I knew him. He +couldn't write ten bars of such music as that!... Who is that coughing? +Don't make such a noise!... What chord is that?... And that?... Not so +fast! Wait!..." + +Christophe uttered inarticulate cries; his hand, clutching the quilt, +moved as if it were writing: and his exhausted brain went on +mechanically trying to discover the elements of the chords and their +consequents. He could not succeed: his emotion made him drop his prize. +He began all over again.... Ah! This time it was too difficult.... + +"Stop, stop.... I can no more...." + +His will relaxed utterly. Softly Christophe closed his eyes. Tears of +happiness trickled down from his closed lids. The little girl who was +looking after him, unknown to him, piously wiped them away. He lost all +consciousness of what was happening. The orchestra had ceased playing, +leaving him on a dizzy harmony, the riddle of which could not be solved. +His brain went on saying: + +"But what chord is that? How am I to get out of it? I should like to +find the way out, before the end...." + +Voices were raised now. A passionate voice. Anna's tragic eyes.... But a +moment and it was no longer Anna. Eyes now so full of kindness.... +"Grazia, is it thou?... Which of you? Which of you? I cannot see you +clearly.... Why is the sun so long in coming?" + +Then bells rang tranquilly. The sparrows at the window chirped to remind +him of the hour when he was wont to give them the breakfast crumbs.... +In his dream Christophe saw the little room of his childhood.... The +bells. Now it is dawn! The lovely waves of sound fill the light air. +They come from far away, from the villages down yonder.... The murmuring +of the river rises from behind the house.... Once more Christophe stood +gazing down from the staircase window. All his life flowed before his +eyes, like the Rhine. All his life, all his lives, Louisa, Gottfried, +Olivier, Sabine.... + +"Mother, lovers, friends.... What are these names?... Love.... Where are +you? Where are you, my souls? I know that you are there, and I cannot +take you." + +"We are with thee. Peace, O beloved!" + +"I will not lose you ever more. I have sought you so long!" + +"Be not anxious. We shall never leave thee more." + +"Alas! The stream is bearing me on." + +"The river that bears thee on, bears us with thee." + +"Whither are we going?" + +"To the place where we shall be united once more." + +"Will it be soon?" + +"Look." And Christophe, making a supreme effort to raise his head--(God! +How heavy it was!)--saw the river overflowing its banks, covering the +fields, moving on, august, slow, almost still. And, like a flash of +steel, on the edge of the horizon there seemed to be speeding towards +him a line of silver streams, quivering in the sunlight. The roar of the +ocean.... And his heart sank, and he asked: + +"Is it He?" + +And the voices of his loved ones replied: + +"It is He!" + +And his brain dying, said to itself: + +"The gates are opened.... That is the chord I was seeking!... But it is +not the end! There are new spaces!...--We will go on, to-morrow." + +O joy, the joy of seeing self vanish into the sovereign peace of God, +whom all his life he had so striven to serve!... + +"Lord, art Thou not displeased with Thy servant? I have done so little. +I could do no more.... I have struggled, I have suffered, I have erred, +I have created. Let me draw breath in Thy Father's arms. Some day I +shall be born again for a new fight." + +And the murmuring of the river and the roaring of the sea sang with him: + +"Thou shalt be born again. Rest. Now all is one heart. The smile of the +night and the day entwined. Harmony, the august marriage of love and +hate. I will sing the God of the two mighty wings. Hosanna to life! +Hosanna to death! + + _"Christofori faciem die quacunque tueris, + Illa nempe die non morte mala morieris."_ + +Saint Christophe has crossed the river. All night long he has marched +against the stream. Like a rock his huge-limbed body stands above the +water. On his shoulders is the Child, frail and heavy. Saint Christophe +leans on a pine-tree that he has plucked up, and it bends. His back also +bends. Those who saw him set out vowed that he would never win through, +and for a long time their mockery and their laughter followed him. Then +the night fell and they grew weary. Now Christophe is too far away for +the cries of those standing on the water's brink to reach him. Through +the roar of the torrent he hears only the tranquil voice of the Child, +clasping a lock of hair on the giant's forehead in his little hand, and +crying: "March on."--And with bowed back, and eyes fixed straight in +front of him on the dark bank whose towering slopes are beginning to +gleam white, he marches on. + +Suddenly the Angelus sounds, and the flock of bells suddenly springs +into wakefulness. It is the new dawn! Behind the sheer black cliff rises +the golden glory of the invisible sun. Almost falling Christophe at last +reaches the bank, and he says to the Child: + +"Here we are! How heavy thou wert! Child, who art thou?" + +And the Child answers: + +"I am the day soon to be born." + + +THE END + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Jean-Christophe Journey's End, by Romain Rolland + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JEAN-CHRISTOPHE JOURNEY'S END *** + +This file should be named 7967-8.txt or 7967-8.zip + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Juliet Sutherland, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +https://gutenberg.org or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +https://www.gutenberg.org/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/7967-8.zip b/7967-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..0536e05 --- /dev/null +++ b/7967-8.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2f650d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #7967 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/7967) |