JEAN-CHRISTOPHEJOURNEY'S END

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIPTHE BURNING BUSHTHE NEW DAWN

BYROMAIN ROLLAND

Translated byGILBERT 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 outsideFrance, the two friends found their financial position very slow inmending. Every now and then there recurred moments of penury when theywere obliged to go without food. They made up for it by eating twice asmuch as they needed when they had money. But, on the whole, it was atrying existence. 

For the time being they were in the period of the lean kine. Christophehad stayed up half the night to finish a dull piece of musicaltranscription for Hecht: he did not get to bed until dawn, and sleptlike a log to make up for lost time. Olivier had gone out early: he hada lecture to give at the other end of Paris. About eight o'clock theporter came with the letters, and rang the bell. As a rule he did notwait for them to come, but just slipped the letters under the door. Thismorning he went on knocking. Only half awake, Christophe went to thedoor growling: he paid no attention to what the smiling, loquaciousporter was saying about an article in the paper, but just took theletters 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, acomplete stranger bowing gravely to him. It was a journalist, who, finding the door open, had entered without ceremony. Christophe wasfurious, 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. Heexplained 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 havekicked the fellow out: but it was less trouble to let him talk. Hecurled himself up in the bed, closed his eyes, and pretended to beasleep. And very soon he would really have been off, but the reporterstuck to his guns, and in a loud voice read the beginning of thearticle. 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 inastonishment, sat up in bed, and said:

"They are mad! Who has been pulling their legs?"

The reporter seized the opportunity, and stopped reading to plyChristophe with a series of questions, which he answered unthinkingly. He had picked up the paper, and was gazing in utter amazement at his ownportrait, which was printed as large as life on the front page: but hehad no time to read the article, for another journalist entered theroom. This time Christophe was really angry. He told them to get out:but they did not comply until they had made hurried notes of thefurniture in the room, and the photographs on the wall, and the featuresof the strange being who, between laughter and anger, thrust them out ofthe room, and, in his nightgown, took them to the door and bolted itafter them. 

But it was ordained that he should not be left in peace that day. He hadnot finished dressing when there came another knock at the door, aprearranged knock which was only known to a few of their friends. Christophe opened the door, and found himself face to face with yetanother stranger, whom he was just about to dismiss in a summaryfashion, when the man protested that he was the author of thearticle. . . . 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 wasamazed at the sudden notoriety which had come like a bolt from the blue, and he wondered if, without knowing it, he had had a masterpieceproduced the evening before. But he had no time to find out. Thejournalist had come to drag him, whether he liked it or not, there andthen, to the offices of the paper where the editor, the great ArsèneGamache himself, wished to see him: the car was waiting downstairs. Christophe tried to get out of it: but, in spite of himself, he was sonaïvely responsive to the journalist's friendly protestations that inthe end he gave way. 

Ten minutes later he was introduced to a potentate in whose presence allmen 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 wayof speaking, a thick, affected accent, and every now and then he wouldbreak out into a choppy sort of volubility. He had forced himself onParis by his enormous self-confidence. A business man, with a knowledgeof men, naïve and deep, passionate, full of himself, he identified hisbusiness with the business of France, and even with the affairs ofhumanity. His own interests, the prosperity of his paper, and the_salus publica_, all seemed to him to be of equal importance and tobe narrowly associated. He had no doubt that any man who wronged him, wronged France also: and to crush an adversary, he would in perfectlygood faith have overthrown the Government. However, he was by no meansincapable 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 orother out of the mire, by way of demonstrating the greatness of hispower, whereby he could make something out of nothing, make and unmakeMinisters, and, if he had cared to, make and unmake Kings. His spherewas the universe. He would make men of genius, too, if it so pleasedhim. 

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 ahorror of notoriety, and avoided journalists like the plague, took quiteanother view of these things where his friend was in question. He waslike those loving mothers, the right-living women of the middle-class, those irreproachable wives, who would sell themselves to procure anyadvantage for their rascally young sons. 

Writing for the reviews, and finding himself in touch with a number ofcritics and dilettanti, Olivier never let slip an opportunity of talkingabout Christophe: and for some time past he had been surprised to findthat they listened to him. He could feel a sort of current of curiosity, a mysterious rumor flying about literary and polite circles. What wasits origin? Were there echoes of newspaper opinion, following on therecent performances of Christophe's work in England and Germany? Itseemed impossible to trace it to any definite source. It was one ofthose frequent phenomena of those men who sniff the air of Paris, andcan tell the day before, more exactly than the meteorologicalobservatory of the tower of Saint-Jacques, what wind is blowing up forthe morrow, and what it will bring with it. In that great city ofnerves, through which electric vibrations pass, there are invisiblecurrents of fame, a latent celebrity which precedes the actuality, thevague gossip of the drawing-rooms, the _nescio quid majus nasciturIliade_, 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 thethickest heads. Sometimes that trumpet-blast alienates the first andbest friends of the man whose glory it proclaims. And yet they areresponsible for it. 

So Olivier had a share in the article in the _Grand Journal_. Hehad taken advantage of the interest displayed in Christophe, and hadcarefully stoked it up with adroitly worded information. He had beencareful not to bring Christophe directly into touch with thejournalists, for he was afraid of an outburst. But at the request of the_Grand Journal_ he had slyly introduced Christophe to a reporter ina café without his having any suspicion. All these precautions onlypricked curiosity, and made Christophe more interesting. Olivier hadnever had anything to do with publicity before: he had not stopped toconsider that he was setting in motion a machine which, once it gotgoing, it was impossible to direct or control. 

He was in despair when, on his way to his lecture, he read the articlein the _Grand Journal_. He had not foreseen such a calamity. Aboveall, he had not expected it to come so soon. He had reckoned on thepaper waiting to make sure and verify its facts before it publishedanything. He was too naïve. If a newspaper takes the trouble to discovera new celebrity, it is, of course, for its own sake, so that its rivalsmay not have the honor of the discovery. It must lose no time, even ifit means knowing nothing whatever about the person in question. But anauthor very rarely complains: if he is admired, he has quite as muchunderstanding as he wants. 

The _Grand Journal_, after setting out a few ridiculous storiesabout Christophe's struggles, representing him as a victim of Germandespotism, an apostle of liberty, forced to fly from Imperial Germanyand take refuge in France, the home and shelter of free men, --(a finepretext for a Chauvinesque tirade!)--plunged into lumbering praise ofhis genius, of which it knew nothing, --nothing except a few tamemelodies, dating from Christophe's early days in Germany, whichChristophe, who was ashamed of them, would have liked to have seendestroyed. But if the author of the article knew nothing at all aboutChristophe's work, he made up for it in his knowledge of his plans--orrather such plans as he invented for him. A few words let fall byChristophe or Olivier, or even by Goujart, who pretended to bewell-informed, had been enough for him to construct a fancifulJean-Christophe, "a Republican genius, --the great musician ofdemocracy. " He seized the opportunity to decry various contemporaryFrench musicians, especially the most original and independent amongthem, who set very little store by democracy. He only excepted one ortwo composers, whose electoral opinions were excellent in his eyes. Itwas annoying that their music was not better. But that was a detail. Andbesides, his eulogy of these men, and even his praise of Christophe, wasof 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 wellto 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 hehurried home. What was his consternation to find that Christophe hadalready gone out with the journalists! He delayed lunch for him. Christophe did not return. Hours passed, and Olivier grew more and moreanxious 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 lunchwith Arsène Gamache, and his head was a little muzzy with the champagnehe had drunk. He could not understand Olivier's anxiety, who asked himin 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 agood 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 niceand charming to me--the cream of good fellows. "

Olivier did not seem to be convinced. Christophe was astonished at hissmall 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 atall 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 "aRepublican musician"; it did not mean anything. . . . Well, let the fibpass. . . . But when they set his "Republican" art against the "sacristyart" of the masters who had preceded him, --(he whose soul was nourishedby 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 talentedFrench musicians, whom he loved more or less, --(though rather less thanmore), --though they knew their trade, and honored it? And--worst ofall--with an incredible want of tact he was credited with odioussentiments about his country!. . . No, that, that was beyondendurance. . . . 

"I shall write and tell them so, " said Christophe. 

Olivier intervened. 

"No, no, " he said, "not now! You are too excited. Tomorrow, when you arecooler. . . . "

Christophe stuck to it. When he had anything to say he could not waituntil the morrow. He promised Olivier to show him his letter. Theprecaution was useful. The letter was duly revised, so as to be confinedpractically to the rectification of the opinions about Germany withwhich he had been credited, and then Christophe ran and posted it. 

"Well, " he said, when he returned, "that will save half the harm beingdone: the letter will appear to-morrow. "

Olivier shook his head doubtfully. He was still thoughtful, and helooked 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 justremembered that he had talked volubly and unguardedly. He had been quiteat his ease at once. It had never for a moment occurred to him todistrust any of them: they seemed so cordial, so well-disposed towardshim! As, in fact, they were. We are always well-disposed to people whenwe have done them a good turn, and Christophe was so frankly delightedwith it all that his joy infected them. His affectionate easy manners, his jovial sallies, his enormous appetite, and the celerity with whichthe various liquors vanished down his throat without making him turn ahair, were by no means displeasing to Arsène Gamache, who was himself asturdy trencherman, coarse, boorish, and sanguine, and very contemptuousof people who had ill-health, and those who dared not eat and drink, andall the sickly Parisians. He judged a man by his prowess at table. Heappreciated Christophe. There and then he proposed to produce his_Gargantua_ as an opera at the Opéra. --(The very summit of art was reachedfor these bourgeois French people in the production on the stageof the _Damnation of Faust_, or the _Nine Symphonies_. )--Christophe, whoburst out laughing at the grotesqueness of the idea, had great difficultyin preventing him from telephoning his orders to the directors of theOpéra, or the Minister of Fine Arts. --(If Gamache were to be believed, allthese important people were apparently at his beck and call. )--And, theproposal reminding him of the strange transmutation which had taken placein his symphonic poem, _David_, he went so far as to tell the story of theperformance organized by Deputy Roussin to introduce his mistress to thepublic. Gamache, who did not like Roussin, was delighted: and Christophe, spurred on by the generous wines and the sympathy of his hearers, plungedinto other stories, more or less indiscreet, the point of which was notlost on those present. Christophe was the only one to forget them when theparty broke up. And now, on Olivier's question, they rushed back to hismemory. He felt a little shiver run down his spine. For he did not deceivehimself: he had enough experience to know what would happen: now that hewas sober again he saw it as clearly as though it had actually happened:his indiscretions would be twisted and distorted, and scattered broadcastas malicious blabbing, his artistic sallies would be turned into weaponsof war. As for his letter correcting the article, he knew as well asOlivier how much that would avail him: it is a waste of ink to answer ajournalist, for he always has the last word. 

Everything happened exactly to the letter as Christophe had foreseen itwould. His indiscretions were published, his letter was not. Gamacheonly went so far as to write to him that he recognized the generosity ofhis feelings, and that his scruples were an honor to him: but he kepthis scruples dark: and the falsified opinions attributed to Christophewent on being circulated, provoking biting criticism in the Parisianpapers, and later in Germany, where much indignation was felt that aGerman artist should express himself with so little dignity about hiscountry. 

Christophe thought he would be clever, and take advantage of aninterview by the reporter of another paper to protest his love for the_Deutsches Reich_, where, he said, people were at least as free asin the French Republic. --He was speaking to the representative of aConservative paper, who at once credited him with anti-Republican views. 

"Better and better!" said Christophe. "But what on earth has my music todo with politics?"

"It is usual with us, " said Olivier. "Look at the battles that havetaken place over Beethoven. Some people will have it that he was aJacobin, others a mountebank, others still a Père Duchesne, and others aprince's lackey. "

"He'd knock their heads together. "

"Well, do the same. "

Christophe only wished he could. But he was too amiable with people whowere friendly towards him. Olivier never felt happy when he left himalone. For they were always coming to interview him: and it was no useChristophe promising to be guarded: he could not help being confidentialand unreserved. He said everything that came into his head. Womenjournalists would come and make a fuss of him, and get him to talk abouthis sentimental adventures. Others would make use of him to speak ill ofsuch-an-one, or so-and-so. When Olivier came in he would find Christopheutterly 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 isdangerous. ' He will attack you if you defend yourself. . . . It is so easyfor them to avenge themselves! They can twist the least little thing youmay 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 ofhis room, which the journalist had not seen, and a report of aconversation which he had not had with him. 

The facts were more and more embellished the farther they spread. In theforeign papers they were garnished out of all recognition. CertainFrench articles having told how in his poverty he had transposed musicfor the guitar, Christophe learned from an English newspaper that he hadplayed the guitar in the streets. He did not only read eulogies. Farfrom 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'sdiscovering a genius whom they had ignored. Some of them were rabidabout it. Others commiserated Christophe on his ill-luck. Goujart, annoyed at having the ground cut away from under his feet, wrote anarticle, as he said, to set people right on certain points. He wrotefamiliarly of his old friend Christophe, to whom, when he first came toParis, he had been guide and comforter: he was certainly a highly giftedmusician, but--(he was at liberty to say so, since they werefriends)--very deficient in many ways, ill-educated, unoriginal, andinordinately 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 whoshould be wise, learned, judicious, benevolent, and severe, etc. --(afancy portrait of Goujart). --The musicians made bitter fun of it all. They affected a lofty contempt for an artist who had the newspapers athis 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 theircommiseration. Some of them--(his colleagues)--laid the blame onOlivier. --They were only too glad to pay him out for his intolerance andhis 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 areleast apt to pardon those who show that they can do without them. --Someof them almost went so far as to hint that he had made money by thearticles in the _Grand Journal_. There were others who took uponthemselves to defend Christophe against him: they appeared to bebroken-hearted at Olivier's callousness in dragging a sensitive artist, a dreamer, ill-equipped for the battle of life, --Christophe, --into theturmoil of the market-place, where he could not but be ruined: for theyregarded Christophe as a little boy not strong enough in the head to beallowed to go out alone. The future of this man, they said, was beingruined, for, even if he were not a genius, such good intentions and suchtremendous industry deserved a better fate, and he was being intoxicatedwith incense of an inferior brand. It was a great pity. Why could theynot 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 theirmagnificent serenity:

"That is a detail. An artist must suffer. And what does a littlesuffering matter?"

Of course, they were men of the world, quite well off, who professedthese Stoic theories. As the millionaire once said to the simple personwho 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 hadtold them that Mozart would have asked nothing better than to go onliving, and that Christophe was determined to do so. 

 * * * * *

Christophe was getting heartily sick of the vulgar tittle-tattle. Hebegan to wonder if it were going on forever. --But it was all over in afortnight. The newspapers gave up talking about him. However, he hadbecome 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, andeven for himself, in his reflected glory: offers from librettists, proposals from concert-agents, declarations of friendship from men whohad formerly been his enemies, invitations from women. His opinion wasasked, for newspaper inquiries, about anything and everything: thedepopulation of France, idealist art, women's corsets, the nude on thestage, --and did he believe that Germany was decadent, or that music hadreached its end, etc. , etc. They used to laugh at them all. But, thoughhe laughed, lo and behold! Christophe, that Huron, steadily accepted theinvitations to dinner! Olivier could not believe his eyes. 

"You?" he said. 

"I! Certainly, " replied Christophe jeeringly. "You thought you were theonly 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 ownroom that he felt a sudden longing to get away from it. Besides, he tooka naïve delight in tasting his new fame. He was terribly bored atparties, and thought the people idiotic. But when he came home he usedto take a malicious pleasure in telling Olivier how much he had enjoyedhimself. He would go to people's houses once, but never again: he wouldinvent the wildest excuses, with a frightful want of tact, to get out oftheir renewed invitations. Olivier would be scandalized, and Christophewould shout with laughter. He did not go to their houses to spread hisfame, but to replenish his store of life, his collection of expressionsand tones of voice--all the material of form, and sound, and color, withwhich an artist has periodically to enrich his palette. A musician doesnot feed only on music. An inflection of the human voice, the rhythm ofa gesture, the harmony of a smile, contain more suggestion of music forhim that another man's symphony. But it must be said that the music offaces and human souls is as stale and lacking in variety in politesociety as the music of polite musicians. Each has a manner and becomesset in it. The smile of a pretty woman is as stereotyped in its studiedgrace as a Parisian melody. The men are even more insipid than thewomen. Under the debilitating influence of society, their energy isblunted, their original characters rot away and finally disappear with afrightful rapidity. Christophe was struck by the number of dead anddying men he met among the artists: there was one young musician, fullof life and genius, whom success had dulled, stupefied, and wiped out ofexistence: he thought of nothing but swallowing down the flattery inwhich he was smothered, enjoying himself, and sleeping. What he would belike twenty years later was shown in another corner of the room, in theperson of an old pomaded _maestro_, who was rich, famous, a memberof all the Academies, at the very height of his career, and, thoughapparently he had nothing to fear and no more wires to pull, groveledbefore everything and everybody, and was fearful of opinion, power, andthe Press, dared not say what he thought, and thought nothing at all--aman who had ceased to exist, showing himself off, an ass saddled withthe relics of his own past life. 

Behind all these artists and men of intellect who had been great, ormight have been great, there was certain to be some woman preying uponthem. They were all dangerous, both the fools and those who were by nomeans fools: both those who loved and those who loved themselves: thebest of them were the worst: for they were all the more certain to snuffout the artist with their immoderate affection, which made them in allgood faith try to domesticate genius, turn it to their own uses, drag itdown, prune it, pare it down, scent it, until they had brought it intoline with their sensibility, their petty vanity, their mediocrity, andthe mediocrity of the world they lived in. 

Although Christophe only passed through that section of society, he sawenough of it to feel its danger. More than one woman, of course, triedto take possession of him for her circle, to press him into her service:and, of course, Christophe nibbled at the hook baited with friendlywords and alluring smiles. But for his sturdy common sense and thedisquieting spectacle of the transformations already effected in the menabout them by these modern Circes, he would not have escapeduncontaminated. But he had no mind to swell the herd of these lovelygoose-girls. The danger would have been greater for him if there had notbeen 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 sentthem all packing. 

Fate is ironical. Those who do not care slip through the meshes of thenet: but those who are suspicious, those who are prudent, andforewarned, are never suffered to escape. It was not Christophe who wascaught in the net of Paris, but Olivier. 

He had benefited by his friend's success: Christophe's fame had givenhim a reflected glory. He was better known now, for having beenmentioned in a few papers as the man who had discovered Christophe, thanfor anything he had written during the last six years. He was includedin many of the invitations that came for Christophe: and he went withhim, meaning carefully and discreetly to look after him. No doubt he wastoo much absorbed in doing so to look after himself. Love passed by andcaught him. 

She was a little fair girl, charmingly slender, with soft hair waving inlittle ripples about her pure narrow forehead: she had fine eyebrows andrather heavy eyelids, eyes of a periwinkle blue, a delicately carvednose with sensitive nostrils; her temples were slightly hollowed: shehad a capricious chin, and a mobile, witty, and rather sensual mouth, turning up at the corners, and the _Parmigianninesque_ smile of apure faun. She had a long, delicate throat, a pretty waist, a slender, elegant figure, and a happy, pensive expression in her girlish face, inevery line of which there was the disturbing poetic mystery of thewaking spring, --_Frühlingserwachen_. Her name was Jacqueline Langeais. 

She was not twenty. She came of a rich Catholic family, of greatdistinction and broad-mindedness. Her father was a clever engineer, aman of some invention, clear-headed and open to new ideas, who had madea fortune, thanks to his own hard work, his political connections, andhis marriage. He had married both for love and money--(the propermarriage for love for such people)--a pretty woman, very Parisian, whowas bred in the world of finance. The money had stayed: but love hadgone. However, he had managed to preserve a few sparks of it, for it hadbeen very ardent on both sides: but they did not stickle for anyexaggerated notion of fidelity. They went their ways and had theirpleasures: 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 anunspoken rivalry between them: for they both loved her jealously. Theyboth saw themselves in her with their pet faults idealized by the graceof childhood: and each strove cunningly to steal her from the other. Andthe child had in due course become conscious of it, with the artfulcandor of such little creatures, who are only too ready to believe thatthe universe gravitates round themselves: and she turned it to goodaccount. She had them perpetually outbidding each other for heraffection. She never had a whim but she was sure that one of them wouldindulge it if the other refused: and the other would be so vexed atbeing outdone that she would at once be offered an even greaterindulgence than the first. She had been dreadfully spoiled: and it wasvery fortunate for her that there was no evil in her nature, --outsidethe egoism common to almost all children, though in children who are toorich and too much pampered it assumes various morbid shapes, due to theabsence of difficulties and the want of any goal to aim at. 

Though they adored her, neither M. Nor Madame Langeais ever thought ofsacrificing their own personal convenience to her. They used to leavethe child alone, for the greater part of the day, to gratify herthousand and one fancies. She had plenty of time for dreaming, and shewasted none of it. She was precocious and quick to grasp at incautiousremarks let fall in her presence--(for her parents were never veryguarded in what they said), --and when she was six years old she used totell her dolls love-stories, the characters in which were husband, wife, and lover. It goes without saying that she saw no harm in it. Directlyshe began to perceive a shade of feeling underlying the words it was allover for the dolls: she kept her stories to herself. There was in her astrain of innocent sensuality, which rang out in the distance like thesound of invisible bells, over there, over there, on the other side ofthe horizon. She did not know what it was. Sometimes it would comewafted on the wind: it came she did not know from whence, and wrappedher round and made the blood mount to her cheeks, and she would lose herbreath in the fear and pleasure of it. She could not understand it. Andthen it would disappear as strangely as it had come. There was neveranother sound. Hardly more than a faint buzzing, an imperceptibleresonance, fainter and fainter, in the blue air. Only she knew that itwas 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 couldreach it!. . . 

In the meanwhile, until she should reach that land of happiness, shewove strange dreams of what she would find there. For the chiefoccupation of the child's mind was guessing at its nature. She had afriend of her own age, Simone Adam, with whom she used often to discussthese great subjects. Each brought to bear on them the light of hertwelve years' experience, conversations overheard and stolen reading. Ontip-toe, clinging to the crannies in the stones, the two little girlsstrained to peer over the old wall which hid the future from them. Butit was all in vain, and it was idle for them to pretend that they couldsee through the chinks: they could see nothing at all. They were both amixture of innocence, poetic salaciousness, and Parisian irony. Theyused to say the most outrageous things without knowing it, and they werealways making mountains out of molehills. Jacqueline, who was alwaysprying, without anybody to find fault with her, used to burrow in allher father's books. Fortunately, she was protected from coming to anyharm by her very innocence and her own young, healthy instincts: anunduly described scene or a coarse word disgusted her at once: she woulddrop the book at once, and she passed through the most infamous company, like a frightened cat through puddles of dirty water, --without so muchas 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 hopeof finding the key to the riddle, --love-poems, of course. They coincidedto a certain extent with her childish outlook on things. The poets didnot see things as they were, they imagined them through the prism ofdesire or regret: they seemed, like herself, to be peering through thechinks of the old wall. But they knew much more, they knew all thethings 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 thatshe was on the very brink of finding it. . . . 

Their curiosity was indomitable. They would thrill as they whisperedverses of Alfred de Musset and Sully Prudhomme, into which they readabyss on abyss of perversity: they used to copy them out, and ask eachother about the hidden meanings of passages, which generally containednone. These little women of thirteen, who knew nothing of love, used, intheir innocent effrontery, to discuss, half in jest, half in earnest, love and the sweets of love: and, in school, under the fatherly eye ofthe master--a very polite and mild old gentleman--verses like thefollowing, 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, theteachers of which were Masters of Art of the University. There theyfound material for their sentimental aspirations. Almost all the girlswere 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 theywould weep when he gave them bad marks in their examinations: thoughthey 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 ingratitude. And if he called them aside to give them advice or pay them acompliment, they were in Paradise. There was no need for him to be aneagle to win their favor. When the gymnastic instructor took Jacquelinein his arms to lift her up to the trapeze, she would be in ecstasies. And what furious emulation there was between them! How coaxingly andwith what humility they would make eyes at the master to attract hisattention from a presumptuous rival! At lectures, when he opened hislips to speak, pens and pencils would be hastily produced to take downwhat he said. They made no attempt to understand: the chief thing wasnot to lose a syllable. And while they went on writing and writingwithout ceasing, with stealthy glances to take in their idol's play ofexpression and gestures, Jacqueline and Simone would whisper to eachother:

"Do you think he would look nice in a tie with blue spots?"

Then they had a chromo-lithographic ideal, based on romantic andfashionable books of verses, and poetic fashion-plates, --they fell inlove 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 weavefanciful and passionate love-affairs, --they could not help alwayswanting 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 toconfide everything to each other: proof positive that they did not feelanything much: it was the best sort of preventive to keep them from everhaving any deep feeling. On the other hand, it became a sort of chronicillness with them: they were the first to laugh at it, but they usedlovingly to cultivate it. They excited each other. Simone was moreromantic and more cautious, and used to invent wilder stories. ButJacqueline, being more sincere and more ardent, came nearer to realizingthem. She was twenty times on the brink of the most hopelessfolly. --However, she did not commit herself, as is the way with youngpeople. There are times when these poor little crazy creatures--(such aswe have all been)--are within an ace, some of suicide, others offlinging themselves into the arms of the first man who comes along. Only, thank God, almost all of them stop short at that. Jacqueline wrotecountless rough drafts of passionate letters to men whom she hardly knewby sight: but she never sent any of them, except one enthusiasticletter, unsigned, to an ugly, vulgar, selfish critic, who was ascold-hearted as he was narrow-minded. She fell in love with him over afew lines in which she had discovered a rare wealth of sensibility. Shewas fired also by a great actor, who lived near her: whenever she passedhis 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 shefound herself there, she turned and fled. What could she have talked tohim about? She had nothing, nothing at all to say to him. She did notlove him. And she knew it. In the greater part of her folly she wasdeceiving 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 whatharm she did. A pretty girl makes a cruel game of love. It seems to herquite natural that she should be loved, and never considers that sheowes anything to those who love her: she is apt to believe that herlover 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 nothingelse all day long. One is inclined to think that a young girl insociety, brought up in the hot-house atmosphere of a great town, wouldbe more precocious than a country girl: but the opposite is the case. Her reading and conversation have made her obsessed by love, so obsessedthat in her idle life it often borders on mania: and sometimes ithappens that she has read the play beforehand, and knows it word forword by heart. But she never feels it. In love, as in art, it is uselessto read what others have said: we can but say what we feel: and thosewho make haste to speak before they have anything to say are as likelyas not to say nothing. 

Jacqueline, like most young people, lived in an atmosphere clouded bythe dust of the feelings of others, which, while it kept her in aperpetual fever, with her hands burning, and her throat dry, and hereyes sore, prevented her seeing anything. She thought she kneweverything. It was not that she lacked the wish to know. She read andlistened. She had picked up a deal of information, here and there, inscraps, from conversation and books. She even tried to read what waswritten in herself. She was much better than the world in which shelived, 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 andlacking in beauty, Marthe Langeais was always dressed in black: she hada sort of stiff distinction of feature and movement: she spoke verylittle, and she had a deep voice, almost like a man's. But for the clearlight in her intelligent gray eyes and the kind smile on her sad lipsshe would have passed unnoticed. 

She only appeared at the Langeais' on certain days, when they werealone. Langeais had a great respect for her, though she bored him. Madame Langeais made no attempt to disguise from her husband how littlepleasure 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 tooglaringly that they regarded it as a duty. Langeais used to talk abouthimself, which she always found interesting. Madame Langeais would thinkof something else, and, as a matter of habit, smile affably when she wasspoken to. The dinner always went off very well, and she was invariablypolite. Sometimes, even, she would be effusively affectionate when hertactful sister-in-law went away earlier than she had hoped: and MadameLangeais's charming smile would be most radiant when she had anyparticularly pleasant memories to think of. Marthe saw through it all:very little escaped her eyes: and she saw many things in her brother'shouse which shocked and distressed her. But she never let it appear:what was the good? She loved her brother, and had been proud of hiscleverness and success, like the rest of the family, who had not thoughtthe 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 asclever as he was, and of a finer moral fiber, more virile--(as the womenof France so often are; they are much superior to the men), --and she knewhim through and through: and when he asked her advice she used to giveit frankly. But for a long time he had not asked it of her! He found itmore prudent not to know, or--(for he knew the truth as much as shedid), --to shut his eyes. She was proud, and drew aside. Nobody evertroubled to look into her inward life, and it suited the others toignore her. She lived alone, went out very little, and had only a fewnot very intimate friends. It would have been very easy to her to turnher brother's influence and her own talents to account: but she did notdo so. She had written a few articles for the leading reviews in Paris, historical and literary portraits, which had attracted some attention bytheir sober, just, and striking style. But she had gone no farther. Shemight have formed interesting friendships with certain distinguished menand 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 containedmusic that she loved, she did not go: and though she had the opportunityof traveling to a place where she knew that she would find muchpleasure, she preferred to stay at home. Her nature was a curiouscompound of stoicism and neurasthenia, which, however, in no wiseimpaired the integrity of her ideas. Her life was impaired, but not hermind. An old sorrow, known only to herself, had left its mark on herheart. And even more profound, even less suspected--unknown to herself, was the secret illness which had begun to prey upon her. However, theLangeais saw only the clear expression of her eyes, which sometimes madethem feel embarrassed. 

Jacqueline used to take hardly any notice of her aunt in the days whenshe was careless and gay--which was her usual condition when she was achild. But when she reached the age at which there occurs a mysteriouschange 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 theirvictim feel at the point of death, --the child, sinking and not daring tocry for help, found only her Aunt Marthe standing by her side andholding out her hand. Ah! the others were so far away! Her father andmother were as strangers to her, with their selfish affection, toosatisfied with themselves to think of the small troubles of a doll offourteen! But her aunt guessed them, and comforted her. She did not sayanything. She only smiled: across the table she exchanged a kindlyglance with Jacqueline, who felt that her aunt understood her, and shetook refuge by her side. Marthe stroked Jacqueline's head and kissedher, and spoke no word. 

The little girl trusted her. When her heart was heavy she would go andsee her friend, who would know and understand as soon as she arrived;she would be met always with the same indulgent eyes, which would infecther with a little of their own tranquillity. She told her aunt hardlyanything about her imaginary love-affairs: she was ashamed of them, andfelt 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 realtrouble. 

"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 asthey caressed her face:

"Do you think I shall be happy? Aunt, tell me; do you think I shall behappy?"

"I don't know, my dear. It rather depends on yourself. . . . People canalways 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'tbe. "

"I should not have thought it possible, either. Life teaches one to beable to do many things. "

"Oh! But I don't want to learn, " protested Jacqueline anxiously. "I wantto 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, shecould 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'tcount. "

"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 greatestgift 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 wenton with her work. 

"Poor child!" she said once more. 

"Why do you keep on saying: 'Poor child'?" asked Jacqueline uneasily. "Idon'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 laughedat her so kindly that she was disarmed. She kissed her, pretending to beangry. But in their hearts children of that age are secretly flatteredby predictions of suffering in later life, which is so far away. When itis afar off there is a halo of poetry round sorrow, and we dread nothingso much as a dull, even life. 

Jacqueline did not notice that her aunt's face was growing paler andpaler. She observed that Marthe was going out less and less, but sheattributed it to her stay-at-home disposition, about which she usedoften to tease her. Once or twice, when she called, she had met thedoctor 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 ofexcuse!

"It can't be very exhausting for you to come to our house for a coupleof hours a week! You don't love me, " she would say. "You love nothingbut 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 thematter with her aunt. They tried not to tell her. Finally, she found outthat 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 alittle when she saw her aunt. Marthe was mercifully not suffering anygreat pain. She still had her tranquil smile, which in her thintransparent 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 socalm. . . . "

She went on with the tale of her little confidences, to which Marthelistened with more interest than heretofore. Only, sometimes, in themiddle of a conversation, her aunt would leave the room, without givingany sign to show that she was in pain: and she would not return untilthe attack was over, and her face had regained its serenity. She did notlike anybody to refer to her condition, and tried to hide it: she had ahorror of the disease that held her in its grip, and would not think ofit: all her efforts were directed towards preserving the peace of herlast months. The end came sooner than it was expected. Very soon she sawnobody but Jacqueline. Then Jacqueline's visits had to be curtailed. Then came the day of parting. Marthe was lying in her bed, which she hadnot left for some weeks, when she took a tender farewell of her littlefriend with a few gentle, comforting words. And then she shut herselfup, to die. 

Jacqueline passed through months of despair. Marthe's death came at thesame time as the very worst hours of her moral distress, against whichMarthe had been the only person who could help her. She was horriblydeserted and alone. She needed the support of a religion. There wasapparently no reason why she should have lacked that support: she hadalways been made to practise the duties of religion: her motherpractised them regularly. But that was just the difficulty: her motherpractised them, but her Aunt Marthe did not. And how was she to avoidcomparison? The eyes of a child are susceptible to many untruths, towhich her elders never give a thought, and children notice manyweaknesses and contradictions. Jacqueline noticed that her mother andthose who said that they believed had as much fear of death as thoughthere had been no faith in them. No: religion was not a strong enoughsupport. . . . And in addition there were certain personal experiences, feelings of revolt and disgust, a tactless confessor who had hurther. . . . She went on practising, but without faith, just as she paidcalls, 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 thedead woman, in which she was wrapped up. She had many grounds forself-reproach in her treatment of her aunt, whom in her childishselfishness she had often neglected, while now she called to her invain. She idealized her image: and the great example which Marthe hadleft upon her mind of a profound life of meditation helped to fill herwith distaste for the life of the world, in which there was no truth orserious purpose. She saw nothing but its hypocrisy, and those amiablecompromises, which at any other time would have amused her, now revoltedher. She was in a condition of moral hypersensitiveness, and everythinghurt her: her conscience was raw. Her eyes were opened to certain factswhich hitherto had escaped her in her heedlessness. 

One afternoon she was in the drawing-room with her mother. MadameLangeais 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 hermore determined to stay. Madame Langeais was not very well; she had aheadache, which made her a little dull, or perhaps it was one of thoseheadache preventives which the ladies of to-day eat like sweets, so thatthey have the result of completely emptying their pretty heads, and shewas not very guarded in what she said. In the course of the conversationshe thoughtlessly called her visitor:

"My dear. . . . "

She noticed the slip at once. He did not flinch any more than she, andthey went on talking politely. Jacqueline, who was pouring out tea, wasso amazed that she almost dropped a cup. She had a feeling that theywere exchanging a meaning smile behind her back. She turned andintercepted their privy looks, which were immediately disguised. --Thediscovery upset her completely. Though she had been brought up with theutmost freedom, and had often heard and herself laughed and talked aboutsuch intrigues, it hurt her so that she could hardly bear it when shesaw that her mother. . . . Her mother: no, it was not the same thing!. . . With her habitual exaggeration she rushed from one extreme to theother. Till then she had suspected nothing. Thereafter she suspectedeverything. Implacably she read new meanings into this and that detailof her mother's behavior in the past. And no doubt Madame Langeais'sfrivolity furnished only too many grounds for her suppositions: butJacqueline added to them. She longed to be more intimate with herfather, who had always been nearer to her, his quality of mind having agreat 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 asuspicion, more dreadful even than the first, crossed the girl's heatedimagination, --that her father knew nothing, but that it suited him toknow nothing, and that, so long as he were allowed to go his own way, hedid not care. 

Then Jacqueline felt that she was lost. She dared not despise them. Sheloved them. But she could not go on living in their house. Herfriendship with Simone Adam was no help at all. She judged severely thefoibles of her former boon companion. She did not spare herself:everything that was ugly and mediocre in herself made her sufferterribly: she clung desperately to the pure memory of Marthe. But thatmemory was fading: she felt that the stream of time, one day followinganother, would cover it up and wash away all trace of it. And then therewould be an end of everything: she would be like the rest, sunk deep inthe mire. . . . Oh! if she could only escape from, such a world, at anycost! Save me! Save me!. . . 

It was just when she was in this fever of despair, feeling her utterdestitution, 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, wasthe musician of the hour. Christophe accepted, and, as usual, did nottake any trouble to make himself pleasant. However, Madame Langeaisthought him charming;--he could do anything he liked, as long as he wasthe fashion: everybody would go on thinking him charming, while thefashion ran its allotted course of a few months. --Jacqueline, who, forthe time being, was outside the current, was not so charmed with him:the mere fact that Christophe was belauded by certain people was enoughto make her diffident about him. Besides, Christophe's bluntness, andhis loud way of speaking, and his noisy gaiety, offended her. In herthen state of mind the joy of living seemed a coarse thing to her: hereyes were fixed on the twilight melancholy of the soul, and she fanciedthat she loved it. There was too much sunlight in Christophe. 

But when she talked to him he told her about Olivier: he always had tobring his friend into every pleasant thing that happened to him: itwould have seemed to him a selfish use of a new friendship if he had notset aside a part of it for Olivier. He told Jacqueline so much abouthim, that she felt a secret emotion in thus catching a glimpse of a soulso much in accordance with her ideas, and made her mother invite himtoo. Olivier did not accept at first, so that Christophe and Jacquelinewere 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 uphis mind to go. 

He went, but hardly spoke a word. He did not need to speak. Hisintelligent eyes, his smile, his refined manners, the tranquillity thatwas in and inundated by his personality, could not but attractJacqueline. Christophe, by contrast, stood as a foil to Olivier'sshining qualities. She did not show anything, for she was fearful of thefeeling stirring in her: she confined herself to talking to Christophe, but it was always about Olivier. Christophe was only too happy to talkabout his friend, and did not notice Jacqueline's pleasure in thesubject of their conversation. He used to talk about himself, and shewould listen agreeably enough, though she was not in the leastinterested: then, without seeming to do so, she would bring theconversation round to those episodes in his life which included Olivier. 

Jacqueline's pretty ways were dangerous for a man who was not on hisguard. Without knowing it Christophe fell in love with her: it gave himpleasure to go to the house again: he took pains with his dress: and afeeling, which he well knew, began to tinge all his ideas with itstender smiling languor. Olivier was in love with her too, and had beenfrom their first meeting: he thought she had no regard for him, andsuffered in silence. Christophe made his state even worse by telling himjoyously, as they left the Langeais' house, what he had said toJacqueline and what she had said to him. The idea never occurred toOlivier that Jacqueline should like him. Although, by dint of livingwith Christophe, he had become more optimistic, he still distrustedhimself: he could not believe that any woman would ever love him, for hesaw himself too clearly, and with eyes that saw too truthfully:--whatman is there would be worthy to be loved; if it were for his merits, andnot by the magic and indulgence of love?

One evening when he had been invited to the Langeais', he felt that itwould make him too unhappy to feel Jacqueline's indifference: he saidthat he was too tired and told Christophe to go without him. Christophesuspected nothing, and went off in high delight. In his naïve egoism hethought only of the pleasure of having Jacqueline all to himself. He wasnot suffered to rejoice for long. When she heard that Olivier was notcoming, Jacqueline at once became peevish, irritable, bored, anddispirited: she lost all desire to please: she did not listen toChristophe, and answered him at random: and he had the humiliation ofseeing her stifle a weary yawn. She was near tears. Suddenly she wentaway in the middle of the evening, and did not appear again. 

Christophe went home discomfited. All the way home he tried to explainthis 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 facebrighten 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 notgoing. "

He looked at him affectionately and roguishly, and went away into hisown room: and then, when he was alone, he began to laugh quietly, andlaughed until he cried:

"Little minx!" he thought. "She was making a game of me! And he wasdeceiving me, too. What a secret they made of it!"

From that moment he plucked out every personal thought of Jacquelinefrom his heart: and, like a broody hen hatching her eggs, he hatched theromance of the young lovers. Without seeming to know their secret, andwithout betraying either to the other, he helped them, though they neverknew it. 

He thought it his solemn duty to study Jacqueline's character to see ifOlivier could be happy with her. And, being very tactless, he horrifiedJacqueline 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 refuseto answer him, and turn her back on him. 

And Olivier would be delighted to see Jacqueline paying no moreattention to Christophe. And Christophe would be overjoyed at seeingOlivier's happiness. His joy was patent, and revealed itself much moreobstreperously than Olivier's. And as Jacqueline could not explain it, and never dreamed that Christophe had a much clearer knowledge of theirlove than she had herself, she thought him unbearable: she could notunderstand how Olivier could be so infatuated with such a vulgar, cumbersome friend. Christophe divined her thoughts, and took a maliciousdelight in infuriating her: then he would step aside, and say that hewas too busy to accept the Langeais' invitations, so as to leaveJacqueline and Olivier alone together. 

However, he was not altogether without anxiety concerning the future. Heregarded himself as responsible in a large measure for the marriage thatwas in the making, and he worried over it, for he had a fair insightinto Jacqueline's character, and he was afraid of many things: herwealth first of all, her up-bringing, her surroundings, and, above all, her weakness. He remembered his old friend Colette, though, no doubt, headmitted that Jacqueline was truer, more frank, more passionate: therewas in the girl an ardent aspiration towards a life of courage, analmost heroic desire for it. 

"But desiring isn't everything, " thought Christophe, remembering a jestof Diderot's: "the chief thing is a straight backbone. "

He would have liked to warn Olivier of the danger. But when he saw himcome back from being with Jacqueline, with his eyes lit with joy, he hadnot 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'sconfidence. He took heart of grace, and at last began to believe thatJacqueline was just as Olivier saw her and as she wished to appear inher own eyes. She meant so well! She loved Olivier for all the qualitieswhich 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 sowhole 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 forherself, and for the love with which her heart was so full, the love forwhich her heart was so hungry. . . . Ah! Sometimes, when he was not withher, she would go pale and her hands would tremble. She would seem toscoff at her emotion, and pretend to be thinking of something else, andto take no notice of it. She would talk mockingly of things. Butsuddenly she would break off, and rush away and shut herself up in herroom: and then, with the doors locked, and the curtains drawn over thewindow, she would sit there, with her knees tight together, and herelbows close against her sides, and her arms folded across her breast, while she tried to repress the beating of her heart: she would sit therehuddled together, never stirring, hardly breathing: she dared not movefor fear lest her happiness should escape if she so much as lifted afinger. She would sit holding her love close, close to her body insilence. 

And now Christophe was absolutely determined that Olivier should succeedin his wooing. He fussed round him like a mother, supervised hisdressing, presumed to give him advice as to what he should wear, andeven--(think of it!)--tied his tie for him. Olivier bore with himpatiently at the cost of having to retie his tie on the stairs whenChristophe was no longer present. He smiled inwardly, but he was touchedby such great affection. Besides, his love had made him timid, and hewas not sure of himself, and was glad of Christophe's advice. He used totell him everything that happened when he was with Jacqueline, andChristophe would be just as moved by it as himself, and sometimes atnight he would lie awake for hours trying to find the means of makingthe path of love smoother for his friend. 

It was in the garden of the Langeais' villa, near Paris, on theoutskirts of the forest of Isle-Adam, that Olivier and Jacqueline hadthe interview which was the turning-point in their lives. 

Christophe had gone down with his friend, but he had found a harmoniumin the house, and sat playing so as to leave the lovers to walk aboutthe garden in peace. --Truth to tell, they did not wish it. They wereafraid to be left alone. Jacqueline was silent and rather hostile. Onhis last visit Olivier had been conscious of a change in her manner, asudden coldness, an expression in her eyes which was strange, hard, andalmost 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 heloved. He trembled whenever he saw Christophe leave them, for it seemedto him that his presence was his only safeguard against the blow whichthreatened to fall upon him. 

It was not that Jacqueline loved Olivier less. Rather she was more inlove with him, and it was that that made her hostile. Love, with whichtill 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 wascaught: she was in the toils of love: she was on the point of losingherself in love, losing herself utterly; her will, her independence, heregoism, her dreams of the future, all were to be swallowed up by themonster. And she would harden herself in anger, and sometimes she wouldfeel that she almost hated Olivier. 

They went to the very end of the garden, into the kitchen-garden, whichwas cut off from the lawns by a hedge of tall trees. They sauntered downthe paths bordered on either side with gooseberry bushes, with theirclusters of red and golden fruit, and beds of strawberries, thefragrance of which scented the air. It was June: but there had beenstorms, 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 leafstirred: but the air was very fresh. Everything was shrouded inmelancholy, even their hearts, swelling with the grave happiness thatwas in them. And from the other end of the garden, through the openwindows of the villa, out of sight, there came the sound of theharmonium, grinding out the Fugue in E Flat Minor of Johann SebastianBach. They sat down on the coping of a well, both pale and silent. AndOlivier 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 upthe struggle: she was vanquished, and it was such sweet comfort to her!. . . They wept silently as they sat listening to the music under themoving canopy of the heavy clouds, which in their noiseless flightseemed to skim the tops of the trees. They thought of all that they hadsuffered, and perhaps--who knows?--of all that they were to suffer inthe future. There are moments when music summons forth all the sadnesswoven 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 belovedMarthe and with her heart big with emotion she told him how she hadwept, wept until she thought she was going to die. 

"You will help me?" she said, in a beseeching tone. "You will help meto live, and be good, and to be a little like her? Poor Marthe, you willlove 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, andcould 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 wethair: she turned her face up to him, and, for the first time, he feltloving lips against his, a girl's lips, warm and parted a little. Theywere 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 dooropen, he started from his dream, and turned to them affectionately witha solemn, tender smile lighting up his face. He saw in their eyes whathad 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 inhis heart, and the great love he had for them. When he had done they allthree sat in silence. Then he got up and looked at them. He looked sokind, and so much older, so much stronger than they! For the first timeshe began to appreciate what he was. He hugged them both, and said toJacqueline:

"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 theconversation, laughed, went to the window, and sprang out into thegarden. 

 * * * * *

During the days following he kept urging Olivier to go and propose hissuit to Jacqueline's parents. Olivier dared not, dreading the refusalwhich he anticipated. Christophe also insisted on his setting aboutfinding work, for even supposing the Langeais accepted him, he could nottake Jacqueline's fortune unless he were himself in a position to earnhis living. Olivier was of the same opinion, though he did not share hisviolent and rather comic distrust of wealthy marriages. It was a rootedidea in Christophe's mind that riches are death to the soul. It was onthe tip of his tongue to quote the saying of a wise beggar to a richlady who was worried in her mind about the next life:

"What, madame, you have millions, and you want to have an immortal soulinto the bargain?"

"Beware of women, " he would say to Olivier--half in jest, half inearnest--"beware of women, but be twenty times more wary of rich women. Women love art, perhaps, but they strangle the artist. Rich women poisonboth art and artists. Wealth is a disease. And women are moresusceptible to it than men. Every rich man is an abnormal being. . . . Youlaugh? You don't take me seriously? Look you: does a rich man know whatlife 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 ofthe bread that he must earn, of the earth that he must dig? Can heunderstand, does he even see people and things as they are?. . . When Iwas a little boy I was once or twice taken for a drive in the GrandDuke's landau. We drove through fields in which I knew every blade ofgrass, through woods that I adored, where I used to run wild all bymyself. Well: I saw nothing at all. The whole country had become asstiff and starched as the idiots with whom I was driving. Between thefields and my heart there was not only the curtain of the souls of thoseformal people. The wooden planks beneath my feet, the moving platformbeing rolled over the face of Nature, were quite enough. To feel thatthe 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 whichbinds men to the earth, and holds the sons of the earth together. Andthen how can you expect to be an artist? The artist is the voice of theearth. A rich man cannot be a great artist. He would need a thousandtimes more genius to be so under such unfavorable conditions. Even if hesucceeds his art must be a hot-house fruit. The great Goethe struggledin vain: parts of his soul were atrophied, he lacked certain of thevital organs, which were killed by his wealth. You have nothing like thevitality of a Goethe, and you would be destroyed by wealth, especiallyby a rich woman, a fate which Goethe did at least avoid. Only the mancan withstand the scourge. He has in him such native brutality, such arich deposit of rude, healthy instincts binding him to the earth, thathe alone has any chance of escape. But the woman is tainted by thepoison, and she communicates the taint to others. She acquires a tastefor the reeking scent of wealth, and cannot do without it. A woman whocan be rich and yet remain sound in heart is a prodigy as rare as amillionaire who has genius. . . . And I don't like monsters. Any one whohas more than enough to live on is a monster--a human cancer preyingupon the lives of the rest of humanity. "

Olivier laughed:

"What do you want?" he said. "I can't stop loving Jacqueline because sheis 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 bestway of saving her. Keep yourself pure. Work. "

Olivier did not need to go to Christophe for scruples. He was even morenicely sensitive than he in such matters. Not that he took Christophe'sdiatribes against money seriously: he had been rich himself, and did notloathe riches, and thought them a very good setting for Jacqueline'spretty face. But it was intolerable to think that his love might in anyway be contaminated with an imputation of interest. He applied to havehis name restored to the University list. For the time being he couldnot hope for anything better than a moderate post in a provincialschool. It was a poor wedding-present to give to Jacqueline. He told herabout it timidly. Jacqueline found it difficult at first to see hispoint of view: she attributed it to an excessive pride, put into hishead by Christophe, and she thought it ridiculous: was it not morenatural between lovers to set no store by riches or poverty, and was itnot rather shabby to refuse to be indebted to her when it would give hersuch great joy?. . . However, she threw herself in with Olivier's plans:their austerity and discomfort were the very things that brought herround, for she found in them an opportunity of gratifying her desire formoral heroism. In her condition of proud revolt against her surroundingswhich had been induced by the death of her aunt, and was exalted by herlove, she had gone so far as to deny every element in her nature whichwas in contradiction to her mystic ardor: in all sincerity her wholebeing was strained, like a bow, after an ideal of a pure and difficultlife, radiant with happiness. . . . The obstacles, the very smallness anddullness of her future condition in life, were a joy to her. How goodand beautiful it would all be!. . . 

Madame Langeais was too much taken up with herself to pay much attentionto what was going on about her. For some time past she had been thinkingof little outside her health: she spent her whole time in treatingimaginary illnesses, and trying one doctor after another: each of themin turn was her saviour, and went on enjoying that position for afortnight: then it was another's turn. She would stay away from home formonths in expensive sanatoria, where she religiously carried out allsorts of preposterous prescriptions to the letter. She had forgotten herhusband and daughter. 

M. Langeais was not so indifferent, and had begun to suspect the existenceof the affair. His paternal jealousy made him feel it. He hadfor Jacqueline that strange pure affection which many fathers feel fortheir daughters, an elusive, indefinable feeling, a mysterious, voluptuous, and almost sacred curiosity, in living once more in thelives of fellow-creatures who are of their blood, who are themselves, and are women. In such secrets of the heart there are many lights andshadows which it is healthier to ignore. Hitherto it had amused him tosee his daughter making calfish young men fall in love with her: heloved her so, romantic, coquettish, and discreet--(just as he washimself). --But when he saw that this affair threatened to become moreserious, he grew anxious. He began by making fun of Olivier toJacqueline, and then he criticised him with a certain amount ofbitterness. 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 thatshe lost her head completely. He declared that he would never let hermarry Olivier. She vowed that she would marry him. The veil was rent. Hesaw that he was nothing to her. In his fatherly egoism it had neveroccurred to him, and he was angry. He swore that neither Olivier norChristophe should ever set foot inside his house again. Jacqueline losther temper, and one fine morning Olivier opened the door to admit ayoung woman, pale and determined looking, who rushed in like awhirlwind, 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 arguewith her. Fortunately Christophe was there. Ordinarily he was the leastreasonable of men, but now he reasoned with them. He pointed out what ascandal there would be, and how they would suffer for it. Jacqueline bither lip angrily, and said:

"Very well. We will kill ourselves. "

So far from frightening Olivier, her threat only helped to make up hismind to side with her. Christophe had no small difficulty in making thecrazy pair have a little patience: before taking such desperate measuresthey might as well try others: let Jacqueline go home, and he would goand see M. Langeais and plead their cause. 

A queer advocate! M. Langeais nearly kicked him out on the first wordshe said: but then the absurdity of the situation struck him, and itamused him. Little by little the gravity of his visitor and hisexpression of honesty and absolute sincerity began to make animpression: however, he would not fall in with his contentions, and wenton firing ironical remarks at him. Christophe pretended not to hear:but every now and then as a more than usually biting shaft struck home hewould 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 onyou: I have to control myself to keep from retaliating on you forcertain 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 Iam telling you. "

M. Langeais listened: and when he heard of the project of suicide, heshrugged his shoulders and pretended to laugh: but he was shaken. He wastoo clever to take such a threat as a joke: he knew that he had to dealwith the insanity of a girl in love. One of his mistresses, a gay, gentle creature, whom he had thought incapable of putting her boastfulthreat 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 hisdaughter to extremes. In truth he might have used diplomacy, andpretended to give his consent to gain time, gently to wean Jacquelinefrom Olivier. But doing so meant giving himself more trouble than hecould or would be bothered with. Besides, he was weak: and the mere factthat he had angrily said "No!" to Jacqueline, now inclined him to say"Yes. " After all, what does one know of life? Perhaps the child wasright. The great thing was that they should love each other. M. Langeaisknew quite well that Olivier was a serious young man, and perhaps hadtalent. . . . He gave his consent. 

 * * * * *

The day before the marriage the two friends sat up together into thesmall hours. They did not wish to lose the last hours of their dear lifetogether. --But already it was in the past. It was like those sadfarewells on the station platform when there is a long wait before thetrain moves: one insists on staying, and looking and talking. But one'sheart is not in it: one's friend has already gone. . . . Christophe triedto talk. He stopped in the middle of a sentence, seeing the absent lookin 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 realizethat his thoughts were wandering during the last intimate moments withhis 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 throughthe darkness down into the garden. After some time Christophe said toOlivier:

"You are running away from me. You think you can escape me? You arethinking of your Jacqueline. But I shall catch you up. I, too, amthinking of her. "

"Poor old fellow, " said Olivier, "and I was thinking of you! Andeven. . . . "

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. Therewas no religious ceremony: neither the indifferent Olivier nor therebellious Jacqueline had wished it. Christophe had written a symphonicfragment for the ceremony at the _mairie_, but at the last momenthe gave up the idea when he realized what a civil marriage is: hethought such ceremonies absurd. People need to have lost both faith andliberty before they can have any belief in them. When a true Catholictakes the trouble to become a free-thinker he is not likely to endow afunctionary of the civil State with a religious character. Between Godand his own conscience there is no room for a State religion. The Stateregisters, it does not bind man and wife together. 

The marriage of Olivier and Jacqueline was not likely to make Christopheregret his decision. Olivier listened with a faintly ironical air ofaloofness to the Mayor ponderously fawning upon the young couple, andthe wealthy relations, and the witnesses who wore decorations. Jacqueline did not listen: and she furtively put out her tongue atSimone Adam, who was watching her: she had made a bet with her thatbeing "married" would not affect her in the least, and it looked asthough she would win it: it hardly seemed to occur to her that it wasshe who was being married: the idea of it tickled her. The rest wereposing for the onlookers: and the onlookers were taking them all in. M. Langeais was showing off: in spite of his sincere affection for hisdaughter, he was chiefly occupied in taking stock of the guests to findout whether he had left any gaps in his list of invitations. OnlyChristophe was moved: not one of the rest, relations, bride, andbridegroom, or the Mayor officiating, showed any emotion: he stoodgazing 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 allsorry to be going, and did not conceal their impatience for the train tomove. Olivier looked like a boy, and Jacqueline like a little girl. . . . What a tender, melancholy charm is in such partings! The father is alittle 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 newintoxicating sense of liberty. There are no more hindrances to life:nothing can stop them ever again: they seem to have reached the verysummit: now might they die readily, for they have everything, andnothing to fear. . . . But soon they see that it was no more than a stagein the journey. The road still lies before them, and winds round themountain: and there are very few who reach the second stage. . . . 

The train bore them away into the night. Christophe and M. Langeais wenthome together. Christophe said with naive archness:

"Now we are both widowed!"

M. Langeais began to laugh. He liked Christophe now that he knew himbetter. They said good-by, and went their ways. They were both unhappy, with an odd mixture of sadness and sweetness. Sitting alone in his roomChristophe thought:

"The best of my soul is happy. "

Nothing had been altered in Olivier's room. They had arranged that untilOlivier returned and settled in a new house his furniture and belongingsshould stay with Christophe. It was as though he himself was stillpresent. Christophe looked at the portrait of Antoinette, placed it onhis desk, and said to it:

"My dear, are you glad?"

He wrote often--rather too often--to Olivier. He had a few vaguelywritten letters, which were increasingly distant in tone. He wasdisappointed, but not much affected by it. He persuaded himself that itmust 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 ofit to suit his taste. He was beginning to suffer from the patronage ofthe _Grand Journal_. Arsène Gamache had a tendency to believe thathe had proprietary rights in the famous men whom he had taken thetrouble to discover: he took it as a matter of course that their fameshould be associated with his own, much as Louis XIV. Grouped Molière, Le Brun, and Lulli about his throne. Christophe discovered that theauthor of the _Hymn to Aegis_ was not more imperial or more of anuisance to art than his patron of the _Grand Journal_. For thejournalist, who knew no more about art than the Emperor, had opinions noless decided about it: he could not tolerate the existence of anythinghe did not like: he decreed that it was bad and pernicious: and he wouldruin it in the public interest. It is both comic and terrible to seesuch coarse-grained uncultivated men of affairs presuming to control notonly politics and money, but also the mind, and offering it a kennelwith a collar and a dish of food, or, if it refuses, having the power tolet loose against it thousands of idiots whom they have trained into adocile pack of hounds!--Christophe was not the sort of man to lethimself be schooled and disciplined. It seemed to him a very bad thingthat an ignoramus should take upon himself to tell him what he ought andought not to do in music: and he gave him to understand that art neededa much more severe training than politics. Also, without any sort ofpolite circumlocution, he declined a proposal that he should set tomusic a libretto, which the author, a leading member of the staff of thepaper, was trying to place, while it was highly recommended by hischief. It had the effect of cooling his relations with Gamache. 

Christophe did not mind that in the least. Though he had so lately risenfrom 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 ponderedthese words of Goethe:

_"When a writer has attracted attention by a good piece of work, thepublic tries to prevent his producing another. . . . The brooding talent isdragged out into the hurly-burly of the world, in spite of itself, because every one thinks he will be able to appropriate a part ofit. "_

He shut his door upon the outside world, and began to seek the companyof some of his old friends in his own house. He revisited the Arnauds, whom he had somewhat neglected. Madame Arnaud, who was left alone forpart of the day, had time to think of the sorrows of others. She thoughthow empty Christophe's life must be now that Olivier was gone: and sheovercame her shyness so far as to invite him to dinner. If she haddared, she would even have offered to go in from time to time and tidyhis 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 heaccepted the invitation to dinner, and made a habit of going in to theArnauds' every evening. 

He found them just as united, living in the same atmosphere of rathersad, sorrowful tenderness, though it was even grayer than before, Arnaudwas passing through a period of depression, brought on by the wear andtear of his life as a teacher, --a life of exhausting labor, in which oneday 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 everadvancing. Though he was very patient, the good man was passing througha crisis of discouragement. He let certain acts of injustice prey uponhim, and was inclined to think that all his zeal was futile. MadameArnaud would comfort him with kind words: she seemed to be just as calmand peaceful as in the old days: but her face was thinner. In herpresence Christophe would congratulate Arnaud on having such a sensiblewife. 

"Yes, " Arnaud would say, "she is a good little creature; nothing ever putsher out. She is lucky: so am I. If she had suffered in this cursedlife, I don't see how I could have got through. "

Madame Arnaud would blush and say nothing. Then in her even tones shewould talk of something else. --Christophe's visits had their usual goodeffect: they brought light in their train: and he, for his part, foundit 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 togo 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: hername was Cécile Fleury. She was short and rather thick-set. She hadheavy eyebrows, fine, large eyes, with a soft expression, a short, broad, turned-up nose, inclined to redness, like a duck's beak, thicklips, kind and tender, an energetic chin, heavy and solid, and herforehead was broad, but not high. Her hair was done up in a large bun atthe back of her neck. She had strong arms and a pianist's hands, verylong, with a splayed thumb and square finger-tips. The generalimpression she gave was one of a rather sluggish vitality and of ruderustic health. She lived with her mother, who was very dear to her: agood, kind woman, who took not the smallest interest in music though sheused to talk about it, because she was always hearing about it, and kneweverything that happened in Musicopolis. She had a dull, even life, gavelessons all day long, and sometimes concerts, of which nobody took anynotice. 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 scalesbravely 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 comfortwhen she had earned it by her own efforts, --the joy of a littlepleasure, or a little scarcely perceptible advance in her position orher work. Indeed, if one month she could only earn five francs more thanin the last, or if she could at length manage to play a certain passageof Chopin which she had been struggling with for weeks, --she would bequite happy. Her work, which was not excessive, exactly fitted heraptitude for it, and gave her a healthy satisfaction. Playing, singing, giving lessons gave her a pleasant feeling of satisfied activity, normaland regular, and at the same time a modest competence and a comfortableplacid success. She had a healthy appetite, ate much, slept well, andwas never ill. 

She was clear-headed, sensible, modest, perfectly balanced, and neverworried about anything: for she always lived in and for the present, without bothering her head about what had happened or what was going tohappen in the future. And as she was always well, and as her life wascomparatively secure from the sudden turns of fate, she was almostalways satisfied. She took the same pleasure in practising her piano asin keeping house, or talking about things domestic, or doing nothing. She had the art of living, not from day to day--(she was economical andprovident)--but from minute to minute. She was not possessed of any sortof idealism: the only ideal she had, if it could be called so, wasbourgeois, and was unostentatiously expressed in her every action, andevenly distributed through every moment of the day: it consisted inpeacefully loving everything she was doing, whatever it might be. Shewent to church on Sundays: but the feeling of religion had practicallyno place in her life. She admired enthusiasts, like Christophe, who hadfaith or genius: but she did not envy them: what could she have donewith their uneasiness and their genius?

How came it, then, that she could feel their music? She would have foundit hard to say. But it was very certain that she did feel it. She wassuperior to other virtuosi by reason of her sturdy quality of balance, physical and moral: in her abounding vitality, in the absence ofpersonal passion, the passions of others found a rich soil in which tocome to flower. She was not touched by them. She could translate in alltheir energy the terrible passions which had consumed the artist withoutbeing tainted by their poison: she only felt their force and the greatweariness that came after its expression. When it was over, she would beall in a sweat, utterly exhausted: she would smile calmly and feel veryhappy. 

Christophe heard her one evening, and was struck by her playing. He wentand shook hands with her after the concert. She was grateful to him forit: there were very few people at the concert, and she was not so usedto compliments as to take no delight in them. As she had never beenclever enough to throw in her lot with any musical coterie, or cunningenough to surround herself with a group of worshipers, and as she neverattempted to make herself particular, either by technical mannerisms orby a fantastic interpretation of the hallowed compositions, or byassuming an exclusive right to play some particular master, such asJohann Sebastian Bach, or Beethoven, and as she had no theories aboutwhat she played, but contented herself with playing simply what shefelt--nobody paid any attention to her, and the critics ignored her: fornobody told them that she played well, and they were not likely to findit out for themselves. 

Christophe saw a good deal of Cécile. Her strength and tranquillityattracted him as a mystery. She was vigorous and apathetic. In hisindignation at her not being better known he proposed that he should gethis friends of the _Grand Journal_ to write about her. But althoughshe would have liked to be praised, she begged him not to do anything toprocure it. She did not want to have the struggle or the bother or thejealousies it would entail: she wanted to be left in peace. She was nottalked about: so much the better! She was not envious, and she was thefirst to be enthusiastic about the technique of other virtuosi. She hadno 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 eitherslept or thought of nothing. She had not the morbid preoccupation withmarriage, which poisons the lives of girls who shiver at the thought ofdying old maids. When she was asked if she would not like to have ahusband, she would say:

"Why not throw in fifty thousand a year? One has to take what comes. Ifany one offers, so much the better! If not, one goes without. Becauseone can't have cake, I don't see why one shouldn't be glad of honestbread. Especially when one has had to eat stale bread for so long!"

"Besides, " her mother would say, "there are plenty of people who neverget any bread to eat at all!"

Cécile had good reason to fight shy of men. Her father, who had beendead some years, was a weak, lazy creature: he had wronged his wife andhis family. She had also a brother who had turned out badly and did notknow what had become of him: every now and then he would turn up and askfor money: she and her mother were afraid of him and ashamed of him, andfearful of what they might hear about him any day: and yet they lovedhim. Christophe met him once. He was at Cécile's house: there was a ringat the door: and her mother answered it. He heard a conversation beingcarried on in the next room, and the voices were raised every now andthen. Cécile seemed ill at ease, and went out also, leaving Christophealone. The discussion went on, and the stranger's voice assumed athreatening tone: Christophe thought it time to intervene, and openedthe door. He hardly had time to do more than catch a glimpse of a youngand slightly deformed man, whose back was turned towards him, for Cécilerushed towards him and implored him to go back. She went with him, andthey sat in silence. In the next room the visitor went on shouting for afew minutes longer, and then took his leave and slammed the door. ThenCécile 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 afamily had no enchantment for her, nor had the idea of marriage anyfascination: men were rather a worthless lot on the whole. Herindependent life had many advantages: her mother had often sighed afterher liberty: she had no desire to lose it. The only day-dream in whichshe indulged was that some day--Heaven knows when!--she would not haveto give lessons any more, and would be able to live in the county. Butshe did not even take the trouble to imagine such a life in detail: shefound it too fatiguing to think of anything so uncertain: it was betterto sleep, --or do her work. . . . 

In the meanwhile, in default of her castle in Spain, she used to hire alittle house in the outskirts of Paris for the summer, and lived therewith her mother. It was twenty minutes' journey by train. The house wassome distance away from the station, standing alone in the midst of astretch of waste lands which were called "fields, " and Cécile used oftento return late at night. But she was not afraid, and did not believethere was any danger. She had a revolver, but she always used to leaveit at home. Besides, it was doubtful if she would have known how to useit. 

Sometimes, when he went to see her, Christophe would make her play. Itamused him to see her keen perception of the music, especially when hehad dropped a hint which put her on the track of a feeling that calledfor expression. He had discovered that she had an excellent voice, butshe had no idea of it. He made her practise it, and would give her oldGerman _lieder_ or his own music to sing: it gave her pleasure, andshe made such progress as to surprise herself as much as him. She wasmarvelously gifted. The fire of music had miraculously descended uponthis daughter of Parisian middle-class parents who were utterly devoidof any artistic feeling. Philomela--(for so he used to call her)--usedsometimes to discuss music with Christophe, but always in a practical, never in a sentimental, way: she seemed only to be interested in thetechnique of singing and the piano. Generally, when they were togetherand were not playing music, they talked of the most commonplace things, and Christophe, who could not for a moment have tolerated suchconversations with an ordinary woman, would discuss these subjects as amatter of course with Philomela. 

They used to spend whole evenings alone together, and were genuinelyfond of each other, though their affection was perfectly calm and evenalmost cold. One evening, when he had dined with her, and had stayedtalking 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. Onlya thin partition was between it and Cécile's bedroom, and the doors werenot 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 hefollowed her example without either of them having had the faintestshadow of an uneasy thought. 

At the same time there came into his life a number of other unknownfriends, drawn to him by reading his works. Most of them lived far awayfrom Paris or shut up in their homes, and never met him. Even a vulgarsuccess does a certain amount of good: it makes the artist known tothousands of good people in remote corners whom he could never havereached without the stupid articles in the papers. Christophe enteredinto correspondence with some of them. There were lonely young men, living a life of hardship, their whole being aspiring to an ideal of whichthey were not sure, and they came greedily to slake their thirstat the well of Christophe's brotherly spirit. There were humble peoplein the provinces who read his _lieder_ and wrote to him, like oldSchulz, and felt themselves one with him. There were poor artists, --acomposer among others, --who had not, and could not attain, not onlysuccess, but self-expression, and it made them glad to have their ideasrealized by Christophe. And dearest of all, perhaps, --there were thosewho wrote to him without giving their names, and, being thus more freeto speak, naively laid bare their touching confidence in the elderbrother who had come to their assistance. Christophe's heart would growbig at the thought that he would never know these charming people whomit would have given him such joy to love: he would kiss some of theseanonymous letters as the writers of them kissed his _lieder_; andeach 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 formedabout him the little family of genius, grouped about him, giving himfood and taking it from him, which grows little by little, and in theend becomes one great collective soul, of which he is the central fire, like a gleaming world, a moral planet moving through space, mingling itschorus of brotherhood with the harmony of the spheres. 

And as these mysterious links were forged between Christophe and hisunseen friends, a revolution took place in his artistic faculty: itbecame larger and more human. He lost all interest in music which was amonologue, a soliloquy, and even more so in music which was a scientificstructure built entirely for the interest of the profession. He wishedhis music to be an act of communion with other men. There is no vitalart save that which is linked with the rest of humanity. Johann SebastianBach, even in his darkest hours of isolation, was linked with the restof humanity by his religious faith, which he expressed in his art. Handel and Mozart, by dint of circumstances, wrote for an audience, andnot for themselves. Even Beethoven had to reckon with the multitude. Itis 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, greatartists who express only themselves. But the greatest of all are thosewhose hearts beat for all men. If any man would see the living God faceto 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 wroteonly for a more or less anarchical and vain group, uprooted from thelife of the country, who preened themselves on not sharing theprejudices and passions of the rest of humanity, or else made a mock ofthem. It is a fine sort of fame that is won by self-amputation fromlife, so as to be unlike other men! Let all such artists perish! We willgo with the living, be suckled at the breasts of the earth, and drink inall that is most profound and sacred in our people, and all its lovefrom the family and the soil. In the greatest age of liberty, among thepeople with the most ardent worship of beauty, the young Prince of theItalian Renaissance, Raphael, glorified maternity in his transteverineMadonnas. Who is there now to give us in music a _Madonna à laChaise?_ 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 yourpeople songs, you are reduced to bringing up to date the German mastersof the past. In your art, from top to bottom, everything remains to bedone, or to be done again. . . . 

Christophe corresponded with Olivier, who was now settled in a provincialtown. He tried to maintain in correspondence that collaboration which hadbeen so fruitful during the time when they had lived together. He wantedhim to write him fine poetic words closely allied with the thoughts anddeeds of everyday life, like the poems which are the substance of the oldGerman _lieder_. Short fragments from the Scriptures and the Hindoo poems, and the old Greek philosophers, short religious and moral poems, littlepictures of Nature, the emotions of love or family life, the whole poetryof morning, evening, and night, that is in simple, healthy people. Fourlines or six are enough for a _lied_: only the simplest expressions, andno elaborate development or subtlety of harmony. What have I to do withyour 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 ustogether find the clearest melody. Let us avoid like the plague anyartistic 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 thecourage to speak like men, and not like "artists. " We must draw upon thecommon fund of all men, and unashamedly make use of old formulae, uponwhich the ages have set their seal, formulas which the ages have filledwith their spirit. Look at what our forefathers have done. It was byreturning to the musical language of all men that the art of the Germanclassics of the eighteenth century came into being. The melodies of Gluckand the creators of the symphony are sometimes trivial and commonplacecompared with the subtle and erudite phrases of Johann Sebastian Bach andRameau. It is their raciness of the soil that gives such zest to, and hasprocured such immense popularity for the German classics. They began withthe simplest musical forms, the _lied_ and the _Singspiel_, the littleflowers of everyday life which impregnated the childhood of men likeMozart and Weber. --Do you do the same. Write songs for all and sundry. Upon that basis you will soon build quartettes and symphonies. What isthe good of rushing ahead? The pyramids were not begun at the top. Yoursymphonies at present are trunkless heads, ideas without any stuffing. Oh, you fair spirits, become incarnate! There must be generations ofmusicians patiently and joyously and piously living in brotherhood withthese people. No musical art was ever built in a day. 

Christophe was not content to apply these principles in music: he urgedOlivier to set himself at the head of a similar movement in literature:

"The writers of to-day, " he said, "waste their energy in describinghuman rarities, or cases that are common enough in the abnormal groupsof men and women living on the fringe of the great society of active, healthy human beings. Since they themselves have shut themselves offfrom life, leave them and go where there are men. Show the life of everyday to the men and women of every day: that life is deeper and more vastthan the sea. The smallest among you bears the infinite in his soul. Theinfinite 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 radiantglory of the day of childbirth, in every man and every woman who livesin obscure self-sacrifice which will never be known to another soul: itis the very river of life, flowing from one to another, from one toanother, and back again and round. . . . Write the simple life of one ofthese simple men, write the peaceful epic of the days and nightsfollowing, following one like to another, and yet all different, allsons of the same mother, from the dawning of the first day in the lifeof the world. Write it simply, as simple as its own unfolding. Waste nothought upon the word, and the letter, and the subtle vain researches inwhich the force of the artists of to-day is turned to nought. You areaddressing all men: use the language of all men. There are no wordsnoble or vulgar; there is no style chaste or impure: there are onlywords 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, --andfeel just what you feel. Let the rhythm of your heart prevail in yourwritings! 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 whowould care to read it. The critics would strangle it on the way. "

"There speaks my little French bourgeois!" replied Christophe. "Worryinghis 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. Thegreat thing is to be victor. . . . I have managed to get along withoutthem! 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 thattime he was thinking of nothing but Jacqueline, and Jacqueline wasthinking of nothing but him. 

The selfishness of their love had cut them off from everything andeverybody: 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 eachother. . . . With every part of themselves, body and soul, they touch andtaste and seek to probe into the very inmost depths. They are alonetogether in a lawless universe, a very chaos of love, when the confusedelements know not as yet what distinguishes one from the other, andstrive greedily to devour each other. Each in other finds nothing savedelight: each in other finds another self. What is the world to them?Like the antique Androgyne slumbering in his dream of voluptuous andharmonious delights, their eyes are closed to the world, All the worldis in themselves. . . . 

O days, O nights, weaving one web of dreams, hours fleeting like thefloating white clouds in the heavens, leaving nought but a shimmeringwake in dazzled eyes, the warm wind breathing the languor of spring, thegolden warmth of the body, the sunlit arbor of love, shameless chastity, embraces, and madness, and sighs, and happy laughter, happy tears, whatis there left of the lovers, thrice happy dust? Hardly, it seems, thattheir hearts could ever remember to beat: for when they were one thentime 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 smileand their breath is mingled, their eyes open and meet, and they kiss. . . . There is freshness and youth in the morning hours, a virgin aircooling their fever. . . . There is a sweet languor in the endless daystill throbbing with the sweetness of the night. . . . Summerafternoons, dreams in the fields, on the velvety sward, beneath therustling of the tall white poplars. . . . Dreams in the lovely evenings, when, under the gleaming sky, they return, clasping each other, to thehouse of their love. The wind whispers in the bushes. In the clear lakeof the sky hovers the fleecy light of the silver moon. A star falls anddies, --hearts give a little throb--a world is silently snuffed out. Swift silent shadows pass at rare intervals on the road near by. Thebells 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 onlylife could be so forever, as still and silent as that moment!. . . Shesighs and says:

"Why do I love you so much?. . . "

After a few weeks' traveling in Italy they had settled in a town in thewest of France, where Olivier had gained an appointment. They saw hardlyanybody. They took no interest in anything. When they were forced to paycalls, their scandalous indifference was so open that it hurt some, while it made others smile. Anything that was said to them simply madeno impression. They had the impertinently solemn manner common to youngmarried 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 tosee their exchange of glances as they talked. They did not need to lookto see each other: and they would smile: for they knew that they werethinking of the same things at the same time. When they were alone oncemore, after having suffered the constraint of the presence of others, they would shout for joy--indulge in a thousand childish pranks. Theywould 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, andCanot. She would behave like a little girl; but she wanted to be allthings 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 promisedherself, she shared his work: and that, too, was a game. At first shebrought to bear on it the amused ardor of a woman to whom work issomething new: she seemed really to take a pleasure in the mostungrateful tasks, copying in the libraries, and translating dull books:it was part of her plan of life, that it should be pure and serious, andwholly consecrated to noble thoughts and work in common. And all wentwell as long as the light of love was in them: for she thought only ofhim, and not of what she was doing. The odd thing was that everythingshe did in that way was well done. Her mind found no difficulty intaking in abstract ideas, which at any other time of her life she wouldhave found it hard to follow: her whole being was, as it were, upliftedfrom the earth by love; she did not know it; like a sleep-walker movingeasily 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 anyqualms: only she asked what she was doing so high up, and became herselfagain. Work bored her. She persuaded herself that it stood in the way ofher love: no doubt because her love had already become less ardent. Butthere was no evidence of that. They could not bear to be out of eachother's sight. They shut themselves off from the world, and closed theirdoors and refused all invitations. They were jealous of the affectionsof other people, even of their occupations, of everything whichdistracted them from their love. Olivier's correspondence withChristophe 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 noshare; and the more room he filled in Olivier's life, the more shesought, instinctively, to rob him of it. Without any deliberateintention, she gradually and steadily alienated Olivier from his friend:she made sarcastic comments on Christophe's manners, his face, his wayof writing, his artistic projects: there was no malice in what she said, nor slyness: she was too good-natured for that. Olivier was amused byher remarks, and saw no harm in them: he thought he still lovedChristophe as much as ever, but he loved only his personality: and thatcounts for very little in friendship: he did not see that little bylittle he was losing his understanding of him, and his interest in hisideas, and the heroic idealism in which they had been so united. . . . Loveis too sweet a joy for the heart of youth: compared with it, what otherfaith can hold its ground? The body of the beloved and the soul thatbreathes in it are all science and all faith. With what a pitying smiledoes a lover regard the object of another's adoration and the thingswhich he himself once adored! Of all the might of life and its bitterstruggles the lover sees nothing but the passing flower, which hebelieves must live forever. . . . Love absorbed Olivier. In the beginninghis happiness was not so great but it left him with the energy toexpress it in graceful verse. Then even that seemed vain to him: it wasa theft of time from love. And Jacqueline also set to work to destroytheir every source of life, to kill the tree of life, without thesupport of which the ivy of love must die. Thus in their happiness theydestroyed each other. 

Alas! we so soon grow used to happiness! When selfish happiness is thesole 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 vitallyimportant it is that we should do without it. . . . Happiness is an instantin the universal rhythm, one of the poles between which the pendulum oflife 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 flowerswithout water. The sky was still blue for them, but there was no longerthe light morning breeze. All was still: Nature was silent. They werealone, as they had desired. --And their hearts sank. 

An indefinable feeling of emptiness, a vague weariness not without acertain charm, came over them. They knew not what it was, and they weredarkly uneasy. They became morbidly sensitive. Their nerves, strained inthe close watching of the silence, trembled like leaves at the leastunexpected clash of life. Jacqueline was often in tears without anycause for weeping, and although she tried hard to convince herself ofit, it was not only love that made them flow. After the ardent andtormented years that had preceded her marriage the sudden stoppage ofher efforts as she attained--attained and passed--her end, --the suddenfutility of any new course of action--and perhaps of all that she haddone in the past, --flung her into a state of confusion, which she couldnot understand, so that it appalled and crushed her. She would not allowthat it was so: she attributed it to her nerves, and pretended to laughit off: but her laughter was no less uneasy than her tears. She triedbravely to take up her work again: but as soon as she began she couldnot understand how she could ever have taken any interest in such stupidthings, and she flung them aside in disgust. She made an effort to pickup 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 withthe commonplace people and their commonplace remarks that are inevitablein life: she thought them grotesque; and she flung back into herisolation with her husband, and tried hard to persuade herself, as aresult of these unhappy experiences, that there was nothing good in theworld save love. And for a time she seemed really to be more in lovethan ever. Olivier, being less passionate and having a greater store oftenderness, was less susceptible to these apprehensions: only every nowand then he would feel a qualm of uneasiness. Besides, his love waspreserved in some measure by the constraint of his daily occupation, hiswork, which was distasteful to him. But as he was highly strung andsensitive, and everything that happened in the heart of the woman heloved affected him also, Jacqueline's secret uneasiness infected him. 

One fine afternoon they went for a walk together in the country. Theyhad looked forward to the walk eagerly and happily. All the world wasbright and gay about them. But as soon as they set out gloom and heavysadness descended upon them: they felt chilled to the heart. They couldfind nothing to say to each other. However, they forced themselves tospeak, but every word they said rang hollowly, and made them feel theemptiness of their lives at that moment. They finished their walkmechanically, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. They returned home sickat heart. It was twilight: their rooms were cold, black, and empty. Theydid not light up at once, to avoid seeing each other. Jacqueline wentinto her room, and, instead of taking off her hat and cloak, she sat insilence by the window. Olivier sat, too, in the next room with his armsresting on the table. The door was open between the two rooms; they wereso near that they could have heard each other's breathing. And in thesemi-darkness they both wept, in silence, bitterly. They held theirhands over their mouths, so that they should make no sound. At last, inagony, 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 thelamp. In a few minutes she came into the room. They did not look at eachother. Each knew that the other had been weeping. And they could notconsole 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 foranother, and had no difficulty in finding it. They set it down to thedullness of provincial life and their surroundings. They found comfortin that. M. Langeais was informed of their plight by his daughter, andwas not greatly surprised to hear that she was beginning to weary ofheroism. He made use of his political friends, and obtained a post inParis for his son-in-law. 

When the good news reached them, Jacqueline jumped for joy and regainedall her old happiness. Now that they were going to leave it, they foundthat they were quite fond of the dull country: they had sown so manymemories of love in it! They occupied their last days in going over thetraces of their love. There was a tender melancholy in their pilgrimage. Those calm stretches of country had seen them happy. An inward voicemurmured:

"You know what you are leaving behind you. Do you know what lies beforeyou?"

Jacqueline wept the day before they left. Olivier asked her why. Shewould not say. They took a sheet of paper, and as they always did whenthey 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. Andthen she dried her tears, laughed, and dressed him up as a favorite ofHenri III by putting her toque on his head and her white cape with itscollar turned up like a ruff round his shoulders. 

In Paris they resumed all their old friendships, but they did not findtheir friends just as they had left them. When he heard of Olivier'sarrival, Christophe rushed to him delightedly. Olivier was equallyrejoiced to see him. But as soon as they met they felt an unaccountableconstraint between them. They both tried to break through it, but invain. Olivier was very affectionate, but there was a change in him, andChristophe felt it. A friend who marries may do what he will: he cannotbe the friend of the old days. The woman's soul is, and must be, mergedin the man's. Christophe could detect the woman in everything thatOlivier said and did, in the imperceptible light of his expression, inthe unfamiliar turn of his lips, in the new inflections of his voice andthe trend of his ideas. Olivier was oblivious of it: but he was amazedto find Christophe so different from the man he had left. He did not goso far as to think that it was Christophe who had changed: he recognizedthat the change was in himself, and ascribed it to normal evolution, theinevitable result of the passing years; and he was surprised not to findthe same progress in Christophe: he thought reproachfully that he hadremained 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 theydid not sort well with the stranger soul which, unknown to himself, hadtaken up its abode in him. He was most clearly conscious of it whenJacqueline was present when they were talking: and then betweenOlivier's eyes and Christophe there was a veil of irony. However, theytried to conceal what they felt. Christophe went often to see them, andJacqueline innocently let fly at him her barbed and poisoned shafts. Hesuffered her. But when he returned home he would feel sad and sorry. 

Their first months in Paris were fairly happy for Jacqueline, andconsequently 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 oldstreet at Passy. Choosing furniture and wallpapers kept her time fullfor a few weeks. Jacqueline flung herself into it energetically, andalmost passionately and exaggeratedly: it was as though her eternalhappiness depended on the color of her hangings or the shape of an oldchest. Then she resumed intercourse with her father and mother and herfriends. As she had entirely forgotten them during her year of love, itwas as though she had made their acquaintance for the first time: justas part of her soul was merged in Olivier's, so part of Olivier's soul wasmerged in hers, and she saw her old friends with new eyes. Theyseemed 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 poeticlight and shade of her husband made Jacqueline find more pleasure inthose worldly people who only think of enjoying themselves, and of beingbrilliant and charming: and the seductive but dangerous failings oftheir world, which she knew so much better because she belonged to it, made her appreciate the security of her lover's affection. She amusedherself with these comparisons, and loved to linger over them, thebetter to justify her choice. --She lingered over them to such an extentthat sometimes she could not tell why she had made that choice. Happily, such moments never lasted long. She would be sorry for them, and wasnever so tender with Olivier as when they were past. Thereupon she wouldbegin again. By the time it had become a habit with her it had ceased toamuse her: and the comparison became more aggressive: instead ofcomplementing each other, the two opposing worlds declared war on eachother. She began to wonder why Olivier lacked the qualities, if not someof the failings, which she now admired in her Parisian friends. She didnot tell him so: but Olivier often felt his wife looking at him withoutany indulgence in her eyes, and it hurt him and made him uneasy. 

However, he had not lost the ascendancy over Jacqueline which love hadgiven him: and they would have gone on quite happily living their lifeof tender and hard-working intimacy for long enough had it not been forcircumstances which altered their material condition and destroyed itsdelicate balance. 

_Quivi trovammo Pluto il gran némico. . . . _

A sister of Madame Langeais died. She was the widow of a richmanufacturer, and had no children. Her whole estate passed to theLangeais. Jacqueline's fortune was more than doubled by it. When shecame in for her legacy, Olivier remembered what Christophe had saidabout money, and remarked:

"We were quite well off without it: perhaps it will be a bad thing forus. "

Jacqueline laughed at him:

"Silly!" she said. "As though money could ever do any harm! We won'tmake any change in our way of living just yet. "

Their life remained the same to all appearances: so much the same thatafter a certain time Jacqueline began to complain that they were notwell enough off: proof positive that there was a change somewhere. And, in fact, although their income had been doubled or tripled, they spentthe whole of it without knowing how they did it. They began to wonderhow they had managed to live before. The money flew, and was swallowedup by a thousand new expenses, which seemed at once to be habitual andindispensable. Jacqueline had begun to patronize the great dressmakers:she had dismissed the family sempstress who came by the day, a woman shehad known since she was a child. The days of the little fourpenny hatsmade out of nothing, though they were quite pretty all the same, weregone, --gone the days of the frocks which were not impeccably smart, though they had much of her own grace, and were, indeed, a part ofherself! The sweet intimate charm which shone upon all about her grewfainter every day. The poetry of her nature was lost. She was becomingcommonplace. 

They changed their flat. The rooms which they had furnished with so muchtrouble and pleasure seemed narrow and ugly. Instead of the cozy littlerooms, all radiant with her spirit, with a friendly tree waving itsdelicate 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 friendlybelongings, they obtained furniture and hangings which were strangers tothem. There was no place left for memories. The first years of theirmarried life were swept away from their thoughts. . . . It is a greatmisfortune for two people living together to have the ties which bindthem to their past love broken! The image of their love is a safeguardagainst the disappointment and hostility which inevitably succeed thefirst years of tenderness. . . . The power to spend largely had broughtJacqueline, both in Paris and abroad--(for now that they were rich theyoften traveled)--into touch with a class of rich and useless people, whose society gave her a sort of contempt for the rest of mankind, allthose who had work to do. With her marvelous power of adaptation, shevery quickly caught the color of these sterile and rotten men and women. She could not fight against it. At once she became refractory andirritable, regarding the idea that it was possible--and right--to behappy in her domestic duties and the _auréa mediocritus_ as mere"vulgar manners. " She had lost even the capacity to understand thebygone 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. Hewrote, and the balance of his life was adjusted by it. Till then he hadsuffered because he could not give his whole life to art. Now that hecould do so he felt utterly lost in the cloudy world. Art which is not alsoa profession, and supported by a healthy practical life, art whichknows not the necessity of earning the daily bread, loses the best partof its force and its reality. It is only the flower of luxury. It isnot--(what in the greatest, the only great, artists it is)--the sacredfruit of human suffering. --Olivier felt a disinclination to work, adesire to ask: "What is the good of it?" There was nothing to make himwrite: he would let his pen run on, he dawdled about, he had lost hisbearings. He had lost touch with his own class of men and womenpatiently plowing the hard furrow of their lives. He had fallen into adifferent world, where he was ill at ease, though on the whole he didnot find it unpleasant. Weak, amiable, and curious, he fell complacentlyto observing that world which was entirely lacking in consistency, though it was not without charm; and he did not see that little bylittle he was becoming contaminated by it: it was undermining his faith. 

No doubt the transformation was not so rapid in him as it was inJacqueline. --Women have the terrible privilege of being able suddenly toundergo a complete change. The way in which they suddenly die and thenas suddenly come to life again is appalling to those who love them. Andyet it is perfectly natural for a human being who is full of lifewithout the curb of the will not to be to-morrow what it is to-day. Awoman is like running water. The man who loves her must follow thestream or divert it into the channel of his own life. In both casesthere must be change. But it is a dangerous experience, and no manreally knows love until he has gone through it. And its harmony is sodelicate during the first years of married life that often the verysmallest change in either husband or wife is enough to destroy theirwhole relationship. How much more perilous, then, is a sudden change offortune or of circumstance! They must needs be very strong--or veryindifferent to each other--to withstand it. 

Jacqueline and Olivier were neither indifferent nor strong. They beganto see each other in a new light: and the face of the beloved becamestrange to them. When first they made the sad discovery, they hid itfrom each other in loving pity: for they still loved each other. Oliviertook refuge in his work, and by applying himself to it regularly, thoughwith even less conviction than before, won through to tranquillity. Jacqueline had nothing. She did nothing. She would stay in bed forhours, or dawdle over her toilette, sitting idly, half dressed, motionless, lost in thought: and gradually a dumb misery crept over herlike an icy mist. She could not break away from the fixed idea oflove. . . . Love! Of things human the most Divine when it is the gift ofself, a passionate and blind sacrifice. But when it is no more than thepursuit of happiness, it is the most senseless and the most elusive. . . . It was impossible for her to conceive any other aim in life. In momentsof benevolence she had tried to take an interest in the sorrows of otherpeople: but she could not do it. The sufferings of others filled herwith an ungovernable feeling of repulsion: her nerves were not strongenough to bear them. To appease her conscience she had occasionally donesomething which looked like philanthropy: but the result had been tameand disappointing. 

"You see, " she would say to Christophe, "when one tries to do good onedoes 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, aselfish, immoral little grisette, absolutely incapable of realaffection, though, as soon as she saw anybody suffering, she was filledwith motherly pity for him, even though she had not cared a rap for himbefore, even though he were a stranger to her. She was not abashed bythe most horrible tasks, and she would even take a strange pleasure indoing those which demanded the greatest self-denial. She never stoppedto think about it: she seemed to find in it a use for her obscure, hereditary, and eternally unexpressed idealism: her soul was atrophiedas far as the rest of her life was concerned, but at such rare momentsit breathed again: it gave her a sense of well-being and inward joy tobe able to allay suffering: and her joy was then almost misplaced. --Thegoodness of that woman, who was selfish, the selfishness of Jacqueline, who was good in spite of it, were neither vice nor virtue, but in bothcases only a matter of health. But the first was in the better case. Jacqueline was crushed by the mere idea of suffering. She would havepreferred death to physical illness. She would have preferred death tothe loss of either of her sources of joy: her beauty or her youth. Thatshe should not have all the happiness to which she thought herselfentitled, --(for she believed in happiness, it was a matter of faith withher, wholeheartedly and absurdly, a religious belief), --and that othersshould have more happiness than herself, would have seemed to her themost horrible injustice. Happiness was not only a religion to her; itwas a virtue. To be unhappy seemed to her to be an infirmity. Her wholelife gradually came to revolve round that principle. Her real characterhad broken through the veils of idealism in which in girlish bashfulmodesty she had enshrouded herself. In her reaction against the idealismof the past she began to see things in a hard, crude light. Things wereonly true for her in proportion as they coincided with the opinion ofthe world and the smoothness of life. She had reached her mother's stateof mind: she went to church, and practised religion punctiliously andindifferently. She never stopped to ask herself whether there was anyreal truth in it: she had other more positive mental difficulties: andshe would think of the mystical revolt of her childhood with pityingirony. --And yet her new positivism was no more real than her oldidealism. She forced it. She was neither angel nor brute. She was just apoor bored woman. 

She was bored, bored, bored: and her boredom was all the greater in thatshe could not excuse herself on the score of not being loved, or bysaying that she could not endure Olivier. Her life seemed to be stunted, walled up, with no future prospect: she longed for a new happiness thatshould be perpetually renewed; her longing was utterly childish, for itnever took into account her indifferent capacity for happiness. She waslike so many women living idle lives with idle husbands, who have everyreason to be happy, and yet never cease torturing themselves. There aremany such couples, who are rich and blessed with health and lovelychildren, and clever and capable of feeling fine things, and possessedof the power to keep themselves employed and to do good, and to enrichtheir own lives and the lives of others. And they spend their time inmoaning and groaning that they do not love each other, that they lovesome one else, or that they do not love somebody else--perpetually takenup with themselves, and their sentimental or sensual relations, andtheir pretended right to happiness, their conflicting egoism, andarguing, arguing, arguing, playing with their sham grand passion, theirsham 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 foryourselves when you have so many good reasons for being happy!"

If only some one would take away their money, their health, all themarvelous gifts of which they are so unworthy! If only some one wouldonce more lay the yoke of poverty and real suffering on these slaves whoare incapable of being free and are driven mad by their liberty! If theyhad to earn their bread in the sweat of their brows, they would be gladenough to eat it. And if they were to come face to face with grimsuffering, 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, asinnocent in drifting apart from Olivier as Olivier was in not holdingher. She was what Nature had made her. She did not know that marriage isa challenge to Nature, and that, when one has thrown down the gauntletto Nature, it is only to be expected that she will arise and beginvaliantly to wage the combat which one has provoked. She saw that shehad been mistaken, and she was exasperated with herself; and herdisillusion 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 thingseternal: 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 hislife-blood. A woman uses it to feed her own life: she absorbs it, anddoes not create it. She must always be throwing fresh fuel into herheart and mind: she cannot be self-sufficing. And if she cannot believeand love, she must destroy--except she possess the supreme virtue ofserenity. 

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 weregilded by the sun of love: and as the sun died down she saw them asbarren, gloomy mountains standing out against the empty sky: and herstrength failed her, so that she could go no farther on the road: whatwas the good of reaching the summit? What was there on the other side?It was a gigantic phantom and a snare!. . . Jacqueline could notunderstand how Olivier could go on being taken in by such fantasticnotions which consumed life: and she began to tell herself that he wasnot very clever, nor very much alive. She was stifling in hisatmosphere, in which she could not breathe, and the instinct ofself-preservation drove her on to the attack, in self-defense. Shestrove to scatter and bring to dust the injurious beliefs of the man shestill loved: she used every weapon of irony and seductive pleasure inher armory: she trammeled him with the tendrils of her desires and herpetty cares: she longed to make him a reflection of herself, . . . Herself who knew neither what she wanted nor what she was! She washumiliated by Olivier's want of success: and she did not care whether itwere just or unjust; for she had come to believe that the only thingwhich saves a man of talent from failure is success. Olivier wasoppressed by his consciousness of her doubts, and his strength wassapped by it. However, he struggled on as best he could, as so many menhave struggled, and will struggle, for the most part vainly, in theunequal conflict in which the selfish instinct of the woman upholdsitself against the man's intellectual egoism by playing upon hisweakness, his dishonesty, and his common sense, which is the name withwhich he disguises the wear and tear of life and his own cowardice. --Atleast, Jacqueline and Olivier were better than the majority of suchcombatants. For he would never have betrayed his ideal, as thousands ofmen do who drift with the demands of their laziness, their vanity, andtheir loves, into renunciation of their immortal souls. And, if he haddone so, Jacqueline would have despised him. But, in her blindness, shestrove to destroy that force in Olivier, which was hers also, their commonsafeguard: and by an instinctive strategical movement she undermined thefriendship 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 lifewhich Jacqueline used wickedly to exaggerate in her conversations withhim were more than he could bear. He would lash out sometimes, and sayhard things, which were taken in bad part. They could never have broughtabout a rupture between the two friends: they were too fond of eachother. Nothing in the world would have induced Olivier to give upChristophe. 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 nothelp Olivier in any way by staying, but rather made things worse. He wasthe first to give his friend reasons for turning from him: and Olivier, in his weakness, accepted those inadequate reasons, while he guessedwhat the sacrifice must have cost Christophe, and was bitterly sorry forit. 

Christophe bore him no ill-will. He thought that there was much truth inthe saying that a man's wife is his better half. For a man married isbut the half of a man. 

He tried to reconstruct his life without Olivier. But it was all invain, and it was idle for him to pretend that the separation would onlybe for a short time: in spite of his optimism, he had many hours ofsadness. He had lost the habit of loneliness. He had been alone, it istrue, during Olivier's sojourn in the provinces: but then he had beenable 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 awaythan ever. His affection for him, which had filled his life for a numberof years, was suddenly taken from him: it was as though he had lost hischief reason for working. Since his friendship for Olivier he had grownused to thinking with him and bringing him into everything he did. Hiswork was not enough to supply the gap: for Christophe had grown used toweaving the image of his friend into his work. And now that his friendno longer took any interest in him, Christophe was thrown off hisbalance: he set out to find another affection to restore it. 

Madame Arnaud and Philomela did not fail him. But just then suchtranquil friendship as theirs was not enough. However, the two womenseemed to divine Christophe's sorrow, and they secretly sympathized withhim. Christophe was much surprised one evening to see Madame Arnaud comeinto his room. Till then she had never ventured to call on him. Sheseemed to be somewhat agitated. Christophe paid no heed to it, and sether uneasiness down to her shyness. She sat down, and for some time saidnothing. 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 asa hint of what had happened. But Madame Arnaud, knowing it, could not helplooking 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 othernow. "

"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 couldbe 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 aboutit. One does what one has to do. If one did not do it, one would beunhappy, and suffer for it! There never was anything so idiotic as thistalk of sacrifice! Clergymen, in the poverty of their hearts, mix it upwith a cramped and morose idea of Protestant gloom. Apparently, if anact of sacrifice is to be good, it must be besotted. . . . Good Lord! if asacrifice means sorrow to you, and not joy, then don't do it; you areunworthy 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 giftof 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 hedid 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 himsad. And, besides, for the time being, their calm, dull existence, withits too rarefied air, was not suited to his needs. He wanted to see newfaces; 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 theaterswhich he had neglected for a long time. The theater seemed to him to bean interesting school for a musician who wishes to observe and take noteof the accents of the passions. 

It was not that he had any greater sympathy with French plays than whenhe first came to live in Paris. Outside his small liking for theireternal stale and brutal subjects connected with the psycho-physiologyof love, it seemed to him that the language of the French theater, especially in poetic drama, was ultra-false. Neither their prose northeir verse had anything in common with the living language and thegenius of the people. Their prose was an artificial language, thelanguage of a polite chronicle with the best, that of a vulgarfeuilletonist 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 clumsilytacked on to it in imitation of the lyricism of other nations producedan effect of utter falsity upon any sincere person. Christophe set nomore store by these poetic dramas than he did by the Italian operas withtheir shrill mellifluous airs and their ornamental vocal exercises. Hewas much more interested in the actors than the plays. And the authorshad tried hard to imitate them. "_It was hopeless to think that a playcould be performed with any success unless the author had looked to itthat his characters were modeled on the vices of the actors_. " Thesituation was hardly at all changed since the time when Diderot wrotethose 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, hiscompliant tailor-authors, and his plays made to measure. 

Among these great mannikins of literary fashions Françoise Oudonattracted Christophe. Paris had been infatuated with her for a couple ofyears or so. She, too, of course, had her theater and her purveyors ofparts: however, she did not only act in plays written for her: her mixedrepertory ranged from Ibsen to Sardou, from Gabriele d'Annunzio to Dumas_fils_, from Bernard Shaw to the latest Parisian playwrights. Uponoccasion she would even venture into the Versailles' avenues of theclassic hexameter, or on to the deluge of images of Shakespeare. But shewas ill at ease in that galley, and her audience was even more so. Whatever she played, she played herself, nothing but herself, always. Itwas both her weakness and her strength. Until the public had beenawakened to an interest in her personality, her acting had had nosuccess. As soon as that interest was roused, everything she didappeared marvelous. And, indeed, it was well worth while in watching herto forget the usually pitiful plays which she betrayed by endowing andadorning them with her vitality. The mystery of the woman's body, swayedby a stranger soul, was to Christophe far more moving than the plays inwhich she acted. 

She had a fine, clear-cut, rather tragic profile. She had not the markedheavy lines of the Roman style: on the contrary, her lines were delicateand Parisian, _à la _Jean Goujon--as much like a boy's as awoman's. A short, finely-modeled nose. A beautiful mouth, with thinlips, curling rather bitterly. Bright cheeks, girlishly thin, in whichthere was something touching, the light of inward suffering. A strongchin. Pale complexion. One of those habitually impassive faces which aretransparent in spite of themselves, and reveal the soul quivering behindit, as though it were exposed in its nakedness; one of those faces inwhich the soul seems to be ever, in every part of it, just beneath theskin. She had very fine hair and eyebrows, and her changing eyes weregray and amber-colored, passing quickly from one light to another, greenish and golden, like the eyes of a cat. And there was somethingcatlike in all her nature, in her apparent torpor, her semi-somnolence, with eyes wide open, always on the watch, always suspicious, whilesuddenly she would nervously and rather cruelly relax her watchfulness. She was not so tall as she appeared, nor so slender; she had beautifulshoulders, lovely arms, and fine, long hands. She was very neat in herdress, and her coiffure, always trim and tasteful, with none of theBohemian carelessness or the exaggerated smartness of many artists--evenin that she was catlike, instinctively aristocratic, although she hadrisen from the gutter. At bottom she was incurably shy and wild. 

She must have been a little less than thirty. Christophe had heardpeople speak of her at Gamache's with coarse admiration, as a woman ofgreat freedom, intelligence, and boldness, tremendous and inflexibleenergy, and burning ambition, but bitter, fantastic, perplexing, andviolent, a woman who had waded through a deal of mud before she hadreached 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 sittingthere. She seemed to be agitated and perturbed, and Christophe'sappearance annoyed her. She turned her back on him, and lookedobstinately out of the opposite window. But Christophe was so struck bythe changed expression in her face, that he could not stop gazing at herwith a naïve and embarrassing compassion. It exasperated her, and sheflung an angry look at him which he did not understand. At the nextstation she got out and went into another compartment. Then for thefirst time it occurred to him--rather late in the day--that he haddriven her away: and he was greatly distressed. A few days later, at astation on the same line, he was sitting on the only seat in theplatform, waiting for the train back to Paris. She appeared, and cameand 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 toanother compartment the other day, saying that if he had had any ideathat he was incommoding her he would have got out himself. She smiledironically, 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 holdout your hand to him?"

"I? Certainly not, " she said. "I would push him under water, so as toget it over quickly. "

She spoke with a mixture of bitterness and humor: and, when he looked ather in amazement, she laughed. 

The train came in. It was full up, except for the last carriage. She gotin. The porter told them to hurry up. Christophe, who had no mind torepeat the scene of a few days before, was for finding anothercompartment, 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 thatit was not right not to take an interest in others, and that peoplecould 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 isall very well for the man who plays it. "

It was a moment or two before he grasped her meaning. When heunderstood, when he fancied that she suspected him of seeking his owninterest, while he was only thinking of her, he got up indignantly andopened the door, and made as though to climb out, although the train wasmoving. She prevented him, though not without difficulty. He sat downagain 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, theysuffer, and when a man goes to help another fellow-creature, he issuspected. 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 sameboat. But it was horrid of me to speak to you as I did. You are a goodfellow. I can see that. Come; calm yourself. Shake hands! Let us makepeace!"

They shook hands, and went on talking amicably. She said:

"It is not my fault, you know. I have had so many experiences with menthat I have become suspicious. "

"They have deceived me, too, many a time, " said Christophe. "But Ialways 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 downa good many lies. But it does me no harm. I've a good stomach. I can putup with worse things, hardship, poverty, and, if necessary, I can gulpdown with their lies the poor fools who attack me. It does me good, ifanything. "

"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. Thereis a point beyond which suffering withers you up. "

He was just about to tell her how he pitied her, but he remembered howshe 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 andsincere. Thank you. Only, don't say anything. You cannot know. . . . Thankyou. "

They had reached Paris. They parted without exchanging addresses orinviting each other to call. 

 * * * * *

A few months later she came of her own accord and knocked atChristophe's door. 

"I came to see you. I want to talk to you. I have been thinking of yousometimes 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, andsaw 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 questionher 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 hersomething of what he was suffering, the story of his friendship, and howOlivier 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 dome good. But I wouldn't like to bore you or waste your time. . . . Only aminute 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 byaccident that she was seriously ill, and had not been acting for someweeks. He went to see her, although she had forbidden it. She was not athome: but when she heard who it was, she sent and had him brought backas he was going down the stairs. She was in bed, but much better: shehad had pneumonia, and looked altered: but she still had her ironicalmanner and her watchful expression, which there was no disarming. However, she seemed to be really pleased to see Christophe. She made himsit 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'tthink of you for a moment while I was ill. To be precise, I neverthought 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 wantto 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 myassistance. Now it has become a habit. . . . Besides, it is better so. Noone 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 andI hate the illness which makes me suffer. "

He asked her if she had no one to see her, no one to look after her. Shesaid that her comrades at the theater were kind enough, --idiots, --butobliging and compassionate (in a superficial sort of way). 

"But I tell you, I don't want to see them. I'm a surly sort ofcustomer. "

"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 amashamed. . . . I swear that I didn't even think what I was saying. . . . "

He buried his face in the bedclothes. She laughed frankly, and gave hima 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 wasthen tired, bored, and dismissed him. 

He had arranged to go and see her again the following week. But just ashe was setting out he received a telegram from her telling him not tocome: she was having a bad day. --Then, the next day but one, she sentfor 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 youngbuds on the trees. She was more gentle and affectionate than he had yetseen her. She told him that she could not see anybody the other day, andwould 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 aboutme 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, andabout the theater in which she was going to resume her work soon: and onthat 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 tohis flat. He told her the times when she would be least likely todisturb his work. They arranged a countersign. She was to knock at thedoor 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 asociety At Home, where she was to recite, the idea of it bored her atthe last moment: she stopped on the way and telephoned to say that shecould not come, and she told her man to drive to Christophe's. She onlymeant to say good-night to him as she passed. But, as it turned out, shebegan to confide in him that night, and told him all her life from herchildhood on. 

A sad childhood! An accidental father whom she had never known. A motherwho 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 bullyher. One of them married her because she had some small savings: he usedto beat her and get drunk. Françoise had an elder sister who was aservant in the inn: she was worked to death; the proprietor made her hismistress in the sight and knowledge of her mother; she was consumptive, and had died. Françoise had grown up amid scenes of violence andshameful things. She saw her mother and sister weep, suffer, accept, degrade themselves, and die. And desperately she made up her mind not tosubmit to it, and to escape from her infamous surroundings: she was arebel by instinct: certain acts of injustice would set her besideherself: she used to scratch and bite when she was thrashed. Once shetried to hang herself. She did not succeed: she had hardly set about itthan she was afraid lest she might succeed only too well; and, evenwhile she was beginning to choke and desperately clutching at the ropeand trying to loosen it with stiff fumbling fingers, there was writhingin her a furious desire to live. And since she could not escape bydeath, --(Christophe smiled sadly, remembering his own experiences, )--sheswore that she would win, and be free, rich, and trample under foot allthose 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 criesof her mother as he beat her, and her sister's sobs. How utterlywretched she felt! And yet her vow had been some solace. She clenchedher 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 thegutter, the son of the stage-door keeper of the theater, got her in tothe rehearsal, although it was strictly forbidden. They stole to thevery back of the building in the darkness. She was gripped by themystery of the stage, gleaming in the darkness, and by the magnificentand incomprehensible things that the actors were saying, and by thequeenly bearing of the actress, --who was, in fact, playing a queen in aromantic melodrama. She was chilled by emotion: and at the same time herheart thumped. . . . "That--that is what I must be some day!" . . . Oh! ifshe could ever be like that!. . . --When it was over she wanted at allcosts to see the evening performance. She let her companion go out, andpretended to follow him: and then she turned back and hid herself in thetheater: she cowered away under a seat, and stayed there for three hourswithout stirring, choked by the dust: and when the performance was aboutto begin and the audience was arriving, just as she was creeping out ofher hiding-place, she had the mortification of being pounced on, ignominiously expelled amid jeers and laughter, and taken home, whereshe was whipped. She would have died that night had she not known nowwhat she must do later on to master these people and avenge herself onthem. 

Her plan was made. She took a situation as a servant in the _Hôtel etCafé du Théâtre_, where the actors put up. She could hardly read orwrite: and she had read nothing, for she had nothing to read. She wantedto learn, and applied herself to it with frantic energy. She used tosteal books from the guests' rooms, and read them at night by moonlightor at dawn, so as not to use her candle. Thanks to the untidiness of theactors, her larcenies passed unnoticed or else the owners put up withcursing and swearing. She used to restore their books when she had readthem, --except one or two which had moved her too much for her to be ableto part with them;--but she did not return them intact. She used to tearout the pages which had pleased her. When she took the books back, sheused carefully to slip them under the bed or the furniture, so as tomake the owners of them believe that they had never left the room. Sheused to glue her ears to the door to listen to the actors going overtheir parts. And when she was alone, sweeping the corridor, she wouldmimic their intonations in a whisper and gesticulate. When she wascaught 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 along time had she not on one occasion been imprudent enough to steal thescript 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. Shedenied it boldly: he threatened to have her searched: she threw herselfat his feet and confessed everything, even to her other pilferings andthe pages she had torn out of the books: the whole boiling. He cursedand swore frightfully: but he was not so angry as he seemed. He askedwhy she had done it. When she told him that she wanted to become anactress he roared with laughter. He questioned her, and she recitedwhole pages which she had learned by heart: he was struck by it, andsaid:

"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 hadpursued her with their overtures. Her absolute chastity, her ardent needof purity, her disgust with things unclean and ignoble lovelesssensuality, had been with her always from her childhood on, as a resultof the despair and nausea of the sad sights which she saw about her onall sides at home:--and they were with her still. . . . Ah! unhappycreature! 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. Hethreatened to have me arrested as a thief. I had no choice. --That washow 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 notseem to me to be one of the worst. He did at least keep his word. Hetaught me what he knew--(not much!)--of the actor's trade. He got meinto his company. At first I was everybody's servant, I played littlescraps of parts. Then one night, when the soubrette was ill, they riskedgiving me her part. I went on from that. They thought me impossible, grotesque, uncouth. I was ugly then. I remained ugly until I wasdecreed, --if not 'divine' like the other Woman, --the highest, the idealtype of woman, . . . 'Woman. ' . . . Idiots! As for my acting, it was thoughtextravagant and incorrect. The public did not like me. The other playersused to make fun of me. I was kept on because I was useful in spite ofeverything, and was not expensive. Not only was I not expensive, but Ipaid! Ah! I paid for every step, every advance, rung by rung, with mysuffering, with my body. Fellow-actors, the manager, the impresario, theimpresario'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 tosee that her soul was shedding tears of blood. In a flash she was livingthrough the shameful past, and the consuming desire to conquer which hadupheld her--a desire that burned the more with every fresh stain anddegradation that she had had to endure. She would sometimes have beenglad to die: but it would have been too abominable to succumb in themidst of humiliation and to go no farther. Better to take her lifebefore--if so it must be--or after victory. But not when she haddegraded 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 andbesmirched her. Then he looked at her with the eyes of pity: and hestood near her and took her face in his hands and pressed it fondly, andsaid:

"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 andkissed--

 "_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 herstory:

An author had at last launched her. He had discovered in the strangelittle 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 shelet him take her, as she had suffered the others, without love, and evenwith the opposite of love. But he had made her famous: and she had donethe same for him. 

"And now, " said Christophe, "the others cannot do anything to you: youcan 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 whomshe despised: a literary man who had exploited her, had plucked out themost sorrowful secrets of her soul, and turned them into literature, andthen had left her. 

"I despise him, " she said, "as I despise the dirt on my boots: and Itremble with rage when I think that I love him, that he has but to holdup his finger, and I should go running to him, and humble myself beforesuch a cur. But what can I do? I have a heart that will never love whatmy mind desires. And I am compelled alternately to sacrifice andhumiliate one or the other. I have a heart: I have a body. And they cryout and cry out and demand their share of happiness. And I have nothingto curb them with, for I believe in nothing. I am free. . . . Free? I amthe slave of my heart and my body, which often, almost always, in spiteof myself, desire and have their will. They carry me away, and I amashamed. But what can I do?. . . "

She stopped for a moment, and mechanically moved the cinders in the firewith 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 childrenwho are never troubled by anything but petty questions of vanity. I donot know if it is they who are not true comedians, or myself. I fancy itmust 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, andproposed that she should go and lie down on his bed. She preferred tostay in the arm-chair by the dead fire, and went on talking quietlywhile 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 amstrong. "

"All the more reason why you should sleep soundly. "

"Yes; I sleep like a log. Not even pain can stand out against it. I amsometimes furious with myself for sleeping so well. So many hourswasted!. . . I am delighted to be able to take my revenge on sleep foronce in a way, and to cheat it of a night. "

They went on talking in low tones, with long intervals of silence. AndChristophe went to sleep. Françoise smiled and supported his head tokeep him from falling. . . . She sat by the window dreaming and lookingdown into the darkness of the garden, which presently was lit up. Aboutseven 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 thatshe could go there when she liked. She went more than once whenChristophe was away, and she would leave a little bunch of violets onthe table, or a few words scribbled on a sheet of paper, or a sketch, ora caricature--just to show that she had been. 

And one evening, when she left the theater, she went to the flat toresume their pleasant talk. She found him at work, and they began totalk. But at the very outset they both felt that the friendlycomfortable mood of the last occasion was gone. She tried to go: but itwas too late. Not that Christophe did anything to prevent her. It washer own will that failed her and would not let her go. They stayed therewith the gathering consciousness of the desire that was in them. 

Following on that night she disappeared for some weeks. In him there hadbeen roused a sensual ardor that had lain dormant for months before, andhe 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 aflamewith love and devotion: every nerve in his body thrilled: the tragicintensity 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 flungherself into his arms. 

"It would have been better to be just friends, good friends. But sinceit is impossible, it is no good holding out against the inevitable. Comewhat may!"

They lived together. They kept on in their separate flats, and each ofthem was free. Françoise could not have submitted to living openly withChristophe. Besides, her position would not allow it. She used to go toChristophe's flat and spend part of the day and night with him; but sheused to return to her own place every day and also sleep there. 

During the vacation, when the theater was closed, they took a housetogether outside Paris, near Gif. They had many happy days there, thoughthere 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 thefields. At night through the window they could see the strange shadowsof the clouds floating across the clear, dull darkness of the sky. Halfasleep, they could hear the joyous crickets chirping and the showersfalling; the breath of the autumn earth--honeysuckle, clematis, glycine, and new-mown hay--filled the house and soothed their senses. The silenceof the night. In the distance dogs barked. Cocks crowed. Dawn comes. Thetinkling angelus rings in the distant belfry, through the cold, graytwilight, and they shiver in the warmth of their nest, and yet morelovingly hold each other close. The voices of the birds awake in thetrellis on the wall. Christophe opens his eyes, holds his breath, andhis heart melts as he looks down at the dear tired face of his sleepingbeloved, pale with the paleness of love. . . . 

Their love was no selfish passion. It was a profound love incomradeship, in which the body also demanded its share. They did nothinder each other. They both went on with their work. Christophe'sgenius and kindness and moral fiber were dear to Françoise. She feltolder than he in many ways, and she found a maternal pleasure in therelation. She regretted her inability to understand anything he played:music was a closed book to her, except at rare moments, when she wouldbe overcome by a wild emotion, which came less from the music than fromher own inner self, from the passion in which she was steeped at thattime, she and everything about her, the country, people, color, andsound. But she was none the less conscious of Christophe's genius, because it was expressed in a mysterious language which she did notunderstand. It was like watching a great actor playing in a foreignlanguage. Her own genius was rekindled by it. Christophe, thanks tolove, could project his ideas and body forth his passions in the mind ofthe woman and her beloved person: they seemed to him more beautifulthere than they were in himself--endowed with an antique and seeminglyeternal beauty. Intimacy with such a soul, so feminine, so weak and kindand cruel, and genial in flashes, was a source of boundless wealth. Shetaught him much about life, and men--about women, of whom he knew verylittle, while she judged them with swift, unerring perception. Butespecially he was indebted to her for a better understanding of thetheater; she helped him to pierce through to the spirit of thatadmirable art, the most perfect of all arts, the fullest and most sober. She revealed to him the beauty of that magic instrument of the humandream, --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 theSpirit speaks to them_"). --A great dramatic poet is not ashamed towork for a particular theater and to adapt his ideas to the actors athis disposal: he sees no belittlement in that: but he knows that a vastauditorium calls for different methods of expression than thosenecessary for a smaller space, and that a man does not writetrumpet-blares for the flute. The theater, like the fresco, is artfitted 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 thatstage in his career, was inclined towards a collective art, in communionwith other men. Françoise's experience helped him to grasp themysterious collaboration which is set up between the audience and theactor. Though Françoise was a realist, and had very few illusions, yetshe had a great perception of the power of reciprocal suggestion, thewaves of sympathy which pass between the actor and the multitude, thegreat silence of thousands of men and women from which arises the singlevoice of their interpreter. Naturally she could only feel it inintermittent flashes, very, very rare, which were hardly ever reproducedat the same passages in the same play. For the rest her work was asoulless trade, an intelligent and coldly mechanical routine. But theinterest of it lay in the exception--the flash of light which piercedthe darkness of the abyss, the common soul of millions of men and womenwhose living force was expressed in her for the space of a second ofeternity. 

It was this common soul which it was the business of the great artist toexpress. His ideal should be a living objectivism, in which the poetshould throw himself into those for whom he sings, and denude himself ofself, to clothe the collective passions which are blown over the worldlike a mighty wind. Françoise was all the more keenly conscious of thenecessity, inasmuch as she was incapable of such disinterestedness, andalways played herself. --For the last century and a half the disorderedefflorescence of individual lyricism has been tinged with morbidity. Moral greatness consists in feeling much and controlling much, in beingsober in words and chaste in thought, in not making a parade of it, inmaking a look speak and speak profoundly, without childish exaggerationor effeminate effusiveness, to those who can grasp the half-spokenthought, to men. Modern music, which is so loquaciously introspective, dragging in indiscreet confidences at every turn, is immodest andlacking in taste. It is like those invalids who can think of nothing buttheir illnesses, and never weary of discussing them with other peopleand going into repulsive petty details. This travesty of art has beengrowing more and more prevalent for the last century. Françoise, who wasno musician, was disposed to see a sign of decadence in the developmentof music at the expense of poetry, like a polypus sucking it dry. Christophe protested: but, upon reflection, he began to wonder whetherthere might not be some truth in it. The first _lieder_ written topoems of Goethe were sober and apt: soon Schubert came and infused hisromantic sentimentality into them and gave them a twist: Schumannintroduced his girlish languor: and, down to Hugo Wolf, the movement hadgone on towards more stress in declamation, indecent analysis, apresumptuous endeavor to leave no smallest corner of the soul unlit. Every veil about the mysteries of the heart was rent. Things said in allearnestness by a man were now screamed aloud by shameless girls whoshowed themselves in their nakedness. 

Christophe was rather ashamed of such art, by which he was himselfconscious of being contaminated: and, without seeking to go back to thepast, --(an absurd, unnatural desire), --he steeped himself in the spiritof those of the masters of the past who had been haughtily discreet intheir 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 epicswhich are songs of the nations for the nations. The difficulty was tofind inspiring subjects, which, like the Bible in Handel's time, couldarouse emotions common to all the nations of modern Europe. ModernEurope had no common book: no poem, no prayer, no act of faith which wasthe property of all. Oh! the shame that should overwhelm all thewriters, artists, thinkers, of to-day! Not one of them has written, notone of them has thought, for all. Only Beethoven has left a few pages ofa new Gospel of consolation and brotherhood: but only musicians can readit, and the majority of men will never hear it. Wagner, on the hill atBayreuth, has tried to build a religious art to bind all men together. But his great soul had too little simplicity and too many of theblemishes of the decadent music and thought of his time: not the fishersof 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 wasforced to be self-sufficing and to confine himself to music. And music, whatever people say, is not a universal language: the bow of words isnecessary to send the arrow of sound into the hearts of all men. 

Christophe planned to write a suite of symphonies inspired by everydaylife. Among others he conceived a Domestic Symphony, in his own manner, which was very different from that of Richard Strauss. He was notconcerned with materializing family life in a cinematograph picture, bymaking use of a conventional alphabet, in which musical themes expressedarbitrarily the various characters whom, if the auditor's eyes and earscould stand it, were presently to be seen going through diversevolutions together. That seemed to him a pedantic and childish game fora great contrapuntist. He did not try to describe characters or actions, but only to express emotions familiar to every man and woman, in whichthey could find the echo of their own souls, and perhaps comfort andrelief. The first movement expressed the grave and simple happiness of aloving young couple, with its tender sensuality, its confidence in thefuture, its joy and hopes. The second movement was an elegy on the deathof a child. Christophe had avoided with horror any effort to depictdeath, and realistic detail in the expression of sorrow: there was onlythe utter misery of it, --yours, mine, everybody's, of being face to facewith a misfortune which falls or may fall to the lot of everybody. Thesoul, prostrate in its grief, from which Christophe had banned the usualeffects of sniveling melodrama, recovered bit by bit, in a sorrowfuleffort, to offer its suffering as a sacrifice to God. Once more it setbravely out on the road, in the next movement, which was linked with thesecond, --a headstrong fugue, the bold design and insistent rhythm ofwhich captivated, and, through struggles and tears, led on to a mightymarch, full of indomitable faith. The last movement depicted the eveningof life. The themes of the opening movement reappeared in it with theirtouching confidence and their tenderness which could not grow old, butriper, emerging from the shadow of sorrow, crowned with light, and, likea 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 chosetwo such stories: _Joseph_ and _Niobe_. But then Christophewas brought up not only against his need of a poet, but against thevexed question, which has been argued for centuries and never solved, ofthe union of poetry and music. His talks with Françoise had brought himback to his idea, sketched out long ago with Corinne, of a form ofmusical drama, somewhere between recitative opera and the spokendrama, --the art of the free word united with free music, --an art ofwhich hardly any artist of to-day has a glimmering, an art also whichthe routine critics, imbued with the Wagnerian tradition, deny, as theydeny every really new work: for it is not a matter of following in thefootsteps of Beethoven, Weber, Schumann, Bizet, although they used themelodramatic form with genius: it is not a matter of yoking any sort ofspeaking voice to any sort of music, and producing, at all costs, withabsurd tremolos, coarse effects upon coarse audiences: it is a matter ofcreating a new form, in which musical voices will be wedded toinstruments attuned to those voices, discreetly mingling with theirharmonious periods the echo of dreams and the plaintive murmur of music. It goes without saying that such a form could only be applied to anarrow range of subjects, to intimate and introspective moments of thesoul, so as to conjure up its poetic perfume. In no art should there bemore discretion and aristocracy of feeling. It is only natural, therefore, that it should have little chance of coming to flower in anage which, in spite of the pretensions of its artists, reeks of thedeep-seated vulgarity of upstarts. 

Perhaps Christophe was no more suited to such an art than the rest: hisvery qualities, his plebeian force, were obstacles in the way. He couldonly conceive it, and with the aid of Françoise realize a few roughsketches. 

In this way he set to music passages from the Bible, almost literallytranscribed, --like the immortal scene in which Joseph makes himselfknown to his brothers, and, after so many trials, can no longer containhis emotion and tender feeling, and whispers the words which have wrungtears from old Tolstoy, and many another:

"_Then Joseph could not refrain himself. . . . I am Joseph; doth myfather yet live? I am Joseph, your brother, whom ye sold into Egypt. Iam Joseph. . . . _"

Their beautiful and free relation could not last. They had momentssplendid and full of life: but they were too different. They were bothstrong-willed, and then often clashed. But their differences were neverof a vulgar character: for Christophe had won Françoise's respect. AndFrançoise, who could sometimes be so cruel, was kind to those who werekind to her; no power on earth could have made her do anything to hurtthem. And besides, both of them had a fund of gay humor. She was alwaysthe first to laugh at herself. She was still eating her heart out: forthe old passion still had its grip on her: she still thought of theblackguard she loved: and she could not bear to be in so humiliating aposition or, above all, to have Christophe suspecting what she wasfeeling. 

Christophe would sometimes find her for days together silent andrestless and given up to melancholy, and could not understand how shecould 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 ofthose famous actresses, with, no soul above shopkeeping, who run thetheater just as they would run any other business. They are quite happywhen they have 'realized' a good position, a commonplace, wealthymarriage, and--the _ne plus ultra_--been decorated. I wanted morethan that. Unless one is a fool, success is even more empty thanfailure. You must know that!"

"I know, " said Christophe. "Ah! Dear God, that is not what I imaginedfame to be when I was a child. How I longed for it, and what a shiningthing it seemed to be! It was almost a religion to me then. . . . Nomatter! There is one divine virtue in success: the good it gives one thepower to do. "

"What good? One has conquered. But what's the good of it? Nothing isaltered. Theaters, concerts, everything is just the same. A new fashionsucceeds the old: that is all. They do not understand one, or onlysuperficially: and they begin to think of something else at once. . . . Doyou yourself understand other artists? In any case, they don'tunderstand you. The people you love best are so far away from you! Lookat your Tolstoy. . . . "

Christophe had written to him: he had been filled with enthusiasm forhim, and had wept over his books: he wanted to set one of the peasanttales to music, and had asked for his authority, and had sent him his_lieder_. Tolstoy did not reply, any more than Goethe replied toSchubert or Berlioz when they sent him their masterpieces. He had hadChristophe's music played to him, and it had irritated him: he couldmake nothing of it. He regarded Beethoven as a decadent, and Shakespeareas a charlatan. On the other hand, he was infatuated with various littlepretty-pretty masters, and the harpsichord music which used to charm the_Roi-Perruque_: and he regarded _La Confession d'une Femme deChambre_ as a Christian book. . . . 

"Great men have no need of us, " said Christophe. "We must think of theothers. "

"Who? The dull public, the shadows who hide life from us? Act, write forsuch 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 Idon'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?. . . --Andsuppose they don't understand me, why should I despair? Among all thethousands 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 outerair. . . . Think of all the simple playgoers, the young people, the oldhonest souls, who are lifted out of their tedious everyday life by yourappearance, your voice, your revelation of tragic beauty. Think of whatyou were yourself when you were a child! Isn't it a fine thing to giveto others--perhaps even only to one other--the happiness that othersgave 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 cometo doubt it. . . . Besides, what sort of love do we get from the best ofthose who love us? How do they see us? They see so badly! They admireyou while they degrade you: they get just as much pleasure out ofwatching any old stager act: they drag you down to the level of theidiots you despise. In their eyes all successful people are exactly thesame. "

"And yet, when all is told, it is the greatest of all who go down toposterity with the greatest. "

"It is only the backward movement of time. Mountains grow taller thefarther you go away from them. You see their height better: but you arefarther away from them. . . . And besides, who is to tell us who are thegreatest? What do you know of the men who have disappeared?"

"Nonsense!" said Christophe. "Even if nobody were to feel what I thinkand what I am, I think my thoughts and I am what I am just the same. Ihave my music, I love it, I believe in it: it is the truest thing in mylife. "

"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 Iam sick of it. We are not yet, in France, such beasts of burden as thoseAmerican actors who play _Rip_ or _Robert Macaire_ ten thousand times, andfor twenty-five years of their lives go on grinding out and grinding outan idiotic part. But we are on the road to it. Our theaters are sopoverty-stricken! The public will only stand genius in infinitesimaldoses, 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 wholeof 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 todisgust one? And just think of all the great and glorious things he mighthave had to do!. . . Things are no better outside France? What have theymade of a Duse? What has her life been given up to? Think of the futileparts she has played?"

"Your real task, " said Christophe, "is to force great works of art onthe world. "

"We should exhaust ourselves in a vain endeavor. It isn't worth it. Assoon as a great work of art is brought into the theater it loses itsgreat poetic quality. It becomes a hollow sham. The breath of the publicsullies it. The public consists of people living in stifling towns andthey have lost all knowledge of the open air, and Nature, and healthypoetry: 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 notbe happy even then: you would still find some means of tormentingyourself. "

"True. . . . Ah! What is the matter with me?. . . I think I have had too harda fight. I have fretted too much: I can't ever be calm again: there isalways 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 Ican 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 Ilive. I am an incomplete creature. "

"No one is complete. Happiness lies in knowing one's limitations andloving 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 andhealthy 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 youbeing like that!"

"Tell me how you can see me. "

He described her, in conditions under which she might have developednaturally and harmoniously, and been happy, loved, and loving. And itdid 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 oldHandel 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 himher dear, crazy optimist. He did her good. But she did him harm: or atleast, she was afraid of him. She had violent fits of despair, and couldnot conceal them from him: her love made her weak. At night she wouldtry to choke down her agony, he would guess, and beg the belovedcreature who was so near and yet so far, to share with him the burdenwhich lay so heavy on her: then she could not hold out any longer, andshe would turn weeping to his arms; and he would spend hours incomforting her, kindly, without a spark of anger: but in the long-runher perpetual restlessness was bound to tell on him. Françoise trembledlest the fever that was in her should infect him. She loved him too muchto be able to bear the idea that he should suffer because of her. Shewas offered an engagement in America, and she accepted it, so as to tearherself away from him. She left him a little humiliated. She was ashumiliated as he, in the knowledge that they could not make each otherhappy!

"My poor dear, " she said to him, smiling sadly and tenderly. "Aren't westupid? We shall never have such a friendship again, never such aglorious opportunity. But it can't be helped, it can't be helped. We aretoo stupid!"

They looked at each other mournfully and shamefacedly. They laughed tokeep themselves from weeping, kissed, and parted with tears in theireyes. Never had they loved so well as when they parted. 

And after she was gone he returned to art, his old companion. . . . Oh, thepeace of the starry sky!

It was not long before Christophe received a letter from Jacqueline. Itwas only the third time she had written to him, and her tone was verydifferent from that to which she had accustomed him. She told him howsorry she was not to have seen him for so long, and very nicely invitedhim to come and see her, unless he wished to hurt two friends who lovedhim. Christophe was delighted, but not greatly surprised. He had beeninclined to think that Jacqueline's unjust disposition towards him wouldnot last. He was fond of quoting a jest of his old grandfather's:

"Sooner or later women have their good moments: one only needs thepatience to wait for them. "

He went to see Olivier, and was welcomed with delight. Jacqueline wasmost attentive to him: she avoided the ironical manner which was naturalto her, took care not to say anything that might hurt Christophe, showedgreat interest in what he was doing, and talked intelligently aboutserious subjects. Christophe thought her transformed. But she was onlyso to please him. Jacqueline had heard of Christophe's affair with thepopular actress, the tale of which had gone the rounds of Parisiangossip: and Christophe had appeared to her in an altogether new light:she was filled with curiosity about him. When she met him again shefound him much more sympathetic. Even his faults seemed to her to be notwithout attraction. She realized that Christophe had genius, and that itwould 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. . . . Howutterly lonely a woman is! Except children, nothing can hold her: andchildren are not enough to hold her forever: for when she is really awoman, and not merely a female, when she has a rich soul and anabounding vitality, she is made for so many things which she cannotaccomplish alone and with none to help her!. . . A man is much lesslonely, even when he is most alone: he can people the desert with hisown thoughts: and when he is lonely in married life he can more easilyput up with it, for he notices it less, and can always live in thesoliloquy of his own thoughts. And it never occurs to him that the soundof his voice going on imperturbably babbling in the desert, makes thesilence more terrible and the desert more frightful for the woman by hisside, for whom all words are dead that are not kindled by love. He doesnot 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 lifeof a woman and satisfy her immense desire, the millions of ardent andgenerous forces that, through the forty thousand years of the life ofhumanity, have burned to no purpose, as a holocaust offered up to twoidols: passing love and motherhood, that sublime fraud, which is refusedto thousands of women and never fills more than a few years in the livesof the rest?

Jacqueline was in despair. She had moments of terror that cut throughher like swords. She thought:

"Why am I alive? Why was I ever born?" And her heart would ache andthrob 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 dreamthat she was saying:

"It is 1889. "

"No, " the answer would come. "It is 1909. " And the thought that she wastwenty years older than she imagined would make her wretched. 

"It will all be over, and I have never lived! What have I done withthese twenty years? What have I made of my life?"

She would dream that she was _four_ little girls, all four lying inthe same room in different beds. They were all of the same figure andthe same face: but one was eight, one was fifteen, one was twenty, andthe fourth was thirty. There was an epidemic. Three of them had died. The fourth looked at herself in the mirror, and she was filled withterror: she saw herself with the skin drawn tight over her nose, and herfeatures pinched and withered. . . She was going to die too--and then itwould be all over. . . . 

". . . What have I done with my life?. . . " She would wake up in tears; andthe 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 wouldbegin to hate Olivier, the innocent accomplice--(innocent! What did itmatter if the harm done was the same!)--of the blind law which wascrushing her. She would be sorry for it at once, for she was kind ofheart: but she was suffering too much: and she could not help wreakingher 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 wouldbe more sorry than ever: she would loathe herself and feel that if shedid not find some way of escape she would do things even more evil. Shegroped blindly about to find some way of escape: she clutched ateverything like a drowning woman: she tried to take an interest insomething, work, or another human being, that might be in some sort herown, her work, a creature belonging to herself. She tried to take upsome intellectual work, and learned foreign languages: she began anarticle, a story: she began to paint, to compose. . . . In vain: she grewtired of everything, and lost heart the very first day. They were toodifficult. And then, "books, works of art! What are they? I don't knowwhether I love them, I don't even know whether theyexist. . . . "--Sometimes she would talk excitedly and laugh with Olivier, and seem to be keenly interested in the things they talked about, or inwhat he was doing: she would try to bemuse and benumb herself. . . . Invain: suddenly her excitement would collapse, her heart would go icycold, she would hide away, with never a tear, hardly a breath, utterlyprostrate. --She had in some measure succeeded in destroying Olivier. Hewas growing skeptical and worldly. She did not mind: she found him asweak as herself. Almost every evening they used to go out: and she wouldgo 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 herunchanging smile. She was seeking for some one to love her and keep herback from the edge of the abyss. . . . In vain, in vain, in vain. There wasnothing but silence in answer to her cry of despair. 

She did not love Christophe: she could not bear his rough manner, hispainful frankness, and, above all, his indifference. She did not lovehim: but she had a feeling that he at least was strong, --a rock toweringabove death. And she tried to clutch hold of the rock, to cling to theswimmer whose head rose above the waves, to cling to him or to drownwith him. . . . 

Besides, it was not enough for her to have cut her husband off from hisfriends: now she was driven on to take them from him. Even the best ofwomen sometimes have an instinct which impels them to try and see howfar their power goes, and to go beyond it. In that abuse of their powertheir weakness proves its strength. And when the woman is selfish andvain she finds a malign pleasure in robbing her husband of thefriendship of his friends. It is easily done: she has but to use hereyes a little. There is hardly a single man, honorable or otherwise, whois not weak enough to nibble at the bait. Though the friend be never sotrue and loyal, he may avoid the act, but he will almost always betrayhis friend in thought. And if the other man sees it, there is an end oftheir friendship: they no longer see each other with the same eyes. --Thewoman who plays such a dangerous game generally stops at that and asksno more: she has them both, disunited, at her mercy. 

Christophe observed Jacqueline's new graces and charming treatment ofhimself, but he was not surprised. When he had an affection for any onehe had a naïve way of taking it as a matter of course that the affectionshould be returned without any ulterior thought. He responded gladly toJacqueline's advances; he thought her charming, and amused himselfthoroughly with her: and he thought so well of her that he was not farfrom thinking Olivier rather a bungler not to be able to be happy withher and to make her happy. 

He went with them for a few days' tour in a motor-car: and he was theirguest at the Langeais' country house in Burgundy--an old family mansionwhich was kept because of its associations, though they hardly ever wentthere. It was in a lovely situation, in the midst of vineyards andwoods: it was very shabby inside, and the windows were loose in theirframes: there was a moldy smell in it, a smell of ripe fruit, of coldshadow, and resinous trees warmed by the sun. Living constantly inJacqueline's company for days together, a sweet insidious feeling creptinto Christophe's veins, without in the least disturbing his peace ofmind: he took an innocent, though by no means immaterial, delight inseeing her, hearing her, feeling the contact of her beautiful body, andsipping the breath of her mouth. Olivier was a little anxious anduneasy, but said nothing. He suspected nothing: but he was oppressed bya vague uneasiness which he would have been ashamed to admit to himself:by way of punishing himself for it he frequently left them alonetogether. 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: Christopheentirely unconscious, Jacqueline not knowing what she really wanted, andleaving it to chance to tell her, and Olivier alone seeing and feelingwhat was in the wind, but in the delicacy of vanity and love, refusingto think of it. When the will is silent, instinct speaks: in the absenceof the soul, the body goes its own way. 

One evening, after dinner, the night seemed to them so lovely--amoonless, starry night, --that they proposed to go for a walk in thegarden. Olivier and Christophe left the house. Jacqueline went up to herroom to fetch a shawl. She did not come down. Christophe went to lookfor her, fuming at the eternal dilatoriness of woman. --(For some timewithout knowing it he had slipped into playing the part of thehusband. )--He heard her coming. The shutters of her room were closed andhe could not see. 

"Come along, you dilly-dallying madam, " cried Christophe gaily. "You'llwear your mirror out if you look at yourself so much. "

She did not reply. She had stopped still. Christophe felt that she wasin the room: but she did not stir. 

"Where are you?" he said. 

She did not reply. Christophe said nothing either, and began groping inthe dark, and suddenly his heart grew big and began to thump, and hestood still. Near him he could hear Jacqueline breathing lightly. Hemoved again and stopped once more. She was near him: he knew it, but hecould not move. There was silence for a second or two. Suddenly he felther hands on his, her lips on his. He held her close. They stood stilland spoke no word. --Their lips parted; they wrenched away from eachother. Jacqueline left the room. Christophe followed her, trembling. Hislegs shook beneath him. He stopped for a moment to lean against the walluntil 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 infront. Christophe followed them in a state of collapse. Olivier stoppedto wait for him. Christophe stopped too. Olivier, knowing his friend'stemper and the capricious silence in which he would sometimes barhimself, did not persist, and went on walking with Jacqueline. AndChristophe followed them mechanically, lagging ten yards behind themlike a dog. When they stopped, he stopped. When they walked on, hewalked 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 thelamp. He did not go to bed. He could not think. About the middle of thenight he fell asleep, sitting, with his head resting in his arms on thetable. He woke up an hour later. He lit a candle, feverishly flungtogether his papers and belongings, packed his bag, and then flunghimself on the bed and slept until dawn. Then he went down with hisluggage and left the house. They waited for him all morning, and spentthe day looking for him. Jacqueline hid her furious anger beneath a maskof indifference, and sarcastically pretended to go over her plate. Itwas not until the following evening that Olivier received a letter fromChristophe:

 "_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 lipstightly pressed together, and said dryly:

"Well. Follow his advice. Save yourself. "

But when Olivier held out his hand for the letter, Jacqueline crumpledit 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 _GrandJournal_, as was only likely. Christophe had been endowed by Heavenwith 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 almostinvariably poisoned by the churlishness of the benefactor. . . . "_

Christophe was never disposed to think himself obliged to abase himselfin return for service rendered, nor--what amounted to the same thing--tosurrender his liberty. He did not lend his own benefactions at so muchper cent. : he gave them. His benefactors, however, were of a verydifferent way of thinking. Their lofty moral feeling of the duties oftheir debtors was shocked by Christophe's refusal to write the music fora stupid hymn for an advertising festivity organized by the paper. Theymade him feel the impropriety of his conduct. Christophe sent thempacking. And finally he exasperated them by the flat denial which hegave shortly afterwards to certain statements attributed to him by thepaper. 

Then they began a campaign against him. They used every possible weapon. They dragged out once more the old pettifogging engine of war which hasalways served the impotent against creative men, and, though it hasnever killed anybody, yet it never fails to have an effect upon thesimple-minded and the fools: they accused him of plagiarism. They wentand picked out artfully selected and distorted passages from hiscompositions and from those of various obscure musicians, and theyproved that he had stolen his inspiration from others. He was accused ofhaving tried to stifle various young artists. It would have been wellenough if he had only had to deal with those whose business it is tobark, with those critics, those mannikins, who climb on the shoulders ofa great man and cry;

"I am greater than you!"

But no: men of talent must be wrangling among themselves: each man doeshis best to make himself intolerable to his colleagues: and yet, asChristophe said, the world was large enough for all of them to be ableto work in peace: and each of them in his own talent had quite enough tostruggle against. 

In Germany he found artists so jealous of him that they were ready tofurnish his enemies with weapons against him, and even, if need be, toinvent them. He found the same thing in France. The nationalists of themusical press--several of whom were foreigners, --flung his nationalityin his teeth as an insult. Christophe's success had grown widely; and ashe had a certain vogue, they pretended that his exaggeration mustirritate even those who had no definite views--much more those who had. Among the concert-going public, and among people in society and thewriters on the young reviews, Christophe by this time had enthusiasticpartisans, who went into ecstasies over everything he did, and were wontto declare that music did not exist before his advent. Some of themexplained his music and found philosophic meanings in it which simplyastounded him. Others would see in it a musical revolution, an assaulton the traditions which Christophe respected more than anybody. It wasuseless for him to protest. They would have proved to him that he didnot know what he had written. They admired themselves by admiring him. And so the campaign against Christophe met with great sympathy among hiscolleagues, who were exasperated by the "log-rolling" to which he was noparty. They did not need to rely on such reasons for not liking hismusic: most of them felt with regard to it the natural irritation of theman who has no ideas and no difficulty in expressing them according toparrot-like formulæ, with the man who is full of ideas and employs themclumsily in accordance with the apparent disorder of his creativefaculty. How often he had had to face the reproach of not being able towrite hurled at him by scribes, for whom style consisted in recipesconcocted by groups or schools, kitchen molds into which thought wascast! Christophe's best friends, those who did not try to understandhim, and were alone in understanding him, because they loved him, simply, for the pleasure he gave them, were obscure auditors who had novoice in the matter. The only man who could have replied vigorously inChristophe's name--Olivier--was at that time out of friends with him, and had apparently forgotten him. Thus Christophe was delivered into thehands of his adversaries and admirers, who vied with each other in doinghim harm. He was too disgusted to reply. When he read thepronunciamentos directed against him in the pages of an importantnewspaper by one of those presumptuous critics who usurp the sovereigntyof art with all the insolence of ignorance and impunity, he would shrughis 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, asusual, gulped down the most fatuous and shameful accusations. 

As though his position was not already difficult enough, Christophechose that moment to quarrel with his publisher. He had no reason at allto complain of Hecht, who published each new work as it was written, andwas honest in business. It is true that his honesty did not prevent hismaking contracts disadvantageous to Christophe: but he kept hiscontracts. He kept them only too well. One day Christophe was amazed tosee a septette of his arranged as a quartette, and a suite of pianopieces clumsily transcribed as a duet, without his having beenconsulted. He rushed to Heeht's office and thrust the offending musicunder his nose, and said:

"Do you know these?"

"Of course, " said Hecht. 

"And you dared . . . You dared tamper with my work without asking mypermission!. . . "

"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 thatif 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 gaveyou a sum of three hundred francs in advance of a royalty of thirtycentimes on every copy sold of the original edition. Upon thatconsideration, without any restriction or reserve, you have assigned tome 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 hadsigned without reading--from which it appeared, in accordance with theordinary run of contracts signed by music publishers in those verydistant 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 anyform he pleased, to have the said work performed at concerts, café-concerts, balls, theaters, etc. , and to publish any arrangement ofthe said work for any instrument and even with words, and also to changethe title . . . Etc. , etc. "

"You see, " he said, "I am really very moderate. "

"Evidently, " said Christophe. "I ought to thank you. You might haveturned 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 abuseit. "

"And to think, " said Christophe, "that your Republic authorizes suchpractices! You say that man is free. And you put ideas up to publicauction. "

"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 backto Hecht. But he had nothing like that sum. Hecht smiled a littledisdainfully. 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 tokeep a man against his will, I am quite ready to give them back toyou, --if you are in a position to pay the indemnity stated in thecontract. "

"I will do it, " said Christophe, "even if I have to sell myself. "

He accepted without discussion the conditions which Hecht submitted tohim a fortnight later. It was an amazing act of folly, and he boughtback his published compositions at a price five times greater than thesum they had brought him in, though it was by no means exorbitant: forit was scrupulously calculated on the basis of the actual profits whichhad accrued to Hecht. Christophe could not pay, and Hecht had counted onit. He had no intention of squeezing Christophe, of whom he thought morehighly, both as a musician and as a man, than of any other youngmusician: but he wanted to teach him a lesson: for he could not permithis clients to revolt against what was after all within his rights. Hehad not made the laws: they were those of the time, and they seemed tohim equitable. Besides, he was quite sincerely convinced that they wereto 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, respectableorder, which are contrary to his real interests. He had made up his mindto help Christophe to succeed, but in his own way, and on condition thatChristophe was delivered into his hands, tied hand and foot. He wantedto 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'sabsolute property. It was perfectly obvious that Christophe would not beable to collect a quarter of the sum requisite. 

However, he stuck to it, said good-by to the rooms which were so full ofmemories for him, and took a less expensive flat, --selling a number ofthings, none of which, to his great surprise, were of anyvalue, --getting into debt, and appealing to Mooch's good nature, who, unfortunately, was at that time very badly off and ill, being confinedto the house with rheumatism, --trying to find another publisher, andeverywhere finding conditions as grasping as Hecht's, and in some casesa point-blank refusal. 

It was just at the time when the attack on him in the musical press wasat its height. One of the leading Parisian papers was especiallyimplacable: he was like a red rag to a bull to one of the staff who didnot sign his name; not a week passed but there appeared in the columnheaded _Échos_ a spiteful paragraph ridiculing him. The musicalcritic completed the work of his anonymous colleague: the very smallestpretext served him as an opportunity of expressing his animosity. Butthat was only the preliminary skirmishing: he promised to return to thesubject and deal with it at leisure, and to proceed in due course toexecution. They were in no hurry, knowing that a definite accusation hasnothing like the same effect on the public as a succession ofinsinuations repeated persistently. They played with Christophe like acat with a mouse. The articles were all sent to Christophe, and hedespised them, though they made him suffer for all that. However, hesaid nothing: and, instead of replying--(could he have done so, even ifhe had wanted to?)--he persisted in the futile and unequal fight withhis publisher, provoked by his own vanity. He wasted his time, hisstrength, his money, and his only weapons, since in the lightness of hisheart he was rash enough to deprive himself of the publicity which hismusic gained through Hecht. 

Suddenly there was a complete change. The article announced in the papernever appeared. The insinuations against him were dropped. The campaignstopped short. More than that: a few weeks later, the critic of thepaper published incidentally a few eulogistic remarks which seemed toindicate that peace was made. A great publisher at Leipzig wrote toChristophe offering to publish his work, and the contract was signed onterms very advantageous to him. A flattering letter, bearing the seal ofthe Austrian Embassy, informed Christophe that it was desired to placecertain of his compositions on the programs of the galas given at theEmbassy. Philomela, whom Christophe was pushing forward, was asked tosing at one of the galas: and, immediately afterwards, she was in greatdemand in the best houses of the German and Italian colonies in Paris. Christophe himself, who could not get out of going to one of theconcerts, was very well received by the Ambassador. However, a veryshort conversation showed him that his host, who knew very little aboutmusic, was absolutely ignorant of his work. How, then, did this suddeninterest come about? An invisible hand seemed to be protecting him, removing obstacles, and making the way smooth for him. Christophe madeinquiries. The Ambassador alluded to friends of Christophe--Count andCountess Berény, who were very fond of him. Christophe did not even knowtheir name: and on the night of his visit to the Embassy he had noopportunity of being introduced to them. He did not make any effort tomeet them. He was passing through a period of disgust with men, in whichhe set as little store by his friends as by his enemies: friends andenemies were equally uncertain: they changed with the wind: he wouldhave to learn how to do without them, and say, like the old fellow ofthe seventeenth century:

"_God gave me friends: He took them from me. They have left me. I willleave them and say no more about it_. "

Since the day when he left Olivier's house, Olivier had given no sign oflife: all seemed over between them. Christophe had no mind to form newfriendships. He imagined Count and Countess Berény to be like the restof the snobs who called themselves his friends: and he made no attemptto meet them. He was more inclined to avoid them. He longed to be ableto escape from Paris. He felt an urgent desire to take refuge for a fewweeks in soothing solitude. If only he could have a few days, only a fewdays, to refresh himself in his native country! Little by little thatidea became a morbid obsession. He wanted once more to see his dearriver, his own native sky, the land of his dead kinsfolk. He felt thathe must see them. He could not without endangering his freedom: he wasstill subject to the warrant of arrest issued against him at the time ofhis flight from Germany. But he felt that he was prepared to go to anylengths 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 newpatrons. A young attaché of the German Embassy, whom he met at an AtHome where he was playing, happened to say to him that his country wasproud of so fine a musician as himself, to which Christophe repliedbitterly:

"Our country is so proud of me that she lets me die on her doorsteprather than open to me. "

The young diplomatist asked him to explain the situation, and, a fewdays later, he came to see Christophe, and said:

"People in high places are interested in you. A very great personage whoalone has the power to suspend the consequence of the sentence which isthe cause of your wretchedness has been informed of your position: andhe deigns to be touched by it. I don't know how it is that your musiccan have given him any pleasure: for--(between ourselves)--his taste isnot 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 spendforty-eight hours in your native town to see your family once more. Hereis a passport. You must have it endorsed when you arrive and when youleave. Be wary, and do not attract attention to yourself. "

Once more Christophe saw his native land. He spent the two days whichhad been granted him in communion with the earth and those who werebeneath it. He visited his mother's grave. The grass was growing overit: but flowers had lately been laid on it. His father and grandfatherslept side by side. He sat at their feet. Their grave lay beneath thewall of the cemetery. It was shaded by a chestnut-tree growing in thesunken road on the other side of the low wall, over which he could seethe golden crops, softly waving in the warm wind: the sun was shining inhis majesty over the drowsy earth: he could hear the cry of the quailsin the corn, and the soft murmuring of the cypress-trees above thegraves. Christophe was alone with his dreams. His heart was at peace. Hesat there with his hands clasping his knees, and his back against thewall, gazing up at the sky. He closed his eyes for a moment. How simpleeverything was! He felt at home here with his own people. He stayedthere near them, as it were hand in hand. The hours slipped by. Towardsevening he heard footsteps scrunching on the gravel paths. The custodianpassed by and looked at Christophe sitting there. Christophe asked himwho had laid the flowers on the grave. The man answered that thefarmer'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 saidnothing. The sun was setting. 

"I'm going to lock up, " said the custodian. 

Christophe got up and walked slowly round the cemetery with him. Thecustodian did the honors of the place. Christophe stopped every now andthen to read the names carved on the gravestones. How many of those heknew 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 ofthem. . . . 

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 thefields. 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 withlife. His heart sang a careless, happy hymn. He sat on the curb of thegrave, and set down the song he heard in pencil in a notebook resting onhis knees. So the day passed. It seemed to him that he was working inhis old little room, and that his mother was there on the other side ofthe partition. When he had finished and was ready to go--he had moved alittle away from the grave, --he changed his mind and returned, andburied the notebook in the grass under the ivy. A few drops of rain werebeginning to fall. Christophe thought:

"It will soon be blotted out. So much the better!. . . For you alone. Fornobody else. "

And he went to see the river once more, and the familiar streets whereso many things were changed. By the gates of the town along thepromenade of the old fortifications a little wood of acacia-trees whichhe had seen planted had overrun the place, and they were stifling theold 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 alittle boy, to look over into the grounds: and he was surprised to seehow small the tree, the wall, and the garden had become. 

He stopped for a moment before the front gateway. He was going on when acarriage passed him. Mechanically he raised his eyes: and they met thoseof a young lady, fresh, plump, happy-looking, who stared at him with apuzzled expression. She gave an exclamation of surprise. She ordered thecarriage 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 firstmet her. [Footnote: See "Jean-Christophe: Morning. "]

She was with a tall, stout, bald gentleman, with mustachios brushed upbelligerently, whom she introduced as "Herr Reichsgerichtsrat vonBrombach"--her husband. She wanted Christophe to go home with her. Hetried 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 hervolubility and the noise she made, and only heard half what she said, and stood looking at her. So that was his little Minna. She lookedblooming, healthy, well-fed: she had a pretty skin and pink complexion, but her features were rather coarse, and her nose in particular wasthick and heavy. Her gestures, manners, pretty little ways, were justthe same; but her size was greatly altered. 

However, she never stopped talking: she told Christophe all the storiesof her past; her whole private history, and how she had come to love herhusband and her husband her. Christophe was embarrassed. She was anuncritical optimist, who found everything belonging to herself perfectand superior to other people's possessions--(at least, when she was withother people)--her town, her house, her family, her husband, hercooking, her four children, and herself. She said of her husband in hispresence that he was "the most splendid man she had even seen, " and thatthere was in him "a superhuman force. " "The most splendid man" pinchedMinna's cheeks laughingly, and assured Christophe that she "was a veryremarkable woman. "

It seemed that _Herr Reichsgerichtsrat_ was informed ofChristophe's position, and did not exactly know whether he ought totreat him with or without respect, having regard on the one hand to thewarrant out against him, and on the other to the august protection whichshielded him: he solved the difficulty by affecting a compromise betweenthe two manners. As for Minna, she went on talking. When she had talkedher fill about herself to Christophe, she began to talk about him: shebattered him with questions as intimate as her answers had been to thesupposititious questions which he had never asked. She was delighted tosee Christophe again: she knew nothing about his music: but she knewthat he was famous: it flattered her to think that she had lovedhim, --(and that she had rejected him). --She reminded him of it jokinglywithout much delicacy. She asked him for his autograph for her album. She pestered him with questions about Paris. She showed a mixture ofcuriosity and contempt for that city. She pretended that she knew it, having been to the Folies-Bergère, the Opéra, Montmartre, andSaint-Cloud. According to her, the women of Paris were all _cocottes_, badmothers, 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 ofpleasant vice. She did not suffer contradiction. In the course of theevening she asked Christophe to play the piano. She thought it charming. But at bottom she admired her husband's playing just as much, for shethought him as superior all round as she was herself. 

Christophe had the pleasure of meeting Minna's mother once more, Frauvon Kerich. He still had a secret tenderness for her because she hadbeen kind to him. She had not lost any of her old kindness, and she wasmore natural than Minna: but she still treated Christophe with thatironical affection which used to irritate him in the old days. She hadstayed very much where he had left her: she liked the same things; andit did not seem possible for her to admit that any one could do betteror differently: she set the Jean-Christophe of the old days against thenew Jean-Christophe, and preferred the former. 

Of those about her no one had changed in mind save Christophe. Therigidity of the little town, and its narrowness of outlook, were painfulto him. His hosts spent part of the evening in talking scandal aboutpeople he did not know. They picked out the ridiculous points of theirneighbors, and they decreed everything ridiculous which was differentfrom themselves or their own way of doing things. Their maliciouscuriosity, which was perpetually occupied with trifles, at last madeChristophe feel quite sick. He tried to talk about his life abroad. Butat once he became conscious of the impossibility of making themunderstand French civilization which had made him suffer, and now becamedear to him when he stood for it in his own country--the free Latinspirit, whose first law is understanding: to understand as much as possibleof life and mind, at the risk of cheapening moral codes. In hishosts, especially in Minna, he found once more the arrogant spirit withwhich he had come into such violent contact in the old days, though hehad almost forgotten it since, --the arrogance of weakness as much as ofvirtue, --honesty without charity, pluming itself on its virtue, anddespising the weaknesses which it could not understand, a worship of theconventional, and a shocked disdain of "irregular" higher things. Minnawas calmly and sententiously confident that she was always right. Therewere no degrees in her judgment of others. For the rest, she never madeany attempt to understand them, and was only occupied with herself. Heregoism was thinly coated with a blurred metaphysical tinge. She wasalways talking of her "ego" and the development of her "ego. " She mayhave been a good woman, one capable of loving. But she loved herself toomuch. And, above all, her respect for herself was too great. She seemedto be perpetually saying a _Paternoster_ and an _Ave_ to her "ego. " Onefelt that she would have absolutely and forever ceased to love the man shemight have loved the best, if for a single instant he had failed--(eventhough he were to regret it a thousand times when it was done)--to show adue 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 ordinarilyso irritable listened to her chatter with the patience of an archangel. He would not judge her. He surrounded her, as with a halo, with thereligious memory of his childish love, and he kept on trying to find inher the image of his little Minna. It was not impossible to find her incertain of her gestures: the quality of her voice had certain noteswhich awoke echoes that moved him. He was absorbed in them, and saidnothing, and did not listen to what she was saying, though he seemed tolisten and always treated her with tender gentle respect. But he foundit hard to concentrate his thoughts: she made too much noise, andprevented his hearing Minna. At last he got up, and thought a littlewearily:

"Poor little Minna! They would like me to think that you are there, inthat comely, stout woman, shouting at the top of her voice, and boringme to death. But I know that it is not so. Come away, Minna. What havewe to do with these people?"

He went away, giving them to understand that he would return on themorrow. If he had said that he was going away that very night, theywould not have let him go until it was time to catch the train. He hadonly gone a few yards in the darkness when he recovered the feeling ofwell-being which he had had before he met the carriage. The memory ofhis tiresome evening was wiped out as though a wet sponge had been overit: nothing was left of it: it was all drowned in the voice of theRhine. He walked along its banks by the house where he was born. He hadno difficulty in recognizing it. The shutters were closed: all wereasleep in it. Christophe stopped in the middle of the road: and itseemed to him that if he knocked at the door, familiar phantoms wouldopen to him. He went into the field round the house, near the river, andcame to the place where he used to go and talk to Gottfried in theevening. He sat down. And the old days came to life again. And the dearlittle girl who had sipped with him the dream of first love was conjuredup. Together they lived through their childish tenderness again, withits sweet tears and infinite hopes. And he thought with a simple smile:

"Life has taught me nothing. All my knowledge is vain. . . . All myknowledge is vain. . . . I have still the same old illusions. "

How good it is to love and to believe unfailingly! Everything that istouched 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 onthe river's back gleam in her light. Christophe had a vague feeling thatthe river never used to pass near the knoll where he was sitting. Hewent near it. Yes. Beyond the pear-tree there used to be a tongue ofsand, a little grassy slope, where he had often played. The river hadswept them away: the river was encroaching, lapping at the roots of thepear-tree. Christophe felt a pang at his heart: he went back towards thestation. In that direction a new colony--mean houses, sheds half-built, tall factory chimneys--was in course of construction. Christophe thoughtof 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 containedof the living and the dead, became even more dear to him: for he feltthat a menace hung over it. . . . 

_Hostis habet muros. . . . _

Quick, let us save our women and children! Death is lying in wait forall that we love. Let us hasten to carve the passing face upon eternalbronze. Let us snatch the treasure of our motherland before the flamesdevour the palace of Priam. 

Christophe scrambled into the train as it was going, like a man fleeingbefore a flood. But, like those men who saved the gods of their cityfrom the wreck, Christophe bore away within his soul the spark of lifewhich had flown upwards from his native land, and the sacred spirit ofthe past. 

Jacqueline and Olivier had come together again for a time. Jacquelinehad lost her father, and his death had moved her deeply. In the presenceof real misfortune she had felt the wretched folly of her other sorrows:and the tenderness which Olivier showed towards her had revived heraffection for him. She was taken back several years to the sad dayswhich had followed on the death of her Aunt Marthe--days which had beenfollowed by the blessed days of love. She told herself that she wasungrateful to life, and that she ought to be thankful that the little ithad given her was not taken from her. She hugged that little to herselfnow 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 otherduring the first year of her marriage, softened her and filled her withtenderness. In the sadness of seeing once more at the turn of the roadthe dear face of the love which they thought was gone forever, of seeingit 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 bylove, thrilling in her veins. But love had gone already. The burdenwhich lay so heavy upon her did not bring her into sympathy with Olivieragain. She did not feel the joy she expected. She probed herselfuneasily. Often when she had been so tormented before she had thoughtthat 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 herflesh growing, and sucking up her blood and her life. She would stay fordays together lost in thought, listening with vacant eyes, all her beingexhausted by the unknown creature that had taken possession of her. Shewas conscious of a vague buzzing, sweet, lulling, agonizing. She wouldstart suddenly from her torpor--dripping with sweat, shivering, with aspasm of revolt. She fought against the meshes in which Nature hadentrapped her. She wished to live, to live freely, and it seemed to herthat Nature had tricked her. Then she was ashamed of such thoughts, andseemed monstrous in her own eyes, and asked herself if she were morewicked than, or made differently from, other women. And little by littleshe would grow calm again, browsing like a tree over the sap, and thedream of the living fruit ripening in her womb. What was it? What was itgoing to be?. . . 

When she heard its first cry to the light, when she saw its pitiabletouching little body, her heart melted. In one dazzling moment she knewthe glorious joy of motherhood, the mightiest in all the world: in hersuffering to have created of her own flesh a living being, a man. Andthe 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. . . . OGod, the woman who creates is Thy equal: and thou knowest no joy likeunto 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 atJacqueline, he tried to understand what bond of mysterious life therewas between themselves and the wretched little creature that was as yethardly human. Tenderly, with a little feeling of disgust, he justtouched its little yellow wrinkled face with his lips. Jacquelinewatched him: jealously she pushed him away: she took the child andhugged it to her breast, and covered it with kisses. The child cried andshe 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 himtoo, and forced herself to smile: then she asked to be left alone torest with the child by her side. . . . Alas! what is to be done when loveis dead? The man who gives more than half of himself up to intelligencenever loses a strong feeling without preserving a trace, an idea, of itin his brain. He cannot love any more, but he cannot forget that he hasloved. But the woman who has loved wholly and without reason, andwithout reason ceases wholly to love, what can she do? Will? Take refugein illusions? And what if she be too weak to will, too true to takerefuge 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 sheno longer loved "the other. " Poor child! Dear child! She was exasperatedwith the little creature who was there to bind her to the dead past: andshe bent over him and kissed and kissed him. . . . 

It is the great misfortune of the women of to-day that they are too freewithout being free enough. If they were more free, they would seek toform ties, and would find charm and security in them. If they were lessfree, they would resign themselves to ties which they would not know howto break: and they would suffer less. But the worst state of all is tohave ties which do not bind, and duties from which it is possible tobreak free. 

If Jacqueline had believed that her little house was to be her lot forthe whole of her life, she would not have found it so inconvenient andcramped, and she would have devised ways of making it comfortable: shewould have ended as she began, by loving it. But she knew that it waspossible to leave, it, and it stifled her. It was possible for her torevolt, and at last she came to think it her duty to do so. 

The present-day moralists are strange creatures. All their qualitieshave atrophied to the profit of their faculties of observation. Theyhave given up trying to see life, hardly attempt to understand it, andnever by any chance WILL it. When they have observed and noted down thefacts of human nature, they seem to think their task is at an end, andsay:

"That is a fact. "

They make no attempt to change it. In their eyes, apparently, the merefact of existence is a moral virtue. Every sort of weakness seems tohave been inserted with a sort of Divine right. The world is growingdemocratic. Formerly only the King was irresponsible. Nowadays all men, preferably the basest, have that privilege. Admirable counselors! Withinfinite pains and scrupulous care they set themselves to prove to theweak exactly how weak they are, and that it has been decreed that theyshould be so and not otherwise from all eternity. What can the weak dobut fold their arms? We may think ourselves lucky if they do not admirethemselves! By dint of hearing it said over and over again that she is asick child, a woman soon takes a pride in being so. It is encouragingcowardice, and making it spread. If a man were to amuse himself bytelling children complacently that there is an age in adolescence whenthe soul, not yet having found its balance, is capable of crimes, andsuicide, and the worst sort of physical and moral depravity, and were toexcuse these things--at once these offenses would spring into being. Andeven with men it is quite enough to go on telling them that they are notfree 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 bodyand her will, and she will be so. But you moralists are cowards, andtake good care not to tell her so: for you have an interest in keepingsuch knowledge from her!. . . 

The unhappy surroundings in which Jacqueline found herself led herastray. Since she had broken with Olivier she had returned to thatsection of society which she despised when she was a girl. About her andher friends, among married women, there gathered a little group ofwealthy young men and women, smart, idle, intelligent, and licentious. They enjoyed absolute liberty of thought and speech, tempered only bythe seasoning of wit. They might well have taken for their motto thedevice of the Rabelaisian abbey:

 _"Do what thou wilt. "_

But they bragged a little: for they did not will anything much: theywere like the enervated people of Thelema. They would complacentlyprofess the freedom of their instincts: but their instincts were fadedand faint; and their profligacy was chiefly cerebral. They delighted infeeling themselves sink into the great piscina of civilization, thatwarm mud-bath in which human energy, the primeval and vital forces, primitive animalism, and its blossom of faith, will, duties, andpassions, are liquefied. Jacqueline's pretty body was steeped in thatbath of gelatinous thought. Olivier could do nothing to keep her fromit. Besides, he too was touched by the disease of the time: he thoughthe had no right to tamper with the liberty of another human being: hewould not ask anything of the woman he loved that he could not gainthrough love. And Jacqueline did not in the least resent hisnon-interference, because she regarded her liberty as her right. 

The worst of it was that she went into that amphibious section ofsociety with a wholeness of heart which made anything equivocalrepulsive to her: when she believed she gave herself: in the generousardor 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 inabilityto 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 ofmorality and society, though in practice they so contrived their affairsas not to fall out with any one whose acquaintance might be useful tothem: they used morality and society, while they betrayed them likeunfaithful servants, robbing their masters. They even robbed each otherfor want of anything better to do, and as a matter of habit. There wasmore than one of the men who knew that his wife had lovers. The wiveswere not ignorant of the fact that their husbands had mistresses. Theyboth put up with it. Scandal only begins when one makes a noise aboutthese things. These charming marriages rested on a tacit understandingbetween partners--between accomplices. But Jacqueline was more frank, and played to win or lose. The first thing was to be sincere. Again, tobe sincere. Again and always, to be sincere. Sincerity was also one ofthe virtues extolled by the ideas of that time. But herein it is provedonce again that everything is sound for the sound in heart, whileeverything is corrupt for the corrupt. How hideous it is sometimes to besincere! It is a sin for mediocre people to try to look into the depthsof themselves. They see their mediocrity: and their vanity always findssomething to feed on. 

Jacqueline spent her time in looking at herself in her mirror: she sawthings in it which it were better she had never seen: for when she sawthem she could not take her eyes off them: and instead of strugglingagainst them she watched them grow: they became enormous and in the endcaptured her eyes and her mind. 

The child was not enough to fill her life. She had not been able tonurse it: the baby pined with her. She had to procure a wet nurse. Itwas a great grief to her at first. . . . Soon it became a solace. The childbecame splendidly healthy: he grew lustily, and became a fine littlefellow, gave no trouble, spent his time in sleeping, and hardly cried atall at night. The nurse--a strapping Nivernaise who had fostered manychildren, and always had a jealous and embarrassing animal affection foreach of them in turn--was like the real mother. Whenever Jacquelineexpressed an opinion, the woman went her own way: and if Jacquelinetried to argue, in the end she always found that she knew nothing at allabout it. She had never really recovered from the birth of the child: aslight attack of phlebitis had dragged her down, and as she had to liestill for several weeks she worried and worried: she was feverish, andher mind went on and on indefinitely beating out the same monotonousdeluded 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 didnot confess to herself, against the innocent cause of her illness, thechild. The feeling is not so rare as is generally believed: but a veilis drawn over it: and even those who feel it are ashamed to submit to itin their inmost hearts. Jacqueline condemned herself: there was a sharpconflict between her egoism and her mother's love. When she saw thechild sleeping so happily, she was filled with tenderness: but a momentlater she would think bitterly:

"He has killed me. "

And she could not suppress a feeling of irritation and revolt againstthe untroubled sleep of the creature whose happiness she had bought atthe price of her suffering. Even after she had recovered, when the childwas bigger, the feeling of hostility persisted dimly and obscurely. Asshe was ashamed of it, she transferred it to Olivier. She went onfancying herself ill: and her perpetual care of her health, heranxieties, which were bolstered up by the doctors, who encouraged theidleness which was the prime cause of it all, --(separation from thechild, forced inactivity, absolute isolation, weeks of emptiness spentin lying in bed and being stuffed with food, like a beast being fattedfor slaughter), --had ended by concentrating all her thoughts upon, herself. The modern way of curing neurasthenia is very strange, beingneither more nor less than the substitution of hypertrophy of the egofor a disease of the ego! Why not bleed their egoism, or restore thecirculation of the blood from head to heart, if they do not have toomuch, by some violent, moral reagent!

Jacqueline came out of it physically stronger, plumper, andrejuvenated, --but morally she was more ill than ever. Her months ofisolation had broken the last ties of thought which bound her toOlivier. While she lived with him she was still under the ascendancy ofhis idealism, for, in spite of all his failings, he remained constant tohis faith: she struggled in vain against the bondage in which she washeld by a mind more steadfast than her own, against the look whichpierced 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 separatedher from her husband--as soon as she ceased to feel the weight of hisall-seeing love--as soon as she was free--the trusting friendship thatused to exist between them was supplanted by a feeling of anger athaving broken free, a sort of hatred born of the idea that she had forso long lived beneath the yoke of an affection which she no longerfelt. --Who can tell the hidden, implacable, bitter feelings that seetheand ferment in the heart of a creature he loves, by whom he believesthat he is loved? Between one day and the next, all is changed. Sheloved the day before, she seemed to love, she thought she loved. Sheloves no longer. The man she loved is struck out from her thoughts. Shesees suddenly that he is nothing to her: and he does not understand: hehas seen nothing of the long travail through which she has passed: hehas had no suspicion of the secret hostility towards himself that hasbeen gathering in her: he does not wish to know the reasons for hervengeful hatred. Reasons often remote, complex, and obscure, --somehidden deep in the mysteries of their inmost life, --others arising frominjured vanity, secrets of the heart surprised and judged, --others. . . . What does she know of them herself? It is some hidden offense committedagainst her unwittingly, an offense which she will never forgive. It isimpossible to find out, and she herself is not very sure what it is: butthe offense is marked deep in her flesh: her flesh will never forget it. 

To fight against such an appalling stream of disaffection called for avery different type of man from Olivier--one nearer nature, a simplerman and a more supple one not hampered with sentimental scruples, a manof strong instincts, capable, if need be, of actions which his reasonwould disavow. He lost the fight before ever it began, for he had lostheart: his perception was too clear, and he had long since recognized inJacqueline a form of heredity which was stronger than her will, hermother's soul reappearing in her: he saw her falling like a stone downto the depths of the stock from which she sprang: and his weak andclumsy efforts to stay her only accelerated her downfall. He forcedhimself to be calm. She, from an unconsciously selfish motive, tried tobreak down his defenses and make him say violent, brutal, boorish thingsto her so as to have a reason for despising him. If he gave way toanger, she despised him. If at once he were ashamed and becameapologetic, 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 silencewhich for days together would rise like a wall between them. Asuffocating, crushing, maddening silence which brings even the gentlestcreatures to fury and exasperation, and makes them have moments whenthey feel a savage desire to hurt, to cry out, or make the other cryout. The black silence in which love reaches its final stage ofdisintegration, and the man and the woman, like the worlds, eachfollowing its own orbit, pass onward into the night. . . . They had reacheda point at which everything they did, even an attempt to come togetheragain, drove them farther and farther apart. Their life becameintolerable. 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 tothe house; and Cécile went on seeing them even after Christophe hadbroken with them. Jacqueline had been kind to her: although she washardly at all musical and thought Cécile a little common, she felt thecharm of her singing and her soothing influence. Olivier liked playingwith her, and gradually she became a friend of the family. She inspiredconfidence: when she came into the Jeannins' drawing-room with herhonest eyes and her air of health and high spirits, and her rather loudlaugh which it was good to hear, it was like a ray of sunlight piercingthe mist. She brought a feeling of inexpressible relief and solace toOlivier 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 nothelp letting her see something of his troubles. He did it quiteunthinkingly, with the heedlessness of a weak and tender creature who isstifling and has need of some one to confide in, with an absolutesurrender. Cécile was touched by it: she soothed him with motherly wordsof comfort. She pitied both of them, and urged Olivier not to loseheart. But whether it was that she was more embarrassed than he by hisconfidences, or that there was some other reason, she found excuses forgoing less often to the house. No doubt it seemed to her that she wasnot acting loyally towards Jacqueline, for she had no right to know hersecrets. At least, that was how Olivier interpreted her estrangement:and he agreed with her, for he was sorry that he had spoken. But theestrangement made him feel what Cécile had become to him. He had grownused to sharing his ideas with her, and she was the only creature whocould deliver him from the pain he was suffering. He was too muchskilled in reading his own feelings to have any doubt as to the name ofwhat he felt for her. He would never have said anything to Cécile. Buthe could not resist the imperative desire to write down what he felt. For some little time past he had returned to the dangerous habit ofcommuning with his thoughts on paper. He had cured himself of it duringthe years of love: but now that he found himself alone once more, hisinherited mania took possession of him: it was a relief from hissufferings, and it was the artist's need of self-analysis. So hedescribed himself, and set his troubles down in writing, as though hewere telling them to Cécile--more freely indeed; since she was never toread it. And as luck would have it the manuscript came into Jacqueline'shands. It happened one day when she was feeling nearer Olivier than shehad been for years. As she was clearing out her cupboard she read oncemore the old love-letters he had sent her: she had been moved to tearsby them. Sitting in the shadow of the cupboard, unable to go on with hertidying, she lived through the past once more: and then was filled withsorrow and remorse to think that she had destroyed it. She thought ofthe grief it must be to Olivier; she had never been able to face theidea of it calmly: she could forget it: but she could not bear to thinkthat he had suffered through her. Her heart ached. She longed to throwherself into his arms and say:

"Oh! Olivier, Olivier, what have we done? We are mad, we are mad! Don'tlet 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 toCécile. . . . It was the end. --Did she think that Olivier had reallydeceived her? Perhaps. But what does it signify? To her the betrayal wasnot so much in the act as in the thought and intention. She would havefound it easier to forgive the man she loved for taking a mistress thanfor secretly giving his heart to another woman. And she was right. 

"A pretty state of things!" some will say. . . . --(They are poor creatureswho only suffer from the betrayal of love when it is consummated!. . . When the heart remains faithful, the sordid offenses of the body are ofsmall account. When the heart turns traitor, all the rest isnothing. ). . . 

Jacqueline did not for a moment think of regaining Olivier's love. Itwas too late! She no longer cared for him enough. Or perhaps she caredfor him too much. All her trust in him crumbled away, all that was leftin her secret heart of her faith and hope in him. She did not tellherself that she had scorned him, and had discouraged him, and drivenhim to his new love, or that his love was innocent: and that after allwe are not masters of ourselves sufficiently to choose whether we willlove or not. It never occurred to her to compare his sentimental impulsewith her flirtation with Christophe: she did not love Christophe, and sohe did not count! In her passionate exaggeration she thought thatOlivier was lying to her, and that she was nothing to him. Her last stayhad failed her at the moment when she reached out her hand to graspit. . . . It was the end. 

Olivier never knew what she had suffered that day. But when he next sawher he too felt that it was the end. 

From that moment on they never spoke to each other except in thepresence of strangers. They watched each other like trapped beastsfearfully on their guard. Jeremias Gotthelf somewhere describes, withpitiless simplicity, the grim situation of a husband and a wife who nolonger love each other and watch each other, each carefully marking theother's health, looking for symptoms of illness, neither actuallythinking of hastening or even wishing the death of the other, butdrifting along in the hope of some sudden accident: and each of themliving in the flattering thought of being the healthier of the two. There were moments when both Jacqueline and Olivier almost fancied thatsuch thoughts were in the other's mind. And they were in the mind ofneither: but it was bad enough that they should attribute them to eachother, as Jacqueline did at night when she would lie feverishly awakeand tell herself that her husband was the stronger, and that he waswearing her down gradually, and would soon triumph over her. . . . Themonstrous delirium of a crazy heart and brain!--And to think that intheir heart of hearts, with all that was best in them, they loved eachother!. . . 

Olivier bent beneath the weight of it, and made no attempt to fightagainst it; he held aloof and dropped the rudder of Jacqueline's soul. Left to herself with no pilot to steer her, her freedom turned herdizzy: she needed a master against whom to revolt: if she had no mastershe 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. Shewished to love, before it was too late:--(for, young as she was, shethought herself an old woman). --She loved, she indulged in thoseimaginary devouring passions, which fasten on the first object theymeet, 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 itcannot live without the object of its choice, laying it waste, andcompletely emptying it of all the memories of the past that filled it;other affections, moral ideas, memories, pride of self, and respect forothers. And when the fixed idea dies in its time for want of anything tofeed it, after it has consumed everything, who can tell what the newnature may be that will spring from the ruins, a nature often withoutkindness, without pity, without youth, without illusions, thinking ofnothing but devouring life as grass smothers and devours the ruins ofmonuments!

In this case, as usual, the fixed idea fastened on a creature of thetype that most easily tricks the heart. Poor Jacqueline fell in lovewith a philanderer, a Parisian writer, who was neither young norhandsome, a man who was heavy, red-faced, dissipated, with bad teeth, absolutely and terribly heartless, whose chief merit was that he was a manof the world and had made a great many women unhappy. She had noteven the excuse that she did not know how selfish he was: for he paradedit in his art. He knew perfectly what he was doing: egoism enshrined inart is like a mirror to larks, like a candle to moths. More than onewoman in Jacqueline's circle had been caught: quite recently one of herfriends, a young, newly-married woman, whom he had had no greatdifficulty in seducing, had been deserted by him. Their hearts were notbroken by it, though they found it hard to conceal their discomfiturefrom the delight of the gossips. Even those who were most cruelly hurtwere much too careful of their interests and their social interests notto keep their perturbation within the bounds of common sense. They madeno scandal. Whether they deceived their husbands or their lovers, orwhether they were themselves deceived and suffered, it was all done insilence. 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 absolutelack of selfish motive, and an utter disinterestedness. She had thedangerous merit of always being frank with herself and of never shirkingthe consequences of her own actions. She was a better creature than thepeople she lived with: and for that reason she did worse. When sheloved, when she conceived the idea of adultery, she flung herself intoit headlong with desperate frankness. 

 * * * * *

Madame Arnaud was alone in her room, knitting with the feverishtranquillity with which Penelope must have woven her famous web. LikePenelope, she was waiting for her husband's return. M. Arnaud used tospend whole days away from home. He had classes in the morning andevening. As a rule he came back to lunch. Although he was a slow walkerand his school was at the other end of Paris, he forced himself to takethe long walk home, not so much from affection, as from habit, and forthe sake of economy. But sometimes he was detained by lectures, or hewould take advantage of being in the neighborhood of a library to go andwork there. Lucile Arnaud would be left alone in the empty flat. Exceptfor the charwoman who came from eight to ten to do the cleaning, and thetradesmen 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 werenewcomers in the lilac garden. Céline Chabran had married AndréElsberger. Élie Elsberger had gone away with his family to Spain, wherehe had been appointed manager of a mine. Old Weil had lost his wife andhardly ever lived in his flat in Paris. Only Christophe and his friendCécile had kept up their relations with Lucile Arnaud: but they livedfar away, and they were busy and hard at work all day long, so that theyoften did not come to see her for weeks together. She had nothingoutside herself. 

She was not bored. She needed very little to keep her interest in thingsalive: the very smallest daily task was enough, or a tiny plant, whosedelicate foliage she would clean with motherly care every morning. Shehad her quiet gray cat, who had lost something of his manners, as is aptto happen with domestic animals who are loved by their masters: he usedto spend the day, like herself, sitting by the fire, or on the tablenear the lamp watching her fingers as she sewed, and sometimes gazing ather with his strange eyes, which watched her for a moment and thenclosed again. Even the furniture was company to her. Every piece waslike a familiar face. She took a childlike pleasure in looking afterthem, in gently wiping off the dust which settled on their sides, and incarefully replacing them in their usual corners. She would hold silentconversations 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 alwaysabsorbed in going over her linen, and she would spend hours standing ona chair, with her hands and arms deep in the great country cupboard, looking and arranging, while the cat, whose curiosity was roused, wouldspend hours watching her. 

But her real happiness came when, after her work was done and she hadlunched alone, God knows how--(she never had much of an appetite)--andhad gone the necessary errands, and her day was at an end, she wouldcome in about four and sit by the window or the fire with her work andher 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 whenit 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 herlunch when the tradespeople forgot to bring it. In that case she wouldmunch a piece of chocolate or some fruit from the sideboard. She wasvery careful not to let Arnaud know. These were her escapades. Thenduring the days when the light was dim, and also sometimes on lovelysunny days, --(outside the blue sky would shine, and the noise of thestreet would buzz round the dark silent rooms; like a sort of mirageenshrouding the soul), --she would sit in her favorite corner, with herfeet on her hassock, her knitting in her hands, and go off intoday-dreams while her fingers plied the needles. She would have one ofher favorite books by her side: as a rule one of those humble, red-backed volumes, a translation of an English novel. She would readvery little, hardly more than a chapter a day; and the book would lie onher knees open at the same page for a long time together, or sometimesshe would not even open it: she knew it already, and the story of itwould be in her dreams. So the long novels of Dickens and Thackeraywould be drawn out over weeks, and in her dreams they would becomeyears. They wrapped her about with their tenderness. The people of thepresent day, who read quickly and carelessly, do not know the marvelousvigor irradiated by those fine books which must be taken in slowly. Madame Arnaud had no doubt that the lives of the characters in thenovels were not as real as her own. There were some for whom she wouldhave laid down her life: the tender jealous creature, Lady Castlewood, the woman who loved in silence with her motherly virginal heart, was asister 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 thosechildlike souls which pass through the world with the honest eyes ofpurity: and around her there would pass a procession of friendly beggarsand harmless eccentrics, all in pursuit of their touchingly preposterouscranks and whims, --and at their head the fond genius of dear Dickens, laughing and crying together at his own dreams. At such times, when shelooked out of the window, she would recognize among the passers-by thebeloved or dreaded figure of this or that personage in that imaginaryworld. She would fancy similar lives, the same lives, being lived behindthe walls of the houses. Her dislike for going out came from her dreadof that world with its moving mysteries. She saw around her hiddendramas and comedies being played. It was not always an illusion. In herisolation she had come by the gift of mystical intuition which in theeyes of the passers-by can perceive the secrets of their lives ofyesterday and to-morrow, which are often unknown to themselves. Shemixed up what she actually saw with what she remembered of the novelsand 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 gazein upon herself. Her pale, dim existence--seeming so when seen fromwithout--was gloriously lit up within. There was abundance and fullnessof life in it. There were memories, and treasures, the existence ofwhich lay unsuspected. . . . Had they ever had any reality?--No doubt theywere real, since they were real to her. . . . Oh! the wonder of such lowlylives transfigured by the magic wand of dreams!

Madame Arnaud would go back through the years to her childhood: each ofthe little frail flowers of her vanished hopes sprang silently into lifeagain. . . . Her first childish love for a girl, whose charm had fascinatedher at first sight: she loved her with the love which is only possibleto those who are infinitely pure: she used to think she would die at thetouch 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 childwhich died, and then she too had died. . . . Another love, when she wasabout twelve years old, for a little girl of her own age, who tyrannizedover her: a fair-haired mad-cap, gay and imperious, who used to amuseherself by making her cry, and then would devour her with kisses: shelaid 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 aman 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 ardentdevotion and untold wealth of tenderness. . . . Then another passion: thistime she was loved. But from a strange timidity, and mistrust ofherself, she had not dared to believe that she was loved, or to let theman see that she loved him. And happiness passed without her graspingit. . . . Then. . . . But what is the use of telling others what only has ameaning for oneself? So many trivial facts which had assumed a profoundsignificance: a little attention at the hands of a friend: a kind wordfrom 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, sovirtuous and pure, certain involuntary infidelities in thought, whichmade her uneasy and feel ashamed, while she would feebly thrust themaside, though all the same--being so innocent--they brought a littlesunshine into her heart. . . . She loved her husband truly, although he wasnot altogether the husband of her dreams. But he was kind, and one daywhen he said to her: "My darling wife, you do not know all you are tome; you are my whole life, " her heart melted: and that day she felt thatshe was one with him, wholly and forever, without any possibility ofgoing back on it. Each year brought them closer to each other, andtightened the bond between them. They had shared lovely dreams: of work, traveling, children. What had become of them?. . . Alas!. . . Madame Arnaudwas still dreaming them. There was a little boy of whom she had so oftenand so profoundly dreamed, that she knew him almost as well as though hereally existed. She had slowly begotten him through the years, alwaysadorning him with all the most beautiful things she saw, and the thingsshe loved most dearly. . . . Silence!. . . 

That was all. It meant worlds to her. There are so many tragediesunknown, even the most intimate, in the depths of the most tranquil andseemingly most ordinary lives! And the greatest tragedy of all perhapsis:--_that nothing happens_ in such lives of hope crying for whatis their right, their just due promised, and refused, by Nature--wastingaway in passionate anguish--showing nothing of it all to the outsideworld! Madame Arnaud, happily for herself, was not only occupied withherself. Her own life filled only a part of her dreams. She lived alsoin the lives of those she knew, or had known, and put herself in theirplace: she thought much of Christophe and his friend Cécile. She wasthinking of them now. The two women had grown fond of one another. Thestrange thing was that of the two it was the sturdy Cécile who felt mostneed 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 waspassing through a crisis. Even the most tranquil hearts are not immunefrom being taken by surprise. Unknown to herself, a feeling oftenderness 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 hispersonality, his weakness and inability to defend himself, had attractedher at once:--(a motherly nature is attracted by the nature which hasneed of her). --What she had learned subsequently of his marital troubleshad inspired her with a dangerous pity for Olivier. No doubt thesereasons would not have been enough. Who can say why one human beingfalls 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 itsguard is taken by surprise, and is delivered up to the first affectionit may meet on the road, --As soon as she had no room left for doubt asto her state of mind, Cécile bravely struggled to pluck out the barb ofa love which she thought wicked and absurd: she suffered for a long timeand did not recover. No one would have suspected what was happening toher: she strove valiantly to appear happy. Only Madame Arnaud knew whatit must have cost her. Not that Cécile had told her her secret. But shewould sometimes come and lay her head on Madame Arnaud's bosom. Shewould weep a little, without a word, kiss her, and then go awaylaughing. She adored this friend of hers, in whom, though she seemed sofragile, she felt a moral energy and faith superior to her own. She didnot confide in her. But Madame Arnaud could guess volumes on a hint. Theworld seemed to her to be a sad misunderstanding. It is impossible todissolve it. One can only love, have pity, and dream. 

And when the swarm of her dreams buzzed too loudly, when her thoughtsstopped, she would go to her piano and let her hands fall lightly on thekeys, at random, and play softly to wreathe the mirage of life aboutwith the subdued light of music. . . . 

But the good little creature would not forget to perform her everydayduties: and when Arnaud came home he would find the lamp lit, the supperready, and his wife's pale, smiling face waiting for him. And he wouldhave no idea of the universe in which she had been living. 

The great difficulty was to keep the two lives going side by sidewithout their clashing: her everyday life and that other, the great lifeof the mind, with its far-flung horizons. It was not always easy. Fortunately Arnaud also lived to some extent in an imaginary life, inbooks, and works of art, the eternal fire of which fed the flickeringflames of his soul. But during the last few years he had become more andmore preoccupied with the petty annoyances of his profession, injusticeand favoritism, and friction with his colleagues or his pupils: he wasembittered: he began to talk politics, and to inveigh against theGovernment and the Jews: and he made Dreyfus responsible for hisdisappointments at the university. His mood of soreness infected MadameArnaud a little. She was at an age when her vital force was upset anduneasy, groping for balance. There were great gaps in her thoughts. Fora time they both lost touch with life, and their reason for existence: forthey had nothing to which to bind their spider's web, which was lefthanging in the void. Though the support of reality be never so weak, yetfor dreams there must be one. They had no sort of support. They couldnot contrive any means of propping each other up. Instead of helpingher, he clung to her. And she knew perfectly well that she was notstrong 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 fromthe depths of her soul. In her solitary pious heart Madame Arnaud feltthe irony of the sublime and absurd hunger for creation in spite ofeverything, the need of weaving her web in spite of everything, throughspace, for the joy of weaving, leaving it to the wind, the breath ofGod, to carry her whithersoever it was ordained that she should go. Andthe breath of God gave her a new hold on life, and found her aninvisible support. Then the husband and wife both set patiently to workonce more to weave the magnificent and vain web of their dreams, a webfashioned 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 theusual time, started and trembled. She carefully arranged her work andwent to open the door. Christophe came in. He was in a great state ofemotion. 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 willnever recover from the blow. He keeps on saying: 'Christophe, she hasbetrayed me. . . . My dearest friend has betrayed me. ' It is no good mysaying to him, 'Since she has betrayed you, she cannot have been yourfriend. 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 isjolly to hear these Parisians protesting against the brutal instinctswhich urge the male to kill the female if she deceives him, andpreaching indulgence and reason! They're splendid apostles! It is a finething to see the pack of mongrel dogs waxing wrath against the return toanimalism. 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, thebeating of the blood in a scrap of flesh, these are the things whichthey hold worthy of respect! They are never done with their nicenessabout the flesh: it is a crime to touch it. You may kill the soul if youlike, but the body is sacred. . . . "

"The murderers of the soul are the worst of all: but one crime is noexcuse 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 hadlost 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 betoo 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 lefther child and wrecked her life out of lightness of heart? For her lifeis wrecked too. I hardly know her, Christophe. I have only seen her afew times, and that only in passing: she never said a friendly word tome, 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 hashad 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 manand, like all men, you are hard, in spite of your kindness--a man hardand set against everything which is not in and of yourself. You have noreal knowledge of the women who live with you. You love them, after yourfashion; but you never take the trouble to understand them. You are soeasily satisfied with yourselves! You are quite sure that you knowus. . . . Alas! If you knew how we suffer sometimes when we see, not thatyou do not love us, but how you love us, and that that is all we are tothose we love the best! There are moments, Christophe, when we clenchour fists so that the nails dig into our hands to keep ourselves fromcrying to you: 'Oh! Do not love us, do not love us! Anything rather thanlove us like that!'. . . Do you know the saying of a poet: 'Even in herhome, among her children, surrounded with sham honors, a woman endures ascorn a thousand times harder to bear than the most utter misery'? Thinkof that, Christophe. They are terrible words. "

"What you say has upset me. I don't rightly understand. But I ambeginning to see. . . . Then, you yourself. . . . "

"I have been through all these torments. "

"Is it possible?. . . But, even so, you will never make me believe thatyou would have done the same as that woman. "

"I have no child, Christophe. I do not know what I should have done inher place. "

"No. That is impossible. I believe in you. I respect you too much. Iswear that you could not. "

"Swear nothing! I have been very near doing what she has done. . . . Ithurts me to destroy the good idea you had of me. But you must learn toknow us a little if you do not want to be unjust. Yes, I have beenwithin an ace of just such an act of folly. And you yourself hadsomething to do with my not going on with it. It was two years ago. Iwas going through a period of terrible depression, that seemed to beeating my life away. I kept on telling myself that I was no use in theworld, 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 runningaway, to do Heaven knows what! I went up to your room. . . . Do youremember?. . . You did not understand why I came. I came to say good-byeto you. . . . And then, I don't know what happened, I can't rememberexactly . . . But I know that something you said . . . (though you had noidea of it. . . . ) . . . Was like a flash of light to me. . . . Perhaps it wasnot what you said. . . . Perhaps it was only a matter of opportunity; atthat moment the least thing was enough to make or mar me. . . . When I leftyou I went back to my own room, locked myself in, and wept the whole daythrough. . . . 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 havebeen at the bottom of the Seine long ago. I could not have borne theshame 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 peopleto understand each other, and respect each other, and know that they aresure of each other, not merely with a simple lover's belief, which isoften an illusion, but as the result of years passed together, gray, dull, commonplace years even--especially with the memory of the dangersthrough which they have passed together. And as they grow older theirtrust grows greater and finer. "

She stopped and blushed suddenly. 

"Oh, Heavens! How could I tell you that?. . . What have I done?. . . Forgetit, Christophe, I beg of you. No one must know. "

"You need not be afraid, " said Christophe, pressing her hand warmly. "Itshall be sacred to me. "

Madame Arnaud was unhappy at what she had said, and turned away for amoment. 

Then she went on:

"I ought not to have told you. . . . But, you see, I wanted to show youthat even in the closest and best marriages, even for the women . . . Whomyou respect, Christophe . . . There are times, not only of aberration, asyou say, but of real, intolerable suffering, which may drive them tomadness, and wreck at least one life, if not two. You must not be toohard. Men and women make each other suffer terribly even when they loveeach 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 asociety which is not ready for the idea of it, and is, in a greatmeasure, hostile to it. . . . "

She stopped again, leaning forward a little, with her eyes fixed on thefire 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 notdo so from caprice, but because she is forced to do so; she has to earnher living and learn how to do without a man, since men will havenothing to do with her if she is poor. She is condemned to solitudewithout having any of its advantages, for in France she cannot, like aman, enjoy her independence, even in the most innocent way, withoutprovoking scandal: everything is forbidden her. I have a friend who is aschool-mistress in the provinces. If she were shut up in an airlessprison she could not be more lonely and more stifled. The middle-classesclose their doors to women who struggle to earn their living by theirwork; they are suspected and contemned; their smallest actions are spiedupon 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 froma secret hostility, or from shyness, and because they are in the habitof frequenting cafés and consorting with low women, or because they aretoo tired after the day's work and have a dislike, as a result of theirwork, for intellectual women. And the women themselves cannot bear eachother, especially if they are compelled to live together in the school. The head-mistress is often a woman absolutely incapable of understandingyoung creatures with a need of affection, who lose heart during thefirst few years of such a barren trade and such inhuman solitude; sheleaves 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 isno one to take an interest in them. Having neither fortune norinfluence, they cannot marry. Their hours of work are so many as toleave them no time in which to create an intellectual life which mightbind them together and give them some comfort. When such an existence isnot supported by an exceptional religious or moral feeling, --(I mightsay abnormal and morbid; for such absolute self-sacrifice is notnatural), --it is a living death. . . . --In default of intellectual work, what resources does charity offer to women? What great disappointmentsit holds out for those women who are too sincere to be satisfied withofficial or polite charity, philanthropic twaddle, the odious mixture offrivolity, beneficence, and bureaucracy, the trick of dabbling inpoverty in the intervals of flirtation! And if one of them in disgusthas the incredible audacity to venture out alone among the poor or thewretched, whose life she only knows by hearsay, think of what she willsee! Sights almost beyond bearing! It is a very hell. What can she do tohelp 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, shewears herself out for them, and drowns with them. She is lucky if shesucceeds 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 withher own and the suffering of others: the more faith she gives, the lessshe 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 handto her. And sometimes she is stoned. . . . You knew, Christophe, thesplendid woman who gave herself to the humblest and most meritoriouscharitable work; she took pity on the street prostitutes who had justbeen brought to child-bed, the wretched women with whom the Public Aidwould have nothing to do, or who were afraid of the Public Aid; shetried to cure them physically and morally, to look after them and theirchildren, to wake in them the mother-feeling, to give them new homes anda life of honest work. She taxed her strength to the utmost in her grimlabors, so full of disappointment and bitterness--(so few are saved, sofew wish to be saved! And think of all the babies who die! Poor innocentlittle babies, condemned in the very hour of their birth!. . . )--ThatWoman who had taken upon herself the sorrows of others, the blamelesscreature who of her own free will expiated the crimes of humanselfishness--how do you think she was judged, Christophe? Theevil-minded public accused her of making money out of her work, and evenof making money out of the poor women she protected. She had to leavethe neighborhood, and go away, utterly downhearted. . . . --You cannotconceive the cruelty of the struggles which independent women have tomaintain against the society of to-day, a conservative, heartlesssociety, which is dying and expends what little energy it has left inpreventing others from living. "

"My dear creature, it is not only the lot of women. We all know thesestruggles. And I know the refuge. "

"What is it?"

"Art, "

"All very well for you, but not for us. And even among men, how many arethere 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 abrave face on it, because she does not stop to think of things that makeher sad, because she conceals them from others, you say that she ishappy! 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 forthat deceptive life of art? Art! Just think of the poor women who longfor the glory of being able to write or play or sing as the very summitof happiness! Their lives must be bare indeed, and they must be so hardpressed that they can find no affection to which to turn! Art! What havewe to do with art, if we have all the rest with it? There is only onething in the world which can make a woman forget everything else, everything else: and that is the child. " "And when she has a child, yousee, even that is not enough. "

"Yes. Not always. . . . Women are not very happy. It is difficult to be awoman. Much more difficult than to be a man. You men never realize thatenough. You can be absorbed in an intellectual passion or some outsideactivity. You mutilate yourselves, but you are the happier for it. Ahealthy woman cannot do that without suffering for it. It is inhuman tostifle a part of yourself. When we women are happy in one way, we regretthat we are not happy in another. We have several souls. You men havebut 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 withoutknowing 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, noris 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 isnatural?"

"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 rapaciousnessof the strong. Even our society is not a natural thing: we havemanufactured it. It is said that man is a sociable animal. Whatnonsense! He was forced to be so to live. He has made himself sociablefor the purposes of utility, and self-defence, and pleasure, and therise to greatness. His necessity has led him to subscribe to certaincompacts. Nature kicks against the constraint and avenges herself. Nature was not made for us. We try to quell her. It is a struggle, andit is not surprising that we are often beaten. How are we to win throughit? By being strong. "

"By being kind. "

"Heavens! To be kind, to pluck off one's armor of selfishness, tobreathe, to love life, light, one's humble work, the little corner ofthe earth in which one's roots are spread. And if one cannot havebreadth to try to make up for it in height and depth, like a tree in acramped space growing upward to the sun. "

"Yes. And first of all to love one another. If a man would feel morethat he is the brother of a woman, and not only her prey, or that shemust be his! If both would shed their vanity and each think a littleless of themselves, and a little more of the other!. . . We are weak: helpus. 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, allthree still, lost in thought, gazing at the fire It was nearly out; buta little flame flickered up, and with its wing lightly touched MadameArnaud's delicate face, which was suffused with the rosy light of aninward exaltation which was strange to her. She was amazed at herselffor having been so open. She had never said so much before, and shewould 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 andbecame another woman, excited and exalted. But she was thinking of thatand that only. With Christophe's first words she had woven a romance inher heart. She thought of the child left by its mother, of the happinessof bringing it up, and weaving about its little soul the web of herdreams and her love. And she thought:

"No. It is wicked of me: I ought not to rejoice in the misfortunes ofothers. "

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 Iare incapable of rearing it. It needs a woman's care. I thought perhapsone 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 wewere talking about it. When she heard of our difficulty, when she sawthe 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: therewas 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. Butshe controlled herself. She thought of what Cécile had told her, and shethought:

"Her need is greater than mine. I have my dear Arnaud . . . And . . . Andeverything . . . 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 rosylight in her face. And her dear tired face wore only its usualexpression of kindness and resignation. 

 * * * * *

"My wife has betrayed me. "

Olivier was crushed by the weight of that idea. In vain did Christophetry affectionately to shake him out of his torpor. 

"What would you?" he said. "The treachery of a friend is an everydayevil like illness, or poverty, or fighting the fools. We have to bearmed against it. It is a poor sort of man that cannot bear up againstit. "

"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 whenI doubt everybody--myself included. . . . But you are strong: you don't needanybody: 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. GoodLord! 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 havepassed out of life altogether. Everything seems so far away. . . . I see, but I don't understand. . . . And to think that there are men who nevergrow tired of winding up their clockwork every day, and doing their dullwork, and their newspaper discussions, and their wretched pursuit ofpleasure, men who can be violently for or against a Government, or abook, or an actress. . . . Oh! I feel so old! I feel nothing, neitherhatred, nor rancor against anybody. I'm bored with everything. I feelthat there is nothing in the world. . . . Write? Why write? Who understandsyou? I used to write only for one person: everything that I did was forher. . . . There is nothing left: I'm worn out, Christophe, fagged out. Iwant to sleep. "

"Sleep, then, old fellow. I'll sit by you. "

But sleep was the last thing that Olivier could have. Ah! if only asufferer could sleep for months until his sorrow is no more and has nopart 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. Theworst suffering of all were to be deprived of suffering. Olivier waslike a man in a fever, feeding on his fever: a real fever which came inregular waves, being at its height in the evening when the light beganto fade. And the rest of the day it left him shattered, intoxicated bylove, devoured by memory, turning the same thought over and over like anidiot chewing the same mouthful again and again without being able toswallow it, with all the forces of his brain paralyzed, grinding slowlyon with the one fixed idea. 

He could not, like Christophe, resort to cursing his injuries andhonestly blackguarding the woman who had dealt them. He was moreclear-sighted and just, and he knew that he had his share of theresponsibility, and that he was not the only one to suffer: Jacquelinealso 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 herhappy, why had he bound her to himself? She was within her rights inbreaking the ties which chafed her. 

"It is not her fault, " he thought. "It is mine. I have not loved herwell. And yet I loved her truly. But I did not know how to love since Idid not know how to win her love. "

So he blamed himself: and perhaps he was right. But it is not much useto hold an inquest on the past: if it were all to do again, it would bejust the same, inquiry or no inquiry: and such probing stands in the wayof life. The strong man is he who forgets the injury that has been donehim--and also, alas! that which he has done himself, as soon as he issure that he cannot make it good. But no man is strong from reason, butfrom passion. Love and passion are like distant relations: they rarelygo together. Olivier loved: he was only strong against himself. In thepassive state into which he had fallen he was an easy prey to every kindof illness. Influenza, bronchitis, pneumonia, pounced on him. He was illfor part of the summer. With Madame Arnaud's assistance, Christophenursed him devotedly: and they succeeded in checking his illness. Butagainst his moral illness they could do nothing: and little by littlethey were overcome by the depression and utter weariness of hisperpetual melancholy, and were forced to run away from it. 

Illness plunges a man into a strange solitude. Men have an instinctivehorror of it. It is as though they were afraid lest it should becontagious: and at the very least it is boring, and they run away fromit. 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 Temaniteaccuses Job of impatience. Bildad the Shuhite declares that Job'safflictions are the punishment of his sins. Sophar of Naamath chargeshim with presumption. _"Then was kindled the wrath of Elihu, the sonof Barachel the Buzite, of the kindred of Ram: against Job was his wrathkindled, because he justifieth himself, rather than God. "_--Few menare really sorrowful. Many are called, but few are chosen. Olivier wasone of these. As a misanthrope once observed: "He seemed to like beingmaltreated. There is nothing to be gained by playing the part of theunhappy man. You only make yourself detested. "

Olivier could not tell even his most intimate friends what he felt. Hesaw that it bored them. Even his friend Christophe lost patience withsuch tenacious and importunate grief. He knew that he was clumsy andawkward in remedying it. If the truth must be told, Christophe, whoseheart was generous, Christophe who had gone through much suffering onhis own account, could not feel the suffering of his friend. Such is theinfirmity of human nature. You may be kind, full of pity, understanding, and you may have suffered a thousand deaths, but you cannot feel thepain of your friend if he has but a toothache. If illness goes on for along time, there is a temptation to think that the sufferer isexaggerating his complaint. How much more, then, must this be so whenthe illness is invisible and seated in the very depths of the soul! Aman who is outside it all cannot help being irritated by seeing hisfriend moaning and groaning about a feeling which does not concern himin the very least. And in the end he says: by way of appeasing hisconscience:

"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 himunreasoningly, without trying to convince him, without trying to curehim, but just by loving and pitying him. Love is the only balm for thewounds of love. But love is not inexhaustible even with those who lovethe best: they have only a limited store of it. When the sick man'sfriends have once written all the words of affection they can find, whenthey have done what they consider their duty, they withdraw prudently, and avoid him like a criminal. And as they feel a certain secret shamethat they can help him so little, they help him less and less: they tryto let him forget them and to forget themselves. And if the sick manpersists in his misfortune and, indiscreetly, an echo of it penetratesto their ears, then they judge harshly his want of courage and inabilityto bear up against his trials. And if he succumbs, it is very certainthat lurking beneath their really genuine pity lies this disdainfulunder-thought:

"Poor devil! I had a better opinion of him. "

Amid such universal selfishness what a marvelous amount of good can bedone by a simple word of tenderness, a delicate attention, a look ofpity and love! Then the sick man feels the worth of kindness. And howpoor is all the rest compared with that!. . . Kindness brought Oliviernearer to Madame Arnaud than anybody else, even his friend Christophe. However, Christophe most meritoriously forced himself to be patient, andin his affection for him, concealed what he really thought of him. ButOlivier, with his natural keenness of perception sharpened by suffering, saw the conflict in his friend, and what a burden he was upon him withhis 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 thegrain, so sorrow sets on one side those who have the will to live, andon 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, thefriend who sees his friend drowning, --if they cannot save them, they donot 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 toleave Olivier. He was too strong, too healthy, to be able to live andbreathe in such airless sorrow. He was mightily ashamed of himself! Hewould feel cold and dead at heart to think that he could do nothing forhis friend: and as he needed to avenge himself on some one, he visitedhis wrath upon Jacqueline. In spite of Madame Arnaud's words ofunderstanding and sympathy, he still judged her harshly, as a young, ardent, and whole-hearted man must, until he has learned enough of lifeto 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 borrowedmotherhood: she seemed to be young again, and happy, more refined andtender. Jacqueline's departure had not given her any unavowed hope ofhappiness. She knew that the memory of Jacqueline must leave her fartheraway from Olivier than her presence. Besides, the little puff of windthat had set her longing had passed: it had been a moment of crisis, which the sight of poor Jacqueline's frenzied mistake had helped todissipate: she had returned to her normal tranquillity, and she couldnot rightly understand what it was that had dragged her out of it. Allthat was best in her need of love was satisfied by her love for thechild. With the marvelous power of illusion--of intuition--of women, shefound the man she loved in the little child: in that way she could havehim, weak and utterly dependent, utterly her own: he belonged to her:and she could love him, love him passionately, with a love as pure asthe heart of the innocent child, and his dear blue eyes, like littledrops of light. . . . True, there was mingled with her tenderness aregretful melancholy. Ah! It could never be the same thing as a child ofher own blood!. . . But it was good, all the same. 

Christophe now regarded Cécile with very different eyes. He rememberedan ironic saying of Françoise Oudon:

"How is it that you and Philomela, who would do so well as husband andwife, are not in love with each other?"

But Françoise knew the reason better than Christophe: it is very rarelythat a man like Christophe loves those who can do him good: rather he isapt to love those who can do him harm. Opposites meet: his nature seeksits own destruction, and goes to the burning and intense life ratherthan to the cautious life which is sparing of itself. And a man likeChristophe is quite right, for his law is not to live as long aspossible, but as mightily as possible. 

However, Christophe, having less penetration than Françoise, said tohimself that love is a blind, inhuman force, throwing those together whocannot bear with each other. Love joins those together who are like eachother. And what love inspires is very small compared with what itdestroys. If it be happy it dissolves the will. If unhappy it breakshearts. What good does it ever do?

And as he thus maligned love he saw its ironic, tender smile saying tohim:

"Ingrate!"

 * * * * *

Christophe had been unable to get out of going to one of the At Homesgiven at the Austrian Embassy. Philomela was to sing _lieder_ bySchumann, Hugo Wolf, and Christophe. She was glad of her success andthat 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 thegreat public: it had become impossible for the Lévy-Coeurs to ignore himany longer. His works were played at concerts: and he had had an operaaccepted by the Opéra Comique. The sympathies of some person unknownwere enlisted on his behalf. The mysterious friend, who had more thanonce helped him, was still forwarding his claims. More than onceChristophe had been conscious of that fondly helping hand in everythinghe did: some one was watching over him and jealously concealing his orher identity. Christophe had tried to discover it: but it seemed asthough his friend were piqued by his not having attempted sooner to findout who he was, and he remained unapproachable. Besides, Christophe wasabsorbed by other preoccupations: he was thinking of Olivier, he wasthinking of Françoise: that very morning he had just read in the paperthat she was lying seriously ill at San Francisco: he imagined her alonein a strange city, in a hotel bedroom, refusing to see anybody, or towrite to her friends, clenching her teeth, and waiting, alone, fordeath. 

He was obsessed by these ideas and avoided the company present: and hewithdrew into a little room apart: he stood leaning against the wall ina recess that was half in darkness, behind a curtain of evergreens andflowers, listening to Philomela's lovely voice, with its elegiac warmth, singing _The Lime-tree_ of Schubert: and the pure music called upsad memories. Facing him on the wall was a large mirror which reflectedthe lights and the life of the next room. He did not see it: he wasgazing in upon himself: and the mist of tears swam before his eyes. . . . Suddenly, like Schubert's rustling tree, he began to tremble for noreason. He stood so for a few seconds, very pale, unable to move. Thenthe veil fell from before his eyes, and he saw in the mirror in front ofhim his "friend, " gazing at him. . . . His "friend"? Who was she? He knewnothing save that she was his friend and that he knew her: and he stoodleaning against the wall, his eyes meeting hers, and he trembled. Shesmiled. He could not see the lines of her face or her body, nor theexpression in her eyes, nor whether she was tall or short, nor how shewas dressed. Only one thing he saw: the divine goodness of her smile ofcompassion. 

And suddenly her smile conjured up in Christophe an old forgotten memoryof his early childhood. . . . He was six or seven, at school, unhappy: hehad just been humiliated and bullied by some older, stronger boys, andthey were all jeering at him, and the master had punished him unjustly:he was crouching in a corner, utterly forlorn, while the others wereplaying: and he wept softly. There was a sad-faced little girl who wasnot playing with the others, --(he could see her now, though he had neverthought 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 cameclose up to him, then stopped, with her thumb in her mouth and stoodwatching him cry: then she laid her little hand on Christophe's head andsaid 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 intosobs, and buried his face in the little girl's pinafore, while, in aquavering, tender voice, she went on saying:

"Don't cry. . . . "

She died soon afterwards, a few weeks perhaps: the hand of death musthave been upon her at the time of that little scene. . . . Why should hethink of her now? There was no connection between the child who was deadand forgotten, the humble daughter of the people in a distant Germantown, and the aristocratic young lady who was gazing at him now. Butthere is only one soul for all: and although millions of human beingsseem to be all different one from another, different as the worldsmoving in the heavens, it is the same flash of thought or love whichlights up the hearts of men and women though centuries divide them. Christophe had just seen once more the light that he had seen shiningupon the pale lips of the little comforter. . . . 

It was all over in a second. A throng of people filled the door and shutout Christophe's view of the other room. He stepped back quickly intothe shade, out of sight of the mirror: he was afraid lest his emotionshould be noticed. But when he was calm again he wanted to see her oncemore. He was afraid she would be gone. He went into the room and hefound her at once in the crowd, although she did not look in the leastlike what he had seen in the mirror. Now he saw her in profile sittingin a group of finely dressed ladies: her elbow was resting on the arm ofher 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 andlooking through half-closed eyes, and smiling at his own thoughts, of_The Dispute_ of Raphael. . . . Then she raised her eyes, saw him, andshowed no surprise. And he saw that her smile was for himself. He wasmuch 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: TheMarket Place. "]

At the same moment the ambassador's wife passed by, and smiled withpleasure to see that the long-sought meeting had at last come about: andshe introduced Christophe to "Countess Berény. " But Christophe was somoved that he did not even hear her, and he did not notice, the newname. She was still his little Grazia to him. 

 * * * * *

Grazia was twenty-two. She had been married for a year to a youngattaché 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 theworld, smart, prematurely worn out; with whom she had been genuinely inlove, while she still loved him, though she judged him. Her old fatherwas 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 shedid nothing to procure that distinction, which embarrassed her not atall. 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 tranquilheart, sound and serene, which can find happiness in the harmoniouscoincidence of its desires and its fate. The lonely flower of her lifehad unfolded its petals: but she had lost some of the calm music of herLatin soul, fed by the light and the mighty peace of Italy. Quitenaturally she had acquired a certain influence in Parisian society: itdid not surprise her, and she was discreet and adroit in using it tofurther the artistic or charitable movements which turned to her for aid:she left the official patronage of these movements to others: foralthough she could well maintain her rank, she had preserved a secretindependence from the days of her rather wild childish days in thelonely villa in the midst of the fields, and society wearied while itamused her, though she always disguised her boredom by the amiable smileof a courteous and kind heart. 

She had not forgotten her great friend Christophe. No doubt there wasnothing left of the child in whom an innocent love had burned insilence. This new Grazia was a very sensible woman, not at all given toromance. She regarded the exaggerations of her childish tenderness witha gentle irony. And yet she was always moved by the memory of it. Thethought of Christophe was associated with the purest hours of her life. She could not hear his name spoken without feeling pleasure: and each ofhis successes delighted her as though she had shared in it herself: forshe had felt that they must come to him. As soon as she arrived in Parisshe tried to meet him again. She had invited him to her house, and hadappended her maiden name to her letter. Christophe had paid no attentionto it, and had flung the invitation into the waste-paper basketunanswered. She was not offended. She had gone on following his doingsand, to a certain extent, his life, without his knowing it. It was shewhose helping hand had come to his aid in the recent campaign againsthim in the papers. Grazia was in all things correct and had hardlyany connection with the world of the Press: but when it came to doing afriend a service, she was capable of a malicious cunning in wheedlingthe people whom she most disliked. She invited the editor of the paperwhich was leading the snarling pack, to her house: and in less than notime she turned his head: she skilfully flattered his vanity: and shegained such an ascendancy over him, while she overawed him, that itneeded only a few careless words of contemptuous astonishment at theattacks on Christophe for the campaign to be stopped short. The editorsuppressed the insulting article which was to appear next day: and whenthe writer asked why it was suppressed he rated him soundly. He didmore: he gave orders to one of his factotums to turn out an enthusiasticarticle about Christophe within a fortnight: the article was turned outto order; it was enthusiastic and stupid. It was Grazia, too, whothought of organizing performances of her friend's music at the Embassy, and, knowing that he was interested in Cécile, helped her to make hername. And finally, through her influence among the German diplomatists, she began gently, quietly, and adroitly to awaken the interest of thepowers that be in Christophe, who was banished from Germany: and littleby little she did create a current of opinion directed towards obtainingfrom the Emperor a decree reopening the gates of his country to a greatartist who was an honor to it. And though it was too soon to expect suchan act of grace, she did at least succeed in procuring an undertakingthat the Government would close its eyes to his two days' visit to hisnative town. 

And Christophe, who was conscious of the presence of his invisiblefriend hovering about him without being able to find out who she was, atlast recognized her in the young St. John whose eyes smiled at him inthe mirror. 

 * * * * *

They talked of the past. Christophe hardly knew what they said. A manhears 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 orno. Christophe never doubted it. She was there: that was enough. All therest had ceased to exist. . . . 

Grazia stopped speaking. A very tall young man, quite handsome, well-dressed, clean-shaven, partly bald, with a bored, contemptuousmanner, stood appraising Christophe through his eye-glass, and thenbowed with haughty politeness. 

"My husband, " said she. 

The clatter and chatter of the room rushed back to his ears. The inwardlight died down. Christophe was frozen, said nothing, bowed, andwithdrew at once. 

How ridiculous and consuming are the unreasonable demands of the soulsof artists and the childish laws which govern their passionate lives!Hardly had he once more found the friend whom he had neglected in theold 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 ifanother man had taken her he had stolen her from him: and she herselfhad no right to give herself to another. Christophe did not know clearlywhat 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 ofOlivier's troubles and his health. At last one day he came upon theaddress 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. Theanteroom was in disorder and littered with boxes and trunks. The footmanreplied that the Countess was not at home. But as Christophe wasdisappointedly going away after leaving his card, the servant ran afterhim and asked him to come in and begged his pardon. Christophe was showninto a little room in which the carpets had been rolled up and takenaway. Grazia came towards him with her bright smile and her hand heldout impulsively and gladly. All his foolish rancor vanished. He took herhand with the same happy impulsiveness and kissed it. 

"Ah!" she said, "I am glad you came! I was so afraid I should have to goaway 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 areleaving 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 tothe Embassy. "

"And so, and so. . . . " he said . . . (his lips trembled) . . . "it is allover?"

"My dear friend!" she said, touched by his tone. . . . "No: it is not allover. "

"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. Theywere silent. 

"Why did you come so late?" she asked at last, "I tried to find you. Younever replied. "

"I did not know. I did not know, " he said. . . . "Tell me, was it you whocame to my aid so many times without my guessing who it was?. . . Do I oweit 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 thehouse of her uncle, Stevens, and he had given her through his music therevelation of all that is beautiful in the world. And little by little, with growing animation she told him with brief allusions, that were bothveiled and transparent, of her childish feeling for him, and the way inwhich she had shared Christophe's troubles, and the concert at which hehad been hissed, and she had wept, and the letter she had written and hehad never answered: for he had not received it. And as Christophelistened to her, in all good faith, he projected his actual emotion andthe tenderness he felt for the tender face so near his own into thepast. 

They talked innocently, fondly, and joyously. And, as he talked, Christophe took Grazia's hand. And suddenly they both stopped: forGrazia saw that Christophe loved her. And Christophe saw it too. . . . 

For some time Grazia had loved Christophe without Christophe knowing orcaring. Now Christophe loved Grazia: and Grazia had nothing for him butcalm friendship: she loved another man. As so often happens, one of thetwo clocks of their lives was a little faster than the other, and it wasenough to have changed the course of both their lives. . . . 

Grazia withdrew her hand, and Christophe did not stay her. And they satthere 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 havingmet 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 yourlife. "

Very quietly she described her ordinary life in a few words and told himhow her days were spent. She spoke of herself and of her husband withher 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 hisheart there was an inexpressible feeling of disgust, and tenderness, andjealousy, and passionate pity. She walked with him to the door of thelittle room. There he turned, bent over her hands, and kissed themfervently. She stood there with her eyes half closed and did not stir. At last he drew himself up, turned, and hurried away without looking ather. 

 . . . _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 waswith Cécile, who was sitting near the cradle, and Madame Arnaud wasbending over it. She had dropped in. Christophe was dreaming. He wasfeeling that he had missed happiness: but he never thought ofcomplaining: he knew that happiness existed. . . . Oh! sun, I have no needto see thee to love thee! Through the long winter days, when I shiver inthe darkness, my heart is full of thee: my love keeps me warm: I knowthat thou art there. . . . 

And Cécile was dreaming too. She was pondering the child, and she hadcome 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 ascold reason and our eyes tell us that it is. Life is what we dream, andthe measure of life is love. 

Christophe gazed at Cécile, whose peasant face with its wide-set eyesshone with the splendor of the maternal instinct, --she was more a motherthan the real mother. And he looked at the tender weary face of MadameArnaud. In it, as in books that moved him, he read the hidden sweetnessand suffering of the life of a married woman which, though none eversuspects it, is sometimes as rich in sorrow and joy as the love ofJuliet or Ysolde: though it touches a greater height of religiousfeeling . . . . 

 _Soda rei humanæ atque divinæ. . . . _

And he thought that children or the lack of children has as much to dowith the happiness or unhappiness of those who marry and those who donot marry as faith and the lack of faith. Happiness is the perfume ofthe 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 newserenity shone in him. He smiled at the child, shook hands with Cécileand Madame Arnaud, and began to talk quietly. He watched them with asort of surprised affection. He was no longer the same. In the isolationin which he had shut himself up with his grief, like a caterpillar inthe nest of its own spinning, he had succeeded after a hard struggle inthrowing off his sorrow like an empty shell. Some day we shall tell howhe thought he had found a fine cause to which to devote his life, inwhich 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 renunciationof life, it was kindled once more. His friends looked at him. They didnot know what had happened, and dared not ask him: but they felt that hewas free once more, and that there was in him neither regret norbitterness 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 areforgiven. "

Softly, so as not to wake the child, he sang a few bars of the oldSchwabian 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 ifthey had been asked what they were thinking, --_with the countenance ofhumility, 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 proudof having conquered it: but secretly, in his heart of hearts, he wassorry for it. He was amazed at the silence. His passions wereslumbering: in all good faith he thought that they would never wakeagain. 

The mighty, somewhat brutal force that was his was browsing listlesslyand aimlessly. In his inmost soul there was a secret void, a hiddenquestion: "What's the good?": perhaps a certain consciousness of thehappiness which he had failed to grasp. He had not force enough tostruggle either with himself or with others. He had come to the end of astage in his progress: he was reaping the fruits of all his formerefforts, cumulatively: too easily he was tapping the vein of music thathe had opened and while the public was naturally behindhand, and wasjust discovering and admiring his old work, he was beginning to breakaway from them without knowing as yet whether he would be able to makeany 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 instrumentupon which he played like a virtuoso. He was ashamedly conscious ofbecoming a dilettante. 

"_If_, " said Ibsen, "_a man is to persevere in his art; he musthave something else, something more than his native genius: passions, sorrows, which shall fill his life and give it a direction. Otherwise hewill not create, he will write books. "_

Christophe was writing books. He was not used to it. His books werebeautiful. He would have rather had them less beautiful and more alive. He was like an athlete resting, not knowing to what use to turn hismuscles, and, yawning in boredom like a caged wild beast, he sat lookingahead at the years and years of peaceful work that awaited him. And as, with his old German capacity for optimism, he had no difficulty inpersuading himself that everything was for the best, he thought thatsuch a future was no doubt the appointed inevitable end: he flatteredhimself that he had issued from his time of trial and tribulation andhad become master of himself. That was not saying much. . . . Oh, well! Aman is sovereign over that which is his, he is what he is capable ofbeing. . . . 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 oldquarters with him. But Olivier could not. Although he felt keenly theneed of intimacy with Christophe, yet he was conscious of theimpossibility of resuming their old existence together. After the yearslived with Jacqueline, it would have seemed intolerable and evensacrilegious to admit another human being to his most intimatelife, --even though he loved and were loved by that other a thousandtimes more than Jacqueline. --There was no room for argument. 

Christophe had found it hard to understand. He returned again and againto the charge, he was surprised, saddened, hurt, and angry. Then hisinstinct, which was finer and quicker than his intelligence, bade himtake heed. Suddenly he ceased, and admitted that Olivier was right. 

But they saw each other every day: and they had never been so closelyunited even when they were living under the same roof. Perhaps they didnot exchange their most intimate thoughts when they talked. They did notneed 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 otherin his memories. Olivier's sorrow was growing less: but he didnothing to mitigate it, rather almost taking a pleasure in it: for along 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 cryout against them. Nature is not uniform, and it would be absurd to tryto impose identical laws upon the hearts of all men. No man has theright to sacrifice his duty to his heart. At least the heart must begranted the right to be unhappy where a man does his duty. What Olivierperhaps 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 ofothers. He was an intellectual living too much shut up in himself. Itwas not egoism so much as a morbid habit of dreaming. Jacqueline hadincreased the void about him: her love had traced a magic circle aboutOlivier to cut him off from other men, and the circle endured after lovehad 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 alooffrom the mob for reasons rooted in the delicacy of his body and hissoul. The smell of the people and their thoughts were repulsive to him. 

But everything had changed as the result of a commonplace tragedy whichhe 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, andthe house in which he lived was occupied by little gentlepeople, clerks, and a few working-class families. At any other time he would have sufferedfrom such surroundings in which he moved as a stranger: but nowit mattered very little to him where he was: he felt that he was astranger everywhere. He hardly knew and did not want to know who hisneighbors were. When he returned from his work--(he had gone into apublishing-house)--he withdrew into his memories, and would only go outto see his child and Christophe. His lodging was not home to him: it wasthe 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. Hescarcely noticed the faces of those he passed on the stairs. And yetunconsciously he was aware of certain faces that were impressed upon hismind. There is a certain order of mind which only really sees thingsafter they have passed. But then, nothing escapes them, the smallestdetails are graven on the plate. Olivier's was such a mind: he borewithin himself multitudes of the shadowy shapes of the living. With anyemotional shock they would come mounting up in crowds: and Olivier wouldbe amazed to recognize those whom he had never known, and sometimes hewould hold out his hands to grasp them. . . . Too late. 

One day as he came out of his rooms he saw a little crowd collected infront of the house-door round the housekeeper, who was making aharangue. He was so little interested that he was for going his waywithout troubling to find out what was the matter: but the housekeeper, anxious to gain another listener, stopped him, and asked him if he knewwhat had happened to the poor Roussels. Olivier did not even know who"the poor Roussels" were, and he listened with polite indifference. Whenhe heard that a working-class family, father, mother, and five children, had committed suicide to escape from poverty in the house in which helived, he stopped, like the rest, and looked up at the walls of thebuilding, and listened to the woman's story, which she was nothing lothto begin again from the beginning. As she went on talking, old memoriesawoke in him, and he realized that he had seen the wretched family: heasked a few questions. . . . Yes, he remembered them: the man--(he used tohear him breathing noisily on the stairs)--a journeyman baker, with apale face, all the blood drawn out of it by the heat of the oven, hollowcheeks always ill shaven: he had had pneumonia at the beginning of thewinter: 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 womanhad dragged from childbirth to childbirth: crippled with rheumatism, shehad worn herself out in trying to make both ends meet, and had spent herdays running hither and thither trying to obtain from the Public Charitya meager sum which was not readily forthcoming. Meanwhile the childrencame, and went on coming: eleven, seven, three--not to mention two otherswho had died in between:--and, to crown all, twins who had chosenthe very dire moment to make their appearance: they had been born onlythe month before. 

--On the day of their birth, a neighbor said, the eldest of the five, alittle girl of eleven, Justine--poor little mite!--had begun to cry andasked how ever she could manage to carry both of them. 

Olivier at once remembered the little girl, --a large forehead, withcolorless hair pulled back, and sorrowful, gray bulging eyes. He wasalways meeting her, carrying provisions or her little sister: or shewould be holding her seven-year-old brother by the hand, a littlepinch-faced, cringing boy he was, with one blind eye. When they met onthe stairs Olivier used to say, with his absent courteous manner:

"Pardon, mademoiselle. "

But she never said anything: she used to go stiffly by, hardly movingaside: but his illusory courtesy used to give her a secret pleasure. Only the evening before, at six o'clock, as he was going downstairs, hehad 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 seemedto be very heavy. But that is merely in the order of things for thechildren of the people. Olivier had bowed, as usual, without looking ather. A few steps lower down he had mechanically looked up to see herleaning over the balustrade of the landing, with her little pinchedface, watching him go down. She turned away at once, and resumed herclimb upstairs. Did she know whither she was climbing?--Olivier had nodoubt that she did, and he was obsessed by the thought of the childbearing death in the load that was too heavy for her, death thedeliverer--the wretched children for whom to cease to be meant an end ofsuffering! 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 fewthin walls between him and them. . . . To think that he had lived so nearto such misery!

He went to see Christophe. He was sick at heart: he told himself that itwas monstrous for him to have been so absorbed as he had been in vainregrets for love while there were so many creatures sufferingmisfortunes a thousand times more cruel, and it was possible to help andsave them. His emotion was profound: there was no difficulty Incommunicating it. Christophe was easily impressionable, and he in histurn was moved. When he heard Olivier's story he tore up the page ofmusic he had just been writing, and called himself a selfish brute to beamusing himself with childish games. But, directly after, he picked upthe pieces. He was too much under the spell of his music. And hisinstinct told him that a work of art the less would not make one happyman the more. The tragedy of want was no new thing to him: from hischildhood on he had been used to treading on the edge of such abysmaldepths, and contriving not to topple over. But he was apt to judgesuicide harshly, being conscious as he was of such a fullness of force, and unable to understand how a man, under the pressure of any sufferingwhatsoever, could give up the struggle. Suffering, struggling, is thereanything more normal? These things are the backbone of the universe. 

Olivier also had passed through much the same sort of experience: but hehad never been able to resign himself to it, either on his own accountor for others. He had a horror of the poverty in which the life of hisbeloved Antoinette had been consumed. After his marriage withJacqueline, when he had suffered the softening influence of riches andlove, he had made haste to thrust back the memory of the sorrowful yearswhen he and his sister had worn themselves out each day in the struggleto gain the right to live through the next, never knowing whether theywould succeed or no. The memories of those days would come to him nowthat he no longer had his youthful egoism to preserve. Instead of flyingbefore the face of suffering he set out to look for it. He did not needto go far to find it. In the state of mind in which he was he was proneto find it everywhere. The world was full of it, the world, thathospital. . . . Oh, the agony, the sorrow! Pains of the wounded body, quivering flesh, rotting away in life. The silent torture of heartsunder 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 brokenand forgotten!. . . Not poverty and sickness were the most frightfulthings to see, but the cruelty of men one to another. Hardly had Olivierraised the cover of the hell of humanity than there rose to his ears theplaint 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 thewretched creatures of the human race. It stifled him: he heard iteverywhere, he could no longer close his ears to it, he could no longerconceive 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 temperand 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 downinto 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 whatyou want. You've got a propensity for seeing nothing but the sad side oflife. God bless you! Your pessimism is charitable, I grant you, but itis very depressing. Do you want to create happiness? Very well, then, behappy. "

"Happy! How can one have the heart to be happy when one sees so muchsuffering? There can only be happiness in trying to lessen it andfighting the evil. "

"Very good. But I don't help the unfortunate much by lashing out blindlyin all directions. It means only one bad soldier the more. But I canbring comfort by my art and spread force and joy. Have you any idea howmany wretched beings have been sustained in their suffering by thebeauty of an idea, by a winged song? Every man to his own trade! YouFrench people, like the generous scatterbrains that you are, are alwaysthe 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 youthink you are helping things along? You rush at it and bungle it and theresult is nil, --if not worse. . . . And, look you, your art has never beenmore weak and emaciated than now, when your artists claim to be takingpart in the activities of the world. It is the strangest thing to see somany little writers and artists, all dilettante and rather dishonest, daring to set themselves up as apostles! They would do much better ifthey were to give the people wine to drink that was not soadulterated. --My first duty is to do whatever I am doing well, and togive you healthy music which shall set new blood coursing in your veinsand let the sun shine in upon you. "

 * * * * *

If a man is to shed the light of the sun upon other men, he must firstof all have it within himself. Olivier had none of it. Like the best manof to-day, he was not strong enough to radiate force by himself. But inunison with others he might have been able to do so. But with whom couldhe unite? He was free in mind and at heart religious, and he wasrejected by every party political and religious. They were allintolerant and narrow and were continually at rivalry. Whenever theycame into power they abused it. Only the weak and the oppressedattracted Olivier. In this at least he agreed with Christophe's opinion, that before setting out to combat injustice in distant lands, it were aswell 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 protestingagainst the evil wrought by others, without ever thinking of the evilthat 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 allowhim to help. But at the outset he had more than one setback: the poorpeople who were given into his charge were not all worthy of interest, or they were unresponsive to his sympathy, distrusted him, and shuttheir doors against him. Besides, it is hard for a man of intellect tobe satisfied with charity pure and simple: it waters such a very smallcorner of the kingdom of wretchedness! Its effects are almost alwayspiecemeal, fragmentary: it seems to move by chance, and to be engagedonly in dressing wounds as fast as it discovers them: generally it istoo modest and in too great a hurry to probe down to the roots of theevil. Now it was just this probing that Olivier's mind foundindispensable. 

He began to study the problem of social poverty. There was no lack ofguides to point the way. In those days the social question had become asociety question. It was discussed in drawing-rooms, in the theater, innovels. Everybody claimed some knowledge of it. Some of the young menwere expending the best part of their powers upon it. 

Every new generation needs to have some splendid mania or other. Eventhe 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 beleft idle and unproductive: they are for ever seeking to expend it on acourse of action, or--(more prudently)--on a theory. Aviation orRevolution, a muscular or intellectual exercise. When a man is young heneeds to be under the illusion that he is sharing in some great movementof humanity and is renewing the life of the world. It is a lovely thingwhen the senses thrill in answer to every puff of the winds of theuniverse! Then a man is so free, so light! Not yet is he laden with theballast of a family, he has nothing, risks next to nothing. A man isvery generous when he can renounce what is not yet his. Besides, it isso good to love and to hate, and to believe that one is transforming theearth with dreams and shouting! Young people are like watch-dogs: theyare for ever howling and barking at the wind. An act of injusticecommitted 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 ofthe forest they were yelping to one another, never ceasing. The nightwas stormy. It was not easy to sleep in those days. The wind borethrough the air the echoes of so many acts of injustice!. . . The tale ofinjustice is unnumbered: in remedying one there is danger of causingothers. What is injustice?--To one man it means a shameful peace, thefatherland dismembered. To another it signifies war. To another it meansthe destruction of the past, the banishment of princes: to another, thespoliation of the Church: to yet another the stifling of the future tothe peril of liberty. For the people, injustice lies in inequality: forthe upper ten, in equality. There are so many different kinds ofinjustice that each age chooses its own, --the injustice that it fightsagainst, and the injustice that it countenances. 

At the present time the mightiest efforts of the world were directedagainst social injustice, --and unconsciously were tending to theproduction of fresh injustice. 

And, in truth, such injustice had waxed great and plain to see since theworking-classes, growing in numbers and power, had become part of theessential machinery of the State. But in spite of the declamations ofthe tribunes and bards of the people, their condition was not worse, butrather better than it had ever been in the past: and the change had comeabout not because they suffered more, but because they had grownstronger. Stronger by reason of the very power of the hostile ranks ofCapital, by the fatality of economic and industrial development whichhad banded the workers together in armies ready for the fight, and, bythe use of machinery, had given weapons into their hands, and had turnedevery foreman into a master with power over light, lightning, movement, all the energy of the world. From this enormous mass of elementaryforces, which only a short time ago the leaders of men were trying toorganize, there was given out a white heat, electric waves graduallypermeating the whole body of human society. 

It was not by reason of its justice, or its novelty, or the force of theideas bound up in it that the cause of the people was stirring the mindsof 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 oftimes without the world ever giving a thought to it. Its ideas? Scrapsof truth, picked up here and there and adjusted to the interests andrequirements of one class at the expense of the other classes. Its creedwas as absurd as every other creed, --the Divine Right of Kings, theInfallibility of the Popes, Universal Suffrage, the Equality ofMan, --all equally absurd if one only considers them by their rationalvalue and not in the light of the force by which they are animated. Whatdid their mediocrity matter? Ideas have never conquered the world asideas, but only by the force they represent. They do not grip men bytheir intellectual contents, but by the radiant vitality which is givenoff from them at certain periods in history. They give off as it were arich scent which overpowers even the dullest sense of smell. Theloftiest and most sublime idea remains ineffective until the day when itbecomes contagious, not by its own merits, but by the merits of thegroups of men in whom it becomes incarnate by the transfusion of theirblood. Then the withered plant, the rose of Jericho, comes suddenly toflower, grows to its full height, and fills all the air with itspowerful aroma. --Some of the ideas which were now the flaming standardunder which the working-classes were marching on to the assault upon thecapitalistic citadel, emanated from the brains of dreamers of thecomfortable classes. While they had been left in their comfortablebooks, they had lain dead: items in a museum, mummies packed away inglass cases with no one to look at them. But as soon as the people laidhands on them, they had become part and parcel of the people, they hadbeen given their feverish reality, which deformed them while it gavethem life, breathing into such abstract reason, their hallucinations, and their hopes, like a burning wind of Hegira. They were quickly spreadfrom man to man. Men succumbed to them without knowing from whom theycame or how they had been brought. They were no respecters of persons. The moral epidemic spread and spread: and it was quite possible forlimited creatures to communicate it to superior men. Every man wasunwittingly an agent in the transmission. 

Such phenomena of intellectual contagion are to be observed in all timesand in all countries: they make themselves felt even in aristocraticStates where there is the endeavor to maintain castes hermeticallysealed one against the other. But nowhere are they more electric than indemocracies which preserve no sanitary barrier between the elect and themob. The elect are contaminated at once whatever they do to fightagainst it. In spite of their pride and intelligence they cannot resistthe 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 ofthe tide. --One wonders at the self-denial of the French privilegedclasses when on the night of August 4 they abdicated their rights. Mostwonderful of all, no doubt, is the fact that they could not dootherwise. I fancy a good many of them when they returned home must havesaid to themselves: "What have I done? I must have been drunk. . . . " Asplendid drunkenness! Blessed be wine and the vine that gives it forth!It was not the privileged classes of old France who planted the vinewhose blood brought them to drunkenness. The wine was extracted, theyhad only to drink it. He who drank must lose his wits. Even those whodid not drink turned dizzy only from the smell of the vat that caughtthem as they passed. The vintages of the Revolution!. . . Hidden away inthe family vaults there are left only a few empty bottles of the wine of'89: but our grandchildren's children will remember that theirgreat-grandfathers had their heads turned by it. 

It was a sourer wine but a wine no less strong that was mounting to theheads of the comfortable young people of Olivier's generation. They wereoffering up their class as a sacrifice to the new God, _Deoignoto_:--the people. 

 * * * * *

To tell the truth, they were not all equally sincere. Many of them wereonly able to see in the movement an opportunity of rising above theirclass by affecting to despise it. For the majority it was anintellectual pastime, an oratorical enthusiasm which they never tookaltogether seriously. There is a certain pleasure in believing that youbelieve in a cause, that you are fighting, or will fight, for it, --orat least could fight. There is a by no means negligible satisfaction in thethought that you are risking something. Theatrical emotions. 

They are quite innocent so long as you surrender to them simply withoutany admixture of interested motive. --But there were men of a moreworldly type who only played the game of set purpose: the popularmovement was to them only a road to success. Like the Norse pirates, they made rise of the rising tide to carry their ships up into the land:they aimed at reaching the innermost point of the great estuaries so asto be left snugly ensconced in the conquered cities when the sea fellback once more. The channel was narrow and the tide was capricious:great skill was needed. But two or three generations of demagogy havecreated 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 thosewho foundered on the way. 

This piratical rabble is made up of all parties: thank Heaven, no partyis responsible for it. But the disgust with which such adventurers hadinspired the sincere and all men of conviction had led some of them todespair of their class. Olivier came in contact with rich young men ofculture who felt very strongly that the comfortable classes weremoribund and that they themselves were useless. He was only too muchinclined to sympathize with them. They had begun by believing in thereformation of the people by the elect, they had founded PopularUniversities, and taken no account of the time and money spent uponthem, and now they were forced to admit the futility of their efforts:their hopes had been pitched too high, their discouragement sank toolow. The people had either not responded to their appeal or had run awayfrom it. When the people did come, they understood everything all wrong, and only assimilated the vices and absurdities of the culture of thesuperior classes. And in the end more than one scurvy knave had stoleninto the ranks of the burgess apostles, and discredited them byexploiting both people and apostles at the same time. Then it seemed tohonest men that the middle-class was doomed, that it could only infectthe people who, at all costs, must break free and go their way alone. Sothey were left cut off from all possibility of action, save to predictand foresee a movement which would be made without and againstthemselves. Some of them found in this the joy of renunciation, the joyof deep disinterested human sympathy feeding upon itself and thesacrifice of itself. To love, to give self! Youth is so richly endowedthat it can afford to do without repayment: youth has no fear of beingleft despoiled. And it can do without everything save the art ofloving. --Others again found in it a pleasurable rational satisfaction, asort of imperious logic: they sacrificed themselves not to men so muchas to ideas. These were the bolder spirits. They took a proud delight indeducing the fated end of their class from their reasoned arguments. Itwould have hurt them more to see their predictions falsified than to becrushed beneath the weight of circumstance. In their intellectualintoxication they cried aloud to those outside: "Harder! Strike harder!Let there be nothing left of us!"--They had become the theorists ofviolence. 

Of the violence of others. For, as usual, these apostles of brute forcewere almost always refined and weakly people. Many of them wereofficials of the State which they talked of destroying, industrious, conscientious, and orderly officials. 

Their theoretical violence was the throwback from their weakness, theirbitterness, and the suppression of their vitality. But above all it wasan indication of the storms brewing all around them. Theorists are likemeteorologists: they state in scientific terms not what the weather willbe, but what the weather is. They are weathercocks pointing to thequarter whence the wind blows. When they turn they are never far frombelieving that they are turning the wind. 

The wind had turned. 

Ideas are quickly used up in a democracy, and the more quickly they arepropagated, the more quickly are they worn out. There are any number ofRepublicans in France who in less than fifty years have grown disgustedwith the Republic, with Universal Suffrage, with all the manifestationsof liberty won with such blind intoxication! After the fetish worship ofnumbers, after the gaping optimism which had believed in the sanctity ofthe majority and had looked to it for the progress of humanity, therecame the wind of brute force: the inability of the majority to governthemselves, their venality, their corruption, their base and fearfulhatred of all superiority, their oppressive cowardice, raised the spiritof revolt: the minorities of energy--every kind of minority--appealedfrom the majority to force. A queer, yet inevitable alliance was broughtabout between the royalists of the _Action Française_ and thesyndicalists of the C. G. T. Balzac speaks somewhere of the men of histime who _"though aristocrats by inclination, yet became Republicansin spite, of themselves, only to find many inferiors among theirequals. "_--A scant sort of pleasure. Those who are inferior must bemade to accept themselves as such: and to bring that about there isnothing to be done but to create an authority which shall impose thesupremacy of the elect--of either class, working or burgess--upon theoppressive majority. Our young intellectuals, being proud and of thebetter class, became royalists or revolutionaries out of injured vanityand hatred of democratic equality. And the disinterested theorists, thephilosophers of brute force, like good little weathercocks, reared theirheads above them and were the oriflammes of the storm. 

Last of all there was the herd of literary men in search ofinspiration--men who could write and yet knew not what to write: likethe Greeks at Aulis, they were becalmed and could make no progress, andsat impatiently waiting for a kindly wind from any quarter to come andbelly out their sails. --There were famous men among them, men who hadbeen wrenched away from their stylistic labors and plunged into publicmeetings by the Dreyfus affair. An example which had found only too manyfollowers for the liking of those who had set it. There was now a mob ofwriting men all engrossed in politics, and claiming to control theaffairs of the State. On the slightest excuse they would form societies, issue manifestoes, save the Capitol. After the intellectuals of theadvance guard came the intellectuals of the rear: they were much of amuchness. Each of the two parties regarded the other as intellectual andthemselves as intelligent. Those who had the luck to have in their veinsa few drops of the blood of the people bragged about it: they dippedtheir pens into it, wrote with it. --They were all malcontents of theburgess class, and were striving to recapture the authority which thatclass had irreparably lost through its selfishness. Only in rareinstances were these apostles known to keep up their apostolic zeal forany length of time. In the beginning the cause meant a certain amount ofsuccess to them, success which in all probability was in no wise due totheir oratorical gifts. It gave them a delicious flattery for theirvanity. Thereafter they went on with less success and a certain secretfear of being rather ridiculous. In the long-run the last feeling wasapt to dominate the rest, being increased by the fatigue of playing adifficult part for men of their distinguished tastes and innateskepticism. But they waited upon the favor of the wind and of theirescort before they could withdraw. For they were held captive both bywind and escort. These latter-day Voltaires and Joseph de Maistres, beneath their boldness in speech and writing, concealed a dreaduncertainty, feeling the ground, being fearful of compromisingthemselves with the young men, and striving hard to please them and tobe younger than the young. They were revolutionaries orcounter-revolutionaries merely as a matter of literature, and in the endthey resigned themselves to following the literary fashion which theythemselves had helped to create. 

The oddest of all the types with which Olivier came in contact in thesmall burgess advance guard of the Revolution was the revolutionary whowas so from timidity. 

The specimen presented for his immediate observation was named PierreCanet. He was brought up in a rich, middle-class, and conservativefamily, hermetically sealed against any new idea: they were magistratesand officials who had distinguished themselves by crabbing authority orbeing dismissed: thick-witted citizens of the Marais who flirted withthe Church and thought little, but thought that little well. He hadmarried, for want of anything better to do, a woman with an aristocraticname, who had no great capacity for thought, but did her thinking noless well than he. The bigoted, narrow, and retrograde society in whichhe lived, a society which was perpetually chewing the cud of its ownconceit and bitterness, had finally exasperated him, --the more so as hiswife was ugly and a bore. He was fairly intelligent and open-minded, andliberal in aspiration, without knowing at all clearly in what liberalismconsisted: there was no likelihood of his discovering the meaning ofliberty in his immediate surroundings. The only thing he knew forcertain was that liberty did not exist there: and he fancied that he hadonly to leave to find it. On his first move outwards he was lucky enoughto fall in with certain old college friends, some of whom had beensmitten with syndicalistic ideas. He was even more at sea in theircompany than in the society which he had just quitted: but he would notadmit it: he had to live somewhere: and he was unable to find people ofhis own cast of thought (that is to say, people of no cast of thoughtwhatever), though, God knows, the species is by no means rare in France!But they are ashamed of themselves: they hide themselves, or they takeon the hue of one of the fashionable political colors, if not ofseveral, all at once. Besides, he was under the influence of hisfriends. 

As always happens, he had particularly attached himself to the very manwho was most different from himself. This Frenchman, French, burgess andprovincial to his very soul, had become the _fidus Achates_ of ayoung Jewish doctor named Manousse Heimann, a Russian refugee, who, likeso many of his fellow-countrymen, had the twofold gift of settling atonce among strangers and making himself at home, and of being so much athis ease in any sort of revolution as to rouse wonder as to what it wasthat most interested him in it: the game or the cause. His experiencesand the experiences of others were a source of entertainment to him. Hewas a sincere revolutionary, and his scientific habit of mind made himregard the revolutionaries and himself as a kind of madmen. His exciteddilettantism and his extreme instability of mind made him seek thecompany of men the most opposite. He had acquaintances among those inauthority and even among the police: he was perpetually prying andspying with that morbid and dangerous curiosity which makes so manyRussian revolutionaries seem to be playing a double game, and sometimesreduces the appearance to reality. It is not treachery so much asversatility, and it is thoroughly disinterested. There are so many menof action to whom action is a theater into which they bring theirtalents as comedians, quite honestly prepared at any moment to changetheir part! Manousse was as faithful to the revolutionary part as it waspossible for him to be: it was the character which was most in accordwith his natural anarchy, and his delight in demolishing the laws of thecountries through which he passed. But yet, in spite of everything, itwas only a part. It was always impossible to know how much was true andhow much invented in what he said, and even he himself was never verysure. He was intelligent and skeptical, endowed with the psychologicalsubtlety of his twofold nationality, could discern quite marvelously theweaknesses of others, and his own, and was extremely skilful in playingupon them, so that he had no difficulty in gaining an ascendancy overCanet. It amused him to drag this Sancho Panza into Quixotic pranks. Hemade no scruple about using him, disposing of his will, his time, hismoney, --not for his own benefit, (he needed none, though no one knew howor in what way he lived), --but in the most compromising demonstrationsof the cause. Canet submitted to it all: he tried to persuade himselfthat he thought like Manousse. He knew perfectly well that this was notthe 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 ofspeaking, with a chest like the Farnese Hercules, (he was a fair hand atboxing and singlestick), was the most timid of men. If he took a certainpride 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 hisfriends. No doubt the little thrill they gave him was by no meansdisagreeable as long as it was only in fun. But their fun was becomingdangerous. His fervent friends were growing aggressive, their hardypretensions were increasing: they alarmed Canet's fundamental egoism, his deeply rooted sense of propriety, his middle-class pusillanimity. Hedared not ask: "Where are you taking me to?" But, under his breath, hefretted and fumed at the recklessness of these young men who seemed tolove nothing so much as breaking their necks, and never to give athought as to whether they were not at the same time running a risk ofbreaking other people's. --What was it impelled him to follow them? Washe not free to break with them? He had not the courage. He was afraid ofbeing left alone, like a child who gets left behind and begins towhimper. He was like so many men: they have no opinions, except in sofar as they disapprove of all enthusiastic opinion: but if a man is tobe independent he must stand alone, and how many men are there who arecapable of that? How many men are there, even amongst the most clearsighted, who will dare to break free of the bondage of certainprejudices, certain postulates which cramp and fetter all the men of thesame generation? That would mean setting up a wall between themselvesand others. On the one hand, freedom in the wilderness, on the other, mankind. They do not hesitate: they choose mankind, the herd. The herdis evil smelling, but it gives warmth. Then those who have chosenpretend to think what they do not in fact think. It is not verydifficult for them: they know so little what they think!. . . _"Knowthyself!"_. . . How could they, these men who have hardly a _Me_to know? In every collective belief, religious or social, very rare arethe men who believe, because very rare are the men who are men. Faith isan heroic force: its fire has kindled but a very few human torches, andeven these have often flickered. The apostles, the prophets, even Jesushave doubted. The rest are only reflections, --save at certain hours whentheir souls are dry and a few sparks falling from a great torch setlight to all the surface of the plain: then the fire dies down, andnothing gleams but the glowing embers beneath the ashes. Not more than afew hundred Christians really believe in Christ. The rest believe thatthey believe, or else they only try to believe. 

Many of these revolutionaries were like that. Our friend Canet triedhard to believe that he was a revolutionary: he did believe it. And hewas scared at his own boldness. 

All these comfortable people invoked divers principles: some followedthe bidding of their hearts, others that of their reason, others againonly their interests: some associated their way of thinking with theGospel, others with M. Bergson, others, again, with Karl Marx, withProudhon, with Joseph de Maistre. With Nietzsche, or with M. Sorel. There were men who were revolutionaries to be in the fashion, some whowere so out of snobbishness, and some from shyness: some from hatred, others from love: some from a need of active, hot-headed heroism: andsome in sheer slavishness, from the sheeplike quality of their minds. But all, without knowing it, were at the mercy of the wind. All were nomore than those whirling clouds of dust which are to be seen like smokein the far distance on the white roads in the country, clouds of dustforetelling the coming of the storm. 

Olivier and Christophe watched the wind coming. Both of them had strongeyes. But they used them in different ways. Olivier, whose clear gaze, in spite of himself, pierced to the very inmost thoughts of men, wassaddened by their mediocrity: but he saw the hidden force that sustainedthem: he was most struck by the tragic aspect of things. Christophe wasmore sensible of their comic aspect. Men interested him, ideas not atall. He affected a contemptuous indifference towards them. He laughed atSocialistic Utopias. In a spirit of contradiction and out of instinctivereaction against the morbid humanitarianism which was the order of theday, 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 alittle too apt to regard all those who had not his force as shirkers. Inpoverty and alone he had been able to win through: let others do thesame! 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 theunlucky?"

"One must help them, that's all. But that is a very different thing fromsetting them on a pinnacle, as people are doing nowadays. Only a shortwhile ago people were asserting the odious doctrine of the rights of thestrongest man. Upon my word, I'm inclined to think that the rights ofthe weakest are even more detestable: they're sapping the thought ofto-day, the weakest man is tyrannizing over the strong, and exploitingthem. It really looks as though it has become a merit to be diseased, poor, unintelligent, broken, --and a vice to be strong, upstanding, happyin righting, and an aristocrat in brains and blood. And what is mostabsurd 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 tothe contrary? When I see a hunchback, my back aches for him. . . . We'replaying the comedy, we won't write it. "

He did not suffer himself to be bitten by the prevalent dreams of socialjustice. His vulgar common sense told him and he believed that what hadbeen would be. 

"But if anybody said that to you about art you'd be up in arms againsthim. "

"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 anythingabout them. "

Olivier's faith in such people was no greater. Both of them wereinclined to push their distrust a little too far: they had always heldaloof from politics. Olivier confessed, not without shame, that he couldnot remember ever having used his rights as an elector: for the last tenyears he had not even entered his name at the _mairie_. 

"Why, " he asked, "should I take part in a comedy which I know to befutile? Vote? For whom should I vote? I don't see any reason forchoosing between two candidates, both of whom are unknown to me, while Ihave 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 eyeon them? Remind them of their duty? It would take up the whole of mylife, with no result. I have neither time, nor strength, nor therhetorical weapons, nor sufficient lack of scruple, nor is my heartsteeled against all the disgust that action brings. Much better to keepclear of it all. I am quite ready to submit to the evil. But at least Iwon't subscribe to it. "

But, in spite of his excessive clear-sightedness, Olivier, to whom theordinary routine of politics was repulsive, yet preserved a chimericalhope in a revolution. He knew that it was chimerical: but he did notdiscard it. It was a sort of racial mysticism in him. Not for nothingdoes a man belong to the greatest destructive and constructive people ofthe Western world, the people who destroy to construct and construct todestroy, --the people who play with ideas and life, and are for evermaking a clean sweep so as to make a new and better beginning, and shedtheir blood in pledge. 

Christophe was endowed with no such hereditary Messianism. He was tooGerman to relish much the idea of a revolution. He thought that therewas no changing the world. Why all these theories, all these words, allthis futile uproar?

"I have no need, " he would say, "to make a revolution--or long speechesabout revolution--in order to prove to my own satisfaction that I amstrong. I have no need, like these young men of yours, to overthrow theState in order to restore a King or a Committee of Public Safety todefend me. That's a queer way of proving your strength! I can defendmyself. I am not an anarchist: I love all necessary order and I reverethe laws which govern the universe. But I don't want an intermediarybetween them and myself. My will knows how to command, and it knows alsohow to submit. You've got the classics on the tip of your tongue. Whydon't you remember your Corneille: _'Myself alone, and that isenough. '_ 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, asplants 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 politicaldiscussions, he was much less detached from it all than he wished toappear. He was suffering, as an artist, from the social unrest. In hismomentary dearth of strong passion he would sometimes pause to lookaround and wonder for what people he was writing. Then he would see themelancholy patrons of contemporary art, the weary creatures of theupper-classes, the dilettante men and women of the burgess-class, and hewould think:

"What profits it to work for such people as these?" In truth there wasno lack of men of refinement and culture, men sensitive to skill andcraft, men even who were not incapable of appreciating the noveltyor--(it is all the same)--the archaism of fine feeling. But they werebored, too intellectual, not sufficiently alive to believe in thereality of art: they were only interested in tricks, --tricks of sound, or juggling with ideas; most of them were distraught by other worldlyinterests, accustomed to scattering their attention over theirmultifarious occupations, none of which was "necessary. " It was almostimpossible for them to pierce the outer covering of art, to feel itsheart deep down: art was not flesh and blood to them; it was literature. Their critics built up their impotence to issue from dilettantism into atheory, an intolerant theory. When it happened that a few here and therewere vibrant enough to respond to the voice of art, they were not strongenough 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?--Andyet in modern society he was unable to do without these cripples: forthey had money, and they ruled the Press: they only could assure anartist 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 theartist's inmost life, offered up as an amusement--or rather as apalliative of boredom, or as another sort of boredom--in the theaters orin fashionable drawing-rooms, to an audience of snobs and worn-outintellectuals. 

Christophe was seeking the real public, the public which believes in theemotions 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. Thememories of his childhood, Gottfried and the poor, who had revealed tohim the living depths of art, or had shared with him the sacred bread ofmusic, made him inclined to believe that his real friends were to befound among such people. Like many another young man of a generous heartand 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 todefine. He thought that a revolution might make it possible to bringabout a great artistic renascence, and he pretended that he had no otherinterest in the social movement. But he was hoodwinking himself: he wasmuch too alive not to be attracted and drawn onward by the sight of themost living activity of the time. 

In all that he saw he was least of all interested in the middle-classtheorists. The fruit borne by such trees is too often sapless: all thejuices of life are wasted in ideas. Christophe did not distinguishbetween one idea and another. He had no preference even for ideas whichwere his own when he came upon them congealed in systems. Withgood-humored contempt he held aloof from the theorists of force as fromthe theorists of weakness. In every comedy the one ungrateful part isthat of the _raisonneur_. The public prefers not only thesympathetic characters to him, but the unsympathetic characters also. Christophe was like the public in that. The _raisonneurs_ of thesocial question seemed tiresome to him. But he amused himself bywatching the rest, the simple, the men of conviction, those who believedand those who wanted to believe, those who were tricked and those whowanted to be tricked, not to mention the buccaneers who plied theirpredatory trade, and the sheep who were made to be fleeced. His sympathywas indulgent towards the pathetically absurd little people like fatCanet. Their mediocrity was not offensive to him as it was to Olivier. He watched them all with affectionate and mocking interest: he believedthat he was outside the piece they were playing: and he did not see thatlittle by little he was being drawn into it. He thought only of being aspectator watching the wind rush by. But already the wind had caughthim, and was dragging him along into its whirling cloud of dust. 

 * * * * *

The social drama was twofold. The piece played by the intellectuals wasa comedy within a comedy; the people hardly heeded it. The real dramawas that of the people. It was not easy to follow it: the peoplethemselves did not always know where they were in it. It was allunexpected, unforeseen. 

It was not only that there was much more talk in it than action. EveryFrenchman, be he burgess or of the people, is as great an eater of speechesas he is of bread. But all men do not eat the same sort ofbread. There is the speech of luxury for delicate palates, and the morenourishing sort of speech for hungry gullets. If the words are the same, they are not kneaded into the same shape: taste, smell, meaning, all aredifferent. 

The first time Olivier attended a popular meeting and tasted of the farehe lost his appetite: his gorge rose at it, and he could not swallow. Hewas disgusted by the platitudinous quality of thought, the drab anduncouth clumsiness of expression, the vague generalizations, thechildish logic, the ill-mixed mayonnaise of abstractions anddisconnected facts. The impropriety and looseness of the language werenot compensated by the raciness and vigor of the vulgar tongue. Thewhole thing was compounded of a newspaper vocabulary, stale tags pickedup from the reach-me-downs of middle-class rhetoric. Olivier wasparticularly amazed at the lack of simplicity. He forgot that literarysimplicity is not natural, but acquired: it is a thing achieved by thepeople of the elect. Dwellers in towns cannot be simple: they are ratheralways on the lookout for far-fetched expressions. 

Olivier did not understand the effect such turgid phrases might have ontheir audience. He had not the key to their meaning. We call foreign thelanguages of other races, and it never occurs to us that there arealmost as many languages in our nation as there are social grades. It isonly for a limited few that words retain their traditional and age-oldmeaning: for the rest they represent nothing more than their ownexperience and that of the group to which they belong. Many of suchwords, which are dead for the select few and despised by them, are likean empty house, wherein, as soon as the few are gone, new energy andquivering passion take up their abode. If you wish to know the master ofthe house, go into it. 

That Christophe did. 

 * * * * *

He had been brought into touch with the working-classes by a neighbor ofhis who was employed on the State Railways. He was a little man offorty-five, prematurely old, with a pathetically bald head, deep-sunkeneyes, hollow cheeks, a prominent nose, fleshy and aquiline, a clevermouth, and malformed ears with twisted lobes: the marks of degeneracy. His name was Alcide Gautier. He was not of the people, but of the lowermiddle-class. 

He came of a good family who had spent all they had on the education oftheir only son, but, for want of means, had been unable to let him gothrough with it. As a very young man he had obtained one of thoseGovernment posts which seem to the lower middle-class a very heaven, andare in reality death, --living death. --Once he had gone into it, it hadbeen impossible for him to escape. He had committed the offense--(for itis an offense in modern society)--of marrying for love a prettyworkgirl, whose innate vulgarity had only increased with time. She gavehim three children and he had to earn a living for them. This man, whowas intelligent and longed with all his might to finish his education, was cramped and fettered by poverty. He was conscious of latent powersin himself which were stifled by the difficulties of his existence: hecould not take any decisive step. He was never alone. He was abookkeeping clerk and had to spend his days over purely mechanical workin a room which he had to share with several of his colleagues who werevulgar chattering creatures: they were for ever talking of idioticthings and avenged themselves for the absurdity of their existence byslandering their chiefs and making fun of him and his intellectual pointof view which he had not been prudent enough to conceal from them. Whenhe returned home it was to find an evil-smelling charmless room, a noisycommon wife who did not understand him and regarded him as a humbug or afool. His children did not take after him in anything: they took aftertheir mother. Was it just that it should be so? Was it just? Nothing butdisappointment and suffering and perpetual poverty, and work that tookup his whole day from morning to night, and never the possibility ofsnatching an hour for recreation, an hour's silence, all this hadbrought him to a state of exhaustion and nervousirritability. --Christophe, who had pursued his acquaintance with him, was struck by the tragedy of his lot: an incomplete nature, lackingsufficient culture and artistic taste, yet made for great things andcrushed by misfortune. Gautier clung to Christophe as a weak mandrowning grasps at the arm of a strong swimmer. He felt a mixture ofsympathy and envy for Christophe. He took him to popular meetings, andshowed him some of the leaders of the syndicalist party to which hebelonged for no other reason than his bitterness against society. For hewas an aristocrat gone wrong. It hurt him terribly to mix with thepeople. 

Christophe was much more democratic than he--the more so as nothingforced 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 allsensible of the absurdities of the language. In his eyes a windbag wasas good as any other man. He affected a sort of contempt for eloquencein general. But though he took no particular pains to understand theirrhetoric, he did feel the music which came through the man who wasspeaking and the men who were listening. The power of the speaker wasraised to the hundredth degree by the echo thrown back from hie hearers. At first Christophe only took stock of the speakers, and he wasinterested enough to make the acquaintance of some of them. 

The man who had the most influence on the crowd was Casimir Joussier, --alittle, pale, dark man, between thirty and thirty-five, with a Mongoliancast of countenance, thin, puny, with cold burning eyes, scant hair, anda pointed beard. His power lay not so much in his gesture, which waspoor, stilted, and rarely in harmony with the, words, --not so much inhis speech, which was raucous and sibilant, with marked pauses forbreathing, --as in his personality and the emphatic assurance and forceof will which emanated from it. He never seemed to admit the possibilityof any one thinking differently from himself: and as what he thought waswhat his audience wanted to think they had no difficulty inunderstanding one another. He would go on saying thrice, four times, tentimes, the things they expected him to say: he never stopped hammeringthe same nail with a tenacious fury: and his audience, following hisexample, would hammer, hammer, hammer, until the nail was buried deep inthe flesh. --Added to this personal ascendancy was the confidenceinspired by his past life, the _prestige_ of many terms in prison, largely deserved by his violent writings. He breathed out an indomitableenergy: but for the seeing eye there was revealed beneath it all anaccumulated fund of weariness, disgust with so much continual effort, anger against fate. He was one of those men who every day spend morethan their income of vitality. From his childhood on he had been grounddown by work and poverty. He had plied all sorts of trades: journeymanglass-blower, plumber, printer: his health was ruined: he was a prey toconsumption, which plunged him into fits of bitter discouragement anddumb despair of the cause and of himself: at other times it would raisehim up to a pitch of excitement. He was a mixture of calculated andmorbid violence, of policy and recklessness. He was educated up to acertain point: he had a good knowledge of many things, science, sociology, and his various trades: he had a very poor knowledge of manyothers: and he was just as cocksure with both: he had Utopian notions, just ideas, ignorance in many directions, a practical mind, manyprejudices, experience, and suspicion and hatred of burgess society. That did not prevent his welcoming Christophe. His pride was tickled bybeing 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 inall good faith he desired perfect equality, he found it easier torealize 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--withdifficulty--produced unity of action, it was very far from creatingunity of feeling. It was easy to see the external and purely transitoryreality to which the distinction between the classes corresponded. Theold antagonisms were only postponed and marked: but they continued toexist. In the movement were to be found men of the north and men of thesouth with their fundamental scorn of each other. The trades werejealous of each other's wages, and watched each other with anundisguised feeling of superiority to all others in each. But the greatdifference lay--and always will lie--in temperament. Foxes and wolvesand horned beasts, beasts with sharp teeth, and beasts with fourstomachs, beasts that are made to eat, and beasts that are made to beeaten, all sniffed at each other as they passed in the herd that had beendrawn together by the accident of class and common interest: andthey recognized each other: and they bristled. 

Christophe sometimes had his meals at a little creamery and restaurantkept by a former colleague of Gautier's, one Simon, a railway clerk whohad been dismissed for taking part in a strike. The shop was frequentedby syndicalists. There were five or six of them who used to sit in aroom at the back, looking on to an inclosed courtyard, narrow andill-lit, from which there arose the never-ceasing desperate song of twocaged canaries straining after the light. Joussier used to come withhis mistress, the fair Berthe, a large coquettish young woman, with a paleface, and a purple cap, and merry, wandering eyes. She had under herthumb a good-looking boy, Léopold Graillot, a journeyman mechanic, whowas clever and rather a _poseur_: he was the esthete of thecompany. Although he called himself an anarchist, and was one of themost violent opponents of the burgess-class, his soul was typical ofthat class at its very worst. Every morning for years he had drunk inthe erotic and decadent news of the halfpenny literary papers. Hisreading had given him a strongly addled brain. His mental subtlety inimagining the pleasures of the senses was allied in him with an absolutelack of physical delicacy, indifference to cleanliness, and thecomparative coarseness of his life. He had acquired a taste for anoccasional glass of such adulterated wine--the intellectual alcohol ofluxury, the unwholesome stimulants of unhealthy rich men. Being unableto 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 itputs you on an equality with the rich. And you hate them. 

Christophe could not bear him. He was more in sympathy with SebastienCoquard, an electrician, who, with Joussier, was the speaker with thegreatest following. He did not overburden himself with theories. He didnot always know where he was going. But he did go straight ahead. He wasvery French. He was heavily built, about forty, with a big red face, around head, red hair, a flowing beard, a bull neck, and a bellowingvoice. Like Joussier, he was an excellent workman, but he loved drinkingand laughter. The sickly Joussier regarded his superabundant health withthe eyes of envy: and, though they were friends, there was always asimmering 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 oftime, used to sit with them, with some sewing in her hands, listening totheir 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 shewould emphasize her words with a nod of her head as she worked. She hada married daughter and two children of seven and ten--a little girl anda boy--who used to do their home lessons at the corner of a stickytable, putting out their tongues, and picking up scraps of conversationswhich were not meant for their ears. 

On more than one occasion Olivier tried to go with Christophe. But hecould not feel at ease with these people. When these working-men werenot tied down by strict factory hours or the insistent scream of ahooter, 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 ofwork and is waiting until a new piece of work presents itself, was in nogreater hurry than they were: and he liked sitting there with his elbowson the table, smoking, drinking, and talking. But Olivier's respectableburgess instincts were shocked, and so were his traditional habits ofmental discipline, and regular work, and scrupulous economy of time: andhe 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 physicaldistaste for it all, the secret antipathy which raises a physicalbarrier between the different types of men, the hostility of the senses, which stands in the way of the communion of their souls, the revolt ofthe flesh against the heart. When Olivier was alone with Christophe hewould talk most feelingly about the duty of fraternizing with thepeople: but when he found himself face to face with the people, he wasimpotent to do anything, in spite of his good will. Christophe, on theother hand, who laughed at his ideas, could, without the least effort, meet any workman he chanced to come across in brotherhood. It reallyhurt Olivier to find himself so cut off from these men. He tried to belike 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 hetried to catch some of their expressions the words would stick in histhroat or sound queer and strange. He watched himself; he wasembarrassed, and embarrassed them. He knew it. He knew that to them hewas 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!" Ashe passed among them he would notice hard, icy glances, such hostileglances as the working-classes, embittered by poverty, cast at anycomfortable burgess. Perhaps Christophe came in for some of it too: buthe never noticed it. 

Of all the people in that place the only ones who showed any inclinationto be friendly with Olivier were Amélie's children. They were much moreattracted by their superior in station than disposed to hate him. Thelittle boy was fascinated by the burgess mode of thought: he was cleverenough to love it, though not clever enough to understand it: the littlegirl, who was very pretty, had once been taken by Olivier to see MadameArnaud, and she was hypnotized by the comfort and ease of it all: shewas silently delighted to sit in the fine armchairs, and to feel thebeautiful clothes, and to be with lovely ladies: like the littlesimpleton she was, she longed to escape from the people and soar upwardsto the paradise of riches and solid comfort. Olivier had no desire ortaste for the cultivation of these inclinations in her: and the simplehomage she paid to his class by no means consoled him for the silentantipathy of her companions. Their ill-disposition towards him painedhim. He had such a burning desire to understand them! And in truth hedid understand them, too well, perhaps: he watched them too closely, andhe 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 ofmen 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 ofhis mistress. She loved him, she was proud of him: but she had too muchvitality: he knew that she was slipping away from him, would slip awayfrom him: and he was aflame with jealousy. She found his jealousydiverting: she was for ever exciting the men about her, bombarding themwith her eyes, flinging around them her sensual provocative atmosphere:she loved to play with him like a cat. Perhaps she deceived him withGraillot. Perhaps it pleased her to let him think so. In any case if shewere not actually doing so, she very probably would. Joussier dared notforbid her to love whomsoever she pleased: did he not profess the woman'sright to liberty equally with the man's? She reminded him ofthat slyly and insolently one day when he was upbraiding her. He wasdelivered up to a terrible struggle within himself between his theoriesof liberty and his violent instincts. At heart he was still a man likethe men of old, despotic and jealous: by reason he was a man of thefuture, a Utopian. She was neither more nor less than the woman ofyesterday, to-morrow, and all time. --And Olivier, looking on at theirsecret duel, the savagery of which was known to him by his ownexperience, was full of pity for Joussier when he realized his weakness. But Joussier guessed that Olivier was reading him: and he was very farfrom liking him for it. 

There was another interested witness, an indulgent spectator of thisgame of love and hate. This was the manageress, Amélie. She saweverything without seeming to do so. She knew life. She was an honest, healthy, tranquil, easy-going woman, and in her youth had been freeenough. She had been in a florist's shop: she had had a lover of theclass above her own: she had had other lovers. Then she had married aworking-man. She had become a good wife and mother. But she understoodeverything, all the foolish ways of the heart, Joussier's jealousy, aswell as the young woman's desire for amusement. She tried to help themto understand each other with a few affectionate words:

"You must make allowances: it is not worth while creating bad bloodbetween 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 misfortuneof every sort seems harmlessly to glide. She had had her share ofunhappiness. Three months ago she had lost a boy of fifteen whom shedearly loved: it had been a great grief to her: but now she was oncemore 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 dootherwise: her vitality was too strong: she was absorbed by the present:it was impossible for her to linger over the past. She adapted herselfto things as they were, and would adapt herself to whatever happened. Ifthe revolution were to come and turn everything topsy-turvy she wouldsoon manage to be standing firmly on her feet, and do everything thatwas there to do; she would be in her place wherever she might be setdown. At heart she had only a modified belief in the revolution. She hadhardly any real faith in anything whatever. It is hardly necessary toadd that she used to consult the cards in her moments of perplexity, andthat she never failed to make the sign of the cross when she met afuneral. She was very open-minded and very tolerant, and she had theskepticism 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 herhusband's ideas and those of his party--and those of the otherparties, --the sort of attitude she had towards the follies of youth--andof maturity. She was never much moved by anything. But she wasinterested in everything. And she was equally prepared for good and badluck. In fine, she was an optimist. 

"It's no good getting angry. . . . Everything settles itself so long asyour health is good. . . . "

That was clearly to Christophe's way of thinking. They did not need muchconversation to discover that they belonged to the same family. Everynow and then they would exchange a good-humored smile, while the otherswere haranguing and shouting. But, more often, she would laugh toherself as she looked at Christophe, and saw him being caught up by theargument to which he would at once bring more passion than all the restput together. 

 * * * * *

Christophe did not observe Olivier's isolation and embarrassment. Hemade 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 heatedlyenough. He did not mince his words with them. At bottom he would havefound it very hard to say whether he was with or against them. He neverstopped to think about it. No doubt if the choice had been forced uponhim he would have been a syndicalist as against Socialism and all thedoctrines of the State--that monstrous entity, that factory ofofficials, human machines. His reason approved of the mighty effort ofthe cooperative groups, the two-edged ax of which strikes at the sametime at the dead abstractions of the socialistic State, and at thesterility of individualism, that corrosion of energy, that dispersion ofcollective force in individual frailties, --the great source of modernwretchedness for which the French Revolution is in part responsible. 

But Nature is stronger than reason. When Christophe came in touch withthe syndicates--those formidable coalitions of the weak--his vigorousindividuality drew back. He could not help despising those men whoneeded 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 andthe oppressed are sympathetic, they cease altogether to be so when theyin their turn become oppressors. Christophe, who had only recently beenshouting out to the honest men living in isolation: "Unite! Unite!" hada most unpleasant sensation when for the first time he found himself inthe midst of such unions of honest men, all mixed up with other men whowere less honest, and yet were endowed with their force, their rights, and only too ready to abuse them. The best people, those whom Christopheloved, the friends whom he had met in The House, on every floor, drew nosort of profit from these fighting combinations. They were too sensitiveat heart and too timid not to be scared: they were fated to be the firstto be crushed out of existence by them. Face to face with theworking-class movement they were in the same position as Olivier and themost warmly generous of the young men of the middle-class. Theirsympathies were with the workers organizing themselves. But they hadbeen brought up in the cult of liberty: now liberty was exactly what therevolutionaries cared for least of all. Besides, who is there nowadaysthat cares for liberty? A select few who have no sort of influence overthe world. Liberty is passing through dark days. The Popes of Romeproscribe the light of reason. The Popes of Paris put out the light ofthe heavens. And M. Pataud puts out the lights of the streets. Everywhere imperialism is triumphant: the theocratic imperialism of theChurch of Rome: the military imperialism of the mercantile and mysticmonarchies: the bureaucratic imperialism of the republics of Freemasonryand covetousness: the dictatorial imperialism of the revolutionarycommittees. Poor liberty, thou art not in this world!. . . The abuse ofpower preached and practised by the revolutionaries revolted Christopheand Olivier. They had little regard for the blacklegs who refuse tosuffer for the common cause. But it seemed abominable to them that theothers should claim the right to use force against them. --And yet it isnecessary to take sides. Nowadays the choice in fact lies not betweenimperialism 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 wasdragged into the wake of force in the track of the army of theworking-classes in revolt. 

He was hardly aware that it was so. He would tell his companions in therestaurant that he was not with them. 

"As long as you are only out for material interests, " he would say, "youdon't interest me. The day when you march out for a belief then I shallbe with you. Otherwise, what have I to do with the conflict between oneman'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 amperfectly aware that recently certain ambitious writers, impelled by adesire for an unwholesome popularity, have set a bad example. It seemsto me that they have not rendered any great service to the cause whichthey defended in that way: but they have certainly betrayed art. It isour, the artists', business to save the light of the intellect. We haveno right to obscure it with your blind struggles. Who shall hold thelight aloft if we let it fall? You will be glad enough to find it stillintact after the battle. There must always be workers busy keeping upthe 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 compasswhich, through the raging of the storm, points steadily to the north. "

They regarded him as a maker of phrases, and said that, if he weretalking of compasses, it was very clear that he had lost his: and theygave themselves the pleasure of indulging in a little friendly contemptat his expense. In their eyes an artist was a shirker who contrived towork as little and as agreeably as possible. 

He replied that he worked as hard as they did, harder even, and that hewas not nearly so afraid of work. Nothing disgusted him so much as_sabotage_, the deliberate bungling of work, and skulking raised tothe level of a principle. 

"All these wretched people, " he would say, "afraid for their ownskins!. . . Good Lord! I've never stopped working since I was eight. Youpeople don't love your work; at heart you're just common men. . . . If onlyyou were capable of destroying the Old World! But you can't do it. Youdon't even want to. No, you don't even want to. It is all very well foryou to go about shrieking menace and pretending you're going toexterminate the human race. You have only one thought: to get the upperhand and lie snugly in the warm beds of the middle-classes. Except for afew hundred poor devils, navvies, who are always ready to break theirbones or other people's bones for no particular reason, --just forfun--or for the pain, the age-old pain with which they are simplybursting, the whole lot of you think of nothing but deserting the campand going over to the ranks of the middle-classes on the firstopportunity. You become Socialists, journalists, lecturers, men ofletters, deputies, Ministers. . . . Bah! Bah! Don't you go howling aboutso-and-so! You're no better. You say he is a traitor?. . . Good. Whoseturn next? You'll all come to it. There is not one of you who can resistthe bait. How could you? There is not one of you who believes in theimmortality of the soul. You are just so many bellies, I tell you. Emptybellies thinking of nothing but being filled. "

Thereupon they would all lose their tempers and all talk at once. And inthe heat of the argument it would often happen that Christophe, whirledaway by his passion, would become more revolutionary than the others. Invain did he fight against it: his intellectual pride, his complacentconception of a purely esthetic world, made for the joy of the spirit, would sink deep into the ground at the sight of injustice. Esthetic, aworld in which eight men out of ten live in nakedness and want, inphysical and moral wretchedness? Oh! come! A man must be an impudentcreature of privilege who would dare to claim as much. An artist likeChristophe, in his inmost conscience, could not but be on the side ofthe working-classes. What man more than the spiritual worker has tosuffer from the immorality of social conditions, from the scandalouslyunequal partition of wealth among men? The artist dies of hunger orbecomes a millionaire for no other reason than the caprice of fashionand of those who speculate on fashion. A society which suffers its bestmen to die or gives them extravagant rewards is a monstrous society: itmust be swept and put in order. Every man, whether he works or no, has aright to a living minimum. 

Every kind of work, good or mediocre, should be rewarded, not accordingto its real value--(who can be the infallible judge of that?)--butaccording to the normal legitimate needs of the worker. Society can andshould assure the artist, the scientist, and the inventor an incomesufficient to guarantee that they have the means and the time yetfurther to grace and honor it. Nothing more. The _Gioconda_ is notworth a million. There is no relation between a sum of money and a workof art: a work of art is neither above nor below money: it is outsideit. It is not a question of payment: it is a question of allowing theartist to live. Give him enough to feed him, and allow him to work inpeace. It is absurd and horrible to try to make him a robber ofanother's property. This thing must be put bluntly: every man who hasmore than is necessary for his livelihood and that of his family, andfor 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 havewe smiled sadly to hear tell of the inexhaustible wealth of France, andthe number of great fortunes, we workers, and toilers, andintellectuals, and men and women who from our very birth have been givenup to the wearying task of keeping ourselves from dying of hunger, oftenstruggling in vain, often seeing the very best of us succumbing to thepain of it all, --we who are the moral and intellectual treasure of thenation! You who have more than your share of the wealth of the world arerich at the cost of our suffering and our poverty. That troubles you notat all: you have sophistries and to spare to reassure you: the sacredrights of property, the fair struggle for life, the supreme interests ofthat Moloch, the State and Progress, that fabulous monster, thatproblematical Better to which men sacrifice the Good, --the Good of othermen. --But for all that, the fact remains, and all your sophistries willnever manage to deny it: "You have too much to live on. We have notenough. And we are as good as you. And some of us are better than thewhole lot of you put together. "

 * * * * *

So Christophe was affected by the intoxication of the passions withwhich he was surrounded. Then he was astonished at his own bursts ofeloquence. But he did not attach any importance to them. He was amusedby such easily roused excitement, which he attributed to the bottle. Hisonly regret was that the wine was not better, and he would belaud thewines of the Rhine. He still thought that he was detached fromrevolutionary ideas. But there arose the singular phenomenon thatChristophe brought into the discussion, if not the upholding of them, asteadily increasing passion, while that of his companions seemed incomparison to diminish. 

As a matter of fact, they had fewer illusions than he. Even the mostviolent leaders, the men who were most feared by the middle-classes, were at heart uncertain and horribly middle-class. Coquard, with hislaugh like a stallion's neigh, shouted at the top of his voice and madeterrifying gestures: but he only half believed what he was saying: itwas all for the pleasure of talking, giving orders, being active: he wasa braggart of violence. He knew the cowardice of the middle-classesthrough and through, and he loved terrorizing them by showing that hewas stronger than they: he was quite ready to admit as much toChristophe, and to laugh over it. Graillot criticized everything, andeverything anybody tried to do: he made every plan come to nothing. Joussier was for ever affirming, for he was unwilling ever to be in thewrong. He would be perfectly aware of the inherent weakness of his lineof argument, but that would make him only the more obstinate in stickingto it: he would have sacrificed the victory of his cause to his pride ofprinciple. But he would rush from extremes of bullet-headed faith toextremes of ironical pessimism, when he would bitterly condemn the lieof all systems of ideas and the futility of all efforts. 

The majority of the working-classes were just the same. They wouldsuddenly relapse from the intoxication of words into the depths ofdiscouragement. They had immense illusions: but they were based uponnothing: they had not won them in pain or forged them for themselves:they had received them ready-made, by that law of the smallest effortwhich led them for their amusements to the slaughter-house and theblatant show. They suffered from an incurable indolence of mind forwhich there were only too many excuses: they were like weary beastsasking only to be suffered to lie down and in peace to ruminate overtheir end and their dreams. But once they had slept off their dreamsthere was nothing left but an even greater weariness and the dolefuldumps. They were for ever flaring up to a new leader: and very soon theybecame suspicious of him and spurned him. The sad part of it all wasthat they were never wrong: one after another their leaders were dazzledby the bait of wealth, success, or vanity: for one Joussier, who waskept from temptation by the consumption under which he was wasting away, a brave crumbling to death, how many leaders were there who betrayed thepeople or grew weary of the fight! They were victims of the secret sorewhich was devouring the politicians of every party in those days:demoralization through women and money, women and money, --(the twoscourges are one and the same). --In the Government as in the ministrythere were men of first-rate talent, men who had in them the stuff ofwhich great statesmen are made--(they, might have been great statesmenin the days of Richelieu, perhaps);--but they lacked faith andcharacter: the need, the habit, the weariness of pleasure, had sappedthem: when they were engaged upon vast schemes they fumbled intoincoherent action, or they would suddenly fling up the whole thing, while important business was in progress, desert their country or theircause for rest and pleasure. They were brave enough to meet death inbattle: but very few of the leaders were capable of dying in harness, attheir posts, never budging, with their hands upon the rudder and theireyes unswervingly fixed upon the invisible goal. 

The revolution was hamstrung by the consciousness of the fundamentalweakness. The leaders of the working-classes spent part of their time inblaming each other. Their strikes always failed as a result of theperpetual dissensions between the leaders and the trades-unions, betweenthe reformers and the revolutionaries--and of the profound timiditythat underlay their blustering threats--and of the inheritedsheepishness that made the rebels creep once more beneath the yoke uponthe first legal sentence, --and of the cowardly egoism and the basenessof those who profited by the revolt of others to creep a little nearerthe masters, to curry favor and win a rich reward for theirdisinterested devotion. Not to speak of the disorder inherent in allcrowds, the anarchy of the people. They tried hard to create corporatestrikes which should assume a revolutionary character: but they were notwilling to be treated as revolutionaries. They had no liking forbayonets. They fancied that it was possible to make an omelette withouteggs. In any case, they preferred the eggs to be broken by other people. 

Olivier watched, observed, and was not surprised. From the very outsethe had recognized the great inferiority of these men to the work whichthey were supposed to be accomplishing: but he had also recognized theinevitable force that swept them on: and he saw that Christophe, unknownto himself, was being carried on by the stream. But the current wouldhave nothing to do with himself, who would have asked nothing betterthan to let himself be carried away. 

It was a strong current: it was sweeping along an enormous mass ofpassions, interest, and faith, all jostling, pushing, merging into eachother, boiling and frothing and eddying this way and that. The leaderswere in the van; they were the least free of all, for they were pushedforward, and perhaps they had the least faith of all: there had been atime when they believed: they were like the priests against whom theyhad so loudly railed, imprisoned by their vows, by the faith they oncehad had, and were forced to profess to the bitter end. Behind them thecommon herd was brutal, vacillating, and short-sighted. The greatmajority had a sort of random faith, because the current had now set inthe direction of Utopia: but a little while, and they would cease tobelieve because the current had changed. Many believed from a need ofaction, a desire for adventure, from romantic folly. Others believedfrom a sort of impertinent logic, which was stripped of all commonsense. Some believed from goodness of heart. The self-seeking only madeuse of ideas as weapons for the fight: their eye was for the mainchance: they were fighting for a definite sum as wages for a definitenumber of hours' work. The worst of all were nursing a secret hope ofwreaking a brutal revenge for the wretched lives they had led. 

But the current which bore them all along was wiser than they: it knewwhere it was going. What did it matter that at any moment it might dashup against the dyke of the Old World! Olivier foresaw that a socialrevolution in these days would be squashed. But he knew also thatrevolution would achieve its end through defeat as well as throughvictory: for the oppressors only accede to the demands of the oppressedwhen the oppressed inspire them with fear. And so the violence of therevolutionaries was of no less service to their cause than the justiceof that cause. Both violence and justice were part and parcel of theplan of that blind and certain force which moves the herd of humankind. . . . 

_"For consider what you are, you whom the Master has summoned. If thebody 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 confoundthe wise; and He has chosen the weak things of the world to confound thestrong: and He has chosen the vile things of the world and the despisedthings, and the things that are not, to the destruction of those thingsthat are. . . . "_

And yet, whatever may be the Master who orders all things, --(Reason orUnreason), --and although the social organization prepared by syndicalismmight constitute a certain comparative stage in progress for the future, Olivier did not think it worth while for Christophe and himself toscatter the whole of their power of illusion and sacrifice in thisearthy combat which would open no new world. His mystic hopes of therevolution were dashed to the ground. The people seemed to him no betterand hardly any more sincere than the other classes: there was not enoughdifference between them and others. In the midst of the torrent ofinterests and muddy passions, Olivier's gaze and heart were attracted bythe little islands of independent spirits, the little groups of truebelievers who emerged here and there like flowers on the face of thewaters. In vain do the elect seek to mingle with the mob: the electalways come together, --the elect of all classes and all parties, --thebearers of the fire of the world. And it is their sacred duty to see toit 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 nailedtogether, with dirty windows and panes of paper. It was entered by threesteps down, and you had to stoop to stand up in it. There was just roomfor a shelf of old shoes, and two stools. All day long, in accordancewith the classic tradition of cobbling, the master of the place could beheard singing. He used to whistle, drum on the soles of the boots, andin a husky voice roar out coarse ditties and revolutionary songs, orchaff the women of the neighborhood as they passed by. A magpie with abroken wing, which was always hopping about on the pavement, used tocome from a porter's lodge and pay him a visit. It would stand on thefirst step at the entrance to the booth and look at the cobbler. Hewould stop for a moment to crack a dirty joke with the bird in a pipingvoice, or he would insist on whistling the _Internationale_. Thebird would stand with its beak in the air, listening gravely: every nowand then it would bob with its beak down by way of salutation, and itwould awkwardly flap its wings in order to regain its balance: then itwould suddenly turn round, leaving the cobbler in the middle of asentence, and fly away with its wing and a bit on to the back of abench, from whence it would hurl defiance at the dogs of the quarter. Then the cobbler would return to his leather, and the flight of hisauditor would by no means restrain him from going through with hisharangue. 

He was fifty-six, with a jovial wayward manner, little merry eyes underenormous eyebrows, with a bald top to his head rising like an egg out ofthe nest of his hair, hairy ears, a black gap-toothed mouth that gapedlike a well when he roared with laughter, a very thick dirty beard, atwhich he used to pluck in handfuls with his long nails that were alwaysfilthy with wax. He was known in the district as Daddy Feuillet, orFeuillette, or Daddy la Feuillette--and to tease him they used to callhim La Fayette: for politically the old fellow was one of the reds: as ayoung man he had been mixed up in the Commune, sentenced to death, andfinally deported: he was proud of his memories, and was alwaysrancorously inclined to lump together Badinguet, Galliffet, andFoutriquet. He was a regular attendant at the revolutionary meetings, and an ardent admirer of Coquard and the vengeful idea that he wasalways prophesying with much beard-wagging and a voice of thunder. Henever missed one of his speeches, drank in his words, laughed at hisjokes with head thrown back and gaping mouth, foamed at his invective, and rejoiced in the fight and the promised paradise. Next day, in hisbooth, he would read over the newspaper report of the speeches: he wouldread them aloud to himself and his apprentice: and to taste their fullsweetness he would have them read aloud to him, and used to box hisapprentice's ears if he skipped a line. As a consequence he was notalways very punctual in the delivery of his work when he had promisedit: on the other hand, his work was always sound: it might wear out theuser's feet, but there was no wearing out his leather. . . . 

The old fellow had in his shop a grandson of thirteen, a hunchback, asickly, rickety boy, who used to run his errands, and was a sort ofapprentice. The boy's mother had left her family when she was seventeento elope with a worthless fellow who had sunk into hooliganism, andbefore very long had been caught, sentenced, and so disappeared from thescene. She was left alone with the child, deserted by her family, anddevoted herself to the upbringing of the boy Emmanuel. She hadtransferred 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, whenhe was ill, was crazed with despair. When she was in a bad temper shewould send him to bed without any dinner, without so much as a piece ofbread. When she was dragging him along through the streets, if he grewtired and would not go on and slipped down to the ground, she would kickhim on to his feet again. She was amazingly incoherent in her use ofwords, and she used to pass swiftly from tears to a hysterical mood ofgaiety. 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, whichconsisted in bullying the boy, battering him with a large assortment ofinsulting names, pulling his ears, and clouting him over the headfrom morning to night by way of teaching him his job: and at the same timehe grounded him thoroughly in his own social and anti-clerical catechism. 

Emmanuel knew that his grandfather was not a bad man: but he was alwaysprepared to raise his arm to ward off his blows: the old fellow used tofrighten him, especially on the evenings when he got drunk. For Daddy laFeuillette had not come by his nickname for nothing: he used to gettipsy 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 theboy a good thrashing. His bark was worse than his bite. But the boywas terrified: his ill-health made him more sensitive than other children:he was precociously intelligent, and he had inherited a fierce andunbalanced capacity for feeling from his mother. He was overwhelmed byhis grandfather's brutality, and also by his revolutionaryharangues, --(for the two things went together: it was particularly whenthe old man was drunk that he was inclined to hold forth). --His wholebeing quivered in response to outside impressions, just as the boothshook with the passing of the heavy omnibuses. In his crazy imaginationthere were mingled, like the humming vibrations of a belfry, hisday-to-day sensations, the wretchedness of his childhood, his deplorablememories of premature experience, stories of the Commune, scraps ofevening lectures and newspaper feuilletons, speeches at meetings, andthe vague, uneasy, and violent sexual instincts which his parents hadtransmitted to him. All these things together formed a monstrous grimdream-world, from the dense night, the chaos and miasma of which theredarted dazzling rays of hope. 

The cobbler used sometimes to drag his apprentice with him to Amélie'srestaurant. There it was that Olivier noticed the little hunchback withthe voice of a lark. Sitting and never talking to the workpeople, he hadhad plenty of time to study the boy's sickly face, with its jutting browand shy, humiliated expression: he had heard the coarse jokes that hadbeen thrown at the boy, jokes which were met with silence and a faintshuddering tremor. During certain revolutionary utterances he had seenthe boy's soft brown eyes light up with the chimerical ecstasy of thefuture happiness, --a happiness which, even if he were ever to realizeit, would make but small difference in his stunted life. At such momentshis expression would illuminate his ugly face in such a way as to makeits ugliness forgotten. Even the fair Berthe was struck by it; one dayshe told him of it, and, without a word of warning, kissed him on thelips. The boy started back: he went pale and shuddering, and flung awayin disgust. The young woman had no time to notice him: she was alreadyquarreling with Joussier. Only Olivier observed Emmanuel's uneasiness:he followed the boy with his eyes, and saw him withdraw into the shadowwith his hands trembling, head down, looking down at the floor, anddarting glances of desire and irritation at the girl. Olivier went up tohim, spoke to him gently and politely and soothed him. . . . Who can tellall that gentleness can bring to a heart deprived of all consideration?It is like a drop of water falling upon parched earth, greedily to besucked up. It needed only a few words, a smile, for the boy Emmanuel inhis heart of hearts to surrender to Olivier, and to determine to haveOlivier for his friend. Thereafter, when he met him in the street anddiscovered that they were neighbors, it seemed to him to be a mysterioussign from Fate that he had not been mistaken. He used to watch forOlivier to pass the booth, and say good-day to him: and if ever Olivierwere thinking of other things and did not glance in his direction, thenEmmanuel would be hurt and sore. 

It was a great day for him when Olivier came into Daddy Feuillette'sshop to leave an order. When the work was done Emmanuel took it toOlivier's rooms; he had watched for him to come home so as to be sure offinding him in. Olivier was lost in thought, hardly noticed him, paidthe bill, and said nothing: the boy seemed to wait, looked from right toleft, and began reluctantly to move away. Olivier, in his kindness, guessed what was happening inside the boy: he smiled and tried to talkto him in spite of the awkwardness he always felt in talking to any ofthe people. But now he was able to find words simple and direct. Anintuitive perception of suffering made him see in the boy--(rather toosimply)--a little bird wounded by life, like himself, seekingconsolation with his head under his wing, sadly huddled up on his perch, dreaming of wild flights into the light. A feeling that was somethingakin to instinctive confidence brought the boy closer to him: he feltthe attraction of the silent soul, which made no moan and used no harshwords, a soul wherein he could take shelter from the brutality of thestreets; and the room, thronged with books, filled with bookcaseswherein there slumbered the dreams of the ages, filled him with analmost 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, Olivierunswathed his obscure stammering soul: little by little he was able toread his hopes and his absurdly touching faith in the new birth of theworld. He had no desire to laugh, though he knew that the dream wasimpossible, and would never change human nature. The Christians alsohave dreamed of impossible things, and they have not changed humannature. From the time of Pericles to the time of M. Fallières when hasthere been any moral progress?. . . But all faith is beautiful: and whenthe light of an old faith dies down it is meet to salute the kindling ofthe new: there will never be too many. With a curious tenderness Oliviersaw the uncertain light gleaming in the boy's mind. What a strange mindit was!. . . Olivier was not altogether able to follow the movement of histhoughts, 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 bya word spoken some time before, then suddenly catching up, rushingahead, weaving a commonplace thought or an ordinary cautious phrase intoan enchanted world, a crazy and heroic creed. The boy's soul, slumberingand waking by fits and starts, had a puerile and mighty need ofoptimism: to every idea in art or science thrown out to it, it would addsome complacently melodramatic tag, which would link it up with andsatisfy its own chimerical dreams. 

As an experiment Olivier tried reading aloud to the boy on Sundays. Hethought that he was most likely to be interested by realistic andfamiliar 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 towrite about real things. . . . 

"He's just a boy, " he would say disdainfully, "just an ordinary littleboy. "

He was no more responsive to the interest of history: and science boredhim: 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 terriblegenii laid low. What was the use of so much explanation? When a manfinds something it is no good his telling how he found it, he needonly tell what it is that he has found. The analysis of thought is a luxuryof the upper-classes. The souls of the people demand synthesis, ideasready-made, well or ill, or rather ill-made than well, but all tendingto action, and composed of the gross realities of life, and charged withelectricity. Of all the literature open to Emmanuel that which mostnearly touched him was the epic pathos of certain passages in Hugo andthe fuliginous rhetoric of the revolutionary orators, whom he did notrightly understand, characters who no more understood themselves thanHugo did. To him as to them the world was not an incoherent collectionof reasons or facts, but an infinite space, steeped in darkness andquivering with light, while through the night there passed the beatingof mighty wings all bathed in the sunlight. Olivier tried in vain tomake him grasp his cultivated logic. The boy's rebellious and weary soulslipped through his fingers: and it sank back with a sigh of comfort andrelief into the indeterminate haze and the chafing of its own sensationand hallucinations, like a woman in love giving herself with eyes closedto her lover. 

Olivier was at once attracted and disconcerted by the qualities in thechild so much akin to his own:--loneliness, proud weakness, idealisticardor, --and so very different, --the unbalanced mind, the blind andunbridled desires, the savage sensuality which had no idea of good andevil, as they are defined in ordinary morality. He had only a partialglimpse of that sensuality which would have terrified him had he knownits full extent. He never dreamed of the existence of the world ofuneasy passions stirring and seething in the heart and mind of hislittle friend. Our bourgeois atavism has given us too much wisdom. Wedare not even look within ourselves. If we were to tell a hundredth partof the dreams that come to an ordinary honest man, or of the desireswhich come into being in the body of a chaste woman, there would be ascandal 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 youngthey are insecurely fettered. --The boy had all the erotic desires anddreams which we agree among ourselves to regard as perverse: they wouldsuddenly rise up unawares and take him by the throat: they would come ingusts and squalls: and they only gained in intensity and heat throughthe irritation set up by the isolation to which his ugliness condemnedhim. Olivier knew nothing of all this. Emmanuel was ashamed in hispresence. He felt the contagion of such peace and purity. The example ofsuch a life was a taming influence upon him. The boy felt a passionatelove for Olivier. And his suppressed passions rushed headlong intotumultuous dreams of human happiness, social brotherhood, fantasticaviation, wild barbaric poetry--a whole heroic, erotic, childish, splendid, vulgar world in which his intelligence and his will weretossed hither and thither in mental loafing and fever. 

He did not have much time for indulging himself in this way, especiallyin his grandfather's booth, for the old man was never silent for aminute on end, but was always whistling, hammering, and talking frommorning to night; but there is always room for dreams. How many voyagesof the mind one can make standing up with wide-open eyes in the space ofa 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 thewill to follow a closely reasoned chain of argument: if he does manageto do so he is always certain to miss a link here and there: but in theintervals of rhythmic movement ideas crop up and mental images comefloating to the surface: the regular movements of the body send themflying upwards like sparks under the smith's bellows. The thought of thepeople! It is just smoke and fire, a shower of glittering sparks fadingaway, glowing, then fading away once more! But sometimes a spark will becarried away by the wind to set fire to the dried forests and the fatricks of the upper-classes. . . . 

Olivier procured Emmanuel a place in a printing house. It was the boy'swish, and his grandfather did not oppose it; he was glad to see hisgrandson better educated than himself, and he had a great respect forprinter's ink. In his new trade the boy found his work more exhaustingthan in the old: but he felt more free to think among the throng ofworkers than in the little shop where he used to sit alone with hisgrandfather. 

The best time of day was the dinner hour. He would escape and get rightaway from the horde of artisans crowding round the little tables on thepavement and into the wineshops of the district, and limp along to thesquare hard by: and there he would sit astride a bench under a spreadingchestnut-tree, near a bronze dancing faun with grapes in his hands, anduntie his brown-paper parcel of bread and meat, and munch it slowly, surrounded by a little crowd of sparrows. Over the green turf littlefountains spread the trickling web of their soft rain. Round-eyed, slate-blue pigeons cooed in a sunlit tree. And all about him was theperpetual hum of Paris, the roar of the carriages, the surging sea offootsteps, the familiar street-cries, the gay distant whistle of achina-mender, a navvy's hammer ringing out on the cobblestones, thenoble music of a fountain--all the fevered golden trappings of theParisian dream. --And the little hunchback, sitting astride his bench, with his mouth full, never troubling to swallow, would drowse off into adelicious torpor, in which he lost all consciousness of his twistedspine and his craven soul, and was all steeped in an indeterminateintoxicating 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 menlove me. . . . Ah! How splendid it all is! How splendid it will beto-morrow!. . . "

 * * * * *

The factory hooters would sound: the boy would come to his senses, swallow down his mouthful, take a long drink at the Wallace fountainnear by, slip back into his hunchbacked shell, and go limping andhobbling back to his place in the printing works in front of the casesof 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 sideof the street. He kept a stationery and haberdashery shop, in thewindows of which were displayed pink and green bonbons in green bottles, and pasteboard dolls without arms or legs. Prom either side of thestreet, one standing on his doorstep, the other in his shop, the two oldmen used to exchange winks and nods and a whole elaborate code ofpantomimic gesture. At intervals, when the cobbler was tired ofhammering, and had, as he used to say, the cramp in his buttocks, theywould hail each other, La Feuillette in his shrill treble, Trouillotwith a muffled roar, like a husky calf; and they would go off togetherand take a nip at a neighboring bar. They were never in any hurry toreturn. They were both infernally loquacious. They had known each otherfor half a century. The stationer also had played a little walking-onpart in the great melodrama of 1871. To see the fat placid creature withhis black cap on his head and his white blouse, and his gray, heavy-dragoon mustache, and his dull light-blue bloodshot eyes withheavy pouches under the lids, and his flabby shining cheeks, always in aperspiration, slow-footed, gouty, out of breath, heavy of speech, no onewould ever have thought it. But he had lost none of the illusions of theold days. He had spent some years as a refugee in Switzerland, where hehad met comrades of all nations, notably many Russians, who hadinitiated him in the beauties of anarchic brotherhood. On that point hedisagreed with La Feuillette, who was a proper Frenchman, an adherent ofthe strong line and of absolutism in freedom. For the rest, they wereequally firm in their belief in the social revolution and theworking-class _salente_ of the future. Each was devoted to a leaderin whose person he saw incarnate the ideal man that each would haveliked to be. Trouillot was for Joussier, La Feuillette for Coquard. Theyused to engage in interminable arguments about the points on which theywere divided, being quite confident that the thoughts upon which theyagreed were definitely decided;--(and they were so sure of their commonground that they were never very far from believing, in their cups, thatit was a matter of hard fact). --The cobbler was the more argumentativeof the two. He believed as a matter of reason: or at least he flatteredhimself that he did, for, Heaven knows, his reason was of a verypeculiar kind, and could have fitted the foot of no other man. However, though he was less skilled in argument than in cobbling, he was alwaysinsisting that other minds should be shod to his own measure. Thestationer was more indolent and less combative, and never worried aboutproving his faith. A man only tries to prove what he doubts himself. Hehad no doubt. His unfailing optimism always made him see things as hewanted to see them, and not see things or forget them immediately whenthey were otherwise. Whether he did so wilfully or from apathy he savedhimself from trouble of any sort: experience to the contrary slipped offhis hide without leaving a mark. --The two of them were romantic babieswith no sense of reality, and the revolution, the mere sound of the nameof which was enough to make them drunk, was only a jolly story they toldthemselves, and never knew whether it would ever happen, or whether ithad actually happened. And the two of them firmly believed in the God ofHumanity merely by the transposition of the habits they had inheritedfrom their forbears, who for centuries had bowed before the Son ofMan. --It goes without saying that both men were anti-clerical. 

The amusing part of it was that the honest stationer lived with a verypious niece who did just what she liked with him. She was a very darklittle woman, plump, with sharp eyes and a gift of volubility spicedwith a strong Marseilles accent, and she was the widow of a clerk in theDepartment of Commerce. When she was left alone with no money, with alittle girl, and received a home with her uncle, the common littlecreature gave herself airs, and was more than a little inclined to thinkthat she was doing her shop-keeping relation a great favor by serving inhis shop: she reigned there with the airs of a fallen queen, though, fortunately for her uncle's business and his customers, her arrogancewas tempered by her natural exuberance and her need of talking. Asbefitted a person of her distinction, Madame Alexandrine was royalistand clerical, and she used to parade her feelings with a zeal that wasall the more indiscreet as she took a malicious delight in teasing theold miscreant in whose house she had taken up her abode. She had setherself up as mistress of the house, and regarded herself as responsiblefor the conscience of the whole household: if she was unable to converther uncle--(she had vowed to capture him _in extremis_), --shebusied herself to her heart's content with sprinkling the devil withholy water. She fixed pictures of Our Lady of Lourdes and Saint Anthonyof Padua on the walls: she decorated the mantelpiece with little paintedimages in glass cases: and in the proper season she made a little chapelof the months of Mary with little blue candles in her daughter'sbedroom. It was impossible to tell which was the predominant factor inher aggressive piety, real affection for the uncle she desired toconvert or a wicked joy in worrying the old man. 

He put up with it apathetically and sleepily: he preferred not to runthe risk of rousing the tempestuous ire of his terrible niece: it wasimpossible to fight against such a wagging tongue: he desired peaceabove all things. Only once did he lose his temper, and that was when alittle Saint Joseph made a surreptitious attempt to creep into his roomand 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 wasfrightened: she did not try the experiment again. For the rest he gavein, and pretended not to see: the odor of sanctity made him feel veryuncomfortable: but he tried not to think of it. On the other hand theywere at one in pampering the girl, little Reine, or Rainette. 

She was twelve or thirteen, and was always ill. For some months past shehad been on her back with hip disease, with the whole of one side of herbody done up in plaster of Paris like a little Daphne in her shell. Shehad eyes like a hurt dog's, and her skin was pallid and pale like aplant grown out of the sun: her head was too big for her body, and herfair hair, which was very soft and very tightly drawn back, made itappear even bigger: but she had an expressive and sweet face, a sharplittle nose, and a childlike expression. The mother's piety had assumedin 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 itpassionately. She did next to nothing all day long: needlework made hertired: Madame Alexandrine had not given her a taste for it. She didlittle more than read a few insipid tracts, or a stupid miraculousstory, the pretentious and bald style of which seemed to her the veryflower of poetry, --or the criminal reports illustrated in color in theSunday papers which her stupid mother used to give her. She wouldperhaps do a little crochet-work, moving her lips, and paying lessattention to her needle than to the conversation she would hold withsome favorite saint or even with God Himself. For it is useless topretend 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 visitorsleave the talking to us as we sit by the fireside: and they say never aword. Rainette never dreamed of taking exception to it: silence givesconsent. Besides, she had so much to tell them that she hardly gave themtime 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 offin inward speeches like a stream disappearing underground. --Of courseshe was a party to the conspiracy against her uncle with the object ofprocuring his conversion: she rejoiced over every inch of the housewrested by the spirit of light from the spirit of darkness: and on morethan one occasion she had sewn a holy medallion on to the inside of thelining of the old man's coat or had slipped into one of his pockets thebead of a rosary, which her uncle, in order to please her, had pretendednot to notice. --This seizure by the two pious women of the bitter foe ofthe priests was a source of indignation and joy to the cobbler. He hadan inexhaustible store of coarse pleasantries on the subject of womenwho wear breeches: and he used to jeer at his friend for letting himselfbe under their thumb. As a matter of fact he had no right to scoff: forhe had himself been afflicted for twenty years with a shrewishcross-grained wife, who had always regarded him as an old scamp and hadtaken him down a peg or two. But he was always careful not to mentionher. The stationer was a little ashamed, and used to defend himselffeebly, and in a mealy voice profess a Kropotkinesque gospel oftolerance. 

Rainette and Emmanuel were friends. They had seen each other every dayever since they were children. To be quite accurate, Emmanuel onlyrarely ventured to enter the house. Madame Alexandrine used to regardhim with an unfavorable eye as the grandson of an unbeliever and ahorrid little dwarf. But Rainette used to spend the day on a sofa nearthe window on the ground floor. Emmanuel used to tap at the window as hepassed, and, flattening his nose against the panes, he would make a faceby way of greeting. In summer, when the window was left open, he wouldstop and lean his arms on the windowsill, which was a little high forhim;--(he fancied that this attitude was flattering to himself and that, his shoulders being shrugged up in such a pose of intimacy, it mightserve to disguise his actual deformity);--and they would talk. Rainettedid not have too many visitors, and she never noticed that Emmanuel washunchbacked. Emmanuel, who was afraid and mortified in the presence ofgirls, made an exception in favor of Rainette. The little invalid, whowas half petrified, was to him something intangible and far removed, something almost outside existence. Only on the evening when the fairBerthe kissed him on the lips, and the next day too, he avoided Rainettewith an instinctive feeling of repulsion: he passed the house withoutstopping and hung his head: and he prowled about far away, fearfully andsuspiciously, like a pariah dog. Then he returned. There was so littlewoman in her! As he was passing on his way home from the works, tryingto make himself as small as possible among the bookbinders in their longworking-blouses like nightgowns--busy merry young women whose hungryeyes stripped him as he passed, --how eagerly he would scamper away toRainette's window! He was grateful for his little friend's infirmity:with her he could give himself airs of superiority and even be a littlepatronizing. With a little swagger he would tell her about the thingsthat 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 usedto give him some of the multi-colored sweets that filled the two glassjars in the shop-window: and they would pore over picture postcardstogether. Those were happy moments: they could both forget the pitifulbodies in which their childish souls were held captive. 

But sometimes they would begin to talk, like their elders, of politicsand religion. Then they would become as stupid as their elders. It putan end to their sympathy and understanding. She would talk of miraclesand the nine days' devotion, or of pious images tricked out with paperlace, and of days of indulgence. He used to tell her that it was allfolly and mummery, as he had heard his grandfather say. But when he inturn tried to tell her about the public meetings to which the old manhad taken him, and the speeches he had heard, she would stop himcontemptuously and tell him that all such folk were drunken sots. Bitterness would creep into their talk. They would get talking abouttheir relations: they would recount the insulting things that her motherand his grandfather had said of each other respectively. Then they wouldtalk about themselves. They tried to say disagreeable things to eachother. They managed that without much difficulty. They indulged incoarse gibes. But she was always the more malicious of the two. Then hewould go away: and when he returned he would tell her that he had beenwith other girls, and how pretty they were, and how they had joked andlaughed, and how they were going to meet again next Sunday. She wouldsay nothing to that: she used to pretend to despise what he said: andthen, suddenly, she would grow angry, and throw her crochet-work at hishead, and shout at him to go, and declare that she loathed him: and shewould hide her face in her hands. He would leave her on that, not at allproud of his victory. He longed to pull her thin little hands away fromher face and to tell her that it was not true. But his pride would notsuffer him to return. 

One day Rainette had her revenge. --He was with some of the other boys atthe works. They did not like him because he used to hold as much alooffrom them as possible and never spoke, or talked too well, in a naïvelypretentious way, like a book, or rather like a newspaper article--(hewas stuffed with newspaper articles). --That day they had begun to talkof the revolution and the days to come. He waxed enthusiastic and made afool of himself. One of his comrades brought him up sharp with thesebrutal words:

"To begin with, you won't be wanted, you're too ugly. In the society ofthe future, there won't be any hunchbacks. They'll be drowned at birth. "

That brought him toppling down from his lofty eloquence. He stoppedshort, dumfounded. The others roared with laughter. All that afternoonhe went about with clenched teeth. In the evening he was going home, hurrying back to hide away in a corner alone with his suffering. Oliviermet him: he was struck by his downcast expression: he guessed that hewas suffering. 

"You are hurt. Why?"

Emmanuel refused to answer. Olivier pressed him kindly. The boypersisted in his silence: but his jaw trembled as though he were on thepoint of weeping. Olivier took his arm and led him back to his rooms. Although he too had the cruel and instinctive feeling of repulsion fromugliness and disease that is in all who are not born with the souls ofsisters 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 hiscomrades 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 singleday'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 longdeferred. 

"Don't you like to think that people are working to give happiness tothousands 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 beautifulcity, in an age that is most rich in marvels; you are not a fool, andyou have eyes to see. Think of all the things there are to be seen andloved 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 inthis 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'screed: he thought that it was only the priest-ridden prigs who believedin an eternal life. He knew that his friend was not such a one: and hewondered if Olivier could be speaking seriously. But Olivier held hishand and expounded at length his idealistic faith, and the unity ofboundless life, that has neither beginning nor end, in which all themillions of creatures and all the million million moments of time arebut rays of the sun, the sole source of it all. But he did not put it tohim in such an abstract form. Instinctively, when he talked to the boy, he adapted himself to his mode of thought;--ancient legends, thematerial and profound fancies of old cosmogonies were called to mind:half in fun, half in earnest, he spoke of metempsychosis and thesuccession of countless forms through which the soul passes and flows, like a spring passing from pool to pool. All this was interspersed withreminiscences of Christianity and images taken from the summer evening, the light of which was cast upon them both. He was sitting by the openwindow, and the boy was standing by his side, and their hands wereclasped. It was a Saturday evening. The bells were ringing. The earliestswallows, only just returned, were skimming the walls of the houses. Thedim sky was smiling above the city, which was wrapped in shadow. The boyheld his breath and listened to the fairy-tale his man friend wastelling 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 lightssuddenly flash out in the darkness of a great city, so the eternal firesflare up in the darkness of the soul. A spark darting from another soulis enough to transmit the Promethean fire to the waiting soul. On thatspring evening Olivier's calm words kindled the light that never dies inthe mind hidden in the boy's deformed body, as in a battered lantern. Heunderstood none of Olivier's arguments: he hardly heard them. But thelegends and images which were only beautiful stories and parables toOlivier, took living shape and form in his mind, and were most real. Thefairy-tale lived, moved, and breathed all around him. And the viewframed in the window of the room, the people passing in the street, richand poor, the swallows skimming the walls, the jaded horses draggingtheir loads along, the stones of the houses drinking in the cool shadowof the twilight, and the pale heavens where the light was dying--all theoutside world was softly imprinted on his mind, softly as a kiss. It wasbut the flash of a moment. Then the light died down. He thought ofRainette, and said;

"But the people who go to Mass, the people who believe in God, are allcracked, aren't they?"

Olivier smiled. 

"They believe, " he said, "as we do. We all believe the same thing. Onlytheir belief is less than ours. They are people who have to shut all theshutters and light the lamp before they can see the light. They see Godin the shape of a man. We have keener eyes. But the light that we loveis the same. "

The boy went home through the dark streets in which the gas-lamps werenot yet lit. Olivier's words were ringing in his head. He thought thatit was as cruel to laugh at people because they had weak eyes as becausethey were hunchbacked. And he thought that Rainette had very prettyeyes: and he thought that he had brought tears into them. He could notbear that. He turned and went across to the stationer's. The window wasstill a little open: and he thrust his head inside and called in awhisper:

"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 softerwhisper, 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, hebegan 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 hehad been the cause of suffering to the girl. 

 * * * * *

Olivier had gone into retirement once more. It was not long beforeChristophe rejoined him. It was very certain that their place was notwith the syndicalist movement: Olivier could not throw in his lot withsuch people. And Christophe would not. Olivier flung away from them inthe name of the weak and the oppressed; Christophe in the name of thestrong and the independent. But though they had withdrawn, one to thebows, the other to the stern, they were still traveling in the vesselwhich was carrying the army of the working-classes and the whole ofsociety. Free and self-confident, Christophe watched with tinglinginterest the coalition of the proletarians: he needed every now and thento plunge into the vat of the people: it relaxed him: he always issuedfrom it fresher and jollier. He kept up his relation with Coquard, andhe went on taking his meals from time to time at Amélie's. When he wasthere he lost all self-control, and would whole-heartedly indulge hisfantastic humor: he was not afraid of paradox: and he took a maliciousdelight in pushing his companions to the extreme consequences of theirabsurd and wild principles. They never knew whether he was speaking injest or in earnest: for he always grew warm as he talked, and always inthe end lost sight of the paradoxical point of view with which he hadbegun. 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, heimprovised a revolutionary song, which was at once tried, repeated, andon the very next day spread to every group of the working-classes. Hecompromised himself. He was marked by the police. Manousse, who was intouch with the innermost chambers of authority, was warned by one of hisfriends, Xavier Bernard, a young official in the police department, whodabbled in literature and expressed a violent admiration forChristophe's music:--(for dilettantism and the spirit of anarchy hadspread even to the watchdogs of the Third Republic). 

"That Krafft of yours is making himself a nuisance, " said Bernard toManousse. "He's playing the braggart. We know what it means: but I tellyou that those in high places would be not at all sorry to catch aforeigner--what's more, a German--in a revolutionary plot: it is theregular method of discrediting the party and casting suspicion upon itsdoings. 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 perfectright to amuse myself. I like these people. They work as I do, and theyhave 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 Idon't like fighting. What would you? I can't do as you do, and staycurled up in my shell. I must breathe. I'm stifled by the comfortableclasses. "

Olivier, whose lungs were not so exacting, was quite at his ease in hissmall rooms with the tranquil society of his two women friends, thoughone of them, Madame Arnaud, had flung herself into charitable work, andthe other, Cécile, was entirely taken up with looking after the baby, tosuch an extent that she could talk of nothing else and to nobody else, in that twittering, beatific tone which is an attempt to emulate thenote of a little bird, and to mold its formless song into human speech. 

His excursion into working-class circles had left him with twoacquaintances. 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 anatural taste for artistic things, and had developed it by observation, work, and visits to museums. Olivier had commissioned him to repair anold piece of furniture: it was a difficult job, and the upholsterer haddone it with great skill: he had taken a lot of time and trouble overit: he sent in a very modest bill to Olivier because he was so delightedwith his success. Olivier became interested in him, questioned him abouthis life, and tried to find out what he thought of the working-classmovement. Guérin had no thought about it: he never worried about it. Atbottom he did not belong to the working-class, or to any class. He readvery little. All his intellectual development had come about through hissenses, eyes, hands, and the taste innate in the true Parisian. He was ahappy man. The type is by no means rare among the working people of thelower middle-class, who are one of the most intelligent classes in thenation: for they realize a fine balance between manual labor and healthymental activity. 

Olivier's other acquaintance was a man of a more original kind. He was apostman, named Hurteloup. He was a tall, handsome creature, with brighteyes, a little fair beard and mustache, and an open, merry expression. One day he came with a registered letter, and walked into Olivier'sroom. While Olivier was signing the receipt, he wandered round, lookingat 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. Ihave family papers going back to 1200 and something. . . . "

Olivier was intrigued, and tried to find out more about him. Hurteloupasked 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 beenon crusade with Philippe Auguste: another had been secretary of Stateunder Henri II. The family had begun to decay in the seventeenthcentury. At the time of the Revolution, ruined and despairing, they hadtaken the plunge into the ocean of the people. Now they were coming tothe surface again as the result of honest work and the physical andmoral vigor of Hurteloup the postman, and his fidelity to his race. Hisgreatest hobby had been collecting historical and genealogical documentsrelating to his family and their native country. In off hours he used togo to the Archives and copy out old papers. Whenever he did notunderstand them he would go and ask one of the people on his beat, aChartist or a student at the Sorbonne, to explain. His illustriousancestry did not turn his head: he would speak of it laughingly, withnever a shade of embarrassment or of indignation at the hardness offate. His careless sturdy gaiety was a delightful thing to see. And whenOlivier looked at him he thought of the mysterious ebb and flow of thelife of human families, which for centuries flows burningly, forcenturies disappears under the ground, and then comes bubbling forthagain, having gathered fresh energy from the depths of the earth. Andthe people seemed to him to be an immense reservoir into which therivers of the past plunge, while the rivers of the future spring forthagain, and, though they bear a new name, are sometimes the same as thoseof old. 

He was in sympathy with both Guérin and Hurteloup: but it is obviousthat they could not be company for him: between him and them there wasno great possibility of conversation. The boy Emmanuel took up more ofhis time: he came now almost every evening. Since their magical talktogether a revolution had taken place in the boy. He had plunged intoreading with a fierce desire for knowledge. He would come back from hisbooks bewildered and stupefied. Sometimes he seemed even lessintelligent than before: he would hardly speak: Olivier could only gethim to answer in monosyllables: the boy would make fatuous replies tohis questions. Olivier would lose heart: he would try not to let it beseen: but he thought he had made a mistake, and that the boy wasthoroughly stupid. He could not see the frightful fevered travail inincubation 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 seedat random in the fields than to weed the soil and plow the furrows. Christophe's presence only served to increase the difficulty. Olivierfelt a certain awkwardness in showing his young protégé to his friend:he was ashamed of Emmanuel's stupidity, which was raised to alarmingproportions when Jean-Christophe was in the room. Then the boy wouldwithdraw into bashful sullenness. He hated Christophe because Olivierloved him: he could not bear any one else to have a place in hismaster's heart. Neither Christophe nor Olivier had any idea of the loveand jealousy tugging at the boy's heart. And yet Christophe had beenthrough it himself in old days. But he was unable to see himself in theboy who was fashioned of such different metal from that of which hehimself was made. In the strange obscure combination of inheritedtaints, everything, love, hate, and latent genius, gave out an entirelydifferent 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 theforces of the working-classes, and directing the word of terror upon thepoint in which the comfortable classes were mostly sensitive--namely, upon the stomach. . . . _Feri ventrem_. . . . They were threatening themwith a general strike. The scared Parisians were leaving for the countryor laying in provisions as against a siege. Christophe had met Canet, inhis motor, carrying two hams and a sack of potatoes: he was besidehimself: he did not in the least know to which party he belonged: he wasin turn an old Republican, a royalist, and a revolutionary. His cult ofviolence was like a compass gone wrong, with the needle darting fromnorth to south and from south to north. In public he still played thepart of chorus to the wild speeches of his friends: but he would havetaken _in petto_ the first dictator who came along and swept awaythe red spectre. 

Christophe was tickled to death by such universal cowardice. He wasconvinced that nothing would come of it all. Olivier was not so sure. His birth into the burgess-class had given him something of theinevitable and everlasting tremulation which the comfortable classesalways feel upon the recollection or the expectation of Revolution. 

"That's all right!" said Christophe. "You can sleep in peace. YourRevolution isn't going to happen to-morrow. You're all afraid. Afraid ofbeing hurt. That sort of fear is everywhere. In the upper-classes, inthe people, in every nation, in all the nations of the West. There's notenough blood in the whole lot of them: they're afraid of spilling alittle. For the last forty years all the fighting has been done in words, in newspaper articles. Just look at your old Dreyfus Affair. Youshouted 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 secretinstinctive feeling that on the first shedding of it the beast in manwill see red, and the brute will appear again under the crust ofcivilization: and God knows how it will ever be muzzled! Everybodyhesitates to declare war: but when the war does come it will be afrightful thing. "

Christophe shrugged his shoulders and said that it was not for nothingthat the heroes of the age were lying heroes, Cyrano the braggart andthe swaggering cock, Chantecler. 

Olivier nodded. He knew that in France bragging is the beginning ofaction. However, he had no more faith than Christophe in an immediatemovement: it had been too loudly proclaimed, and the Government was onits guard. There was reason to believe that the syndicalist strategistswould postpone the fight for a more favorable opportunity. 

During the latter half of April Olivier had an attack of influenza: heused to get it every winter about the same time, and it always used todevelop into his old enemy, bronchitis. Christophe stayed with him for afew days. The attack was only a slight one, and soon passed. But, asusual, it left Olivier morally and physically worn out, and he was inthis condition for some time after the fever had subsided. He stayed inbed, 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 ofwriting, he would suddenly get up and walk over to the piano: he wouldplay, 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 hadwritten was conceived in a style which recalled that of his earlierwork, what he played was like that of another man. It was music of aworld raucous and uncontrolled. There were in it a disorder and aviolence, and incoherence which had no resemblance at all to thepowerful order and logic which were everywhere present in his othermusic. These unconsidered improvizations, escaping the scrutiny of hisartistic conscience, sprang, like the cry of an animal, from the fleshrather than from the mind; and seemed to reveal a disturbance of thebalance of his soul, a storm brewing in the depths of the future. Christophe was quite unconscious of it: but Olivier would listen, lookat Christophe, and feel vaguely uneasy. In his weak condition he had asingular power of penetration, a far-seeing eye: he saw things that noother man could perceive. 

Christophe thumped out a final chord and stopped all in a sweat, andlooking rather haggard: he looked at Olivier, and there was still atroubled expression in his eyes; then he began to laugh, and went backto his desk. Olivier asked him:

"What was that, Christophe?"

"Nothing, " replied Christophe. "I'm stirring the water to attract myfish. "

"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 onlooking 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, sittingthere, close at hand, treasures that you will give to others, and Ishall 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 youhave still to go through. . . . I would like to follow you. I would like tobe with you. . . . But I shan't see anything of it all. I shall be leftstuck stupidly by the wayside. "

"Stupid? You are that. Do you think that I would leave you behind evenif 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 tookhis wrists, which were wet with a clammy sweat of weakness. Hisnightshirt was open at the neck, showing his weak chest, his tootransparent skin, which was stretched and thin like a sail blown out bya puff of wind to rending point. Christophe's strong fingers fumbled ashe buttoned the neckband of Olivier's nightshirt. Olivier suffered him. 

"Dear Christophe!" he said tenderly. "Yet I have had one great happinessin my life!"

"Oh! what on earth are you thinking of?" said Christophe. "You're aswell as I am. "

"Yes, " said Olivier. 

"Then why talk nonsense?"

"I was wrong, " said Olivier, ashamed and smiling. "Influenza is sodepressing. "

"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 tosit musing by the fireside. It was a mild and misty April. Through thesoft veil of silvery mist the little green leaves were unfolding theircocoons, and invisible birds were singing the song of the hidden sun. Olivier wound the skein of his memories. He saw himself once more as achild, in the train carrying him away from his native town, through themist, with his mother weeping. Antoinette was sitting by herself at theother end of the carriage. . . . Delicate shapes, fine landscapes, weredrawn in his mind's eye. Lovely verses came of their own accord, withevery 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 hispoetic visions. But his will failed him: he was tired: he knew that theperfume of his dreams would evaporate so soon as he tried to catch andhold them. It was always so: the best of himself could never findexpression: his mind was like a little valley full of flowers: buthardly a soul had access to it: and as soon as they were picked theflowers faded. No more than just a few had been able languidly tosurvive, a few delicate little tales, a few pieces of verse, which allgave out a fragrant, fading scent. His artistic impotence had for a longtime been one of Olivier's greatest griefs. It was so hard to feel somuch life in himself and to be able to save none of it!. . . --Now he wasresigned. Flowers do not need to be seen to blossom. They are only themore beautiful in the fields where no hand can pluck them. Happy, happyfields with flowers dreaming in the sun!--Here in the little valleythere was hardly any sun; but Olivier's dreams flowered all the betterfor it. What stories he wove for his own delight in those days, storiessad and tender and fantastic! They came he knew not whence, sailing likewhite clouds in a summer sky, melted into thin air, and others followedthem: he was full of them. Sometimes the sky was clear: in the light ofit Olivier would sit drowsily until once more, with all sail set, therewould come gliding the silent ships of dreams. 

In the evening the little hunchback would come in. Olivier was so fullof stories that he told him one, smiling, eager and engrossed in thetale. Often he would go on talking to himself, with the boy breathingnever a word. In the end he would altogether forget his presence. . . . Christophe arrived in the middle of the story, and was struck by itsbeauty, and asked Olivier to begin all over again. Olivier refused:

"I am in the same position as yourself, " he said. "I don't know anythingabout it. "

"That is not true, " said Christophe. "You're a regular Frenchman, andyou always know exactly what you are doing and saying. You never forgetanything. "

"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? Youthrow 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 duringOlivier's story--sitting with his face towards the window, with eyesblankly staring, and a frown on his face and a fierce expression so thatit 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 moroseexpression 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 ofexhaustion: he did not want to go out, he had a vague fear, he did notlike mixing with the crowd. His heart and mind were brave: but the fleshwas 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 couldnot, even would not, defend himself: for he had as great a horror ofgiving pain as of suffering it himself. Men who are sick in body shudderaway from physical suffering more readily than others, because they aremore familiar with it, because they have less power to resist, andbecause it is presented more immediately and more poignantly to theirheated imagination. Olivier was ashamed of this physical cowardice ofhis which was in entire contradiction to the stoicism of his will: andhe tried hard to fight it down. But this morning the thought of humancontact of any sort was painful to him, and he would gladly haveremained indoors all day long. Christophe scolded him, rallied him, absolutely insisted on his going out and throwing off his stupor: forquite ten days he had not had a breath of air. Olivier pretended not topay any attention. Christophe said:

"Very well. I'll go without you. I want to see their First of May. If Idon'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 leaveChristophe to go alone. 

There were very few people in the streets. A few little work-girlswearing sprays of lily-of-the-valley. Working-people in their Sundayclothes were walking about rather listlessly. At the street corners, andnear the Métro stations were groups of policemen in plain clothes. Thegates of the Luxembourg were closed. The weather was still foggy anddamp. It was a long, long time since the sun had shown himself!. . . Thefriends walked arm in arm. They spoke but little, but they were veryglad of each other. A few words were enough to call up all their tendermemories 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 goingin 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 Sundayclothes and faces; poor people with their babies: workmen loafing. A fewhere and there wore the red eglantine in their buttonholes: they lookedquite inoffensive: they were revolutionaries by dint of self-persuasion:they were obviously quite benevolent and optimistic at heart, wellsatisfied with the smallest opportunities for happiness: whether it werefine or merely passable for their holiday, they were grateful for it . . . They did not know exactly to whom . . . To everything and everybody aboutthem. They walked along without any hurry, expansively admiring the newleaves of the trees and the pretty dresses of the little girls who wentby: 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 littlecontemptuous. 

As they got farther along the crowd thickened. Men with pale hangdogfaces and horrible mouths slipped into the stream of people, all on thealert, waiting for the time to pounce on their prey. The mud was stirredup. With every inch the river grew more and more turbid. Now it flowedslowly thick, opaque, and heavy. Like air-bubbles rising from the depthsto the greasy surface, there came up calling voices, shrill whistles, the cries of the newsboys, piercing the dull roar of the multitude, andmade it possible to take the measure of its strata. At the end of astreet, near Amélie's restaurant, there was a noise like that of amill-race. The crowd was stemmed up against several ranks of police andsoldiers. In front of the obstacles a serried mass was formed, howling, whistling, singing, laughing, and eddying this way and that. . . . Thelaughter of the people is the only means they have of expressing athousand obscure and yet deep feelings which cannot find an outlet inwords!. . . 

The multitude was not hostile. The people did not know what they wanted. Until they did know they were content to amuse themselves--after theirown nervous, brutal fashion, still without malice--to amuse themselveswith pushing and being pushed, insulting the police and each other. Butlittle by little, they lost their ardor. Those who came up from behindgot tired of being able to see nothing, and were the more provocativeinasmuch as they ran little risk behind the shelter of the humanbarricade in front of them. Those in front, being crushed between thosewho were pushing and those who were offering resistance, grew more andmore exasperated as their position became more and more intolerable: theforce of the current pushing them on increased their own force anhundredfold. And all of them, as they were squeezed closer and closertogether, like cattle, felt the warmth of the whole herd creepingthrough their breasts and their loins: and it seemed to them then thatthey formed a solid block: and each was all, each was a giant with thearms of Briareus. Every now and then a wave of blood would surge to theheart of the thousand-headed monster: eyes would dart hatred, murderouscries would go up. Men cowering away in the third and fourth row beganto throw stones. Whole families were looking down from the windows ofthe houses: it was like being at the play: they excited the mob andwaited with a little thrill of agonized impatience for the troops tocharge. 

Christophe forced his way through the dense throng with elbows andknees, like a wedge. Olivier followed him. The living mass parted for amoment to let them pass and closed again at once behind them. Christophewas in fine fettle. He had entirely forgotten that only five minutes agohe had denied the possibility of an upheaval of the people. Hardly hadhe set foot inside the stream than he was swept along: though he was aforeigner 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 goingtoo, drinking in the breath of their madness. 

Olivier was dragged along after him, but it was no joy to him; he sawclearly, he never lost his self-consciousness, and was a thousand timesmore a stranger to the passions of these people who were his people thanChristophe, and yet he was carried away by them like a piece ofwreckage. His illness, which had weakened him, had also relaxedeverything that bound him to life. How far removed he felt from thesepeople!. . . Being free from the delirium that was in them and having allhis wits at liberty, his mind took in the minutest details. It gave himpleasure to gaze at the bust of a girl standing in front of him and ather pretty, white neck. And at the same time he was disgusted by thesickly, thick smell that was given off from the close-packed heap ofbodies. 

"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 sohuddled together as to form a solid barricade, he saw his friend thelittle hunchback perched on the roof of a newspaper kiosk. He wasclinging with both hands, and crouching in a most uncomfortableposition, and laughing as he looked over the wall of soldiers: and thenhe 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 acrossthe soldiers, over the square, with his eyes wide staring in hope andexpectation . . . Of what?--Of the thing which was to come to pass. . . . Hewas not alone. There were many, many others all around him waiting forthe miracle! And Olivier, looking at Christophe, saw that he too wasexpecting it. 

He called to the boy and shouted to him to come down. Emmanuel pretendednot to hear and looked away. He had seen Christophe. He was glad to bein a position of peril in the turmoil, partly to show his courage toOlivier, partly to punish him for being with Christophe. 

Meanwhile they had come across some of their friends in thecrowd, --Coquard, with his golden beard, who expected nothing more than alittle jostling and crushing, and with the eye of an expert was watchingfor the moment when the vessel would overflow. Farther on they met thefair Berthe, who was slanging the people about her and getting roughlymauled. She had succeeded in wriggling through to the front row, and shewas hurling insults at the police. Coquard came up to Christophe. WhenChristophe 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. Itwon't be long before the fun begins. "

"Rot!" said Christophe. 

At that very moment the cuirassiers, getting tired of having stonesflung at them, marched forward to clear the entrances to the square: thecentral body came forward at a double. Immediately the stampede began. As the Gospel has it, the first were last. But they took good care notto be last for long. By way of covering their confusion the runawaysyelled at the soldiers following them and screamed: "Assassins!" longbefore a single blow had been struck. Berthe wriggled through the crowdlike an eel, shrieking at the top of her voice. She rejoined herfriends; and taking shelter behind Coquard's broad back, she recoveredher breath, pressed close up against Christophe, gripped his arm, infear or for some other reason, ogled Olivier, and shook her fist at theenemy, 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 Graillotand a few workmen. Christophe was on the point of entering followed byOlivier. The street had a shelving ridge. The pavement, by the creamery, was five or six steps higher than the roadway. Olivier stopped to take along breath after his escape from the crowd. He disliked the idea ofbeing in the poisoned air of the restaurant and the clamorous voices ofthese fanatics. He said to Christopher:

"I'm going home. "

"Very well, then, old fellow, " said Christophe. "I'll rejoin you in anhour 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 hewould 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 lookfor him. He saw him at the very moment when Emmanuel had slipped downfrom his coign of vantage and was rolling on the ground being trampledunderfoot by the rabble: the fugitives were running over his body: thepolice were just reaching the spot. Olivier did not stop to think: herushed down the steps and ran to his aid. A navvy saw the danger, thesoldiers with drawn sabers. Olivier holding out his hand to the boy tohelp him up, the savage rush of the police knocked them both over. Heshouted out, and in his turn rushed in. Some of his comrades followed ata run. Others rushed down from the threshold of the restaurant, and, ontheir cries, came those who had already entered. The two bodies of menhurled themselves at each other's throats like dogs. And the women, standing at the top of the steps, screamed and yelled. --So Olivier, thearistocrat, the essentially middle-class nature, released the spring ofthe battle, which no man desired less than he. 

Christophe was swept along by the workmen and plunged into the fraywithout knowing who had been the cause of it. Nothing was farther fromhis thoughts than that Olivier had taken part in it. He thought him faraway in safety. It was impossible to see anything of the fight. Everyman had enough to do in keeping an eye on his opponent. Olivier haddisappeared in the whirlpool like a foundered ship. He had received ajab from a bayonet, meant for some one else, in his left breast: hefell: the crowd trampled him underfoot. Christophe had been swept awayby an eddy to the farthest extremity of the field of battle. He did notfight with any animosity: he jostled and was jostled with a fierce zestas though he was in the throng at a village fair. So little did he thinkof 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 ingrotesque and said:

"My waltz, I think. "

But when another policeman pounced on to his back, he shook himself likea wild boar, and hammered away with his fists at the two of them: he hadno intention of being taken prisoner. One of his adversaries, the manwho had seized him from behind, rolled down on the ground. The otherlost his head and drew his sword. Christophe saw the point of the sabercome within a hand's breadth of his chest: he dodged, and twisted theman's wrist and tried to wrench his weapon from him. He could notunderstand it: till then it had seemed to him just a game. They went onstruggling and battering at each other's faces. He had no time to stopto think. He saw murder in the other man's eyes: and murderous desireawoke in him. He saw that the man would slit him up like a sheep. With asudden movement he turned the man's hand and sword against himself: heplunged the sword into his breast, felt that he was killing him, andkilled 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. Thered flag appeared in the windows of the houses. And old memories ofParisian revolutions prompted them to build a barricade. The stones weretorn up from the street, the gas lamps were wrenched away, trees werepulled up, an omnibus was overturned. A trench that had been left openfor months in connection with work on the _Métropolitain_ wasturned to account. The cast-iron railings round the trees were broken upand used as missiles. Weapons were brought out of pockets and from thehouses. 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, wasChristophe, unrecognizable, shouting his revolutionary song, which wastaken up by a score of voices. Olivier had been carried to Amélie's. Hewas unconscious. He had been laid on a bed in the dark back-shop. At thefoot of the bed stood the hunchback, numbed and distraught. At firstBerthe had been overcome with emotion: at a distance she had thought itwas Graillot who had been wounded, and, when she recognized Olivier, herfirst 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 headon the pillow. With her usual calmness Amélie had undone his clothes anddressed his wound. Manousse Heimann was there, fortunately, with hisinseparable Canet. Like Christophe they had come out of curiosity to seethe demonstration: they had been present at the affray and seen Olivierfall. Canet was blubbering like a child: and at the same time he wasthinking:

"What on earth am I doing here?"

Manousse examined Olivier: at once he saw that it was all over. He had agreat feeling for Olivier: but he was not a man to worry about whatcan't be helped: and he turned his thoughts to Christophe. He admiredChristophe though he regarded him as a pathological case. He knew hisideas about the Revolution: and he wanted to deliver him from theidiotic danger he was running in a cause that was not his own. The riskof a broken head in the scuffle was not the only one: if Christophe weretaken, everything pointed to his being used as an example and gettingmore than he bargained for. Manousse had long ago been warned that thepolice had their eye on Christophe: they would saddle him not only withhis own follies but with those of others. Xavier Bernard, whom Manoussehad just encountered, prowling through the crowd, for his own amusementas 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 puttinghimself 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 thatOlivier was dying he would become a raging madman, he would go out tokill, 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 intime to catch the Pontarlier express. You must pack him off toSwitzerland. "

"He won't go. "

"He will. I'll tell him that Jeannin will follow him, or has alreadygone. "

Without paying any attention to Canet's objections Manousse set out tofind Christophe on the barricade. He was not very courageous, he startedevery time he heard a shot: and he counted the cobble-stones over whichhe stepped--(odd or even), to make out his chances of being killed. Hedid not stop, but went through with it. When he reached the barricade hefound Christophe, perched on a wheel of the overturned omnibus, amusinghimself by firing pistol-shots into the air. Round the barricade theriff-raff of Paris, spewed up from the gutters, had swollen up like thedirty water from a sewer after heavy rain. The original combatants weredrowned by it. Manousse shouted to Christophe, whose back was turned tohim. Christophe did not hear him. Manousse climbed up to him and pluckedat 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 stoppedshort, dropped his revolver, and, slipping down from his scaffolding, herejoined 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 arrestedto-night. "

"What have I done?"

"Look at your hands. . . . Come!. . . There's no room for doubt, they won'tspare 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 sentme 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 firsttrain. Quick! I'll explain. "

He caught hold of Christophe. Christophe was dazed by the noise and thewave of madness that had rushed through him, could not understand whathe had done and what he was being asked to do, and let himself bedragged away. Manousse took his arm, and with his other hand caught holdof Canet, who was not at all pleased with the part allotted to him inthe affair: and he packed the two of them into the car. The worthy Canetwould have been bitterly sorry if Christophe had been caught, but hewould have much preferred some one else to help him to escape. Manousseknew his man. And as he had some qualms about Canet's cowardice, hechanged his mind just as he was leaving them and the car was gettinginto its stride and climbed up and sat with them. 

Olivier did not recover consciousness. Amélie and the little hunchbackwere 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, andpainfully 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 Maynosegay, a few sprays of lily-of-the-valley. A leaky tap in thecourtyard dripped, dripped into a bucket. For a second mental imageshovered tremblingly at the back of his mind, like a light flickering anddying down . . . A house in the country with glycine on the walls: agarden where a child was playing: a boy lying on the turf: a littlefountain plashing in its stone basin: a little girl laughing. . . . 

II

They drove out of Paris. They crossed the vast plains of France shroudedin mist. It was an evening like that on which Christophe had arrived inParis ten years before. He was a fugitive then, as now. But then hisfriend, the man who loved him, was alive: and Christophe was fleeingtowards him. . . . 

During the first hour Christophe was still under the excitement of thefight: he talked volubly in a loud voice: in a breathless, jerky fashionhe kept on telling what he had seen and heard: he was proud of hisachievement and felt no remorse. Manousse and Canet talked too, by wayof making him forget. Gradually his feverish excitement subsided, andChristophe stopped talking: his two companions went on makingconversation alone. He was a little bewildered by the afternoon'sadventures, but in no way abashed. He recollected the time when he hadcome 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 tohim where he might be so long as he was with his friend. He was countingon seeing him again next day. They had promised him that. 

They reached Laroche. Manousse and Canet did not leave him until theyhad seen him into the train. Christophe made them say over the name ofthe place where he was to get out, and the name of the hotel, and thepost-office where he would find his letters. In spite of themselves, asthey left him, they both looked utterly dejected. Christophe wrung theirhands gaily. 

"Come!" he shouted, "don't look so like a funeral Good Lord, we shallmeet 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 Canetsaid to Manousse:

"Bah! the dead are dead. We must help the living. "

As night fell Christophe's excitement subsided altogether. He sathuddled in a corner of the carriage, and pondered. He was sobered andicy cold. He looked down at his hands and saw blood on them that was nothis own. He gave a shiver of disgust. The scene of the murder camebefore him once more. He remembered that he had killed a man: and now heknew not why. He began to go over the whole battle from the verybeginning; but now he saw it in a very different light. He could notunderstand how he had got mixed up in it. He went back over everyincident of the day from the moment when he had left the house withOlivier: he saw the two of them walking through Paris until the momentwhen 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 andstruck out and moved with those men with whose beliefs he disagreed? Itwas not he, it was not he!. . . It was a total eclipse of his will!. . . Hewas dazed by it and ashamed. He was not his own master then? Who was hismaster?. . . He was being carried by the express through the night: andthe inward night through which he was being carried was no less dark, nor was the unknown force less swift and dizzy. . . . He tried hard toshake off his unease: but one anxiety was followed by another. Thenearer he came to his destination, the more he thought of Olivier; andhe was oppressed by an unreasoning fear. 

As he arrived he looked through the window across the platform for thefamiliar face of his friend. . . . There was no one. He got out and stillwent on looking about him. Once or twice he thought he saw. . . . No, itwas not "he. " He went to the appointed hotel. Olivier was not there. There was no reason for Christophe to be surprised: how could Olivierhave preceded him?. . . But from that moment on he was in an agony ofsuspense. 

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 ofanxiety and looked at the lake and the shop-windows, chaffed the girl inthe restaurant, and turned over the illustrated papers. . . . Nothinginterested him. The day dragged through, slowly and heavily. About seveno'clock in the evening, Christophe having, for want of anything else todo, dined early and eaten nothing, went up to his room, and asked thatas soon as the friend he was expecting arrived, he should be brought upto him. He sat down at the desk with his back turned to the door. He hadnothing to busy himself with, no baggage, no books: only a paper that hehad just bought: he forced himself to read it: but his mind waswandering: he was listening for footsteps in the corridor. All hisnerves were on edge with the exhaustion of a day's anxious waiting and asleepless night. 

Suddenly he heard some one open the door. Some indefinable feeling madehim not turn around at once. He felt a hand on his shoulder. Then heturned 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 hairstood on end. He stood still for a moment, livid, with his teethchattering. 

At the end of that moment--(in vain did he shut his eyes to it and tellhimself: "I know nothing")--he knew everything: he was sure of what hewas going to hear. 

He could not stay in his room. He went down into the street and walkedabout for an hour. When he returned the porter met him in the hall ofthe hotel and gave him a letter. _The_ letter. He was quite sure itwould be there. His hand trembled as he took it. He opened it, saw thatOlivier was dead, and fainted. 

The letter was from Manousse. It said that in concealing the disasterfrom him the day before, and hurrying him off, they had only beenobeying Olivier's wishes, who had desired to insure his friend'sescape, --that it was useless for Christophe to stay, as it would meanthe end of him also, --that it was his duty to seek safety for the sakeof his friend's memory, and for his other friends, and for the sake ofhis own fame, etc. , etc. . . . Amélie had added three lines in her big, scrawling handwriting, to say that she would take every care of the poorlittle gentleman. . . . 

When Christophe came back to himself he was furiously angry. He wantedto kill Manousse. He ran to the station. The hall of the hotel wasempty, the streets were deserted: in the darkness the few belatedpassers-by did not notice his wildly staring eyes or his furiousbreathing. His mind had fastened as firmly as a bulldog with its fangson to the one fixed idea: "Kill Manousse! Kill!. . . " He wanted to returnto Paris. The night express had gone an hour before. He had to waituntil the next morning. He could not wait. He took the first train thatwent in the direction of Paris, a train which stopped at every station. When he was left alone in the carriage Christophe cried over and overagain:

"It is not true! It is not true!"

At the second station across the French frontier the train stoppedaltogether: it did not go any farther. Shaking with fury, Christophe gotout and asked for another train, battering the sleepy officials withquestions, and only knocking up against indifference. Whatever he did hewould arrive too late. Too late for Olivier. He could not even manage tocatch Manousse. He would be arrested first. What was he to do? Which wayto turn? To go on? To go back? What was the use? What was the use?. . . Hethought of giving himself up to a gendarme who went past him. He washeld back by an obscure instinct for life which bade him return toSwitzerland. There was no train in either direction for a few hours. Christophe sat down in the waiting-room, could not keep still, left thestation, and blindly followed the road on through the night. He foundhimself in the middle of a bare countryside--fields, broken here andthere with clumps of pines, the vanguard of a forest. He plunged intoit. He had hardly gone more than a few steps when he flung himself downon the ground and cried:

"Olivier!"

He lay across the path and sobbed. 

A long time afterwards a train whistling in the distance roused him andmade him get up. He tried to go back to the station, but took the wrongroad. He walked on all through the night. What did it matter to himwhere he went? He went on walking to keep from thinking, walking, walking, until he could not think, walking on in the hope that he mightfall dead. Ah! if only he might die!. . . 

At dawn he found himself in a French village a long way from thefrontier. All night he had been walking away from it. He went into aninn, ate a huge meal, set out once more, and walked on and on. Duringthe day he sank down in the middle of a field and lay there asleep untilthe evening. When he woke up it was to face another night. His fury hadabated. He was left only with frightful grief that choked him. Hedragged himself to a farmhouse, and asked for a piece of bread and atruss of straw for a bed. The farmer stared hard at him, cut him a sliceof bread, led him into the stable, and locked it. Christophe lay in thestraw near the thickly-smelling cows, and devoured his bread. Tears werestreaming down his face. Neither his hunger nor his sorrow could beappeased. During the night sleep once more delivered him from his agonyfor 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. Thefarmer stopped and looked down at him for a long time: he was holding inhis hand a paper, at which he glanced from time to time. At last hemoved forward and thrust his newspaper in front of Christophe. Hisportrait 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 behindthe barn and walked along a winding path through an orchard. They cameto a cross, and then the farmer pointed along a road and said toChristophe:

"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 withevery stride. But he felt that if he were to stop he would never be ableto go on again, never budge from the spot where he fell. He walked onright through the day. He had not a penny to buy bread. Besides, heavoided the villages. He had a queer feeling which entirely baffled hisreason, that, though he wished to die, he was afraid of being takenprisoner: his body was like a hunted animal fleeing before its captors. His physical wretchedness, exhaustion, hunger, an obscure feeling ofterror which was augmented by his worn-out condition, for the time beingsmothered his moral distress. His one thought was to find a refuge wherehe could in safety be alone with his distress and feed on it. 

He crossed the frontier. In the distance he saw a town surmounted withtowers and steeples and factory chimneys, from which the thick smokestreamed like black rivers, monotonously, all in the same directionacross the gray sky under the rain. He was very near a collapse. Justthen he remembered that he knew a German doctor, one Erich Braun, wholived in the town, and had written to him the year before, after one ofhis successes, to remind him of their old acquaintance. Dull thoughBraun might be, little though he might enter into his life, yet, like awounded animal, Christophe made a supreme effort before he gave in toreach 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. Hewalked through it, seeing nothing, asking his way, losing himself, goingback, wandering aimlessly. He was at the end of his tether. For the lasttime he screwed up his will that was so near to breaking-point to climbup the steep alleys, and the stairs which went to the top of a stifflittle hill, closely overbuilt with houses round a gloomy church. Therewere sixty red stone steps in threes and sixes. Between each littleflight of steps was a narrow platform for the door of a house. On eachplatform 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 alleywas in darkness. In utter weariness he closed his eyes. All was darkwithin him. . . . Ages passed. 

The narrow door was opened. A woman appeared on the threshold. Her facewas in darkness: but her outline was sharply shown against thebackground of a little garden which could be clearly seen at the end ofa long passage, in the light of the setting sun. She was tall, and stoodvery erect, without a word, waiting for him to speak. He could not seeher eyes: but he felt them taking him in. He asked for Doctor ErichBraun and gave his name. He had great difficulty in getting the wordsout. He was worn out with fatigue, hunger, and thirst. Without a wordthe woman went away, and Christophe followed her into a room with closedshutters. In the darkness he bumped into her: his knees and body brushedagainst her. She went out again and closed the door of the room and lefthim in the dark. He stayed quite still, for fear of knocking somethingover, leaning against the wall with his forehead against the softhangings: his ears buzzed: the darkness seemed alive and throbbing tohis eyes. 

Overhead he heard a chair being moved, an exclamation of surprise, adoor 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 ofthe man's loud voice, cordial as it was, brought him comfort in hismisery. He gripped the hand that was held out to him. The two men lookedat each other. Braun was a little man: he had a red face with a black, scrubby and untidy beard, kind eyes twinkling behind spectacles, abroad, bumpy, wrinkled, worried, inexpressive brow, hair carefullyplastered down and parted right down to his neck. He was very ugly: butChristophe 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. ThankGod! You've been much in our thoughts, mine and Anna's. "

He stopped and made Christophe known to the silent creature who hadadmitted him:

"My wife. "

She had stayed in the doorway of the room with a lamp in her hand. Shehad a taciturn face with a firm chin. The light fell on her brown hairwith its reddish shades of color, and on her pallid cheeks. She held outher hand to Christophe stiffly with the elbow close against her side: hetook it without looking at her. He was almost done. 

"I came. . . . " he tried to explain. "I thought you would be so kind . . . Ifit 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 arein this country you shall stay in our house: and I hope you will stayfor a long time. It is an honor and a great happiness for us. "

Christophe was overwhelmed by his kind words. He flung himself intoBraun's arms. 

"My dear Christophe, my dear Christophe!" said Braun. . . . "He isweeping. . . . Well, well what is it?. . . Anna! Anna!. . . Quick, he hasfainted. . . . "

Christophe had collapsed in his host's arms. He had succumbed to thefainting fit which had been imminent for several hours. 

When he opened his eyes again he was lying in a great bed. A smell ofwet 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. Braunheld his head. Christophe was restored to life: but his exhaustion wasstronger than his hunger: hardly was his head laid back on the pillowthan he went to sleep. Braun and his wife watched over him: then, seeingthat he only needed rest, they left him. 

He fell into the sort of sleep that seems to last for years, a heavycrushing 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 themonstrous hallucinations which are forever prowling at the gates of hiswill. He tried to wake up, burning, broken, lost in the impenetrabledarkness: he heard the clocks striking the half hours: he could notbreathe, or think, or move: he was bound and gagged like a man flunginto water to drown: he tried to struggle, but only sank downagain. --Dawn came at length, the tardy gray dawn of a rainy day. Theintolerable heat that consumed him grew less: but his body was pinnedunder 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 islying under the earth. . . . "

He lay on his back and never moved, although he was cramped by hisposition in the bed: his legs and arms were heavy as stone. He was in agrave. 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 miseryof 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 wenton grimly staring at the ceiling he tried to make him shake off hismelancholy: he sat down on the bed and chattered noisily. Christophecould not bear the noise. He made an effort, superhuman it seemed tohim, 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 hetiptoed from the room with his huge slippers creaking on the floor. Christophe was left alone once more, and sank back into his mortalweariness. His thoughts were veiled by the mist of suffering. He worehimself out in trying to understand. . . . "Why had he known him? Why hadhe loved him? What good had Antoinette's devotion been? What was themeaning of all the lives and generations, --so much experience andhope--ending in that life, dragged down with it into the void?". . . Lifewas meaningless. Death was meaningless. A man was blotted out, shuffledout of existence, a whole family disappeared from the face of the earth, leaving no trace. Impossible to tell whether it is more odious or moregrotesque. He burst into a fit of angry laughter, laughter of hatred anddespair. His impotence in the face of such sorrow, his sorrow in theface of such impotence, were dragging him down to death. His heart wasbroken. . . . 

There was not a sound in the house, save the doctor's footsteps as hewent out on his rounds. Christophe had lost all idea of the time, whenAnna appeared. She brought him some dinner on a tray. He watched herwithout stirring, without even moving his lips to thank her: but in hisstaring eyes, which seemed to see nothing, the image of the young womanwas graven with photographic clarity. Long afterwards, when he knew herbetter, it was always thus that he saw her: later impressions were neverable to efface that first memory of her. She had thick hair done up in aheavy knob, a bulging forehead, wide cheeks, a short, straight nose, eyes perpetually cast down, and when they met the eyes of another, theywould turn away with an expression in which there was little franknessand small kindness: her lips were a trifle thick, and closely pressedtogether, 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 noiselesslyand laid the tray on the table by the bed and went out again with herarms close to her sides and her head down. Christophe felt no surpriseat her strange and rather absurd appearance: he did not touch his foodand relapsed into his silent suffering. 

The day passed. Evening came and once more Anna with more food. Shefound the meal she had brought in the morning still untouched: and shetook it away without a remark. She had none of those fond observationswhich all women seem instinctively to produce for the benefit of aninvalid. It was as though Christophe did not exist for her, as thoughshe herself hardly existed. This time Christophe felt a sort of dumbhostility as impatiently he followed her awkward hasty movements. However, he was grateful to her for not trying to talk. --He was evenmore grateful to her when, after she had gone, he had to put up with thedoctor's protestations, when he observed that Christophe had not touchedthe earlier meal. He was angry with his wife for not having forcedChristophe to eat, and now tried to compel him to do so. For the sake ofpeace, Christophe had to gulp down a little milk. After that he turnedhis back on him. 

The next night was more tranquil. Heavy sleep once more drew Christopheinto its state of nothingness. Not a trace of hateful life wasleft. --But waking up was even more suffocating than before. He went onturning over and over all the details of the fateful day, Olivier'sreluctance to leave the house, his urgent desire to go home, and he saidto himself in despair:

"It was I who killed him. . . . "

He could not bear to stay there any longer, shut up in that room, lyingmotionless beneath the claws of the fierce-eyed sphinx that went onbattering 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 wentdownstairs: in his instinctive fear he was driven to cling to otherhuman creatures. And as soon as he heard another voice he felt a longingto rush away. 

Braun was in the dining-room. He received Christophe with his usualdemonstrations of friendship and at once began to ply him with questionsas 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. Theemotions of the last few days. Don't talk. Don't put yourself out in anyway. 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 oppositeextreme: he dared not even talk to his wife in Christophe's presence: hetalked in whispers and walked about on tiptoe: the house became stilland silent. Exasperated by the whispering and the silence and theaffectation of it all, Christophe had to beg Braun to go on living justas he usually did. 

For some days no one paid any attention to Christophe. He would sit forhours together in the corner of a room, or he would wander through thehouse like a man in a dream. What were his thoughts? He hardly knew. Hehardly had even strength enough to suffer. He was crushed. The drynessof his heart was a horror to him. He had only one desire: to be buriedwith "him" and to make an end. --One day he found the garden-door openand went out. But it hurt him so much to be in the light of day that hereturned hurriedly and shut himself up in his room with all the shuttersclosed. Fine days were torture to him. He hated the sun. The brutalserenity of Nature overwhelmed him. At meals he would eat in silence thefood that Braun laid before him, and he would sit with never a wordstaring down at the table. One day Braun pointed to the piano in thedrawing-room: Christophe turned from it in terror. Noise of any sort wasdetestable to him. Silence, silence, and the night!. . . There wasnothing in him save an aching void, and a need of emptiness. Gone washis joy in life, gone the splendid bird of joy that once used to soarblithely, ecstatically upwards, pouring out song. There were days when, sitting in his room, he had no more feeling of life than the haltingtic-tac of the clock in the next room, that seemed to be beating in hisown brain. And yet, the wild bird of joy was still in him, it wouldsuddenly take flight, and flutter against the bars of its cage: and inthe depths of his soul there was a frightful tumult of sorrow--"thebitter 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 thelovely word, friend. In reality we hardly have a single friend allthrough 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 whenthey are gone. The friend filled the life of his friend, unbeknown tohim, unmarked. The friend goes: and life is empty. Not only the belovedis lost, but every reason for loving, every reason for having loved. Whyhad he lived? Why had either lived?

The blow of Olivier's death was the more terrible to Christophe in thatit 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 workingorganic change in a man: then body and soul are more susceptible toattack from without; the mind is weakened, its power is sapped by avague sadness, a feeling of satiety, a sort of detachment from what itis doing, an incapacity for seeing any other course of action. At suchperiods of their lives when these crises occur, the majority of men arebound by domestic ties, forming a safeguard for them, which, it is true, deprives them of the freedom of mind necessary for self-judgment, fordiscovering where they stand, and for beginning to build up a healthynew life. For them so many sorrows, so much bitterness and disgustremain concealed!. . . Onward! Onward! A man must ever be pressing on. . . . The common round, anxiety and care for the family for which he isresponsible, 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 inhis hours of negation, nothing to force him to go on. He goes on as amatter of habit: he knows not whither he is going. His powers arescattered, his consciousness is obscured. It is an awful thing for himif, just at the moment when he is most asleep, there comes a thunderclapto break in upon his somnambulism! Then he comes very nigh todestruction. 

A few letters from Paris, which at last reached him, plucked Christophefor a moment out of his despairing apathy. They were from Cécile andMadame Arnaud. They brought him messages of comfort. Cold comfort. Futile condolence. Those who talk about suffering know it not. Theletters only brought him an echo of the voice that was gone. . . . He hadnot the heart to reply: and the letters ceased. In his despondency hetried to blot out his tracks. To disappear. . . . Suffering is unjust: allthose who had loved him dropped out of his existence. Only one creaturestill existed: the man who was dead. For many weeks he strove to bringhim 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 himin his dreams. We rarely dream of those we have lost, while their lossis still a pain. They come back to us later on when we are beginning toforget. 

However, the outside world began gradually to penetrate to the sepulcherof Christophe's soul. At first he became dimly conscious of thedifferent 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 howoften during the day, and the different ways in which it was opened forthe various visitors. He knew Braun's step: he used to visualize thedoctor coming back from his rounds, stopping in the hall, hanging up hishat and cloak, always with the same meticulous fussy way. And when theaccustomed noises came up to him out of the order in which he had cometo look for them, he could not help trying to discover the reason forthe change. At meals he began mechanically to listen to theconversation. He saw that Braun almost always talked single-handed. Hiswife used only to give him a curt reply. Braun was never put out by thewant of anybody to talk to: he used to chat pleasantly and verboselyabout the houses he had visited and the gossip he had picked up. Atlast, one day, Christophe looked at Braun while he was speaking: Braunwas delighted, and laid himself out to keep him interested. 

Christophe tried to pick up the threads of life again. . . . It was utterlyexhausting! He felt old, as old as the world!. . . In the morning when hegot up and saw himself in the mirror he was disgusted with his body, hisgestures, his idiotic figure. Get up, dress, to what end?. . . He trieddesperately to work: it made him sick. What was the good of creation, when everything ends in nothing? Music had become impossible for Mm. Art--(and everything else)--can only be rightly judged in unhappiness. Unhappiness is the touchstone. Only then do we know those who can strideacross the ages, those who are stronger than death. Very few bear thetest. In unhappiness we are struck by the mediocrity of certain soulsupon whom we had counted--(and of the artists we had loved, who had beenlike friends to our lives). --Who survives? How hollow does the beauty ofthe world ring under the touch of sorrow!

But sorrow grows weary, the force goes from its grip. Christophe'snerves were relaxed. He slept, slept unceasingly. It seemed that hewould never succeed in satisfying his hunger for sleep. 

At last one night he slept so profoundly that he did not wake up untilwell on into the afternoon of the next day. The house was empty. Braunand his wife had gone out. The window was open, and the smiling air wasquivering with light. Christophe felt that a crushing weight had beenlifted from him. He got up and went down into the garden. It was anarrow rectangle, inclosed within high walls, like those of a convent. There were gravel paths between grass-plots and humble flowers; and anarbor of grape-vines and climbing roses. A tiny fountain trickled from agrotto built of stones: an acacia against the wall hung itssweet-scented branches over the next garden. Above stood the old towerof the church, of red sandstone. It was four o'clock in the evening. Thegarden was already in shadow. The sun was still shining on the top ofthe tree and the red belfry. Christophe sat in the arbor, with his backto the wall, and his head thrown back, looking at the limpid sky throughthe interlacing tendrils of the vine and the roses. It was like wakingfrom a nightmare. Everywhere was stillness and silence. Above his headnodded a cluster of roses languorously. Suddenly the most lovely rose ofall shed its petals and died: the snow of the rose-leaves was scatteredon the air. It was like the passing of a lovely innocent life. Sosimply!. . . In Christophe's mind it took on a significance of a rendingsweetness. He choked: he hid his face in his hands, and sobbed. . . . 

The bells in the church tower rang out. From one church to anothercalled answering voices. . . . Christophe lost all consciousness of thepassage of time. When he raised his head, the bells were silent and thesun had disappeared. Christophe was comforted by his tears: they hadwashed away the stains from his mind. Within himself he heard a littlestream of music well forth and he saw the little crescent moon glideinto the evening sky. He was called to himself by the sound of footstepsentering the house. He went up to his room, locked the door, and let thefountain of music gush forth. Braun summoned him to dinner, knocked atthe door, and tried to open it: Christophe made no reply. AnxiouslyBraun looked through the keyhole and was reassured when he sawChristophe lying half over the table surrounded with paper which he wasblackening with ink. 

A few hours later, worn out, Christophe went downstairs and found thedoctor reading, impatiently waiting for him in the drawing-room. Heembraced the little man, asked him to forgive him for his strangeconduct since his arrival, and, without waiting to be asked, he began totell Braun about the dramatic events of the past weeks. It was the onlytime he ever talked to him about it: he was never sure that Braun hadunderstood him, for he talked disconnectedly, and it was very late, and, in spite of his eager interest, Braun was nearly dead with sleep. Atlast--(the clock struck two)--Christophe saw it and they saidgood-night. 

From that time on Christophe's existence was reconstituted. He did notmaintain his condition of transitory excitement: he came back to hissorrow, 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 dearestfriend in the world, though his grief had undermined him and Death hadbeen his most intimate companion, there was in him such an abundant, such a tyrannical force of life, that it burst forth even in hiselegies, shining forth from his eyes, his lips, his gestures. But agnawing canker had crept into the heart of his force. Christophe hadfits of despair, transports rather. He would be quite calm, trying toread, or walking: suddenly he would see Olivier's smile, his tired, gentle face. . . . It would tug at his heart. . . . He would falter, lay hishand on his breast, and moan. One day he was at the piano playing apassage from Beethoven with his old zest. . . . Suddenly he stopped, flunghimself on the ground, buried his face in the cushions of a chair, andcried:

"My boy. . . . "

Worst of all was the sensation of having "already lived" that wasconstantly with him. He was continually coming across familiar gestures, familiar words, the perpetual recurrence of the same experiences. Heknew everything, had foreseen everything. One face would remind him of aface he had known and the lips would say--(as he was quite sure theywould)--exactly the same things as he had heard from the original:beings similar to each other would pass through similar phases, knock upagainst the same obstacles, suffer from them in exactly the same way. Ifit is true that "nothing so much brings weariness of life as the newbeginning of love, " how much more then the new beginning of everything!It was elusive and delusive. --Christophe tried not to think of it, sinceit was necessary to do so, if he were to live, and since he wished tolive. It is the saddest hypocrisy, such rejection of self-knowledge, inshame or piety, it is the invincible imperative need of living hidingaway from itself! Knowing that no consolation is possible, a man inventsconsolations. Being convinced that life has no reason, he forges reasonsfor living. He persuades himself that he must live, even when no oneoutside himself is concerned. If need be he will go so far as to pretendthat the dead man encourages him to live. And he knows that he isputting into the dead man's mouth the words that he wishes him to say. Omisery!. . . 

Christophe set out on the road once more: his step seemed to haveregained its old assurance: the gates of his heart were closed upon hissorrow: he never spoke of it to others: he avoided being left alone withit himself: outwardly he seemed calm. 

"_Real sorrows_, " says Balzac, "_are apparently at peace in the deep bedthat they have made for themselves, where they seem to sleep, though allthe while they never cease to fret and eat away the soul_. "

Any one knowing Christophe and watching him closely, seeing him comingand going, talking, composing, even laughing--(he could laughnow!)--would have felt that for all his vigor and the radiance of lifein his eyes, something had been destroyed in him, in the inmost depthsof his life. 

 * * * * *

As soon as he had regained his hold on life he had to look about him fora 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 havefound more devoted hospitality?--But his pride could not suffer the ideaof his being any further a burden upon his friend. In spite of Braun'sprotestations, and his refusal to accept any payment, he could not restuntil he had found enough pupils to permit of his paying his hosts forhis board and lodging. It was not an easy matter. The story of hisrevolutionary escapade had been widely circulated: and the worthyfamilies of the place were reluctant to admit a man who was regarded asdangerous, or at any rate extraordinary, and, in consequence, not quite"respectable, " to their midst. However, his fame as a musician andBraun's good offices gained him access to four or five of the lesstimorous or more curious families, who were perhaps artisticallysnobbish enough to desire to gain particularity. They were none the lesscareful to keep an eye on him, and to maintain a respectable distancebetween master and pupils. 

The Braun household fell into a methodically ordered existence. In themorning each member of it went about his business: the doctor on hisrounds, Christophe to his pupils, Madame Braun to the market and abouther charitable works. Christophe used to return about one, a littlebefore Braun, who would not allow them to wait for him; and he used tosit down to dinner alone with the wife. He did not like that at all: forshe was not sympathetic to him, and he could never find anything to sayto her. She took no trouble to remove his impression, though it wasimpossible for her not to be aware of it; she never bothered to putherself out in dress or in mind to please him: she never spoke toChristophe first: her notable lack of charm in movement and dress, herawkwardness, her coldness, would have repelled any man who was assensitive as Christophe to the charm of women. When he remembered thesparkling elegance of the Parisian women, he could not help thinking, ashe looked at Anna:

"How ugly she is!"

Yet that was unjust: and he was not slow to notice the beauty of herhair, her hands, her mouth, her eyes, --on the rare occasions when hechanced to meet her gaze, which she always averted at once. But hisopinion was never modified. As a matter of politeness he forced himselfto speak to her: he labored to find subjects of conversation: she nevergave him the smallest assistance. Several times he tried to ask herabout the town, her husband, herself: he could get nothing out of her. She would make the most trivial answers: she would make an effort tosmile: but the effort was painfully evident; her smile was forced, hervoice was hollow: she drawled and dragged every word: her every sentencewas followed by a painful silence. At last Christophe only spoke to heras little as possible; and she was grateful to him for it. It was agreat relief to both of them when the doctor came in. He was always in agood humor, talkative, busy, vulgar, worthy. He ate, drank, talked, laughed, plentifully. Anna used to talk to him a little: but they hardlyever touched on anything but the food in front of them or the price ofthings. Sometimes Braun would jokingly tease her about her pious worksand the minister's sermons. Then she would stiffen herself, and relapseinto an offended silence until the end of the meal. More often thedoctor would talk about his patients: he would delight in describingrepulsive cases, with a pleasant elaboration of detail which used toexasperate Christophe. Then he would throw his napkin on the table andget up, making faces of disgust which simply delighted the teller. Braunwould stop at once, and soothe his friend and laugh. At the next meal hewould begin again. His hospital pleasantries seemed to have the power toenliven the impassive Anna. She would break her silence with a suddennervous laugh, which was something animal in quality. Perhaps she feltno less disgust than Christophe at the things that made her laugh. 

In the afternoon Christophe had very few pupils. Then, as a rule, hewould stay at home with Anna, while the doctor went out. They never saweach other. They used to go about their separate business. At firstBraun had begged Christophe to give his wife a few lessons on the piano:she was, he said, an excellent musician. Christophe asked Anna to playhim something. She did not need to be pressed, although she dislikeddoing it: but she did it with her usual ungraciousness: she playedmechanically, with an incredible lack of sensibility: each note was likeanother: there was no sort of rhythm or expression: when she had to turnthe page she stopped short in the middle of a bar, made no haste aboutit, and went on with the next note. Christophe was so exasperated by itthat he was hard put to it to keep himself from making an insultingremark: 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 hardlyseemed to have noticed it. But the matter of music was never againmentioned between them. Sometimes in the afternoons when Christophe wasout 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 whenshe knew that Christophe was at home. She devoted all the time thatwas not consecrated to her religious duties to her household work. Sheused to sew, and mend, and darn, and look after the servant: she had amania for tidiness and cleanliness. Her husband thought her a finewoman, a little odd--"like all women, " he used to say--but "like allwomen, " devoted. On that last point Christophe made certain reservations_in petto_: such psychology seemed to him too simple; but he toldhimself that, after all, it was Braun's affair; and he gave no furtherthought to the matter. 

They used to sit together after dinner in the evening. Braun andChristophe would talk. Anna would sit working. On Braun's entreaty, Christophe had consented to play the piano sometimes: and he wouldoccasionally play on to a very late hour in the big gloomy room lookingout on to the garden. Braun would go into ecstasies. . . . Who is therethat does not know the type that has a passionate love for things theydo not understand, or understand all wrong!--(which is why they lovethem!)--Christophe did not mind: he had met so many idiots in the courseof his life! But when Braun gave vent to certain mawkish expressions ofenthusiasm, 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 listenwith any attention for more than a quarter of an hour on end: he wouldpick up his paper, or doze off, and leave Christophe in peace. Annawould sit back in her chair and say nothing: she would have her work inher lap and seem to be working: but her eyes were always staring and herhands never moved. Sometimes she would go out without a sound in themiddle of a piece, and be seen no more. 

 * * * * *

So the days passed. Christophe regained his strength. Braun's heavy butkindly attentions, the tranquillity of the household, the restfulregularity of such a domestic life, the extremely nourishing Germanfood, restored him to his old robustness. His physical health wasrepaired: but his moral machinery was still out of gear. His new vigoronly served to accentuate the disorder of his mind, which could notrecover its balance, like a badly ballasted ship which will turn turtleon the smallest shock. 

He was profoundly lonely. He could have no intellectual intimacy withBraun. His relations with Anna were reduced, with a few exceptions, tosaying good-morning and good-night. His dealings with his pupils wererather hostile than otherwise: for he hardly hid from them his opinionthat the best thing for them to do was to give up music altogether. Heknew nobody. It was not only his fault, though he had hidden himselfaway since his loss. People held aloof from him. 

He was living in an old town, full of intelligence and vitality, butalso full of patrician pride, self-contained, and self-satisfied. Therewas a bourgeois aristocracy with a taste for work and the higherculture, but narrow and pietistic, who were calmly convinced of theirown superiority and the superiority of their city, and quite content tolive in family isolation. There were enormous families with vastramifications. Each family had its day for a general gathering of theclan. They were hardly at all open to the outside world. All these greathouses, with fortunes generations old, felt no need of showing theirwealth. They knew each other, and that was enough: the opinion of otherswas a thing of no consequence. There were millionaires dressed likehumble shopkeepers, talking their raucous dialect with its pungentexpressions, going conscientiously to their offices, every day of theirlives, even at an age when the most industrious of men will grantthemselves the right to rest. Their wives prided themselves on theirdomestic skill. No dowry was given to the daughters. Rich men let theirsons in their turn go through the same hard apprenticeship that theythemselves had served. They practised strict economy in their dailylives. But they made a noble use of their fortune in collecting works ofart, picture galleries, and in social work: they were forever givingenormous sums, nearly always anonymously, to found charities and toenrich the museums. They were a mixture of greatness and absurdity, bothof another age. This little world, for which the rest of the worldseemed not to exist--(although its members knew it thoroughly throughtheir business, and their distant relationships, and the long andextended voyages which they forced their sons to take, )--this littleworld, for which fame and celebrity in another land only were esteemedfrom the moment when they were welcomed and recognized byitself, --practised the severest discipline upon itself. Every member ofit kept a watch upon himself and upon the rest. The result of all thiswas 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 practisedit, everybody believed in it. Not a single soul doubted it or wouldadmit of doubt. It were impossible to know what took place in the depthsof souls which were the more hermetically sealed against prying eyesinasmuch as they knew that they were surrounded by a narrow scrutiny, and that every man took upon himself the right to examine into theconscience of other men. It was said that even those who had left thecountry and thought themselves emancipated--as soon as they set foot init again were dominated by the traditions, the habits, the atmosphere ofthe town: even the most skeptical were at once forced to practise and tobelieve. Not to believe would have seemed to them an offense againstNature. Not to believe was the mark of an inferior caste, a sign of badbreeding. It was never admitted that a man of their world could possiblybe absolved of his religious duties. If a man did not practise theirreligion, 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 theircaste. Within the great _Verein_ they had formed a number of smaller_Verein_ by way of binding their fetters fast. There were several hundredof them: and they were increasing every year. There were _Verein_ foreverything: for philanthropy, charitable work, commercial work, work thatwas both charitable and commercial, for the arts, for the sciences, forsinging, music, spiritual exercises, physical exercises, merely to provideexcuses for meeting and taking their amusement collectively: there were_Verein_ for the various districts and the various corporations: therewere _Verein_ for men of the same position in the world, the same degreeof wealth, men of the same social weight, who wore the same handle totheir 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 wascramped and bound. Character was suppressed by a secret constraint. Themajority were brought up to it from childhood--had been for centuries:and they found it good: they would have thought it improper andunhealthy to go without these bandages. Their satisfied smiles gave noindication of the discomfort they might be feeling. But Nature alwaystook her revenge. Every now and then there would arise some individualin revolt, some vigorous artist or unbridled thinker who would brutallybreak his bonds and set the city fathers by the ears. They were soclever that, if the rebel had not been stifled in the embryo, and becamethe stronger, they never troubled to fight him--(a fight might haveproduced all sorts of scandalous outbreaks):--they bought him up. If hewere a painter, they sent him to the museum: if he were a thinker, tothe libraries. It was quite useless for him to roar out all sorts ofoutrageous things: they pretended not to hear him. It was in vain forhim to protest his independence: they incorporated him as one ofthemselves. So the effect of the poison was neutralized: it was thehomeopathic treatment. --But such cases were rare, most of the rebellionsnever reached the light of day. Their peaceful houses concealedunsuspected tragedies. The master of a great house would go quietly andthrow himself into the river, and leave no explanation. Sometimes a manwould go into retirement for six months, sometimes he would send hiswife to an asylum to restore her mind. Such things were spoken of quiteopenly, as though they were quite natural, with that placidity which isone of the great features of the town, the inhabitants of which are ableto maintain it in the face of suffering and death. 

These solid burgesses, who were hard upon themselves because they knewtheir own worth, were much less hard on others because they esteemedthem less. They were quite liberal towards the foreigners dwelling inthe town like Christophe, German professors, and political refugees, because they had no sort of feeling about them. And, besides, they lovedintelligence. Advanced ideas had no terrors for them: they knew thattheir sons were impervious to their influence. They were coldly cordialto their guests, and kept them at a distance. 

Christophe did not need to have these things underlined. He was in astate of raw sensitiveness which left his feelings absolutelyunprotected: he was only too ready to see egoism and indifferenceeverywhere, and to withdraw into himself. 

To make matters worse, Braun's patients, and the very limited circle towhich his wife belonged, all moved in a little Protestant society whichwas particularly strict. Christophe was ill-regarded by them both as aPapist by origin and a heretic in fact. For his part, he found manythings which shocked him. Although he no longer believed, yet he borethe marks of his inherited Catholicism, which was more poetic than amatter of reason, more indulgent towards Nature, and never suffered theself-torment of trying to explain and understand what to love and whatnot to love: and also he had the habits of intellectual and moralfreedom which he had unwittingly come by in Paris. It was inevitablethat he should come into collision with the little pious groups ofpeople in whom all the defects of the Calvinistic spirit were marked andexaggerated: a rationalistic religion, which clipped the wings of faithand left it dangling over the abyss: for it started with an _apriori_ reason which was open to discussion like all mysticism: itwas no longer poetry, nor was it prose, it was poetry translated intoprose. They had pride of intellect, an absolute, dangerous faith inreason--in _their_ reason. They could not believe in God or inimmortality: but they believed in reason as a Catholic believes in thePope, or as a fetish-worshiper believes in his idol. They never evendreamed of discussing the matter. In vain did life contradict it; theywould rather have denied life. They had no psychology, no understandingof Nature, or of the hidden forces, the roots of humanity, the "Spiritof the Earth. " They fashioned a scheme of life and nature that werechildish, silly, arbitrary figments. Some of them were cultured andpractical people who had seen and read much. But they never saw or readanything as it actually was: they always reduced it to an abstraction. They were poor-blooded: they had high moral qualities: but they were nothuman enough: and that is the cardinal sin. Their purity of heart, whichwas often very real, noble, and naive, sometimes comic, unfortunately, in certain cases, became tragic: it made them hard in their dealingswith others, and produced in them a tranquil inhumanity, self-confidentand free from anger, which was quite appalling. How should theyhesitate? Had they not truth, right, virtue, on their side? Did they notreceive revelation direct from their hallowed reason? Reason is a hardsun: it gives light, but it blinds. In that withering light, withoutshade or mist, human beings grow pallid, the blood is sucked up fromtheir hearts. 

Now, if there was one thing in the world that was utterly meaningless toChristophe at that time it was reason. To his eyes its sun only lit upthe walls of the abyss, and neither showed him the means of escape noreven enabled him to sound its depths. 

As for the artistic world, Christophe had little opportunity and lessdesire to mix with it. The musicians were for the most part worthyconservatives of the neo-Schumann period and "Brahmins" of the typeagainst which Christophe had formerly broken many a lance. There weretwo exceptions: Krebs, the organist, who kept a famous confectioner'sshop, an honest man and a good musician, who would have been an evenbetter one if, to adapt the quip of one of his fellow-countrymen, "hehad not been seated on a Pegasus which he overfed with hay, "--and ayoung Jewish composer of an original talent, a man full of a vigorousand turbid sap, who had a business in the Swiss trade: wood carvings, chalets, and Berne bears. They were more independent than the others, nodoubt because they did not make a trade of their art, and they wouldhave been very glad to come in touch with Christophe: and at any othertime Christophe would have been interested to know them: but at thisperiod of his life, all artistic and human curiosity was blunted in him:he was more conscious of the division between himself and other men thanof the bond of union. 

His only friend, the confidant of his thoughts, was the river that ranthrough the city--the same mighty fatherly river that washed the wallsof his native town up north. In the river Christophe could recover thememory of his childish dreams. . . . But in his sorrow they took on, likethe Rhine itself, a darkling hue. In the dying day he would lean againstthe parapet of the embankment and look down at the rushing river, thefused and fusing, heavy, opaque, and hurrying mass, which was alwayslike a dream of the past, wherein nothing could be clearly seen butgreat moving veils, thousands of streams, currents, eddies twisting intoform, then fading away: it was like the blurred procession of mentalimages in a fevered mind: forever taking shape, forever melting away. Over this twilight dream there skimmed phantom ferry-boats, likecoffins, with never a human form in them. Darker grew the night. Theriver became bronze. The lights upon its banks made its armor shine withan inky blackness, casting dim reflections, the coppery reflections ofthe gas lamps, the moon-like reflections of the electric lights, theblood-red reflections of the candles in the windows of the houses. Theriver's murmur filled the darkness with its eternal muttering that wasfar more sad than the monotony of the sea. . . . 

For hours together Christophe would stand drinking in the song of deathand weariness of life. Only with difficulty could he tear himself away:then he would climb up to the house again, up the steep alleys withtheir red steps, which were worn away in the middle: broken in soul andbody he would cling to the iron hand-rail fastened to the walls, whichgleamed under the light thrown down from the empty square on the hilltopin front of the church that was shrouded in darkness. . . . 

He could not understand why men went on living. When he remembered thestruggles he had seen, he felt a bitter admiration for the undying faithof humanity. Ideas succeeded the ideas most directly opposed to them, reaction followed action:--democracy, aristocracy: socialism, individualism: romanticism, classicism: progress, tradition:--and so onto the end of time. Each new generation, consumed in its own heat inless than ten years, believed steadfastly that it alone had reached thezenith, and hurled its predecessors down and stoned them: each newgeneration bestirred itself, and shouted, and took to itself the powerand the glory, only to be hurled down and stoned in turn by itssuccessors and so to disappear. Whose turn next?. . . 

The composition of music was no longer a refuge for Christophe: it wasintermittent, irregular, aimless. Write? For whom? For men? He waspassing through an acute phase of misanthropy. For himself? He was onlytoo conscious of the vanity of art with its impotence to top the void ofdeath. Only now and then the blind force that was in him would raise himon 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 hadfilled his life, against the feelings that he had thought to share withothers, against the thoughts which he had in imagination had in commonwith the rest of humanity. It seemed to him now that he had been theplaything of an illusion: the whole life of society was based upon acolossal misunderstanding originating in speech. We imagine that oneman's thought can communicate with the thought of other men. In realitythe connection lies only in words. We say and hear words: not one wordhas the same meaning in the mouths of two different men. Words outrunthe reality of life. We speak of love and hatred. There is neither lovenor hatred, friends nor enemies, no faith, no passion, neither good norevil. There are only cold reflections of the lights falling fromvanished suns, stars that have been dead for ages. . . . Friends? There isno lack of people to claim that name. But what a stale reality isrepresented by their friendship! What is friendship in the sense of theeveryday world? How many minutes of his life does he who thinks himselfa friend give to the pale memory of his friend? What would he sacrificeto him, not of the things that are necessary, but of his superfluity, his leisure, his waste time? What had Christophe sacrificed forOlivier?--(For he made no exception in his own case: he excepted onlyOlivier from the state of nothingness into which he cast all humanbeings). --Art is no more true than love. What room does it really occupyin life? With what sort of love do they love it, they who declare theirdevotion to it?. . . The poverty of human feeling is inconceivable. Outside the instincts of species, the cosmic force which is the lever ofthe world, nothing exists save a scattered dust of emotion. The majorityof men have not vitality enough to give themselves wholly to anypassion. They spare themselves and save their force with cowardlyprudence. They are a little of everything and nothing absolutely. A manwho gives himself without counting the cost, to everything that he does, everything that he suffers, everything that he loves, everything that hehates, 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 itdoes not exist. 

So thought Christophe: and life was on the verge of giving him the liein a terrible fashion. The miracle is everywhere, like fire in stone:friction brings it forth. We have little notion of the demons who lieslumbering within ourselves. . . . 

 . . . _Pero non mi destar, deh! parla basso!_. . . 

One evening when he was improvising at the piano, Anna got up and wentout, as she often did when Christophe was playing. Apparently his musicbored her. Christophe had ceased to notice it: he was indifferent toanything she might think. He went on playing: then he had an idea whichhe wished to write down, and stopped short and hurried up to his roomfor the necessary paper. As he opened the door into the next room and, with head down, rushed into the darkness, he bumped violently against afigure standing motionless just inside. Anna. . . . The shock and thesurprise made her cry out. Christophe was anxious to know if he had hurther, and took her hands in his. Her hands were frozen. She seemed toshiver, --no doubt from the shock. She muttered a vague explanation ofher presence there:

"I was looking in the dining-room. . . . "

He did not hear what she was looking for: and perhaps she did not saywhat it was. It seemed to him odd that she should go about looking forsomething without a light. But he was used to Anna's singular ways andpaid no attention to it. An hour later he returned to the little parlorwhere he used to spend the evening with Braun and Anna. He sat at thetable 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 inthe garden. To get away from her Christophe sat with his back turned toAnna. Opposite him on the wall was a mirror which reflected the table, the lamp, the two faces bending over their work. It seemed to Christophethat Anna was looking at him. At first he did not pay much attention toit; then, as he could not shake off the idea, he began to feel uneasyand he looked up at the mirror and saw. . . . She was looking at him. Andin such a way! He was petrified with amazement, held his breath, watchedher. She did not know that he was watching her. The light of the lampwas cast upon her pale face, the silent solemnity of which seemed now tobe fiercely concentrated. Her eyes--those strange eyes that he had neverbeen able squarely to see--were fixed upon him: they were dark blue, with large pupils, and the expression in them was burning and hard: theywere 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. Hetried to talk to her, to force her to look up at him. Impassively shereplied without raising her eyes from her work or from their refugebehind the impenetrable shadow of her bluish eyelids with their shortthick lashes. If Christophe had not been quite positive of what he hadseen, 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 veryuninteresting, the strange impression made on him did not occupy him forlong. 

A week later Christophe was trying over a song he had just composed, onthe piano. Braun, who had a mania, due partly to marital vanity andpartly to love of teasing, for worrying his wife to sing and play, hadbeen particularly insistent that evening. As a rule Anna only repliedwith a curt "No"; after which she would not even trouble to reply to hisrequests, entreaties, and pleasantries: she would press her lipstogether and seem not to hear. On this occasion, to Braun's andChristophe's astonishment, she folded up her work, got up, and went tothe piano. She sang the song which she had never even read. It was asort of miracle:--_the_ miracle. The deep tones of her voice borenot the faintest resemblance to the rather raucous and husky voice inwhich she spoke. With absolute sureness from the very first note, without a shade of difficulty, without the smallest effort, she enduedthe melody with a grandeur that was both moving and pure: and she roseto an intensity of passion which made Christophe shiver: for it seemedto him to be the very voice of his own heart. He looked at her inamazement while she was singing, and at last, for the first time, he sawher as she was. He saw her dark eyes in which there was kindled a lightof 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 thepiano, and the sturdy frame of her body cramped by her clothes, emaciated by a life of economy and poverty, though it was easy to divinethe 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 herlap. Braun complimented her: but to his way of thinking there had been alack of softness in her singing. Christophe said nothing. He satwatching her. She smiled vaguely, knowing that he was looking at her. All the evening there was a complete silence between them. She knewquite well that she had risen above herself, or rather, that she hadbeen "herself, " for the first time. And she could not understand why. 

 * * * * *

From that day on Christophe began to observe Anna closely. She hadrelapsed into her sullenness, her cold indifference, and her mania forwork, which exasperated even her husband, while beneath it all shelulled the obscure thoughts of her troubled nature. It was in vain thatChristophe watched her, he never found her anything but the stiffordinary woman of their first acquaintance. Sometimes she would sit lostin thought, doing nothing, with her eyes staring straight in front ofher. They would leave her so, and come back a quarter of an hour laterand find her just the same: she would never stir. When her husband askedher what she was thinking of, she would rouse herself from her torporand smile and say that she was thinking of nothing. And she spoke thetruth. 

There was nothing capable of upsetting her equanimity. One day when shewas dressing, her spirit-lamp burst. In an instant Anna was a mass offlames. The maid rushed away screaming for help. Braun lost his head, flung himself about, shouted and yelled, and almost fell ill. Anna toreaway the hooks of her dressing-gown, slipped off her skirt just as itwas beginning to burn, and stamped on it. When Christophe ran inexcitedly with a water-bottle which he had blindly seized, he found Annastanding on a chair, in her petticoat with her arms bare, calmly puttingout the burning curtains with her hands. She got burnt, said nothingabout 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 anair of offended dignity ran away into the next room. Christophe admiredher calmness: but he could not tell whether it proved her courage or herinsensibility. He was inclined to the latter explanation. Indeed, Annaseemed to take no interest in anything, or in other people, or inherself. Christophe doubted even whether she had a heart. 

He had no doubt at all after a little scene which he happened towitness. Anna had a little black dog, with intelligent soft eyes, whichwas the spoiled darling of the household. Braun adored it. Christopheused 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 acompanion in his walks. She would run in front of him, pattering alongwith her little paws moving so fast that they seemed to fly. Every nowand then she would stop in pride at walking faster than he: and shewould look at him and draw herself up archly. She used to beg, and barkfuriously at a piece of wood: but directly she saw another dog in thedistance she would tear away as fast as she could and tremblingly takerefuge between Christophe's legs. Christophe loved her and used to laughat her. Since he had held aloof from men he had come nearer to thebrutes: he found them pitiful and touching. The poor beasts surrenderwith such absolute confidence to those who are kind to them! Man is somuch the master of their life and death that those who are cruel to theweak creatures delivered into their hands are guilty of an abominableabuse of power. 

Affectionate though the pretty creature was with every one, she had amarked preference for Anna. She did nothing to attract the dog: but sheliked to stroke her and let her snuggle down in her lap, and see thatshe was fed, and she seemed to love her as much as she was capable ofloving anything. One day the dog failed to get out of the way of amotor-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 housebareheaded: he picked up the bleeding mass and tried to relieve thedog's suffering. Anna came up, looked down without so much as stooping, made a face of disgust, and went away again. Braun watched the littlecreature's agony with tears in his eyes. Christophe was striding up anddown the garden with clenched fists. He heard Anna quietly giving ordersto 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 ofher reply: and he laughed. He thought it would be well if Anna couldgive him her recipe for avoiding the thought of sad things, and thatlife 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 byit, and he felt glad that he was not married. His solitude seemed lesssad to him than the fetters of habit that bind a man for life to acreature to whom he may be an object of hatred, or worse still, nothingat all. It was very certain that this woman loved no one. She hardlyexisted. The atmosphere of piety had withered her. 

She took Christophe by surprise one day at the end of October. --Theywere at dinner. He was talking to Braun about a crime of passion whichwas 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 tomake the sacrifice with a good grace, and so they had drawn lots as towho should yield. But when the lot was cast the girl who had lost showedlittle inclination to abide by the decision. The other was enraged bysuch faithlessness. From insult they came to blows, and even to fightingwith knives: then, suddenly, the wind changed: they kissed each other, and wept, and vowed that they could not live without each other: and, asthey could not submit to sharing the lover, they made up their mindsthat he should be killed. This they did. One night the two girls invitedthe lover to their room, and he was congratulating himself upon suchtwofold favor; and, while one girl clasped him passionately in her arms, the other no less passionately stabbed him in the back. It chanced thathis cries were heard. People came and tore him in a pitiable conditionfrom the embraces of his charmers, and they were arrested. Theyprotested that it was no one's business, and that they alone wereinterested in the matter, and that, from the moment when they had agreedto 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 ofargument: but the law was unable to follow it. And Braun could notunderstand 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 evenunderstand a man killing the woman he loves if she deceives him. . . . Idon't mean that I would excuse his doing so: but I am prepared to admitthat 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 awoman to kill the man she loves, without bitterness, without hatred, simply because another woman loves him, is nothing but madness. . . . Canyou understand it, Christophe?"

"Peuh!" said Christophe. "I'm quite used to being unable to understandthings. Love is madness. "

Anna, who had said nothing, and seemed not to be listening, said in hercalm voice:

"There is nothing irrational in it. It is quite natural. When a womanloves, she wants to destroy the man she loves so that no one else mayhave 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 oarin, 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 sortof thing to say! To destroy any one who is dear to you is to destroyyourself. --On the contrary, when one loves, the natural feeling is to dogood to the person you love, to cherish him, to defend him, to be kindto him, to be kind to everything and everybody. Love is paradise onearth. "

Anna sat staring into the darkness, and let him talk, and then shook herhead, and said coldly:

"A woman is not kind when she loves. "

Christophe did not renew the experiment of hearing Anna sing. He wasafraid . . . Of disillusion, or what? He could not tell. Anna was just asfearful. 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 Annasitting with her sewing in her lap, deep in one of her reveries. She waslooking blankly in front of her, and Christophe thought he saw in hereyes the strangely burning light of the other evening. He closed hisbook. She felt his eyes upon her, and picked up her sewing. With hereyelids 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 thefirst occasion. She entered the heroic world of music as a matter ofcourse, as though it were her own. He tested her yet further, and wenton to a second song, then to a third, more passionate, which let loosein her the whole gamut of passion, uplifting both herself and him: then, as they reached a very paroxysm, he stopped short and asked her, staringstraight 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 itor 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. Herbosom heaved, but she spoke no word. She stared at the lighted candles, and mechanically scratched away the wax that had trickled down the sideof the candlestick. He drummed on the keys as he sat looking at her. They exchanged a few awkward remarks, brusquely and roughly, and thenthey tried a commonplace remark or two, and finally relapsed intosilence, being fearful of probing any farther. . . . 

Next day they hardly spoke: they stole glances at each other in a sortof dread. But they made it a habit to play and sing together in theevening. Before long they began in the afternoon, giving a little moretime to it each day. Always the same incomprehensible passion would takepossession of her with the very first bars, and set her flaming fromhead to foot, and, while the music lasted, make of the ordinary littlewoman 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 takethe trouble to discover any explanation for a mere feminine caprice: hewas often present at their little concerts, marked time with his head, gave his advice, and was perfectly happy, although he would havepreferred softer, sweeter music: such an expenditure of energy seemed tohim exaggerated and unnecessary. Christophe breathed freely in theatmosphere of danger: but he was losing his head: he was weakened by thecrisis through which he had passed, and could not resist, and lostconsciousness of what was happening to him without perceiving what washappening to Anna. One afternoon, in the middle of a song, with all thefrantic ardor of it in full blast, she suddenly stopped, and left theroom without making any explanation. Christophe waited for her: she didnot return. Half an hour later, as he was going down the passage pastAnna's room, through the half-open door he saw her absorbed in grimprayer, with all expression frozen from her face. 

However, a slight, very slight, feeling of confidence cropped up betweenthem. He tried to make her talk about her past: only with greatdifficulty could he induce her to tell him a few commonplace details. Thanks to Braun's easy, indiscreet good nature, he was able to gain aglimpse into her intimate life. 

She was a native of the town. Her maiden name was Anna Maria Senfl. Herfather, Martin Senfl, was a member of an old commercial house, very oldand enormously rich, in whom pride of caste and religious strictnesswere ingrained. Being of an adventurous temper, like many of hisfellow-countrymen, he had spent several years abroad in the East and inSouth America: he had even made bold exploring expeditions in CentralAsia, whither he had gone to advance the commercial interests of hishouse, for love of science, and for his own pleasure. By dint of rollingthrough the world, he had not only gathered no moss, but had also ridhimself 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 anobstinate mind, he married, in face of the indignant protests of hisfamily, the daughter of a farmer of the surrounding country, a lady ofdoubtful reputation who had originally been his mistress. Marriage hadbeen the only available means of keeping the beautiful girl to himself, and he could not do without her. After having exercised its veto invain, his family absolutely closed its doors to its erring member whohad set aside its sacrosanct authority. The town--all those, that is, who mattered, who, as usual, were absolutely united in any matter thattouched the moral dignity of the community--sided bodily against therash couple. The explorer learned to his cost that it is no lessdangerous to traverse the prejudice of the people in a country inhabited bythe sectaries of Christ, than in a country inhabited by those of theGrand Lania. He had not been strong enough to live without publicopinion. He had more than jeopardized his patrimony: he could find noemployment: everything was closed to him. He wore himself out in futilewrath against the affronts of the implacable town. His health, undermined by excess and fever, could not bear up against it. He died ofa flux of blood five months after his marriage. Four months later, hiswife, a good creature, but weak and feather-brained, who had never livedthrough 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 notforgiven her son or the woman whom she had refused to acknowledge as herdaughter-in-law. But when the woman died--and Divine vengeance wasappeased--she took the child and looked after her. She was a woman ofthe narrowest piety: she was rich and mean, and kept a draper's shop ina gloomy street in the old town. She treated her son's daughter less asa grandchild than as an orphan taken in out of charity, and thereforeoccupying more or less the position of a servant by way of payment. However, she gave her a careful education; but she never departed fromher attitude of suspicious strictness towards her; it seemed as thoughshe considered the child guilty of her parents' sin, and therefore setherself to chasten and chastise the sin in her. She never allowed herany amusement: she punished everything that was natural in her gestures, words, thoughts, as a crime. She killed all joy in her young life. Froma very early age Anna was accustomed to being bored in church anddisguising the fact: she was hemmed in by the terrors of hell: everySunday the child's heavy-lidded eyes used to see them at the door of theold _Münster_, in the shape of the immodest and distorted statueswith a fire burning between their legs, while round their loins crawledtoads and snakes. She became accustomed to suppressing her instincts andlying 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. Sheassimilated the habits of those around her, the spirit of order, grimeconomy, futile privations, the bored indifference, the contemptuous, ungracious conception of life, which is the natural consequence ofreligious beliefs in those who are not naturally religious. She wasso wholly given up to her piety as to seem rather absurd even to the oldwoman: she indulged in far too many fasts and macerations: at one periodshe even went so far as to wear corsets embellished with pins, whichstuck into her flesh with every movement. She was seen to go pale, butno one knew what was the matter. At last, when she fainted, a doctor wascalled in. She refused to allow him to examine her--(she would have diedrather than undress in the presence of a man)--but she confessed: andthe doctor was so angry about it that she promised not to do it again. To make quite sure her grandmother thereafter took to inspecting herclothes. In such self-torture Anna did not, as might have been supposed, find any mystic pleasure: she had little imagination, she would neverhave understood the poetry of saints like Francis of Assisi or Teresa. Her piety was sad and materialistic. When she tormented herself, it wasnot in any hope of advantage to be gained in the next world, but cameonly from a cruel boredom which rebounded against herself, so that sheonly found in it an almost angry pleasure in hurting herself. Singularlyenough, her hard, cold spirit was, like her grandmother's, open to theinfluence of music, though she never knew how profound that influencewas. She was impervious to all the other arts: probably she had neverlooked at a picture in her life: she seemed to have no sense of plasticbeauty, for she was lacking in taste, owing to her proud and wilfulindifference; the idea of a beautiful body only awoke in her the idea ofnakedness, that is to say, like the peasant of whom Tolstoy speaks, afeeling of repugnance, which was all the stronger in Anna inasmuch asshe 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 ofesthetic judgment. She had no more idea of her own beauty than of hersuppressed instincts: or rather, she refused to have any idea of it: andwith her habitual self-deception she succeeded in deluding herself. 

Braun met her at a marriage feast at which she was present, quiteunusually for her: for she was hardly ever invited because of the evilreputation which clung to her from her improper origin. She wastwenty-two. He marked her out; not that she made any attempt to attractattention. She sat next him at dinner: she was very stiff and badlydressed, and she hardly ever opened her mouth. But Braun never stoppedtalking to her, in a monologue, all through the meal, and he went awayin raptures. With his usual penetration, he had been struck by hisneighbor's air of original simplicity: he had admired her common senseand her coolness: also he appreciated her healthiness and the soliddomestic qualities which she seemed to him to possess. He called on hergrandmother, called again, proposed, and was accepted. She was given nodowry: Madame Senfl had left all the wealth of her family to the town toencourage 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 thelife 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 herdoubtful origin. Besides, she had a very strong feeling of honor betweenhusband and wife. For the first seven years of their married lifenothing had occurred to disturb their union. They lived side by side, asit were, did not understand each other, and never worried about it: inthe eyes of the world they were a model couple. They went out verylittle. Braun had a fairly practice, but he had never succeeded inmaking his friends accept his wife. No one liked her: and the stigma ofher birth was not yet quite obliterated. Anna, for her part, never putherself out in order to gain admission to society. She was resentful onaccount 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 leftout of it. She paid and received a few inevitable calls, such as herhusband's interests made necessary. Her callers were inquisitive andscandalous women of the middle-class. Anna had not the slightestinterest in their gossip, and she never took the trouble to conceal herindifference. That is what such people never forgive. So her callersgrew fewer and more far between, and Anna was left alone. That was whatshe wanted: nothing could then come and break in upon the dreams overwhich she brooded, and the obscure thrill and humming of life that wasever in her body. Meanwhile for some weeks Anna looked very unwell. Herface grew thin and pale. She avoided both Christophe and Braun. Shespent her days in her room, lost in thought, and she never replied whenshe was spoken to. Usually Braun did not take much notice of herfeminine caprices. He would explain them to Christophe at length. Likeall men fated to be deceived by women he flattered himself that he knewthem through and through. He did know something about them, as a matterof fact, but a little knowledge is quite useless. He knew that womenoften have fits of persistent moodiness and blindly sullen antagonism:and it was his opinion that it was necessary at such times to leave themalone, and to make no attempt to understand or, above all, to find outwhat they were doing in the dangerous unconscious world in which theirminds were steeped. Nevertheless he did begin to grow anxious aboutAnna. 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 thehouse. He wanted her to go for walks: but he could hardly ever go withher: the whole day on Sunday was taken up with her pious duties, and onthe other days of the week he had consultations all day long. As forChristophe, he avoided going out with her. Once or twice they had gonefor a short walk together, as far as the gates of the town: they werebored to death. Their conversation came to a standstill. Nature seemednot to exist for Anna: she never saw anything: the country was to heronly grass and stones: her insensibility was chilling. Christophe triedonce to make her admire a beautiful view. She looked, smiled coldly, andsaid, 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 hishands. After that he never asked her anything: and when she was goingout he always made some excuse and stayed in his room. 

In reality it was not true that Anna was insensible to Nature. She didnot like what are conventionally called beautiful landscapes: she couldsee no difference between them and other landscapes. But she loved thecountry whatever it might be like--just earth and air. Only she had nomore idea of it than of her other strong feelings: and those who livedwith her had even less idea of it. 

Braun so far insisted as to induce his wife to make a day's excursioninto the outskirts of the town. She was so bored with him that sheconsented for the sake of peace. It was arranged that they should go onthe Sunday. At the last moment, the doctor, who had been looking forwardto 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, aflaming sun, and an icy wind. They went out on a little local railwaywhich took them to one of the lines of blue hills which formed a distanthalo round the town. Their compartment was full: they were separated. They did not speak to each other. Anna was in a gloomy mood: the daybefore she had declared, to Braun's surprise, that she would not go tochurch on Sunday. For the first time in her life she missed a service. Was it revolt?. . . Who could tell what struggles were taking place inher? She stared blankly at the seat in front of her, she was pale: shewas eating her heart out. 

They got out of the train. The coldness and antagonism between them didnot disappear during the first part of their walk. They stepped out sideby side: she walked with a firm stride and looked at nothing: her handswere free: she swung her arms: her heels rang out on the frozenearth. --Gradually her face quickened into life. The swiftness of theirpace brought the color to her pale cheeks. Her lips parted to drink inthe keen air. At the turn of a zigzag path she began to climb straightup 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. Christopheshouted to her to stop. She made no reply, but went on climbing on allfours. They passed through the mists which hung above the valley like asilvery gauze rent here and there by the bushes: and they stood in thewarm 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 hercloak, 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: theair intoxicated them. She plunged down a steep slope: the stones gaveway under her feet: she did not falter, she slithered, jumped, sped downlike an arrow. Every now and then she would dart a glance behind her tosee how much she had gained on Christophe. He was close upon her. Sheplunged into a wood. The dead leaves crackled under their footsteps: thebranches which she thrust aside whipped back into his face. She stumbledover the roots of a tree. He caught her. She struggled, lunging out withhands and feet, struck him hard, trying to knock him off: she screamedand laughed. Her bosom heaved against him: for a moment their cheekstouched: he tasted the sweat that lay on Anna's brow: he breathed thescent of her moist hair. She pushed away from him and looked at him, unmoved, with defiant eyes. He was amazed at her strength, which allwent for nothing in her ordinary life. 

They went to the nearest village, joyfully trampling the dry stubblecrisping beneath their feet. In front of them whirled the crows who wereransacking the fields. The sun was burning, the wind was biting. He heldAnna's arm. She had on a rather thin dress: through the stuff he couldfeel the moisture and the tingling warmth of her body. He wanted her toput on her cloak once more: she refused, and in bravado undid the hooksat her neck. They lunched at an inn, the sign of which bore the figureof a "wild man" (_Zum wilden Mann_). A little pine-tree grew infront of the door. The dining-room was decorated with German quatrains, and two chromolithographs, one of which was sentimental: _In theSpring (Im Frühling)_, and the other patriotic: _The Battle ofSaint 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 tohave. They drank freely of the ordinary white wine. After their mealthey set out once more across the fields, in a blithe spirit ofcompanionship. In neither was there any equivocal thought. They werethinking only of the pleasure of their walk, the singing in their blood, and the whipping, nipping air. Anna's tongue was loosed. She was nolonger on her guard: she said just whatever came into her mind. 

She talked about her childhood, and how her grandmother used to take herto the house of an old friend who lived near the cathedral: and while theold ladies talked they sent her into the garden over which therehung the shadow of the _Münster_. She used to sit in a corner andnever stir: she used to listen to the shivering of the leaves, and watchthe busy swarming insects: and she used to be both pleased andafraid. --(She made no mention of her fear of devils: her imagination wasobsessed by it: she had been told that they prowled round churches butnever dared enter: and she used to believe that they appeared in theshape of animals: spiders, lizards, ants, all the hideous creatures thatswarmed about her, under the leaves, over the earth, or in the cranniesof 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 spendmany 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 ashort while before in their scuffle. She resumed her confidingexpression 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 andrights of the boys). --On one occasion when she was with a little boy whowas a head taller than herself she had suddenly struck him with herfist, hoping that he would strike her back. But he ran away yelling thatshe was beating him. Once, again, in the country she had climbed on tothe back of a black cow as she was grazing: the terrified beast flungher against a tree, and she had narrowly escaped being killed. Once shetook it into her head to jump out of a first-floor window because shehad dared herself to do it: she was lucky enough to get off with asprain. She used to invent strange, dangerous gymnastics when she wasleft alone in the house: she used to subject her body to all sorts ofqueer 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 myroom!"

"What! Even now?"

She laughed. She asked him--jumping from one subject to another--if hewere a shot. 

He told her that he never shot. She said that she had once shot at ablackbird 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 thebeasts have souls?"

"Yes. I think so. "

"The minister says not. But I think they have souls. . . . Sometimes, " sheadded, "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 oneof the stories I used to tell myself when I was little. I used topretend to be a cat, a dog, a bird, a foal, a heifer. I was conscious ofall their desires. I wanted to be in their skins or their feathers for alittle while: and it used to be as though I really was. You can'tunderstand that?"

"You are a strange creature. But if you feel such kinship with thebeasts how can you bear to hurt them?"

"One is always hurting some one. Some people hurt me. I hurt otherpeople. That's the way of the world. I don't complain. We can't affordto 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 eachother. They were happy and had no ulterior thought. The rest of theworld, the fetters of their ordinary life, the sorrows of the past, fearof the future, the gathering storm within themselves, all haddisappeared. 

They had walked several miles, but they were not at all tired. Suddenlyshe stopped, flung herself down on the ground, and lay full length onthe stubble, and said no more. She lay on her back with her hands behindher head and looked up at the sky. Oh! the peace of it, and thesweetness!. . . A few yards away a spring came bubbling up in anintermittent stream, like an artery beating, now faintly, now morestrongly. The horizon took on a pearly hue. A mist hung over the purpleearth from which the black naked trees stood out. The late winter sunwas shining, the little pale gold sun sinking down to rest. Likegleaming arrows the birds cleft the air. The gentle voices of thecountry bells called and answered calling from village to village. . . . Christophe sat near Anna and looked down at her. She gave no thought tohim. She was full of a heartfelt joy. Her beautiful lips smiledsilently. 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: Iam no longer afraid of Him. . . . Ah! How He stifled me, how He made mesuffer! I seemed to have been nailed down in my coffin. . . . Now I canbreathe: this body and this heart are mine. My body. My dear body. Myheart is free and full of love. There is so much happiness in me! And Iknew 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 wasthinking 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 gotup 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 tohave been hanging. A few seconds passed before she recognized him. Thenher eyes stared at him with an enigmatic smile that told him of theunease that was in her. To escape the knowledge of it he closed his eyesfor 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 eachother's eyes. It was as though they were reading each other's soul. Butthey refused to admit what they had read there. 

He held out his hand to her. She took it without a word. They went backto the village, the towers of which they could see shaped like thepope's nose in the heart of the valley: one of the towers had an emptystorks' nest on the top of its roof of mossy tiles, looking just like atoque on a woman's head. At a cross-roads just outside the village theypassed a fountain above which stood a little Catholic saint, a woodenMagdalene, graciously and a little mincingly holding out her arms. Withan instinctive movement Anna responded to the gesture and held out herarms also, and she climbed on to the curb and filled the arms of thepretty little goddess with branches of holly and mountain-ash with suchof their red berries as the birds and the frost had spared. 

On the road they passed little groups of peasants and peasant women intheir Sunday clothes: women with brown skins, very red cheeks, thickplaits coiled round their heads, light dresses, and hats with flowers. They wore white gloves and red cuffs. They were singing simple songswith shrill placid voices not very much in tune. In a stable a cow wasmooing. A child with whooping-cough was coughing in a house. A littlefarther 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 thecemetery. Four musicians, perched on a table, were playing a tune. Annaand Christophe sat in front of the inn and watched the dancers. Thecouples were jostling and slanging each other vociferously. The girlswere screaming for the pleasure of making a noise. The men drinking werebeating time on the tables with their fists. At any other time suchponderous coarse joy would have disgusted Anna: but now she loved it:she had taken off her hat and was watching eagerly. Christophe poked funat the burlesque solemnity of the music and the musicians. He fumbled inhis pockets and produced a pencil and began to make lines and dots onthe back of a hotel bill: he was writing dance music. The paper was sooncovered: he asked for more, and these too he covered like the first withhis big scrawling writing. Anna looked over his shoulder with her facenear his and hummed over what he wrote: she tried to guess how thephrases would end, and clapped her hands when she guessed right or whenher guesses were falsified by some unexpected sally. When he had doneChristophe took what he had written to the musicians. They were honestSuabians who knew their business, and they made it out without muchdifficulty. The melodies were sentimental, and of a burlesque humor, with strongly accented rhythms, punctuated, as it were, with bursts oflaughter. It was impossible to resist their impetuous fun: nobody's feetcould help dancing. Anna rushed into the throng; she gripped the firstpair of hands held out to her and whirled about like a mad thing; atortoise-shell pin dropped out of her hair and a few locks of it felldown and hung about her face. Christophe never took his eyes off her: hemarveled at the fine healthy animal who hitherto had been condemned tosilence and immobility by a pitiless system of discipline: he saw her asno one had ever seen her, as she really was under her borrowed mask: aBacchante, drunk with life. She called to him. He ran to her and put hisarms round her waist. They danced and danced until they whirled crashinginto a wall. They stopped, dazed. Night was fully come. They rested fora moment and then said good-by to the company. Anna, who was usually sostiff with the common people, partly from embarrassment, partly fromcontempt, held out her hand to the musicians, the host of the inn, thevillage boys with whom she had been dancing. 

Once more they were alone under the brilliant frozen sky retracing thepaths across the fields by which they had come in the morning. Anna wasstill excited. She talked less and less, and then ceased altogether, asthough she had succumbed to fatigue or to the mysterious emotion of thenight. She leaned affectionately on Christophe. As they were going downthe slope up which they had so blithely scrambled a few hours before, she sighed. They approached the station. As they came to the first househe stopped and looked at her. She looked up at him and smiled sadly. Thetrain was just as crowded as it had been before, and they could nottalk. He sat opposite her and devoured her with his eyes. Her eyes werelowered: she raised them and looked at him when she felt his eyes uponher: 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 lipswhich showed a little weariness at the corners. Then her smiledisappeared. Her expression became mournful. He thought her mind must beengrossed by the rhythm of the train and he tried to speak to her. Shereplied coldly, without turning her head, with a single word. He triedto persuade himself that her fatigue was responsible for the change: buthe knew that it was for a very different reason. The nearer they came tothe town the more he saw Anna's face grow cold, and life die down inher, and all her beautiful body with its savage grace drop back into itscasing of stone. She did not make use of the hand he held out to her asshe stepped out of the carriage. They returned home in silence. 

A few days later, about four o'clock in the evening, they were alonetogether. Braun had gone out. Since the day before the town had beenshrouded in a pale greenish fog. The murmuring of the invisible rivercame up. The lights of the electric trams glared through the mist. Thelight of day was dead, stifled: time seemed to be wiped out: it was oneof those hours when men lose all consciousness of reality, an hour whichis outside the march of the ages. After the cutting wind of thepreceding days, the moist air had suddenly grown warmer, too damp andtoo soft. The sky was filled with snow, and bent under the load. 

They were alone together in the drawing-room, the cold cramped taste ofwhich was the reflection of that of its mistress. They said nothing. Hewas reading. She was sewing. He got up and went to the window: hepressed his face against the panes, and stood so dreaming: he wasstupefied and heavy with the dull light which was cast back from thedarkling sky upon the livid earth: his thoughts were uneasy: he tried invain 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, fromthe chasm of the heap of ruins came a scorching wind in slow gusts. Heturned his back on Anna: she could not see him, she was engrossed in herwork; but a faint thrill passed through her body: she pricked herselfseveral times with her needle, but she did not feel it. They were bothfascinated by the approaching danger. 

He threw off his stupor and took a few strides across the room. Thepiano attracted him and made him fearful. He looked away from it. As hepassed it his hand could not resist it, and touched a note. The soundquivered like a human voice. Anna trembled, and let her sewing fall. Christophe, was already seated and playing. Without seeing her, he knewthat Anna had got up, that she was coming towards him, that she was byhis side. Before he knew what he was doing, he had begun the religiousand passionate melody that she had sung the first time she had revealedherself 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 senseof their surroundings. The sacred frenzy of music had them in itsclutches. . . . 

O music, that openest the abysses of the soul! Thou dost destroy thenormal balance of the mind. In ordinary life, ordinary souls are closedrooms: within, there droop the unused forces of life, the virtues andthe vices to use which is hurtful to us: sage, practical wisdom, cowardly common sense, are the keepers of the keys of the room. They letus see only a few cupboards tidily and properly arranged. But musicholds 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 seesitself naked. --While the siren sings, while the bewitching voicetrembles on the air, the tamer holds all the wild beasts in check withthe power of the eye. The mighty mind and reason of a great musicianfascinates all the passions that he set loose. But when the music diesaway, when the tames is no longer there, then the passions he hassummoned forth are left roaring in their tottering cage, and they seektheir prey. . . . 

The melody ended. Silence. . . . While she was singing she had laid herhand on Christophe's shoulder. They dared not move: and each felt theother trembling. Suddenly--in a flash--she bent down to him, he turnedto 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 ofthought. Anna seemed absent-minded: she was looking "elsewhere. " Shortlyafter dinner she went to her room. Christophe found it impossible tostay 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 eversince six o'clock. The houses and the streets were under a shroud. Theair was as though it were padded with cotton-wool. Not a step, not acarriage could be heard outside. The town seemed dead. Christophe couldnot 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 eyeswide open. A metallic light cast up from the white earth and roofs fellupon the walls of the room. . . . An imperceptible noise made him tremble. Only a man at a feverish tension could have heard it. Came a softrustling on the floor of the passage. Christophe sat up in bed. Thefaint noise came nearer, stopped; a board creaked. There was some onebehind the door: some one waiting. . . . Absolute stillness for a fewseconds, perhaps for several minutes. . . . Christophe could not breathe, he broke out into a sweat. Outside flakes of snow brushed the window aswith a wing. A hand fumbled with the door and opened it. There appeareda white form, and it came slowly forward: it halted a few yards awayfrom him. Christophe could see nothing clearly: but he could hear herbreathing: and he could hear his own heart thumping. She came nearer tohim; once more she halted. Their faces were so near that their breathmingled. Their eyes sought each other vainly in the darkness. . . . Shefell into his arms. In silence, without a word, they hugged each otherclose, 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, andleft Christophe without a word, just as she had come. He heard her barefeet moving away, just skimming the floor in her swift flight. Sheregained her room, and there Braun found her in her bed, apparentlyasleep. So she lay through the night, with eyes wide open, breathless, still, in her narrow bed near the sleeping Braun. How many nights hadshe passed like that!

Christophe could not sleep either. He was utterly in despair. He hadalways regarded the things of love, and especially marriage, with tragicseriousness. He hated the frivolity of those writers whose art usesadultery as a spicy flavoring. Adultery roused in him a feeling ofrepulsion which was a combination of his vulgar brutality and highmorality. He had always felt a mixture of religious respect and physicaldisgust for a woman who belonged to another man. The doglike promiscuityin which some of the rich people in Europe lived appalled him. Adulterywith the consent of the husband is a filthy thing: without the husband'sknowledge it is a base deceit only worthy of a rascally servant hidingaway to betray and befoul his master's honor. How often had he notpiteously despised those whom he had known to be guilty of suchcowardice! He had broken with some of his friends who had thusdishonored themselves in his eyes. . . . And now he too was sullied withthe same shameful thing! The circumstances of the crime only made it themore odious. He had come to the house a sick, wretched man. His friendhad welcomed him, helped him, given him comfort. His kindness had neverflagged. Nothing had been too great a demand upon it. He owed him hisvery life. And in return he had robbed the man of his honor and hishappiness, his poor little domestic happiness! He had basely betrayedhim, and with whom? With a woman whom he did not know, did notunderstand, did not love. . . . Did he not love her? His every drop ofblood rose up against him. Love is too faint a word to express the riverof 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 whirlall 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 wasshining down upon the dazzling snow. In the garden Anna was hanging outthe clothes on a line. She was engrossed in her work, and seemed to bein no wise put out. She had a dignity in her carriage and her gesturewhich was quite new to him, and made him, unconsciously, liken her to amoving statue. 

 * * * * *

They met again at lunch. Braun was away for the whole day. Christophecould not have borne meeting him. He wanted to speak to Anna. But theywere not alone: the servant kept going and coming: they had to keepguard on themselves. In vain did Christophe try to catch Anna's eye. Shedid not look at him or at anything. There was no indication of inwardferment: and always in her smallest movement there was the unaccustomedassurance and nobility. After lunch he hoped they would have anopportunity of speaking: but the servant dallied over clearing away; andwhen they went into the next room she contrived to follow them: shealways had something to fetch or to bring: she stayed bustling in thepassage near the half-open door which Anna showed no hurry to shut: itlooked as though she were spying on them. Anna sat by the window withher everlasting sewing. Christophe leaned back in an armchair with hisback to the light, and a book on his knee which he did not attempt toread. Anna could only see his profile, and she noticed the torment inhis face as he looked at the wall: and she gave a cruel smile. From theroof of the house and the tree in the garden the melting snow trickleddown into the gravel with a thin tinkling noise. Some distance away wasthe laughter of children chasing each other in the street andsnowballing. Anna seemed to be half-asleep. The silence was torture toChristophe: it hurt him so that he could have cried out. 

At last the servant went downstairs and left the house. Christophe gotup, 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, hadjust opened: they rested on Christophe, and devoured him hotly, hungrily. Christophe felt his own eyes burn under the impact, and hereeled; everything that he wanted to say was brushed aside. They cametogether, and once more they were locked in an embrace. . . . 

The shades of the evening were falling. Their blood was still inturmoil. She was lying down, with her dress torn, her arms outstretched. He had buried his face in the pillow, and was groaning aloud. She turnedtowards him and raised his head, and caressed his eyes and his lips withher fingers: she brought her face close to his, and she stared into hiseyes. Her eyes were deep, deep as a lake, and they smiled at each otherin 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 killinghimself. 

Next day, as soon as he was up, he went to Anna. Now it was he whoseeyes avoided hers. As soon as he met their gaze all that he had to saywas banished from his mind. However, he made an effort, and began tospeak of the cowardice of what they had done. Hardly had she understoodthan she roughly stopped his lips with her hand. She flung away from himwith a scowl, and her lips pressed together, and an evil expression uponher face. He went on. She flung the work she was holding down on theground, 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 tobanish from her mind all idea of the evil they had done. She struggledlike an animal caught in a trap, and cried angrily:

"Stop!. . . You coward, can't you see how I am suffering?. . . I won't letyou speak! Let me go!"

Her face was drawn, her expression was full of hate and fear, like abeast that has been hurt: her eyes would have killed him, if theycould. --He let her go. She ran to the opposite corner of the room totake shelter. He had no desire to pursue her. His heart was aching withbitterness and terror. Braun came in. He looked at them, and they stoodstockishly there. Nothing existed for them outside their own suffering. 

Christophe went out. Braun and Anna sat down to their meal. In themiddle of dinner Braun suddenly got up to open the window. Anna hadfainted. 

Christophe left the town for a fortnight on the pretext of having beencalled away. For a whole week Anna remained shut up in her room exceptfor meal-times. She slipped back into consciousness of herself, into herold 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 whatshe had done. Every day anxiety made further inroads into her heart, andfinally took possession of it. On the following Sunday she refused oncemore to go to church. But the Sunday after that she went, and neveromitted it again. She was conquered, but not submissive. God was theenemy, --an enemy from whose power she could not free herself. She wentto Him with the sullen anger of a slave who is forced into obedience. During service her face showed nothing but cold hostility: but in thedepths of her soul the whole of her religious life was a fierce, dumblyexasperated struggle against the Master whose reproaches persecuted her. She pretended not to hear. She had to hear: and bitterly, savagely, withclenched teeth, hard eyes, and a deep frowning furrow in her forehead, she would argue with God. She thought of Christophe with hatred. Shecould not forgive him for having delivered her for one moment from theprison of her soul, only to let her fall back into it again, to be theprey of its tormentors. She could not sleep; day and night she went overand over the same torturing thoughts: she did not complain: she went onobstinately doing her household work and all her other duties, andthroughout maintaining the unyielding and obstinate character of herwill in her daily life, the various tasks of which she fulfilled withthe regularity of a machine. She grew thin, and seemed to be a prey tosome internal malady. Braun questioned her fondly and anxiously: hewanted to sound her. She repulsed him angrily. The greater her remorsegrew 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 tooklong 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 thenecessity of the nature of men of genius. Even the most chaste, likeBeethoven and Bürchner, must always be in love: every human capacity israised to a higher degree in them, and as, in them, every human capacityis seized on by their imagination, their minds are a prey to a continualsuccession of passions. Most often they are only transitory fires: onedestroys another, and all are absorbed by the great blaze of thecreative spirit. But if the heat of the furnace ceases to fill the soul, then the soul is left defenseless against the passions without which itcannot live: it must have passion, it creates passion: and the passionswill devour the soul . . . --and then, besides the bitter desire thatharrows the flesh, there is the need of tenderness which drives a manwho is weary and disillusioned of life into the mothering arms of thecomforter, woman. A great man is more of a child than a lesser man: morethan any other, he needs to confide in a woman, to lay his head in thesoft hands of the beloved, in the folds of the lap of her gown. 

But Christophe could not understand. . . . He did not believe in theinevitability of passion--the idiotic cult of the romantics. He believedthat a man can and must fight with all the force of his will. . . . Hiswill! Where was it? Not a trace of it was left. He was possessed. He wasstung by the barbs of memory, day and night. The scent of Anna's bodywas with him everywhere. He was like a dismantled hulk, rollingrudderless, at the mercy of the winds. In vain did he try to escape, hestrove mightily, wore himself out in the attempt: he always foundhimself 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 helove her? It was not for her qualities of heart or mind. There were anynumber of better and more intelligent women. It was not for her body. Hehad had other mistresses more acceptable to his senses. What wasit?. . . --"We love because we love. "--Yes, but there is a reason, even ifit be beyond ordinary human reason. Madness? That means nothing. Whythis madness?

Because there is a hidden soul, blind forces, demons, which every one ofus bears imprisoned in himself. Our every effort, since the firstexistence of humanity, has been directed towards the building up againstthis inward sea of the dykes of our reason and our religions. But astorm arises (and the richest souls are the most subject to storms), thedykes are broken, the demons have free play, they find themselves in thepresence of other souls uptorn by similar powers. . . . They hurlthemselves at each other. Hatred or love? A frenzy of mutualdestruction?--Passion is the soul of prey. 

The sea has burst its bounds. Who shall turn it back into its bed? Thenmust a man appeal to a mightier than himself. To Neptune, the God of thetides. 

 * * * * *

After a fortnight of vain efforts to escape, Christophe returned toAnna. He could not live away from her. He was stifled. 

And yet he went on struggling. On the evening of his return, they foundexcuses for not meeting and not dining together: at night they lockedtheir doors in fear and dread. --But love was stronger than they. In themiddle of the night she came creeping barefooted, and knocked at hisdoor. She wept silently. He felt the tears coursing down her cheeks. Shetried to control herself, but her anguish was too much for her and shesobbed. Under the frightful burden of her grief Christophe forgot hisown: he tried to calm her and gave her tender, comfortable words. Shemoaned:

"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 shookwith rage and grief. She hated him mortally. Christophe lay still, appalled. In the silence Anna heard his choking breathing: she turnedsuddenly 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 satthere, with bowed back, overwhelmed, and said:

"I am ruined. . . . It is God's will, He has betrayed me. . . . What can I doagainst Him?"

She stayed for a long time like that, then lay down again and did notstir. A faint light proclaimed the dawn. In the half-light he saw hersorrowful 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, colorlessvoice 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 ofus!. . . "

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 outlay. They could not bear to live a lie. And they had never evenconsidered the possibility of eloping together. They knew perfectly wellthat that would not solve the problem: for the bitterest suffering camenot from the external Obstacles that held them apart, but in themselves, in their different souls. It was as impossible for them to live togetheras to live apart. They were driven into a corner. 

From that moment on they never touched each other: the shadow of deathwas upon them: they were sacred to each other. 

But they put off appointing a time for their decision. They kept onsaying: "To-morrow, to-morrow. . . " And they turned their eyes away fromtheir to-morrow, Christophe's mighty soul had Wild spasms Of revolt: hewould not consent to his defeat: he despised suicide, and he could notresign himself to such a pitiful and abrupt conclusion of his splendidlife. As for Anna, how could she, unless she were forced, accept theidea of a death which must lead to eternal death? But ruthless necessitywas at their heels, and the circle was slowly narrowing about them. 

 * * * * *

That morning, for the first time since the betrayal, Christophe was leftalone with Braun. Until then he had succeeded in avoiding him. He foundit intolerable to be with him. He had to make an excuse to avoid eatingat the same table: the food stuck in his throat. To shake the man'shand, to eat his bread, to give the kiss of Judas!. . . Most odious forhim to think of was not the contempt he had for himself so much as theagony 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 Braunwould never avenge himself, that perhaps he would not even have thestrength to hate them: but what an utter wreck of all his life!. . . Howwould he regard him! Christophe felt that he could not face the reproachin his eyes. --And it was inevitable that sooner or later Braun would bewarned. Did he not already suspect something? Seeing him again after hisfortnight's absence Christophe was struck by the change in him: Braunwas not the same man. His gaiety had disappeared, or there was somethingforced in it. At meals he would stealthily glance at Anna, who talkednot at all, ate not at all, and seemed to be burning away like the oilin a lamp. With timid, touching kindness he tried to look after her: sherejected his attentions harshly: then he bent his head over his plateand relapsed into silence. Anna could bear it no longer, and flung hernapkin on the table in the middle of the meal and left the room. The twomen finished their dinner in silence, or pretended to do so, for theyate nothing: they dared not raise their eyes. When they had finished, Christophe was on the point of going when Braun suddenly clasped his armwith both hands and said:

"Christophe!"

Christophe looked at him uneasily. 

"Christophe, " said Braun again--(his voice was shaking), --"do you knowwhat's the matter with her?"

Christophe stood transfixed: for a moment or two he could find nothingto say. Braun stood looking at him timidly: very quickly he beggedhis pardon:

"You see a good deal of her, she trusts you. . . . "

Christophe was very near taking Braun's hands and kissing them andbegging his forgiveness. Braun saw Christophe's downcast expression, and, at once, he was terrified, and refused to see: he cast him abeseeching 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 humblehimself, since to do so would be to break the heart of the man he hadwronged! Oh! the bitterness of being unable to tell the truth, when hecould 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 therewas something else he wished to ask, and yet dared not, avoiding hiseyes. Then he let go, sighed, and went away. 

Christophe was appalled by this new lie. He hastened to Anna. Stammeringin his excitement, he told her what had happened. Anna listened gloomilyand said:

"Oh, well. He knows. What does it matter?"

"How can you talk like that?" cried Christophe. "It is horrible! I willnot 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 suffertoo!"

They said bitter things to each other. He accused her of loving onlyherself. She reproached him with thinking more of her husband than ofherself. 

But a moment later, when he told her that he could not go on living likethat, and that he would go and tell the whole story to Braun, then shecried out on him for his selfishness, declaring that she did not care abit about Christophe's conscience, but was quite determined that Braunshould never know. 

In spite of her hard words she was thinking as much of Braun as ofChristophe. Though she had no real affection for her husband she wasfond of him. She had a religious respect for social ties and the dutiesthey involve. Perhaps she did not think that it was the duty of a wifeto be kind and to love her husband: but she did think that she wascompelled scrupulously to fulfil her household duties and to remainfaithful. It seemed to her ignoble to fail in that object as she herselfhad done. 

And even more surely than Christophe she knew that Braun must knoweverything very soon. It was something to her credit that she concealedthe fact from Christophe, either because she did not wish to add to histroubles or more probably because of her pride. 

Secluded though the Braun household was, secret though the tragedy mightremain that was being enacted there, some hint of it had trickled awayto the outer world. 

In that town it was impossible for any one to flatter himself that thefacts of his life were hidden. This was strangely true. No one everlooked at anybody in the streets: the doors and shutters of the houseswere closed. But there were mirrors fastened in the corners of thewindows: and as one passed the houses one could hear the faint creakingof the Venetian shutters being pushed open and shut again. Nobody tookany notice of anybody else: everything and everybody were apparentlyignored: but it was not long before one perceived that not a singleword, 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 toknow. One was surrounded by a universal, mysterious watchfulness. Servants, tradespeople, relations, friends, people who were neitherfriends nor enemies, passing strangers, all by tacit agreement shared inthis instinctive espionage, the scattered elements of which weregathered to a head no one knew how. Not only were one's actionsobserved, but they probed into one's inmost heart. In that town no manhad the right to keep the secrets of his conscience, and everybody hadthe right to rummage amongst his intimate thoughts, and, if they wereoffensive to public opinion, to call him to account. The invisibledespotism of the collective mind dominated the individual: all his lifehe remained like a child in a state of tutelage: he could call nothinghis own: he belonged to the town. 

It was enough for Anna to have stayed away from church two Sundaysrunning to arouse suspicion. As a rule no one seemed to notice herpresence at service: she lived outside the life of the place, and thetown seemed to have forgotten her existence. --On the evening of thefirst Sunday when she had stayed away her absence was known to everybodyand docketed in their memory. On the following Sunday not one of thepious people following the blessed words in their Bibles or on theminister's lips seemed to be distracted from their solemn attention: notone of them had failed to notice as they entered, and to verify as theyleft, the fact that Anna's place was empty. Next day Anna began toreceive visits from women she had not seen for many months: they came onvarious pretexts, some fearing that she was ill, others assuming a newinterest in her affairs, her husband, her house: some of them showed asingularly intimate knowledge of the doings of her household: not one ofthem--(with clumsy ingenuity)--made any allusion to her absence fromchurch on two Sundays running. Anna said that she was unwell anddeclared that she was very busy. Her visitors listened attentively andapplauded 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 noisyaffected chatter: but their eyes revealed the indiscreet curiosity whichwas devouring them. Two or three with exaggerated indifference inquiredafter M. Krafft. 

A few days later--(during Christophe's absence), --the minister camehimself. He was a handsome, good-natured creature, splendidly healthy, affable, with that imperturbable tranquillity which comes to a man fromthe consciousness of being in sole possession of the truth, the wholetruth. He inquired anxiously after the health of the members of hisflock, politely and absently listened to the excuses she gave him, whichhe 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 toin the Bible was not alcoholic liquor, produced several quotations, tolda story, and, as he was leaving, made a dark allusion to the danger ofbad company, to certain excursions in the country, to the spirit ofimpiety, 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 toAnna. He stopped for a moment, coughed, got up, bade Anna give hisrespectful compliments to M. Braun, made a joke in Latin, bowed, andtook his leave. --Anna was left frozen by his allusion. Was it anallusion? How could he have known about her excursion with Christophe?They had not met a soul of their acquaintance that day. But was noteverything known in the town? The musician with the remarkable face andthe young woman in black who had danced at the inn had attracted muchattention: their descriptions had been spread abroad; and, as the storywas bandied from mouth to mouth, it had reached the town where thewatchful malice of the gossips had not failed to recognize Anna. Nodoubt it amounted as yet to no more than a suspicion, but it wassingularly attractive, and it was augmented by information supplied byAnna's maid. Public curiosity had been a-tip-toe, waiting for them tocompromise each other, spying on them with a thousand invisible eyes. The silent crafty people of the town were creeping close upon them, likea 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 drivenher to some desperate act of provocation if she had not herself beenpossessed by the Pharisaic spirit of the society which was soantagonistic to her. Her education had subjugated her nature. It was invain that she condemned the tyranny and meanness of public opinion: sherespected it: she subscribed to its decrees even when they were directedagainst herself: if they had come into conflict with her conscience, shewould have sacrificed her conscience. She despised the town: but shecould not have borne the town to despise herself. 

Now the time was coming when the public scandal would be afforded anopportunity of discharging itself. The carnival was coming on. 

 * * * * *

In that city, the carnival had preserved up to the time of the eventsnarrated in this history--(it has changed since then)--a character ofarchaic license and roughness. Faithfully in accordance with its origin, by which it had been a relaxation for the profligacy of the human mindsubjugated, wilfully or involuntarily, by reason, it nowhere reachedsuch a pitch of audacity as in the periods and countries in which customand law, the guardians of reason, weighed most heavily upon the people. The town in which Anna lived was therefore one of its most chosenregions. The more moral stringency paralyzed action and gagged speech, the bolder did action become and speech the more untrammeled duringthose few days. Everything that was secreted away in the lower depths ofthe soul, jealousy, secret hate, lewd curiosity, the malicious instinctsinherent in the social animal, would burst forth with all the vehemenceand 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 thepublic gaze, the object of his detestation, to lay before all and sundryall that he had found out by a year of patient industry, his whole hoardof scandalous secrets gathered drop by drop. One man would display themon the cars. Another would carry a transparent lantern on which werepasted in writings and drawings the secret history of the town. Anotherwould go so far as to wear a mask in imitation of his enemy, made soeasily recognizable that the very gutter-snipes would point him out byname. Slanderous newspapers would appear during the three days. Even thevery best people would craftily take part in the game of _Pasquino_. Nocontrol was exercised except over political allusions, --such coarseliberty of speech having on more than one occasion produced fierceconflict between the authorities of the town and the representatives offoreign countries. But there was nothing to protect the citizens againstthe citizens, and this cloud of public insult, constantly hanging overtheir heads, did not a little help to maintain the apparently impeccablemorality on which the town prided itself. 

Anna felt the weight of that dread--which was quite unjustified. She hadvery little reason to be afraid. She occupied too small a place in theopinion of the town for any one to think of attacking her. But in theabsolute isolation in which of her own choice she lived, in her state ofexhaustion and nervous excitement brought on by several weeks ofsleepless nights and moral suffering, her imagination was apt to welcomethe most unreasoning terrors. She exaggerated the animosity of those whodid not like her. She told herself that suspicion was on her track: theveriest trifle was enough to ruin her: and there was nothing to assureher 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 thoughtof it. She called to mind how, a few years before, a girl, who had beenthe victim of such persecution, had had to fly the country with herfamily. . . . And she could do nothing, nothing to defend herself, nothingto prevent it, nothing even to find out if it was going to happen. Thesuspense was even more maddening than the certainty. Anna lookeddesperately about her like an animal at bay. In her own house she knewthat she was hemmed in. 

 * * * * *

Anna's servant was a woman of over forty: her name was Bäbi: she wastall and strong: her face was narrow and bony round her brow andtemples, wide and long in the lower part, fleshy under the jaw, roughlypear-shaped: she had a perpetual smile and eyes that pierced likegimlets, sunken, as though they had been sucked in, beneath red eyelidswith colorless lashes. She never put off her expression of coquettishgaiety: she was always delighted with her superiors, always of theiropinion, worrying about their health with tender interest: smiling whenthey gave her orders: smiling when they scolded her. Braun believed thatshe was unshakably devoted. Her gushing manner was strongly in contrastwith Anna's coldness. However, she was like her in many things: like hershe spoke little and dressed in a severe neat style: like her she wasvery pious, and went to service with her, scrupulously fulfilling allher religious duties and nicely attending to her household tasks: shewas clean, methodical, and her morals and her kitchen were beyondreproach. In a word she was an exemplary servant and the perfect type ofdomestic foe. Anna's feminine instinct was hardly ever wrong in herdivination of the secret thoughts of women, and she had no illusionsabout 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 andher emotion, went to him once more in spite of her resolve never to seehim again, she walked stealthily, groping along the wall in thedarkness: just as she reached Christophe's door, instead of the ordinarycold smooth polished floor, she felt a warm dust softly crunching underher bare feet. She stooped, touched it with her hands, and understood: athin layer of ashes had been spread for the space of a few yards acrossthe passage. Without knowing it Bäbi had happed on the old deviceemployed in the days of the old Breton songs by Frocin the dwarf tocatch Tristan on his way to Yseult: so true it is that a limited numberof types, good and bad, serve for all ages. A remarkable piece ofevidence in favor of the wise economy of the universe!--Anna did nothesitate; she did not stop or turn, but went on in a sort ofcontemptuous bravado: she went to Christophe, told him nothing, in spiteof her uneasiness: but when she returned she took the stove brush andcarefully effaced every trace of her footsteps in the ashes, after shehad crossed over them. --When Anna and Bäbi met next day it was with theusual coldness and the accustomed smile. 

Bäbi used sometimes to receive a visit from a relation who was a littleolder than herself: he fulfilled the function of beadle of the church:during _Gottesdienst_ (Divine service) he used to stand sentinel atthe church door, wearing a white armlet with black stripes and a silvertassel, leaning on a cane with a curved handle. By trade he was anundertaker. His name was Sami Witschi. He was very tall and thin, with aslight 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 ofthe parish. Bäbi and Sami were thinking of getting married: theyappreciated each other's serious qualities, and solid faith and malice. But they were in no hurry to make up their minds: they prudently tookstock of each other, --Latterly Sami's visits had become more frequent. He would come in unawares. Every time Anna went near the kitchen andlooked through the door, she would see Sami sitting near the fire, andBäbi a few yards away, sewing. However much they talked, it wasimpossible to hear a sound. She could see Bäbi's beaming face and herlips moving: Sami's wide hard mouth would stretch in a grin withoutopening: not a sound would come up from his throat: the house seemed tobe lost in silence. Whenever Anna entered the kitchen, Sami would riserespectfully and remain standing, without a word, until she had gone outagain. Whenever Bäbi heard the door open, she would ostentatiously breakoff in the middle of a commonplace remark, and turn to Anna with anobsequious smile and wait for her orders. Anna would think they weretalking about her: but she despised them too much to play theeavesdropper. 

The day after Anna had dodged the ingenious trap of the ashes, as sheentered the kitchen, the first thing she saw in Sami's hand was thelittle broom she had used the night before to wipe out the marks of herbare feet. She had taken it out of Christophe's room, and that veryminute, she suddenly remembered that she had forgotten to take it backagain; she had left it in her own room, where Bäbi's sharp eyes had seenit at once. The two gossips had immediately put two and two together. Anna did not flinch. Bäbi followed her mistress's eyes, gave anexaggerated 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 theexcuse: 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 doorwas closed she lost all her pride: she could not help hiding behind thecorner of the passage and listening--(she was humiliated to the verydepths of her being at having to stoop to such means: but fear masteredher). --She heard a dry chuckle of laughter. Then whispering, so low thatshe could not make out what was said. But in her desperation Annathought she heard: her terror breathed into her ears the words she wasafraid of hearing: she imagined that they were speaking of the comingmasquerades and a charivari. There was no doubt: they would try tointroduce the episode of the ashes. Probably she was wrong: but in herstate of morbid excitement, having for a whole fortnight been haunted bythe fixed idea of public insult, she did not stop to consider whetherthe 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 thecarnival)--Braun was called away to a consultation twenty miles out ofthe town: he would not return until the next morning. Anna did not comedown to dinner and stayed in her room. She had chosen that night tocarry out the tacit pledge she had made with herself. But she haddecided to carry it out alone, and to say nothing to Christophe. Shedespised him. She thought:

"He promised. But he is a man, he is an egoist and a liar. He has hisart. He will soon forget. "

And then perhaps there was in her passionate heart that seemed soinaccessible 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 excusesas she was not very well and wished to rest. Christophe dined aloneunder Bäbi's supervision, and she bored him with her chatter, tried tomake 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 decisiveinterview with Anna that night. He could no more postpone matters thanshe. He had not forgotten the pledge they had given each other at thedawn of that sad day. He was ready to keep it if Anna demanded it ofhim. But he saw the absurdity of their dying together, how it would notsolve the problem, and how the sorrow of it and the scandal must fallupon Braun's shoulders. He was inclined to think that the best thing todo was to tear themselves apart and for him to try once more to go rightaway, --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 thoughtthat, in case he could not bear it, he would still have time to turn tothe last resort, alone, without anybody knowing. 

He hoped that after supper he would be able to escape for a moment to goup to Anna's room. But Bäbi dogged him. As a rule she used to finish herwork early: but that night she seemed never to have done with scrubbingher kitchen: and when Christophe thought he was rid of her, she took itinto 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 nointention of moving all evening. He felt a furious desire to knock herover with her piles of plates: but he restrained himself and asked herto go and see how her mistress was and if he could say good-night toher. Bäbi went, returned, and said, as she watched him with a maliciousjoy, that Madame was better and was asleep and did not want anybody todisturb her. Christophe tried irritably and nervously to read, but couldnot, and went up to his room. Bäbi watched his light until it was putout, and then went upstairs to her room, resolving to keep watch: shecarefully left her door open so that she could hear every sound in thehouse. Unfortunately for her, she could not go to bed without at oncefalling asleep and sleeping so soundly that not thunder, not even herown curiosity, could wake her up before daybreak. Her sound sleep Was nosecret. The echo of it resounded through the house even to the lowerfloor. 

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 knockedlightly: no reply. He placed his lips to the keyhole and begged her in awhisper, then more loudly, to open: not a movement, not a sound. Although he told himself that Anna was asleep, he was in agonies. Andas, in a vain attempt to hear, he laid his cheek against the door, asmell came to his nostrils which seemed to be issuing from the room: hebent 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 didnot give. . . . He understood: in her dressing-room, which led out of herroom, Anna had a little gas-stove: she had turned it on. He must breakopen the door: but in his anxiety Christophe kept his senses enough toremember that at all costs Bäbi must not hear. He leaned against one ofthe leaves of the door and gave an enormous shove as quietly as hecould. The solid, well-fitting door creaked on its hinges, but did notyield. There was another door which led from Anna's room to Braun'sdressing-room. He ran to it. That too was locked: but the lock wasoutside. He started to tug it off. It was not easy. He had to remove thefour big screws which were buried deep in the wood. He had only hisknife and he could not see: for he dared not light a candle; it wouldhave meant blowing the whole place up. Fumblingly he managed to fit hisknife, into the head of a screw, then another, breaking the blades andcutting himself; the screws seemed to be interminably long, and hethought he would never be able to get them out: and, at the same time, in the feverish haste which was making big body break out into a coldsweat, 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 offthe lock and run out of the house. . . . The last screw came out. The lockgave with a crackling noise like the sawing of wood. Christophe plungedinto the room, rushed to the window, and opened it. A flood of cold airswept in. Christophe bumped into the furniture in the dark and came tothe bed, groped with his hands, and came on Anna's body, tremblinglyfelt her legs lying still under the clothes, and moved his hands up toher waist: Anna was sitting up in bed, trembling. She had not had timeto feel the first effects of asphyxiation: the room was high: the aircame through the chinks in the windows and the doors, Christophe caughther 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 hertenderly 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. Assoon as he touched on it she began to scream and to beg him to stop. Hewent on pitilessly, thinking that it was the only means of bringing herback to the desire to live. She said nothing more, but lay sobbingconvulsively. 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 todespair. And now, what am I to do?"

"Live, " he said. 

"Live!" she cried. "You don't know how impossible it is! You knownothing! 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 hadconcealed from him: Bäbi's spying on her, the ashes, the scene withSami, the carnival, the public insult that was before her. As she toldher story she was unable to distinguish between the figments of her fearand 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 theimaginary in her story. Nothing had ever been farther from his mind thanto suspect how they were being dogged. He tried to understand: he couldfind nothing to say: against such enemies he was disarmed. Only he wasconscious 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 morevenomous than Bäbi tolerated: and Christophe saw the idiocy of hisquestion. His thoughts were in a whirl: he was trying to discover a wayout, some immediate action upon which to engage. He clenched his fistsand 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 sucha network of obscure treachery, in which it was impossible to clutch atanything 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. --Theywere silent for a little. She felt a mixture of contempt and pity forthe man who could defend neither himself nor her. He felt Anna's limbstrembling with cold against his cheek. The window had been left open, and outside it was freezing: they could see the icy stars shivering inthe sky that was smooth and gleaming as a mirror. 

When she had fully tasted the bitter joy of seeing him as broken asherself, 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 herchin. He closed the window. Then he sat on the bed. He laid his hands onAnna's feet: they were cold as ice, and he warmed them with his handsand 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. Braunhad bought it as a student. He had never made use of it. In an open boxChristophe found some cartridges. He took them to the bed. Anna lookedat 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 orless, it will be just the same. "

Christophe awkwardly loaded the revolver. 

"Anna, " he said, and his voice trembled. "One of us will see the otherdie. "

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 whenthey were to die for each other they felt so far apart!. . . Each wasthinking in terror:

"What am I doing? What am I doing?"

And each was reading the other's eyes. The absurdity of the thing waswhat struck Christophe most. All his life gone for nothing: vain hisstruggles: vain his suffering: vain his hopes: all botched, flung to thewinds: one foolish act was to wipe all away. . . . In his normal state hewould have wrenched the revolver away from Anna and flung it out of thewindow and cried:

"No, no! I will not. "

But eight months of suffering, of doubt and torturing grief, and on topof that the whirlwind of their crazy passion, had wasted his strengthand broken his will: he felt that he could do nothing now, that he wasno 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 onthe wall, a footstep in the street, the cold contact of the steel in herhand. . . . She clung to these sensations, as a shipwrecked man clings tothe spar that sinks beneath his weight. Afterwards all was terror. Whynot 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 ahurried traveler fearful of losing the train: she bared her bosom, feltfor her heart, and laid the mouth of the revolver against it. Christophehid his face. Just as she was about to fire she laid her left hand onChristophe's. It was the gesture of a child dreading to walk in thedarkness. . . . 

Then a few frightful seconds passed. . . . Anna did not fire. Christophewanted to raise his head, to take her in his arms: and he was afraidthat his very movement might bring her to the point of firing. He heardnothing more: he lost consciousness. . . . A groan from Anna pierced hisheart. He got up. He saw Anna with her face distorted in terror. Therevolver 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: butthe trigger was in working order. Perhaps the cartridges had gone badwith 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 missedfire. 

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: butshe lay still and breathless, with her eyes closed and the livid skinstretched tight over the bones of her forehead and cheeks: she lookedlike 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 anymoment. 

 * * * * *

When Braun returned next morning he found Anna in the same prostratecondition. He saw that something extraordinary had happened: but hecould glean nothing either from Bäbi or Christophe. All day long Annadid not stir: she did not open her eyes: her pulse was so weak that hecould hardly feel it: every now and then it would stop, and, for amoment, Braun would be in a state of agony, thinking that her heart hadstopped. His affection made him doubt his own knowledge: he ran andfetched a colleague. The two men examined Anna and could not make uptheir minds whether it was the beginning of a fever, or a case ofnervous hysteria: they had to keep the patient under observation. Braunnever left Anna's bedside. He refused to eat. Towards evening Anna'spulse gave no signs of fever, but was extremely weak. Braun tried toforce a few spoonfuls of milk between her lips: she brought it back atonce. Her body lay limp in her husband's arms like a broken doll. Braunspent the night with her, getting up every moment to listen to herbreathing. Bäbi, who was hardly at all put out by Anna's illness, playedthe 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 nonotice of him. She lay quite still with her eyes staring at a mark onthe wall. About midday Braun saw great tears trickling down her thincheeks: he dried them gently: one by one the tears went on tricklingdown. Once more Braun tried to make her take some food. She took itpassively. In the evening she began to talk: loose snatches ofsentences. She talked about the Rhine: she had tried to drown herself, but there was not enough water. In her dreams she persisted inattempting suicide, imagining all sorts of strange forms of death;always death was at the back of her thoughts. Sometimes she was arguingwith some one, and then her face would take on an expression of fear andanger: she addressed herself to God, and tried obstinately to prove thatit 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 sheshould know. Once she saw Bäbi, and gave precise orders for the morrow'swashing. At night she dozed. Suddenly she got up: Braun ran to her. Shelooked at him strangely, and babbled impatient formless words. He askedher:

"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 burstout 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 alittle: Braun raised her head to give her to drink: she gulped down afew mouthfuls, and, stooping to Braun's hands, she kissed them. Once moreshe dozed off. 

On the Saturday morning she woke up about nine o'clock. Without saying aword, she began to slip out of bed. Braun went quickly to her and triedto make her lie down again. She insisted. He asked her what she wantedto do. She replied:

"Go to church. "

He tried to argue with her and to remind her that it was not Sunday andthe church was closed. She relapsed into silence: but she sat in a chairnear 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 finallyconsented. He took Braun aside, and told him that his wife's illnessseemed to be altogether moral, and that for the time being he must avoidopposing 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 withher. She refused, and insisted on going alone. But she stumbled as soonas she tried to walk across the room. Then, without a word, she tookBraun'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 walkon. When they reached the church, as he had told her, they found thedoors closed. Anna sat down on a bench near the door, and stayed, shivering, until the clock struck twelve. Then she took Braun's armagain, and they came home in silence. But in the evening she wanted togo to church again. Braun's entreaties were useless. He had to go outwith her once more. 

Christophe had spent the two days alone. Braun was too anxious to thinkabout him. Only once, on the Saturday morning, when he was trying todivert Anna's mind from her fixed idea of going out, he had asked her ifshe would like to see Christophe. She had looked at him with such anexpression of fear and loathing that he could not but remark it: and henever pronounced Christophe's name again. 

Christophe had shut himself up in his room. Anxiety, love, remorse, avery chaos of sorrow was whirling in him. He blamed himself foreverything. He was overwhelmed by self-disgust. More than once he hadgot up to go and confess the whole story to Braun--and each time he hadimmediately been arrested by the thought of bringing wretchedness to yetanother human being by his self-accusation. At the same time he wasspared nothing of his passion. He prowled about in the passage outsideAnna's room; and when he heard footsteps inside coming to the door herushed away to his own room. 

When Braun and Anna went out in the afternoon, he looked out for themfrom behind his window-curtains. He saw Anna. She who had been so erectand proud walked now with bowed back, lowered head, yellow complexion:she was an old woman bending under the weight of the cloak and shawl herhusband had thrown about her: she was ugly. But Christophe did not seeher ugliness: he saw only her misery; and his heart ached with pity andlove. He longed to run to her, to prostrate himself in the mud, to kissher feet: her dear body so broken and destroyed by passion, and toimplore 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 shownthe same devastation in his eyes, in all his features: he saw the marksof death upon himself, as upon her, and he thought:

"My work? No. It is the work of the cruel Master who drives us mad anddestroys us. "

The house was empty. Bäbi had gone out to tell the neighbors of theday's events. Time was passing. The clock struck five. Christophe wasfilled with terror as he thought of Anna's return and the coming of thenight. He felt that he could not bear to stay under the same roof withher for another night. He felt his reason breaking beneath the weight ofpassion. 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 facehe 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 ofAnna's room, he hurried forward in a spasm of fear. Downstairs heglanced for the last time into the empty garden. He crept away like athief in the night. An icy mist pricked his face and hands. Christopheskirted the walls of the houses, dreading a meeting with any one heknew. He went to the station, and got into a train which was juststarting for Lucerne. At the first stopping-place he wrote to Braun. Hesaid that he had been called away from the town on urgent business for afew days, and that he was very sorry to have to leave him at such atime: he begged him to send him news, and gave him an address. AtLucerne he took the St. Gothard train. Late at night he got out at alittle 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 wasfilled with pools of water. It was raining in torrents: it rained allnight and all next day. The water was rushing and roaring like acataract from a broken gutter. Sky and earth were drowned, seeminglydissolved and melted like his own mind. He went to bed between dampsheets which smelt of railway smoke. He could not lie still. The idea ofthe danger hanging over Anna was too much in his mind for him to feelhis own suffering as yet. Somehow he must avert public malignity fromher, somehow turn it aside upon another track. In his feverish conditiona queer idea came to him: he decided to write to one of the fewmusicians with whom he had been acquainted in the little town, Krebs, the confectioner-organist. He gave him to understand that he was off toItaly upon an affair of the heart, that he had been possessed by thepassion when he first took up his abode with the Brauns, and that he hadtried to shake free of it, but it had been too strong for him. He putthe whole thing clearly enough for Krebs to understand, and yet soveiled as to enable him to improve on it as he liked. Christopheimplored Krebs to keep his secret. He knew that the good little mansimply could not keep anything to himself, and--quite rightly--hereckoned on Krebs hastening to spread the news as soon as it came intohis hands. To make sure of hoodwinking the gossips of the townChristophe closed his letter with a few cold remarks about Braun andabout Anna's illness. 

He spent the rest of the night and the next day absorbed by his fixedIdea. . . . Anna. . . . Anna. . . . He lived through the last few months withher, day by day: he did not see her as she was, but enveloped her with apassionate atmosphere of illusion. From the very beginning he hadcreated her in the image of his own desire, and given her a moralgrandeur, a tragic consciousness which he needed to heighten his lovefor her. These lies of passion gained in intensity of conviction nowthat they were beyond the control of Anna's presence. He saw in her ahealthy 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 withthem, because they could not be brought into line with her destiny, andmade it only the more sorrowful and wretched. She cried to him: "Helpme. " He saw once more her beautiful body, clasped it to him. Hismemories tortured him: he took a savage delight in mortifying the woundsthey dealt him. As the day crept on, the feeling of all that he had lostbecame 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. Hearrived in the middle of the night: he went straight to the house. Therewas a wall between the alley and the garden next to Braun's. Christopheclimbed the wall, jumped down into the next-door garden, and then intoBraun's. He stood outside the house. It was in darkness save for anight-light which cast a yellow glow upon a window--the window of Anna'sroom. Anna was there. She was suffering. He had only to make one strideto enter. He laid his hand on the handle of the door. Then he looked athis hand, the door, the garden: suddenly he realized what he was doing:and, breaking free of the hallucination which had been upon him for thelast seven or eight hours, he groaned, wrenched free of the inertiawhich 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 hewent and buried himself in a mountain village, hidden from the world bydriving 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 Iwas 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 triedto preserve the purity of the soul Thou gavest me, to defend the firewhich Thou hast kindled in me. . . . Lord, it is Thou, it is Thou who artso furious to destroy what Thou hast created. Thou hast put out thefire, Thou hast besmirched my soul. Thou hast despoiled me of all thatgave me life. I had but two treasurable things in the world: my friendand 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 hasttaken 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 usknow the horror of being lost to each other. Thou hast created emptinessall about me. Thou hast created emptiness within me. I was broken andsick, unarmed and robbed of my will. Thou hast chosen that hour tostrike me down. Thou hast come stealthily with silent feet from behindtreacherously, and Thou hast stabbed me: Thou hast let loose upon me Thyfierce dogs of passion; I was weak, and Thou knewest it, and I could notstruggle: passion has laid me low, and thrown me into confusion, andbefouled me, and destroyed all that I had. . . . I am left only inself-disgust. If I could only cry aloud my grief and my shame! or forgetthem 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 Iwere dead! O God, deliver me, break my body and my soul, tear me fromthis earth, leave me not to struggle blindly in the pit, leave me not inthis endless agony! I cry for mercy. . . . Lord, make an end!

 * * * * *

So in his sorrow Christophe cried upon a God in whom his reason did notbelieve. 

 * * * * *

He had taken refuge in a lonely farm in the Swiss Jura Mountains. Thehouse was built in the woods tucked away in the folds of a high humpyplateau. It was protected from the north winds by crags and boulders. Infront of it lay a wide stretch of fields, and long wooded slopes: therock suddenly came to an end in a sheer precipice: twisted pines hung onthe edge of it; behind were wide-spreading beeches. The sky was blottedout. There was no sign of life. A wide stretch of country with all itslines erased. The whole place lay sleeping under the snow. Only at nightin the forest foxes barked. It was the end of the winter. Slow draggingwinter. Interminable winter. When it seemed like to break up, snow wouldfall once more, and it would begin again. 

However, for a week now the old slumbering earth had felt its heart slowbeating to new birth. The first deceptive breath of spring crept intothe air and beneath the frozen crust. From the branches of thebeech-trees, stretched out like soaring wings, the snow melted. Alreadythrough the white cloak of the fields there peered a few thin blades ofgrass of tender green: around their sharp needles, through the gaps inthe snow, like so many little mouths, the dank black earth wasbreathing. For a few hours every day the voice of the waters, sleepingbeneath their robe of ice, murmured. In the skeleton woods a few birdspiped their shrill clear song. 

Christophe noticed nothing. All things were the same to him. He paced upand down, up and down his room. Or be would walk outside. He could notkeep still. His soul was torn in pieces by inward demons. They fell uponand rent each other. His suppressed passion never left off beatingfuriously against the walls of the house of its captivity. His disgustwith passion was no less furiously in revolt: passion and disgust flewat each other's throats, and, in their conflict, they lacerated hisheart. And at the same time he was delivered up to the memory ofOlivier, despair at his death, the hunger to create which nothing couldsatisfy, and pride rearing on the edge of the abyss of nothingness. Hewas a prey to all devils. He had no moment of respite. Or, if there camea seeming calm, if the rushing waves did fall back for a moment, it wasonly 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 lifeto the mercy of the waves! To save himself by swimming in the dreams ofart!. . . To create! He tried. . . . He could not. 

Christophe had never had any method of working. When he was strong andwell he had always rather suffered from his superabundance than beendisturbed at seeing it diminish: he followed his whim: he used to workfirst as the fancy took him, as circumstances chanced, with no fixedrule. As a matter of fact, he was always working everywhere: his brainwas always busy. Often and often Olivier, who was less richly endowedand more reflective, had warned him:

"Take care. You are trusting too much to your force. It is a mountaintorrent. Full to-day, perhaps dry to-morrow. An artist must coax hisgenius: he must not let it scatter itself at random. Turn your forceinto a channel. Train yourself in habits of mind and a healthy system ofdaily work, at fixed hours. They are as necessary to the artist as thepractice of military movements and steps to a man who is to go intobattle. When moments of crisis come--(and they always do come)--thebracing of steel prevents the soul from destruction. I know. It is justthat 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 mytaste 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 menwho have always had too much health. "

And now Olivier's words had come true. After the death of his friend thesource of his inward life had not all at once dried up: but it hadbecome 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 hadabsorbed 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 wasbarren. Not a trickle of water. His soul was dried up. In vain did hetry to dig down into the sand, and force the water up from thesubterranean wells, and create at all costs: the machine of his mindrefused to obey. He could not invoke the aid of habit, the faithfulally, which, when we have lost every reason for living, alone, constantand firmly loyal, stays with us, and speaks no word, and makes no sign, but with eyes fixed, and silent lips, with its sure unwavering handleads us by the hand through the dangerous chasm until the light of dayand the joy of life return. Christophe was helpless: and his hand couldfind no guiding hand in the darkness. He could not find his way back tothe light of day. 

It was the supreme test. Then he felt that he was on the verge ofmadness. Sometimes he would wage an absurd and crazy battle with his ownbrain, maniacal obsessions, a nightmare of numbers: he would count theboards on the floor, the trees in the forest: figures and chords, thechoice of which was beyond his reason. Sometimes he would lie in a stateof prostration, like one dead. 

Nobody worried about him. He lived apart in one wing of the house. Hetidied his own room--or left it undone, every day. His meals were laidfor him downstairs: he never saw a human face. His host, an old peasant, a taciturn, selfish creature, took no interest in him. WhetherChristophe ate or did not eat was his affair. He hardly ever noticedwhether 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. Hetried to wear himself out to keep himself from thinking. He could notsucceed. Only now and then could he snatch a few hours of troubledsleep. 

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 withits mournful eyes on Christophe's knees when Christophe was sitting onthe 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'seyes 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 suppliantsleepy eyes and to help the beast: he felt that there must be behindthem an imprisoned soul imploring his aid. 

In those hours when he was weak with suffering, torn alive away fromlife, devoid of human egoism, he saw the victims of men, the field ofbattle in which man triumphed in the bloody slaughter of all othercreatures: and his heart was filled with pity and horror. Even in thedays when he had been happy he had always loved the beasts: he had neverbeen able to bear cruelty towards them: he had always had a detestationof 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 feelingof repulsion had been the secret cause of the apparently inexplicablefeeling of dislike he had had for certain men: he had never been able toadmit to his friendship a man who could kill an animal for pleasure. Itwas not sentimentality: no one knew better than he that life is based onsuffering and infinite cruelty: no man can live without making otherssuffer. It is no use closing our eyes and fobbing ourselves off withwords. It is no use either coming to the conclusion that we mustrenounce 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 killsfor the sake of killing is a miscreant. An unconscious miscreant, Iknow. But, all the same, a miscreant. The continual endeavor of manshould be to lessen the sum of suffering and cruelty: that is the firstduty 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 allcosts, live at the cost of the weak. . . . It was not he who had made theuniverse. . . . Better not think of it, better not think of it. . . . But whenunhappiness had dragged him down, him, too, to the level of thevanquished, he had to think of these things Only a little while ago hehad blamed Olivier for plunging into futile remorse and vain compassionfor all the wretchedness that men suffer and inflict. Now he went evenfarther: with all the vehemence of his mighty nature he probed to thedepths of the tragedy of the universe: he suffered all the sufferings ofthe world, and was left raw and bleeding. He could not think of theanimals without shuddering in anguish. He looked into the eyes of thebeasts 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 seenhundreds of times--a calf crying in a wicker pen, with its big, protruding eyes, with their bluish whites and pink lids, and whitelashes, its curly white tufts on its forehead, its purple snout, itsknock-kneed legs:--a lamb being carried by a peasant with its four legstied together, hanging head down, trying to hold its head up, moaninglike a child, bleating and lolling its gray tongue:--fowls huddledtogether in a basket:--the distant squeals of a pig being bled todeath:--a fish being cleaned on the kitchen-table. . . . The namelesstortures which men inflict on such innocent creatures made his heartache. Grant animals a ray of reason, imagine what a frightful nightmarethe world is to them: a dream of cold-blooded men, blind and deaf, cutting their throats, slitting them open, gutting them, cutting theminto pieces, cooking them alive, sometimes laughing at them and theircontortions as they writhe in agony. Is there anything more atrociousamong the cannibals of Africa? To a man whose mind is free there issomething even more intolerable in the sufferings of animals than in thesufferings of men. For with the latter it is at least admitted thatsuffering is evil and that the man who causes it is a criminal. Butthousands of animals are uselessly butchered every day without a shadowof remorse. If any man were to refer to it, he would be thoughtridiculous. --And that is the unpardonable crime. That alone is thejustification of all that men may suffer. It cries vengeance upon allthe human race. If God exists and tolerates it, it cries vengeance uponGod. If there exists a good God, then even the most humble of livingthings must be saved. If God is good only to the strong, if there is nojustice for the weak and lowly, for the poor creatures who are offeredup 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 inthe carnage of the universe! The animals devour each other. The peacefulplants, the silent trees, are ferocious beasts one to another. Theserenity of the forests is only a commonplace of easy rhetoric for theliterary men who only know Nature through their books!. . . In the foresthard by, a few yards away from the house, there were frightful strugglesalways toward. The murderous beeches flung themselves upon the pineswith their lovely pinkish stems, hemmed in their slenderness withantique columns, and stifled them. They rushed down upon the oaks andsmashed them, and made themselves crutches of them. The beeches werelike Briareus with his hundred arms, ten trees in one tree! They dealtdeath all about them. And when, failing foes, they came together, theybecame entangled, piercing, cleaving, twining round each other likeantediluvian monsters. Lower down, in the forest, the acacias had leftthe outskirts and plunged into the thick of it and attacked thepinewoods, strangling and tearing up the roots of their foes, poisoningthem with their secretions. It was a struggle to the death in which thevictors at once took possession of the room and the spoils of thevanquished. Then the smaller monsters would finish the work of thegreat. Fungi, growing between the roots, would suck at the sick tree, and gradually empty it of its vitality. Black ants would grind exceedingsmall the rotting wood. Millions of invisible insects were gnawing, boring, reducing to dust what had once been life. . . . And the silence ofthe struggle!. . . Oh! the peace of Nature, the tragic mask that coversthe sorrowful and cruel face of Life! Christophe was going down anddown. But he was not the kind of man to let himself drown without astruggle, with his arms held close to his sides. In vain did he wish todie: he did everything in his power to remain alive. He was one of thosemen of whom Mozart said: _"They must act until at last they have nomeans of action. "_ He felt that he was sinking, and in his fall hecast about, striking out with his arms to right and left, for somesupport to which to cling. It seemed to him that he had found it. He hadjust remembered Olivier's little boy. At once he turned on him all hisdesire for life: he clung to him desperately. Yes: he must go and findhim, 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 inthe selfishness of his sorrow? He wrote to Cécile, who had charge of theboy. He waited feverishly for her reply. His whole being was bent uponthe one thought. He forced himself to be calm: he still had reason forhope. He was quite confident about it: he knew how kind Cécile was. 

Her answer came. Cécile said that three months after Olivier's death, alady 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 affairhad not lasted. She had wearied of her lover more quickly than her loverhad done of her. She had come back broken, disgusted, aged. The tooflagrant scandal of her adventure had closed many doors to her. Theleast scrupulous had not been the least severe. Even her mother had beenso offensive and so contemptuous that Jacqueline had found it impossibleto stay with her. She had seen through and through the world'shypocrisy. Olivier's death had been the last blow. She seemed so utterlysorrowful that Cécile had not thought it right to refuse to let her haveher 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 shemake things even harder for a woman who had more right than herself, awoman who was further more unhappy? She had wanted to write toChristophe to ask his advice. But Christophe had never answered theletters she had written him, she did not know his address, she did noteven know whether he was alive or dead. . . . Joy comes and goes. Whatcould she do? Only resign herself to the inevitable. The main thing wasfor the child to be happy and to be loved. . . . 

The letter reached him in the evening. A belated gust of winter broughtback the snow. It fell all night. In the forest, where already the youngleaves had appeared, the trees cracked and split beneath the weight ofit. 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 startedat every crack: and he was like one of the trees bending beneath itsload and snapping. He said to himself:

"Now the end has come. "

Night passed. Day came. The tree was not broken. All through the new dayand the following night the tree went on bending and cracking: but itdid not break. Christophe had no reason for living left: and he went onliving. 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 waslike Jacob with the angel. He expected nothing from the fight, heexpected nothing now but the end, rest; and he went on fighting. And hecried aloud:

"Break me and have done! Why dost thou not throw me down?"

 * * * * *

Days passed. Christophe issued from the fight, utterly lifeless. Yet hewould not lie down, and insisted on going out and walking. Happy arethose men who are sustained by the fortitude of their race in the hoursof eclipse of their lives! Though the body of the son was nearbreaking-point, the strength of the father and the grandfather held himup: the energy and impetus of his robust ancestors sustained his brokensoul, like a dead knight being carried along by his horse. 

 * * * * *

Along a precipitous road he went with a ravine on either hand: he wentdown the narrow path, thick with sharp stones, among which coiled thegnarled roots of the little stunted oaks: he did not know where he wasgoing, and yet he was more surefooted than if he had been moving underthe lucid direction of his will. He had not slept, he had hardly eatenanything for several days. He saw a mist in front of his eyes. He walkeddown towards the valley. --It was Easter-week. A cloudy day. The lastassault of winter had been overcome. The warmth of spring was brooding. From the villages far down the sound of bells came up: first from avillage nestling in a hollow at the foot of the mountain, with itsdappled thatched roofs, dark and light in patches, covered with thick, velvety moss. Then from another, out of sight, on the other slope of thehill. Then, others down on the plain beyond the river. And the distanthum of a town seen hazily in the mist. Christophe stopped. His heartalmost stopped beating. Their voices seemed to be saying:

"Come with us. Here is peace. Here sorrow is dead. Dead, and thought isdead 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 andsaid:

"It is not peace that I seek, but life. "

He went on his way. He walked for miles without noticing it. In hisstate of weakness and hallucination the simplest sensations came to himwith unexpected resonance. Over earth and air his mind cast fantasticlights. A shadow, with nothing to cause it that he could see, goingbefore him on the white and sunless road, made him tremble. 

As he emerged from a wood he found himself near a village. He turnedback: the sight of men hurt him. However, he could not avoid passing bya lonely house above the hamlet: it was built on the side of themountain, and looked like a sanatorium: it was surrounded by a largegarden open to the sun; a few men were wandering with falteringfootsteps along the gravel paths. Christophe did not look at itparticularly: but at a turn of the path he came face to face with a manwith pale eyes and a fat, yellow face, staring blankly, who had sunkdown on a seat at the foot of two poplar trees. Another man was sittingby his side: they were both silent. Christophe walked past them. But, afew yards on, he stopped: the man's eyes had seemed familiar to him. Heturned. The man had not stirred: he was still staring fixedly atsomething in front of him. But his companion looked at Christophe, whobeckoned 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 himonce in the days when he was writing for Mannheim's review. Then, theywere enemies: Christophe was only just beginning, and the other wasalready famous. He had been a man of considerable power, veryself-confident, very contemptuous of other men's work, a novelist whoserealistic and sensual writings had stood out above the mediocrity of theproductions of his day. Christophe, who detested the man, could not helpadmiring the perfection of his materialistic art, which was sincere, though limited. 

"He went mad a year ago, " said the keeper. "He was treated, regarded ascured, and sent home. Then he went mad again. One evening he threwhimself out of the window. At first, when he came here, he used to flinghimself about and shout. But now he is quite quiet. He spends his dayssitting 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 themadman, with his heavy eyelids drooping over his eyes: one of themseemed to be almost shut. The madman seemed to be unaware ofChristophe's presence. Christophe spoke to him by name and took hishand--a soft, clammy hand, which lay limp in his like a dead thing: hehad not the courage to keep it in his: the man raised his glazing eyesto Christophe for a moment, then went on staring straight in front ofhim 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 burntinto his very soul. 

He plunged into the forest, and climbed up the hillside in the directionof his own house. In his confusion he missed his way, and found himselfin the middle of an immense pine-wood. Darkness and silence. A fewpatches of sunlight of a pale, ruddy gold, come it was impossible totell whence, fell aslant the dense shadows. Christophe was hypnotized bythese patches of light. Round him everything seemed to be in darkness. He walked along over the carpet of pine-needles, tripping over the rootswhich stood out like swollen veins. At the foot of the trees wereneither 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 upwardsto meet the sun. Soon even the life overhead would be gone. Christophepassed into a part of the wood which was visited by some mysteriouspestilence. A kind of long, delicate lichen, like spiders' webs, hadfastened upon the branches of the red pines, and wrapped them about withits 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 withits subtle tentacles. There was in the place the silence of the depthsof the ocean. High overhead hung the pale sun. Mists which had creptinsidiously through the forest encompassed Christophe. Everythingdisappeared: there was nothing to be seen. For half an hour Christophewandered at random in the web of the white mist, which grew slowlythicker, black, and crept down into his throat: he thought he was goingstraight: 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 mesheswere rent asunder, a hole was made, and Christophe managed to make hisway out of the submarine forest. He came to living woods and the silentconflict of the pines and the beeches. But everywhere there was the samestillness. The silence, which had been brooding for hours, wasagonizing. Christophe stopped to listen. . . . 

Suddenly, in the distance, there came a storm. A premonitory gust ofwind blew up from the depths of the forest. Like a galloping horse itrushed over the swaying tree-tops. It was like the God of Michael Angelopassing in a water-spout. It passed over Christophe's head. The forestrustled, and Christophe's heart quivered. It was the Annunciation. . . . 

Silence came again. In a state of holy terror Christophe walked quicklyhome, with his legs giving way beneath him. At the door of the house heglanced fearfully behind him, like a hunted man. All Nature seemed dead. The forests which covered the sides of the mountain were sleeping, lyingheavy beneath a weight of sadness. The still air was magically clear andtransparent. There was never a sound. Only the melancholy music of astream--water eating away the rock--sounded the knell of the earth, Christophe went to bed in a fever. It the stable hard by the beastsstirred as restlessly and uneasily as he. . . . 

Night. He had dozed off. In the silence the distant storm arose oncemore. The wind returned, like a hurricane now, --the _foehn_ of thespring, with its burning breath warming the still sleeping, chillyearth, 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 mountainroared. In the stable a horse neighed and the cows lowed. Christophe'shair stood on end, he sat up in bed and listened. The squall came upscreaming, set the shutters banging, the weather-cocks squeaking, madethe slates of the roof go crashing down, and the whole house shake. Aflower-pot fell and was smashed. Christophe's window was insecurelyfastened, 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 theliving God were rushing into his empty soul. The Resurrection!. . . Theair poured down his throat, the flood of new life swelled through himand penetrated to his very marrow. He felt like to burst, he wanted toshout, to shout for joy and sorrow: and there would only comeinarticulate sounds from his mouth. He reeled, he beat on the walls withhis 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 hadlost!. . . 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 notNothingness, 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 thefight. I am free Will which struggles eternally. Struggle and burn withMe. "

"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 oneof My voices, thou art one of My arms. Speak and strike for Me. But ifthe arm be broken, or the voice be weary, then still I hold My ground: Ifight with other voices, other arms than thine. Though thou artconquered, yet art thou of the army which is never vanquished. Rememberthat 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 Meand nothingness has lain in wait for Me. It is only by victory in thefight 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 aconqueror. He is a devouring lion. Nothingness hems Him in and He hurlsit down. And the rhythm of the fight is the supreme harmony. Suchharmony is not for thy mortal ears. It is enough for thee to know thatit 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 howcan 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 Myliving soul. "

"Thou hast left me once: wilt Thou leave me again?"

"I shall leave thee again. Never doubt that. It is for thee never toleave 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, toshut thyself up in thy ruined house! Quit thyself. There are othermansions. "

"O Life, O Life! I see . . . I sought thee in myself, in my own emptyshut-in soul. My soul is broken: the sweet air pours in through thewindows of my wounds: I breathe again, I have found Thee once more, OLife!. . . "

"I have found thee again. . . . Hold thy peace, and listen. "

 * * * * *

And like the murmuring of a spring, Christophe heard the song of lifebubbling up in him. Leaning out of his window, he saw the forest, whichyesterday had been dead, seething with life under the sun and the wind, heaving like the Ocean. Along the stems of the trees, like thrills ofjoy, the waves of the wind passed: and the yielding branches held theirarms in ecstasy up to the brilliant sky. And the torrent rang outmerrily as a bell. The countryside had risen from the grave in whichyesterday it had been entombed: life had entered it at the time whenlove passed into Christophe's heart. Oh! the miracle of the soul touchedby grace, awaking to new life! Then everything comes to life again allround it. The heart begins to beat once more. The eye of the spirit isopened. 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, whereinthe suns rain down like flakes of snow tossing on the wind!. . . He hadlaid bare his soul. And, just as in those dreams in which one hovers inspace, he felt that he was soaring above himself, he saw himself fromabove, 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. Hisstruggles were a part of the great fight of the worlds. His overthrowwas a momentary episode, immediately repaired. Just as he fought forall, so all fought for him. They shared his trials, he shared theirglory. 

 * * * * *

"Companions, enemies, walk over me, crush me, let me feel the cannonswhich shall win victory pass over my body! I do not think of the ironwhich cuts deep into my flesh, I do not think of the foot that tramplesdown my head, I think of my Avenger, the Master, the Leader of thecountless army. My blood shall cement the victory of the future. . . . "

God was not to him the impassive Creator, a Nero from his tower of brasswatching the burning of the City to which he himself has set fire. Godwas fighting. God was suffering. Fighting and suffering with all whofight and for all who suffer. For God was Life, the drop of light falleninto 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 thevery discords clashed together and mingled and grew into a serene whole!Just as the beech-forest in silence furiously wages war, so Life carrieswar into the eternal peace. 

The wars and the peace rang echoing through Christophe. He was like ashell wherein the ocean roars. Epic shouts passed, and trumpet calls, and tempestuous sounds borne upon sovereign rhythms. For in thatsonorous soul everything took shape in sound. It sang of light. It sangof darkness, sang of life and death. It sang for those who werevictorious in battle. It sang for himself who was conquered and laidlow. 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 thespring rains, the torrents of music disappeared into the earth that wascracked by the winter. Shame, grief, bitterness now revealed theirmysterious mission: they had decomposed the earth and they hadfertilized it. The share of sorrow, breaking the heart, had opened upnew sources of life. The waste land had once more burst into flower. Butthey 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 andhardened, like the souls that have come to the end of their belief, thesouls 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. Christophehad no thought of setting bounds upon himself. He gave himself up to thejoy of a man leaving behind him the burden of his past and setting outon a long voyage, with youth in his blood, freedom in his heart, tobreathe the sea air, and think that the voyage will never come to anend. Now that he was caught up again by the creative force which flowsthrough the world, he was amazed to the point of ecstasy at the world'swealth. He loved, he _was_, his neighbor as himself. And all thingswere "neighbors" to him, from the grass beneath his feet to the manwhose hand he clasped. A fine tree, the shadow of a cloud on themountain, the breath of the fields borne upward on the wind, and, atnight, the hive of heaven buzzing with the swarming suns . . . His bloodraced through him . . . He had no desire to speak or to think, he desiredonly to laugh and to cry, and to melt away into the living marvel of itall. 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 oftenwhen he was out walking. He could not wait. Then he would write withanything, on anything that came to hand: and very often he could nothave told the meaning of the phrases which came rushing forth from himwith irresistible impetuosity: and, as he wrote, more ideas would come, more and more: and he would write and write, on his shirt cuffs, in thelining of his hat. Quickly though he wrote, yet his thoughts would leapahead, and he had to use a sort of shorthand. 

They were only rough notes. The difficulty began when he tried to turnhis ideas into the ordinary musical forms: he discovered that none ofthe conventional molds were in the least suitable: if he wanted to fixhis visions with any sort of fidelity, he had to begin by forgetting allthe music he had ever heard, everything he had ever written, make aclean sweep of all the formulae he had ever learned, and the traditionaltechnique; fling away all such crutches of the impotent mind, thecomfortable bed made for the indolence of those who lie back on thethoughts of other men to save themselves the trouble of thinking forthemselves. A short while ago, when he thought that he had reachedmaturity in life and art--(as a matter of fact he had only been at theend of one of his lives and one of his incarnations in art), --he hadexpressed himself in a preexisting language: his feelings had submittedwithout revolt to the logic of a pre-established development, whichdictated a portion of his phrases in advance, and had led him, docilelyenough, along the beaten track to the appointed spot where the publicwas awaiting him. Now there was no road marked out, and his feelings hadto carve out their own path: his mind had only to follow. It was nolonger appointed to describe or to analyze passion: it had to becomepart and parcel of it, and seek to wed its inward law. 

At the same time he shed all the contradictions in which he had longbeen involved, though he had never willingly submitted to them. For, although he was a pure artist, he had often incorporated in his artconsiderations which are foreign to art: he had endowed it with a socialmission. And he had not perceived that there were two men in him: thecreative artist who never worried himself about any moral aim, and theman 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 nowthat he was subject to every creative idea, with its organic law, like areality superior to all reality, he had broken free of practical reason. In truth, he shed none of his contempt for the flabby and depravedimmorality of the age: in truth, he still thought that its impure andunwholesome art was the lowest rung of art, because it is a disease, afungus growing on a rotting trunk: but if art for pleasure's sake is theprostration of art, Christophe by no means opposed to it theshort-sighted utilitarianism of art for morality's sake, that wingedPegasus harnessed to the plow. The highest art, the only art which isworthy of the name, is above all temporary laws: it is a comet sweepingthrough the infinite. It may be that its force is useful, it may be thatit is apparently useless and dangerous in the existing order of theworkaday world: but it is force, it is movement and fire: it is thelightning 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 thepractical order: but its real, its Divine benefits are, like faith, ofthe supernatural order. It is like the sun whence it is sprung. The sunis neither moral nor immoral. It is that which Is. It lightens thedarkness of space. And so does art. 

And Christophe, being delivered up to art, was amazed to find unknownand unsuspected powers teeming in himself: powers quite apart from hispassions, his sorrows, his conscious soul, a stranger soul, indifferentto all his loves and sufferings, to all his life, a joyous, fantastic, wild, incomprehensible soul. It rode him and dug its spurs into hissides. And, in the rare moments when he could stop to take breath, hewondered 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 manof genius, that will which is independent of the will, _"the ineffableenigma 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 whenthe mind, being impregnated, can feed upon itself and go on producingalmost indefinitely. The faintest contact with things, the pollen of aflower borne by the wind were enough to make the inward germs, themyriads of germs put forth and come to blossom. Christophe had no timeto think, no time to live. His creative soul reigned sovereign over theruins 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 goneover to God. 

Streaks of white hair had suddenly appeared in his black mane, likethose autumn flowers which spring up in the fields in September nights. There were fresh lines on his cheeks. But his eyes had regained theircalm expression, and his mouth bore the marks of resignation. He wasappeased. He understood now. He understood the vanity of his pride, thevanity of human pride, under the terrible hand of the Force which movesthe worlds. No man is surely master of himself. A man must watch. For ifhe slumbers that Force rushes into him and whirls him headlong . . . Intowhat dread abysses? or the torrent which bears him along sinks andleaves 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 ubivult_, 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 toobliterate the work of years of toil and effort. And, if it so pleaseHim, He can cause the eternal to spring forth from dust and mud. No manmore than the creative artist feels at the mercy of God: for, if he istruly great, he will only say what the Spirit bids him. 

And Christophe understood the wisdom of old Haydn who went down on hisknees 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 andpious communion with the Spirit of life. 

 * * * * *

Towards the end of summer a Parisian friend of Christophe's, who waspassing through Switzerland, discovered his retreat. He was a musicalcritic who in old days had been an excellent judge of his compositions. He was accompanied by a well-known painter, who was avowedly awhole-hearted admirer of Christophe's. They told him of the veryconsiderable success of his work, which was being played all overEurope. Christophe showed very little interest in the news: the past wasdead to him, and his old compositions did not count. At his visitors'request he showed them the music he had written recently. The criticcould 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 possessingnone of its own: it is like nothing on earth: a glimmering of light inchaos. "

Christophe smiled:

"It is quite like that, " he said. "The eyes of chaos shining through theveil 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 asto do the honors of his mountain. But he did not go far. Looking down ata field, the musical critic called to mind the scenery of a Parisiantheater: and the painter criticised the colors, mercilessly remarking onthe awkwardness of their combination, and declaring that to him they hada Swiss flavor, sour, like rhubarb, musty and dull, _à la_ Hodler;further, he displayed an indifference to Nature which was not altogetheraffectation. 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 hadno effect on him now. They were on the other side of the ravine. Thatwas 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. Butits comfortable warmth was still in Christophe's heart. He knew that thefire would flare up again: if not in himself, then around him. Whereverit might be, he would love it just the same: it would always be the samefire. On that September evening he could feel it burning throughout allNature. 

 * * * * *

He climbed up to the house. There had been a storm. The sun had come outagain. The fields were steaming. The ripe fruit was falling from theapple-trees into the wet grass. Spiders' webs, hanging from the branchesof the trees, still glittering with the rain, were like the ancientwheels of Mycenaean chariots. At the edge of the dripping forest thegreen woodpecker was trilling his jerky laughter; and myriads of littlewasps, dancing in the sunbeams, filled the vault of the woods with theirdeep, long-drawn organ note. 

Christophe came to a clearing, in the hollow of a shoulder of themountain, 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, andrust-colored rushes. Round about it was a girdle of the woods with theirripe autumn tints: ruddy copper beeches, pale yellow chestnuts, rowanswith their coral berries, flaming cherry-trees with their little tonguesof fire, myrtle-bushes with their leaves of orange and lemon and brownand burnt tinder. It was like a burning bush. And from the heart of theflaring 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 comedown to earth again, and many times. But it knew also that it wouldunwearyingly ascend in the fire, singing its "tirra-lirra" which tellsof 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. Ihave sought to conceal neither its vices nor its virtues, its profoundsadness, its chaotic pride, its heroic efforts, its despondency beneaththe overwhelming burden of a superhuman task, the burden of the wholeworld, the reconstruction of the world's morality, its estheticprinciples, its faith, the forging of a new humanity. --Such we havebeen. 

You young men, you men of to-day, march over us, trample us under yourfeet, and press onward. Be ye greater and happier than we. For myself, I bid the soul that was mine farewell. I cast it from melike 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 wieviel grauen Stunden]

Life passes. Body and soul flow onward like a stream. The years arewritten in the flesh of the ageing tree. The whole visible world of formis forever wearing out and springing to new life. Thou only dost notpass, immortal music. Thou art the inward sea. Thou art the profounddepths of the soul. In thy clear eyes the scowling face of life is notmirrored. Far, far from thee, like the herded clouds, flies theprocession of days, burning, icy, feverish, driven by uneasiness, huddling, moving on, on, never for one moment to endure. Thou only dostnot 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 ofthe stars in the great spaces of the field of night, marking theirluminous track-plows of silver guided by the sure hand of the invisibleox-herd. 

Music, serene music, how sweet is thy moony light to eyes wearied of theharsh brilliance of this world's sun! The soul that has lived and turnedaway from the common horse-pond, where, as they drink, men stir up themud with their feet, nestles to thy bosom, and from thy breasts issuckled with the clear running water of dreams. Music, thou virginmother, 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 ofrushes, or as the pale green glacier water, enfoldest good and evil, thou art beyond evil, thou art beyond good; he that taketh refuge withthee is raised above the passing of time: the succession of days will bebut one day; and death that devours everything on such an one will neverclose its jaws. 

Music, thou who hast rocked my sorrow-laden soul; music, thou who hastmade me firm in strength, calm and joyous, --my love and my treasure, --Ikiss thy pure lips, I hide my face in thy honey-sweet hair. I lay myburning eyelids upon the cool palms of thy hands. No word we speak, oureyes are closed, and I see the ineffable light of thine eyes, and Idrink the smile of thy silent lips: and, pressed close to thy heart, Ilisten to the throb of eternal life. 

I

Christophe loses count of the fleeting years. Drop by drop life ebbsaway. But _his_ life is elsewhere. It has no history. His historylies wholly in his creative work. The unceasing buzzing song of musicfills his soul, and makes him insensible to the outward tumult. 

Christophe has conquered. His name has been forced upon the world. He isageing. His hair is white. That is nothing to him, his heart is everyoung: he has surrendered none of his force, none of his faith. Oncemore 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, thememory of his glimpse into the abyss of the raging seas. He knows thatno man may boast of being master of himself without the permission ofthe God of battle. In his soul there are two souls. One is a highplateau swept by winds and shrouded with, clouds. The other, higherstill, 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 knowsthe path that leads to the sun. In his misty soul Christophe is notalone. Near him he ever feels the presence of an invisible friend, thesturdy Saint Cecilia, listening with wide, calm eyes to the heavens;and, like the Apostle Paul, --in Raphael's picture, --silent anddreaming, leaning on his sword, he is beyond exasperation, and has nothought 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 fewerintermediaries between his ideas and their realization; his ideas wereless in danger of losing force in the course of their percolation. Frescobaldi, Couperin, Schubert, and Chopin, in their boldness ofexpression and style, anticipated the revolutionaries in orchestralmusic by fifty years. Out of the crude stuff shaped by Christophe'sstrong hands came strange and unknown agglomerations of harmony, bewildering combinations of chords, begotten of the remotest kinships ofsounds accessible to the senses in these days; they cast a magical andholy spell upon the mind. --But the public must have time to growaccustomed to the conquests and the trophies which a great artist bringsback with him from his quest in the deep waters of the ocean. Very fewwould follow Christophe in the temerity of his later works. His fame wasdue to his earlier compositions. The feeling of not being understood, which is even more painful in success than in the lack of it, becausethere seems to be no way out of it, had, since the death of his onlyfriend, aggravated in Christophe his rather morbid tendency to seekisolation from the world. 

However, the gates of Germany were open to him once more. In France thetragic brawl had been forgotten. He was free to go whithersoever hepleased. But he was afraid of the memories that would lie in wait forhim in Paris. And, although he had spent a few months in Germany andreturned there from time to time to conduct performances of his work, hedid not settle there. He found too many things which hurt him. They werenot particular to Germany: he found them elsewhere. But a man expectsmore of his own country than any other, and he suffers more from itsfoibles. It was true, too, that Germany was bearing the greatest burdenof the sins of Europe. The victor incurs the responsibility of hisvictory, a debt towards the vanquished: tacitly the victor is pledged tomarch 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 ofSedan given to the world? The glitter of bayonets? Thought withoutwings, action without generosity, brutal realism, which has not even theexcuse of being the realism of healthy men; force and interest: Marsturned bagman. Forty years ago Europe was led astray into the night, andthe terrors of the night. The sun was hidden beneath the conqueror'shelmet. If the vanquished are too weak to raise the extinguisher, andcan claim only pity mingled with contempt, what shall be given to thevictor who has done this thing?

A little while ago, day began to peep: little shafts of light shimmeredthrough 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 returnedto the country in which he had been a sojourner perforce, toSwitzerland. Like so many of the spirits of that time, spirits thirstingfor liberty, choking in the narrowing circle of the hostile nations, hesought a corner of the earth in which he could stand above Europe andbreathe freely. Formerly, in the days of Goethe, the Rome of the freePopes was the island upon which all the winged thought of divers nationscame to rest, like birds taking shelter from the storm. Now what refugeis there? The island has been covered by the sea. Rome is no more. Thebirds have fled from the Seven Hills. --The Alps only are left for them. There, amid the rapacity of Europe, stands (for how long?) the littleisland of twenty-four cantons. In truth it has not the poetic radianceand glamor of the Eternal City: history has not filled its air with thebreath of gods and heroes; but a mighty music rises from the nakedEarth; there is an heroic rhythm in the lines of the mountains, andhere, more than anywhere else, a man can feel himself in contact withelemental forces. Christophe did not go there in search of romanticpleasure. A field, a few trees, a stream, the wide sky, were enough tomake him feel alive. The calm aspect of his native country was sweeterand more companionable to him than the gigantic grandeur of the Alps. But he could not forget that it was here that he had renewed hisstrength: here God had appeared to him in the Burning Bush; and he neverreturned thither without a thrill of gratitude and faith. He was not theonly one. How many of the combatants of life, ground beneath life'sheel, 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 ofthose who pass through it see only its excrescences: the leprosy of thehotels which defiles the fairest features of that sturdy piece of earth, the stranger cities, the monstrous marts whither all the fatted peopleof the world come to browse, the _table d'hôte_ meals, the massesof food flung into the trough for the nosing beasts: the casino bandswith their silly music mingling with the noise of the little horses, theItalian scum whose disgusting uproar makes the bored wealthy idiotswriggle 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 worthybooksellers with their scandalous pamphlets, --all the moral baseness ofthose places whither every year the idle, joyless millions come who areincapable of finding amusement in the smallest degree finer than that ofthe multitude, or one tithe as keen. 

And they know nothing of the people in whose land they stay. They haveno notion of the reserves of moral force and civic liberty which forcenturies have been hoarded up in them, coals of the fires of Calvin andZwingli, still glowing beneath the ashes; they have no conception of thevigorous democratic spirit which will always ignore the NapoleonicRepublic, of the simplicity of their institutions, or the breadth oftheir social undertakings, or the example given to the world by theseUnited States of the three great races of the West, the model of theEurope of the future. Even less do they know of the Daphne concealedbeneath this rugged bark, the wild, flashing dreams of Boecklin, theraucous heroism of Hodler, the serene vision and humor of GottfriedKeller, the living tradition of the great popular festivals, and the sapof springtime swelling the trees, --the still young art, sometimesrasping to the palate, like the hard fruits of wild pear-trees, sometimes with the sweetish insipidity of myrtles black and blue, but atleast something smacking of the earth, is the work of self-taught mennot 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 thanto be, and, under the recent veneer of an ultramodern industrialism, keep clearly marked the most reposeful features of the old Europe ofpeasants and townsmen. Among them he had found a few good friends, grave, serious, and faithful, who hold isolated and immured in themregrets for the past; they were looking on at the gradual disappearanceof the old Switzerland with a sort of religious fatalism and Calvinisticpessimism; great gray souls. Christophe seldom saw them. His old woundswere 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 thisreason that he liked to dwell in a country where it was easy to liveapart, a stranger amid a throng of strangers. For the rest he rarelystayed long in any one place; often he changed his lair: he was like anold 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 alongwith his hat in his hand, up a winding road. He came to a neck where theroad took a double turn, and passed into shadow between two slopes; oneither side were nut-trees and pines. It was like a little shut-inworld. On either hand the road seemed to come to an end, cut off at theedge of the void. Beyond were blue distance and the gleaming air. Thepeace of evening came down like a gentle rain. 

They came together each at the same moment turning the bend at eitherend of the neck. She was dressed in black, and stood out against theclear sky: behind her were two children, a boy and a girl, between sixand eight, who were playing and picking flowers. They recognized eachother at a distance of a few yards. Their emotion was visible in theireyes; but neither brought it into words; each gave only an imperceptiblemovement. He was deeply moved: she . . . Her lips trembled a little. Theystopped. Almost in a whisper:

"Grazia!"

"You here!"

They held out their hands and stood without a word. Grazia was the firstto 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: theywere absorbed in gazing at each other. The children came back to her. She introduced them. He felt hostile towards them, and looked at themwith no kindness, and said nothing: he was engrossed with her, occupiedonly in studying her beautiful face that bore some marks of sufferingand 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. Hewas too much moved to say more, and left her awkwardly. But when he hadtaken a few strides he came back to the children, who were pickingstrawberries, and took them roughly in his arms and kissed them, andwent away. 

In the evening he went to the hotel, and found her on the veranda, withthe blinds drawn. They sat apart. There were very few people about, onlytwo or three old people. Christophe was irritated by their presence. Grazia looked at him, and he looked at her, and murmured her name overand 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 andpassion in his face. 

They were at a loss for words. 

"Please, " he said, a moment later, "let us go somewhere else. Could wenot find somewhere to be alone and talk?"

"No, my dear. Let us stay here. It is good enough here. No one isheeding 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 theirconversation, he thought she had not trusted him. But she wasinstinctively afraid of emotional scenes: unconsciously she was seekingprotection from any surprise of their hearts: the very awkwardness oftheir intimacy in a public room, so sheltering the modesty of her secretemotions, was dear to her. 

In whispers, with long intervals of silence, they sketched their livesin outline. Count Berény had been killed in a duel a few months ago; andChristophe saw that she had not been very happy with him. Also, she hadlost a child, her first-born. She made no complaint, and turned theconversation from herself to question Christophe, and, as he told her ofhis tribulations, she showed the most affectionate compassion. Bellsrang. It was Sunday evening. Life stood still. 

She asked him to come again next day but one. He was hurt that sheshould be so little eager to see him again. In his heart happiness andsorrow were mingled. 

Next day, on some pretext, she wrote and asked him to come. He wasdelighted with her little note. This time she received him in herprivate room. She was with her two children. He looked at them, still alittle uneasily, but very tenderly. He thought the little girl--theelder of the two--very like her mother: but he did not try to match theboy's looks. They talked about the country, the times, the books lyingopen on the table:--but their eyes spoke of other things. He was hopingto be able to talk more intimately when a hotel acquaintance came in. Hemarked the pleasure and politeness with which Grazia received thestranger: she seemed to make no difference between her two visitors. Hewas hurt by it, but could not be angry with her. She proposed that theyshould 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 butfor the hours he was to spend with her. --Once more his efforts to speakto her were doomed to failure. While she was very gentle and kind withhim, she could not throw off her reserve. All unconsciously Christopheadded to her difficulty by his outbursts of German sentimentality, whichembarrassed 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 avery little time in which to see each other, and it was pitiful, almostcriminal, not to employ it in frank converse. 

She replied with a few affectionate words, begging him to excuse her forher distrust, which she could not avoid, since she had been so much hurtby life: she could not break her habitual reserve: any excessivedisplay, even of a genuine feeling, hurt and terrified her. But well sheknew the worth of the friendship that had come to her once more: and shewas 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, hesobbed. 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 gavethe word of resurrection to his heart that was so famished fortenderness. Tenderness!. . . He thought he had put it from him: he hadbeen forced to learn how to do without it! Now he felt how sorely heneeded it, and the great stores of love that had accumulated in him. . . . 

It was a sweet and blessed evening that they spent together. . . . Hecould only speak to her of trivial subjects, in spite of their intentionto hide nothing from each other. But what goodly things he told herthrough the piano, which with her eyes she invited him to use to tellher what he had to say! She was struck by the humility of the man whomshe had known in his violence and pride. When he went away the silentpressure of their hands told them that they had found each other, andwould never lose what they had regained. --It was raining, and there wasnot a breath of wind. His heart was singing. 

She was only able to stay a few days longer, and she did not postponeher 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 amoment when he was so full of love and happiness that he tried to tellher 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 smilingshe looked down into the valley below: but it was not the valley thatshe saw. He looked at the gentle face marked with the traces of bittersuffering: a few white tresses showed in her thick black hair. He wasfilled with a pitying, passionate adoration of this beloved creature whohad travailed and been impregnated with the suffering of the soul. Inevery one of the marks of time upon her the soul was visible. --And, in alow, trembling voice, he craved, as a precious favor, which she grantedhim, a white hair from her head. 

 * * * * *

She went away. He could not understand why she would not have himaccompany her. He had no doubt of her feeling for him, but her reservedisconcerted him. He could not stay alone in that place, and set out inanother direction. He tried to occupy his mind with traveling and work. He wrote to Grazia. She answered him, two or three week later, withvery brief letters, in which she showed her tranquil friendship, knowingneither impatience nor uneasiness. They hurt him and he loved them. Hewould not admit that he had any right to reproach her; their affectionwas too recent, too recently renewed. He was fearful of losing it. Andyet every letter he had from her breathed a calm loyalty which shouldhave made him feel secure. But she was so different from him!. . . 

They had agreed to meet in Rome, towards the end of the autumn. Withoutthe thought of seeing her, the journey would have had little charm forChristophe. His long isolation had made him retiring: he had no tastefor that futile hurrying from place to place which is so dear to theindolence 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 hadno attractions for him. He knew it only in the villainous music of theVerists and the tenor arias to which every now and then the land ofVirgil inspires men of letters on their travels. He felt towards Italythe hostility of an advanced artist, who has too often heard the name ofRome invoked by the worst champions of academic routine. Finally, theold leaven of instinctive antipathy which ever lies fermenting in thehearts of the men of the North towards the men of the South, or at leasttowards the legendary type of rhetorical braggart which, in the eyes ofthe men of the North, represents the men of the South. At the merethought of it Christophe disdainfully curled his lip. . . . No, he had nodesire for the more acquaintance of the musicless people--(for, in themusic of modern Europe, what is the place of their mandolin tinkling andmelodramatic posturing declamation?). --And yet Grazia belonged to thispeople. To join her again, whither and by what devious ways wouldChristophe not have gone? He would win through by shutting his eyesuntil he came to her. 

 * * * * *

He was used to shutting his eyes. For so many years the shutters of hissoul had been closed upon his inward life. Now, in this late autumn, itwas more necessary than ever. For three weeks together it had rainedincessantly. Then a gray pall of impenetrable mists had hung over thevalleys and towns of Switzerland, dripping and wet. His eyes hadforgotten the sunlight. To rediscover in himself its concentrated energyhe 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 hisdreams. There in the seams of coal slept the sun of days gone by. But asthe result of spending his life crouching there, digging, he came outburned, stiff in back and knees, with limbs deformed, half petrified, dazed eyes, that, like a bird's, could see keenly in the night. Many atime Christophe had brought up from the mine the fire he had sopainfully extracted to warm the chill of heart. But the dreams of theNorth smack of the warmth of the fireside and the closed room. No mannotices it while he lives in it: dear is that heavy air, dear thehalf-light and the soul's dreams in the drowsy head. We love the thingswe have. We must be satisfied with them!. . . 

When, as he passed the barrier of the Alps, Christophe, dozing in acorner of the carriage, saw the stainless sky and the limpid lightfalling upon the slopes of the mountains, he thought he must bedreaming. On the other side of the wall he had left a darkened sky and afading day. So sudden was the change that at first he felt more surprisethan joy. It was some time before his drowsy soul awoke and began slowlyto expand and burst the crust that was upon it, and his heart could freeitself from the shadows of the past. But as the day wore on, the mellowlight took his soul into its arms, and, wholly forgetting all that hadbeen, 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. Eveningfalling on the Apennines. A winding descent by little sheer hills, snakelike curving, in a repeating, involved rhythm like afarandole. --And suddenly, at the bottom of the slope, like a kiss, thebreath of the sea and the smell of orange-trees. The sea, the Latin seaand its opal light, whereon, swaying, were the sails of little boatslike wings folded back. . . . 

By the sea, at a fishing-village, the train stopped for a while. It wasexplained to the passengers that there had been a landslip, as a resultof the heavy rains, in a tunnel between Genoa and Pisa: all the trainswere several hours late. Christophe, who was booked through to Rome, was delighted by the accident which provoked the loud lamentations ofhis fellow-passengers. He jumped down to the platform and made use ofthe stoppage to go down to the sea, which drew him on and on. The seacharmed him so that when, a few hours later, the engine whistled as itmoved 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 inthe boat, as it passed along the scented coast with its promontoriesfringed with tiny cypress-trees. He put up at a village and spent therefive days of unbroken joy. He was like a man issuing from a long fast, hungrily eating. With all his famished senses he gulped down thesplendid light. . . . Light, the blood of the world, that flows in spacelike 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 ofthy northern veils, pure, burning, naked, marvels how ever he could havelived without knowing thee, and deeply feels that he can never live morewithout possessing thee. . . . 

For five days Christophe was drunk with the sun. For five days heforgot--for the first time--that he was a musician. The music of hissoul was merged into light. The air, the sea, the earth: the brilliantsymphony played by the sun's orchestra. And with what innate art doesItaly know how to use that orchestra! Other peoples paint from Nature:the Italians collaborate with her: they paint with sunlight. The musicof color. All is music, everything sings. A wall by the roadside, red, fissured with gold: above it, two cypress-trees with their tuftedcrests: and all around the eager blue of the sky. A marble staircase, white, steep, narrow, climbing between pink walls against the blue frontof a church. Any one of their many-colored houses, apricot, lemon, cedrate, shining among the olive-trees, has the effect of a marvelousripe fruit among the leaves. In Italy seeing is sensual: the eyes enjoycolor, 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 hehad been condemned. His abounding nature, stifled by Fate, suddenlybecame conscious of powers of enjoyment which he had never used: theypounced on the prey presented to them; scents, colors, the music ofvoices, bells and the sea, the kisses of the air, the warm bath of lightin which his ageing, weary soul began to expand. . . . Christophe had nothought of anything. He was in a state of beatific delight, and onlyleft it to share his joy with those he met: his boatman, an oldfisherman, with quick eyes all wrinkled round, who wore a red cap likethat of a Venetian senator;--his only fellow-boarder, a Milanese, whoate macaroni and rolled his eyes like Othello: fierce black eyes filledwith a furious hatred; an apathetic, sleepy man;--the waiter in therestaurant, who, when he carried a tray, bent his neck, and twisted hisarms and his body like an angel of Bernini;--the little Saint John, withsly, winking eyes, who begged on the road, and offered the passers-by anorange on a green branch. He would hail the carriage-drivers, sittinghuddled on their seats, who every now and then would, in a nasal, droning, throaty voice, intone the thousand and one couplets. He wasamazed to find himself humming _Cavalleria Rusticana_. He hadentirely forgotten the end of his journey. Forgotten, too, was his hasteto reach the end and Grazia. . . . 

Forgotten altogether was she until the day when the beloved image rosebefore 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, fromeverything about him, from the circling, olive-clad hills, from thehigh, shining peaks of the Apennines, graven by the dense shadows andthe burning sun, and from the orange-groves heavy with flowers andfruit, and the deep, heaving breath of the sea, there shone the smilingface of the beloved. Through the countless eyes of the air, her eyeswere upon him. In that beloved earth she flowered, like a rose upon arose-tree. 

Then he regained possession of himself. He took the train for Rome andnever stopped. He had no interest in the old memories of Italy, or thecities 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 leaveSwitzerland?"

"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 nevernoticed its name. I slept for a week. Slept, with my eyes open. I do notknow what I have seen, or what I have dreamed. I think I was dreaming ofyou. I know that it was very beautiful. But the most lovely part of itall is that I forgot everything. . . . "

"Thank you!" she said. 

(He did not listen. )

". . . Everything, " he went on. "Everything that was then, everything thathad been before. I am a new man. I am beginning to live again. "

"It is true, " she said, looking into his laughing eyes. "You havechanged since we last met. "

He looked at her, too, and found her no less different from his memoryof her. Not that she had changed in two months, but he was seeing herwith new eyes. Yonder, in Switzerland, the image of old days, the faintshadow of the girl Grazia, had flitted between his gaze and this newactual beloved. Now, in the sun of Italy, the dreams of the North hadmelted 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 metone evening, shortly after her marriage, only to lose her again! Out ofthe 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 aproud languor. The very genius of tranquillity hovered in her presence. She had that greed of sunny silence, and still contemplation, thedelightful joy in the peace of living which the people of the North willnever really know. What especially she had preserved out of the past washer great kindness which inspired all her other feelings. But in herluminous smile many new things were to be read: a melancholy indulgence, a little weariness, much knowledge of the ways of men, a fine irony, andtranquil common sense. The years had veiled her with a certain coldness, which protected her against the illusions of the heart; rarely could shesurrender herself; and her tenderness was ever on the alert, with asmile that seemed to know and tell everything, against the passionateimpulses that Christophe found it hard to suppress. She had herweaknesses, moments of abandonment to the caprice of the minute, acoquetry at which she herself mocked but never fought against. She wasnever in revolt against things, nor against herself: she had come to agentle fatalism, and she was altogether kind, but a little weary. 

 * * * * *

She entertained a great deal, and--at least, in appearance--not veryselectively: but as, for the most part, her intimates belonged to thesame world, breathed the same atmosphere, had been fashioned by the samehabits, they were homogeneous and harmonious enough, and very differentfrom the polite assemblages that Christophe had known in France andGermany. The majority were of old Italian families, vivified here andthere by foreign marriages; they all had a superficial cosmopolitanismand a comfortable mixture of the four chief languages, and theintellectual baggage of the four great nations of the West. Each nationbrought into the pool its personal characteristic, the Jews theirrestlessness and the Anglo-Saxons their phlegm, but everything wasquickly absorbed in the Italian melting-pot. When centuries of greatplundering barons have impressed on a race the haughty and rapaciousprofile of a bird of prey, the metal may change, but the imprint remainsthe same. Many of the faces that seemed the most pronouncedly Italian, with a Luini smile, or the voluptuous, calm gaze of a Titian, flowers ofthe Adriatic, or the plains of Lombardy, had blossomed on the shrubs ofthe North transplanted to the old Latin soil. Whatever colors be spreadon the palette of Rome, the color which stands out is always Roman. 

Christophe could not analyze his impressions, but he admired the perfumeof an age-old culture, an ancient civilization exhaled by these people, who were often mediocre, and, in some cases, less than mediocre. It wasa subtle perfume, springing from the smallest trifles. A gracefulcourtesy, a gentleness of manners that could be charming andaffectionate, 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 nothingeither stiff or familiar. Nothing literary. Here there was no fear ofmeeting the psychologues of a Parisian drawing-room, ensconced behindtheir eyeglasses, or the corporalism of a German pedant. They were men, quite simply, and very human men, such as were the friends of Terenceand 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 politesociety of every country. But what made this society characteristic ofits race was its indolence. The frivolity of the French is accompaniedby a fever of the nerves--a perpetual agitation of the mind, even whenit is empty. The brain of the Italian knows how to rest. It knows itonly too well. It is sweet to sleep in the warm shadows, on the softpillow 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. Amongthem were charming natures, handsome, fine-featured patrician, Italianfaces, with soft, intelligent eyes, men with gentle, quiet manners, who, with exquisite taste and affectionate hearts, loved Nature, the oldmasters, flowers, women, books, good food, their country, music. . . . Theyloved everything. They preferred nothing. Sometimes one felt that theyloved nothing. Love played so large a part in their lives, but only oncondition that it never disturbed them. Their love was indolent andlazy, like themselves; even in their passion it was apt to take on adomestic character. Their solid, harmonious intelligence was fitted withan inertia in which all the opposites of thought met without collision, were tranquilly yoked together, smiling, cushioned, and renderedharmless. They were afraid of any thorough belief, of taking sides, andwere at their ease in semi-solutions and half-thoughts. They wereconservative-liberal in temper of mind. They needed politics and arthalf-way up the hill, like those health resorts where there is no dangerof asthma or palpitations. They recognized themselves in the lazy playsof Goldoni, or the equally diffused light of Manzoni. Their amiableindifference was never disturbed. Never could they have said like theirgreat ancestors: _"Primum vivere . . . "_ but rather _"Dapprima, quieto vivere. "_

To live in peace. That was the secret vow, the aim of even the mostenergetic of those who controlled politics. A little Machiavelli, masterof himself and others, with a heart as cold as his head, a lucid, boredintelligence, knowing how and daring to use all means to gain his ends, ready to sacrifice all his friends to his ambition, would be capable ofsacrificing his ambition to one thing only: his _quieto vivere_. They needed long periods of absolute lassitude. When they issued fromthem, 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, tobe gay, to plunge into social life; then they would break out into aprofusion of gestures and words, paradoxical sallies, burlesque humor:they were always playing an _opera bouffe_. In that gallery ofItalian portraits rarely would you find the marks of thought, themetallic brilliance of the eyes, faces stained with the perpetual laborof the mind, such as are to be found in the North. And yet, here, aselsewhere, there was no lack of souls turned in upon themselves, to feedupon themselves, concealing their woes, and desires and cares seethingbeneath the mask of indifference, and, voluptuously, drawing on a cloakof torpor. And, in certain faces there would peep out, queerly, disconcertingly, indications of some obscure malady of the spiritpeculiar to very ancient races--like the excavations in the RomanCampagna. 

There was great charm in the enigmatic indifference of these people, andtheir calm, mocking eyes, wherein there slumbered hidden tragedy. ButChristophe was in no humor to recognize it. He was furious at seeingGrazia surrounded by worldly people with their courteous, witty, andempty manners. He hated them for it, and he was angry with her. Hesulked at her just as he sulked at Rome. His visits to her became lessand less frequent, and he began to make up his mind to go. 

 * * * * *

He did not go. Unknown to himself, he was beginning to feel theattraction of Italian society, though it irritated him so much. 

For the time being, he isolated himself and lounged about Rome and theenvironment. The Roman light, the hanging gardens, the Campagna, encircled, as by a golden scarf, by the sunlit sea, little by littledelivered up to him the secret of the enchanted land. He had sworn notto move a step to see the monuments of the dead, which he affected todespise: he used grumblingly to declare that he would wait until theycame to look for him. They came; he happened on them by chance on hisrambling through the City of many hills. Without having looked for it, he saw the Forum red under the setting sun, and the half-ruined archesof the Palatine and behind them the deep azure vault of heaven, a gulfof blue light. He wandered in the vast Campagna, near the ruddy Tiber, thick with mud, like moving earth, --and along the ruined aqueducts, likethe gigantic vertebrae of antediluvian monsters. Thick masses of blackclouds rolled across the blue sky. Peasants on horseback goaded acrossthe desert great herds of pearly-gray cattle with long horns; and alongthe ancient road, straight, dusty, and bare, goat-footed shepherds, cladin thick skins, walked in silence. On the far horizon, the Sabine Chain, with its Olympian lines, unfolded its hills; and on the other edge ofthe cup of the sky the old walls of the city, the front of Saint John'sChurch, surmounted with statues which danced in black silhouette. . . . Silence. . . . A fiery sun. . . . The wind passed over the plain. . . . On aheadless, armless statue, almost inundated by the waving grass, alizard, with its heart beating tranquilly, lay motionless, absorbed, drinking in its fill of light. And Christophe, with his head buzzingwith the sunshine (sometimes also with the _Castelli_ wine), sitting onthe black earth near the broken statue, smiling, sleepy, lostin forgetfulness, breathed in the calm, tremendous force of Rome. --Untilnightfall. --Then, with his heart full of a sudden anguish, he fled fromthe gloomy solitude in which the tragic light was sinking. . . . O earth, burning earth, earth passionate and dumb! Beneath thy fevered peace Istill can hear the trumpeting of the legions. What a fury of life isshining in thy bosom! What a mighty desire for an awakening!

Christophe found men in whose souls there burned brands of the age-oldfire. Beneath the ruse of the dead they had been preserved. It mightbe thought that the fire had died down with the closing of Mazzini'seyes. It was springing to life again. It was the same. Very fewwished to see it. It troubled the quiet of those who were asleep. Itgave a clear and brutal light. Those who bore it aloft, --young men (theeldest was not thirty-five), a little band of the elect come from everypoint of the horizon, men of free intellect who were all different intemperament, education, opinions, and faith--were all united in worshipof this flame of the new life. The etiquette of parties, systems ofthought, mattered not to them: the great thing was to "think withcourage. " To be frank, to be brave, in mind and deed. Rudely theydisturbed the sleep of their race. After the political resurrection ofItaly, awakened from death by the summons of her heroes, after herrecent economic resurrection, they had set themselves to pluck Italianthought from the grave. They suffered, as from an insult, from theindolent and timid indifference of the elect, their cowardice of mindand verbolatry. Their _Voices_ rang hollow in the midst ofrhetoric and the moral slavery which for centuries had been gatheringinto a crust upon the soul of their country. They breathed into it theirmerciless realism and their uncompromising loyalty. Though upon occasionthey were capable of sacrificing their own personal intellectualpreferences to the duty of discipline which national life imposes on theindividual, yet they reserved their highest altar and their purest ardorfor the truth. They loved truth with fiery, pious hearts. Insulted byhis adversaries, defamed, threatened, one of the leaders of these youngmen replied, with grand, calm dignity:

_"Respect the truth. I speak to you now, from my heart, with no shadeof bitterness. I forget the ill I have received at your hands and theevil that I may have done you. Be true. There is no conscience, there isno noble life, there is no capacity for sacrifice where there is not areligious, a rigid, and a rigorous respect for truth. Strive, then, tofulfil this difficult duty. Untruth corrupts whoever makes use of itbefore it overcomes him against whom it is used. What does it matterthat you gain an immediate success? The roots of your soul will remainwithered in the air above the soil that is crumbled away with untruth. We are on a plane superior to our disagreements, even though on yourlips your passion brings the name of our country. There is one thinggreater than a man's country, and that is the human conscience. Thereare laws which you must not violate on pain of being bad Italians. Yousee before you now only a man who is a seeker after truth: you must hearhis cry. You have before you now only a man who ardently desires to seeyou 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 willbe) will bear our common mark, the mark of us all, if we have laboredwith truth. The essence of man lies in this, in his marvelous facultyfor seeking truth, seeing it, loving it, and sacrificing himself toit. --Truth, that over all who possess it spends the magic breath of itspuissant health!. . . "_ [Footnote: The hymn to Truth here introduced isan abridgment of an article by Giuseppe Prezzolini (_La Voce_, April 13, 1911). ]

The first time Christophe heard these words they seemed to him like anecho 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 flingthem into the position of adversaries in the mêlée; but, friends orenemies, they were, and would always be, members of the same humanfamily. They knew it, even as he. They knew it, before he did. They knewhim before he knew them, for they had been friends of Olivier's. Christophe discovered that his friend's writings--(a few volumes ofverse and critical essays)--which had only been read by a very few inParis, had been translated by these Italians, and were as familiar tothem as to himself. 

Later on he was to discover the impassable distance which divided thesemen from Olivier. In their way of judging others they were entirelyItalian, incapable of the effort necessary to see beyond themselves, rooted in the ideas of their race. At bottom, in all good faith, inforeign literature they only sought what their national instinct waswilling to find in it; often they only took out of it what theythemselves had unconsciously read into it. Mediocre as critics, and aspsychologists contemptible, they were too single-minded, too full ofthemselves and their passions, even when they were the most enamored oftruth. Italian idealism cannot forget itself: it is not interested inthe impersonal dreams of the North; it leads everything back to itself, its desires, its pride of race, and transfigures them. Consciously orunconsciously, it is always toiling for the _terza Roma_. It mustbe said that for many centuries it has not taken much trouble to realizeit. These splendid Italians, who are cut out for action, only actthrough passion, and soon weary of it: but when the breath of passionrushes in their veins it raises them higher than all other nations; ashas been seen, for example, in their _Risorgimento_. --Some suchgreat wind as that had begun to pass over the young men of Italy of allparties: nationalists, socialists, neo-Catholics, free idealists, all theunyielding Italians, all, in hope and will, citizens of Imperial Rome, Queen of the universe. 

At first Christophe saw only their generous ardor and the commonantipathies which united him and them. They could not but join with himin their contempt for the fashionable society, against which Christopheraged on account of Grazia's preferences. More than he they hated thespirit of prudence, the apathy, the compromise, and buffoonery, thethings half said, the amphibious thoughts, the subtle dawdling of themind between all possibilities, without deciding on any one, the finephrases, the sweetness of it all. They were all self-taught men who hadpieced themselves together with everything they could lay their handson, but had had neither means nor leisure to put the finishing touch totheir work, and they were prone to exaggerate their natural coarsenessand their rather bitter tone fitting to rough _contadini. _ Theywished to provoke active hostility. Anything rather than indifference. In order to rouse the energy of their race they would gladly haveconsented 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 ofhis new friends. They were repugnant to her order-loving, peace-lovingnature. He had to recognize when he was with her that they had a way ofupholding the best of causes which sometimes provoked a desire in thebest of people to declare themselves hostile to it. They were ironicaland aggressive, in criticism harsh to the point of insult, even withpeople whom they had no desire to hurt. Having reached the sphere ofpublication before they had come to maturity, they passed with equalintolerance from one infatuation to another. Passionately sincere, giving themselves unreservedly, without stint or thought of economy, they were consumed by their excessive intellectuality, their precociousand blindly obstinate endeavors. It is not well for young ideas, hardlyout of the pod, to be exposed to the raw sunlight. The soul is scorchedby it. Nothing is made fruitful save with time and silence. Time andsilence these men had not allowed themselves. It is the misfortune ofonly 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 forevertwisted. 

Christophe appreciated the acid freshness of such green frankness incontrast with the insipidity of the people who frequented the middleway, the _via di mezzo, _ who are in perpetual fear of beingcompromised, 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 inwhich his new friends lived was very tiring. Christophe began bythinking it his duty to go to Grazia's house to defend them. Sometimeshe went there to forget them. No doubt he was like them, too much likethem. They were now what he had been twenty years ago. And life nevergoes back. At heart Christophe well knew that, for his own part, he hadforever said good-by to such violence, and that he was going towardspeace, 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 longedto be the only one to enjoy her peace. He could not bear Grazia todispense its benefits without marking how to all comers she extended thesame prodigally gracious welcome. 

 * * * * *

She read his thoughts, and, with her charming frankness, she said to himone day:

"You are angry with me for being what I am? You must not idealize me, mydear. I am a woman, and no better than another. I don't go out of my wayfor society; but I admit that I like it, just as I like going sometimesto 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 isa good deal, I assure you, when one finds honest people, with no harm inthem, kindly people. . . . (naturally, of course, supposing one expectsnothing of them; I know perfectly well that if I had need of them, Ishould not find many to help me. . . ). And yet they are fond of me, andwhen I find a little real affection, I hold the rest cheap. You areangry with me? Forgive me for being an ordinary person. I can at leastsee the difference between what is best and what is not so good inmyself. 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 heraffection that, after long hesitation, over many weeks, he asked her oneday:

"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 himfrankly:

"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. Wemust 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 youremember the old days when you had eyes only for my pretty cousin? I wassad then because you would not understand what I felt for you. Our wholelives 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 ofcommon life, the daily life, in which even the purest must bedebased. . . . "

"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 muchfaith in marriage left. Mine, I know, was not a very good example. But Ihave thought and looked about me. Happy marriages are very rare. It is alittle against nature. You cannot bind together the wills of two peoplewithout mutilating one of them, if not both, and it does not even bringthe suffering through which it is well and profitable for the soulto pass. "

"Ah!" he said. "But I can see in it a fine thing--the union of twosacrifices, two souls merged into one. "

"A fine thing, in your dreams. In reality you would suffer more than anyone. "

"What! You think I could never have a wife, a family, children?. . . Don'tsay that! I should love them so! You think it impossible for me to havethat happiness?"

"I don't know. I don't think so. Perhaps with a good woman, not veryintelligent, not very beautiful, who would be devoted to you, and wouldnot understand you. "

"How unkind of you!. . . But you are wrong to make fun of it. A good womanis 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 mymarrying another woman. "

"On the contrary, it is because I love you that I should be happy to doanything which could make you happy. "

"Then, if that is true. . . . "

"No, no. Don't go back to that. I tell you, it would make youmiserable. "

"Don't worry about me. I swear to you that I shall be happy! Speak thetruth: do you think that you would be unhappy with me?"

"Oh! Unhappy? No, my dear. I respect and admire you too much ever to beunhappy with you. . . . But, I will tell you: I don't think anything couldmake me very unhappy now. I have seen too much. I have becomephilosophical. . . . But, frankly--(You want me to? You won't beangry?)--well. I know my own weakness. I should, perhaps, be foolishenough, after a few months, not to be perfectly happy with you; and Iwill not have that, just because my affection for you is the most holything 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 arethings 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 shouldreproach myself with embarrassing you with my smaller personality, andthen 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 thanhave 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 tosacrifice 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 aswe 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 wearsone out unless one is very strong, like you. . . . Oh! you, there are timeswhen 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 seethat. But sometimes you look at me with the eyes of a boy, and I feelyou giving out a fresh stream of life. I am worn out. When I think of myold eagerness, then--alas! As one said, 'Those were great days. I wasvery unhappy!' I hold to life only by a thread. I should never be boldenough to try marriage again. Ah! Then! Then!. . . If you had only given asign!. . . "

"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 anymore. "

"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 becontent with our dear friendship?"

"I must. "

"Oh! Ungrateful! And you say you love me? Really, I think I love youbetter 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 broughther face close to Christophe's and kissed him. It was so unexpected! Hisheart leaped within him. He tried to take her in his arms. But she hadescaped. At the door of the little room she laid her finger on herlips. --"Hush!"--and disappeared. 

 * * * * *

From that moment on he did not again speak to her of his love, and hewas less awkward in his relation with her. Their alternations ofstrained silence and ill-suppressed violence were succeeded by a simplerestful intimacy. That is the advantage of frankness in friendship. Nomore hidden meanings, no more illusions, no more fears. Each knew theother's innermost thoughts. Now when Christophe was with Grazia in thecompany of strangers who irritated him and he lost patience at hearingher exchange with them the empty remarks usual in polite society, shewould notice it and look at him and smile. It was enough to let him knowthat 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 chastepossession of the loved presence. --Besides, Grazia shed on all about herthe silent charm of her harmonious nature. Any exaggeration of voice orgesture, even if it were involuntary, wounded her, as a thing that wasnot simple and beautiful. In this way she influenced Christophe littleby little. Though at first he tugged at the bridle put upon hiseagerness, he slowly gained the mastery of himself, and he was all thestronger since his force was not wasted in useless violence. 

Their souls met and mingled. Grazia, who had smilingly surrendered tothe sweetness of living, was awaked from her slumber by contact withChristophe's moral energy. She took a more direct and less passiveinterest in the things of the mind. She used to read very little, preferring to browse indolently over the same old books, but now shebegan to be curious about new ideas, and soon came to feel theirattraction. The wealth of the world of modern ideas, which was notunknown to her though she had never cared to adventure in it alone, nolonger frightened her now that she had a companion and guide. Insensiblyshe suffered herself, while she protested against it, to be drawn on toan understanding of the young Italians, whose ardent iconoclasm hadalways been distasteful to her. 

But Christophe profited the more by this mutual perception. It has oftenbeen observed in love that the weaker of the two gives the most: it isnot that the other loves less, but, being stronger, must take more. SoChristophe had already been enriched by Olivier's mind. But this newmystic marriage was far more fruitful; for Grazia brought him for herdowry the rarest treasure, that Olivier had never possessed--joy. Thejoy of the soul and of the eyes. Light. The smile of the Latin sky, thatloves the ugliness of the humblest things, and sets the stones of theold walls flowering, and endows even sadness with its calm radiance. 

The budding spring entered into alliance with her. The dream of new lifewas teeming in the warmth of the slumbering air. The young green waswedding with the silver-gray of the olive-trees. Beneath the dark redarches of the ruined aqueducts flowered the white almond-trees. In theawakening Campagna waved the seas of grass and the triumphant flames ofthe poppies. Down the lawns of the villas flowed streams of purpleanemones and sheets of violets. The glycine clambered up theumbrella-shaped pines, and the wind blowing over the city brought thescent of the roses of the Palatine. 

They went for walks together. When she was able to shake off the almostOriental torpor, in which for hours together she would muse, she becameanother creature: she loved walking; she was tall, with a fine length ofleg, and a strong, supple figure, and she looked like a Diana ofPrimatice. --Most often they would go to one of the villas, left likeflotsam from the shipwreck of the Splendid Rome of the _setticento_under the assault of the flood of the Piedmontese barbarians. Theypreferred, above all, the Villa Mattei, that promontory of ancient Rome, beneath which the last waves of the deserted Campagna sink and die. Theyused to go down the avenue of oaks that, with its deep vault, frames theblue, the pleasant chains of the Alban hills, softly swelling like abeating heart. Along the path through the leaves they could see thetombs of Roman husbands and wives, lying sadly there, with hands claspedin fidelity. They used to sit down at the end of the avenue, under anarbor of roses against a white sarcophagus. Behind them the desert. Profound peace. The murmuring of a slow-dropping fountain, tricklinglanguidly, so languidly that it seemed on the point of dying. They wouldtalk in whispers. Grazia's eyes would trustfully gaze into the eyes ofher friend. Christophe would tell her of his life, his struggles, hispast sorrows; and there was no more sadness in them. In her presence, with her eyes upon him, everything was simple, everything seemedinevitable. . . . She, in her turn, would tell of her life. He hardly heardwhat she said, but none of her thoughts were lost upon him. His soul andhers were wedded. He saw with her eyes. Everywhere he saw her eyes, hertranquil eyes, in the depths of which there burned an ardent fire; hesaw them in the fair, mutilated faces of the antique statues and in theriddle of their silent gaze: he saw them in the sky of Rome, lovelylaughing around the matted crests of the cypress-trees and through thefingers of the _lecci, _ black, shining, riddled with the sun's arrows. 

Through Grazia's eyes the meaning of Latin art reached his heart. Tillthen Christophe had been entirely indifferent to the work of theItalians. The barbarian idealist, the great bear from the Germanforests, had not yet learned to taste the delicious savor of the lovelygilded marbles, golden as honey. The antiques of the Vatican werefrankly repulsive to him. He was disgusted by their stupid faces, theireffeminate or massive proportions, their banal, rounded modeling, allthe Gitons and gladiators. Hardly more than a few portrait-statues foundfavor in his sight, and the originals had absolutely no interest forhim. He was no more kindly towards the pale, grimacing Florentines andtheir sick Madonnas and pre-Raphaelite Venuses, anaemic, consumptive, affected, and tormented. And the bestial stupidity of the red, sweatingbullies and athletes let loose upon the world by the example of theSistine Chapel made him think of cast-iron. Only for Michael Angelo didhe have a secret feeling of pious sympathy with his tragic sufferings, his divine contempt, and the loftiness of his chaste passions. With apure barbaric love, like that of the master, he loved the religiousnudity of his youths, his shy, wild virgins, like wild creatures caughtin a trap, the sorrowful Aurora, the wild-eyed Madonna, with her Childbiting at her breast, and the lovely Lia, whom he would fain have had towife. But in the soul of the tormented hero he found nothing more thanthe echo of his own. 

Grazia opened the gates of a new world of art for him. He entered intothe sovereign serenity of Raphael and Titian. He saw the imperialsplendor of the classic genius, which, like a lion, reigns over theuniverse of form conquered and mastered. The flashing vision of thegreat Venetian which goes straight to the heart of life, and with itslightning cleaves the hovering mists that veil it, the masterful mightof these Latin minds that cannot only conquer, but also conquerthemselves, and in victory impose upon themselves the straitestdiscipline, and, on the field of battle, have the art exactly to choosetheir rightful booty from among the spoils of the enemy overthrown--theOlympian portraits and the _stanze_ of Raphael filled Christophe'sheart with music richer than Wagner's, the music of serene lives, noblearchitecture, harmonious grouping, the music which shines forth from theperfect beauty of face, hands, feet, draperies, and gestures. Intelligence. Love. The stream of love which springs from those youthfulsouls and bodies. The might of the spirit and delight. Young tenderness, ironic wisdom, the warm obsessing odor of amorous bodies, the luminoussmile in which the shadows are blotted out and passion slumbers. Thequivering force of life rearing and reined in, like the horses of theSun, by the sturdy hand of the master. . . . 

And Christophe wondered:

"Is it impossible to unite, as they have done, the force and the peaceof the Romans? Nowadays the best men aspire only to force or peace, oneto the detriment of the other. Of all men the Italians seem most utterlyto have lost the sense of harmony which Poussin, Lorraine, and Goetheunderstood. Must a stranger once more reveal to them its work?. . . Andwhat man shall teach it to our musicians? Music has not yet had itsRaphael. Mozart is only a child, a little German bourgeois, withfeverish hands and sentimental soul, who uses too many words, too manygestures, and chatters and weeps and laughs over nothing. And neitherthe Gothic Bach nor the Prometheus of Bonn, struggling with the vulture, nor his offspring of Titans piling Pelion on Ossa, and hurlingimprecations at the Heavens, hare ever seen the smile of God. . . . "

After he had seen it, Christophe was ashamed of his own music; his vainagitation, his turgid passions, his indiscreet exclamations, his paradeof himself, his lack of moderation, seemed to him both pitiable andshameful. A flock of sheep without a shepherd, a kingdom without aking. --A man must be the king of his tumultuous soul. . . . 

During these months Christophe seemed to have forgotten music. He hardlywrote at all, feeling no need for it. His mind, fertilized by Rome, wasin a period of gestation. He spent days together in a dreamy state ofsemi-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 loversembracing in their sleep. The feverish enigma of the Campagna was nolonger hostile and disturbing to him; he had made himself master of itstragic beauty; in his arms he held Demeter, sleeping. 

 * * * * *

During April he received an invitation from Paris to go there andconduct a series of concerts. Without troubling to think it over, hedecided to refuse, but thought it better to mention it to Grazia. It wasvery sweet to him to consult her about his life, for it gave him theillusion that she shared it. 

This time she gave him a shock of disillusion. She made him explain thewhole matter to her, and advised him to accept. He was very hurt, andsaw in her advice the proof of her indifference. 

Probably Grazia was sorry to give him such advice. But why didChristophe ask her for it? The more he turned to her and asked her todecide for him, the more she thought herself responsible for herfriend's actions. As a result of their interchange of ideas she hadgained from Christophe a little of his will-power: he had revealed toher duty and the beauty of action. At least she had recognized duty asfar 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 Italiansoil, which, like the insidious poison of its warm _scirocco_, creeps into the veins and sends the will to sleep. How often had she notfelt its maleficent charm, and had no power to resist it! All herfriends were more or less tainted by this malaria of the soul. Strongermen than they had in old days fallen victim to it: it had rusted awaythe brass of the Roman she-wolf. Rome breathes forth death: it is toofull of graves. It is healthier to stay there for a little time than tolive there. Too easily does one slip out of one's own time, a dangeroustaste 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 airfor an artist. And although she had more friendship for Christophe thanfor any other . . . (dared she confess it?) . . . She was not, at heart, sorry for him to go. Alas! He wearied her with the very qualities thatshe most loved in him, his overflowing intelligence, his abundance ofvitality, accumulated for years, and now brimming over: her tranquillitywas disturbed by it. And he wearied her, too, perhaps, because she wasalways conscious of the menace of his love, beautiful and touching, butever-present: so that she had always to be on her guard against it; itwas more prudent to keep him at a distance. She did not admit it toherself, and thought she had no consideration for anything butChristophe's interests. 

There was no lack of sound reasons at hand. In Italy just then it wasdifficult for a musician to live: the air was circumscribed. The musicallife of the country was suppressed and deformed. The factory of thetheater scattered its heavy ashes and its burning smoke upon the soil, whose flowers in old days had perfumed all Europe. If a man refused toenroll himself in the train of the brawlers, and could not, or wouldnot, enter the factory, he was condemned to exile or a stifledexistence. Genius was by no means dried up. But it was left to stagnateunprofitably and to go to ruin. Christophe had met more than one youngmusician in whom there lived again the soul of the melodious masters ofthe race and the instinct of beauty which filled the wise and simple artof the past. But who gave a thought to them? They could neither gettheir work played nor published. No interest was taken in the symphony. There were no ears for music except it were presented with a paintedface!. . . So discouraged, they sang for themselves, and soon sang nomore. What was the good of it? Sleep. . . . --Christophe would have askednothing better than to help them. While they admitted that he could doso, their umbrageous pride would not consent to it. Whatever he did, hewas a foreigner to them; and for Italians of long descent, in spite ofthe warm welcome they will give him, every foreigner is really abarbarian. They thought that the wretched condition of their art was aquestion to be threshed out among themselves, and while, they extendedall kind of friendly tributes to Christophe, they could not admit him asone of themselves. --What could he do? He could not compete with them anddispute with them their meager place in the sun, where they were by nomeans secure!. . . 

Besides, genius cannot do without its food. The musician must havemusic--music to hear, music to make heard. A temporary withdrawal isvaluable to the mind by forcing it to recuperate. But this can only beon condition that it will return. Solitude is noble, but fatal to anartist who has not the strength to break out of it. An artist must livethe life of his own time, even if it be clamorous and impure: he mustforever be giving and receiving, and giving, and giving, and againreceiving. --Italy, at the time of Christophe's sojourn, was no longerthe great market of the arts that once it was, and perhaps will beagain. Nowadays the meeting-place of ideas, the exchange of the thoughtand spirit of the nations, are in the North. He who has the will to livemust live in the North. 

Left to himself, Christophe would have shuddered away from the rout. ButGrazia felt his duty more clearly than he could see it. And she demandedmore of him than of herself: no doubt because she valued him morehighly, but also because it suited her. She delegated her energy uponhim, and so maintained her tranquillity. --He had not the heart to beangry with her for it. Like Mary, hers was the better part. Each of ushas his part to play in life. Christophe's was action. For her it wasenough to be. He asked no more of her. 

He asked nothing but to love her, if it were possible, a little less forhimself, and a little more for her. For he did not altogether like herhaving so little egoism in her friendship as to think only of theinterests of her friend--who asked only to be allowed to give no thoughtto them. 

 * * * * *

He went away from her. And yet he did not leave her. As an old trouvèresays: "_The lover does not leave his beloved but with the sanction ofhis soul. _"

II

He was sick at heart as he reached Paris. It was the first time he hadbeen there since the death of Olivier. He had wished never to see thecity again. In the cab which took him from the station to his hotel hehardly dared look out of the window; for the first few days he stayed inhis room and could not bring himself to go out. He was fearful of thememories 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 seeingthe dead spring to life again exactly as they had been? Or was it--thegreater sorrow of being forced to know that they were dead?. . . Againstthis renewal of grief all the half-unconscious ruses of instinct hadtaken up arms. It was for this reason--(though perhaps he knew itnot)--that he had chosen a hotel in a district far removed from that inwhich he had lived. And when for the first time he went out into thestreets, having to conduct rehearsals at the concert-hall, when oncemore he came in contact with the life of Paris, he walked for a longtime with his eyes closed, refusing to see what he did see, insisting onseeing 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 sameFair in the market-place. Only the actors had changed their parts. Therevolutionaries of his day had become bourgeois, and the supermen hadbecome men of fashion. The old independents were trying to stifle thenew independents. The young men of twenty years ago were now moreconservative than the old conservatives whom they had fought, and theircritics refused the newcomers the right to live. Apparently nothing wasdifferent. 

But everything had changed. . . . 

 * * * * *

"My dear, forgive me. It is good of you not to be angry with me for mysilence. Your letter has helped me greatly. I have been through severalweeks of terrible distress. I had nothing. I had lost you. Here I wasfeeling terribly the absence of those whom I have lost. All my oldfriends of whom I used to tell you have disappeared--Philomela--(youremember the singing voice that dear, sad night when, as I wanderedthrough a gay crowd, I saw your eyes in a mirror gazing atme)--Philomela has realized her very reasonable dream: she inherited alittle money, and has a farm in Normandy. M. Arnaud has retired and goneback to the provinces with his wife, to a little town near Angers. Ofthe famous men of my day many are dead or gone under; none are left savethe same old puppets who twenty years ago were playing the juvenile leadin 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 tobe grimacing over a grave. It is a terrible feeling. --More than this:during the first few days after my arrival I suffered physically fromthe ugliness of things, from the gray light of the North after yourgolden sun: the masses of dull houses, the vulgar lines of certain domesand monuments, which had never struck me before, hurt me cruelly. Norwas the moral atmosphere any more to my taste. 

"And yet I have no complaint to make of the Parisians. They have givenme a welcome altogether different from that which I received before. Inmy absence I seem to have become a kind of celebrity. I will say nothingof that, for I know what it is worth. I am touched by all the pleasantthings 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 attackedme in old days than I do to the people who laud me now. . . . It is my ownfault, I know. Don't scold me. I had a moment of uneasiness. It was tobe expected. It is done now. I understand. Yes. You are right to havesent 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. Manyweary days in the burning sun are needed to dig a new channel in thesand, 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 Ithought they were finished. . . . They are just beginning again. My dearcomrade, Jeannin, foretold it. But I thought he was deceiving himself. How could one believe it then! France was, like their Paris, full ofbroken houses, plaster, and holes. I said: 'They have destroyedeverything. . . . What a race of rodents!'--a race of beavers. Just whenyou think them prostrate on their ruins, lo, they are using the ruins tolay the foundations of a new city. I can see it now in the scaffoldingswhich 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 usedto it to see in the rout seething up from all directions, the bands ofworkmen, each going about his appointed task. There are also people whocan do nothing without vilifying what their neighbors are doing. Allthis 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 theiruproar. You see then that it is their way of spurring themselves on towork. They talk, but they work, and as each builder's yard sets aboutbuilding 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 arenot discordant. They may maintain opposing theses, but all their mindsare cast in the same mold. So that, beneath their anarchy, there arecommon instincts, a racial logic which takes the place of discipline, and this discipline is, when all is told, probably more solid than thatof a Prussian regiment. 

"Everywhere the same enthusiasm, the same constructive fever: inpolitics, where Socialists and Nationalists vie with one another intightening up the wheels of slackened power; in art, which some wish tomake into an old aristocratic mansion for the privileged few, and othersa vast hall open to the people, a hall where the collective soul cansing; they are reconstructors of the past, or constructors of thefuture. But whatever they do, these ingenious creatures are foreverbuilding the same cells. They have the instincts of beavers or bees, andthrough the ages are forever doing the same things, returning to thesame forms. The most revolutionary among them are perhaps those who mostclosely cling, though they may not know it, to the most ancienttraditions. Among the syndicates and the most striking of the youngwriters I have found purely medieval souls. 

"Now that I have grown used to their tumultuous ways, I can watch themworking with pleasure. Let us be frank: I am too old a bear ever to feelat ease in any of their houses: I need the open air. But what goodworkers they are! That is their highest virtue. It laves the mostmediocre and the most corrupt: and then, in their artists, what a senseof beauty! I remarked that much less in the old days. You taught me tosee. My eyes were opened in the light of Rome. Your Renaissance men havehelped me to understand these. A page of Debussy, a torso of Rodin, aphrase 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 foundmy old friends of the market-place, who used to drive me to fury. Theyhave not changed. But, alas! I have changed. I cannot be severe. When Ifeel myself wanting to judge one of them harshly I say to myself: 'Youhave no right. You have done worse than these men, though you thoughtyourself 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 accomplishedtheir termitic task; the tottering ruins must be brought down beforethey can be built up again. The Jews have been true to their sacredmission, 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 networkof human unity. They break down the intellectual barriers between thenations, to give Divine Reason an open field. The worst agents ofcorruption, the ironic destroyers who ruin our old beliefs and kill ourwell-beloved dead, toil, unwittingly, in the holy work of new life. Sothe ferocious self-interest of the cosmopolitan bankers, whose laborsare attended with such and so many disasters, build, whether they willor no, the future peace of the world, side by side with therevolutionaries who combat them, far more surely than the idioticpacifists. 

"You see, I am getting old. I have lost my bite. My teeth have losttheir sharpness. When I go to the theater I am now only one of thosesimple spectators who apostrophize the actors and cry shame on thetraitor. 

"My tranquil Grace, I am only talking about myself: and yet I think onlyof you. If you knew how importunate is my ego! It is oppressive andabsorbing. It is like a millstone that God has tied round my neck. How Ishould have loved to lay it at your feet! But what would you have donewith it? It is a poor kind of present. . . . Your feet were made to treadthe soft earth and the sand sinking beneath the tread. I see your feetcarelessly passing over the lawns dappled with anemones. . . . (Have youbeen again to the Villa Doria?). . . And you are tired! I see you nowhalf-reclining in your favorite retreat, in your drawing-room, proppedup on your elbow, holding a book which you do not read. You listen to mekindly, 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; butyou are courteous, and, taking care not to upset me, when a chance wordbrings you back from your distant journeying, your eyes, so absentbefore, quickly take on an expression of interest. And I am as far fromwhat I am saying as you: I, too, hardly hear the sound of my words: andwhile I follow their reflection in your lovely face, in my heart Ilisten to other words which I do not speak to you. Those words, mytranquil Grace, unlike the others, you hear quite clearly, but youpretend not to hear them. 

"Adieu. I think you will see me again in a little while, I shall notlanguish here. What should I do now that my concerts are over?--I kissyour children on their little cheeks. They are yours and you. I must becontent!. . . 

"CHRISTOPHE. "

 * * * * *

"Tranquil Grace" replied:

"My dear, "I received your letter in the little corner of the drawing-room thatyou remember so well, and I read it, as I am clever at reading, byletting your letter fall every now and then and resting. Don't laugh atme. I did that to make it last a long time. In that way we spent a wholeafternoon 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 paperpityingly and said: 'How tiresome it must be to write such a longletter!' I tried to make her understand that it was not an imposition Ihad set you, but a conversation we were having together. She listenedwithout 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 notsurprise me. You remember that I often used to reproach you with beingunjust towards them. It is impossible to like them. But what anintelligent people they are! There are mediocre nations who arepreserved by their goodness of heart or their physical vigor. The Frenchare saved by their intelligence. It laves all their weaknesses, andregenerates them. When you think they are down, beaten, perverted, theyfind 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 beenseeing. My cousin Colette--(why did not you go and see her?)--had tosend me press-cuttings about your concerts, or I should have knownnothing of your success. You only mentioned it by the way. Are you sodetached from everything?. . . It is not true. Tell me that it pleasedyou. . . . It must please you, if only because it pleases me. I don't likeyou 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. Butthat is no reason why you should abase yourself, as you do, by sayingthat you are worse than the worst of them. A good Christian wouldapplaud you. I tell you it is a bad thing. I am not a good Christian. Iam a good Italian, and I don't like you tormenting yourself with thepast. The present is quite enough. I don't know exactly what it was thatyou did. You told me the story in a very few words, and I think Iguessed the rest. It was not a nice story, but you are none the lessdear to me for it. My poor, dear Christophe, a woman does not reach myage without knowing that an honest man is often very weak. If one didnot know his weakness one would not love him so much. Don't think anymore about what you have done. Think of what you are going to do. Repentance is quite useless. Repentance means going back. And in good asin evil, we must always go forward. _Sempre avanti, Savoia!_. . . Soyou think I am going to let you come back to Rome! You have nothing todo here. Stay in Paris, work, do: play your part in its artistic life. Iwill 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 newyoung Christophes who are setting out on the same struggles, and passingthrough the same trials. Look for them, help them, be kinder to yourjuniors than your seniors were to you. --In fine, I want you to be strongbecause I know that you are strong: you have no idea of the strengththat 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 MonteMario. 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 tiredin ten paces? He knows nothing about it. If we are not prone to giveourselves trouble, it is because we are lazy, and not because wecannot. . . . ' You forget, my dear, that I am a little peasant. . . . 

"Go and see my cousin Colette. Are you still angry with her? She is agood creature at heart, and she swears by you! Apparently the Parisianwomen 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 hadletters? And declarations? You don't mention any woman. Can you be inlove? Tell me. I am not jealous. Your friend, "G. "

 * * * * *

". . . So you think I am likely to be pleased with your last sentence! Iwould to God you were jealous! But don't look to me to make you so. Ihave no taste for these mad Parisiennes, as you call them. Mad? Theywould like to be so. But they are nothing like it. You need not hopethat they will turn my head. There would be more chance of it perhaps ifthey were indifferent to my music. But it is only too true that theylove it; and how am I to keep my illusions? When any one tells you thathe 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 notmake me unjust to other women. I have never had such true sympathy forthem as I have now since I ceased to look at them with lover's eyes. Thetremendous effort they have been making during the last thirty years toescape from the degrading and unwholesome semi-domesticity, to which ourstupid male egoism condemned them, to their and our unhappiness, seemsto me to be one of the most splendid facts of our time. In a town likethis one learns to admire the new generation of young women, who, inspite of so many obstacles, with so much fresh ardor rush on to theconquest of knowledge and diplomas, --the knowledge, the diplomas which, they think, must liberate them, open to them the arcana of the unknownworld and make them the equals of men. . . . 

"No doubt their faith is illusory and rather ridiculous. But progress isnever realized as we expect it to be: it is none the less realizedbecause it takes entirely different paths from those we have marked outfor it. This effort of the women will not be wasted. It will make womencompleter and more human, as they were in the great ages. They will nolonger be without interest in the living questions of the world, as mostscandalously and monstrously they have been, for it is intolerable thata woman, though she be never so careful in her domestic duties, shouldthink herself absolved from thinking of her civic duties in the moderncity. Their great-great-grandmothers of the time of Joan of Arc andCatherine 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 byforce. Ah! the brave little creatures!. . . Of course, many of those whoare now struggling will die and many will be led astray. It is an age ofcrisis. The effort is too violent for those whose strength has too muchgone to seed. When a plant has been for a long time without water, thefirst shower of rain is apt to scald it. But what would you? It is theprice of progress. Those who come after will flourish through theirsufferings. The poor little warlike virgins of our time, many of whomwill never marry, will be more fruitful for posterity than thegenerations of matrons who gave birth before them; for, at the cost oftheir sacrifices, there will issue from them the women of a new classicage. 

"I have not found these working bees in your cousin Colette'sdrawing-room. What whim was it made you send me to her? I had to obeyyou; but it is not well: you are abusing your power. I had refused threeof her invitations, left two of her letters unanswered. She came andhunted me up at one of my rehearsals--(they were going through my sixthsymphony). I saw her, during the interval, come in with her nose in theair, sniffing and crying: 'That smacks of love! Ah! How I love suchmusic!. . . '

"She has changed, physically; only her cat-like eyes with their bulgingpupils, and her fantastic nose, always wrinkling up and never still, arethe same. But her face is wider, big-boned, highly colored, andcoarsened. Sport has transformed her. She gives herself up to sport ofall kinds. Her husband, as you know, is one of the swells at theAutomobile Club and the Aero Club. There is not an aviation meeting, nora race by air, land, or water, but the Stevens-Delestrades thinkthemselves compelled to be present at it. They are always out on thehighways and byways. Conversation is quite impossible; they talk ofnothing but Racing, Rowing, Rugby, and the Derby. They belong to a newrace of people. The days of _Pelléas_ are forever gone for thewomen. Souls are no longer in fashion. All the girls hoist a red, swarthy complexion, tanned by driving in the open air and playing gamesin the sun: they look at you with eyes like men's eyes: they laugh andtheir laughter is a little coarse. In tone they have become more brutal, more crude. Every now and then your cousin will quite calmly say themost shocking things. She is a great eater, where she used to eat hardlyanything. She still complains about her digestion, merely out of habit, but she never misses a mouthful for it. She reads nothing. No one readsamong these people. Only music has found favor in their sight. Music haseven profited by the neglect of literature. When these people are wornout, 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 alsois a sport. But the most popular sport among their estheticentertainments is dancing. Russian dancing, Greek dancing, Swissdancing, American dancing, everything is set to a dance in Paris:Beethoven's symphonies, the tragedies of Æschylus, the _Clavecin bienTempéré_, the antiques of the Vatican, _Orpheus_, Tristan, thePassion, and gymnastics. These people are suffering from vertigo. 

"The queer thing is to see how your cousin reconciles everything, herestheticism, her sport, and her practical sense (for she has inheritedfrom her mother her sense of business and her domestic despotism). Allthese things ought to make an incredible mixture, but she is quite ather ease with them all: her most foolish eccentricities leave her mindquite clear, just as she keeps her eyes and hands sure when she goeswhirling along in her motor. She is a masterful woman: her husband, herguests, her servants, she leads them all, with drums beating and colorsflying. She is also busy with politics: she is for 'Monseigneur'; notthat I believe her to be a royalist, but it is another excuse forbestirring herself. And although she is incapable of reading more thanten pages of a book, she arranges the elections to the Academies. --Sheset about extending her patronage to me. You may guess that that was notat all to my liking. What is most exasperating is that the fact of myhaving visited her in obedience to you has absolutely convinced her ofher 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 goodcreature at heart. . . . ' Yes, provided she is occupied. She admits thatherself: if the machine has nothing to grind she is capable of anythingand everything to keep it going. --I have been to her house twice. Ishall not go again. Twice is enough to prove my obedience to you. Youdon't want me to die? I leave her house broken, crushed, cramped. Lasttime I saw her I had a frightful nightmare after it: I dreamed I was herhusband, 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 househe is the last to be seen with her, and when they are together they onlytalk 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 forbrutalizing 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: theywill pass from the infatuation of to-day to the indifference ofto-morrow, from the indifference of to-morrow to the abuse of the dayafter, 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 longtime: and they will make me pay for it. --Meanwhile I see the mostcurious things going on. The most enthusiastic of my admirers is . . . (Igive him you among a thousand) . . . Our friend Lévy-Coeur. You rememberthe gentleman with whom I fought a ridiculous duel? Now he instructsthose who used not to understand me. He does it very well too. He is themost intelligent of all the men talking about me. You may judge what theothers 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 thework for which I am belauded. I see myself in it, and what I see is notbeautiful. What a merciless mirror is a piece of music to those who cansee into it! Happily they are blind and deaf. I have put so much of mytroubles and weaknesses into my work that sometimes it seems to mewicked to let loose upon the world such hordes of demons. I am comfortedwhen I see the tranquillity of the audience: they are trebly armored:nothing can reach them: were it not so, I should be damned. . . . Youreproach me with being too hard on myself. You do not know me as I knowmyself. 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 qualitiesas 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 goodmusic, though in a queer way: with five or six instruments, filled outwith a piano, they play all the symphonies, the masses, the oratorios. It is just like the stonecutters in Rome, where they sell the Medicichapel as an ornament for the mantelpiece. Apparently this is useful toart, which, if it is to circulate among men, must be turned into basecoin. For the rest there is no deception in these concerts. The programsare copious, the musicians conscientious. I found a violoncellist thereand entered into conversation with him: his eyes reminded me strangelyof my father's; he told me the story of his life. He was the grandson ofa peasant, the son of a small official, a clerk in a _mairie_ in avillage in the North. They wanted to make him a gentleman, a lawyer, andhe was sent to school in the neighboring town. He was a sturdy countryboy, not at all fitted for being cooped up over the small work of anotary's office, and he could not stay caged in: he used to jump overthe wall, and wander through the fields, and run after the girls, andspend his strength in brawling: the rest of the time he lounged anddreamed of things he would never do. Only one thing had any attractionfor him: music. God knows why! There was not a single musician in hisfamily, except a rather cracked great-uncle, one of those odd, provincial characters, whose often remarkable intelligence and gifts arespent, in their proud isolation, on whims, and cranks, and trivialities. This great-uncle had invented a new system of notation--(yetanother!)--which was to revolutionize music; he even claimed to havefound a system of stenography by which words, tune, and accompanimentcould be written simultaneously; but he never managed to transcribe itcorrectly himself. They just laughed at the old man in the family, butall the same, they were proud of him. They thought: 'He is an oldmadman. Who knows? Perhaps he is a genius. '--It was no doubt from himthat the grandnephew had his mania for music. What music could he hearin the little town?. . . But bad music can inspire a love as pure as goodmusic. 

"The unhappy part of it was that there seemed no possibility ofconfessing to such a passion in such surroundings: and the boy had nothis great-uncle's cracked brains. He hid away to read the old lunatic'slucubrations which formed the basis of his queer musical education. Vainand fearful of his father and of public opinion, he would say nothing ofhis ambitions until he had succeeded. He was crushed by his family, anddid as so many French people of the middle-class have to do when, out ofweakness or kindness, they dare not oppose the will of their relations:they submit to all appearance, and live their true life in perpetualsecrecy. Instead of following his bent, he struggled on, against hisinclination, in the work they had marked out for him. He was asincapable of succeeding in it as he was of coming to grief. Somehow orother he managed to pass the necessary examinations. The main advantageto him was that he escaped from the spying of his father and theneighbors. The law crushed him: he was determined not to spend his lifein 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 alittle before he took the decisive step. He was one of those men who alltheir lives long dazzle themselves with what they will do later on, withthe things they could do. For the moment he did nothing. He lost hisbearings, and, intoxicated by his new life in Paris, gave himself upwith all his young peasant brutality to his two passions, woman andmusic; he was crazed with the concerts he went to, no less than withpleasure. He wasted years doing this without even turning to account themeans at hand of completing his musical education. His umbrageous pride, his unfortunate independent and susceptible character kept him fromtaking any course of lessons or asking anybody's advice. 

"When his father died he sent Themis and Justinian packing. He began tocompose without having had the courage to acquire the necessarytechnique. His inveterate habit of idle lounging and his taste forpleasure 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 toldhe expressed nothing but the commonplace. The worst of all was thatthere was really something great in this mediocrity. I read two of hisold compositions. Here and there were striking ideas, left in the roughand then deformed. They were like fireflies over a bog. . . . And what astrange mind he had! He tried to explain Beethoven's sonatas to me. Hesaw them as absurd, childish stories. But such passion as there was inhim, such profound seriousness! Tears would come to his eyes as hetalked. He would die for the thing he loves. He is, touching andgrotesque. Just as I was on the point of laughing in his face, I wantedto take him to my arms. . . . He is fundamentally honest, and has a healthycontempt for the charlatanry of the Parisian groups and their shamreputations, --(though at the same time he cannot help having thebourgeois admiration for successful men). . . . 

"He had a small legacy. In a few months it was all gone, and, findinghimself without resources, he had, like so many others of his kind, thecriminal honesty to marry a girl, also without resources, whom he hadseduced; 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 learnedhow to play the 'cello. Naturally it was not long before they saw theirmediocrity, and could not bear each other. They had a little girl. Thefather transferred his power of illusion to the child, and thought thatshe would be what he had failed to be. The little girl took after hermother: she was made to play the piano, though she had not a shadow oftalent; she adored her father, and applied herself to her work to pleasehim. 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 ofattaining. . . . 

"And, my dear, when I saw that poor broken devil, whose life has beennothing but a series of disappointments, I thought: 'That is what Imight have been. ' There was much in common in our boyhood, and certainadventures in our two lives are the same; I have even found a certainkinship in some of our musical ideas: but his have stopped short. Whatis it that has kept me from foundering as he has done? My will, nodoubt. But also the chances of life. And even taking my will, is thatdue 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 suchthoughts 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: anartist has no right to hold aloof, so long as he can help others. So Ishall stay: I shall force myself to spend a few months in every yearhere, or in Vienna, or Berlin, although it is hard for me to growaccustomed to these cities again. But I must not abdicate. If I do notsucceed in being of any great service, as I have good reason to think Ishall not, perhaps my sojourn in these cities will be useful to me, myself. And I shall console myself with the thought that it was yourwish. Besides . . . (I will not lie). . . I am beginning to find it pleasant. Adieu, tyrant. You have triumphed. I am beginning not only to do whatyou want me to do, but to love doing it. 

"CHRISTOPHE. "

 * * * * *

So he stayed, partly to please her, but also because his artisticcuriosity was reawakened, and was drawn on to contemplation of therenewal of art. Everything that he saw and did he presented for Grazia'sscrutiny in his letters. He knew that he was deceiving himself as to theinterest she would take in it all; he suspected her of a certainindifference. But he was grateful to her for not letting him see it tooclearly. 

She answered him regularly once a fortnight. Affectionate, composedletters, like her gestures. When she told him of her life she neverdiscarded her tender, proud reserve. She knew the violence with whichher words went resounding through Christophe's heart. She preferred thathe should think her cold, rather than to send him flying to heightswhither she did not wish to follow him. But she was too womanly not toknow the secret of not discouraging her friend's love, and of, at once, by gentle words, soothing the dismay and disappointment caused by herindifferent words. Christophe soon divined her tactics, and by acounter-trick tried in his turn to control his warmth and to write morecomposedly, so that Grazia's replies should not be so studiouslyrestrained. 

The longer he stayed in Paris the greater grew his interest in the newactivity stirring in that gigantic ant-heap. He was the more interestedin it all as in the young ants he found less sympathy with himself. Hewas not deceived: his success was a Pyrrhic victory. After an absence often years his return had created a sensation in Parisian society. But byan ironic turn of events, such as is by no means rare, he found himselfpatronized by his old enemies the snobs, and people of fashion: theartists were either mutely hostile or distrustful of him. He won his wayby his name, which already belonged to the past, by his considerableaccomplishment, by his tone of passionate conviction, and the violenceof his sincerity. But if people were forced to reckon with him, toadmire or respect him, they did not understand or love him. He wasoutside the art of the time. A monster, a living anachronism. He hadalways been that. His ten years of solitude had accentuated thecontrast. During his absence in Europe, and especially in Paris, agreat work of reconstruction had been carried through. A new order wasspringing to life. A generation was arising, desirous rather of actionthan of understanding, hungry rather for happiness than for truth. Itwished to live, to grasp life, even at the cost of a lie. Lies ofpride--all manner of pride: pride of race, pride of caste, pride ofreligion, pride of culture and art--all were food to this generation, provided that they were armor of steel, provided that they could beturned to sword and buckler, and that, sheltered by them, they couldmarch on to victory. 

So to this generation it was distasteful to hear the great voice oftorment reminding it of the existence of sorrow and doubt, thosewhirlwinds that had troubled the night that was hardly gone, and, inspite of its denials, went on menacing the universe, the whirlwinds thatit wished to forget. These young people turned away in despite, and theyshouted at the top of their voices to deafen themselves. But the voicewas heard above them all. And they were angry. 

Christophe, on the other hand, regarded them with a friendly eye. Hehailed the upward movement of the world towards happiness. Thedeliberate narrowness of its impulse affected him not at all. When a manwishes to go straight to his goal, he must look straight in front ofhim. For his part, sitting at the turning of the world, he was rejoicedto see behind him the tragic splendor of the night, and, in front ofhim, the smile of young hope, the uncertain beauty of the fresh, fevereddawn. And he was at the stationary point of the axis of the pendulumwhile the clock was beginning to go again. Without following its onwardmarch, he listened joyfully to the beating of the rhythm of life. Hejoined 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 thedistant day. The singer was no more; but his song was coming to pass. Inthe garden of Prance the birds were singing. And, above all the singing, clearer, louder, happier, Christophe suddenly heard the voice of Oliviercome to life again. 

 * * * * *

He was absently reading a book of poems at a bookstall. The name of theauthor was unknown to him. Certain words struck him and he went onreading. As he read on between the uncut pages he seemed to recognize afriendly voice, the features of a friend. . . . He could not define hisfeeling, nor could he bring himself to put the book down, and so hebought it. When he reached his room he resumed his reading. At once theold obsession descended on him. The impetuous rhythm of the poem evoked, with a visionary precision, the universe and age-old souls--the gigantictrees of which we are all the leaves and the fruit--the nations. Fromthe pages there arose the superhuman figure of the Mother--she who wasbefore us, she who will be after us. She who reigns, like the ByzantineMadonnas, lofty as the mountains, at whose feet kneel and pray ant-likehuman beings. The poet was hymning the homeric struggle of the greatgoddesses, whose lances had clashed together since the beginning of theages: the eternal Iliad which is to that of Troy what the Alps are tothe little hills of Greece. 

Such an epic of warlike pride and action was far removed from the ideasof a European soul like Christophe's. And yet, in gleams, in the visionof the French soul--the graceful virgin, who bears the Aegis, Athena, with blue eyes shining through the darkness, the goddess of work, theincomparable artist, sovereign reason, whose glittering lance hurls downthe tumultuously shouting barbarians--Christophe perceived anexpression, a smile that he knew and had loved. But just as he was onthe point of fixing it the vision died away. And while he wasexasperated by this vain pursuit, lo! as he turned a page, he came on astory 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'saddress. 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 wantedanything he found it impossible to wait. 

It was in the Batignolles district on the top floor. There were severaldoors opening on to a common landing. Christophe knocked at the doorwhich 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 sallowcomplexion--a shriveled face with very sharp eyes--asked what he wanted. She looked suspicious. Christophe told her why he had come, and, inanswer to her next question, gave his name. She came out of her room andopened the other door with a key which she had in her pocket. But shedid not let Christophe enter immediately. She told him to wait in thecorridor, and went in alone, shutting the door in his face. At lastChristophe reached the well-guarded sanctum. He crossed a half-emptyroom which served as a dining-room and contained only a few shabbypieces of furniture, while near the curtainless window several birdswere twittering in an aviary. In the next room, on a threadbare divan, lay a man. He sat up to welcome Christophe. At once Christopherecognized the emaciated face, lit up by the soul, the lovely velvetyblack eyes burning with a feverish flame, the long, intelligent hands, the misshapen body, the shrill, husky voice. . . . Emmanuel! The littlecripple boy who had been the innocent cause. . . . And Emmanuel, suddenlyrising 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 steppedbackward. After ten long years, an unconfessed rancor, the old jealousythat he had had of Christophe, leaped forth from the obscure depths ofinstinct. He stood still, defiant and hostile. --But when he sawChristophe's emotion, when on his lips he read the name that was intheir thoughts: "Olivier"--it was stronger than he: he flung himselfinto 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 nowto 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 himselfto all those whom he loves. "

Emmanuel looked at Christophe: the tragic seriousness of his stubborneyes was suddenly lit up with a profound sweetness. He took Christophe'shand and made him sit on the divan by his side. 

Each told the story of his life. From fourteen to twenty-five Emmanuelhad practised many trades: printer, upholsterer, pedlar, bookseller'sassistant, lawyer's clerk, secretary to a politician, journalist. . . . Inall of them he had found the means of learning feverishly, here andthere finding the support of good people who were struck by the littleman's energy, more often falling into the hands of people who exploitedhis poverty and his gifts, turning his worst experiences to profit, andsucceeding in fighting his way through without too much bitterness, leaving behind him only the remains of his feeble health. His singularaptitude for the dead languages (not so rare as one is inclined tobelieve in a race imbued with humanistic traditions) gained him theinterest and support of an old Hellenizing priest. These studies, whichhe had no time to push very far, served him as mental discipline and aschool of style. This man, who had risen from the dregs of the people, whose whole education had been won by his own efforts, haphazard, sothat there were great gaps in it, had acquired a gift of verbalexpression, a mastery of thought over form, such as ten years of auniversity education cannot give to the young bourgeois. He attributedit all to Olivier. And yet others had helped him more effectively. Butfrom Olivier came the spark which in the night of this man's soul hadlighted 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. Buteverything he ever said had become a part of me. His light never leftme. "

He spoke of his work and the task which he declared had been left to himby Olivier; the awakening of the French, the kindling of that torch ofheroic idealism of which Olivier had been the herald: he wished to makehimself the resounding voice which should hover above the battlefieldand declare the approaching victory: he sang the epic of the new-birthof 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 takena bizarre pride in clothing its ideas with the cast-off clothes and lawsof the Roman conqueror. There were to be found in it absolutely pure theGallic audacity, the spirit of heroic reason, of irony, the mixture ofbraggadocio and crazy bravura, which set out to pluck the beards of theRoman senators, and pillaged the temple of Delphi, and laughingly hurledits javelins at the sky. But this little Parisian dwarf had had to shapehis passions, as his periwigged grandfathers had done, and as no doubthis great-grandnephews would do, in the bodies of the heroes and gods ofGreece, two thousand years dead. It is a curious instinct in thesepeople which accords well with their need of the absolute: as theyimpose their ideas on the remains of the ages, they seem to themselvesto be imposing them on the ages. The constraint of his classic form onlygave Emmanuel's passions a more violent impulse. Olivier's calmconfidence in the destinies of France had been transformed in his littleprotégé 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 exaltedfaith and his optimism that he had uplifted the souls of the Frenchpublic. His book had been as effective as a battle. He had made a breachin the ranks of skepticism and fear. The whole younger generation hadthronged to follow him towards the new destiny. . . . 

He grew excited as he talked: his eyes burned, his pale face glowed pinkin patches, and his voice rose to a scream. Christophe could not helpnoticing the contrast between the devouring fire and the wretched bodythat was its pyre. He was only half-conscious of the irony of thisstroke of fate. The singer of energy, the poet who hymned the generationof intrepid sport, of action, war, could hardly walk without losing hisbreath, 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 andbrotherly pity. He tried not to show it: but no doubt his eyes betrayedhis feeling. Emmanuel's pride, which ever kept an open wound in hisside, made him think he read commiseration in Christophe's eyes, andthat was more odious to him than hatred. The fire in him suddenly dieddown. He stopped talking. Christophe tried in vain to win back hisconfidence. His soul had closed up. Christophe saw that he was wounded. 

The hostile silence dragged on. Christophe got up. Emmanuel took him tothe door without a word. His step declared his infirmity: he knew it: itwas a point of pride with him to appear indifferent: but he thoughtChristophe 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 apretentious nincompoop whom Christophe recognized as a man he had seenat theatrical first-nights, smiling, chattering, waving his hand, kissing the hands of the ladies, and from his stall shedding smiles allover the theater: not knowing his name, he had called him "thebuck. "--The buck and his companion, on seeing Emmanuel, flung themselveson the _"cher maître"_ with obsequious and familiar effusiveness. As Christophe walked away he heard Emmanuel in his dry voice saying thathe was too busy to see any one. He admired the man's gift of beingdisagreeable. He did not know Emmanuel's reasons for scowling at therich snobs who came to gratify him with their indiscreet visits; theywere prodigal of fine phrases and eulogy; but they no more thought ofhelping him in his poverty than the famous friends of César Franck everdreamed of releasing him from the piano-lessons which he had to give upto the last to make a living. 

Christophe went several times again to see Emmanuel. He never succeededin restoring the intimacy of his first visit. Emmanuel showed nopleasure in seeing him, and maintained a suspicious reserve. Every nowand then he would be carried away by the generous need of expansion ofhis genius: a remark of Christophe's would shake him to the very rootsof his being: then he would abandon himself to a fit of enthusiasticconfidence: and over his secret soul his idealism would cast the glowinglight of a flashing poetry. Then, suddenly, he would fall back: he wouldshrivel up into sulky silence: and Christophe would find him hostileonce more. 

They were divided by too many things. Not the least was the differencein their ages. Christophe was on the way to full consciousness andmastery of himself. Emmanuel was still in process of formation and morechaotic than Christophe had ever been. The originality of his face camefrom the contradictory elements that were at grips in him; a mightystoicism, struggling to tame a nature consumed by atavisticdesires, --(he was the son of a drunkard and a prostitute);--a franticimagination which tugged against the bit of a will of steel; an immenseegoism, and an immense love for others, and of the two it wereimpossible to tell which would be the conqueror; an heroic idealism anda morbid thirst for glory which made him impatient of othersuperiorities. If Olivier's ideas, and his independence, and hisdisinterestedness were in him, if Emmanuel was superior to his master byhis plebeian vitality which knew not disgust in the face of action, byhis poetic genius and his thicker skin, which protected him from disgustof all kinds, yet he was very far from reaching the serenity ofAntoinette's brother: his character was vain and uneasy: and therestlessness 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 lovedEmmanuel, 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 thepost-office. Her childhood had been spent in the stifling atmospherecommon to all the poor workpeople of Paris: souls and bodies all huddledtogether, harassing work, perpetual promiscuity, no air, no silence, never any solitude, no opportunity for recuperation or of defending theinner sanctuary of the heart. She was proud in spirit, with her mindever seething with a religious fervor for a confused ideal of truth. Hereyes were worn out with copying out at night, sometimes without a lamp, by moonlight, _Les Misérables_ of Hugo. She had met Emmanuel at atime when he was more unhappy than she, ill and without resources; andshe had devoted herself to him. This passion was the first, the onlyliving love of her life. So she attached herself to him with a hungrytenacity. Her affection was a terrible trial to Emmanuel, who rathersubmitted to than shared it. He was touched by her devotion: he knewthat she was his best friend, the only creature to whom he waseverything, who could not do without him. But this very feelingoverwhelmed him. He needed liberty and isolation; her eyes alwaysgreedily beseeching a look obsessed him: he used to speak harshly toher, and longed to say: "Go!" He was irritated by her ugliness and herclumsy manners. Though he had seen but little of fashionable society, and though he heartily despised it, --(for he suffered at appearing evenuglier and more ridiculous there), --he was sensitive to elegance, andalive to the attraction of women who felt towards him (he had no doubtof it) exactly as he felt towards his friend. He tried to show her anaffection which he did not possess or, at least, which was continuallyobscured by gusts of involuntary hatred. He could not do it: he had agreat generous heart in his bosom, hungering to do good, and also ademon of violence, capable of much evil. This inward struggle and hisconsciousness of his inability to end it to his advantage plunged himinto 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 passionswhich still subsist, though we may forget the cause of them): secondly, because of his fierce nationalism. In France he had embodied all thedreams of justice, pity, and human brotherhood conceived by the best menof the preceding age. He did not set France against the rest of Europeas 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 forthe 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 seeher dead. But he had no doubt of her. He was exclusively French inculture and in heart, nourished wholly by the French tradition, theprofound reasons of which he found in his own instinct. Quite sincerelyhe ignored foreign thought, for which he had a sort of disdainfulcondescension, --and was exasperated if a foreigner did not accept hislowly position. 

Christophe saw all that, but, being older and better versed in life, hedid not worry about it. If such pride of race could not but beinjurious, Christophe was not touched by it: he could appreciate theillusions of filial love, and never dreamed of criticising theexaggerations of a sacred feeling. Besides, humanity is profited by thevain belief of the nations in their mission. Of all the reasons at handfor 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 whenit happened. He tried to prevent Emmanuel's seeing it. He endeavored tohear the music and not the instrument. There was such a beauty ofheroism shining forth from the crippled poet when he evoked thevictories of the mind, the forerunners of other victories, the conquestof the air, the "flying God" who should upraise the peoples, and, likethe star of Bethlehem, lead them in his train, in ecstasies, towards fardistant spaces or near revenge. The splendor of these visions of energydid not prevent Christophe's seeing their danger, and foreknowingwhither this change and the growing clamor of the new Marseillaise wouldlead. He thought, with a little irony, (with no regret for past or fearof the future), that the song would find an echo that the singer couldnot foresee, and that a day would come when men would sigh for thevanished days of the Market-Place. --How free they were then! The goldenage of liberty! Never would its like be known again. The world wasmoving on to the age of strength, of health, of virile action, andperhaps of glory, but also of harsh authority and narrow order. We shallhave called it enough with our prayers, the age of iron, the classicage! The great classic ages--Louis XIV. Or Napoleon--seem now at adistance the peaks of humanity. And perhaps the nation therein mostvictoriously realized its ideal State. But go and ask the heroes ofthose times what they thought of them! Your Nicolas Poussin went to liveand die in Rome; he was stifled in your midst. Your Pascal, your Racine, said farewell to the world. And among the greatest, how many otherslived apart in disgrace, and oppressed! Even the soul of a man likeMolière hid much bitterness. --For your Napoleon, whom you so greatlyregret, your fathers do not seem to have had any doubt as to theirhappiness, and the master himself was under no illusion; he knew thatwhen he disappeared the world would say: "Ouf!". . . What a wilderness ofthought 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 enoughto set Emmanuel in a fury, and he did not try the experiment again. Butit was in vain that he kept his thoughts to himself: Emmanuel knew whathe was thinking. More than that, he was obscurely conscious thatChristophe saw farther than he. And he was only irritated by it. Youngpeople never forgive their elders for forcing them to see what they willsee 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 hebelieves. God keep me from disturbing his confidence in the future!"

But his mere presence upset Emmanuel. When two personalities aretogether, however hard they try to efface themselves, one always crushesthe other, and the other always feels rancor and humiliation. Emmanuel'spride was hurt by Christophe's superiority in experience and character. And perhaps also he was keeping back the love which he felt growing inhimself for him. 

He became more and more shy. He locked his door, and did not answerletters. --Christophe had to give up seeing him. 

 * * * * *

During the first days of July Christophe reckoned up what he had gainedby his few months' stay in Paris: many new ideas, but few friends. Brilliant and derisory successes, in which he saw his own image and theimage of his work weakened or caricatured in mediocre minds; and thereis but scant pleasure in that. And he failed to win the sympathy ofthose by whom he would have loved to be understood; they had notwelcomed his advances; he could not throw in his lot with them, howevermuch he desired to share their hopes and to be their ally; it was asthough their uneasy vanity shunned his friendship and found moresatisfaction in having him for an enemy. In short, he had let the tideof his own generation pass without passing with it, and the tide of thenext generation would have nothing to do with him. He was isolated, andwas not surprised, for all his life he had been accustomed to it. Butnow he thought he had won the right, after this fresh attempt, to returnto his Swiss hermitage, until he had realized a project which for sometime past had been taking shape. As he grew older he was tormented withthe desire to return and settle down in his own country. He knew nobodythere, and would find even less intellectual kinship than in thisforeign city: but none the less it was his country: you do not ask thoseof your blood to think your thoughts: between them and you there are athousand secret ties; the senses learned to read in the same book of skyand earth, and the heart speaks the same language. 

He gaily narrated his disappointments to Grazia, and told her of hisintention of returning to Switzerland: jokingly he asked her permissionto leave Paris, and assured her that he was going during the followingweek. 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 thesecret of his inmost thoughts. And yet there was a room in his heart ofwhich he kept the key: it contained the memories which did not belongonly to himself, but to those whom he had loved. He kept back everythingconcerning Olivier. His reserve was not deliberate. The words would notcome 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 aknock on the door. He went to open it, cursing at being interrupted. Aboy of fourteen or fifteen asked for M. Krafft. Christophe gruffly badehim come in. He was fair, with blue eyes, fine features, not very tall, with a slender, erect figure. He stood in front of Christophe, rathershyly, and said not a word. Quickly he pulled himself together, andraised his limpid eyes, and looked at him with keen interest. Christophesmiled 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 haveyou 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, andlighted 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'sarm, and drew him to him; he sank back into his chair and held him in aclose embrace: their faces almost touched; and he gazed and gazed athim, 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 violentdemonstration, and broke away from him. Christophe let him go. He hidhis face in his hand, and leaned his brow against the wall, and sat sofor the space of a few moments. The boy had withdrawn to the other endof the room. Christophe raised his head. His face was at rest: he lookedat 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 nothave 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--orfar back in the darkness of time. . . . How like you are to him! The samefeatures. It is the same, and yet another. The same colored eyes, butnot the same eyes. The same smile, the same lips, but not the samevoice. You are stronger. You hold yourself more erect: your face isfuller, but you blush just as he used to do. Come, sit down, let ustalk. 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 seeme?"

"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 lovedhim! 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 mymother, sitting a little away from you: I bowed to you: you lookedthrough me, and frowned, and took no notice. "

"I looked at you?. . . My poor boy, how could you think that?. . . I did notsee you. My eyes are tired. That is why I frown. . . . You don't think meso 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 wantto 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 decidedair, 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 thinkhe 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 dozendifferent expressions, like the shadows of the clouds on an April daychasing over the fields before the spring winds. Christophe had the mostlovely joy in gazing at him and listening to him; it seemed to him thatall 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 thelast few months, but since Christophe had been in Paris, he had nevermissed a concert at which his work was played. He spoke of it with aneager expression, his eyes shining and laughing, with the tears not farbehind: 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. Heasked about his work. Young Jeannin was at the lycée; he said cheerfullythat 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. Iread. . . . "

"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 ungrammaticallywith the most droll coolness; he was very intelligent and wide awake, and guessed more than he understood: often he guessed wrong; but he wasthe first to laugh at his mistakes. He talked eagerly about his travelsand his reading. He had read a great deal, hastily, superficially, skipping half the pages, and inventing what he had left unread, but hewas always urged on by a keen curiosity, forever seeking reasons forenthusiasm. He jumped from one subject to another, and his face grewanimated as he talked of plays or books that had moved him. There was nosort of order in his knowledge. It was impossible to tell how he couldread right through a tenth-rate book, and yet know nothing of thegreatest masterpieces. 

"That is all very well, " said Christophe. "But you will never doanything 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 bea man who does nothing and is good for nothing?"

"No. I should like to do everything. It is stupid to shut yourself upall 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 myprofession for forty years, and I am just beginning to get a glimmer ofit. "

"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 realinclination for it, we'll try and make something of you. . . . But, I warnyou, I shall make you work. "

"I will work, " said Georges delightedly. 

They said good-by until the morrow. As he was going, Georges rememberedthat 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 andhour. 

But when the day and hour came, Christophe waited in vain. He wasdisappointed. He had been looking forward with childlike glee to seeingGeorges again. His unexpected visit had brightened his life. It had madehim so happy, and moved him so much that he had not slept the nightafter it. With tender gratitude he thought of the young friend who hadsought him out for his friend's sake. His natural grace, his maliciousand ingenuous frankness had delighted him: he sank back into the muteintoxication, the buzzing of happiness, which had filled his ears andhis heart during the first days of his friendship with Olivier. It wasallied now with a graver and almost religious feeling which, through theliving, saw the smile of the past. --He waited all the next day and theday after. Nobody came. Not even a letter of excuse. Christophe was verymournful, and cast about for excuses for the boy. He did not know whereto write to him, and he did not know his address. Had he had it he wouldnot have dared to write. When the heart of an older man is filled withlove for a young creature, he feels a certain modesty about letting himsee the need he has of him: he knows that the young man has not the sameneed: they are not evenly matched: and nothing is so much dreaded as toseem to be imposing oneself on a person who cares not a jot. 

The silence dragged on. Although Christophe suffered under it, he forcedhimself to take no step to hunt up the Jeannins. But every day heexpected the boy, who never came. He did not go to Switzerland, butstayed through the summer in Paris. He thought himself absurd, but hehad no taste for traveling. Only when September came did he decide tospend 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 hislong silence. 

"I could not come, " he said. "And then we went away to stay inBrittany. "

"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 whenI got home. She told me I had done right, and she asked about you, andpestered me with a great many questions. When we came home fromBrittany, 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 Ihad not been, she was angry with me, and wanted me to go directly afterbreakfast, without more ado. "

"And aren't you ashamed to tell me that? Must you be forced to come andsee me?"

"No. You mustn't think that. . . . Oh! I have annoyed you. Forgive me. . . . Iam a muddle-headed idiot. . . . Scold me, but don't be angry with me. Ilove you. If I did not love you I should not have come. I was not forcedto 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 yourmusical 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 hadso much to do! But now you shall see how I will work, if you still wantto 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 awhole day. "

"You bore me. "

"Please!. . . "

Smiling at his weakness, Christophe made him sit at the piano, andtalked to him about music. He asked him many questions, and made himsolve several little problems of harmony. Georges did not know muchabout it, but his musical instinct supplied the gaps of his ignorance;without knowing their names, he found the chords Christophe wanted; andeven his mistakes in their awkwardness showed a curiosity of taste and asingularly acute sensibility. He did not accept Christophe's remarkswithout discussion; and the intelligent questions he asked in his turnbore witness to the sincerity of a mind that would not accept art as adevout formula to be repeated with the lips, but desired to live it forits own sake. --They did not only talk of music. In reference to harmonyGeorges would summon up pictures, the country, people. It was difficultto hold him in check: it was constantly necessary to bring him back tothe middle of the road: and Christophe had not always the heart to doso. It amused him to hear the boy's joyous chatter, so full of wit andlife. What a difference there was between his nature and Olivier's! Withthe one life was a subterranean river that flowed silently; with theother all was above ground: a capricious stream disporting itself in thesun. And yet it was the same lovely, pure water, like their eyes. With asmile, 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 itloves. . . . Only Georges loved so many things that he had no time to loveany one thing for long. 

He came back the next day and the days following. He was filled with ayouthful passion for Christophe, and he worked enthusiastically at hislessons. . . . --Then his enthusiasm palled, his visits grew less frequent. He came less and less often. Then he came no more, and disappeared forweeks. 

He was light-hearted, forgetful, naïvely selfish, and sincerelyaffectionate; he had a good heart and a quick intelligence which heexpended piecemeal day by day. People forgave him everything becausethey were so glad to see him; he was happy. . . . 

Christophe refused to judge him. He did not complain. He wrote toJacqueline to thank her for having sent her son to him. Jacquelinereplied with a short letter filled with restrained emotion: sheexpressed a hope that Christophe would be interested in Georges and helphim in his life. Through shame and pride she could not bring herself tosee him again. And Christophe thought he could not visit her withoutbeing invited. --So they stayed apart, seeing each other at a distance atconcerts, bound together only by the boy's infrequent visits. 

The winter passed. Grazia wrote but seldom. She was still faithful inher friendship for Christophe. But, like a true Italian, she was hardlyat all sentimental, attached to reality, and needed to see people if shewere, perhaps not to think of them, but certainly to take pleasure intalking to them. Her heart's memory needed to be supported by having hersight's memory refreshed from time to time. Her letters became brief anddistant. She was as sure of Christophe as Christophe was of her. Buttheir security gave out more light than warmth. 

Christophe did not feel his new disappointments very keenly. His musicalactivity was enough to fill his life. When he reaches a certain age avigorous artist lives much more in his art than in his life; his lifehas become the dream, his art the reality. His creative powers had beenreawakened by contact with Paris. There is no stronger stimulant in theworld than the sight of that city of work. The most phlegmatic naturesare touched by its fever. Christophe, being rested by years of healthysolitude, brought to his work an enormous accumulation of force. Enriched by the new conquests forever being made in the fields ofmusical technique by the intrepid curiosity of the French, he hurledhimself in his turn along the road to discovery: being more violent andbarbarous than they, he went farther. But nothing in his new audacitieswas left to the hazardous mercies of his instinct. Christophe had begunto feel the need of clarity; all his life his genius had obeyed therhythm of alternate currents: it was its law to pass from one pole tothe other, and to fill everything between them. Having greedilysurrendered in his last period to _"the eyes of chaos shining throughthe veil of order, "_ even to rending the veil so as to see them moreclearly, he was now striving to tear himself away from theirfascination, and once more to throw over the face of the sphinx themagic net of the master mind. The imperial inspiration of Rome hadpassed over him. Like the Parisian art of that time, by the spirit ofwhich he was infected, he was aspiring to order. But not--like thereactionaries who spent what was left of their energies in protectingtheir slumber--to order in Varsovia; the good people who are alwaysgoing back to Brahms--the Brahmses of all the arts, the thematics, theinsipid neo-classics, in search of solace! Might one not say that theyare enfeebled with passion! You are soon done for, my friends. . . . No, itis not of your order that I speak. Mine has no kinship with yours. Mineis the order in harmony of the free passions and the free will. . . . Christophe was studying how in his art to maintain the just balancebetween the forces of life. These new chords, the new musical daimonsthat he had summoned from the abyss of sounds, were used to build clearsymphonies, vast, sunlit buildings, like the Italian cupola'd basilicas. 

These plays and battles of the mind occupied him all winter. And thewinter passed quickly, although, in the evening, as he ended his day'swork and looked behind him at the tale of days, he could not have toldwhether it had been long or short, or whether he was still young or veryold. 

Then a new ray of human sunshine pierced the veil of his dreams, andonce more brought in the springtime. Christophe received a letter fromGrazia, 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 ofteninvited her. Her dread of the effort necessary to interrupt her habitsand to tear herself away from her careless tranquillity and the home sheloved in order to plunge into the Parisian whirligig that she knew sowell, had made her postpone the journey from year to year. This springshe was filled with melancholy, perhaps with a secretdisappointment--(how many unspoken romances there are in the heart of awoman, unknown to others, often unconfessed to herself!)--and she longedto go right away from Rome. A threatened epidemic gave her an excuse forhurrying on her children's departure. She followed her letter toChristophe in a very few days. 

Christophe hastened to her as soon as he heard she was at Colette's. Hefound 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 ofaffection. 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 keepher amused by giving her a gay account of his misadventures and sharingwith her his work and his plans, and he wrapped her round with hisaffection. Her mournful heart rested in the heart of her friend, and hespoke to her always of things other than that which was in both theirminds. And gradually he saw the shadow of melancholy fade from her eyes, and their expression became nearly, and ever more nearly, intimate. Somuch 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 rarelyalone. Colette gave them the pleasure of her presence more often thanthey wished. In spite of her eccentricities she was extremely kind andsincerely attached to Grazia and Christophe; but she never dreamed thatshe could be a nuisance to them. She had, of course, noticed--(for hereyes saw everything)--what she was pleased to call Christophe'sflirtation with Grazia; flirtation was her element, and she wasdelighted, and asked nothing better than to encourage it. But that wasprecisely what she was not required to do; she was only desired not tomeddle with things that did not concern her. It was enough for her toappear or to make an (indiscreet) discreet allusion to their friendshipto one of them, to make Christophe and Grazia freeze and turn theconversation. Colette cast about among all the possible reasons, exceptone, and that the true one, for their reserve. Fortunately for them, shecould never stay long. She was always coming and going, coming in, goingout, superintending everything in her house, doing a dozen things at atime. In the intervals between her appearances Christophe and Grazia, left alone with the children, would resume the thread of their innocentconversation. They never spoke of the feelings that bound them together. Unrestrainedly they confided to each other their little dailyhappenings. Grazia, with feminine interest, inquired into Christophe'sdomestic affairs. They were in a very bad way: he was always havingruptures with his housekeepers; he was continually being cheated androbbed by his servants. She laughed heartily but very kindly, and withmotherly compassion for the great child's small practical sense. Oneday, when Colette left them after a longer visitation than usual, Graziasighed:

"Poor Colette! I love her dearly. . . . But how she bores me!"

"I love her too, " said Christophe, "if you mean by that that she boresus. "

Grazia laughed:

"Listen. Will you let me . . . (it is quite impossible for us to talk inpeace 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 yourrooms--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 youpromised. "

"But why do you want--?

"But I want to see you in your rooms as you are, every day, when you arenot 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 preferit--"

"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 oneloves 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 hadnot dared even to arrange the smallest piece of paper in his untidyrooms: he would have felt dishonored had he done so. But he was intorture. He was ashamed of what his friend would think. Anxiously heawaited her arrival. She came punctually, not more than four or fiveminutes after the hour. She climbed up the stairs with her light, firmstep. She rang. He was at the door and opened it. She was dressed witheasy, graceful elegance. Through her veil he could see her tranquileyes. They said "Good-day" in a whisper and shook hands; she was moresilent than usual: he was awkward and emotional and said nothing, toavoid showing his feeling. He led her in without uttering the sentencehe had prepared by way of excusing the untidiness of his room. She satdown 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, andshe, 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 comingto him, but had been afraid as she reached the door. ) She was struck bythe solitary aspect and the sadness of the place: the dark, narrow hall, the absolute lack of comfort, the visible poverty, all went to herheart: she was filled with affectionate pity for her old friend, who, inspite of all his work and his sufferings and his celebrity, was unableto shake free of material anxiety. And at the same time she was amusedat the absolute indifference revealed by the bareness of the room thathad no carpets, no pictures, no bric-a-brac, no armchair; no otherfurniture 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 thoughthow 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 lowchair 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 notwhat to say. He got up and went to the piano. He played and improvisedfor half an hour; all around him he felt the presence of his beloved andan immense happiness filled his heart; with eyes closed he playedmarvelous things. Then she understood the beauty of the room, allfurnished with divine harmonies: she heard his loving, suffering heartas though it were beating in her own bosom. 

When the music had died away, he stopped for a little while, quitestill, at the piano; then he turned as he heard the breath of hisbeloved 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; itseemed to them that for ages, ages, they had been lying pressed closetogether. 

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 nextroom; 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 thedressing-table was another photograph: Grazia herself as a child offifteen. He had found it in her album in Rome, and had stolen it. Heconfessed it, and asked her to forgive him. She looked at the face, andsaid:

"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 recognizeyou everywhere. Even in the photograph of you as a tiny child. You donot 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 beforeyou were born, and I shall love you ever after. . . . "

He stopped. She stood still and made no answer: she was filled with thesweet sorrow of love. When she returned to the work-room, and he hadshown her through the window his little friendly tree, full of chatteringsparrows, she said:

"Now, do you know what we will do? We will have a feast. I brought teaand cakes because I knew you would have nothing of the kind. And Ibrought 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 theirfate. 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 tomiss a moment of his friend's stay. As she sewed she watched his clumsyways stealthily and maliciously. They drank their tea out of crackedcups, which she thought horrible, dodging the cracks, while heindignantly defended them, because they reminded him of his life withOlivier. 

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, heknelt 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 hadmade him promise that there should be no more outbursts, no morekneelings, no more kissing of her feet. She breathed forth such a gentletranquillity, that even when Christophe was in his most violent mood, hewas influenced by it; and although when he was alone, he often thoughtof her with passionate desire, when they were together they were alwayslike good comrades. Never did word or gesture escape him which coulddisturb his friend's peace. 

On Christophe's birthday she dressed her little girl as she herself hadbeen when they first met in the old days; and she made the child playthe piece that Christophe used to make her play. 

But all her grace and tenderness and sweet friendship were mingled withcontradictory feelings. She was frivolous, and loved society, anddelighted in being courted, even by fools; she was a coquette, exceptwith Christophe, --even with Christophe. When he was very tender withher, she would be deliberately cold and reserved. When he was cold andreserved she would become tender and tease him affectionately. She wasthe most honest of women. But even in the most honest and the best ofwomen there is always a girl. She insisted on standing well with theworld, and conformed to the conventions. She had fine musical gifts, andunderstood Christophe's work; but she was not much interested init--(and he knew it). --To a true Latin woman, art is of worth only inproportion as it leads back to life, to life and love. . . . The love whichis forever seething, slumbering, in the depths of the voluptuousbody. . . . What has she to do with the tragic meditations, the tormentedsymphonies, the intellectual passions of the North? She must have musicin which her hidden desires can unfold, with the minimum of effort, anopera, which is passionate life without the fatigue of the passions, asentimental, sensual, lazy art. 

She was weak and changing: she could only apply herself intermittentlyto any serious study: she must have amusement; rarely did she do on themorrow what she had decided to do the night before. She had so manychildish ways, so many little disconcerting caprices! The restlessnature of woman, her morbid and periodically unreasonable character. Sheknew it and then tried to isolate herself. She knew her weaknesses, andblamed herself for her failure to resist them, since they distressed herfriend; sometimes, without his knowing it, she made real sacrifices forhim; 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, onceor twice, by way of asserting her independence, she did the opposite ofwhat he asked her. At once she regretted it; at night she would befilled with remorse that she could not make Christophe happier; sheloved him more than she would let him see; she felt that her friendshipwith him was the best part of her life. As usually happens with two verydifferent people, they were more united when they were not together. Intruth, if they had been thrust apart by a misunderstanding, the faultwas not altogether Christophe's, as he honestly believed. Even when inthe old days Grazia most dearly loved Christophe, would she have marriedhim? She would perhaps have given him her life; but would she have sogiven herself as to live all her life with him? She knew (though she didnot confess it to Christophe) that she had loved her husband, and, evennow, after all the harm he had done her, loved him as she had neverloved 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, asmuch out of respect for them, as in complacent pity for oneself. . . . Christophe was too masculine to divine them: but every now and then, inflashes, he would see how little the woman he most dearly loved, whotruly loved him, belonged to him--and that he could not wholly count onany one, on any one, in life. His love was not quenched by thisperception. He even felt no bitterness. Grazia's peace spread over him. He accepted everything. O life why should I reproach thee for that whichthou canst not give? Art thou not very beautiful and very blessed asthou art? I must fain love thy smile, Gioconda. . . . 

Christophe would gaze at his beloved's beautiful face, and read in itmany things of the past and the future. During the long years when hehad lived alone, traveling, speaking little but seeing much, he hadacquired, almost unconsciously, the power of reading the human face, that rich and complex language formed by the ages. It is a thousandtimes richer and more complex than the spoken language. The spirit ofthe race is expressed in it. . . . There are perpetual contrasts betweenthe lines of the face and the words that come from it. Take the profileof a girl, clear-cut, a little hard, in the Burne-Jones style, tragic, consumed by a secret passion, jealousy, a Shakespearian sorrow. . . . Shespeaks: and, behold, she is a little bourgeois creature, as stupid as anowl, a selfish, commonplace coquette, with no idea of the terribleforces inscribed upon her body. And yet such passion, such violence arein her. In what shape will they one day spring forth? Will it be in thelust of gain, conjugal jealousy, or splendid energy, or morbidwickedness? There is no knowing. It may be that she will transmit themto 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 thepatrimony of ancient families, is the least in danger of beingdissipated in transit. She, at least, was aware of it. It is a greatsource of strength to know our weakness, to make ourselves, if not themasters, the pilots of the soul of the race to which we are bound, whichbears us like a vessel upon its waters, --to make fate our instrument, touse it as a sail which we furl or clew up according to the wind. WhenGrazia closed her eyes, she could hear within herself more than onedisturbing voice, of a tone familiar to her. But in her healthy souleven the dissonances were blended to form a profound, soft music, underthe guiding hand of her harmonious reason. 

Unhappily it is not within our power to transmit the best of our bloodto the creatures of our blood. 

Of Grazia's two children, the little girl, Aurora, who was eleven yearsold, was like her mother; she was not so pretty, being a little coarserin fiber; she had a slight limp; she was a good little girl, affectionate and gay, with splendid health, abundant good nature, fewnatural gifts, except idleness, a passion for doing nothing. Christopheadored her. When he saw her with Grazia he felt the charm of a twofoldcreature, seen at two ages of life, two generations together. . . . Twoflowers upon one stem; a Holy Family of Leonardo, the Virgin and SaintAnne, different shades of the same smile. With one glance he could takein the whole blossoming of a woman's soul; and it was at once fair andsad to see: he could see whence it came and whither it was going. Thereis nothing more natural than for an ardent, chaste heart to love twosisters at one and the same time, or mother and daughter. Christophewould have loved the woman of his love through all her descendants, justas in her he loved the stock of which she came. Her every smile, herevery tear, every line in her face, were they not living beings, thememories of a life which was before her eyes opened to the light, theforerunners of a life which was to come, when he! eyes should be foreverclosed?

The little boy, Lionello, was nine. He was much handsomer than hissister, of a finer stock, too fine, worn out and bloodless, wherein hewas like his father. He was intelligent, well-endowed with badinstincts, demonstrative, and dissembling. He had big blue eyes, long, girlish, fair hair, a pale complexion, a delicate chest, and wasmorbidly nervous, which last, being a born comedian and strangelyskilled in discovering people's weaknesses, he upon occasion turned togood account. Grazia was inclined to favor him, with the naturalpreference of a mother for her least healthy child, --and also throughthe attraction which all kindly, good women feel for the sons who areneither well nor ill (for in them a part of their life which they havesuppressed finds solace). In such attraction there is something of thememory of the husbands who have made them suffer, whom they loved evenwhile they despised them, or the strange flora of the soul, which waxstrong in the dark, humid hot-house of conscience. 

In spite of Grazia's care equally to bestow her tenderness upon herchildren, Aurora felt the difference, and was a little hurt by it. Christophe divined her feeling, and she divined Christophe's: they cametogether instinctively; while between Christophe and Lionello there wasan antipathy which the boy covered up with exaggerated, lisping, charming ways, --and Christophe thrust from him as a shameful feeling. Hewrestled with himself and forced himself to cherish this other man'schild as though he were the child whom it would have been ineffablysweet for him to have had by the beloved. He would not allow himself tosee Lionello's bad nature or anything that could remind him of the"other man": he set himself to find in him only Grazia. She, moreclear-sighted, was under no illusions about her son, and she only lovedhim the more. 

However, the disease which for years had been lying dormant in the boybroke out. Consumption supervened. Grazia resolved to go and shutherself up in a sanatorium in the Alps with Lionello, Christophe beggedto be allowed to go with her. To avoid scandal she dissuaded him. He washurt by the excessive importance which she attached to the conventions. She went away and left her daughter with Colette. It was not long beforeshe began to feel terribly lonely among the sick people who talked ofnothing but their illness, surrounded by the pitiless mountains risingabove the rags and tatters of men. To escape from the depressingspectacle of the invalids with their spittoons spying upon each otherand marking the progress of death over each one of them, she left thePalace hospital, and took a chalet, where she lived aloof with her ownlittle invalid. Instead of improving Lionello's condition, the highaltitude aggravated it. His fever waxed greater. Grazia spent nights ofanguish. Christophe knew it by his keen intuition, although she told himnothing: for she was growing more and more rigid in her pride; shelonged for Christophe to be with her, but she had forbidden him tofollow 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 twilighthour, which is so bitter for hearts in agony, she saw . . . She thought shesaw coming up from the station of the funicular railway . . . A man walkinghurriedly: he stopped, hesitating, with his back a little bowed. Shewent indoors to avoid his seeing her: she held her hands over her heart, and, quivering with emotion, she laughed. Although she was not at allreligious she knelt down, hid her face in her hands; she felt the needof thanking some one. . . . But he did not come. She went back to thewindow, and, hiding behind the curtains, looked out. He had stopped, leaning against a fence round a field, near the gate of the chalet. Hedared not enter. And, even more perturbed than he, she smiled, and saidin a low voice:

"Come. . . . "

At last he made up his mind and rang the bell. Already she was at thedoor, and she opened it. His eyes looked at her like the eyes of afaithful 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 tonurse the boy, whose condition was growing worse. His heart was in thetask. The boy treated him with irritable animosity: he took no pains nowto conceal it: he said many malicious things to him. Christophe put itall down to his illness. He was extraordinarily patient. He passed manypainful days by the boy's bedside, until the critical night, on passingthrough which, Lionello, whom they had given up for lost, was saved. Andthey felt then such pure happiness--watching hand in hand over thelittle invalid--that suddenly she got up, took her cloak and hood, andled Christophe out of doors, along the road, in the snow, the silenceand the night, under the cold stars. Leaning on his arm, excitedlybreathing in the frozen peace of the world, they hardly spoke at all. They made no allusion to their love. Only when they returned, on thethreshold, 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 becomesacred. 

On her return to Paris after Lionello's long convalescence, she took alittle house at Passy, and did not worry any more about "avoidingscandal": she felt brave enough to dare opinion for her friend's sake. Their life henceforth was so intimately linked that it would have seemedcowardly to her to conceal the friendship which united them atthe--inevitable--risk of having it slandered. She received Christophe atall hours of the day, and was seen with him out walking and at thetheater: she spoke familiarly to him in company. Colette thought theywere making themselves too conspicuous. Grazia would stop her hints witha smile, and quietly go her way. 

And yet she had given Christophe no new right over her. They werenothing more than friends: he always addressed her with the sameaffectionate respect. But they hid nothing from each other: theyconsulted each other about everything: and insensibly Christophe assumeda sort of paternal authority in the house: Grazia listened to andfollowed his advice. She was no longer the same woman since the wintershe had spent in the sanatorium; the anxiety and fatigue had seriouslytried her health, which, till then, had been sturdy. Her soul wasaffected by it. In spite of an occasional lapse into her old caprices, she had become mysteriously more serious, more reflective, and was moreconstantly desirous of being kind, of learning and not hurting any one. Every day saw her more softened by Christophe's affection, hisdisinterestedness, and the purity of his heart: and she was thinking ofone day giving him the great happiness of which he no longer dared todream, that of becoming his wife. 

He had never broached the subject again after her first refusal, for hethought he had no right to do so. But regretfully he clung to hisimpossible hope. Though he respected what his friend had said, he wasnot convinced by her disillusioned attitude towards marriage: hepersisted in believing that the union of two people who love each other, profoundly and devotedly, is the height of human happiness. --His regretswere revived by coming in contact once more with the Arnauds. 

Madame Arnaud was more than fifty. Her husband was sixty-five orsixty-six. Both seemed to be older. He had grown stout: she was verythin and rather shrunken: spare though she had been in the old days, shewas now just a wisp of a woman. After Arnaud's retirement they had goneto live in a house in the country. They had no link with the life of thetime save the newspaper, which in the torpor of their little town andtheir drowsy life brought them the tardy echo of the voice of the world. Once they saw Christophe's name. Madame Arnaud wrote him a fewaffectionate, rather ceremonious words, to tell him how glad they wereof 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, ona warm summer afternoon. They were like Boecklin's old couple, sleepinghand in hand, in an arbor. Sun, sleep, old age overwhelm them: they arefalling, they are already half-buried in the eternal dream. And, as thelast gleam of their life, their tenderness persists to the end. Theclasp of their hands, the dying warmth of their bodies. . . . --They weredelighted to see Christophe, for the sake of all the memories of thepast he brought with him. They talked of the old days, which at thatdistance seemed brilliant and full of light. 

Arnaud loved talking, but he had lost his memory for names. MadameArnaud whispered them to him. She liked saying nothing and preferredlistening to talking: but the image of the old times had been kept aliveand clear in her silent heart: in glimmers they would appear sharplybefore her like shining pebbles in a stream. There was one such memorythat Christophe more than once saw reflected in her eyes as she lookedat him with affectionate compassion: but Olivier's name was notpronounced. Old Arnaud plied his wife with touching, awkward littleattentions; he was fearful lest she should catch cold, or be too hot; hewould gaze hungrily with anxious love at her dear, faded face, and witha weary smile she would try to reassure him. Christophe watched themtenderly, with a little envy. . . . To grow old together. To love in thedear companion even the wear of time. To say: "I know those lines roundher eyes and nose. I have seen them coming. I know when they came. Herscant gray hair has lost its color, day by day, in my company, somethingbecause of me, alas! Her sweet face has swollen and grown red in thefires of the weariness and sorrow that have consumed us. My soul, howmuch better I love thee for that thou hast suffered and grown old withme. Every one of thy wrinkles is to me as music from the past. . . . " Thecharm of these old people, who, after the long vigil of life, spent sideby side, go side by side to sleep in the peace of the night! To see themwas both sweet and profitable and sorrowful for Christophe. Oh! Howlovely had life and death been thus!. . . 

When he next saw Grazia, he could not help telling her of his visit. Hedid not tell her of the thoughts roused in him by his visit. But shedivined them. He was tender and wistful as he spoke. He turned his eyesaway from her and was silent every now and then. She looked at him andsmiled, and Christophe's unease infected her. 

That evening, when she was alone in her room, she lay dreaming. She wentover the story Christophe had told her; but the image she saw through itwas 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 forsuch happiness. What joy in the world can equal the joy of making theman 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 thechildren were sleeping. Grazia pricked her ears: since the boy's illnessshe 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 wasirritated, and moaned, and said that he was not well, and broke outcoughing 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. Graziawas alarmed: she had a feeling that he was forcing himself to cough: butshe was ashamed of her thought, as she saw the boy sweating and chokingfor breath. She kissed him and spoke to him tenderly: he seemed to growcalmer; but as soon as she tried to leave him he broke out coughingagain. She had to stay shivering by his bedside, for he would not evenallow her to go away to dress herself, and insisted on her holding hishand; and he would not let her go until he fell asleep again. Then shewent to bed, chilled, uneasy, harassed. And she found it impossible togather up the threads of her dreams. 

The boy had a singular power of reading his mother's thoughts. Thisinstinctive genius is often--though seldom in such a high degree--to befound in creatures of the same stock: they hardly need to look at eachother to know each other's thoughts: they can guess them by thebreathing, by a thousand imperceptible signs. This natural aptness, which is fortified by living together, was in Lionello sharpened andrefined by his ever wakeful malevolence. He had the insight of thedesire to hurt. He detested Christophe. Why? Why does a child take adislike to a person who has never done him any harm? It is often amatter of chance. It is enough for a child to have begun by persuadinghimself that he detests some one, for it to become a habit, and the morehe is argued with the more desperately he will cling to it. But often, again, there are deeper reasons for it, which pass the child'sunderstanding: he has no idea of them. . . . From the first moment when hesaw Christophe, the son of Count Berény had a feeling of animositytowards the man whom his mother had loved. It was as though he hadinstinctively felt the exact moment when Grazia began to think ofmarrying Christophe. From that moment on he never ceased to spy uponthem. He was always between them, and refused to leave the room wheneverChristophe came; or he would manage to burst in upon them when they weresitting together. More than that, when his mother was alone, thinking ofChristophe, he seemed to divine her thoughts. He would sit near her andwatch her. His gaze would embarrass her and almost make her blush. Shewould get up to conceal her unease. --He would take a delight in sayingunkind things about Christophe in her presence. She would bid him besilent, but he would go on. And if she tried to punish him, he wouldthreaten to make himself ill. That was the strategy he had always usedsuccessfully since he was a child. When he was quite small, one day whenhe had been scolded, he had, out of revenge, undressed himself and lainnaked on the floor so as to catch cold. --Once, when Christophe brought apiece of music that he had composed for Grazia's birthday, the boy tookthe manuscript and hid it. It was found in tatters in a wood-box. Grazialost her patience and scolded him severely. Then he wept and howled, andstamped his feet, and rolled on the ground, and had an attack of nerves. Grazia was terrified, and kissed and implored him, and promised to dowhatever he wanted. 

From that day on he was the master: for he knew it: and very frequentlyhe had recourse to the weapon with which he had succeeded. There wasnever any knowing how far his attacks were natural and how farcounterfeit. Soon he was not satisfied with using them vengefully whenhe was opposed in any way, but took to using them out of spite wheneverhis mother and Christophe planned to spend the evening together. He evenwent so far as to play his dangerous game out of sheer idleness, ortheatricality, to discover the extent of his power. He wasextraordinarily ingenious in inventing strange, nervous accidents;sometimes in the middle of dinner he would be seized with a convulsivetrembling, and upset his glass or break his plate; sometimes, as he wasgoing upstairs, he would clutch at the banisters with his hand: hisfingers would stiffen: he would pretend that he could not open themagain; 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 genuinenervous illness. Christophe and Grazia were at their wits' end. Theirpeaceful meetings--their quiet talks, their readings, their music, whichwere as a festival to them--all their humble happiness was henceforthdisturbed. 

Every now and then, however, the little imp would, give them a respite, partly because he was tired of his play-acting, partly because hischild's nature took possession of him again, and made him think ofsomething else. (He was sure now that he had won the day. )

Then, quickly, quietly, they would seize their opportunity. Every hourthat they could steal in this way was the more precious to them as theycould never be sure of enjoying it to the end. How near they felt toeach other! Why could they not always be so!. . . One day Grazia herselfconfessed 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 herson: he knew that she was not deceived by Lionello's lies, that shestill adored him: he knew the blind egoism of such domestic affectionswhich make the best pour out their reserves of devotion to the advantageof the bad or mediocre creatures of their blood, so that there isnothing left for them to give to those who would be more worthy, whomthey love best, but who are not of their blood. And although he wasirritated by it, although there were times when he longed to kill thelittle monster who was destroying their lives, yet he bowed his head insilence, and understood that Grazia could not do otherwise. 

So they renounced their life without vain recrimination. But if thehappiness which was their right could be snatched from them, nothingcould prevent the union of their hearts. Their very renunciation, theircommon sacrifice, held them by bonds stronger than those of the flesh. Each confided the sorrow of it all to the other, passed over the burdenof it, and took on the other's suffering: so even their sorrow becamejoy. Christophe called Grazia "his confessor. " He did not hide from herthe weaknesses from which his pride had to suffer: rather he accusedhimself with too great contrition, and she would smilingly soothe hisboyish scruples. He even confessed to her his material poverty; but hecould only bring himself to do that after it had been agreed betweenthem that she should neither offer him, nor he accept from her, anyhelp. It was the last barrier of pride which he upheld and sherespected. In place of the well-being which she could not bring into herfriend's life, she found many ways of filling it with what wasinfinitely more precious to him--namely, her tenderness. He felt thebreath of it all about him, during every hour of the day: he neveropened his eyes in the morning, never closed them at night, without aprayer of love and adoration. And when she awoke, or at night, as oftenhappened, 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 hadto spend the day lying on a sofa. Christophe used to go every day andread to her, and show her his new work. Then she would get up from thechair, and limp to the piano, for her feet were swollen. She would playthe music he had brought. It was the greatest joy she could give him. Ofall his pupils she and Cécile were the most gifted. But while Cécile hadan 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 broughtto bear on it the clarity of her intelligence and heart. Christophe'sgenius was saturated with her clarity. His friend's playing helped himto understand the obscure passions he had expressed. With closed eyes hewould listen, and follow her, and hold her by the hand, as she led himthrough the maze of his own thoughts. By living in his music throughGrazia's soul, he was wedded to her soul and possessed it. Prom thismysterious conjugation sprang music which was the fruit of the minglingof 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 alittle of the respectful affection they had for their mistress. Joyouswas it to listen to the song of the fleeting hours, and to see the tideof life ebbing away. . . . A shadow of anxiety was thrown on theirhappiness by Grazia's failing health. But, in spite of her littleinfirmities, she was so serene that her hidden sufferings did butheighten her charm. She was his _"liebe, leidende, und doch sorührende, heitre Freundin"_ ("his dear, suffering, touching friend, always so bright and cheerful"). And sometimes, in the evening, when heleft her with his heart big with love so that he could not wait untilthe morrow, he would write:

"Liebe, liebe, liebe, liebe, liebe Grazia. . . . "

Their tranquillity lasted for months. They thought it would lastforever. The boy seemed to have forgotten them: his attention wasdistracted by other things. But after this respite he returned to themand never left them again. The horrible little boy had determined topart his mother and Christophe. He resumed his play-acting. He did notset about it upon any premeditated plan, but, from day to day, followedthe 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 relaxedhis efforts until he had made Grazia promise to leave Paris and go on along journey. Grazia had no strength to resist him. Besides, the doctorsadvised her to pay a visit to Egypt. She had to avoid another winter inthe northern climate. Too many things had tried her health: the moralupheaval of the last few years, the perpetual anxiety about her son'shealth, the long periods of uncertainty, the struggle that had takenplace in her without her giving any sign of it, the sorrow of sorrowsthat she was inflicting on her friend. To avoid adding to the trouble hedivined in her, Christophe hid his own grief at the approach of the dayof parting: he made no effort to postpone it; and they were outwardlycalm, and, though inwardly they were very far from it, yet theysucceeded in forcing it upon each other. 

The day came. A September morning. They had left Paris together in themiddle of July, and spent their last weeks in Switzerland in a mountainhotel, 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 inunceasing torrents: they were almost alone in the hotel, for all theother travelers had fled. The rain stopped on their last morning, butthe mountains were still covered with clouds. The children went on aheadwith the servants in another carriage. She drove off. He accompanied herto the place where the road began to descend in steep windings to theplain of Italy. The mist came in under the hood of the carriage. Theywere very close together, and they said no word: they hardly looked ateach other. A strange light, half-day, half-night, wrapped themround. . . . Grazia's breath left little drops of water on her veil. Hepressed her little hand, warm under her cold glove. Their faces cametogether. Through her wet veil he kissed her dear lips. 

They came to the turn of the road. He got down, and the carriage plungedon into the mist and disappeared. For a long time he could hear therumbling of the wheels and the horses' hoofs. Great masses of white mistrolled over the fields. Through the close tracery of the branches thedripping trees dropped water. Not a breath of wind. The mist wasstifling life. Christophe stopped, choking. . . . There was nothing now. Everything had gone. . . . 

He took in a long breath, filling his lungs with the mist, and walkedon. Nothing passes for him who does not pass. 

III

Absence adds to the power of those we love. The heart retains only whatis dear to us in them. The echo of each word coming through space fromthe distant friend, rings out in the silence, faithfully answering. 

The correspondence of Christophe and Grazia took on the serious andrestrained tone of a couple who are no longer in the dangerous period oftrial of love, but, having passed it, feel sure of the road and march onhand in hand. Each was strong to sustain and direct the other, weak andyielding to the other's support and direction. 

Christophe returned to Paris. He had vowed never to go there again. Butwhat are such vows worth? He knew that he would find there the shade ofGrazia. And circumstances, conspiring with his secret desires againsthis will, showed him a new duty to fulfil in Paris. Colette, wellinformed as to society gossip, told Christophe that his young friendJeannin was making a fool of himself. Jacqueline, who had always beenweak in her dealings with her son, could not hold him in check. Sheherself was passing through a strange crisis, and was too much occupiedwith herself to pay much heed to him. 

Since the unhappy adventure which had destroyed Olivier's marriage andlife, Jacqueline had lived a very worthy life. She withdrew fromParisian society, which, after imposing on her a hypocritical sort ofquarantine, had made fresh advances to her, which she had rejected. Shewas not at all ashamed of what she had done as far as these people wereconcerned: she thought she had no reason to account to them for it, forthey were more worthless than she: what she had done openly, half thewomen she knew did by stealth, under cover of their homes. She sufferedonly 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, inso poor a world, lost an affection like his. 

Her regrets, and her sorrow, grew less acute with time. There were leftonly a sort of mute suffering, a humiliated contempt for herself andothers, and the love of her child. This affection, into which she pouredall her need of love, disarmed her before him; she could not resistGeorges's caprices. To excuse her weakness she persuaded herself thatshe was paying for the wrong she had done Olivier. She had alternateperiods of exalted tenderness and weary indifference: sometimes shewould worry Georges with her exacting, anxious love, and sometimes shewould seem to tire of him, and she let him do as he liked. She admittedto herself that she was bringing him up badly, and she would tormentherself with the admission; but she made no change. When, as she rarelydid, she tried to model her principles of conduct on Olivier's way ofthinking, the result was deplorable. At heart she wished to have noauthority over her son save that of her affection. And she was notwrong: for between these two, however similar they might be, there wereno bonds save those of the heart. Georges Jeannin was sensible of hismother's physical charm: he loved her voice, her gestures, hermovements, her grace, her love. But in mind he was conscious ofstrangerhood 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, andattributed the estrangement to other feminine influences: and, as shetried awkwardly to combat them, she only estranged him more. In reality, they had always lived, side by side, each preoccupied with totallydifferent interests, deceiving themselves as to the gulf that laybetween them, with the aid of their common surface sympathies andantipathies, which disappeared when the man began to spring forth fromthe boy (that ambiguous creature, still impregnated with the perfume ofwomanhood). 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 secretpride that was yet feverish and uneasy. 

The younger generation has always a keener sense than the elder of thethings that lie between them; they need to gain assurance of theimportance of their existence, even at the cost of injustice or of lyingto themselves. But this feeling varies in its acuteness from one periodto another. In the classic ages when, for a time, the balance of theforces of a civilization are realized, --those high plateaux ending onall sides with steep slopes--the difference in level is not so greatfrom one generation to another. But in the ages of renascence ordecadence, the young men climbing or plunging down the giddy slopes, leave their predecessors far behind. --Georges, like the other young menof 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 hiscareer 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 hesaw all round him the heaped-up darkness, pierced by luminous gleams, the masses of knowledge and ignorance, warring truths, contradictoryerrors, in which his father and the men of his father's generation hadfeverishly groped their way. But at the same time he became conscious ofa weapon in his power which they had never known: his force. . . . 

Whence did he have it?. . . Who can tell the mystery of the resurrectionsof a race, sleeping, worn out, which suddenly awakes brimming like amountain torrent in the spring!. . . What would he do with his force? Useit in his turn to explore the inextricable thickets of modern thought?They had no attraction for him. He was oppressed by the menacing dangerswhich lurked in them. They had crushed his father. Rather than renewthat experience and enter the tragic forest he would have set fire toit. He had only to glance at the books of wisdom or sacred folly whichhad intoxicated Olivier: the Nihilist pity of Tolstoi, the somberdestructive pride of Ibsen, the frenzy of Nietzsche, the heroic, sensualpessimism of Wagner. He had turned away from them in anger and terror. He hated the realistic writers who, for half a century, had killed thejoy of art. He could not, however, altogether blot out the shadows ofthe sorrowful dream in which he had been cradled. He would not lookbehind him, but he well knew that the shadow was there. He was toohealthy to seek a counter-irritant to his uneasiness in the lazyskepticism of the preceding epoch: he detested the dilettantism of menlike Renan and Anatole France, with their degradation of the freeintellect, their joyless mirth, their irony without greatness: ashameful method, fit for slaves, playing with the chains which they areimpotent to break. 

He was too vigorous to be satisfied with doubt, too weak to create theconviction which, with all his soul, he desired. He asked for it, prayedfor it, demanded it. And the eternal snappers-up of popularity, thegreat writers, the sham thinkers at bay, exploited this imperious andagonized desire, by beating the drums and shouting the clap-trap oftheir nostrum. From trestles, each of these Hippocrates bawled that hiswas the only true elixir, and decried all the rest. Their secrets wereall equally worthless. None of these pedlars had taken the trouble tofind a new recipe. They had hunted about among their old empty bottles. The panacea of one was the Catholic Church: another's was legitimatemonarchy: yet another's, the classic tradition. There were queer fellowswho declared that the remedy for all evils lay in the return to Latin. Others seriously prognosticated, with an enormous word which imposed onthe herd, the domination of the Mediterranean spirit. (They would havebeen 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 upthe heirs of a new Roman Empire. . . . Words, words, all second-hand. Therefuse of the libraries scattered to the winds. --Like all his comrades, young Jeannin went from one showman to another, listened to theirpatter, was sometimes taken in by it, and entered the booth, only tocome out disappointed and rather ashamed of having spent his time andhis money in watching old clowns buffooning in shabby rags. And yet, such is youth's power of illusion, such was his certainty of gainingcertainty, that he was always taken in by each new promise of each newvendor of hope. He was very French, of a hypercritical temper, and aninnate lover of order. He needed a leader and could bear none; hispitiless irony always riddled them through and through. 

While he was waiting for the advent of a leader who should give him thekey to the riddle . . . He had no time to wait. He was not the kind ofman, like his father, to be satisfied with the lifelong search fortruth. 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 ofart, and especially of music, with which he had gorged himself, had atfirst been to him an intermittent and passionate diversion. He washandsome, ardent, precocious, beset with temptations, and he earlydiscovered the outwardly enchanting world of love, and plunged into itwith an unbridled, poetic, greedy joy. Then this impertinently naïve andinsatiable cherub wearied of women: he needed action, so he gave himselfup uncontrollably to sport. He tried everything, practised everything. He was always going to fencing and boxing matches: he was the Frenchchampion runner and high-jumper, and captain of a football team. Hecompeted with a number of other crazy, reckless, rich young men likehimself in ridiculous, wild motor races. Finally he threw up everythingfor the latest fad, and was drawn into the popular craze for flyingmachines. At the Rheims meetings he shouted and wept for joy with threehundred thousand other men; he felt that he was one with the wholepeople in a religious jubilation; the human birds flying over theirheads bore them upwards in their flight: for the first time since thedawn of the great Revolution the vast multitude had raised their eyes tothe heavens and seen them open. --To his mother's terror young Jeannindeclared that he was going to throw in his lot with the conquerors ofthe air. Jacqueline implored him to give up his perilous ambition. Sheordered him to do so. He took the bit between his teeth. Christophe, inwhom Jacqueline thought she had found an ally, only gave the boy alittle 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 hehad any right, --even had he been able to do so--to fetter the healthyand normal expansion of the boy's vitality, which, if it had been forcedinto inaction, would have been perverted to his destruction. 

Jacqueline could not reconcile herself to seeing her son leave her. Shehad vainly thought that she had renounced love, for she could not dowithout the illusion of love; all her affections, all her actions weretinged with it. There are so many mothers who expend on their sons allthe secret ardor which they have been unable to give forth inmarriage--or out of it! And when they see how easily their sons dowithout them, when suddenly they understand that they are not necessaryto them, they go through the same kind of crisis as befalls them uponthe betrayal of a lover, or the disillusion of love. --Once moreJacqueline's whole existence crumbled away. Georges saw nothing. Youngpeople never have any idea of the tragedies of the heart going on aroundthem: they have no time to stop and see them: and they do not wish tosee: a selfish instinct bids them march straight on without looking toright or left. 

Jacqueline was left alone to gulp down this new sorrow. She only emergedfrom it when her grief was worn out, worn out like her love. She stillloved her son, but with a distant, disillusioned affection, which sheknew to be futile, and she lost all interest in herself and him. So shedragged through a wretched, miserable year, without his paying her anyheed. And then, poor creature, since her heart could neither live nordie without love, she was forced to find something to love. She fellvictim 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 ofattraction. 

This woman was about her own age, and she was a nun. She was always busywith charitable works. A tall, fine, rather stout woman, dark, withrather bold, handsome features, sharp eyes, a big, sensitive, ever-smiling mouth, and a masterful chin. She was remarkablyintelligent, and not at all sentimental; she had the malice of apeasant, a keen business sense, and a southern imagination, which saweverything in exaggeration, though always exactly to scale whennecessary: she was a strangely enticing mixture of lofty mysticism andlawyer's cunning. She was used to domination, and the exercise of it wasa habit with her. Jacqueline was drawn to her at once. She becameenthusiastic over her work, or, at least, believed herself to be so. Sister Angèle knew perfectly what was the object of her passion: she wasused to provoking them; and without seeming to notice them, she usedskilfully 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 onlyperson not to realize it. Georges's guardian became anxious. Georges wastoo generous and too easy to worry about money matters, though he sawhis mother's subjection, and was shocked by it. He tried, too late inthe day, to resume his old intimacy with her, and saw that a veil wasdrawn between them; he blamed the occult influence for it, and, bothagainst his mother and the nun, whom he called an intriguer, heconceived 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 hadregarded as his natural right. It never occurred to him that his placewas taken because he had left it. Instead of trying patiently to win itback, he was clumsy and cruel. Quick words passed between mother andson, both of whom were hasty and passionate, and the rupture grewmarked. Sister Angèle established her ascendancy over Jacqueline, andGeorges rushed away and kicked over the traces. He plunged into arestless, dissipated life; gambled, lost large sums of money; he put acertain amount of exaggeration into his extravagances, partly for hisown pleasure and partly to counterbalance his mother'sextravagances. --He knew the Stevens-Delestrades. Colette had marked downthe handsome boy, and tried the effect on him of her charms, which shenever wearied of using. She knew of all Georges's freaks, and was vastlyentertained by them. But her sound common sense and the real kindnessconcealed beneath her frivolity, helped her to see the danger the youngidiot was running. And, being well aware that it was beyond her to savehim, 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 moreremarkable in that it was difficult to explain. Christophe belonged tothe preceding generation against which Georges and his companions wereviolently in reaction. He was one of the most conspicuousrepresentatives of that period of torment whose art and ideas rouse inthem a feeling of suspicion and hostility. He was unmoved by the newGospels and the charms of the minor prophets and the old cheapjacks whowere offering the young men an infallible recipe for the salvation ofthe world, Rome and France. He was faithful to the free faith, free ofall religion, free of all parties, free of all countries, which was nolonger the fashion--or had never been fashionable. Finally, though hewas altogether removed from national questions, he was a foreigner inParis at a time when all foreigners were regarded by the natives of thecountry as barbarians. 

And yet, young Jeannin, joyous, easy-going, instinctively hostile toeverything that might make him sad or uneasy, ardent in pursuit ofpleasure, engrossed in violent sports, easily duped by the rhetoric ofhis time, in his physical vigor and mental indolence inclined to thebrutal doctrines of French action, nationalist, royalist, imperialist--(he did not exactly know)--in his heart reflected only oneman: Christophe. His precocious experience and the delicate tact he hadinherited from his mother made him see (without being in the leastdisturbed by it) how little worth was the world that he could not livewithout, and how superior to it was Christophe. From Olivier he hadinherited a vague uneasiness, which visited him in sudden fits thatnever lasted very long, a need of finding and deciding on some definiteaim for what he was doing. And perhaps it was from Olivier that he hadalso inherited the mysterious instinct which drew him towards the man whomOlivier had loved. 

He used to go and see Christophe. He was expansive by nature, and of arather chattering temper, and he loved indulging in confidences. Henever 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 hadinterrupted him in his work, but never for more than a few minutes, whenhis mind would be away putting the finishing touches to its work: thenit would return to Georges, who never noticed its absence. He used tolaugh 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 thenhe said indignantly:

"But you are not listening!"

Then Christophe was ashamed: and docilely he would listen to Georges'sstory, and try to win his forgiveness by redoubled attention. Thestories were often very funny: and Christophe could not help laughing atthe tale of some wild freak: for Georges kept nothing back: hisfrankness 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 overanybody. Georges's love affairs, and the scandalous waste of his fortunein folly, were not what shocked him most. What he found it most hard toforgive was the light-mindedness with which Georges regarded his sins:they were no burden to him: he thought them very natural. His conceptionof morality was very different from Christophe's. He was one of thoseyoung men who are fain to see in the relation of the sexes nothing morethan a game that has no moral aspect whatever. A certain frankness and acareless kindliness were all that was necessary for an honest man. Hewas not troubled with Christophe's scruples. Christophe would wax wrath. In vain did he try not to impose his way of feeling upon others: hecould not be tolerant, and his old violence was only half tamed. Everynow and then he would explode. He could not help seeing how dirty weresome of Georges's intrigues, and he used bluntly to tell him so. Georgeswas no more patient than he, and they used to have angry scenes, afterwhich they would not see each other for weeks. Christophe would realizethat his outbursts were not likely to change Georges's conduct, and thatit was perhaps unjust to subject the morality of a period to the moralideas of another generation. But his feeling was too strong for him, andon the next opportunity he would break out again. How can one renouncethe faith for which one has lived? That were to renounce life. What isthe good of laboring to think thoughts other than one's own, to be likeone's neighbor or to meddle with his affairs? That leads toself-destruction, and no one is benefited by it. The first duty is to bewhat one is, to dare to say: "This is good, that bad. " One profits theweak more by being strong than by sharing their weakness. Be indulgent, if you like, towards weakness and past sins. But never compromise withany weakness. . . . 

Yes: but Georges never by any chance consulted Christophe about anythinghe was going to do:--(did he know himself?). --He only told him aboutthings when they were done. --And then?. . . Then, what could he do butlook 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. Georgeswould look up at Christophe's grave eyes, which seemed to be gazing athim 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 wasshot with a gleam of malice: and he was not proud of it. 

Christophe hardly ever made use of Georges's confidences against him; itwas often as though he had not heard them. After the mute dialogue oftheir eyes, he would shake his head mockingly, and then begin to tell astory 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 throughvagaries similar to his own. Christophe never added any commentary. Theextraordinary kindliness of the story-teller would produce far moreeffect than the story. He would speak of himself just as he spoke ofothers, with the same detachment, the same jovial, serene humor. Georgeswas impressed by his tranquillity. It was for this that he came. When hehad unburdened himself of his light-hearted confession, he was like aman stretching out his limbs and lying at full length in the shade of agreat tree on a summer afternoon. The dazzling fever of the scorchingday would fall away from him. Above him he would feel the hovering ofprotecting wings. In the presence of this man who so peacefully bore theheavy burden of his life, he was sheltered from his own inwardrestlessness. He found rest only in hearing him speak. He did not alwayslisten: his mind would wander, but wheresoever it went, it wassurrounded by Christophe's laughter. 

However, he did not understand his old friend's ideas. He used to wonderhow Christophe could bear his soul's solitude, and dispense with beingbound to any artistic, political, or religious party, or any group ofmen. He used to ask him: "Don't you ever want to take refuge in a campof some sort?"

"Take refuge?" Christophe would say with a laugh. "It is much too goodoutside. 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 tothe principles admitted by all the men of the time. I envy the men ofold days, the men of the classic ages. My friends are right in theirdesire to restore the order of the past. "

"Milksop!" said Christophe. "What have I to do with such disheartenedcreatures?"

"I am not disheartened, " protested Georges indignantly. "None of us isthat. "

"But you must be, " said Christophe, "to be afraid of yourselves. What!You need order and cannot create it for yourselves? You must always beclinging to your great-grandmother's skirts! Dear God! You must walkalone!"

"One must take root, " said Georges, proudly echoing one of the pontiffsof 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 yourown 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 notaste for examining his inmost soul: he could not understand whatpleasure there could be in it: there was the danger of falling over ifyou looked down into the abyss. 

"Give me your hand, " said Christophe. 

He would amuse himself by opening the trap-door of his realistic, tragicvision of life. Georges would draw away from it, and Christophe wouldshut 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 strongenough. There is nothing to make you, after all. Go ahead, my boy. Butdo you need a master to brand your shoulder, like a sheep? What is theword of command you are waiting for? The signal was given long ago. Thesignal to saddle has sounded, and the cavalry is on the march. Don'tworry 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 backspace, drive back death. . . . 

"_Expertus vacuum Dadalus aera_. . . . "

". . . Do you know that, you champion of Latin? Can you even tell me whatit means?

"_Perrupit Acheronta_. . . . "

"That is your lot, you happy _conquistadores_!"

So clearly did he show the duty of heroic action that had devolved uponthe 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 ArabianNight in which a genii, as tall as a mountain, is imprisoned in a bottlesealed with the seal of Solomon?. . . The genii is here, in the depths ofour soul, the soul into which you are afraid to look down. I and the menof my time spent our lives in struggling with him: we did not conquerhim: he conquered us. At present we are both recovering our breath, and, with no rancor nor fear, we are looking at each other, satisfied withthe struggles in which we have been engaged, waiting for the agreedarmistice to expire. You are profiting by the armistice to gather yourstrength and cull the world's beauty. Be happy. Enjoy the lull. Butremember that one day, you or your children, on your return from yourconquests, will have to come back to the place where I stand and resumethe combat, with new forces, against the genii by whose side I watch andwait. And the combat will endure with intervals of armistice until oneof the two (perhaps both) will be laid low. It is your duty to bestronger and happier than we!. . . --Meanwhile, indulge in your sport ifyou like: stiffen your muscles and strengthen your heart: and do not beso foolish as to waste your impatient vigor upon silly trifles: youbelong 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 wasopen-minded enough to grasp Christophe's ideas, but they escaped him atonce. 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 thememory of the words that had produced it had long been wiped out. He hada real veneration for Christophe. He believed in nothing that Christophebelieved in (at heart he laughed at everything and had no belief). Buthe would have broken the head of any man who took upon himself to speakill of his old friend. 

Fortunately, no one did speak ill of him in his presence, otherwise hewould have been kept busy. 

 * * * * *

Christophe had accurately forecast the next change of the wind. The newideal of the new French music was very different from his own; but whilethat was a reason the more for Christophe to sympathize with it, itsexponents had no sympathy with him. His vogue with the public was notlikely to reconcile the most hungry for recognition of these young mento 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 theirteeth. . . . "

He was inclined to prefer them to the other puppies who fawned on himbecause of his success--those people of whom D'Aubigné writes, who"_when a mastiff plunges his nose into a butter-pot, come and lick hiswhiskers by way of congratulation. _"

He had a piece accepted at the Opéra. Almost at once it was put intorehearsal. Through a newspaper attack Christophe learned that a certainyoung composer's piece had been postponed for it. The writer of thearticle waxed indignant over such abuse of power, and made Christopheresponsible 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 operayou accepted before mine. "

The manager protested, began to laugh, refused, covered Christophe'scharacter, work, genius, with flattery, and said that the other man'swork was beneath contempt, and assured him that it was worthless andwould 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 asop to public opinion. Formerly these young men could shout as much asthey pleased. And no one listened to them. But now they are able to letloose on us the nationalist Press, which roars 'Treason' and calls you adisloyal Frenchman because you happen to have the misfortune to beunable 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 ofit! So is the public. They bore us with their _Oremus!_. . . There'sno blood in their veins; they're like sacristans chanting Mass: theirlove ducts are like the _De Profundis_. . . . If I were fool enough toput on the pieces I am compelled to accept, I should ruin my theater. Iaccept them: that is all they can ask. --Let us talk of somethingserious. 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 usingme to suppress the young men. When I was a young man you would havesuppressed me in just the same way. You must play this boy's piece, or Ishall 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 wewere 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 interruptingthe preparation of Christophe's. One was in three acts, the other intwo: it was arranged to include them both in one program. Christophewent to see the young man, for he wanted to be the first to give him thenews. The musician was loud in his promises of eternal gratitude. 

Naturally Christophe could not make the manager not devote all hisattention to his piece. The interpretation and the scenery of the otherwere rather scamped. Christophe knew nothing about it. He asked to beallowed to be present at a few rehearsals of the young man's opera: hethought it very mediocre, as he had been told: he ventured to give alittle advice which was ill-received: he gave it up then, and did notinterfere again. On the other hand, the manager had made the young manadmit the necessity for a little cutting to have his piece produced intime. Though the sacrifice was easily consented to at first, it was notlong 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 attackedChristophe: they spoke of a trick, a plot to suppress a great youngFrench artist: they said that his work had been mutilated to please theGerman master, whom they represented to be basely jealous of the comingfame 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 thesewords:

"Have you read this?"

The other replied:

"How sorry I am! The writer of it has always been so well disposedtowards me! Really, I am very sorry. The best thing is to pay noattention 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, andthat hastily, except for the sporting articles, should light on the mostviolent attacks on Christophe. He knew the writer. He went to the caféwhere he knew he would meet him, found him, struck him, fought a duelwith him, and gave him a nasty scratch on the shoulder with his rapier. Next day, at breakfast, Christophe had a letter from a friend tellinghim of the affair. He was overcome. He left his breakfast and hurried tosee Georges. Georges himself opened the door. Christophe rushed in likea whirlwind, seized him by the arms, and shook him angrily, and began tooverwhelm him with a storm of furious reproaches. 

"You little wretch!" he cried. "You have fought a duel for me! Who gaveyou leave! A boy, a fly-by-night, to meddle in my affairs! Do you thinkI can't look after myself? What good have you done? You have done thisrascal the honor of fighting him. He asked no more. You have made him ahero. Idiot! And if it had chanced . . . (I am sure you rushed at it likea madman as usual) . . . If you had been wounded, killed perhaps!. . . Youwretch! I should never have forgiven you as long as you lived!. . . "

Georges laughed uproariously at this last threat, and was so overcomewith merriment, that he cried:

"My dear old friend, how funny you are! Ah! You're unique! Here are youinsulting 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 Iheard the news. What made you think of fighting? You don't fight withsuch 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 Ilike. "

"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 youdo. Make yourself easy. It will do some good. They will think a littlenow 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 mightrouse Georges's susceptibilities. It was quite comic to see him duringthe next few days going to a café and devouring the newspapers, which henever read as a rule, ready to go to all lengths (even to trickery) ifhe found an insulting article, to prevent it reaching Georges. After aweek he recovered his equanimity. The boy was right. His action hadgiven the yelping curs food for a moment's reflection. --And, thoughChristophe went on grumbling at the young lunatic who had made him wasteeight working days, he said to himself that, after all, he had no rightto lecture him. He remembered a certain day, not so very long ago, whenhe himself had fought a duel for Olivier's sake. And he thought he heardOlivier'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 oneother man who was very far from such disinterestedness. This wasEmmanuel. 

The evolution of European thought was progressing swiftly. It was asthough it had been accelerated by mechanical inventions and the newmotors. The stock of prejudices and hopes which in old days were enoughto feed humanity for twenty years was now exhausted in five years. Thegenerations of the mind were galloping ahead, one behind the other, often one trampling the other down, with Time sounding thecharge. --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 himselfwith his worship of moral greatness. If in his poetry he loudlyproclaimed the triumph of France, it was because in her, by an act offaith, he adored the loftiest ideas of modern Europe, the Athena Nike, the victorious Law which takes its revenge on Force. --And now Force hadawakened in the very heart of Law, and it was springing up in all itssavage nakedness. The new generation, robust and disciplined, waslonging for combat, and, before its victory was won, had the attitude ofmind of the conqueror. This generation was proud of its strength, itsthews, 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, themad flights over the Alps and the sea, the new crusades, not much lessmystic, not much less interested than those of Philip Augustus andVillehardouin, had turned the nation's head. The children of the nationwho had never seen war except in books had no difficulty in endowing itwith beauty. They became aggressive. Weary of peace and ideas, theyhymned the anvil of battle, on which, with bloody fists, action wouldone day new-forge the power of France. In reaction against thedisgusting abuse of systems of ideas, they raised contempt of the ideato the level of a profession of faith. Blusteringly they exalted narrowcommon sense, violent realism, immodest national egoism, tramplingunderfoot the rights of others and other nations, when it served theturn 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, " andshutting up the infinite under the surveillance of order and authority. They were not content to despise--they regarded the gentle dotards ofthe preceding generation, the visionary idealists, the humanitarianthinkers of the preceding generation, as public malefactors. Emmanuelwas among them in the eyes of the young men. He suffered cruelly and wasvery angry. 

The knowledge that Christophe was, like himself, --more than himself--thevictim of their injustice, made him sympathetic. His ungraciousness haddiscouraged Christophe's visits. He was too proud to show his regret byseeking him out. But he contrived to meet him, as if by chance, andforced Christophe to make the first advances. Thereafter his umbrageoussusceptibilities were at rest, and he did not conceal the pleasure hehad in Christophe's company. Thereafter they often met in each other'srooms. 

Emmanuel confided his bitterness to Christophe. He was exasperated bycertain criticisms, and, thinking that Christophe was not sufficientlymoved by them, he made him read some of the newspaper appreciations ofhimself. 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 oldtoss-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 istrue, 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 lastlong! Let them despise us and strut about in the sun!"

But Emmanuel had not his sanity. Though he was fearless in thought, hewas a prey to his diseased nerves; with his ardent soul in his ricketybody, he was driven on to the fight and was unfitted for it. Theanimosity of certain opinions of his work drew blood. 

"Ah!" he would say. "If the critics knew the harm they do artists by theunjust words they throw out so recklessly, they would be ashamed oftheir trade. "

"But they do know, my friend. That is the justification of theirexistence. Everybody must live. "

"They are butchers. One is drenched with the blood of life, worn out bythe struggle we have to wage with art. Instead of holding out theirhands to us, and compassionately telling us of our faults, and brotherlyhelping us to mend them, they stand there with their hands in theirpockets and watch you dragging your burden up the slope, and say: 'Youcan't do it!' And when you reach the top, some of them say: 'Yes, butthat 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 stonesrolling down on you to send you flying!"

"Bah! There are plenty of good men among them, and think of the goodthey can do! There are bad men everywhere. They're not peculiar tocriticism. Do you know anything worse than an ungenerous, vain, andembittered artist, to whom the world is only loot, that he is furiousbecause he cannot grab? You must don patience for your protection. Thereis no evil but it may be of good service. The worst of the critics isuseful 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. Geton! Onward! Upward! They are more likely to weary of running after methan I am of marching ahead of them. Remember the Arabian proverb:_'It is no use flogging sterile trees. Only those are stoned whosefront is crowned with golden fruit. . . . '_ Let us pity the artists whoare spared. They will stay half-way, lazily sitting down. When they tryto 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 theenemy, 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 betaken 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 arelike the showers of March falling on the new-born soil. . . . Let them takeus to task! They are right, after all. Old people must learn from theyoung! They have profited by us, and are ungrateful: that is in theorder of things. But, being enriched by our efforts, they will gofarther than we, and will realize what we attempted. If we still havesome youth left, let us learn in our turn, and try to rejuvenateourselves. If we cannot, if we are too old, let us rejoice in them. Itis fine to see the perpetual new-flowering of the human soul thatseemed, exhausted, the vigorous optimism of these young men, theirdelight in action and adventures, the races springing to new life forthe 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 ourreward lies in the creation of a race of men who shall surpass us. Weamassed their treasury, we hoarded it in a wretched hovel open to allthe winds of Heaven: we had to strain every nerve to keep the doorsclosed against death. Our arms carved out the triumphal way along whichour sons shall march. Our sufferings have saved the future. We haveborne the Ark to the threshold of the Promised Land. It will reach thatLand with them, and through us. "

"Will they ever remember those who crossed the wilderness, bearing thesacred fire, the gods of our race, and them, those children, who now aremen? 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 thesacrifice of a mighty epoch like ours to the epoch that it has broughtinto being. The men of to-day would not be more capable of tasting thesovereign joy of renunciation. "

"We have been the happier. We have scaled Mount Nebo, at whose feet liestretched the countries that we shall never enter. But we enjoy themmore than those who will enter them. When you descend to the plain, youlose sight of the plain's immensity and the far horizon. "

 * * * * *

The soothing influence that Christophe exercised over Georges andEmmanuel had the source of its power in Grazia's love. It was throughthis love that he felt himself so near to all young things, and had aninexhaustible fund of sympathy for every new form of life. Whatever theforces might be that rekindled the earth, he was always with them, evenwhen they were against him: he had no fear for the immediate future ofthe democracies, that future which caused such an outcry against theegoism of a handful of privileged men: he did not cling desperately tothe paternosters of an old art: he felt quite sure that from thefabulous visions, the realized dreams of science and action, a new art, more puissant than the old, would spring forth: he hailed the new dawnof the world, even though the beauty of the old world were to die withit. 

Grazia knew the good that her love did for Christophe: and thisconsciousness of her power lifted her out of herself. Through herletters she exercised a controlling power over her friend. She was notso absurdly pretentious as to try to control his art: she had too muchtact, and knew her limitations. But her true, pure voice was thediapason to which he attuned his soul. Christophe had only to hear hervoice echoing his thought to think nothing that was not just, pure, andworthy of repetition. The sound of a beautiful instrument is to amusician like a beautiful body in which his dream at once becomesincarnate. Mysterious is the fusion of two loving spirits: each takesthe best from the other, but only to give it back again enriched withlove. Grazia was not afraid to tell Christophe that she loved him. Distance gave her more freedom of speech, and also, the certainknowledge that she would never be his. Her love, the religious fervor ofwhich was communicated to Christophe, was a fountain of force and peaceto him. 

Grazia gave to others more of such force and peace than she had herself. Her health was shattered, her moral balance seriously affected. Herson's condition did not improve. For the last two years she had lived ina perpetual state of anxiety, aggravated by Lionello's fatal skill inplaying on it. He had acquired a consummate mastery of the art ofkeeping those who loved him on tenterhooks: his idle mind was mostfertile in inventing ways of rousing interest in himself and tormentingothers: 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 inroadsupon 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 itslimitations. She had exhausted her store of pity over his lies. Shethought Lionello was still a comedian when he spoke the truth. And whenthe truth was revealed to her, the rest of her life was poisoned byremorse. 

Lionello's malice had not laid aside its weapons. Having no love for anyone in the world, he could not bear any of those near him to feel lovefor any one else: jealousy was his only passion. It was not enough forhim to have separated his mother and Christophe: he tried to force herto break off the intimacy which subsisted between them. Already he hademployed his usual weapon--his illness--to make Grazia swear that shewould not marry again. He was not satisfied with her promise. He triedto force his mother to give up writing to Christophe. On this sherebelled; and, being delivered by such an attempted abuse of power, shespoke harshly and severely to Lionello about his habit of lying, and, later on, regarded herself as a criminal for having done so: for herwords flung Lionello into a fit of fury which made him really ill. Hisillness 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 neverthought that his wish would be granted. 

When the doctor told Grazia that there was no hope for her son, she wasdumfounded. But she had to disguise her despair in order to deceive theboy who had so often deceived her. He had a suspicion that this time itwas serious, but he refused to believe it; and his eyes watched hismother's eyes for the reproachful expression that had infuriated himwhen 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 notwish to die. . . . 

When at last Grazia saw him sinking to sleep, she gave no cry and madeno moan: she astonished those about her by her silence: she had nostrength left for suffering: she had only one desire, to sleep also. However, she went about the business of her life with the same apparentcalm. After a few weeks her smile returned to her lips, but she was moresilent still. No one suspected her inward distress, Christophe least ofall. She had only written to tell him the news, without a word ofherself. 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 orthree months, she resumed her old grave, serene tone with him. She wouldhave thought it criminal to put upon him the burden of her weakness. Sheknew how the echo of all her feelings reverberated in him, and how greatwas his need to lean on her. She did not impose upon herself therestraint of sorrow. This discipline was her salvation. In her wearinessof life only two things gave her life: Christophe's love, and thefatalism, which, in sorrow as in joy, lay at the heart of her Italiannature. There was nothing intellectual in her fatalism: it was theanimal instinct, which makes a hunted beast go on, with no consciousnessof fatigue, in a staring wide-eyed dream, forgetting the stones of theroad, forgetting its own body, until it falls. Her fatalism sustainedher 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 neverin her letters to tell him of the love she had for him: no doubt becauseher love was greater: but also because she was conscious of the_veto_ of the dead boy, who had made her affection a crime. Thenshe would relapse into silence, and refrain from writing for a time. 

Christophe did not understand her silence. Sometimes in the composed andtranquil tone of one of her letters he would be conscious of anunexpected note that seemed to be quivering with passionate moaning. That would prostrate him: but he dared not say anything: he hardly daredto notice it: he was like a man holding his breath, afraid to breathe, for fear of destroying an illusion. He knew almost infallibly that inthe next letter such notes as these would be atoned for by a deliberatecoldness. Then, once more, tranquillity . . . _Meeresstille_. . . . 

 * * * * *

Georges and Emmanuel met at Christophe's one afternoon. Both werepreoccupied with their own troubles: Emmanuel with his literarydisappointments, and Georges with some athletic failure. Christophelistened to them good-humoredly and teased them affectionately. Therewas a ring at the door. Georges went to open it. A servant had come witha letter from Colette. Christophe stood by the window to read it. Hisfriends went on with their discussion, and did not see Christophe, whoseback was turned to them. He left the room without their noticing it. Andwhen they realized that he had done so, they were not surprised. But astime passed and he did not return, Georges went and knocked at the doorof the next room. There was no reply. Georges did not persist, for heknew his old friend's queer ways. A few minutes later Christophereturned without a word. He seemed very calm, very kind, very gentle. Hebegged their pardon for leaving them, took up the conversation where hehad left it, and spoke kindly about their troubles, and said manyhelpful things. The tone of his voice moved them, though they knew notwhy. 

They left him. Georges went straight to Colette's, and found her intears. 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 sentChristophe the news of Grazia's death. 

She was gone, without having had time to say farewell to anybody. Forseveral months past the roots of her life had been almost torn out ofthe earth: a puff of wind was enough to lay it low. On the eveningbefore the relapse of influenza which carried her off she received along, 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 veryweary, and put off writing to him until the next day. On the day aftershe had to stay in bed. She began a letter which she did not finish: shehad an attack of giddiness, and her head swam: besides, she wasreluctant to speak of her illness, and was afraid of troublingChristophe. He was busy at the time with rehearsals of a choral symphonyset to a poem of Emmanuel's: the subject had roused them both toenthusiasm, for it was something symbolical of their own destiny: _ThePromised Land_. Christophe had often mentioned it to Grazia. Thefirst performance was to take place the following week. . . . She must notupset him. In her letter Grazia just spoke of a slight cold. Then thatseemed too much to her. She tore up the letter, and had no strength leftto 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, toolate even to write. . . . How swiftly everything passes! A few hours areenough to destroy the labor of ages. . . . Grazia hardly had time to giveher daughter a ring she wore and beg her to send it to her friend. Tillthen she had not been very intimate with Aurora. Now that her life wasebbing away, she gazed passionately at the face of the girl: she clungto 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 tamdulcis sonus?. . . "--(The Dream of Scipio. )_

When he left Colette, on an impulse of sympathy Georges went back toChristophe's. For a long time, through Colette's indiscretions, he hadknown the place that Grazia filled in his old friend's heart: he hadeven--(for youth is not respectful)--made fun of it. But now generouslyand keenly he felt the sorrow that Christophe must be feeling at such aloss; and he felt that he must go to him, embrace him, pity him. Knowingthe violence of his passions, --the tranquillity that Christophe hadshown made him anxious. He rang the bell. No answer. He rang once moreand knocked, giving the signal agreed between Christophe and himself. Heheard the moving of a chair and a slow, heavy tread. Christophe openedthe door. His face was so calm that Georges stopped still, just as hewas 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 roofsopposite and the reddening evening sky. He paid no attention to Georges. The young man pretended to look about on the table, while he stoleglances at Christophe. His face was set: the beams of the setting sunlit up his cheek-bones and his forehead. Mechanically Georges went intothe next room--the bedroom--as though he were still looking forsomething. It was in this room that Christophe had shut himself up withthe letter. It was still there on the bed, which bore the imprint of abody. On the floor lay a book that had slipped down. It had been leftopen with a page crumpled. Georges picked it up, and read the story ofthe meeting of the Magdalene and the Gardener in the Gospel. 

He came back into the living-room, and moved a few things here and thereto gain countenance, and once more he looked at Christophe, who had notbudged. He longed to tell him how he pitied him. But Christophe was soradiant 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 manlistening to some vague music without making any attempt to understandit. The night was far gone when he got up, cramped and stiff. He flunghimself on his bed and slept heavily. The symphony went on buzzing allaround him. . . . 

And now he saw _her_, the well-beloved. . . . She held out her handsto 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, profoundsheets of water. . . . 

When he awoke (it was day), his strange happiness still endured, withthe distant gleam of words falling upon his ears. He got up. He wasexalted 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 timenow more than half his soul had dwelt upon the other side. The more aman lives, the more a man creates, the more a man loves and loses thosewhom he loves, the more does he escape from death. With every new blowthat we have to bear, with every new work that we round and finish, weescape from ourselves, we escape into the work we have created, the soulwe have loved, the soul that has left us. When all is told, Rome is notin Rome: the best of a man lies outside himself. Only Grazia hadwithheld him on this side of the wall. And now in her turn. . . . Now thedoor was shut upon the world of sorrow. 

He lived through a period of secret exaltation. He felt the weight of nofetters. He expected nothing of the things of this world. He wasdependent 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 ofheroic conflict, _Dominus Deus Sabaoth_, he looked down, and in thenight 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 pinnacleseemed no nearer. He would never reach it (he saw that now), though hewere to march on to eternity. But when a man enters the circle of lightand knows that he has not left those he loves behind him, eternity isnot too long a space to be journeying on with them. 

He closed his doors. No one knocked. Georges had expended all hiscompassion and sympathy in the one impulse; he was reassured by the timehe reached home, and forgot all about it by the next day. Colette hadgone to Rome. Emmanuel knew nothing, and hypersensitive as usual, hemaintained an affronted silence because Christophe had not returned hisvisit. Christophe was not disturbed in his long colloquy with the womanwhom he now bore in his soul, as a pregnant woman bears her preciousburden. It was a moving intercourse, impossible to translate into words. Even music could hardly express it. When his heart was full, almostoverflowing, Christophe would lie still with eyes closed, and listen toits song. Or, for hours together, he would sit at his piano and let hisfingers speak. During this period he improvised more than he had done inthe whole of his life. He did not set down his thoughts. What was thegood?

When, after several weeks, he took to going out again and seeing othermen, while none of his friends, except Georges, had any suspicion ofwhat had happened, the daimon of improvisation pursued him still. Itwould take possession of Christophe just when he was least expecting it. One evening, at Colette's, Christophe sat down at the piano and playedfor nearly an hour, absolutely surrendering himself, and forgetting thatthe room was full of strangers. They had no desire to laugh. Histerrible improvisations enslaved and overwhelmed them. Even those whodid not understand their meaning were thrilled and moved: and tears cameto Colette's eyes. . . . When Christophe had finished he turned awayabruptly: he saw how everybody was moved, and shrugged his shoulders, and--laughed. 

He had reached the point at which sorrow also becomes a force--adominant force. His sorrow possessed him no more: he possessed hissorrow: 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 scenefrom the Gospel which Georges recognized--

"_Mulier, quid ploras?"--"Quia tulerunt Dominium meum, et nescio ubiposuerunt eum. "

Et cum hoec dixisset, conversa est retrorsum, et vidit Jesum stantem: etnon 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 blackflame--

 "_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 holdthee 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 otherof the works of Jean-Christophe Krafft, is realized the union of themost beautiful of the forces of the music of his time: the affectionateand wise thought of Germany with all its shadowy windings, the clearpassionate melody of Italy, and the quick mind of France, rich in subtlerhythms and variegated harmonies. 

This "enthusiasm begotten of despair at the time of a great loss" lastedfor a few months. Thereafter Christophe fell back into his place in lifewith a stout heart and a sure foot. The wind of death had blown away thelast mists of pessimism, the gray of the Stoic soul, and thephantasmagoria of the mystic chiaroscura. The rainbow had shone upon thevanishing clouds. The gaze of heaven, purer, as though it had been lavedwith tears, smiled through them. There was the peace of evening on themountains. 

IV

The fire smoldering in the forest of Europe was beginning to burst intoflames. In vain did they try to put it out in one place: it only brokeout in another: with gusts of smoke and a shower of sparks it swept fromone point to another, burning the dry brushwood. Already in the Eastthere were skirmishes as the prelude to the great war of the nations. All Europe, Europe that only yesterday was skeptical and apathetic, likea dead wood, was swept by the flames. All men were possessed by thedesire for battle. War was ever on the point of breaking out. It wasstamped out, but it sprang to life again. The world felt that it was themercy of an accident that might let loose the dogs of war. The world layin wait. The feeling of inevitability weighed heavily even upon the mostpacifically minded. And ideologues, sheltered beneath the massive shadowof the cyclops, Proudhon, hymned in war man's fairest title ofnobility. . . . 

This, then, was to be the end of the physical and moral resurrection ofthe races of the West! To such butchery they were to be borne along bythe currents of action and passionate faith! Only a Napoleonic geniuscould have marked out a chosen, deliberate aim for this blind, onwardrush. But nowhere in Europe was there any genius for action. It was asthough the world had chosen the most mediocre to be its governors. Theforce of the human mind was in other things. --So there was nothing to bedone but to trust to the declivity down which they were moving. Thisboth governors and governed were doing. Europe looked like a vast armedvigil. 

Christophe remembered a similar vigil, when he had had Olivier's anxiousface by his side. But then the menace of war had been only a passingcloud. Now all Europe lay under its shadow. And Christophe's heart alsohad changed. He could not share in the hatred of the nations. His stateof mind was like that of Goethe in 1813. How could a man fight withouthatred? And how could he hate without youth? He had passed through thezone 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 tothem. When a man has reached a certain stage in the development of thesoul _"he knows no nation, he feels the happiness or unhappiness ofthe neighboring peoples as his own. "_ The storm-clouds are at hisfeet. Around him is nothing but the sky--_"the whole Heavens, thekingdom 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 hostilerace: even his friend Georges could not resist the pleasure of givingvent, in his presence, to feelings about Germany which made him sad. Then he rushed away, on the excuse that he wanted to see Grazia'sdaughter: and he went and stayed for a time in Rome. But there theatmosphere was no more serene. The great plague of national pride hadspread there, and had transformed the Italian character. The Italians, whom Christophe had known to be indifferent and indolent, were nowthinking of nothing but military glory, battle, conquests, Roman eaglesflying over the sands of Libya: they believed they had returned to thetime of the Emperors. The wonderful thing was that this madness wasshared, with the best faith in the world, by the opposition parties, socialists and clericals, as well as by the monarchists, and they hadnot the least idea that they were being unfaithful to their cause. Solittle do politics and human reason count when the great epidemicpassions sweep over the nations. Such passions do not even trouble tosuppress individual passions; they use them; and everything converges onthe one goal. In the great periods of action it was ever thus. Thearmies of Henri IV. , the Councils of Louis XIV. , which forged thegreatness of France, numbered as many men of faith and reason as men ofvanity, interest, and enjoyment. Jansenists and libertines, Puritans andgallants, served the same destiny in serving their instincts. In theforthcoming wars no doubt internationalists and pacificists will kindlethe blaze, in the conviction, like that of their ancestors of theConvention, that they are doing it for the good of the nations and thetriumph of peace. 

With a somewhat ironical smile, Christophe, from the terrace of theJaniculum, looked down on the disparate and harmonious city, the symbolof 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. Sothe mind should shed over the struggling universe the order and lightthat are in it. 

Christophe did not stay long in Rome. The impression made on him by thecity was too strong: he was afraid of it. Truly to profit by its harmonyhe needed to hear it at a distance: he felt that if he stayed he wouldbe in danger of being absorbed by it, like so many other men of hisrace. --Every now and then he went and stayed in Germany. But, when allwas told, and in spite of the imminence of a Franco-German war, Parisstill had the greatest attraction for him. No doubt this was because hisadopted son, Georges, lived there. But he was not only swayed by reasonsof affection. There were other reasons of an intellectual order thatwere no less powerful. For an artist accustomed to the full life of themind, who generously shares in all the sufferings, all the hopes, andall the passions of the great human family, it was difficult to growaccustomed to life in Germany. There was no lack of artists there. Butthe artists lacked air. They were isolated from the rest of the nation, which took no interest in them: other preoccupations, social orpractical, absorbed the attention of the public. The poets shutthemselves up in disdainful irritation in their disdained art; it becamea point of honor with them to sever the last ties which bound them tothe life of the people: they wrote only for a few, a little aristocracyfull of talent, refined and sterile, being itself divided into rivalgroups of jaded initiates, and they were stifled in the narrow room inwhich they were huddled together: they were incapable of expanding it, and set themselves to dig down; they turned the soil over until it wasexhausted. Then they drifted away into their archaic dreams, and nevereven troubled to bring their dreams into the common stock. Each manfought for his place in the mist. They had no light in common. Each manhad to look for light within himself. 

Yonder, on the other hand, on the other side of the Rhine, among theirneighbors on the West, the great winds of collective passion, of publicturbulence and tribulation, swept periodically over art. And, high abovethe plain, like their Eiffel Tower above Paris, shone afar off thenever-dying light of a classic tradition, handed down from generation togeneration, which, while it never enslaved nor constrained the mind, showed it the road followed by past ages, and established the communionof a whole nation in its light. Many a German spirit--like birds strayedin the night--came winging towards the distant beacon. But who is therein France can dream of the power of the sympathy which drives so manygenerous hearts from the neighboring nation towards France! So manyhands stretched out: hands that are not responsible for the aims of thepoliticians!. . . 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, tobuild the greatness of our spirits and our people. We are the two wingsof the West. If one be broken, there is an end of flight! Let the warcome! It will not break the clasp of our hands or the flight of ourgenius in brotherhood. "

So thought Christophe. He felt the mutual completion which the two racescould give each other, and how lame and halting were the spirit, theart, 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 onestream, from his childhood he had instinctively felt their inevitableunion; all through his life the unconscious effort of his genius hadbeen to maintain the balance and equilibrium of the two mighty wings. The greater was his wealth of Germanic dreams, the more he needed theLatin clarity of mind and order. It was for this reason that France wasso dear to him. In France he had the joy of better knowledge and masteryof himself. Only in France was he wholly himself. 

He turned to account all the elements that were or might be noxious tohim. He assimilated foreign energy in his own. A vigorous healthy mindabsorbs every kind of force, even that which is hostile to it, and makesit bone and flesh of its bone and flesh. There even comes a time when aman is most attracted by what least resembles him, for therein he findshis most plentiful nourishment. 

Christophe did in fact find more pleasure in the work of artists whowere set up as his rivals than in the work of his imitators:--for he hadimitators who called themselves his disciples, to his great despair. They were honest, laborious, estimable, and altogether virtuous peoplewho were full of respect and veneration for him. Christophe would havegiven much if he could have liked their music; but--(it was just hisluck!)--he could not do it: he found it meaningless. He was a thousandtimes more pleased with the talent of musicians who were personallyantipathetic to him, and in art represented tendencies hostile to hisown. . . . Well! What did it matter? These men were at least alive! Lifeis, in itself, such a virtue, that, if a man be deprived of it, thoughhe 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 theonly disciples he recognized were the men who attacked him. And when ayoung artist came and talked to him about his musical vocation, andtried to win his sympathy by flattering him, Christophe would say:

"So. My music satisfies you? That is how you would express your love, oryour hatred?"

"Yes, master. "

"Well. Don't. You have nothing to say. "

His horror of the submissive temper of mind, of men born to obey, hisneed of absorbing other ideas than his own, attracted him to circleswhose ideas were diametrically opposed to his own. He had friends amongmen to whom his art, his idealistic faith, his moral conceptions, were adead letter: they had absolutely different ways of envisaging life, love, marriage, the family, every social relationship:--but they weregood fellows, though they seemed to belong to another stage of moralevolution: the anguish and the scruples that had consumed a part ofChristophe's life were incomprehensible to them. No doubt that was allthe 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 wassure 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, tosee and to learn how to see. He had reached the point not only ofadmitting in others tendencies of mind that he had once combated, butalso of rejoicing in them, for they seemed to him to contribute tothe fecundity of the universe. He loved Georges the more because he did nottake life tragically, as he did. Humanity would be too poor and too grayin color if it were to be uniformly clad in the moral seriousness, andthe heroic restraint with which Christophe was armed. Humanity neededjoy, carelessness, irreverent audacity in face of its idols, all itsidols, even the most holy. Long live "the Gallic salt which revives theworld"! Skepticism and faith are no less necessary. Skepticism, riddlingthe 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 magicalharmony, where, when they were closely seen, they clashed. 

Christophe's eyes had been opened to the infinite variety of thematerial, as of the moral, world. It had been one of his greatestconquests since his first visit to Italy. In Paris he especially soughtthe company of painters and sculptors; it seemed to him that the best ofthe French genius was in them. The triumphant audacity with which theypursued and captured movement, vibrant color, and tore away the veilsthat cover life, made his heart leap with delight. The inexhaustibleriches that he who has eyes to see can find in a drop of light, a secondof life! Against such sovereign delights of the mind what matters thevain tumult of dispute and war?. . . But dispute and war also are a partof the marvelous spectacle. We must embrace everything, and, valiantly, joyously, fling into the crucible of our burning hearts both the forcesof denial and the forces of affirmation, enemies and friends, the wholemetal 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 itmore beautiful even at the cost of the sacrifice of ourselves. What doesthe creator matter? Only that which is created is real. . . . You cannothurt us, ye enemies who seek to reach us with your hostility. We arebeyond the reach of your attacks. . . . You are rending the empty cloak. Ihave been gone this many a day. 

His music had found a more serene form. No longer did it show the stormsof spring, which gathered, burst, and disappeared in the old days, but, instead, the white clouds of summer, mountains of snow and gold, greatbirds 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, theswollen ear of corn, the pregnant woman brooding over her ripe fruit. Abuzzing like the sound of an organ; the hive all alive with the hum ofthe bees. . . . Such somber, golden music, like an autumn honeycomb, slowlygives forth the rhythm which shall mark its path: the round of theplanets is made plain: it begins to spin. . . . 

Then the will appears. It leaps onto the back of the whinnying dream asit passes, and grips it with its knees. The mind recognizes the laws ofthe rhythm which guides it: it tames the disordered forces and fixes thepath they shall take, the goal towards which they shall move. Thesymphony of reason and instinct is organized. The darkness grows bright. On the long ribbon of the winding road, at intervals, there arebrilliant fires, which in their turn shall be in the work of creationthe nucleus of little planetary worlds linked up in the girdle of theirsolar system. . . . 

The main lines of the picture are henceforth fixed. Now it looms throughthe uncertain light of dawn. Everything is becoming definite: theharmony of the colors, the outline of the figures. To bring the work toits close all the resources of his being are brought into requisition. The scent-box of memory is opened and exhales its perfumes. The mindunchains 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 materialssnatched from the senses, the work planned by the mind. A greatarchitect must have good journeymen who know their trade and will notspare themselves. --The cathedral is finished. 

"And God looked down on his work. And He saw that _it was not yetgood. _"

The Master's eyes take in the whole of His creation, and His handperfects its harmony. . . . 

 * * * * *

The dream is ended. _Te Deum_. . . . 

The white clouds of summer, like great birds of light, slowly soar andhover; 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 hiskind cannot do without love, not merely that equable love which thespirit of an artist sheds on all things in the world, but a love thatknows _preference_: he must always be giving himself to thecreatures of his choice. They are the roots of the tree. Through themhis heart's blood is renewed. 

Christophe's heart's blood was nothing like dried up. He was steeped ina love which was the best part of his joy, a twofold love, for Grazia'sdaughter and Olivier's son. He united them in thought, and was to unitethem in reality. 

 * * * * *

Georges and Aurora had met at Colette's: Aurora lived in her cousin'shouse. She spent part of the year in Rome and the rest in Paris. Shewas eighteen: Georges five years older. She was tall, erect, elegant, with a small head, and an open countenance, fair hair, a darkcomplexion, a slight down on her lips, bright eyes with a laughingexpression behind which lay busy thoughts, a rather plump chin, brownhands, beautiful round strong arms, and a fine bust; and she alwayslooked gay, proud, and worldly. She was not at all intellectual, hardlyat all sentimental, and she had inherited her mother's carelessindolence. She would sleep eleven hours on end. The rest of the time shespent in lounging and laughing, only half awake. Christophe called her_Dornröschen_--the Sleeping Beauty. She reminded him of his oldlove, 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 thengulp it down with a sort of hiccough. It were impossible to tell how shespent the time. All Colette's efforts to equip her with the brilliantartificiality which is so easily imposed on the mind of a young girl, like a kind of lacquered varnish, had been wasted: the varnish would nothold. She learned nothing: she would take months to read a book, andwould like it immensely, though in a week she would forget both itstitle and its subject: without the least embarrassment she would makemistakes in spelling, and when she spoke of learned matters she wouldfall into the most comical blunders. She was refreshing in her youth, her gaiety, her lack of intellectuality, even in her faults, herthoughtlessness which sometimes amounted to indifference, and her naïveegoism. She was always so spontaneous. Young as she was, and simple andindolent, she could when she pleased play the coquette, though in allinnocence: 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 hadnot read, and indulge in conversations and hats that were about equallyidealistic. 

Christophe would watch her and laugh gently to himself. He had afatherly tenderness, indulgent and teasing, for Aurora. And he had alsoa secret feeling of worship for the woman he had loved who had comeagain with new youth for another love than his. No one knew the depth ofhis affection. Only Aurora ever suspected it. From her childhood she hadalmost always been used to having Christophe near her, and she used toregard him as one of her family. In her old sorrow at being less lovedthan her brother she had instinctively drawn near to Christophe. Shedivined that he had a similar sorrow; he saw her grief: and though theynever 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 toldher. She knew the meaning of the message with which Grazia had chargedher as she lay dying, and of the ring which was now on Christophe'shand. So there existed hidden ties between her and Christophe, tieswhich she did not need to understand, to feel them in their complexity. She was sincerely attached to her old friend, although she could neverhave made the effort necessary to play or to read his work. Though shewas a fairly good musician, she had never even had the curiosity to cutthe pages of a score he had dedicated to her. She loved to come and havean intimate talk with him. --She came more often when she found out thatshe might meet Georges Jeannin in his rooms. 

And Georges, too, found an extraordinary interest in Christophe'scompany. 

However, the two young people were slow to realize their real feelings. They had at first looked at each other mockingly. They were hardly atall alike. He was quicksilver, she was still water. But it was not longbefore quicksilver tried to appear more at rest, and sleeping waterawoke. Georges would criticise Aurora's clothes, and her Italiantaste--a slight want of feeling for modulation and a certain preferencefor crude colors. Aurora used to delight in teasing Georges, andimitating his rather hurried and precious way of speaking. And whilethey laughed at each other, they both took pleasure . . . In laughing, orin entertaining each other? They used to entertain Christophe too, and, far from gainsaying them, he would maliciously transpose these littlepoisoned darts from one to the other. They pretended not to care: butthey soon discovered that they cared only too much; and both, especiallyGeorges, being incapable of concealing their annoyance, as soon as theymet they would begin sparring. Their wounds were slight: they wereafraid of hurting each other: and the hand which dealt the blow was sodear to the recipient of it that they both found more pleasure in thehurts they received than in those they gave. They used to watch eachother curiously, and their eyes, seeking defects, would find onlyattractions. But they would not admit it. Each, to Christophe, woulddeclare that the other was unbearable, but, for all that, they were notslow to seize every opportunity of meeting that Christophe gave them. 

One day when Aurora was with her old friend to tell him that she wouldcome and see him on the following Sunday in the morning, Georges rushedin, like a whirlwind as usual, to tell Christophe that he was coming onSunday afternoon. On Sunday morning Christophe waited in vain forAurora. At the hour mentioned by Georges she appeared, and asked him toforgive her because it had been impossible for her to come in themorning: 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 farfrom 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 hehad been making fun of her, and laughed and blushed. He shook his fingerat her waggishly. Suddenly she ran and kissed him warmly. He whisperedto 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 expressionof astonishment, almost of vexation, added to their joy. 

So Christophe labored to bring the two young people together. And whenhe had succeeded he was almost sorry. He loved them equally; but hejudged Georges more hardly: he knew his weakness: he idolized Aurora, and thought himself responsible for her happiness even more than forGeorges's; for it seemed to him that Georges was as a son to him, a partof himself, and he wondered whether it was not wrong to give Aurora inher innocence a companion who was very far from sharing it. 

But one day as he passed by an arbor where the two young people weresitting--(a short time after their betrothal)--his heart sank as heheard Aurora laughingly questioning Georges about one of his pastadventures, and Georges telling her, nothing loth. Other scraps ofconversation, which they made no attempt to disguise, showed him thatAurora 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 thatthey did not regard themselves as bound forever; into their discussionsof questions relating to love and marriage, they brought a spirit ofliberty, which might have a beauty of its own, though it was singularlyat variance with the old ideal of mutual devotion _usque ad mortem. _ AndChristophe would look at them a little sadly. . . . How far they were fromhim already! How swiftly does the ship that bears our children speedon!. . . 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 trimmedits sails to every wind. --It would have seemed natural for the spirit ofliberty, which was then tending to modify morality, to take up its standalso in the other domains of thought and action. But it did nothing ofthe kind: human nature cares little for contradiction. While moralitywas becoming more free, the mind was becoming less so; it was demandingthat religion should restore its yoke. And this twofold movement inopposite directions was, with a magnificent defiance of logic, takingplace in the same souls. Georges and Aurora had been caught up by thenew current of Catholicism which was conquering many people of fashionand many intellectuals. Nothing could be more curious than the way inwhich Georges, who was naturally critical and perfectly irreligious, skepticism being to him as easy as breathing, Georges, who had nevercared for God or devil--a true Frenchman, laughing ateverything--suddenly declared that there lay the truth. He needed truthof some sort, and this sorted well with his need of action, hisatavistic French bourgeois characteristics, and his weariness ofliberty. The young fool had wandered long enough, and he returned of hisown accord to be harnessed to the plow of his race. The example of anumber of his friends was enough for him. Georges was hypersensitive tothe least atmospheric pressure of the ideas that surrounded him, and hewas one of the first to be caught. And Aurora followed him, as she wouldhave followed him anywhere. At once they felt sure of themselves, anddespised everybody who did not think as they did. The irony of it! Thesetwo frivolous children were sincerely devout, while the moral purity, the serious and ardent efforts of Grazia and Olivier had never helpedthem 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, forEmmanuel's free idealism was up in arms against this return of theancient foe. It is vain to fight against the passing wind. One can onlywait for it to go. The reason of humanity was exhausted. It had justmade a gigantic effort. It was overcome with sleep, and, like a childworn out by a long day, before going to sleep, it was saying itsprayers. The gate of dreams had reopened; in the train of religion camelittle puffs of theosophy, mysticism, esoteric faiths, occultism tovisit the chambers of the Western mind. Even philosophy was wavering. Their gods of thought, Bergson and William James, were tottering. Evenscience was attainted, even science was showing the signs of the fatigueof reason. We have a moment's respite. Let us breathe. To-morrow themind will awake again, more alert, more free. . . . Sleep is good when aman has worked hard. Christophe, who had had little time for it, washappy that these children of his should enjoy it in his stead, andshould have rest for the soul, security of faith, absolute, unshakableconfidence in their dreams. He would not nor could he have exchanged hislot for theirs. But he thought that Grazia's melancholy and Olivier'sdistress of mind had found solace in their children, and that it waswell. 

"All that we have suffered, I, my friends, and so many others whom Inever knew, others who lived before us, all has been, that these twomight attain joy. . . . The joy, Antoinette, for which thou wast made, thejoy that was refused thee!. . . Ah! If only the unhappy could have aforetaste of the happiness that will one day spring forth from thesacrifice 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. Atmost he only asked Georges and Aurora not to be too contemptuous ofthose who, like himself, did not share their faith. 

They did not even take the trouble to argue with him. They seemed to sayto each other:

"He cannot understand. . . . "

In their eyes he belonged to the past. And, to be frank, they did notattach much importance to the past. When they were alone they used oftento talk innocently of the things they would do when Christophe "was nolonger with them. ". . . --However, they loved him well. . . . How terribleare the children who grow up over us like creepers! How terrible is theforce 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 stillas a living being. "

He was amused by their naive impertinence. 

"You may as well say straight out, " he observed one day when they hadcrushed him with their disdainful manner. "You may as well say that I ama stupid old man. "

"No, no, my dear old friend, " said Aurora, laughing heartily. "You arethe 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 putup with their intellectual superiority. They used to try his patienceseverely. The piano was given no rest when they were in his rooms. Itseemed that love had roused them to song, like the birds. But they wereby a long way not so skilled in singing. Aurora had no illusions as toher talent, but she was quite otherwise about her fiancé: she could seeno difference between Georges's playing and Christophe's. Perhaps shepreferred 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 thegirl's opinion (except when, as sometimes happened, he could bear it nolonger, and would rush away, banging the doors). With an affectionate, pitying smile he would listen to Georges playing _Tristan_ on thepiano. The unhappy young man would conscientiously apply himself to thetranscription of the formidable pages with all the amiable sweetness ofa young girl, and a young girl's tender feeling. Christophe used tolaugh to himself. He would never tell the boy why he laughed. He wouldkiss him. He loved him as he was. Perhaps he loved him the more forit. . . . Poor boy!. . . Oh! the vanity of art!. . . 

He used often to talk about "his children"--(for so he called them)--toEmmanuel. Emmanuel, who was fond of Georges, used jokingly to say thatChristophe ought to hand him aver to him. He had Aurora, and it was notfair. He was grabbing everything. 

Their friendship had become almost legendary in Parisian society, thoughthey lived apart from it. Emmanuel had grown passionately devoted toChristophe, though his pride would not let him show it. He covered it upwith his brusque manners, and sometimes used to be absolutely rude toChristophe. But Christophe was not deceived. He knew how deeply attachedto him Emmanuel was, and he knew the worth of his affection. No weekwent by but they met two or three times. When they were prevented byill-health from going out, they used to write to each other. Theirletters might have been written from places far removed from Paris. Theywere less interested in external happenings than in the progress of themind in science and art. They lived in their ideas, pondering their art, or beneath the chaos of facts perceiving the little undistinguishedgleam which reveals the progress of the history of the human mind. 

Generally it was Christophe who visited Emmanuel. Although, since arecent illness, he was not much better in health than his friend, he hadgrown used to thinking that Emmanuel's health called for moreconsideration than his own. Christophe could not now ascend Emmanuel'ssix flights of stairs without difficulty, and when he reached the top hehad to wait a moment to recover his breath. They were both incapable oftaking care of themselves. In defiance of their weak throats and theirfits of despondency, they were inveterate smokers. That was one of thereasons why Christophe preferred that they should meet in Emmanuel'srooms rather than in his own, for Aurora used to declare war on hishabit of smoking, and he used to hide away from her. Sometimes theywould both break out coughing in the middle of their conversation, andthen they would break off and look at each other guiltily likeschoolboys, and laugh: and sometimes one would lecture the other whilehe was coughing; but as soon as he had recovered his breath the otherwould vigorously protest that smoking had nothing to do with it. 

On Emmanuel's table, in a clear space among the papers, a gray cat wouldsit and gravely look at the smokers with an air of reproach. Christopheused to say that it was their living conscience, and, by way of stiflingit, he would cover it up with his hat. It was a wretched beast, of thecommonest kind, that Emmanuel had picked up half-dead in the street; it hadnever really recovered from the brutal handling it had received, andate very little, and hardly ever played, and never made any noise: itwas very gentle, and used to follow its master about with itsintelligent eyes, and be unhappy when he was absent, and quite contentto sit on the table by his side, only breaking off its musingecstatically, for hours together, to watch the cage where theinaccessible birds fluttered about, purring politely at the least markof attention, patiently submitting to Emmanuel's capricious, andChristophe's rough, attentions, and always being very careful not toscratch or bite. It was very delicate, and one of its eyes was alwaysweeping: it used to cough: and if it had been able to speak it wouldcertainly not have had the effrontery, like the two men, to declare that"the smoke had nothing to do with it"; but it accepted everything attheir hands, and seemed to think:

"They are men. They know what they are doing. " Emmanuel was fond of thebeast because he saw a certain similarity between its lot and his own. Christophe used to declare that the resemblance was even extended to theexpression in their eyes. 

"Why not?" Emmanuel would say. 

Animals reflect their surroundings. Their faces grow refined or thereverse according to the people with whom they live. A fool's cat has adifferent expression from that of a clever man's cat. A domestic animalwill become good or bad, frank or sly, sensitive or stupid, not onlyaccording to what its master teaches it, but also according to what itsmaster is. And this is true not only of the influence of men. Placesfashion animals in their own image. A clear, bright landscape will lightup the eyes of animals. --Emmanuel's gray cat was in harmony with thestuffy 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 beenat the time of his first acquaintance with Christophe. He had beenprofoundly shaken by a domestic tragedy. His companion, whom, in amoment of exasperation, he had made too clearly feel how tiresome theburden of her affection was to him, had suddenly disappeared. Franticwith anxiety, he spent a whole night looking for her, and at last hefound her in a police station where she was being retained. She hadtried to throw herself into the Seine; a passer-by had caught hold ofher by the clothes, and pulled her back just as she was clambering overthe 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 hadoverwhelmed Emmanuel; he could not bear the thought that, havingsuffered so much at the hands of others, he, in his turn, was causingsuffering. He brought the poor crazed creature back to his rooms, anddid his best to heal the wound he had dealt her, and to win her back tothe confidence in his affection she so sorely needed. He suppressed hisfeeling of revolt, and resigned himself to her absorbing love, anddevoted to her the remainder of his life. The whole sap of his geniushad rushed back to his heart. The apostle of action had come to thebelief that there was only one course of action that was reallygood--not to do evil. His part was played. It seemed that the Forcewhich 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, almostresigned to the injustice which touched him personally, though notaltogether to that which concerned his faith. For although, as afree-thinker, he claimed to be free of all religion and used humorouslyto call Christophe a clerical in disguise, like every sturdy spirit, hehad his altar on which he deified the dreams to which he sacrificedhimself. The altar was deserted now, and Emmanuel suffered. How could hewithout suffering see the blessed ideas, which he had so hardly led tovictory, the ideas for which, during the last hundred years, all thefinest men had suffered such bitter torment--how could he see themtramped underfoot by the oncoming generation? The whole magnificentinheritance of French idealism--the faith in Liberty, which had itssaints, martyrs, heroes, the love of humanity, the religious aspirationtowards the brotherhood of nations and races--all, all was with blindbrutality pillaged by the younger generation! What madness is it in themthat makes them sigh for the monsters we had vanquished, submit to theyoke 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 belovedFrance!

"It is not only in France, " Christophe would say laughingly, "it isthroughout the entire world. From Spain to China blows the same keenwind. There is not a corner anywhere for a man to find shelter from thewind! It is becoming a joke: even in my little Switzerland, which isturning nationalist!"

"You find that comforting?"

"Certainly. It shows that such waves of feeling are not due to theridiculous passions of a few men, but to a hidden God who controls theuniverse. And I have learned to bow before that God. If I do notunderstand Him, that is my fault, not His. Try to understand Him. Buthow 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 itmarks the end of the road. You see the wave that bears you along, butyou do not see the sea! The wave of to-day is the wave of yesterday; itis the wave of our souls that prepared the way for it. The wave ofto-day will plow the ground for the wave of to-morrow, which will wipeout its memory as the memory of ours is wiped out. I neither admire nordread the naturalism of the present time. It will pass away with thepresent time: it is passing, it has already passed. It is a rung in theladder. Climb to the top of it! It is the advance-guard of the comingarmy. 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 itsforces and making up its balance-sheet. For the last hundred years allthe nations have been transformed by their mutual intercourse and theimmense contributions of all the brains of the universe, building up newmorality, new knowledge, new faith. Every man must examine hisconscience, and know exactly what he is and what he has, before he canenter with the rest into the new age. A new age is coming. Humanity ison the point of signing a new lease of life. Society is on the point ofspringing into new vigor with new laws. It is Sunday to-morrow. Everyone 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 thepresence of our common God and make a new compact of alliance with Him. "

Emmanuel looked at Christophe, and his eyes reflected the passingvision. He was silent for some time after Christophe had finishedspeaking, 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. Iam an old owl. "

About this time his friends noticed a change in his manner. He was oftendistracted and absent-minded. He hardly listened to what was said tohim. He had an absorbed, smiling expression. When his absent-mindednesswas commented upon he would gently excuse himself. Sometimes he wouldspeak 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 astranger. He had reached the stage when a man loses interest even in thestruggle for the beautiful, because, when a man has done his work, he isinclined to believe that others will do theirs, and that, when all istold, as Rodin says, "the beautiful will always triumph. " Themalevolence and injustice of men did not repel him. --He would laugh andtell himself that it was not natural, that life was ebbing away fromhim. 

In fact, he had lost much of his old vigor. The least physical effort, along walk, a fast drive, exhausted him. He quickly lost his breath, andhe had pains in his heart. Sometimes he would think of his old friendSchulz. He never told anybody what he was feeling. It was no good. Itwas useless to upset his friends, and he would never get any better. Besides he did not take his symptoms seriously. He far more dreadedhaving 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 wasshort. Christophe found nothing that he had come to seek. The changesthat had been in the making on his last visit were now fullyaccomplished: the little town had become a great industrial city. Theold houses had disappeared. The cemetery also was gone. Where Sabine'sfarm had stood was now a factory with tall chimneys. The river hadwashed away the meadows where Christophe had played as a child. A street(and such a street!) between black buildings bore his name. The whole ofthe 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 aconcert in the gigantic _Tonhalle_ he heard some of his musicplayed, all topsy-turvy: he hardly recognized it. . . . So be it! Though itwere misunderstood it might perhaps arouse new energy. We sowed theseed. Do what you will with it: feed on us. --At nightfall Christophewalked through the fields outside the city; great mists were rollingover them, and he thought of the great mists that should enshroud hislife, and those whom he had loved, who were gone from the earth, who hadtaken refuge in his heart, who, like himself, would be covered up by thefalling 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 withlight. Thou shalt not put me out. The breath of death will set the flameof my life flickering up once more. . . . 

On his return from Germany, Christophe wanted to stop in the town wherehe had known Anna. Since he had left it, he had had no news of her. Hehad never dared to ask after her. For years her very name was enough toupset him. . . . --Now he was calm and had no fear. But in the evening, inhis room in the hotel looking out on the Rhine, the familiar song of thebells ringing in the morrow's festival awoke the images of the past. From the river there ascended the faint odor of distant danger, which hefound it hard to understand. He spent the whole night in recollection. He felt that he was free of the terrible Lord, and found sweet sadnessin the thought. He had not made up his mind what to do on the followingday. For a moment--(the past lay so far behind!)--he thought of callingon the Brauns. But when the morrow came his courage failed him: he darednot even ask at the hotel whether the doctor and his wife were stillalive. He made up his mind to go. . . . 

When the time came for him to go an irresistible force drove him to thechurch which Anna used to attend: he stood behind a pillar from which hecould see the seat where in old days she used to come and kneel. Hewaited, 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 therest, plump, full-faced, with a heavy chin, and an indifferent, hardexpression. She was dressed in black. She sat down in her place, and didnot stir. There was nothing in the woman to remind Christophe of thewoman he was expecting. Only once or twice she made a certain queerlittle gesture as though to smooth out the folds of her skirt about herknees. In old days, _she_ had made such a gesture, . . . As she wentout she passed slowly by him, with her head erect and her hands holdingher prayer-book, folded in front of her. For a moment her somber, tiredeyes met Christophe's. And they looked at each other. And they did notrecognize each other. She passed on, straight and stiff, and neverturned her head. It was only after a moment that suddenly, in a flash ofmemory, beneath the frozen smile, he recognized the lips he had kissedby a certain fold in them. . . . He gasped for breath and his kneestrembled. 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 crowdpassing through the door into the sunlight. 

 * * * * *

It was shortly after his return to Paris that he made peace with big oldenemy, Lévy-Coeur, who had been attacking him for a long time with equalmalicious talent and bad faith. Then, having attained the highestsuccess, glutted with honors, satiated, appeased, he had been cleverenough secretly to recognize Christophe's superiority, and had madeadvances to him. Christophe pretended to notice neither attacks noradvances. Lévy-Coeur wearied of it. They lived in the same neighborhoodand used often to meet. As they passed each other Christophe would lookthrough Lévy-Coeur, who was exasperated by this calm way of ignoring hisexistence. 

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 coquettisheyes, and a Luini smile. They used to go for walks together, andChristophe often met them in the Luxembourg Gardens; they seemed veryintimate, and the girl would walk arm-in-arm with her father. Absent-minded though he was, Christophe never failed to notice a prettyface, 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 infavor of Aurora, but it led him to create in his mind a sort ofimaginary friendship between the two girls, though they did not knoweach other, and even, without his knowing it, to a certain feeling forLévy-Coeur. 

When he returned from Germany he heard that "the lamb" was dead. In hisfatherly selfishness his first thought was:

"Suppose it had been mine!"

And he was filled with an immense pity for Lévy-Coeur. His first impulsewas to write to him: he began two letters, but was not satisfied, wasashamed of them, and did not send either. But a few days later when hemet Lévy-Coeur with a weary, miserable face, it was too much for him: hewent 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! Hefelt inexpressibly grateful. . . . They talked for a little sadly andconfusedly. When they parted nothing was left of all that had dividedthem. They had fought: it was inevitable, no doubt: each man must fulfilthe law of his nature! But when men see the end of the tragi-comedycoming, they put off the passions that masked them, and meet face toface, --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 childrenwatching 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 wouldnot disturb their happiness!

But he was inconsiderate enough on the eve of the marriage--(he had beenabsurdly excited as the day drew near: as excited as though it were hewho was going to be married)--he was stupid enough to be attacked by hisold trouble, a recurrence of pneumonia, which had first attacked him inthe days of the Market-Place. He was furious with himself, and dubbedhimself fool and idiot. He swore that he would not give in until themarriage had taken place. He thought of Grazia as she lay dying, nevertelling him of her illness because of his approaching concert, for fearlest he should be distracted from his work and pleasure. Now he lovedthe 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 managedto support the long ordeal of the religious ceremony without disaster. But he had hardly reached Colette's house than his strength gave out: hehad 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 forbadethem to say anything to the bride and bridegroom, who were going off ontheir honeymoon in the evening. They were too much taken up withthemselves to notice anything else. They left him gaily, promising towrite 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 notthink his condition was serious. Besides, he had no servant to go for adoctor. The housekeeper who came for two hours in the morning took nointerest in him, and he dispensed with her services. He had a dozentimes begged her not to touch any of his papers when she was dusting hisroom. She would do it: she thought she had a fine opportunity to do asshe liked, now that he was confined to his bed. In the mirror of hiswardrobe door he saw her from his bed turning the whole room upsidedown. He was so furious--(no, assuredly the old Adam was not dead inhim!)--that he jumped out of bed, snatched a packet of papers out of herhands, and showed her the door. His anger cost him a bout of fever andthe departure of the servant, who lost her temper and never returned, without even taking the trouble to tell the "old madman, " as she calledhim. So he was left, ill, with no one to look after him. He would get upin the morning to take in the jug of milk left at the door, and to seeif the portress had not slipped under the door the promised letter fromthe lovers. The letter did not come: they had forgotten him in theirhappiness. He was not angry with them, and thought that in their placehe would have done the same. He thought of their careless joy, and thatit was he had given it to them. 

He was a little better and was able to get up when at last a letter camefrom Aurora. Georges had been content to add his signature. Aurora askedvery little about Christophe and told very little, but, to make up forit, she gave him a commission, begging him to send her a necktie she hadleft at Colette's. Although it was not at all important--(Aurora hadonly thought of it as she sat down to write to Christophe, and then onlybecause she wanted something to say), --Christophe was only too delightedto be of use, and went out at once to fetch it. The weather was cold andgusty. The winter had taken an unpleasant turn. Melting snow, and an icywind. There were no carriages to be had. Christophe spent some time in aparcels' office. The rudeness of the clerks and their deliberateslowness made him irritable, which did not help his business on. Hisillness was partly responsible for his gusts of anger, which thetranquillity of his mind repudiated; they shook his body, like the lasttremors of an oak falling under the blows of an ax. He returned chilledand trembling. As he entered, the portress handed him a cutting from areview. He glanced at it. It was a spiteful attack upon himself. Theywere growing rare in these days. There is no pleasure in attacking a manwho never notices the blows dealt him. The most violent of his enemieswere reduced to a feeling of respect for him, which exasperated them, for they still detested him. 

_"We believe, "_ said Bismarck, almost regretfully, _"that nothingis more involuntary than love. Respect is even more so. . . . "_

But the writer of the article was one of those strong men, who, beingbetter armed than Bismarck, escape both respect and love. He spoke ofChristophe in insulting terms, and announced a series of attacks duringthe following fortnight: Christophe began to laugh, and said as he wentto 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, sayingthat he had lived alone so much that he thought he might at least havethe benefit of his solitude at such a time. 

He was never bored. During these last years he had constantly beenengrossed in dialogues with himself; it was as though his soul wastwofold; and for some months past his inward company had beenconsiderably augmented: not two souls, but ten, now dwelt in him. Theyheld converse among themselves, though more often they sang. He wouldtake part in their conversation, or he would hold his peace and listento them. He had always on his bed, or on the table, within reach of hishand, music-paper on which he used to take down their remarks and hisown, and laugh at their rejoinders. It was a mechanical habit: the twoactions, thinking and writing, had become almost simultaneous with him;writing was thinking out loud to him. Everything that took him away fromthe company of his many souls exhausted and irritated him, even thefriends he loved best, sometimes. He tried hard not to let them see it, but such constraint induced an extreme lassitude. He was very happy whenhe came to himself again, for he would lose himself: it was impossibleto hear the inward voices amid the chattering of human beings. Divinesilence!. . . 

He would only allow the portress or one of her children to come threeor four times a day to see if he needed anything. He used to give them thenotes which, up to the last, he exchanged with Emmanuel. They werealmost equally ill, and were under no illusion as to their condition. Bydifferent ways the free religious genius of Christophe and the freeirreligious genius of Emmanuel had reached the same brotherly serenity. In their wavering handwriting, which they found it more and moredifficult to read, they discoursed, not of their illness, but of theperpetual subject of their conversations, their art, and the future oftheir ideas. 

This went on until the day when, with his failing hand, Christophe wrotethe 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: theimmense effort of his youth to win self-possession, his desperate strugglesto exact from others the bare right to live, to wrest himselffrom the demons of his race. And even after the victory, the forcedunending vigil over the fruits of conquest, to defend them againstvictory itself. The sweetness, the tribulation of friendship opening upthe great human family through conflict to the isolated heart. Thefullness of art, the zenith of life. His proud dominion over hisconquered spirit. His belief that he had mastered his destiny. And then, suddenly at the turn of the road, his meeting with the knights of theApocalypse, Grief, Passion, Shame, the vanguard of the Lord. Then laidlow, trampled underfoot by the horses, dragging himself bleeding to theheights, where, in the midst of the clouds, flames the wild purifyingfire. His meeting face to face with God. His wrestling with Him, likeJacob with the Angel. His issue, broken from the fight. His adoration ofhis defeat, his understanding of his limitations, his striving to fulfilthe will of the Lord, in the domain assigned to him. Finally, when thelabors 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 tosay to them:

"Be ye blessed! I shall not reach your light, but very sweet to me isyour shade. . . . "

Then the beloved had appeared to him: she had taken him by the hand; anddeath, breaking down the barrier of her body, had poured the pure soulof the beloved into the soul of her lover. Together they had issued fromthe shadow of days, and they had reached the happy heights where, likethe three Graces, in a noble round, the past, the present, and thefuture, clasped hands, where the heart at rest sees griefs and joys inone moment spring to life, flower, and die, where all is Harmony. . . . 

He was in too great a hurry. He thought he had already reached thatplace. The vise which gripped his panting bosom, and the tumultuouswhirl of images beating against the walls of his burning brain, remindedhim 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 womanwould go on playing the piano for hours. She only knew one piece, andshe would go on tirelessly repeating the same bars; they gave her somuch pleasure! They were a joy, an emotion to her; every color, everykind of form was in them. And Christophe could understand her happiness, but she made him weep with exasperation. If only she would not hit thekeys so hard! Noise was as odious to Christophe as vice. . . . In the endhe became resigned to it. It was hard to learn not to hear. And yet itwas less difficult than he thought. He would leave his sick, coarsebody. How humiliating it was to have been shut up in it for so manyyears! 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 Christophebecome immortal and his work disappear, or to have his work endure andno 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 whatis most true of me, the real truth of myself will remain. Let Christopheperish!. . . "

But very soon he felt that he was becoming as much a stranger to hiswork as to himself. How childish was the illusion of believing that hisart would endure! He saw clearly not only how little he had done, buthow surely all modern music was doomed to destruction. More quickly thanany other the language of music is consumed by its own heat; at the endof a century or two it is understood only by a few initiates. For howmany do Monteverdi and Lully still exist? Already the oaks of theclassic forest are eaten away with moss. Our buildings of sound, inwhich our passions sing, will soon be empty temples, will soon crumbleaway into oblivion. --And Christophe was amazed to find himself gazing atthe ruins untroubled. 

"Have I begun to love life less?" he wondered. 

But at once he understood that he loved it more. . . . Why weep over theruins of art? They are not worth it. Art is the shadow man casts uponNature. Let them disappear together, sucked up by the sun's rays! Theyprevent my seeing the sun. --The vast treasure of Nature passes throughour fingers. Human intelligence tries to catch the running water in themeshes of a net. Our music is an illusion. Our scale of sounds is aninvention. It answers to no living sound. It is a compromise of the mindbetween real sounds, the application of the metric system to the movinginfinite. The mind needs such a lie as this to understand theincomprehensible, and the mind has believed the lie, because it wishedto believe it. But it is not true. It is not alive. And the delightwhich the mind takes in this order of its own creation has only beenobtained by falsifying the direct intuition of what is. From time to time, a genius, in passing contact with the earth, suddenly perceivesthe torrent of reality, overflowing the continents of art. The dykescrack for a moment. Nature creeps in through a fissure. But at once thegap 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 itbegins to strengthen the walls of its cell, which nothing enters fromwithout, 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 tonothingness. The noise of art is an hindrance to me. Let the mind holdits peace! Let man be silent!. . . 

 * * * * *

But a few minutes after this harangue he groped for one of the sheets ofpaper that lay scattered on his bed, and he tried to write down a fewmore 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 aningrate: I send thee away from me. But thou wilt not leave me: thou wiltnot be repulsed at my caprice. Forgive me. Thou knowest these are butwhimsies. I have never betrayed thee, thou hast never betrayed me; andwe are sure of each other. We will go home together, my friend. Staywith me to the end. "

 _Bleib bei uns. . . . _

[Illustration: Musical notation]

He awoke from a long torpor, heavy with fever and dreams. Strange dreamsof which he was still full. And now he looked at himself, touchedhimself, sought and could not find himself. He seemed to himself to be"another. " Another, dearer than himself. . . . Who?. . . It seemed to himthat in his dreams another soul had taken possession of him. Olivier?Grazia?. . . His heart and his head were so weak! He could not distinguishbetween his loved ones. Why should he distinguish between them? He lovedthem all equally. 

He lay bound in a sort of overwhelming beatitude. He made no attempt tomove. He knew that sorrow lay in ambush for him, like a cat waiting fora 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 beenalone even in my greatest loneliness!. . . Souls that I have met on theway, brothers, who for a moment have held out their hands to me, mysterious spirits sprung from my mind, living and dead--all living. --Oall that I have loved, all that I have created! Ye surround me with yourwarm embrace, ye watch over me. I hear the music of your voices. Blessedbe destiny, that has given you to me! I am rich, I am rich. . . . My heartis full!. . . "

He looked out through the window. . . . It was one of those beautifulsunless days, which, as old Balzac said, are like a beautiful blindwoman. . . . Christophe was passionately absorbed in gazing at the branchof a tree that grew in front of the window. The branch was swelling, themoist buds were bursting, the little white flowers were expanding; andin 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, hisdepression, his wretched, dying body, and lived again in the branch ofthe tree. He was steeped in the gentle radiance of its life. It was likea kiss. His heart, big with love, turned to the beautiful tree, smilingthere upon his last moments. He thought that at that moment there werecreatures loving each other, that to others this hour, that was so fullof agony for him, was an hour of ecstasy, that it is ever thus, and thatthe puissant joy of living never runs dry. And in a choking voice thatwould not obey his thoughts--(possibly no sound at all came from hislips, 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 tothe end without a mistake!"

He tried to sit up so as to see the whole orchestra, and beat time withhis arms outstretched. But the orchestra made no mistake; they were sureof themselves. What marvelous music! How wonderfully they improvised theresponses! 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 andright through dangerous channels. 

"How will you get out of that?. . . And this? Caught!. . . And what aboutthis?"

But they always extricated themselves: they countered all his audacitieswith 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 thembeat me?. . . But, you know, this is not a game! I'm done, now. . . . Nomatter! They shan't say that they had the last word. . . . "

But the orchestra exhibited such an overpoweringly novel and abundantfancy that there was nothing to be done but to sit and listenopen-mouthed. They took his breath away. . . . Christophe was filled withpity for himself. 

"Idiot!" he said to himself. "You are empty. Hold your peace! Theinstrument has given all that it can give. Enough of this body! I musthave another. "

But his body took its revenge. Violent fits of coughing prevented hislistening:

"Will you hold your peace?"

He clutched his throat, and thumped his chest, wrestled with himself aswith an enemy that he must overthrow. He saw himself again in the middleof a great throng. A crowd of men were shouting all around him. One mangripped him with his arms. They rolled down on the ground. The other manwas on top of him. He was choking. 

"Let me go. I will hear!. . . I will hear! Let me go, or I'll killyou!. . . "

He banged the man's head against the wall, but the man would not let himgo. 

"Who is it, now? With whom am I wrestling? What is this body that I holdin my grasp, this body warm against me?. . . "

A crowd of hallucinations. A chaos of passions. Fury, lust, murderousdesires, the sting of carnal embraces, the last stirring of the mud atthe bottom of the pond. . . . 

"Ah! Will not the end come soon? Shall I not pluck you off, you leechesclinging to my body?. . . Then let my body perish with them!"

Stiffened in shoulders, loins, knees, Christophe thrust back theinvisible 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 hadrun so fast that he could not breathe. Has heart beat, his blood roaredand 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. . . . Atlast! He came out of the tunnel!. . . Silence came again. He could hearonce more. 

"How lovely it is! How lovely! Encore! Bravely, my boys!. . . But whowrote it, who wrote it?. . . What do you say? You tell me thatJean-Christophe Krafft wrote it? Oh! come! Nonsense! I knew him. Hecouldn'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 sofast! Wait!. . . "

Christophe uttered inarticulate cries; his hand, clutching the quilt, moved as if it were writing: and his exhausted brain went onmechanically trying to discover the elements of the chords and theirconsequents. 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 ofhappiness trickled down from his closed lids. The little girl who waslooking after him, unknown to him, piously wiped them away. He lost allconsciousness 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 tofind the way out, before the end. . . . "

Voices were raised now. A passionate voice. Anna's tragic eyes. . . . But amoment 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 youclearly. . . . Why is the sun so long in coming?"

Then bells rang tranquilly. The sparrows at the window chirped to remindhim of the hour when he was wont to give them the breakfast crumbs. . . . In his dream Christophe saw the little room of his childhood. . . . Thebells. Now it is dawn! The lovely waves of sound fill the light air. They come from far away, from the villages down yonder. . . . The murmuringof the river rises from behind the house. . . . Once more Christophe stoodgazing down from the staircase window. All his life flowed before hiseyes, like the Rhine. All his life, all his lives, Louisa, Gottfried, Olivier, Sabine. . . . 

"Mother, lovers, friends. . . . What are these names?. . . Love. . . . Where areyou? Where are you, my souls? I know that you are there, and I cannottake 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 thefields, moving on, august, slow, almost still. And, like a flash ofsteel, on the edge of the horizon there seemed to be speeding towardshim a line of silver streams, quivering in the sunlight. The roar of theocean. . . . 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 isnot 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 Ishall 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 thenight and the day entwined. Harmony, the august marriage of love andhate. 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 marchedagainst the stream. Like a rock his huge-limbed body stands above thewater. On his shoulders is the Child, frail and heavy. Saint Christopheleans on a pine-tree that he has plucked up, and it bends. His back alsobends. 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. Thenthe night fell and they grew weary. Now Christophe is too far away forthe cries of those standing on the water's brink to reach him. Throughthe 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, andcrying: "March on. "--And with bowed back, and eyes fixed straight infront of him on the dark bank whose towering slopes are beginning togleam white, he marches on. 

Suddenly the Angelus sounds, and the flock of bells suddenly springsinto wakefulness. It is the new dawn! Behind the sheer black cliff risesthe golden glory of the invisible sun. Almost falling Christophe at lastreaches 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